this. Mr. Dugard, are not you pleased with this? Dug. So pleased, that if I thought it might secure your son's affection to my sister, I would double her fortune. Young Mir. Fortune! has not she given me mine? my life, estate, my all, and what is more, her virtuous self? Virtue, in this so advantageous light, Has her own sparkling charms more tempting far Than glittering gold or glory. Behold the foil [Pointing to LAMORCE. off.-[TO ORIANA.] [TO ORIANA. That sets this brightness Here view the pride And scandal of the sex.-[To LAMORCE.] There the false meteor, [TO LAMORCE. Whose deluding light leads mankind to destruction. Here-[To ORIANA,] the bright shining star that guides to a Security of happiness. A garden And a single she-[To ORIANA,] was our first father's bliss; The tempter--[To LAMORCE,] and to wander was his curse. What liberty can be so tempting there, [Pointing to LAMORCE. As a soft, virtuous, amorous bondage here. [TO ORIANA. EPILOGUE, BY NATHANIEL ROWE. FROM Fletcher's great original, to-day not yet. Frown not, ye fair, to think your lovers may SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS. Whilst the respectful, like the Greek, sits down, As princes, when they resty statesmen doubt, marry. THE TWIN-RIVALS. A Comedy. Sic vos non vobis-VIRGIL. TO HENRY BRETT, ESQ. THE commons of England have a right of petitioning; and since by your place in the senate you are obliged to hear and redress the subject, I presume upon the privilege of the people to give you the following trouble. As prologues introduce plays on the stage, so dedications usher them into the great theatre of the world; and as we choose some stanch actor to address the audience, so we pitch upon some gentleman of undisputed ingenuity to recommend us to the reader. Books, like metals, require to be stamped with some valuable effigies before they become popular and current. To escape the critics, I resolved to take sanctuary with one of the best; one who differs from the fraternity in this, that his good-nature is ever predominant, can discover an author's smallest fault, and pardon the greatest. Your generous approbation, Sir, has done this play service, but has injured the author; for it has made him insufferably vain, and he thinks himself authorised to stand up for the merit of his performance, when so great a master of wit has declared in its favour. The muses are the most coquettish of their sex, fond of being admired, and always putting on their best airs to the finest gentleman: but alas, Sir! their addresses are stale, and their fine things but repetition; for there is nothing new in wit, but what is found in your own conversation. Could I write by the help of study, as you talk without it, I would venture to say something in the usual strain of dedication; but as you have too much wit to suffer it, and I too little to undertake it, I hope the world will excuse my deficiency, and you will pardon the presumption of, Sir, your most obliged, and most humble servant, December 23, 1702. G. FARQUHAR. THE PREFACE. THE success and countenance that debauchery has met with in plays, was the most severe and reasonable charge against their authors in Mr. Collier's "Short View ;" and indeed this gentleman had done the drama considerable service, had he arraigned the stage only to punish its misdemeanours, and not to take away its life; but there is an advantage to be made sometimes of the advice of an enemy, and the only way to disappoint his designs, is to improve upon his invective, and to make the stage flourish, by virtue of that satire by which he thought to suppress it. I have therefore in this piece endeavoured to show, that an English comedy may answer the strictness of poetical justice; but indeed the greater share of the English audience, I mean that part which is no farther read than in plays of their own language, have imbibed other principles, and stand up as vigorously for the old poetic licence, as they do for the liberty of the subject. They take all innovations for grievances; and, let a project be never so well laid for their advantage, yet the undertaker is very likely to suffer by't. A play without a beau, cully, cuckold, or coquette, is as poor an entertainment to some palates, as their Sunday's dinner would be without beef and pudding. And this I take to be one reason that the galleries were so thin during the run of this play. I thought indeed to have soothed the splenetic zeal of the city, by making a gentleman a knave, and punishing their great grievance-a whoremaster; but a certain virtuoso of that fraternity has told me since, that the citizens were never more disappointed in any entertainment: "For," said he, “however pious we may appear to be at home, yet we never go to that end of the town but with an intention to be lewd." There was an odium cast upon this play, before it appeared, by some persons