ACT I SCENE I A Room in BONIFACE's Inn. - have lived in Lichfield, man and boy, above eight-and-fifty years, and, I believe, have not consumed eight-and-fifty ounces of meat. Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your sense by your bulk. Enter BONIFACE running. Chamberlain! maid! Cherry! daugh- and I always sleep upon ale. ter Cherry! all asleep? all dead? Bon. Not in my life, sir: I have fed purely upon ale; I have eat my ale, drank my ale, Bon. Enter CHERRY running. So, you Cher. Here, here! why d'ye bawl father? d'ye think we have no ears? Bon. You deserve to have none, young minx! The company of the Warrington coach has stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to show them to their chambers. Cher. And let 'em wait, father; there's neither red-coat in the coach, nor footman behind it. Bon. But they threaten to go to another inn to-night. Cher. That they dare not, for fear the coachman should overturn them to-morrow. -Coming! coming!-Here's the London coach arrived. Enter several people with trunks, bandboxes, and other luggage, and cross the stage. Bon. Welcome, ladies! Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen!-Chamberlain, show the Lion and the Rose. [Exit with the company. Enter AIMWELL in a riding-habit, and ARCHER as footman, carrying a portmantle. Arch. I shall, sir. [Exit. Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose? Bon. Yes, sir, I'm old Will Boniface, pretty well known upon this road, as the saying is. Aim. O Mr. Boniface, your servant! Bon. O sir! What will your honor please to drink, as the saying is? Aim. I have heard your town of Lichfield much famed for ale; I think I'll taste that. Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tun of the best ale in Staffordshire; 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy; and will be just fourteen year old the fifth day of next March, old style. Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale. Bon. As punctual, sir, as I am in the age of my children. I'll show you such ale! Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is.-Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini. Enter Tapster with a bottle and glass, and exit. Now, sir, you shall see! [Filling it out.] Your worship's health.-Ha! delicious, delicious! fancy it burgundy, only fancy it, and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart. Aim. [Drinks.] 'Tis confounded strong! Bon. Strong! it must be so, or how should we be strong that drink it? Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord? years, upon my Bon. Eight-and-fifty credit, sir-but it killed my wife, poor woman, as the saying is. Aim. How came that to pass? Bon. I don't know how, sir; she would not let the ale take its natural course, sir; she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is; and an honest gentleman that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh—but the poor woman was never well after. But, howe'er, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know. Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that killed her? Bon. My Lady Bountiful said so. She, good lady, did what could be done; she cured her of three tympanies, but the fourth carried her off. But she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is. Aim. Who's that Lady Bountiful you mentioned? Bon. Ods my life, sir, we'll drink her health. -[Drinks.] My Lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pound a year; and, I believe, she lays out one-half on't in charitable uses for the good of her neighbors. She cures rheumatisms, ruptures, and broken shins in men; greensickness, obstructions, and fits of the mother, in women; the king's evil, chincough, and chilblains, in children: in short, she has cured more people in and about Lichfield within ten years than the doctors have killed in twenty; and that's a bold word. Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her generation? Bon. Yes, sir; she has a daughter by Sir Charles, the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune. She has a son too, by her first husband, Squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day; if you please, sir, we'll drink his health. Aim. What sort of a man is he? Bon. Why, sir, the man's well enough; says little, thinks less, and does-nothing at all, faith. But he's a man of a great estate, and values nobody. Aim. A sportsman, I suppose? Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure; he plays at whisk and smokes his pipe eightand-forty hours together sometimes. Aim. And married, you say? their opinion. Who did that worthy lord, my brother, single out of the side-box to sup with him t'other night? Arch. Jack Handicraft, a handsome, welldressed, mannerly, sharping rogue, who keeps the best company in town. Aim. Right! And, pray, who married my lady Man-slaughter t'other day, the great fortune? Arch. Why, Nick Marrabone, a professed Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir. pickpocket, and a good bowler; but he makes But he's a-he wants it here, sir. a handsome figure, and rides in his coach, that he formerly used to ride behind. Aim. But did you observe poor Jack Generous in the Park last week. Arch. Yes, with his autumnal periwig, shading his melancholy face, his coat older [Pointing to his forehead. Aim. He has it there, you mean? Bon. That's none of my business; he's my landlord, and So a man, you know, would not-But-ecod, he's no better than Sir, my humble service to you.