William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley

by my subject, to write with the emotion and fury of a poet, yet the integrity of an historian; and I could never be weary—nay, sure this were my only way to make my readers never weary too, though they were a more impatient generation of people than they are. In fine, speaking thus of your Grace, I should please all the world but you; therefore I must once observe and obey you against my will, and say no more, than that I am,

      Madam,

      Your Grace's most obliged, and most humble servant,

      William Wycherley.

PROLOGUE.

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      Custom, which bids the thief from cart harangue

       All those that come to make and see him hang,

       Wills the damned poet (though he knows he's gone)

       To greet you ere his execution.

       Not having fear of critic 'fore his eyes,

       But still rejecting wholesome, good advice,

       He e'en is come to suffer here to-day

       For counterfeiting (as you judge) a play,

       Which is against dread Phœbus highest treason;

       Damn, damning judges, therefore, you have reason:—

       You he does mean who, for the selfsame fault,

       That damning privilege of yours have bought.

       So the huge bankers, when they needs must fail,

       Send the small brothers of their trade to jail;

       Whilst they, by breaking, gentlemen are made,

       Then, more than any, scorn poor men o' the trade.

       You hardened renegado poets, who

       Treat rhyming poets worse than Turk would do,

       But vent your heathenish rage, hang, draw, and quarter;

       His Muse will die to-day a fleering martyr;

       Since for bald jest, dull libel, or lampoon,

       There are who suffer persecution

       With the undaunted briskness of buffoon,

       And strict professors live of raillery,

       Defying porter's-lodge, or pillory.

       For those who yet write on our poet's fate,

       Should as co-sufferers commiserate:

       But he in vain their pity now would crave,

       Who for themselves, alas! no pity have,

       And their own gasping credit will not save;

       And those, much less, our criminal would spare,

       Who ne'er in rhyme transgress;—if such there are.

       Well then, who nothing hopes, need nothing fear:

       And he, before your cruel votes shall do it,

       By his despair declares himself no poet.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

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      Mr. Ranger,

       Mr. Vincent,

       Mr. Valentine,

       Young Gentlemen of the town.

       Alderman Gripe, seemingly precise, but a covetous, lecherous, old Usurer of the city.

       Sir Simon Addleplot, a Coxcomb, always in pursuit of women of great fortunes.

       Mr. Dapperwit, a brisk, conceited, half-witted fellow of the town.

       Mrs. Crossbite's Landlord, and his Prentices, Servants, Waiters, and other Attendants.

       Christina, Valentine's Mistress.

       Lydia, Ranger's Mistress.

       Lady Flippant, Gripe's Sister, an affected Widow in distress for a husband, though still declaiming against marriage.

       Mrs. Martha, Gripe's Daughter.

       Mrs. Joyner, a Match-maker, or precise city bawd.

       Mrs. Crossbite, an old cheating jill, and bawd to her Daughter.

       Miss Lucy, Mrs. Crossbite's Daughter.

       Isabel, Christina's Woman.

       Leonore, Servant to Lydia.

       SCENE—London.

LOVE IN A WOOD;

       OR,

       ST. JAMES'S PARK.

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ACT THE FIRST.

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      SCENE I.—Gripe's House, in the evening.

      Enter Lady Flippant and Mrs. Joyner.

      Lady Flip. Not a husband to be had for money!—Come, come, I might have been a better housewife for myself, as the world goes now, if I had dealt for an heir with his guardian, uncle, or mother-in-law; and you are no better than a chouse, a cheat.

      Mrs. Joyn. I a cheat, madam!

      L. Flip. I am out of my money, and patience too.

      Mrs. Joyn. Do not run out of your patience, whatever you do:—'tis a necessary virtue for a widow without a jointure, in truly.

      L. Flip. Vile woman! though my fortune be something wasted, my person's in good repair. If I had not depended on you, I had had a husband before this time. When I gave you the last five pounds, did you not promise I should be married by Christmas?

      Mrs. Joyn. And I had kept my promise if you had co-operated.

      L. Flip. Co-operated! what should I have done? 'Tis well known no woman breathing could use more industry to get her a husband than I have. Has not my husband's 'scutcheon walked as much ground as the citizens' signs since the Fire?—that no quarter of the town might be ignorant of the widow Flippant.

      Mrs. Joyn. 'Tis well known, madam, indeed.

      L. Flip. Have I not owned myself (against my stomach) the relict of a citizen, to credit my fortune?

      Mrs. Joyn. 'Tis confessed, madam.

      L. Flip. Have I not constantly kept Covent-Garden church, St. Martin's, the playhouses, Hyde Park, Mulberry garden,[26] and all the other public marts where widows and maids are exposed?

      Mrs. Joyn. Far be it from me to think you have an aversion to a husband. But why, madam, have you refused so many good offers?

      L. Flip. Good offers, Mrs. Joyner! I'll be sworn I never had an offer since my late husband's.—If I had an offer, Mrs. Joyner!—there's the thing, Mrs. Joyner.

      Mrs. Joyn. Then your frequent and public detestation of marriage is thought real; and if you have had no offer, there's the thing, madam.

      L. Flip. I cannot deny but I always rail against marriage;—which is the widow's way to it certainly.

      Mrs.