SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;

OR,

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.

A COMEDY.

London: Printed for F. Newbery, in St. Paul's Church-yard, 1773. 8vo. Price 18. 6d.

P

VOL. I.

"She Stoops to Conquer; or, the Mistakes of a Night, a Comedy," was acted for the first time at Covent Garden Theatre (then under the management of the elder Colman), on the 15th of March, 1773, and ran twelve nights, the theatre closing for the season with it on the 31st of May. The leading incident of the piece, the mistaking a gentleman's house for an inn, is said to have been borrowed from a blunder of the author himself, while travelling to school at Edgeworthstown. Its first MS. title was "The Old House a New Inn," but this was soon rejected. The title, it is suggested (Forster ii. 374), may have originated in one of Dryden's well-known couplets :

"The prostrate loon, when he lowest lies,

But kneels to conquer, and but stoops to rise."

PROLOGUE,

BY

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Enter MR. WOODWARD,' dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes
EXCUSE me, Sirs, I pray-I can't yet speak-

I'm crying now-and have been all the week.
""Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters:
"I've that within "-for which there are no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!
And if she goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all-shall lose my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lose my head.
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents;
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us,
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But, why can't I be moral ?-Let me try-
My heart thus pressing-fix'd my face and eye-
With a sententious look, that nothing means,
(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes)

1 Woodward (who had no part in the play) was a good actor. He died 17th April, 1777. There is a clever full-length engraving of him by M'Ardell, as the Fine Gentleman, in Lethe; also a good half-length of him by J. R. Smith, as Petruchio. His portrait by Sir Joshua is at Petworth.

Thus I begin-"All is not gold that glitters,
Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters.
When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand:

Learning is better far than house and land.
Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble,
And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble."

I give it up-morals won't do for me; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains-hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepar'd, presents a potion: A kind of magic charm-for be assur'd, If you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd: But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces! This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mix'd in what he gives. Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree; If not, within he will receive no fee! The College you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;

OR,

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE-A Chamber in an old-fashioned House.

Enter MRS. HARDOASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE.

Mrs. Hard. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter.

Hard. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.

Mrs. Hard. Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such oldfashioned trumpery.