SCENE IV.

THE COUNTRY WIFE.

Quack. I'll bring half the chirurgeons in town to swear it.

Pinch. They!-they'll swear a man that bled to death through his wounds, died of an apoplexy. Quack. Pray, hear me, sir-why, all the town has heard the report of him.

Pinch. But does all the town believe it? Quack. Pray, inquire a little, and first of all these.

Pinch. I'm sure when I left the town, he was the lewdest fellow in't.

Quack. I tell you, sir, he has been in France since; pray, ask but these ladies and gentlemen, your friend Mr. Dorilant. Gentlemen and ladies,

har't you all heard the late sad report of poor Mr. Horner?

All Ladies. Ay, ay, ay.

Dor. Why, thou jealous fool, dost thou doubt it? he's an arrant French capon.

Mrs. Pinch. 'Tis false, sir, you shall not disparage poor Mr. Horner, for to my certain knowledge

Lucy. O, hold!

[Aside to Lucy. Mrs. Squeam. Stop her mouth! Lady Fidg. Upon my honour, sir, 'tis as true[To Mr. PINCHwife.

Dain. D'ye think we would have been seen in his company?

Mrs. Squeam. Trust our unspotted reputations with him?

Lady Fidg. This you get, and we too, by trust[Aside to HORNER. ing your secret to a fool. Horn. Peace, madam.-[Aside to Quack.] Well, doctor, is not this a good design, that carries a man on unsuspected, and brings him off safe? Pinch. Well, if this were true-but my wife[Aside.

[DORILANT whispers with Mrs. PINCHWIFE. Alith. Come, brother, your wife is yet innocent, you see; but have a care of too strong an imagination, lest, like an over-concerned timorous gamester, by fancying an unlucky cast, it should come. Women and fortune are truest still to those that trust 'em.

Lucy. And any wild thing grows but the more
fierce and hungry for being kept up, and more
dangerous to the keeper.

Alith. There's doctrine for all husbands, Mr.
Harcourt.

Har. I edify, madam, so much, that I am impa-
tient till I am one.

Dor. And I edify so much by example, I will never be one.

Spark. And because I will not disparage my parts, I'll ne'er be one.

Horn. And I, alas! can't be one.

Pinch. But I must be one-against my will to a country wife, with a country murrain to me! Mrs. Pinch. And I must be a country wife still too, I find; for I can't, like a city one, be rid of [Aside. my musty husband, and do what I list.

Horn. Now, sir, I must pronounce your wife innocent, though I blush whilst I do it; and I am the only man by her now exposed to shame, which I will straight drown in wine, as you shall your suspicion; and the ladies' troubles we'll divert with a ballad.-Doctor, where are your maskers?

Lucy. Indeed, she's innocent, sir, I am her witness; and her end of coming out was but to see her sister's wedding; and what she has said to your face of her love to Mr. Horner, was but the usual innocent revenge on a husband's jealousy;—was it not, madam, speak?

Mrs. Pinch. [Aside to Lucy and HORNER.] Since you'll have me tell more lies-[Aloud.] Yes, indeed, bud.

Pinch. For my own sake fain I would all believe;
[Sighs.
Cuckolds, like lovers, should themselves deceive.
But-

His honour is least safe (too late I find)
Who trusts it with a foolish wife or friend.
A Dance of Cuckolds.

Horn. Vain fops but court and dress, and keep
a pother,

To pass for women's men with one another;
But he who aims by women to be prized,
First by the men, you see, must be despised.
[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. KNEP.

Now you the vigorous, who daily here
O'er vizard-mask in public domineer,
And what you'd do to her, if in place where;
Nay, have the confidence to cry, Come out!
Yet when she says, Lead on! you are not stout;
But to your well-dress'd brother straight turn round,
And cry, Pox on her, Ned, she can't be sound!
Then slink away, a fresh one to engage,
With so much seeming heat and loving rage,
You'd frighten listening actress on the stage;
Till she at last has seen you huffing come,
And talk of keeping in the tiring-room,
Yet cannot be provoked to lead her home.
Next, you Falstaffs of fifty, who beset

Your buckram maidenheads, which your friends get;
And whilst to them you of achievements boast,
They share the booty, and laugh at your cost

