Scene IV Lord Hardy’s Lodgings
Enter Lord Hardy, leading Harriot; Campley, and Trim.
L. Ha. Why, then I find this Mr. Trim is a perfect general; but I assure you, sir, I’ll never allow you an hero, who could leave your mistress behind you. You should have broke the house down, but you should have mademoiselle with you.
Trim. No, really, madam, I have seen such strange fears come into the men’s heads, and such strange resolutions into the women’s upon the occasion of ladies following a camp, that I thought it more discreet to leave her behind me. My success will naturally touch her as much as if she were here.
L. Ha. A good, intelligent, arch fellow this [Aside.]—But were not you saying, my lord, you believed Lady Brumpton would follow hither? If so, pray let me be gone.
Ld. H. No, madam, I must beseech your ladyship to stay, for there are things alleged against her which you, who have lived in the family, may perhaps give light into, and which I can’t believe even she could be guilty of.
L. Ha. Nay, my lord, that’s generous to a folly, for even for her usage of you (without regard to myself), I am ready to believe she would do anything that can come into the head of a close, malicious, cruel, designing woman.
Enter Boy.
Boy. My Lady Brumpton’s below.
L. Ha. I’ll run, then.
Cam. No, no, stand your ground. You, a soldier’s wife? Come, we’ll rally her to death.
Ld. H. Prithee, entertain her a little, while I go in for a moment’s thought on this occasion. [Exit.
L. Ha. She has more wit than us both.
Cam. Pshaw, no matter for that; be sure, as soon as the sentence is out of my mouth, to clap in with something else; and laugh at all I say. I’ll be grateful, and burst myself at my pretty, witty wife. We’ll fall in slap upon her; she shan’t have time to say a word of the running away.
Enter Lady Brumpton and Trusty.
Oh, my Lady Brumpton, your ladyship’s most obedient servant: This is my Lady Harriot Campley. Why, madam, your ladyship is immediately in your mourning. Nay, as you have more wit than anybody, so (what seldom wits have) you have more prudence, too. Other widows have nothing in a readiness but a second husband; but you, I see, had your very weeds and dress lying by you.
L. Ha. Ay, madam; I see your ladyship is of the Order of Widowhood, for you have put on the habit.
Wid. I see your ladyship is not of the profession of virginity, for you have lost the look on’t.
Cam. You are in the habit—That was so pretty; nay, without flattery, Lady Harriot, you have a great deal of wit. Ha! ha! ha!
L. Ha. No, my Lady Brumpton here is the woman of wit; but, indeed, she has but little enough, considering how much her ladyship has to defend. Ha! ha! ha!
Wid. I am sorry, madam, your ladyship has not what’s sufficient for your occasions, or that this pretty gentleman can’t supply ’em——[Campley dancing about and trolling. Hey, day! I find, sir, your heels are a great help to your head. They relieve your wit, I see; and I don’t question but ere now they have been as kind to your valour. Ha! ha!
Cam. Pox, I can say nothing; ’tis always thus with your endeavours to be witty [Aside.]—I saw, madam, your mouth go, but there could be nothing offered in answer to what my Lady Harriot said.—’Twas home—’Twas cutting satire.
L. Ha. Oh, Mr. Campley! But pray, madam, has Mr. Cabinet visited your ladyship since this calamity? How stands that affair now?
Wid. Nay, madam, if you already want instructions, I’ll acquaint you how the world stands, if you are in distress—but I fear Mr. Campley overhears us.
Cam. And all the tune the pipers played was Toll-toll-doroll. I swear, Lady Harriot, were I not already yours, I could have a tender for this lady.
Wid. Come, good folks, I find we are very free with each other. What makes you two here? Do you board my lord, or he you? Come, come, ten shillings a head will go a great way in a family. What do you say, Mrs. Campley, is it so? Does your ladyship go to market yourself? Nay, you’re in the right of it. Come, can you imagine what makes my lord stay? He is not now with his land-steward. Not signing leases, I hope? Ha! ha! ha!
Cam. Hang her, to have more tongue than a man and his wife too. [Aside.
Enter Lord Hardy.
Ld. H. Because your ladyship is, I know, in very much pain in company you have injured, I’ll be short—Open those doors—There lies your husband’s, my father’s body; and by you stands the man accuses you of poisoning him.
Wid. Of poisoning him!
Tru. The symptoms will appear upon the corpse.
Ld. H. But I am seized by nature—How shall I view, a breathless lump of clay, him whose high veins conveyed to me this vital force and motion?
I cannot bear that sight—
I am as fixed and motionless as he—
[They open the coffin, out of which jumps Lady Sharlot.33
Art thou the ghastly shape my mind had formed?
Art thou the cold, inanimate—bright maid?
Thou giv’st new higher life to all around.
Whither does fancy, fired with love, convey me?
Whither transported by my pleasing fury?
The season vanishes at thy approach;
’Tis morn, ’tis spring—
Daisies and lillies strow thy flowery way.