who thought it their interest to have it suppressed. The ladies were frighted from seeing it by formidable stories of a midwife, and were told, no doubt, that they must expect no less than a labour upon the stage; but I hope the examining into that aspersion will be enough to wipe it off, since the character of the midwife is only so far touched as is necessary for carrying on the plot, she being principally deciphered in her procuring capacity; and I dare not affront the ladies so far as to imagine they could be offended at the exposing of a bawd. Some critics complain, that the design is defective for want of Clelia's appearance in the scene; but I had rather they should find this fault, than I forfeit my regard to the fair, by showing a lady of figure under a misfortune; for which reason I made her only nominal, and chose to expose the person that injured her; and if the ladies don't agree that I have done her justice in the end, I'm very sorry for't. Some people are apt to say, that the character of Richmore points at a particular person; though I must confess I see nothing but what is very general in his character, except his marrying his own mistress; which by the way, he never did, for he was no sooner off the stage but he changed his mind, and the poor lady is still in statu quo. But upon the whole matter, 'tis application only makes the ass; and characters in plays are like Long-lane clothes, not hung out for the use of any particular people, but to be bought by only those they happen to fit. The most material objection against this play is the importance of the subject, which necessarily leads into sentiments too grave for diversion, and supposes vices too great for comedy to punish. 'Tis said, I must own, that the business of comedy is chiefly to ridicule folly; and that the punishment of vice falls rather into the province of tragedy; but if there be a middle sort of wickedness, too high for the sock, and too low for the buskin, is there any reason that it should go unpunished? What are more obnoxious to human society, than the villanies exposed in this play, the frauds, plots and contrivances upon the fortunes of men, and the virtue of women? But the persons are too mean for the heroic; then what must we do with them? Why, they must of necessity drop into comedy; for it is unreasonable to imagine that the lawgivers in poetry would tie themselves up from executing that justice which is the foundation of their constitution; or to say, that exposing vice is the business of the drama, and yet make rules to screen it from persecution. Some have asked the question, why the Elder Wouldbe, in the fourth act, should counterfeit madness in his confinement? Don't mistake, there was no such thing in his head; and the judicious could easily perceive, that it was only a start of humour put on to divert his melancholy; and when gaiety is strained to cover misfortune, it may very naturally be overdone, and rise to a semblance of madness, sufficient to impose on the constable, and perhaps on some of the audience; who taking everything at sight, impute that as a fault, which I am bold to stand up for, as one of the most masterly strokes of the whole piece. This I think sufficient to obviate what objections I have heard made; but there was no great occasion for making this defence, having had the opinion of some of the greatest persons in England, both for quality and parts, that the play has merit enough to hide more faults than have been found; and I think their approbation sufficient to excuse some pride that may be incident to the author upon this performance. I must own myself obliged to Mr. Longueville for some lines in the part of Teague, and something of the lawyer; but above all, for his hint of the twins, upon which I formed my plot. But having paid him all due satisfaction and acknowledgment, I must do myself the justice to believe, that few of our modern writers have been loss beholden to foreign assistance in their plays, than I have been in the following scenes. WITH drums and trumpets in this warring age, The siege is laid, -there gallant chiefs abound, In the first act brisk sallies (miss or hit), Grows less, and slackens like a bridegroom's strength. The third, feints, mines, and countermines abound, The fourth brings on most action, and 'tis sharp, scarp. Then comes the last; the general storm is near, ACT I. SCENE I-BENJAMIN WOULDBE's Lodgings. BENJAMIN WOULDBE discovered dressing, JACK buckling his shoes. Ben. Would. Here is such a plague every morning, with buckling shoes, gartering, combing and powdering!-Psha! cease thy impertinence, I'll dress no more to-day.-[ Exit JACK.] Were I an honest brute, that rises from his litter, shakes himself, and so is dressed, I could bear it. Enter RICHMORE. Rich. No farther yet, Wouldbe! 