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virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me.
sago. You are in the right. Good Bight, Lieutenant: I must to the watch.
Cas. Good night, honest sago.
\ 26. A Dialogue between Mercury and a modern sin: Lady.
Mrs. Modijh. Indeed, Mr. Mercury, I cannot have the pleasure of waiting ■pon you now. I am engaged, absolutely engaged.
Mercury. 1 know you have an amiable affectionate husband, and several fine children : but you need noi be toid, that neither conjugal attachments, maternal affections, nor even the care of a kingdom's welfare or a nation's glory, cart excuse a person who has received a summons to the realms of death. If the grim messenger was not as peremptory as unwelcome, Charon would not get a passenger (except now and then an hypochondriacal Englishman) once in a century. You mull be content to leave your husband and family, and pass the Styx.
Mrs. Modijh. I did not mean to insist on any engagement with my husband and children; I never thought myself engaged to them. I had no engagements but such as wci-e common to women of my rank. Look on my chimney-piece, and you will see I was engaged to the play on Mondays, balls on Tuesdays, the opera on Saturdays, and to card assemblies the rest of the week, for two months to come j and it would be the rudest thing in the world not to keep my appointments. If you will stay for me till the summer season, I will wait on you with all my heart. Perhaps the Elysian fields may be less detestable than the country in our world. Pray, have you a fine Vauxhall and Ranelagh? I think I should not dislike drinking the Lethe waters, when you Have a full season.
Mercury. Surely you could not like to drink the waters of oblivion, who have made pleasure the business, end, and aim of your life! It is good to drown cares: but who would walb away the remembrance of a life of gaiety and pleasure r
Mrs. Modish. Diversion was indeed the business of my life; but as to pleasure, I have enjoyed none since the novelty of my amusements was gone off. Can one be pleased with seeing the fame thing over and over again? Late hours and fatigue gave me the vapours, spoiled the natural chearfulness of raytemper, and even in youth wore away my youthful vivacity.
M'.rcnry. If this way of life did not give you pleasure, why did you continue in it? I suppose you did not think it was very meritorious?
Mrs. Modijh. I was too much engaged to think at all: so far indeed my manner of life was agreeable enough. My friends always told me diversions were necessary, and my doctor assured me dissipation was good for my spirits; my husband insisted that it was not; and you know that one loves to oblige one's friends, comply with one's doctor, and contradict one's husband ; and besides, I was ambitious to be thought du Son ton •.
Mercury. Bon ton! what's that, Madam? Pray define itt
Mrs. Modijh. Oh> Sir, excuse me; it is one of the privileges of the bon ton never to define or be defined; It is the child and the parent of jargon. It is— I can never tell you what it is; but I will try to tell you what it is not; la conversation it is not wit; in manners it is not politeness ; in behaviour it it not address ; but it is a little like them all. It can only belong to people of a certain rank, who live in a certain manner, with certain persons who have not certain virtues, and who have certain vices, and who inhabit a certain part of the town. Like a place by courtesy, it gets an higher rank than the person can claim, but which those who have a legal title to precedency dare not dispute, for fear of being thought not to understand the rules of politeness. Now, Sir, I have told you as much as I know of it, though I have admired and aimed at ic all my life.
Mercury. Then, Madam, you have
Wasted you* time, faded your beauty, land destroyed your health, for the laudable purposes of contradicting your hufband, and being this something and this nothing called the bon ton f
Mrs. Modijh. What would you have had me do?
Mercury. I will follow your mode of instructing: I will tell you what I would not have had you do. I would not have had you sacrifice your time, your reason, and your duties, to fashion and folly. I would not have had you neglect your husband's happiness, and your children's education.
Mrs. Modijh. As to my daughters' education 1 spared no expence: they had a dancing-master, music-master, and drawing-master, andaFrench governess to teach them behaviour and the French langoage.
Mercury. So theirreligionj sentiments, astd manners, were to be learnt from a dancing-master, music-master, and a chamber-maid! perhaps they might prepare them to catch the bon ton. Your daughters must have been so educated as to fit them to be wives without conjugal affection, and mothers without maternal care. I am sorry for the sort of life they are commencing, and for that which you have just concluded. Minos is a sour old gentleman, without the least smattering of the bon ton; and I am in a fright for you. The best thing I can advise you is, to do in this World as you did in the other, keep h?ppiness in your view, but never take the road that leads to it. Remain on this side Styx 5 wander about without end or aim; look into the Elyiian fields, but never attempt to enter into them, lest Minos should push you into Tartafcus,: for duties neglected may bring'on a sentence not much less severe than crimes committed.
Dialogttet of the Dead,
§ 27. Pliny to Palcrnus.
