The British Drama: A Collection of the Most Esteemed Tragedies, Comedies ...

endeavoured to undo the son, it was a reasonable return of nature.

Sir S. Very good, Sir. Mr. Buckram, are you ready? Come, Sir, will you sign and seal?

Val. If you please, Sir; but first I would ask this lady one question.

Sir S. Sir, you must ask me leave firstThat lady! No, Sir, you shall ask that lady no questions, till you have asked her blessing, Sir; that lady is to be my wife.

Val. I have heard as much, Sir; but I would have it from her own mouth.

Sir S. That's as much as to say, I lie, Sir; and you don't believe what I say.

Val. Pardon me, Sir. But I reflect that I very lately counterfeited madness: I don't know but the frolic may go round.

Sir S. Come, satisfy him, answer him.Come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. Buck. Here it is, Sir; with the deed; all is ready. [VAL. goes to ANG. Ang. 'Tis true, you have a great while pretended love to me; nay, what if you were sincere. Still, you must pardon me, if I think my own inclinations have a better right to dispose of my person, than yours.

Sir S. Are you answered now,
Val. Yes, Sir.

Sir?

Sir S. Where's your plot, Sir? and your contrivance now, Sir? Will you sign, Sir? Come, will you sign and seal?

Sir S. How now ? Val. Ha!

[Tears the paper.

Ang. Had I the world to give you, it could not nake me worthy of so generous and faithful a assion. Here's my hand; my heart was always fours, and struggled hard to make this utmost rial of your virtue. [To VAL. Val. Between pleasure and amazement I am ost-but on my knees I take the blessing.

Sir S. Zounds, what is the meaning of this? Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again. Faher, you and I may make a voyage together now! Ang. Well, Sir Sampson, since I have played you a trick, I'll advise you how you may avoid uch another. Learn to be a good father, or you'll never get a second wife. I always loved your son, and hated your unforgiving nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost; I have tried you too, and know you both. You have not more faults than he has virtues; and it is hardly more pleasure to me that I can make him and myself happy, than that I can punish you.

Val. If my happiness could receive addition; this kind surprise would make it double. Sir S. You're a crocodile.

For. Really, Sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse.

Sir S. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm another.

Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, I can spare him mine. Oh, are you there, Sir? I am indebted to you for my happiness. [TO JEREMY.

Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons: it was an arrant mistake. You see, Sir, my master was never mad, nor any thing like it. Then how can it be otherwise?

Val. Tattle, I thank you; you would have interposed between me and heaven: but Providence laid Purgatory in your way. You have but justice.

Scand. I hear the fiddles that Sir Sampson provided for his own wedding; methinks it is pity they should not be employed when the match is so much mended. Valentine, though it be morning we may have a dance.

Val. Any thing, my friend; every thing that looks like joy and transport.

Scand. Call them, Jeremy. Ang. I have done dissembling now, Valentine; and if that coldness which I have always worn before you should turn to an extreme fondness, you must not suspect it.

Val. I'll prevent that suspicion-for I intend to doat to that immoderate degree, that your fondness shall never distinguish itself enough to be taken notice of. If ever you seem to love too much, it must be only when I can't love enough.

Ang Have a care of promises: you know you are apt to run more in debt than you are able to pay. Val. Therefore I yield myself as your prisoner, and make your best on't.

Scand. The music stays for you. [A dance. [To ANG.] Well, Madam, you have done exemplary justice in punishing an inhuman father, and rewarding a faithful lover: but there is a third good work, which I in particular must thank you for; I was an infidel to your sex, and you have converted me- -for now I am convinced that all women are not, like fortune, blind in bestowing favours, either on those who do not merit, or who do not want them.

Ang. It is an unreasonable accusation, that you lay upon our sex. You tax us with injustice, only to cover your own want of merit. You would all have the reward of love; but few have the constancy to stay till it becomes your due. Men are generally hypocrites and infidels; they pretend to worship, but have neither zeal nor faith. How few, like Valentine, would persevere even to martyrdom, and sacrifice their interest to their constancy! In admiring me, you misplace the novelty. The miracle to-day is that we find A lover true; and that a woman's kind. [Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

SURE Providence at first design'd this place
To be the player's refuge in distress;
For still, in every storm, they all run hither,
As to a shed, that shields them from the weather.

