[Lyric] The Country Wife Act 1 (William Wycherley)

PROLOGUE
(spoken by Mr. Horner)
Poets, like Cudgeled Bullies, never do
At first or second blow submit to you;
But will provoke you still, and never have done
Till you are weary first with laying on: But we the
Actors humbly will submit, Now and at any time, to a full Pit;
Nay, often we anticipate your rage
And murder Poets for you on our Stage:
We set no Guards upon our Tiring-Room,
But when with flying Colors there you come,
We patiently, you see, give up to you,
Our Poets, Virgins, nay, our Matrons too.

(The SCENE London.)

ACT I

(Horner’s Lodging) (Early in the morning)

(Enter Horner, and Quack following him at a distance.)
Horner:
Well, my dear Doctor, hast thou done what I desired?

Quack:
I have undone you forever with the Women, and reported you throughout the whole Town as a Eunuch, with as much trouble as if I had made you one in earnest.

Horner:
But have you told all the Midwives you know, the Orange Wenches at the Playhouses? For they'll be the readiest to report it.

Quack:
I have told all the Chambermaids and Old women of my acquaintance, so that you need not doubt 'twill spread, and you will be as odious to the handsome young Women as . . .

Horner:
As their own Husbands. I am only afraid 'twill not be believed. You told them 'twas by an English-French disaster and an English-French Chirurgeon, who has given me an Antidote against that damned malady, love?

Quack:
Your late journey into France has made it the more credible, and your being here a fortnight before you appeared in public looks as if you apprehended the shame, which I wonder you do not. Well, I have been hired by young Gallants to belie them the other way, but you are the first would be thought a Man unfit for Women.

Horner:
Dear Mr. Doctor, let vain Rogues be contented to be thought abler Men than they are. Generally 'tis all the pleasure they have, but mine lies another way.

Quack:
You take, methinks, a very preposterous way to it.

Horner:
Doctor, a good name is seldom got by giving it one‟s self, and Women no more than honor are compassed by bragging.
(Enter Horner’s Servant)

Servant:
There are two Ladies and a Gentleman coming up. (Exit Servant)

Horner:
A Pox! Some unbelieving Sisters of my former acquaintance, who I expect their sense should be satisfied of the falsity of the report.

(Enter Sir Jaspar Fidget, Lady Fidget and Mrs. Dainty Fidget)

Sir Jaspar:
My Coach breaking just now before your door Sir, I look upon as an occasional reprimand to me, Sir, for not kissing your hands, Sir, since your coming out of France, Sir. And so my disaster, Sir, has been my good fortune, Sir. And this is my Wife and Sister, Sir. Wife, this is Master Horner.

Lady Fidget:
Master Horner.

Sir Jaspar:
My Lady Fidget, Sir.

Horner:
So, Sir.

Sir Jaspar:
Won't you be acquainted with her Sir? (Aside.) So the report is true, I find by his aversion to the Sex; but I'll play the wag with him. (Aloud) Pray salute my Wife, Sir.

Horner:
I will kiss no Man‟s Wife for him, Sir. I have taken my eternal leave of the Sex already, Sir.
Sir Jaspar:
Not know my Wife, Sir?

Horner:
I do know your Wife, Sir. She's a Woman, Sir, and consequently a Monster, Sir, a greater Monster than a Husband, Sir.

Lady Fidget:
Pray, Sir Jasper, let us be gone from this rude fellow.

Dainty:
Who, by his breeding, would think he had ever been in France?

Lady Fidget:
Foh, he's but too much a French fellow, such as hate Women of quality and virtue for their love to their Husbands.

Horner:
You do well, Madam, for I have nothing that you came for. I have brought over not so much as a Bawdy Picture, new Postures, nor the second Part of the Ecole des Filles . . .

Sir Jaspar:
Hah, hah, hah! He hates Women perfectly I find.

Dainty:
What pity 'tis he should.

Lady Fidget:
Ay, he's a base rude Fellow for it, but affectation makes not a Woman more odious to them than Virtue.

Horner:
Because your Virtue is your greatest affectation, Madam.

Lady Fidget:
How, you saucy Fellow, would you wrong my honor?

