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THE

BEAUX STRATAGEM.

BY

FARQUHAR.

PROLOGUE.

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But as, in grounds best cultivated, tares
And poppies rise among the golden ears;
Our product so, fit for the field or school,
Must mix with Nature's favourite plant-a fool:
A weed that has to twenty summers ran,
Shoots up in stalk, and vegetates to man.
Simpling, our author goes from field to field,
And culls such fools as may diversion yield:
And, thanks to nature, there's no want of those,
For rain or shine the thriving coxcomb grows.
Follies to-night we shew ne'er lash'd before,
Yet such as Nature shews you ev'ry hour:
Nor can the picture give a just offence,
For fools are made for jests to men of sense.

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SCENE I.-An Inn.

Enter BONIFACE, running.

ACT I.

[Bar bell rings. Bon. Chamberlain, maid, Cherry, daughter Cherry! All asleep, all dead?

Enter CHERRY, running.

Cher. Here, here.-Why d'ye bawl so, father? D'ye think we have no ears?

Bon. You deserve to have none, you young minx-the company of the Warrington coach has stood in the hall this hour, and nobody to shew 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. [Ringing.] Coming, coming.-Here's the London coach arriv'd.

Enter several People, with trunks, band-boxes, with other luggage, and cross the stage. Bon. Welcome, ladies. Cher. Very welcome, gentlemen.-Chamberlain, shew the Lion and the Rose.

[Exit with the company.

Enter AIMWELL, in a riding habit; ARCHER, as footman, carrying a portmanteau. Bon. This way, this way, gentlemen. Aim. Set down the things; go to the stable, and see my horse well rubb'd,

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 honour please to drink, as the saying is?

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much fam'd 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 years old the fifth day of March next, 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 shew you such ale. Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is.Sir, you shall taste my anno Domini—I haveliv'd in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight-and fifty years, and, I believe, have not consumed eightand-fifty ounces of meat.

Aim. At a meal, you mean, if one may guess your sense by your bulk,

Bon. Not in my life, sir: I have fed purely upon ale: I have eat my ale, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale.

Enter Tapster, with a tankard. 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 would we be strong that drink it?

Aim. And have you liv'd so long upon this ale, landlord?

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, sir; but it kill'd 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 -but the poor of a dozen bottles of usquebaughwoman was never well after;-but, however, 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 cur'd her of three tympanies, but the fourth carried her off; but she's happy, and I am 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 pounds a-year; and, I believe, she lays out one half on't in charitable uses, for the good of her neighbours: she cures rheumatisms, ruptures, and broken shins in men; green sickness, obstructions, and fits of the mother in women; the king's evil, chin-cough, and chilblains in children: in short, she has cured more people, in and about Litchfield, within ten years, than the doctors have kill'd 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 great estate, and values nobody.

Aim, A sportsman, I suppose?

Bon. Yes, sir, he's a man of pleasure: he in life, or revolutions in government: we have plays at whist, and smokes his pipe eight-and-heads to get money, and hearts to spend it. forty hours together sometimes.

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly! and married, ps you say? Je, 20

Bon. Ay, and to a curious woman, sir.-But he's a-He wants it here, sir. [Pointing to his forehead. Aum. 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, I'cod, he's no better than- -sir, my humble service to you. [Drinks.] Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me: I pay him his reat at quarter-day; 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. O! 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 every thing they have; they know, sir, that we paid good round taxes for the taking of them, and so they are willing to reimburse us a little:-one of 'em lodges in my house.

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Bon. Going to London, may-hap. Arch. No.

half a minute.

rings.] I

Bon. An odd fellow this! [Bar bell beg your worship's pardon; I'll wait on you in [Exit. Aim. The course is clear, I see- -Now, my dear Archer, welcome to Litchfield.

Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity. Aim. Iniquity! pr'ythee leave canting; you need not change your style with your dress.

Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell; for 'tis still my maxim, that there's no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty. 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 y 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 accidents

Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye they are as willing tits as any within twenty degrees; but I can have no great opinion of our heads from the service they have done us hitherto, unless it be that they brought us from London hither to Litchfield, made me a lord, and you my servant.

Arch. That's more than you could expect already. But what money have we left?

Aim. But two hundred pounds.

Arch. And our horses, clothes, rings, &c. Why, we have very good fortunes now, for moderate people: and let me tell you, that this two hundred pounds, 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 colours, shewed no signs of want, either in word or deed.