In fine, you essenced boys, both old and young,
Who would be thought so eager, brisk, and strong,
Yet do the ladies, not their husbands wrong;
Whose purses for your manhood make excuse,
And keep your Flanders mares for show not use;
Encouraged by our woman's man to-day,
A Horner's part may vainly think to play;
And may intrigues so bashfully disown,
That they may doubted be by few or none;
May kiss the cards at picquet, ombre, loo,
And so be taught to kiss the lady too;
But, gallants, have a care, faith, what you do.
The world, which to no man his due will give,
You by experience know you can deceive,
And men may still believe you vigorous,
But then we women-there's no cozening us.

THE PLAIN DEALER.

A Comedy.

Ridiculum acri

Fortius et melius magnas plerumque secat res.-HORAT.

TO MY LADY B * *.

MADAM,-Though I never had the honour to receive a favour from you, nay, or be known to you, I take the confidence of an author to write to you a billet-doux dedicatory;-which is no new thing. For by most dedications it appears that authors, though they praise their patrons from top to toe, and seem to turn 'em inside out, know 'em as little as sometimes their patrons their books, though they read them out; and if the poetical daubers did not write the name of the man or woman on top of the picture, 'twere impossible to guess whese it were. But you, Madam, without the help of a poet, have made yourself known and famous in the world; and because you do not want it, are therefore most worthy of an epistle dedicatory. And this play claims naturally your protection, since it has lost its reputation with the ladies of stricter lives in the playhouse; and, you know, when men's endeavours are discountenanced and refused by the nice coy women of honour, they come to you :-to you, the great and noble patroness f rejected and bashful men (of which number I profess myself to be one, though a poet, a dedicating poet), to you, I say, Madam, who have as discerning a judgment, in what's obscene or not, as any quick-sighted civil person of 'em all, and can make as much of a double-meaning saying as the best of 'em; yet would not, as some do, make nonsense of a poet's jest, rather than not make it bawdy; by which they show, they as little value wit in a play as in a lover, provided they can bring t'other thing about. Their sense, indeed, lies all one way, and therefore are only for that in a poet, which is moving, as they say. But what do they mean by that word moving? Well, I must not put 'em to the blush, since I find I can do't. In short, Madam, you would not be one of those who ravish a poet's innocent words, and make 'em guilty of their own naughtiness (as 'tis termed) in spite of his teeth, Nay, nothing is secure from the power of their imaginations, no, not their husbands, whom they cuckold with themselves, by thinking of other men; and so make the lawful matrimonial embraces adultery, wrong husbands and poets in thought and word, to keep their own reputations. But your ladyship's justice, I know, would think a woman's arraigning and damning a poet for her own obscenity like her crying out a rape, and hanging a man for giving her pleasure, only that she might be thought not to consent to't; and so to vindicate her honour, forfeits her modesty. But you, Madam, have too much modesty to pretend to't, though you have as much to say for your modesty as many a nicer she: for you never were seen at this play, no, not the first day; and 'tis no matter what people's lives have been, they are unquestionably modest who frequent not this play. For, as Mr. Bayes says of his, That it is the only touchstone of men's wit and understanding; mine is, it seems, the only touchstone of women's virtue and modesty. But hold, that touchstone is equivocal, and, by the strength of a lady's imagination, may become something that is not civil: but your ladyship, I know, scorns to misapply a touchstone. And, Madam, though you have not seen this play, I hope (like other nice ladies) you will the rather read it. Yet, lest the chambermaid or page should not be trusted, and their indulgence could gain no further admittances for it than to their ladies' lobbies or outward rooms, take it into your care and protection; for by your recommendation and procurement, it may have the honour to get into their closets; for what they renounce in public, often entertains 'em there, with your help especially. In fine, Madam, for these and many other reasons, you are the fittest patroness or judge of this play; for you show no partiality to this or that author. For from some many ladies will take a broad jest as cheerfully as from the watermen, and sit at some downright filthy plays (as they call 'em) as well satisfied, and as still, as a poet could wish 'em elsewhere. Therefore it must be the doubtful obscenity of my play alone they take exceptions at, because it is too bashful for 'em: and, indeed, most women hate men for attempting by halves on their chastity; and bawdy, I find, like satire, should be home, not to have it taken notice of. But, now I mention satire, some there are who say, 'Tis the plain-dealing of the play, not the obscenity; 'tis taking off the ladies' masks, not offering at their petticoats, which offends 'em :-and generally they are not the handsomest, or most innocent, who are the most angry at their being discovered :--

Nihil est audacius illis

Deprensis; iram atque animos a crimine sumunt.

