The Comedies of William Congreve Part 38

BOY. No, and please you.

SCENE VIII.

CARELESS, SIR PAUL, LADY PLYANT.

SIR PAUL. A humour of my wife's: you know women have little fancies. But as I was telling you, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing, I should think myself the happiest man in the world; indeed that touches me near, very near.

CARE. What can that be, Sir Paul?

SIR PAUL. Why, I have, I thank heaven, a very plentiful fortune, a good estate in the country, some houses in town, and some money, a pretty tolerable personal estate; and it is a great grief to me, indeed it is, Mr. Careless, that I have not a son to inherit this. 'Tis true I have a daughter, and a fine dutiful child she is, though I say it, blessed be providence I may say; for indeed, Mr. Careless, I am mightily beholden to providence. A poor unworthy sinner. But if I had a son! Ah, that's my affliction, and my only affliction; indeed I cannot refrain tears when it comes in my mind. [_Cries_.]

CARE. Why, methinks that might be easily remedied--my lady's a fine likely woman--

SIR PAUL. Oh, a fine likely woman as you shall see in a summer's day.

Indeed she is, Mr. Careless, in all respects.

CARE. And I should not have taken you to have been so old--

SIR PAUL. Alas, that's not it, Mr. Careless; ah! that's not it; no, no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you do, that's not it, Mr.

Careless; no, no, that's not it.

CARE. No? What can be the matter then?

SIR PAUL. You'll scarcely believe me when I shall tell you--my lady is so nice. It's very strange, but it's true; too true--she's so very nice, that I don't believe she would touch a man for the world. At least not above once a year; I'm sure I have found it so; and, alas, what's once a year to an old man, who would do good in his generation? Indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart. I am her husband, as I may say; though far unworthy of that honour, yet I am her husband; but alas-a-day, I have no more familiarity with her person--as to that matter--than with my own mother--no indeed.

CARE. Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story. My lady must be told on't. She must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the world.

SIR PAUL. Ah! would to heaven you would, Mr. Careless; you are mightily in her favour.

CARE. I warrant you, what! we must have a son some way or other.

SIR PAUL. Indeed I should be mightily bound to you if you could bring it about, Mr. Careless.

LADY PLYANT. Here, Sir Paul, it's from your steward. Here's a return of 600 pounds; you may take fifty of it for the next half year. [_Gives him the letter_.]

SCENE IX.

[_To them_] LORD FROTH, CYNTHIA.

SIR PAUL. How does my girl? Come hither to thy father, poor lamb: thou'rt melancholic.

LORD FROTH. Heaven, Sir Paul, you amaze me, of all things in the world.

You are never pleased but when we are all upon the broad grin: all laugh and no company; ah, then 'tis such a sight to see some teeth. Sure you're a great admirer of my Lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, and Sir Laurence Loud, and that gang.

SIR PAUL. I vow and swear she's a very merry woman; but I think she laughs a little too much.

LORD FROTH. Merry! O Lord, what a character that is of a woman of quality. You have been at my Lady Whifler's upon her day, madam?

CYNT. Yes, my lord. I must humour this fool. [_Aside_.]

LORD FROTH. Well, and how? hee! What is your sense of the conversation?

CYNT. Oh, most ridiculous, a perpetual comfort of laughing without any harmony; for sure, my lord, to laugh out of time, is as disagreeable as to sing out of time or out of tune.

LORD FROTH. Hee, hee, hee, right; and then, my Lady Whifler is so ready--she always comes in three bars too soon. And then, what do they laugh at? For you know laughing without a jest is as impertinent, hee!

as, as--

CYNT. As dancing without a fiddle.

LORD FROTH. Just i'faith, that was at my tongue's end.

CYNT. But that cannot be properly said of them, for I think they are all in good nature with the world, and only laugh at one another; and you must allow they have all jests in their persons, though they have none in their conversation.

LORD FROTH. True, as I'm a person of honour. For heaven's sake let us sacrifice 'em to mirth a little. [_Enter_ BOY _and whispers_ SIR PAUL.]

SIR PAUL. Gads so.--Wife, wife, my Lady Plyant, I have a word.

LADY PLYANT. I'm busy, Sir Paul, I wonder at your impertinence.

CARE. Sir Paul, harkee, I'm reasoning the matter you know. Madam, if your ladys.h.i.+p please, we'll discourse of this in the next room.

SIR PAUL. O ho, I wish you good success, I wish you good success. Boy, tell my lady, when she has done, I would speak with her below.

SCENE X.

CYNTHIA, LORD FROTH, LADY FROTH, BRISK.

LADY FROTH. Then you think that episode between Susan, the dairy-maid, and our coachman is not amiss; you know, I may suppose the dairy in town, as well as in the country.

BRISK. Incomparable, let me perish. But then, being an heroic poem, had you not better call him a charioteer? Charioteer sounds great; besides, your ladys.h.i.+p's coachman having a red face, and you comparing him to the sun--and you know the sun is called Heaven's charioteer.

LADY FROTH. Oh, infinitely better; I'm extremely beholden to you for the hint; stay, we'll read over those half a score lines again. [_Pulls out a paper_.] Let me see here, you know what goes before,--the comparison, you know. [_Reads_.]

For as the sun s.h.i.+nes ev'ry day, So of our coachman I may say.

BRISK. I'm afraid that simile won't do in wet weather; because you say the sun s.h.i.+nes every day.

LADY FROTH. No; for the sun it won't, but it will do for the coachman, for you know there's most occasion for a coach in wet weather.

BRISK. Right, right, that saves all.

LADY FROTH. Then I don't say the sun s.h.i.+nes all the day, but that he peeps now and then; yet he does s.h.i.+ne all the day too, you know, though we don't see him.