But thinking of this change which last befel us,
It's like what I have heard our poets tell us,
For when behind our scenes their suits are plead-
ing,

To help their love, sometimes they show their reading;

And, wanting ready cash to pay for hearts,
They top their learning on us, and their parts.
Once of philosophers they told us stories,
Whom, as I think, they call'd-Py-Pythagories,
I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give them,
And we, who know no better, must believe them.
Now to these men (say they) such souls were given,
That, after death, ne'er went to hell nor heaven.
But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then,
When many years were pass'd, in men again.
Methinks, we players resemble such a soul;
That does from bodies, we from houses stroll.
Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was,
May now be damn'd to animate an ass;
Or in this very house, for ought we know,
Is doing painful penance in some beau ;

And thus our audience, which did once resort
To shining theatres, to see our sport,
Now find us toss'd into a tennis court!
These walls but t'other day were fill'd with noise
Of roaring gamesters, and your damme boys;
Then bounding balls and rackets they encom-
pass'd;

And now they are fill'd with jests, and flights and bombast!

I vow, I don't much like this transmigration,
Strolling from place to place, by circulation;
Grant Heaven, we dont return to our first station!
I know not what these think; but, for my part,
I can't reflect without an aching heart,
How we should end in, our original, a cart.
But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us,
That you have only set us up to leave us.
Thus, from the past, we hope for future grace,
I beg it-

And some here know I have a begging face.
Then pray continue this your kind behaviour;
For a clear stage wont do, without your favour.

THE CHANCES:

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

ALTERED FROM BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER,

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

REMARKS.

AMONG the few dramas of our early writers which have maintained their station on the stage, this amusing Comedy holds a distinguished place; and though it cannot be ranked with the Volpone and Alchemist of Jonson, or with a few others of the old masters, the propriety of the verdict which has established its reputation cannot fairly be disputed. Its plot is complicated, though not confused; its characters are well discriminated; its man ners, being founded rather on nature than on any particular fashion or period, are calculated to be understood and to please in all countries and at all times. Such is the general character of the performance, which cannot fail to create an interest, and to raise a laugh, whenever it is represented on the stage. It is not, however, without its defects; and much as we may feel disposed to speak in its favour, candid criticism must admit, that neither its plot, its characters, nor its manners, are faultless.

Of the diction of this comedy it may be remarked, that it is surprisingly inconsistent with itself, and evidently betokening the drama to have been the work of two masters. The two first acts, and above half of the third, are written in the easy and familiar blank verse, which was so generally used by the dramatic writers of Eliza beth's and James's time, and which very probably may be preferred, at least for dramatic purposes, to prose. The remainder is of a totally different cast, being mere prose, monotonous, heavy, and inelegant enough.

DUKE OF FERRARA.

PETRUCHIO, Governor of Bologna.

DON JOHN,

DON FREDERICK,

DRAMATIS PERSON Æ.
PETER,
ANTHONY,
SURGEON.

two Spanish Gentlemen and
comrades.

ANTONIO, an old stout Gentleman, kinsman to Pe

truchio.

THREE GENTLEMEN, friends to the Duke.
THREE GENTLEMEN, friends to Petruchio.
FRANCISCO.

MUSICIAN.

ANTONIO'S BOY.

}

servants to Don John and Frederick.

1ST CONSTANTIA, sister to Petruchio, and Mistress to the Duke.

Or all men, those have reason least to care
For being laugh'd at, who can laugh their share:
And that's a thing our author's apt to use,
Upon occasion, when no man can choose.
Suppose now at this instant one of you
Were tickled by a fool, what would you do?
Tis ten to one you'd laugh: here 's just the case;
For there are fools that tickle with their face.
Your gay fool tickles with his dress and motions,
But your grave fool of fools with silly notions.

35*

Is it not then unjust that fops should still
Force one to laugh, and then take laughing ill?
Yet since perhaps to some it gives offence,
That men are tickled at the want of sense;
Our author thinks he takes the readiest way
To show all he has laugh'd at here-fair play.
For if ill-writing be a folly thought,
Correcting ill is sure a greater fault. [first,
Then, gallants, laugh; but choose the right place
For judging ill is of all faults the worst.

413

Ant. Come, come, all will be mended: this invisible woman,

Of infinite shape and beauty,

That bred all this trouble to no purpose,
They are determined now no more to think on.
Pet. Were there ever

Men known to run mad with report before?
Or wander after what they know not where
To find; or if found, how to enjoy? Are men's

brains

Made now-a-days with malt, that their affections
Are never sober; but like drunken people
Founder at every new fame? I do believe
That men in love are ever drunk, as drunken

men

Are ever loving.

Ant. Pr'ythee be thou sober,

And know that they are none of those, not guilty
Of the least vanity of love: only a doubt
Fame might too far report, or rather flatter
The graces of this woman, made them curious
To find the truth; which since they find so
Lock'd up from their searches, they are now re-
solved

To give the wonder over.

Pet. Would they were resolved

To give me some new shoes too; for I'll be sworn These are e'en worn out to the reasonable soles In their good worships' business: and some sleep Would not do much amiss, unless they mean 'T'o make a bell-man of me. Here they come. [Exeunt.