-[Drinks.] | than anything but its fashion, with one hand Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarterday; I have a good running-trade; I have but one daughter, and I can give her-but no matter for that. Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface. Pray, what other company have you in town? Bon. A power of fine ladies; and then we have the French officers. Aim. Oh, that's right, you have a good many of those gentlemen. Pray, how do you like their company? Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of 'em; they're full of money, and pay double for everything they have. They know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the taking of 'em, and so they are willing to reimburse us a little. One of 'em lodges in my house. Re-enter ARCHER. idle in his pocket, and with the other picking his useless teeth; and, though the Mall was crowded with company, yet was poor Jack as single and solitary as a lion in a desert. Aim. And as much avoided, for no crime upon earth but the want of money. Arch. And that's enough. Men must not be poor; idleness is the root of all evil; the world's wide enough, let 'em bustle. Fortune has taken the weak under her protection, but men of sense are left to their industry. Aim. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, luckily hitherto. Would not any man swear now, that I am a man of quality, and you my servant, when if our intrinsic value were known Arch. Come, come, we are the men of intrinsic value who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves, whose worth is independent of Arch. Landlord, there are some French accidents in life, or revolutions in governgentlemen below that ask for you. Bon. I'll wait on 'em.-[Aside to ARCHER.] Does your master stay long in tow, as the saying is? Arch. I can't tell, as the saying is. Aim. The coast's clear, I see.-Now, my dear Archer, welcome to Lichfield! ment: we have heads to get money and hearts to spend it. Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye, they That's more than you could expect Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in moderate people; and, let me tell you besides, iniquity. Aim. Iniquity! prithee, leave canting; you need not change your style with your dress. Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell, for 'tis still my maxim, that there is no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful poverty. as Aim. The world confesses it every day in its practice, though men won't own it for that this two hundred pound, with the experience that we are now masters of, is a better estate than the ten thousand we have spent.-Our friends, indeed, began to suspect that our pockets were low, but we came off with flying colors, showed no signs of want either in word or deed. Aim. Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good pretence enough for our sudden disap pearing; and, I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are gone a-volunteering. Arch. Why, faith, if this prospect fails, it must e'en come to that. I am for venturing one of the hundreds, if you will, upon this knight-errantry; but, in case it should fail, we'll reserve t'other to carry us to some counterscarp, where we may die, as we lived, in a blaze. Aim. With all my heart; and we have lived justly, Archer: we can't say that we have spent our fortunes, but that we have enjoyed 'em. dogs; I love a fine house, but let another keep it; and just so I love a fine woman. Aim. In that last particular you have the better of me. Arch. Ay, you're such an amorous puppy, that I'm afraid you'll spoil our sport; you can't counterfeit the passion without feeling it. Arch. Right! So much pleasure for so much money. We have had our pennyworths; and, had I millions, I would go to the same market again.-O London! London! -Well, we have had our share, and let us be thankful: past pleasures, for aught II know, are best, such as we are sure of; those to come may disappoint us. Aim. It has often grieved the heart of me to see how some inhuman wretches murder their kind fortunes; those that, by sacrificing all to one appetite, shall starve all the rest. You shall have some that live only in their palates, and in their sense of tasting shall drown the other four. Others are only epicures in appearances, such who shall starve their nights to make a figure a days, and famish their own to feed the eyes of others. A contrary sort confine their pleasures to the dark, and contract their spacious acres to the circuit of a muff-string. Arch. Right! But they find the Indies in that spot where they consume 'em. And think your kind keepers have much the best on't: for they indulge the most senses by one expense. There's the seeing, hearing, and feeling, amply gratified; and, some philosophers will tell you, that from such a commerce there arises a sixth sense, that gives infinitely more pleasure than the other five put together. Aim. And to pass to the other extremity, of all keepers I think those the worst that keep their money. Arch. Those are the most miserable wights in being, they destroy the rights of nature, and disappoint the blessings of Providence. Give