William Wycherley [Four Plays]. William Wycherley

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СКАЧАТЬ to let the world know I am the greatest you have. You will pardon me, Madam, for you know it is very hard for a new author, and poet too, to govern his ambition: for poets, let them pass in the world ever so much for modest, honest men, but begin praise to others which concludes in themselves; and are like rooks, who lend people money but to win it back again, and so leave them in debt to 'em for nothing; they offer laurel and incense to their heroes, but wear it themselves, and perfume themselves. This is true, Madam, upon the honest word of an author who never yet writ dedication. Yet though I cannot lie like them, I am as vain as they; and cannot but publicly give your Grace my humble acknowledgments for the favours I have received from you:—this, I say, is the poet's gratitude, which, in plain English, is only pride and ambition; and that the world might know your Grace did me the honour to see my play twice together. Yet, perhaps, my enviers of your favour will suggest 'twas in Lent, and therefore for your mortification. Then, as a jealous author, I am concerned not to have your Grace's favours lessened, or rather my reputation; and to let them know, you were pleased, after that, to command a copy from me of this play;—the only way, without beauty and wit, to win a poor poet's heart.

      'Tis a sign your Grace understands nothing better than obliging all the world after the best and most proper manner. But, Madam, to be obliging to that excess as you are (pardon me, if I tell you, out of my extreme concern and service for your Grace) is a dangerous quality, and may be very incommode to you; for civility makes poets as troublesome, as charity makes beggars; and your Grace will be hereafter as much pestered with such scurvy offerings as this, poems, panegyrics, and the like, as you are now with petitions: and, Madam, take it from me, no man with papers in 's hand is more dreadful than a poet; no, not a lawyer with his declarations. Your Grace sure did not well consider what ye did, in sending for my play: you little thought I would have had the confidence to send you a dedication too. But, Madam, you find I am as unreasonable, and have as little conscience, as if I had driven the poetic trade longer than I have, and ne'er consider you had enough of the play. But (having suffered now so severely) I beseech your Grace, have a care for the future; take my counsel, and be (if you can possible) as proud and ill-natured as other people of quality, since your quiet is so much concerned, and since you have more reason than any to value yourself:—for you have that perfection of beauty (without thinking it so) which others of your sex but think they have; that generosity in your actions which others of your quality have only in their promises; that spirit, wit and judgment, and all other qualifications which fit heroes to command, and would make any but your Grace proud. I begin now, elevated by my subject, to write with the emotion and fury of a poet, yet the integrity of an historian; and I could never be weary—nay, sure this were my only way to make my readers never weary too, though they were a more impatient generation of people than they are. In fine, speaking thus of your Grace, I should please all the world but you; therefore I must once observe and obey you against my will, and say no more, than that I am,

      Madam,

      Your Grace's most obliged, and most humble servant,

      William Wycherley.

PROLOGUE.

       Table of Contents

      Custom, which bids the thief from cart harangue

       All those that come to make and see him hang,

       Wills the damned poet (though he knows he's gone)

       To greet you ere his execution.

       Not having fear of critic 'fore his eyes,

       But still rejecting wholesome, good advice,

       He e'en is come to suffer here to-day

       For counterfeiting (as you judge) a play,

       Which is against dread Phœbus highest treason;

       Damn, damning judges, therefore, you have reason:—

       You he does mean who, for the selfsame fault,

       That damning privilege of yours have bought.

       So the huge bankers, when they needs must fail,

       Send the small brothers of their trade to jail;

       Whilst they, by breaking, gentlemen are made,

       Then, more than any, scorn poor men o' the trade.

       You hardened renegado poets, who

       Treat rhyming poets worse than Turk would do,

       But vent your heathenish rage, hang, draw, and quarter;

       His Muse will die to-day a fleering martyr;

       Since for bald jest, dull libel, or lampoon,

       There are who suffer persecution

       With the undaunted briskness of buffoon,

       And strict professors live of raillery,

       Defying porter's-lodge, or pillory.

       For those who yet write on our poet's fate,

       Should as co-sufferers commiserate:

       But he in vain their pity now would crave,

       Who for themselves, alas! no pity have,

       And their own gasping credit will not save;

       And those, much less, our criminal would spare,

       Who ne'er in rhyme transgress;—if such there are.

       Well then, who nothing hopes, need nothing fear:

       And he, before your cruel votes shall do it,

       By his despair declares himself no poet.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

       Table of Contents

      Mr. Ranger,

       Mr. Vincent,

       Mr. Valentine,

       Young Gentlemen of the town.

       Alderman Gripe, seemingly precise, but a covetous, lecherous, old Usurer of the city.

       Sir Simon Addleplot, a Coxcomb, always in pursuit of women of great fortunes.

       Mr. Dapperwit, a brisk, conceited, half-witted fellow of the town.

       Mrs. Crossbite's Landlord, and his Prentices, Servants, Waiters, and other Attendants.

       Christina, Valentine's Mistress.

       Lydia, Ranger's Mistress.

       Lady Flippant, Gripe's Sister, an affected Widow in distress for a husband, though still declaiming against marriage.

       Mrs. Martha, Gripe's Daughter.

       Mrs. Joyner, a Match-maker, or precise city bawd.

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