Aim. Ay, and our going to Brussels was a good pretence enough for our sudden disappearing; and, I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are gone a volunteering.

Arch. Why, 'faith, if this project 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 the other to carry us to some counterscarp, where we may die as we liv'd,-in a blaze.

Aim. With all my heart; and we have liv'd justly, Archer; we cann't say that we have spent our fortunes, but that we have enjoy'd 'em.

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Arch. Right: so much pleasure for so much money: we have had our pennyworths; and had 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 I know, are best, such as we are sure of; those to come may disappoint us. But 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, I 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!

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Bon. Veal! sir; we had a delicate loin of veal on Wednesday last.

Aim. Have you got any fish, or wild-fowl? Bon. As for fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, and indifferently provided with fish, that's the truth on't; but then for wild-fowl!have a delicate couple of rabbits.

Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed.

-we

Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his ?

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Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pounds to boot. [Ringing without.] Coming, coining Child, mind your business. [Exit BON. Cher. What a rogue is my father!-My father! I deny it-My mother was a good, generous, freehearted woman, and I cann't tell how far her good

Bon. Fricasseed! Lard, sir, they'll eat much nature might have extended for the good of her better smother'd with onions.

Arch. Pshaw! Rot your onions.

Am. 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-this will give us reputation. [Aside. Brings the box. Aim. Here, landlord; the locks are sealed down, both for your security and mine: it holds somewhat above two hundred pounds; if you doubt it, I'll count them 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 ready saddled:-but one thing, above the rest, I must beg,-that you will 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.

Arch. Yes, sir. [Exit, lighted by ARCHER.
Bon. Cherry, daughter Cherry!

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! is 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 highway

man.

Bon. A highwayman! Upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some new purchased booty.-Now, could we find him out, the money

were ours.

Cher. He don't belong to our gang.
Bon. What horses have they?
Cher. The master rides upon a black.

Bon. 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 harbour any rogues but my own. Look'e, 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 he loves a wench; you must work him t'other way.

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 foot

man too!

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 considering in what manner I should make love to you. Cher. Love to me, friend! Arch. Yes, child.

Cher. Child! Manners!-if you keep a little more distance, friend, it would become you much better. Arch. Distance! Good night, sauce-box [Going. Cher. A pretty fellow! I like his pride-Sir; pray, sir; you see, sir, [ARCH. returns] I have the credit to be trusted with your master's fortune here, which sets me a degree above his footman. -I hope, sir, you aʼn't affronted.

Arch. Let me look you full in the face, and I'll tell you whether you can affront me or no'Sdeath! child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you don't know what to do with 'em.

Cher. Why, sir, don't I see every body?

Arch. Ay, but if some women had them, they would kill every body.- -Pr'ythee instruct me; would fain make love to you, but I don't know

I

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Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while it is warm. [Kisses her.] Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs.

Cher. And I wish there had been a swarm of 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. This fellow is misbegotten, as well as I. [Aside.] What's your name, sir?

Arch. Name! 'Egad, I have forgot it. [Aside.]
Oh! Martin.

Cher. Where was you born?
Arch. In St Martin's parish.
Cher. What was your father?

Arch. Of-of-St Martin's parish.
Cher. Then, friend, good night.

Arch. I hope not.

Cher. You may depend upon't.

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ACT II.

SCENE I-A Gallery in Lady BOUNTIFUL'S | with my husband; or of spreading of plasters,

House.

Mrs SULLEN and DORINDA, meeting. Dor. Morrow, my dear sister; are you for church this morning?

Mrs Sul. Any where to pray; for heaven alone can help me: but I think, Dorinda, there's no form of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands.

brewing of diet-drinks, and 'stilling rosemary-water, with the good old gentlewoman my motherin-law?

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 laboured 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 hear of a poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pounds? If you can shew me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pounds, you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted them in their landscapes:-every Phyllis has her Corydon; every murmuring stream and every flowery mead gives fresh alarm to love: Besides, you'll find that their couples were never married.

Dor. But there's a form of law at Doctor's Commons; 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 examples give 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. Mrs Sul. The most constant husband, I grant-But yonder I see my Corydon; and a sweet swain 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.

Mrs Sul. A maintenance! Do you take me, madam, for an hospital child, that I must sit down and bless my benefactors for meat, drink, and clothes? 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 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 whist, and smoking tobacco

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 tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke 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

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