me a man that keeps his five senses keen and bright as his sword, that has 'em always drawn out in their just order and strength, with his reason as commander at the head of 'em, that detaches 'em by turns upon whatever party of pleasure agreeably offers, and commands 'em to retreat upon the least appearance of disadvantage or danger! For my part, I can stick to my bottle while my wine, my company, and my reason, hold good; I can be charmed with Sappho's singing without falling in love with her face: I love hunting, but would not, like Actæon, be eaten up by my own Aim. Though the whining part be out of doors in town, 'tis still in force with the country ladies: and let me tell you, Frank, the fool in that passion shall outdo the knave at any time. Arch. Well, I won't dispute it now; you command for the day, and so I submit: at Nottingham, you know, I am to be master. Aim. And at Lincoln, I again. Arch. Then, at Norwich I mount, which, think, shall be our last stage; for, if we fail there, we'll embark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and welcome Mars. Aim. A match!-Mum! Re-enter BONIFACE. Bon. What will your worship please to have for supper? Aim. What have you got? Bon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the pot, and a pig at the fire. Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confess. Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah! Do you know who you are? Bon. Please to bespeak something else; Bon. of veal Veal, sir! We had a delicate loin on Wednesday last. Aim. Have you got any fish or wildfowl? Bon. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, and indifferently provided with fish, that's the truth on't; and then for wildfowl-we have a delicate couple of rabbits. Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed. Bon. Fricasseed! Lard, sir, they'll eat much better smothered with onions. Arch. Psha! Damn your onions! Aim. Again, sirrah!-Well, landlord, what you please. But hold, I have a small charge of money, and your house is so full of strangers, that I believe it may be safer in your custody than mine; for when this fellow of mine gets drunk he minds nothing. Here, sirrah, reach me the strong-box. Arch. Yes, sir.-[Aside.] This will give us a reputation. [Brings the box.] Aim. Here, landlord; the locks are sealed down both for your security and mine; it holds somewhat above two hundred pound: if you doubt it, I'll count it to you after supper; but be sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's warning; for my affairs are a little dubious at present; perhaps I may be gone in half an hour, perhaps I may be your guest till the best part of that be spent; and pray order your ostler to keep my horses always saddled. But one thing above the rest I must beg, that you would let this fellow have none of your Anno Domini, as you call it; for he's the most insufferable sot. Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber. [Exit, lighted by ARCHER. Bon. Cherry! daughter Cherry! Re-enter CHERRY. Cher. D'ye call, father? Bon. Ay, child, you must lay by this box for the gentleman; 'tis full of money. Cher. Money! all that money! why, sure, father, the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament-man. Who is he? Bon. I don't know what to make of him; he talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going perhaps at a minute's warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of this be spent. Cher. Ay, ten to one, father, he's a high wayman. Bon. A highwayman! upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some newpurchased booty. Now, could we find him out, the money were ours. Cher. He don't belong to our gang. What horses have they? Bon. Cher. Bon. Look'ee, The master rides upon a black. A black! ten to one the man upon the black mare; and since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience; I don't think it lawful to harbor any rogues but my own. child, as the saying is, we must go cunningly to work, proofs we must have; the gentleman's servant loves drink, I'll ply him that way, and ten to one loves a wench: you must work him t'other way. Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his? Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pound to boot.-[Ringing without.] Coming! coming!-Child, mind your business. [Exit. Cher. What a rogue is my father! My father! I deny it. My mother was a good, generous, free-hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good nature might have extended for the good of her children. This landlord of mine, for I think I can call him no more, would betray his guest, and debauch his daughter into the bargain-by a footman too! Re-enter ARCHER. Arch. What footman, pray, mistress, is so happy as to be the subject of your contemplation? Cher. Whoever he is, friend, he'll be but little the better for't. Arch. I hope so, for, I'm sure, you did not think of me. Cher. Suppose I had? Arch. Why, then, you're but even with me; for the minute I came in, I was a-considering in what manner I should make love to you. Cher. Love to me, friend! Arch. Yes, child. Cher. Child! manners!