'tis almost one. Ben. Would. Then blame the clock makers, they made it so; the sun has neither fore nor afternoon. Prithee, what have we to do with time? Can't we let it alone as nature made it? Can't a man eat when he's hungry, go to bed when he's sleepy, rise when he wakes, dress when he pleases, without the confinement of hours to enslave him? Rich. Pardon me, sir, I understand your stoicism-you have lost your money last night. Ben. Would. No, no, Fortune took care of me there- I had none to lose. Rich. "Tis that gives you the spleen. Ben. Would. Yes, I have got the spleen; and something else.-Hark'ee[Whispers. Rich. How! Ben. Would. Positively. The lady's kind reception was the most severe usage I ever met with. Shan't I break her windows, Richmore? Rich. A mighty revenge truly! Let me tell you, friend, that breaking the windows of such houses are no more than writing over a vintner's door, as they do in Holland, Vin te koop. 'Tis no more than a bush to a tavern, a decoy to trade, and to draw in customers; but upon the whole matter, I think, a gentleman should put up an affront got in such little company; for the pleasure, the pain, and the resentment, are all alike scandalous. Ben. Would. Have you forgot, Richmore, how I found you one morning with the Flying-Post in your hand, hunting for physical advertisements? Rich. That was in the days of dad, my friend, in the days of dirty linen, pit-masks, hedge-taverns, and beefsteaks; but now I fly at nobler game; the Ring, the Court, Pawlet's, and the Park : I despise all women that I apprehend any danger from, less than the having my throat cut: and should scruple to converse even with a lady of fortune, unless her virtue were loud enough to give me pride in exposing it.-Here's a letter I received this morning; you may read it. [Gives a letter. Ben. Would. [Reads.] If there be solemnity in protestation, justice in heaven, or fidelity on earth, I may still depend on the faith of my Richmore. Though I may conceal my love, I no longer can hide the effects on't from the world. Be careful of my honour, remember your vows, and fly to the relief of the disconsolate CLELIA. The fair, the courted, blooming Clelia ! Rich. The credulous, troublesome, foolish Clelia. Did you ever read such a fulsome harangue ? Lard, sir, I am near my time, and want your as sistance! Does the silly creature imagine that any man would come near her in those circumstances, unless it were doctor Chamberlain ?-You may keep the letter. Ben. Would. But why would you trust it with me? you know I can't keep a secret that has any scandal in't. Rich. For that reason I communicate: I know thou art a perfect gazette, and will spread the news all over the town: for you must understand that I am now besieging another; and I would have the fame of my conquest upon the wing, that the town may surrender the sooner. Ben. Would. But if the report of your cruelty goes along with that of your valour, you'll find no garrison of any strength will open their gates to you. Rich. No, no, women are cowards, and terror prevails upon them more than clemency: my best pretence to my success with the fair is my using 'em ill. 'Tis turning their own guns upon 'em, and I have always found it the most successful battery to assail one reputation by sacrificing another. Ben. Would. I could love thee for thy mischief, did I not envy thee for thy success in't. Rich. You never attempt a woman of figure. Ben. Would. How can I ? this confounded hump of mine is such a burden at my back, that it presses me down here in the dirt and diseases of Coventgarden, the low suburbs of pleasure. Curst fortune! I am a younger brother, and yet cruelly deprived of my birthright of a handsome person; seven thousand a year in a direct line, would have straightened my back to some purpose. But I look, in my present circumstances, like a branch of another kind, grafted only upon the stock which makes me grow so crooked. Rich. Come, come, 'tis no misfortune, your father is so as well as you. Ben. Would. Then why should not I be a lord as well as he? Had I the same title to the deformity I could bear it. Rich. But how does my lord bear the absence of your twin-brother? Ben. Would. My twin-brother! Ay, 'twas his crowding me that spoiled my shape, and his coming half an hour before me that ruined my fortune. My father expelled me his house some two years ago, because I would have persuaded him that my twin-brother was a bastard. He gave me my por tion, which was about fifteen hundred pound, and I have spent two thousand of it already. As for my brother, he don't care a farthing for me. Rich. Why so, pray? Ben. Would. A very odd reason-because I hate him. Rich. How should he know that? Ben. Would. Because he thinks it reasonable it should be so. Rich. But did your actions ever express any malice to him? Ben. Would. Yes: I would fain have kept him company; but being aware of my kindness, he went abroad. He has travelled