Horner:
If I could.

Lady Fidget:
How do you mean, Sir?

Sir Jaspar:
Hah, hah, hah, no he can't wrong your Ladyship‟s honor, upon my honor. He, poor Man---hark you, in your ear---a mere Eunuch.

Lady Fidget:
O filthy French Beast, foh, foh; why do we stay? Let's be gone. I can't endure the sight of him.

Sir Jaspar:
Nor can I stay longer. The Council will have sat. I must away. Business must be preferred always before Love and Ceremony with the wise Mr. Horner.

Lady Fidget:
What, leave us with a filthy Man alone in his lodgings?

Sir Jaspar:
He's an innocent Man now, you know. Pray stay. Mr. Horner, your Servant, I should be glad to see you at my house. Pray, dine with me and play at Cards with my Wife after dinner. You are fit for Women at that game yet hah, ha! (Aside) 'Tis a Husband‟s prudence to provide innocent diversion for a Wife as to hinder her unlawful pleasures. (Aloud) Farewell.

Horner:
Your Servant, Sr. Jasper.

(Exit Sir Jaspar)

Lady Fidget:
I will not stay with him, foh---

Horner:
Nay, Madam, I beseech you stay. I can be as civil to Ladies as they would desire.

Lady Fidget:
No, no, foh, you cannot be civil to Ladies.

Dainty:
You as civil as Ladies would desire?

Lady Fidget:
No, no, no, foh, foh, foh.

(Exeunt Lady Fidget and Dainty.)

Quack:
Now, I think I, or you yourself rather, have done your business with the Women.

Horner:
Thou art an Ass. Don't you see already upon the report and my carriage, this grave Man of business leaves his Wife in my lodgings,
invites me to his house and wife, who before would not be acquainted with me out of jealousy.

Quack:
Nay, by this means you may be the more acquainted with the Husbands, but the less with the Wives.

Horner:
If I can but abuse the Husbands, I'll soon disabuse the Wives. Women of Quality are so civil, you can hardly distinguish love from good breeding, but now I can be sure, she that shows an aversion to me loves the sport as those Women that are gone, whom I warrant to be
right. Your Women of Honor are only chary of their reputations not their Persons, and 'tis scandal they would avoid, not Men. Now may I have, by the reputation of an Eunuch, the Privileges of One and be seen in a Ladies Chamber in a morning as early as her Husband, kiss Virgins before their Parents or Lovers, and may be in short the Passe-partout of the Town.

Quack:
Well, I wish you luck.

(Exit. Quack: Enter Servant leading Harcourt and Dorilant to Horner. Exit Servant.)

Harcourt:
Come, your appearance at the Play yesterday has, I hope, hardened you for the future against the Women's contempt and the Men's raillery.

Horner:
Did I not bear it bravely?

Dorilant:
With a most Theatrical impudence. Nay more than the Orange-wenches or a great bellied Actress, or what is yet more impudent, a second-hand Critic.

Horner:
But what say the Ladies? Have they no pity?

Harcourt:
The vizard-masks never pity a Man when all's gone, though in their Service.

Dorilant:
And for the Women in the boxes, you'd never pity them when 'twas in your power.

Horner:
Well, a Pox on love and wenching. Women serve but to keep a Man from better Company.

Harcourt:
Mistresses are like Books. If you pore upon them too much, they doze you and make you unfit for Company.

Dorilant:
A Mistress should be like a little Country retreat near the Town, not to dwell in constantly, but only for a night and away.

Horner:
I tell you, 'tis as hard to be a Lover of Women as 'tis to be a Lover of Money. You cannot follow both.

Dorilant:
Gad, he's in the right on it.

Harcourt:
I grant it. Love will still be uppermost.

Horner:
Come, for my part I will have only those glorious, manly pleasures of being very drunk and very slovenly. (Enter Servant)

Servant:
Mr. Sparkish is below, Sir.

(Exit Servant)

Harcourt:
What, my dear Friend! A Rogue that is fond of me, only I think for abusing him.

Horner:
His Company is as troublesome to us as a Cuckold‟s when you have a mind to his Wife's.

Harcourt:
No, the Rogue will not let us enjoy one another, but ravishes our conversation.