-If you kept a little more distance, friend, it would become you much better. Arch. Distance! good-night, sauce-box. [Going. Cher. [Aside.] A pretty fellow! I like his [ARCHER returns], I have the credit to be pride. [Aloud.] Sir, pray, sir, you see, sir entrusted with your master's fortune here, I hope, sir, you an't affronted? which sets me a degree above his footman; and I'll tell you whether you can affront me Arch. Let me look you full in the face, 'Sdeath, child, you have a pair of do with 'em! delicate eyes, and you don't know what to or no. Cher. Why, sir, don't I see everybody? Arch. Ay, but if some women had 'em, they would kill everybody. Prithee, instruct me, I would fain make love to you, but I don't know what to say. Cher. Why, did you never make love to anybody before? Arch. I can assure you, madam. My addresses have Never to a person of your figure, been always confined to people within my own sphere; I never aspired so high before. [Sings. But you look so bright, You freely wear To ensnare, As makes each guest a lover! Cher. [Aside.] What can I think of this man?-[Aloud.] Will you give me that song, sir? Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while 'tis warm.-[Kisses her.] Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs. Cher. And I wish there had been bees too, to have stung you for your impudence. Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has done the business much better. Cher. [Aside.] This fellow is misbegotten as well as I.-[Aloud.] What's your name, sir? Arch. [Aside.] Name! egad, I have forgot meat, drink, and clothes? it.-[Aloud.] Oh! Martin. Cher. Where were you born? Cher. What was your father? Then, friend, good-night. Cher. You may depend upon't. Cher. That you're very impudent. As I take it, madam, I brought your brother ten thousand pounds, out of which I might expect some pretty things, called pleasures. Dor. You share in all the pleasures that the country affords. Mrs. Sul. Country pleasures! racks and torments! Dost think, child, that my limbs were made for leaping of ditches, and clambering over stiles? or that my parents, wisely foreseeing my future happiness in country pleasures, had early instructed me in rural accomplishments of drinking fat ale, playing at whisk, and smoking tobacco with my husband? or of spreading of plasters, brewing of diet-drinks, and stilling rosemarywater, with the good old gentlewoman my [Kisses her. mother-in-law? A Gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S House. Enter MRS. SULLEN and DORINDA, meeting. Dor. Morrow, my dear sister; are you for church this morning? Mrs. Sul. Anywhere to pray; for Heaven alone can help me. But I think, Dorinda, there's no form of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands. Dor. But there's a form of law in DoctorsCommons; and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than see you thus continually discontented, I would advise you to apply to that: for besides the part that I bear in your vexatious broils, as being sister to the husband, and friend to the wife, your example gives me such an impression of matrimony, that I shall be apt to condemn my person to a long vacation all its life. But supposing, madam, that you brought it to a case of separation, what can you urge against your husband? My brother is, first, the most constant man alive. Dor. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in our power to divert you; I could wish, indeed, that our entertainments were a little more polite, or your taste a little less refined. But, pray, madam, how came the poets and philosophers, that labored so much in hunting after pleasure, to place it at last in a country life? Mrs. Sul. Because they wanted money, child, to find out the pleasures of the town. Did you ever see a poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pound? if you can show me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pound you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted them; in their landscape, every Phillis has her Corydon, every murmuring stream and every flowery mead gives fresh alarms to love. Besides, you'll find, that their couples were never married. But yonder I see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven knows! Come, Dorinda, don't be angry, he's my husband, and your brother; and, between both, is he not a sad brute? Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him, you're the best judge. Mrs. Sul. O sister, sister! if ever you marry, beware of a sullen, silent sot, one that's always musing, but never thinks. There's some diversion in a talking blockhead; and since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing 'em rattle a little. Now you shall see, but take this by the way. He came home this morning at his usual hour of four, wakened me out of a sweet dream of something else, by Mrs. Sul. The most constant husband, I tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke grant ye. Dor. He never sleeps from you. Mrs. Sul. No, he always sleeps with me. Dor. He allows you a maintenance suitable to your quality. all to pieces; after his man and he had rolled about the room, like sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice, his breath hot as a furnace, and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel night-cap. O matrimony! He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his Mrs. Sul. A maintenance! do you take me, madam, for an hospital child, that I must sit down, and bless my benefactors for |