these five years, and J am told, is a grave sober fellow, and in danger of living a great while; all my hope is, that when he gets into his honour and estate, the nobility will soon kill him by drinking him up to his dignity. But come, Frank, I have but two eyesores in the world, a brother before me and a hump behind me, and thou art still laying 'em in my way: let us assume an argument of less severity. Canst thou lend me a brace of hundred pounds? Rich. What would you do with 'em? Ben. Would. Do with 'em! there's a question indeed! Do you think I would eat 'em? Rich. Yes, o' my troth, would you, and drink 'em together. Look'ee, Mr. Wouldbe, whilst you kept well with your father, I could have ventured to have lent you five guineas: but as the case stands, I can assure you, I have lately paid off my sister's fortunes, and Ben. Would. Sir, this put-off looks like an affront, when you know I don't use to take such things. Rich. Sir, your demand is rather an affront, when you know I don't use to give such things. Ben. Would. Sir, I'll pawn my honour. Rich. That's mortgaged already for more than it is worth; you had better pawn your sword there, 'twill bring you forty shillings. Ben. Would. 'Sdeath, sir. [Takes his sword of the table. Rich. Hold, Mr. Wouldbe! suppose I put an end to your misfortunes all at once? Ben. Would. How, sir? Rich. Why go to a magistrate, and swear you would have robbed me of two hundred pounds. Look'ee, sir, you have been often told, that your extravagance would some time or other be the ruin of you; and it will go a great way in your indictment, to have turned the pad upon your friend. Ben. Would. This usage is the height of ingratitude from you, in whose company I have spent my fortune. Rich. I'm therefore a witness, that it was very ill spent. Why would you keep company, be at equal expenses with me, that have fifty times your estate? What was gallantry in me, was prodigality in you; mine was my health, because I could pay for't; yours a disease, because you could Re-enter JACK. Take this; pay for a bottle of wine, and bid Balderdash bring it himself.-[Exit JACK.] How melancholy are my poor breeches; not one chink! -Thou art a villanous hand, for thou hast picked my pocket. This vintner now has all the marks of an honest fellow, a broad face, a copious look, a strutting belly, and a jolly mien. I have brought him above three pound a night for these two years successively. The rogue has money, I'm sure, if he will but lend it. Enter BALDERDASH with a bottle and glass, JACK attending. Oh, Mr. Balderdash, good morrow. Bald. Noble Mr. Wouldbe, I'm your most humble servant. I have brought you a whettingglass, the best old hock in Europe; I know 'tis your drink in a morning. Ben. Would. I'll pledge you, Mr. Balderdash. Bald. Your health, sir. [Drinks Ben. Would. Pray, Mr. Balderdash, tell me one thing-but first sit down: now tell me plainly what you think of me? Bald. Think of you, sir! I think that you are the honestest, noblest gentleman, that ever drank a glass of wine; and the best customer that ever came into my house. Ben. Would. And you really think as you speak? Bald. May this wine be my poison, sir, if I don't speak from the bottom of my heart! Ben. Would. And how much money do you think I have spent in your house? Bald. Why truly, sir, by a moderate computation, I do believe that I have handled of your money the best part of five hundred pounds within these two years. Ben. Would. Very well! And do you think that you lie under any obligation for the trade I have promoted to your advantage? Bald. Yes, sir; and if I can serve you in any respect, pray command me to the utmost of my ability. Ben. Would. Well, thanks to my stars, there is still some honesty in wine!-Mr. Balderdash, I embrace you and your kindness: I am at present a little low in cash, and must beg you to lend me a hundred pieces. Bald. Why, truly, Mr. Wouldbe, I was afraid it would come to this. I have had it in my head several times to caution you upon your expenses : but you were so very genteel in my house, and your liberality became you so very well, that I was unwilling to say anything that might check your disposition; but truly, sir, I can forbear no longer to tell you, that you have been a little too extravagant. Ben. Would. But since you reaped the benefit of my extravagance, you will, I hope, consider my necessity. Bald. Consider your necessity! I do with all my heart, and must tell you, moreover, that I will be no longer accessary to it: I desire you, sir, to frequent my house no more. Ben. Would. How, sir! Bald. I say, sir, that I have an honour for my good lord your father, and will not suffer his son to run into any inconvenience. Sir, I shall order my drawers not to serve you with a drop of wine. Would you have me connive at a gentleman's destruction? Ben. Would. But methinks, sir, that a person |