DELIA.
Lucil.
Pr'ythee, Delia, take away thy impertinent Fingers;
I'm sick of Dressing, and will be plagu'd no longer.
Delia.
Troth, Madam, I think your other Suit would have
been better; and I'll warrant your Cousin will say so.
Lucil.
My Cousin's a Fool, and thou art another; I'll wear
none but this.
Delia.
I like the Cut of this Sleeve prodigiously, 'tis something
quite new; Lady Liberia's Gown that was prais'd so
much is a mere Night-Gown to this; Cloth of Gold and Tossels,
and lac'd with Silver, set with Brillants, Down-Sleeves,
Side-Sleeves and Skirts, and a Fringe half a Yard deep round
the Train.—But for a delicate, nice, elegant, courtly, novel
Fancy, yours is worth ten on't.
Lucil.
Heav'n give me Joy to wear it, for I'm sure my Heart
is uncommonly heavy under it.
-- 50 --
Enter LIBERIA.
Cousin, Good-morrow.
Lib.
Good-morrow, my Dear; you seem to speak in the sick
Tune, Child.
Lucil.
I'm out of all other Tune, I think; and yet I know
not why.
Lib.
I am not quite what I use to be, myself.—My Head
has been full of the oddest Megrims ever since Yesterday.
Lucil.
Have a care, my Dear, that's a kind of Love-Symptom.
Lib.
If it prove so I'll swear that you have infected me.
Lucil. [Aside.]
I know that—witness the Grotto.
Lib.
But come, my Dear, your fatal Hour's at hand; 'tis
time you were ready.—O' my troth I'm exceeding ill.—
Heigh ho!
Delia.
Well, Fortune send every one their Heart's Desire.—
You may think perhaps that I imagine you are in Love, Madam.
—No, 'tis impossible that ever can be after what I have heard
you say on the Subject; and yet Lord Protheus was just such
another; but now he's become a Man, and boldly enters the
Lists; and how you may be alter'd I know not, but you seem
to look with your Eyes as other Women do.
Lib.
How long have you wore Apprehension, Delia?
Delia.
Ever since Yesterday that you cast it off, Madam.
Lib.
What a Pace doth thy Tongue keep!
Delia.
Not a false Gallop, as you are convinc'd, Madam.
Lib.
O' my Conscience I'm afraid not, Delia.
AIR.
Love's Power a while I did despise,
And scorn'd the fond Desire;
But ah! how ill a Heart of Ice
Resists a Dart of Fire.
So gentle is the amorous Chain,
So tempting Cupid's Lure,
I hug the Bondage, court the Pain,
And only dread a Cure.
-- 51 --
Lucil.
I thank you, my Dear, for this kind Entertainment;
but all thy Mirth and Musick can't dispel the Gloom that hangs
about my Heart; however, Liberia, let us venture to the Temple:
I'm now prepar'd to be made a Sacrifice.
Lib.
Ah! never fear, my Dear, you'll meet with a merciful
Priest in Bellario: Let me see you but come off with Triumph,
and then I won't swear that—nothing at all—I won't think
on't.—Come, let's be gone.
[Exeunt.
Enter GRATIANO, PORCO, and ASINO.
Grati.
What would you have with me, honest Friends?
Porco.
An please your Highness I would have Confidence
with you that concerns you nearly.
Grati.
Be plain and brief then, for I'm call'd away.
Porco.
Why the Case is this, an please your Highness.
Asino.
Yes, indeed it is, an please your Highness.
Grati.
What, what is it?
Porco.
Why, Neighbour Asino here will interrupt me.—
He's an old Man, Sir, and his Wits are not quite so ready as
'twere to be wish'd; but in troth he's as honest as the Skin between
his Brows.
Asino.
Yes, Thanks be prais'd, I'm as honest a Mon as any
Mon living, that's an old Mon, and no honester than I.
Porco.
Comparisons are odorous, Neighbour.
Grati.
You are too tedious; I must leave you, if you won't
let me know your Business directly.
Porco.
Why, an please your Highness, if I was as tedious
as a King, I could find in my Heart to bestow it all on your
Honour.
Grati.
All thy Tediousness on me, Friend, Hah!
Porco.
Yea, and twice a thousand times more.
Grati.
I am not to know then what you have to say.
Asino.
Why, an please your Highness, our Watch to-night
have taken as arrant an Knave as any in the Kingdom, excepting
your Highness's Presence.
Porco.
Ah, good old Man, Sir!—He will be talking, as
they say—When Age is in, the Wit's out.—Well, he's a
good Man, in troth he is, as ever broke Bread; but all Men
are not alike; 'tis a strange World that we live in, Heaven help
us all!
-- 52 --
Grati.
Fare thee well, Friend, thou never hadst thy like, I
believe.
Porco.
One Word more, and I have done speaking for ever,
an please your Highness—Our Watch have indeed comprehended
an auspicious Person, and I would have him brought before
your Highness this Morning.
Grati.
Secure him, Friend, 'till I am more at leisure; you
shall have Notice.
Porco.
Your Highness speaks like a most thankful and reverend
Brother Magistrate.
Grati.
Now then for the Temple,
And there accomplish all my Wishes aim at:
Shine but this Nuptial Morn propitious to me,
Let that one fragrant Flow'r the Gods have giv'n me,
Transplanted from my Garden, find a Soil
Still more indulgent, if 'tis possible;
Grant me but this—then, Fortune, I'll discharge thee.
[Exit Gratiano.
Porco.
Well, his Highness is a most worthy Gentleman; he's
a Ruler that's like a Ruler, Neighbour; he never grudges hearing
or speaking to do right to his poor Dependants; believe me,
Neighbour, 'tis a blessed time with honest Folks when they
have got a Duke that loves his People.
Asino.
But don't all Rulers love their People, Neighbour?
Porco.
Oh dear Heart, dear Heart! Neighbour, you are older
than I, but not half so wise, I see that.—All Rulers love
their People! why how should they, when most of 'em never
see a Score of 'em in their Lives? No, no, they love the Fleece
of the Flock, but for the poor Sheep themselves—
Asino.
Not all Rulers love their People! they must be foolish
Rulers indeed!
Porco.
Well, we live in better Times, we have none of
those Doings now; but I have known formerly, Neighbour—
but no matter for that—since our Governor is loving let
us be dutiful, and go and secure this false Traitor effectually,
that he may'nt escape.
Asino.
I'll follow you, Neighbour.
-- 53 --
Porco.
And yet methinks I'm a little sorry for the Rascal too,
he'll certainly be committed, and I abhor the Thoughts of a
Mittimus ever since I was committed my self.
[Exeunt.
James Miller [1737], The universal passion. A comedy. As it is Acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, By His Majesty's Servants (Printed for J. Watts at the Printing-Office in Wild-Court [etc.], London) [word count] [S34700].