The sickness which has run through toy family, and carried off several of my domestics, some of them too in the prime of their years, has deeply afflicted me, I have two consolation';, however, which, though they are not equal to so consi
derable a grief, still they are consolations: one is, that as I have always very; readily manumised my staves, their death does not altogether seem immature, if they lived long enough to received theif freedoms ; the other, that I have allowed them to make a kind of a will •, which I observe as religiously as if they were legally entitled to that privilege. I receive and obey their last requests as so many authoritative commands, suffering them to dispose of their effects to whom they please; with this single restriction, that they leave them to some in my family, which, to persons in their stations, is to be esteemed as a sort of commonwealth. But though I endeavour to acquiesce under these reflections, yet the fame tenderness which led me to shew them these indulgences still breaks out and overpowers my strongest resolutions. However, I would not wish to be insensible to these soft impressions of humanity; though the generality of the world, I know, look upon losses of this kind in no other view than as a diminution of their property ; and fancy, bycherishing such an unfeelingtemper, they discover a superior fortitude and good sense. Their wisdom and magnanimity I shall not dispute, but manly I am sure they are not; for it is the very criterion of true manhood to seel those impressions of sorrow which it endeavours to relist) and to admit not to be above the want of consolation. But perhaps I have detained you too long upon this subject, though not so long as I would. There is a certain pleasure in giving vent to one's grief: especially when we pour out our sorrows in the bosom of a friend, who will approve, at least pardon, our tears. Farewell.
Melmoth. / §28. Scene between the J civs Shylock and T u B A L; in -which the latter alternately torments and pleases the former, by giving him an Account of the Extravagance of his Daughter J n s s 1 c A , a rJ the Misfortunes O/antowjo.
Shy. How now, Tubal ? What news
* A (lave could acquire no property, and consequently was incapable by law of making a will.
from Genoa? hast thou heard of my daughter?
Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.
Shy. Why there, there, there ! a diamond gone that cost me two thousand ducats in Francfort! The curse never sell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels! I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! O would (he were hears'd at my foot, and the ducat9 in her coffin ! No news of them ; and I know not what spent in the search: loss upon loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; no ill luck stirring but what lights on my shoulders; no sighs, but o' my breathing; no tears, but o' my si'.aiding!
Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too; Antonio, as I heard in Genoa
Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, HI luck r
Tub. Hath an argofie cast away, coming from Tripolis.
Shy. Thank God! thank God ! is it true f is it true?
Tub. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.
Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal; good news, good news!
Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night, fourscore ducats.
Shy. Thou stick'st a dagger in me; I (hall never fee my gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting! fourscore ducats!
Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that swear he cannot but break.
■Shy. I am glad of it: I'll plague him, I'll torture him: I am glad of it.
Tub. One of them (hew'd me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey.
Shy. Out upon her! thou torturest me, Tubal; it was my ruby, I had it of Leah when I was a batchelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of rnonkies.
Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very truej go fee me an officer, bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for were he out of Venice, 1 can make what merchandize I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal. Shakespeare.
$ 29. Humorous Scene between Prince Henry Wfalstaff, iniuhicbtbe Prince deteSs Falstaff'j monstrous Lies.
A Henry. Welcome, Jack!—Where hast thou been?
Fal. A plague of all cowards, I fay, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy:—-ere I lead this life long, I'll few nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [Hi drinks.]—You rogue, here's lime in this sack coo. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man; yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villainous coward! —Go thy ways, old Jack ; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a lhotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, Heaven help the while! A bad world! I fay—A plague of all cowards! I fay still.
P. Henry. How now, Woolsack! what mutter you r
Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll never wear hair on my face more! You Prince of Wales!
P. Henry. Why, what's the matter?
Fal. Are you not a coward i answer me that.
P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an' ye call me coward, I'll stab thee.
Fal. I call thee coward! I'll see thee hang'd ere I'll call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You are strait enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? a plague upon
U u 2 such
such backing! give me them that will
Fal. All's one for that. [Hedrinks.
P. Henry. What's the matter? , Fal. What's the matter ! here be four 'pf us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning.
4 P. Henry. Where is it, jack? where is it r
Fal. Where is it! taken from us, it M: a hundred upon poor four of us.
P. Henry. What! a hundred, man? . Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-fword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hack'd like a hand-saw, tecesigfiutn! I never dealt better since I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!
P. Henry. What, fought you with them all?
Fal. All ! I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legg'd creature.
P. Henry. Pray Heav'n you have not inurder'd some of them!
Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two, I am sure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse, Thou knowest my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point: four rogues in buckram let drive at me. P. Henry. What, four! thou faidst But two even now.
Fal. Four, Hal, I told thee four.— These four came all a-sront, and mainly thrust at met I made no more ado; But took all their seven points in my target, thus.