Pardon, Madam, the quotation; for a dedication can no more be without ends of Latin, than flattery: and 'tis no matter whom it is writ to; for an author can as easily, I hope, suppose people to have more understanding and languages than they have, as well as more virtues. But why, the devil, should any of the few modest and handsome be alarmed?for some there are, who, as well as any, deserve those attributes, yet refrain not from seeing this play, nor think it any addition to their virtue to set up for it in a playhouse, lest there it should look too much like acting-but why, I say, should any at all of the truly virtuous be concerned, if those who are not so are distinguished from 'em? for by that mask of modesty which women wear promiscuously in public, they are all alike; and you can no more know a kept wench from a woman of honour by her looks than by her dress. For those who are of quality without honour (if any such there are) they have their quality to set off their false modesty, as well as their false jewels; and you must no more suspect their countenances for counterfeit than their pendants, though as the plain dealer Montaigne says, Els envoy leur conscience au bordel, et tiennent leur continence en règle. But those who act as they look, ought not to be scandalised at the reprehension of others' faults, lest they tax themselves with 'em, and by too delicate and quick an apprehension not only make that obscene which I meant innocent, but that satire on all, which was intended only on those who

deserved it. But, Madam, I beg your pardon for this digression to civil women and ladies of honour, since you and I shall never be the better for 'em: for a comic poet and a lady of your profession make most of the other sort; and the stage and your houses, like our plantations, are propagated by the least nice women; and, as with the ministers of justice, the vices of the age are our best business. But now I mention public persons, I can no longer defer doing you the justice of a dedication, and telling you your own, who are, of all public-spirited people, the most necessary, most communicative, most generous and hospitable. Your house has been the house of the people; your sleep still disturbed for the public; and when you arose, 'twas that others might lie down; and you waked that others might rest: the good you have done is unspeakable. How many young inexperienced heirs have you kept from rash foolish marriages, and from being jilted for their lives by the worst sort of jilts, wives! How many unbewitched widowers' children have you preserved from the tyranny of stepmothers! How many old doters from cuckoldom, and keeping other men's wenches and children! How many adulteries and unnatural sins have you prevented! In fine, you have been a constant scourge to the old lecher, and often a terror to the young: you have made concupiscence its own punishment, and extinguished lust with lust, like blowing up of houses to stop the fire.

Nimirum propter continentiam, incontinentia
Necessaria est, incendium ignibus extinguitur.

There's Latin for you again, Madam: I protest to you, as I am an author, I cannot help it; nay, I can hardly keep myself from quoting Aristotle and Horace, and talking to you of the rules of writing, (like the French authors), to show you and my reader I understand 'em, in my epistle, lest neither of you should find it out by the play. And according to the rules of dedications, 'tis no matter whether you understand or no what I quote or say to you of writing; for an author can as easily make any one a judge or critic in an epistle, as a hero in his play. But, Madam, that this may prove to the end a true epistle dedicatory, I'd have you know 'tis not without a design upon you, which is in the behalf of the fraternity of Parnassus; that songs and sonnets may go at your houses, and in your liberties, for guineas and half-guineas; and that wit, at least with you, as of old, may be the price of beauty, and so you will prove a true encourager of poetry; for love is a better help to it than wine; and poets, like painters, draw better after the life than by fancy. Nay, in justice, Madam, I think a poet ought to be as free of your houses, as of the playhouses; since he contributes to the support of both, and is as necessary to such as you, as a ballad-singer to a pick-purse, in convening the cullies at the theatres, to be picked up and carried to supper and bed at your houses. And, Madam, the reason of this motion of mine is, because poor poets can get no favour in the tiring-rooms, for they are no keepers, you know; and folly and money, the old enemies of wit, are even too hard for it on its own dunghill: and for other ladies, a poet can least go to the price of them. Besides, his wit, which ought to recommend him to 'em, is as much an obstruction to his love, as to his wealth or preferment; for most women now-a-days apprehend within a lover, as much as in a husband; they hate a man that knows 'em, they must have a blind easy fool, whom they can lead by the nose; and, as the Scythian women of old, must baffle a mau, and put out his eyes, ere they will lie with him; and then too like thieves, when they have plundered and stripped a man, leave him. But if there should be one of a hundred of those ladies generous enough to give herself to a man that has more wit than money, (all things considered,) he would think it cheaper coming to you for a mistress, though you made him pay his guinea; as a man in a journey (out of good husbandry), had better pay for what he has at an inn, than lie on free-cost at a gentleman's house.