Why is my fair unmoved—my heavenly fair?
Does she but smile at my exalted rapture?
L. Sh. Oh! sense of praise, to me unfelt before,
Speak on, speak on, and charm my attentive ear.
How sweet applause is from an honest tongue!
Thou lov’st my mind—hast well affection placed;
In what, nor time, nor age, nor care, nor want can alter.
Oh, how I joy in thee, my eternal lover;
Immutable as the object of thy flame!
I love, I am proud, I triumph that I love.
Pure, I approach thee; nor did I with empty shows,
Gorgeous attire, or studied negligence,
Or song, or dance, or ball, allure thy soul;
Nor want, or fear, such arts to keep or lose it:
Nor now with fond reluctance doubt to enter
My spacious, bright abode, this gallant heart.34
[Reclines on Hardy.
L. Ha. Ay, marry, these are high doings indeed; the greatness of the occasion has burst their passion into speech. Why, Mr Campley, when we are near these fine folks, you and I are but mere sweethearts. I protest I’ll never be won so; you shall begin again with me.
Cam. Prithee, why dost name us poor animals? They have forgot there are such creatures as their old acquaintance Tom and Harriot.
Ld. H. So we did indeed, but you’ll pardon us.
Cam. My lord, I never thought to see the minute wherein I should rejoice at your forgetting me, but now I do heartily. [Embracing.
L. Sh. Harriot.}
}[Embracing.]
L. Ha. Sharlot.}
Wid. Sir, you’re at the bottom of all this; I see you’re skilled at close conveyances. I’ll know the meaning instantly of these intricacies. ’Tis not your seeming honesty and gravity shall save you from your deserts. My husband’s death was sudden. You and the burial fellow were observed very familiar. Produce my husband’s body, or I’ll try you for his murder; which I find you’d put on me, thou hellish engine!
Tru. Look you, madam, I could answer you, but I scorn to reproach people in misery. You’re undone, madam.
Wid. What does the dotard mean? Produce the body, villain, or the law shall have thine for it. [Trusty exit hastily.]—Do you design to let the villain escape? How justly did your father judge, that made you a beggar with that spirit! You meant just now you could not bear the company of those you’d injured.
Ld. H. You are a woman, madam, and my father’s widow. But sure you think you’ve highly injured me.
[Here Lord Brumpton and Trusty half enter and observe.
Wid. No, sir, I have not, will not, injure you. I must obey the will of my deceased lord to a tittle; I must justly pay legacies. Your father, in consideration that you were his blood, would not wholly alienate you. He left you, sir, this shilling, with which estate you now are Earl of Brumpton.
Ld. H. Insolent woman! it was not me my good father disinherited; ’twas him you represented. The guilt was thine; he did an act of justice.
Lord Brumpton, entering with Trusty.
Ld. B. Oh, unparalleled goodness!
Tattleaid and Mademoiselle at the other door entering.
Tru. Oh! Tattleaid, his and our hour is come.
Wid. What do I see? My lord, my master, husband, living?
Ld. B. [Turning from her, running to his son.] Oh, my boy, my son. Mr. Campley, Sharlot, Harriot! [All kneeling to him.] Oh, my children! Oh, oh! These passions are too strong for my old frame. Oh, the sweet torture! my son! my son! I shall expire in the too mighty pleasure! my boy!
Ld. H. A son, an heir, a bridegroom in one hour! Oh! grant me, Heaven, grant me moderation!
Wid. A son, an heir! Am I neglected then?
What? can my lord revive, yet dead to me?
Only to me deceased—to me alone,
Deaf to my sighs, and senseless to my moan?
Ld. B. ’Tis so long since I have seen plays, good madam, that I know not whence thou dost repeat, nor can I answer.
Wid. You can remember, though, a certain settlement, in which I am thy son and heir. Great noble, that’s I suppose not taken from a play? That’s as irrevocable as law can make it, that if you scorn me, your death and life are equal; or I’ll still wear my mourning ’cause you’re living.
Tru. Value her not, my lord; a prior obligation made you incapable of settling on her, your wife.
Ld. B. Thy kindness, Trusty, does distract thee. I would indeed disengage myself by any honest means, but, alas, I know no prior gift that avoids this to her—Oh, my child!
Tru. Look you, madam, I’ll come again immediately. Be not troubled, my dear lords——[Exit.
Cam. Trusty looks very confident; there is some good in that.
Re-enter Trusty with Cabinet.
Cab. What, my Lord Brumpton living? nay then——
Tru. Hold, sir, you must not stir, nor can you, sir, retract this for your hand-writing.—My lord, this gentleman, since your supposed death, has lurked about the house to speak with my lady, or Tattleaid, who upon your decease have shunned him, in hopes, I suppose, to buy him off for ever. Now, as he was prying about, he peeped into your closet, where he saw your lordship reading. Struck with horror, and believing himself (as well he might) the disturber of your ghost for alienation of your fortune from your family, he writ me this letter, wherein he acknowledges a private marriage with this lady, half a year before you ever saw her.