P. Henry. Seven! why they were but
Fal. Seven by these hilts, or I am 1 villain else. Dost thou hear me, Hal I
P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack.
Fal. Do so, for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee os——
P. Henry. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground ; but I follow'd me close, came in foot and hand, and, with' a thought—feveti of the eleven I paid.
P. Henry. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two.
Fal. But as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendalgreen, came at my back, and let drive at me j (for it was so dark, Hal, that thbu couldst not fee thy hand.)
P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable: Why, thou claybrained guts, thou knotty-pated fool; thou obscene greasy tallow-catch—
Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?
P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal-green, when it was so dark thou couldst not fee thy hand? Come, tell us your reason: what say'st thou to this? Come, your reason; Jack, your reason.
Fal. What upon compulsion !—No iwere I at the strappado, or aH the racks in the world, I would not tell you oa compulsion. Give you a reason on compulsion! If reasons were as plenty as black-berries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this sit). This sanguine coward, this Bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker; this huge hill of fleih—
Fal. Away, you starveling, you elf. skin, you dry'd neat's tongue, yod stock-fish ! O, for breath to utter ! what is like thee? you taylor's yard, you sheath, you bow-cafe, you vile standing tuck—
P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou hail tir'd thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this :—Poins and I favir you four set on sour \ you bound them, and were masters of their wealth : marlc
row, how a plain tale (hall put you down. Then did we two set on you sour, and with a word out-sac'd you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can Ihew it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carry'd your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy,' and still ran and roar'd, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a Have art thou, to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then fay i; was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent sliame?
Fal. Ha! ha > ha !—D'ye think I did not know you ?—By the Lord, I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear ye, my master, was it for me so kill the heir-apparent? should I turn upon the true princes why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct , the lion will not touch she true prince; instinct )s a great matter. I was a coward on instinct, I grans you: and I (hall thinjk the better of myself and thee during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou fora true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors ; watch tonight, pray to-morrow. What, (hall we be merry? (ha}l we have a play extern pore?
P. Henry, Content !—^nd the argument (hall be, thy running away.
Fal. 4h !—r.o more pf that, Hal, if thOu lovest me, Shakespeare.
§ 30. Scene in ivbieb Moody gives Manly an Account of the Journey to London.
Manly. Honest John J—
Moody. Measter Manly! J'm glad I la' fun ye.—-Well, and how d'ye do, Measter?
Manly. I am glad to fee you in London. I hop: all the good family are well.
Moody. Thanks be prais'd, your ho. r.oii r, they are all in pretty good heart; thoP we have had a power of crosses npo* the road.
Manly. What has been the matter, John? • Moody. Why, we came up in such a
hurry, yon mun think, that our tackle; was not so tight as it should be.
Manly. Come, tell us all—Pray, how do they travel?
Moody. Why, i'the awld coach, Measter; and 'cause my Lady loves to do' things handsome, to be sure, (he would have a cuple of cart-horses c|apt to the four old geldings, that neighbours might fee (he went up to London in her coach and six; and so Giles Joulter, theploughman, rides postilion. Manly. And when do you expect them, here, John?
Moody. Why, we were in hopes 50 ha* come yesterday, an' it had no' been, that th'awld weazle-belly horse tired 5 and then we were so cruelly loaden, that the two fore-wheels came crasti dawn at pnee, in Waggon-rut-lane, and ther^ we lost' four hours 'fore we could set things to rights again.
Manly. So they bring all their baggage with the coach, then?
Moody. Ay, ay, and good store on't there is—Why, my lady's gear alone were as much as filled four portmantel trunks, besides the great deal box that heavy Ralph and the monkey sit upon behind.
Manly. Ha, ha, ha!—And, pray,how many are they within the coach?
Moody. Why, there's myladyand his worship, and the younk 'squoire, and Miss Jcjiny, and the fat lap-dog, and my lady's maid Mrs. Handy, and DoH Tripe the cook, that's all—only Doll puked a little with riding backward; so they hoisted her into the coach-box, and, then her stomach was easy. Manly. Ha, ha, ha 1 Moody. Then you mun think* Meat ter, there was some' stowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; children are apt \o be famifh'd upo' the road; so we had such cargoes of plumb-cake, and baskets of tongues, and biscuits, and cheese, and cold boil'd beef-—and then, in case of sicknese, bottles pf cherrybrandy, plague-water, sack, tent, anj strong beer so plenty, as made th' awld coach crack again. Mercy upon them! and fend them all well to town, I fay.
Manly. Ay, and well out on't again, John.
■ Moody. Measter! you're a wife mor.; U u 3 and,