In fine, Madam, like a faithful dedicator, I hope I have done myself right in the first place; then you, and your profession, which in the wisest and most religious government in the world is honoured with the public allowance; and in those that are thought the most, uncivilised and barbarous is protected and supported by the ministers of justice. And of you, Madam, I ought to say no more here, for your virtues deserve a poem rather than an epistle, or a volume entire to give the world your memoirs, or life at large; and which (upon the word of an author that has a mind to make an end of his dedication) I promise to do, when I write the annals of our British love, which shall be dedicated to the ladies concerned, if they will not think them something too obscene too; when your life, compared with many that are thought innocent, I doubt not, may vindicate you, and me, to the world, for the confidence I have taken in this address to you; which then may be thought neither impertinent nor immodest; and, whatsoever your amorous misfortunes have been, none can charge you with that heinous, and worst of women's crimes, hypocrisy; nay, in spite of misfortunes or age, you are the same woman still; though most of your sex grow Magdalens at fifty, and as a solid French author has it

Après le plaisir, vient la peine;
Après la peine, la vertu.

But sure an old sinner's continency is much like a gamester's forswearing play, when he had lost all his money; and modesty is a kind of a youthful dress, which, as it makes a young woman more amiable, makes an old one more nauseous: a bashful old woman is like a hopeful old man; and the affected chastity of antiquated beauties is rather a reproach than an honour to 'em; for it shows the men's virtue only, not theirs. But you, in fine, Madam, are no more a hypocrite than I am when I praise you; therefore I doubt not will be thought (even by yours and the play's enemies, the nicest ladies) to be the fittest patroness for, Madam, your ladychip's most obedient, faithful, humble servant, and THE PLAIN DEALER.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MANLY, of an honest, surly, nice Humour, supposed
first, in the Time of the Dutch War, to have procured
the Command of a Ship, out of Honour, not Interest;
and choosing a Sea-life only to avoid the World.
FREEMAN, MANLY's Lieutenant, a Gentleman well
educated, but of a broken Fortune, a Complier with
the Age.

VERNISH, MANLY's bosom and only Friend.
NovEL, a pert railing Coxcomb, and an Admirer of
Novelties, makes love to OLIVIA.

MAJOR OLDFOX, an old impertinent Fop, given to
scribbling, makes Love to the WIDOW BLACKACRE.
LORD PLAUSIBLE, a ceremonious, supple, commending
Coxcomb, in love with OLIVIA,

JERRY BLACKACRE, a true raw Squire, under Age, and his Mother's Government, bred to the Law.

OLIVIA, MANLY'S Mistress.

FIDELIA, in love with MANLY, and followed him to Sea in Man's Clothes.

ELIZA, Cousin to OLIVIA.

LETTICE, OLIVIA'S Woman.
WIDOW BLACKACRE, a petulant, litigious Widow,
always in Law, and Mother to Squire JERRY.

Lawyers, Knights of the Post, Bailiffs and Aldermen, a Bookseller's Apprentice, a Foot-boy, Sailors, Waiters, and Attendants.

SCENE, LONDON.