All. How? [All turn upon her disdainfully.
Wid. No more a widow then, but still a wife.
[Recovering from her confusion.
I am thy wife—thou author of my evil
Thou must partake with me an homely board,
An homely board that never shall be cheerful;
But every meal embittered with upbraidings.
Thou that could’st tell me, good and ill were words,
When thou could’st basely let me to another,
Yet could’st see sprights, great unbeliever!
Coward! Bug-beared penitent——
Stranger henceforth to all my joys, my joys
To thy dishonour; despicable thing,
Dishonour thee? Thou voluntary cuckold.
[Cabinet sneaks off, Widow flings after him, Tattleaid following.
Ld. B. I see you’re all confused as well as I. Ye are my children, I hold you all so; and for your own use will speak plainly to you. I cannot hate that woman; nor shall she ever want. Though I scorn to bear her injuries, yet had I ne’er been roused from that low passion to a worthless creature, but by disdain of her attempt on my friend’s child. I am glad that scorn’s confirmed by her being that fellow’s, whom, for my own sake, I only will contemn. Thee, Trusty, how shall we prosecute with equal praise and thanks for this great revolution in our house?
Tru. Never to speak on’t more, my lord.
Ld. B. You are now, gentlemen, going into cares at a crisis35 in your country.
And on this great occasion, Tom, I’ll mount
Old Campley which thy father gave me,
And attend thee a cheerful gay old man,
Into the field to represent our county.
My rough plebeian Britons, not yet slaves
To France, shall mount thy father’s son
Upon their shoulders. Echo loud their joy,
While I and Trusty follow weeping after:
But be thou honest, firm, impartial,
Let neither love, nor hate, nor faction move thee,36
Distinguish words from things, and men from crimes;
Punctual be thou in payments, nor basely
Screen thy faults ’gainst law, behind the
Laws thou makest
But thou against my death, must learn a supererogatory morality.
[To Lord Hardy.
As he is to be just, be generous thou:
Nor let thy reasonable soul be struck
With sounds and appellations; title is
No more, if not significant
Of something that’s superior in thyself
To other men, of which thou may’st be
Conscious, yet not proud—But if you swerve
From higher virtue than the crowd possess,
Know, they that call thee honourable mock thee.
You are to be a Peer, by birth a judge
Upon your honour, of others’ lives and fortunes;
Because that honour’s dearer than your own.
Be good, my son, and be a worthy lord
For when our shining virtues bless mankind,
We disappoint the livid malcontents,
Who long to call our noble Order useless.
Our all’s in danger, sir, nor shall you dally
Your youth away with your fine wives.
No, in your country’s cause you shall meet death,
While feeble we with minds resigned do wait it.
Not but I intend your nuptials as soon as possible, to draw entails and settlements. How necessary such things are, I had like to have been a fatal instance.
Cam. But, my lord, here are a couple that need not wait such ceremonies. Please but to sit; you’ve been extremely moved, and must be tired. You say we must not spend our time in dalliance; you’ll see, my lord, the entertainment reminds us also of nobler things, and what I designed for my own wedding I’ll compliment the general with. The bride dances finely. Trim, will you dance with her?
Trim. I will, but I can’t. There’s a countryman of hers without, by accident.
Cam. Ay, but is he a dancer?
Trim. Is a Frenchman a dancer? Is a Welshman a gentleman? I’ll bring him in.
[Here a dance and the following songs.
Set by Mr. Daniel Purcell.37
Sung by Jemmie Bowin.
I.
On yonder bed supinely laid,
Behold thy loved expecting maid:
In tremor, blushes, half in tears,
Much, much she wishes, more she fears.
Take, take her to thy faithful arms,
Hymen bestows thee all her charms.
II.
Heaven to thee bequeaths the fair,
To raise thy joy, and lull thy care;
Heaven made grief, if mutual, cease,
But joy, divided, to increase:
To mourn with her exceeds delight,
Darkness with her, the joys of light.
Sung by Mr. Pate.
I.
Arise, arise, great dead, for arms renowned,
Rise from your urns, and save your dying story,
Your deeds will be in dark oblivion drowned,
For mighty William seizes all your glory.
II.
Again the British trumpet sounds,
Again Britannia bleeds;
To glorious death, or comely wounds,
Her godlike monarch leads.
III.
Pay us, kind fate, the debt you owe,
Celestial minds from clay untie,
Let coward spirits dwell below,
And only give the brave to die.
Ld. B. Now, gentlemen, let the miseries which I have but miraculously escaped, admonish you to have always inclinations proper for the stage of life you’re in. Don’t follow love when nature seeks but ease; otherwise you’ll fall into a lethargy of your dishonour, when warm pursuits of glory are over with you; for fame and rest are utter opposites.
You who the path of honour make your guide,
Must let your passion with your blood subside;
And no untimed ambition, love, or rage
Employ the moments of declining age;
Else boys will in your presence lose their fear,
And laugh at the grey-head they should revere.