Enter DON JOHN and DON FREDERICK. John. I would we could have seen her though: for sure

She must be some rare creature, or report lies:
All men's reports too.

Fred. I could well wish I had seen Constantia:

But since she is so conceal'd, placed where
No knowledge can come near her, so guarded
As 'twere impossible, though known, to reach her,
I have made up my belief.

IfI more think upon her:
John. Hang me from this hour,

So the next fame shall lose her.
But as she came a strange report unto me,

Fred. 'Tis the next way-
But whither are you walking?
After my meat, and then to bed.
John. My old round
Fred. 'Tis healthful.
John. Will you not stir?

Fred. I have a little business.
John. I'd lay my life, this lady still-
Fred. Then you would lose it.
John. Pray let's walk together.
Fred. Now I cannot.

John. I have something to impart.
Fred. An hour hence

I will not miss to meet ye.

John. Where?

Fred. I' th' high street:

For, not to lie, I have a few devotions
To do first, then I'm yours.
John. Remember.

[Exeunt.

Ant. Cut his wind-pipe, I say.

1st Gent. Fy, Antonio.

Ant. Or knock his brains out first, and then forgive him.

If you do thrust, be sure it be to the hilts, A surgeon may see through him. 2d Gent. You are too violent. 1st Gent. Too open, indiscreet. The honour of my house crack'd? my blood Petr. Am I not ruin'd? My credit and my name? poison'd?

2d Gent. Be sure it be so,

And a suspecting anger so much sway ye,
Before you use this violence. Let not doubt
Your wisdom may be question'd.

Ant. I say, kill him,

And what is, shall be safe.

And then dispute the cause; cut off what may be,

2d Gent. Hang up a true man, Because 'tis possible he may be thievish: Alas! is this good justice?

As day must come again, as clear as truth,
Petr. I know as certain
And open as belief can lay it to me,

That I am basely wrong'd, wrong'd above recom

pence,

Maliciously abused, blasted for ever

But what is smear'd and shameful: I must kill
In name and honour, lost to all remembrance,
him;
Necessity compels me.

2d Gent. But think better.

Petr. There's no other cure left; yet witness
with me

All that is fair in man, all that is noble:
I am not greedy for this life I seek for,
Nor thirst to shed man's blood; and would 'twere

possible,

I wish it with my soul, so much I tremble
T'offend the sacred image of my Maker,

John. The civil order of this city Naples Makes it beloved and honour'd of all travellers, As a most safe retirement in all troubles; Beside the wholesome seat and noble temper Of those minds that inhabit it, safely wise, And to all strangers courteous. But I see My admiration has drawn night upon me, And longer to expect my friends may pull me Into suspicion of too late a stirrer,

Which all good governments are jealous of.
I'll home, and think at liberty: yet certain,
"Tis not so far night as I thought; for see,
A fair house yet stands open, yet all about it
Are close, and no lights stirring; there may be
foul play;

I'll venture to look in. If there be knaves
I may do a good office.

John. What! How is this?

Within. Signior!

Within. Signior Fabritio!

John. I'll go nearer.

Within. Fabritio!

For things are in strange trouble. Here, be secret 'Tis worth your care: begone now; more eyes watch us

Than may be for our safeties.
John. Hark ye.

Wom. Peace; good night.

John. She's gone, and I am loaden. Fortune for me!

It weighs well and it feels well; it may chance To be some pack of worth; by the mass 'tis heavy!

If it be coin or jewels, it is worth welcome. I'll ne'er refuse a fortune: I am confident 'Tis of no common price. Now to my lodging: If it be right I'll bless this night. [Exit.

Duke. Where are the horses?

2d Gent. Where they were appointed. Duke. Be private: and whatsoever fortune Offers itself, let us stand sure.

3d Gent. Fear us not.

Ere you shall be endanger'd or deluded,
We'll make a black night on't.

Duke. No more, I know it;
You know your quarters.

1st Gent. Will you go alone, Sir? Duke. Ye shall not be far from me, noise

Shall bring ye to my rescue.

2d Gent. We are counsell'd.

Enter DON JOHN.

the least

[Exeunt.

John. Was ever man so paid for being curious? Ever so bobb'd for searching out adventures, As I am? Did the devil lead me! Must I needs

be peeping

Into men's houses where I had no business,
And make myself a mischief? 'Tis well carried!
I must take other men's occasions on me,
And be I know not whom: most finely handled'
What have I got by this now? What's the
purchase?

John. This is a woman's tongue; here may be A piece of evening arras-work, a child,

good done.

Within. Who's there? Fabritio?

Indeed an infidel! This comes of peeping!
A lump got out of laziness! Good white bread,
Let's have no bawling with ye. 'Sdeath, have I
Known wenches thus long, all the ways of

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