I THE Plain Dealer am to act to-day,
And my rough part begins before the play.
First, you who scribble, yet hate all that write,
And keep each other company in spite,
As rivals in your common mistress, fame,
And with faint praises one another damn;
'Tis a good play, we know, you can't forgive,
But grudge yourselves the pleasure you receive:
Our scribbler therefore bluntly bid me say,
He would not have the wits pleased here to-day.
Next, you, the fine, loud gentlemen o' th' pit,
Who damn all plays, yet, if y'ave any wit,
'Tis but what here you spunge and daily get;
Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt,
You hate; and so rooks laugh, to see undone
Those pushing gamesters whom they live upon.
Well, you are sparks, and still will be i'th' fashion;
Rail then at plays, to hide your obligation.
Now, you shrewd judges, who the boxes sway,
Leading the ladies' hearts and sense astray,
And, for their sakes, see all, and hear no play;
Correct your cravats, foretops, lock behind;
The dress and breeding of the play ne'er mind;
Plain dealing is, you'll say, quite out of fashion;
You'll hate it here, as in a dedication :

And your fair neig No more than in a Pictures too like th They must be draw You, as at Lely's t And look like hero But the coarse dau To follow life and Displays you as yo A mercenary jilt, a His men of wit and Are as dull rogues He draws a friend And makes him na I only act a part, l And yet you'll say, An honest man wh At faults; but, unl The only fool who For truth is now a And where else, bu Truth pleasing, or Which our bold po If not to th' honest Some friends at co

SCENE I.-MANLY's Lodging.

ACT I.

Enter MANLY, surlily, my Lord PLAUSIBLE following him; and two Sailors behind.

Man. Tell not me, my good lord Plausible, of your decorums, supercilious forms, and slavish ceremonies! your little tricks, which you, the spaniels of the world, do daily over and over, for and to one another; not out of love or duty, but your servile fear.

Man. Upon yo me believe you. Plaus. Well, the I never attempted my life.

Man. What, yo Plaus. No; but thing no, faith, I

Man. I thought well of all mankind for it takes away the

Plaus. Nay, i'faith, i'faith, you are too passionate; and I must humbly beg your pardonin the world, by m and leave to tell you, they are the arts and rules the prudent of the world walk by.

Man. Let 'em. But I'll have no leading-strings; I can walk alone: I hate a harness, and will not tug on in a faction, kissing my leader behind, that another slave may do the like to me.

Plaus. What, will you be singular then, like nobody? follow, love, and esteem nobody?

Man. Rather than be general, like you, follow everybody; court and kiss everybody; though perhaps at the same time you hate everybody. Plaus. Why, seriously, with your pardon, my dear friend

Man. With your pardon, my no friend, I will not, as you do, whisper my hatred or my scorn; call a man fool or knave by signs or mouths over his shoulder, whilst you have him in your arms.-For such as you, like common whores and pickpockets, are only dangerous to those you embrace.

Plaus. Such as I! Heavens defend me !-upon my honour

ill of most men, է can do a rude thing

Plaus. Well, tel people deserve; I author in a dedicati for his sake, but any man, to dispar people behind thei honour; and, truly faces, is not like a did say or do an ill sure to be behind manners.

Man. Very well sea-fellow, if I eve is very seldom inc behind their backs any, it should be Ja proud, struttinghead of his sycoph tongue at him when

SCENE I.

THE PLAIN DEALER

in the arrogant, big, dull face of an overgrown knave of business, rather than vent my spleen against him when his back were turned; would give fawning slaves the lie whilst they embrace or commend me; cowards whilst they brag; call a rascal by no other title, though his father had left him a duke's; laugh at fools aloud before their mistresses; and must desire people to leave me, when their visits grow at last as troublesome as they were at first impertinent.

Plaus. I would not have my visits troublesome. Man. The only way to be sure not to have 'em troublesome, is to make 'em when people are not at home; for your visits, like other good turns, are most obliging when made or done to a man in his absence. A pox! why should any one, because he has nothing to do, go and disturb another man's business?

Plaus. I beg your pardon, my dear friend.What, you have business?

Man. If you have any, I would not detain your lordship.

Plaus. Detain me, dear sir!-I can never have enough of your company.

Man. I'm afraid I should be tiresome: I know not what you think.

Plaus. Well, dear sir, I see you'd have me gone.
Man. But I see you won't.

Plaus. Your most faithful-

Man. God be w'ye, my lord.
Plaus. Your most humble-

Man. Farewell.

Plaus. And eternally

Aside.

Man. And eternally ceremony-[Aside.] Then the devil take thee eternally.

Plaus. You shall use no ceremony, by my life.
Man. I do not intend it.

Plaus. Why do you stir then?

Man. Only to see you out of doors, that I may shut 'em against more welcomes.

Plaus. Nay, faith, that shall not pass upon your most faithful humble servant.

[Aside.

Man. Nor this any more upon me. Plaus. Well, you are too strong for me. Man. [Aside.] I'd sooner be visited by the plague; for that only would keep a man from visits, and his doors shut.

[Exit, thrusting out my Lord PLAUSIBLE. What 1 Sail. Here's a finical fellow, Jack! a brave fair-weather captain of a ship he would make!

2 Sail. He a captain of a ship! it must be when she's in the dock then; for he looks like one of those that get the king's commissions for hulls to sell a king's ship, when a brave fellow has fought her almost to a long-boat.

1 Sail. On my conscience then, Jack, that's the reason our bully tar sunk our ship; not only that the Dutch might not have her, but that the courtiers, who laugh at wooden legs, might not make her prize.

2 Sail. A pox of his sinking, Tom! we have made a base, broken, short voyage of it.

1 Sail Ay, your brisk dealers in honour always make quick returns with their ships to the dock, and their men to the hospitals. "Tis, let me see, just a month since we set out of the river, and the wind was almost as cross to us as the Dutch.

2 Sail. Well, I forgive him sinking my own poor truck, if he would but have given me time

and leave to have saved black Kate of Wapping's
small venture.

1 Sail. Faith, I forgive him, since, as the purser
told he sunk the value of five or six thousand
me,
pound of his own, with which he was to settle him-
self somewhere in the Indies; for our merry lieu-
tenant was to succeed him in his commission for
the ship back; for he was resolved never to return
again for England.

2 Sail. So it seemed, by his fighting.

1 Sail. No; but he was a-weary of this side of the world here, they say.

2 Sail. Ay, or else he would not have bid so fair
for a passage into t'other.

1 Sail. Jack, thou thinkest thyself in the fore-
But I tell you, then,
castle, thou'rt so waggish.
he had a mind to go live and bask himself on the
sunny side of the globe.

2 Sail. What, out of any discontent? for he's
always as dogged as an old tarpaulin, when hin-
dered of a voyage by a young pantaloon captain.

1 Sail. 'Tis true I never saw him pleased but in
the fight; and then he looked like one of us com-
ing from the pay-table, with a new lining to our
hats under our arms.

2 Sail. A pox! he's like the bay of Biscay,
rough and angry, let the wind blow where 'twill.
1 Sail. Nay, there's no more dealing with him,
than with the land in a storm, no near-

2 Sail. 'Tis a hurry-durry blade. Dost thou
remember after we had tugged hard the old leaky
long-boat to save his life, when I welcomed him
ashore, be gave me a box on the ear, and called me
fawning water-dog?

Re-enter MANLY with FREEMAN.

1 Sail. Hold thy peace, Jack, and stand by; the foul weather's coming.

Man. You rascals! dogs! how could this tame thing get through you?

1 Sail. Faith, to tell your honour the truth, we were at hob in the hall, and whilst my brother and I were quarrelling about a cast, he slunk by us.

2 Sail. He's a sneaking fellow I warrant for't.
Man. Have more care for the future, you slaves.
Go, and with drawn cutlasses stand at the stair-
foot, and keep all that ask for me from coming
up; suppose you were guarding the scuttle to the
powder-room. Let none enter here, at your and
their peril.

1 Sail. No, for the danger would be the same:
you would blow them and us up, if we should.
2 Sail. Must no one come to you, sir?
Man. No man, sir.

1 Sail. No man, sir; but a woman then, an't
like your honour-

Man. No woman neither, you impertinent dog! Would you be pimping? a sea-pimp is the strangest monster she has.

2 Sail. Indeed, an't like your honour, 'twill be hard for us to deny a woman anything, since we are so newly come on shore.

1 Sail. We'll let no old woman come up, though
it were our trusting landlady at Wapping.

Man. Would you be witty, you brandy casks
you? you become a jest as ill as you do a horse.
Begone, you dogs! I hear a noise on the stairs.
[Exeunt Sailors.

Free. Faith, I am sorry you would let the fop
go, I intended to have had some sport with him.