Dorilant:
And to pass for a wit in Town, shows himself a fool every night to us.

(Enter Servant leading Sparkish to them. Exit Servant)

Sparkish:
How is it, Sparks, how is it? Well Faith, Harry, I must railly thee a little, ha, ha, ha, upon the report in Town of thee, ha, ha, ha, I can't hold in Faith. Shall I speak?

Horner:
Yes, but you'll be so bitter then.

Sparkish:
Honest Dick and Frank here shall answer for me, I will not be extreme bitter by the Universe.

Harcourt:
We will be bound in ten thousand pound Bond he shall not be bitter at all.

Dorilant:
Nor sharp nor sweet.

Horner:
What, not downright insipid?

Sparkish:
Nay then, since you are so brisk and provoke me, take what follows. You must know I was discoursing and raillying with some Ladies yesterday, and they happened to talk of the fine new signs in Town. Said I, “I know where the best new sign is.” “Where?” says one of the Ladies. “In Covent-Garden,” I replied. Said another, “In what street?” “In Russell Street,” answered I. “Lord,” says another, “I'm sure there was never a fine new sign there yesterday.” “Yes, but there was,” said I again, “and it came out of France, and has been there a fortnight.”

Dorilant:
A Pox! I can hear no more, prithee.

Sparkish:
Nay faith, I'll make you laugh. “It cannot be,” says a third Lady. “Yes, yes,” quoth I again. “Did you never see Mr. Horner? He lodges in Russell Street, and he's a sign of a Man, you know, since he came out of France.” heh, hah, he!

Horner:
But the Devil take me!

Sparkish:
With that they all fell a laughing till they bepissed themselves. What, but it does not move you, methinks? Well, Come, come Sparks, where do we dine? I have left at Whitehall an Earl to dine with you.

Dorilant:
Why, I thought thou loved a Man with a title better than a Suit with a French trimming to it.

Harcourt:
Go to him again.

Sparkish:
No, Sir, a wit to me is the greatest title in the World.

Horner:
But go dine with your Earl, Sir, he may be exceptious. We are your Friends and will not take it ill to be left, I do assure you.

Sparkish:
Nay, pray Gentlemen.

Dorilant:
We'll thrust you out, if you would not.

Sparkish:
Nay, dear Gentlemen hear me. Where do we dine?

Horner:
Even where you will.

Sparkish:
Pshaw, with your fooling we shall loose the new Play, and I would no more miss seeing a new Play the first day than I would miss setting in the wits‟ Row. Therefore I'll go fetch my Mistress and away.

(Exit Sparkish. Manent Horner, Harcourt, Dorilant. Enter to them the Servant leading Mr. Pinchwife. Exit Servant)

Horner:
Who have we here, Pinchwife?

Pinchwife:
Gentlemen, your humble Servant.

Horner:
Well, Jack, by thy long absence from the Town, the grumness of thy countenance and the slovenliness of thy habit, I should give thee joy, should I not, of Marriage?

Pinchwife:
(Aside) Death! Does he know I'm married too? (Aloud) My long stay in the Country will excuse my dress, and I have a suit of Law that brings me up to Town, that puts me out of humor. Besides, I must give Sparkish tomorrow five thousand pound to lie with my Sister.

Horner:
Well, I heard thou wert married.

Pinchwife:
What then?

Horner:
I did not expect Marriage from such a Whoremaster as you, one that knew the Town so much and Women so well.

Pinchwife:
Why, I have married no London Wife.

Horner:
Pshaw, that's all one, that grave circumspection in marrying a Country Wife. Come, come, but she's handsome and young?

Pinchwife:
No, no, she has no beauty but her youth, no attraction but her modesty. Homely and housewifely, that's all. She's too awkward, ill favored and silly to bring to Town.

Harcourt:
Then methinks you should bring her to be taught breeding.

Pinchwife:
To be taught? No, Sir, I thank you. Good Wives and private Soldiers should be ignorant.

Horner:
Why, if she be ill favored, there will be less danger here than by leaving her in the Country. We have such variety of dainties that we are seldom hungry.

Dorilant:
But they have always coarse, constant, swingeing stomachs in the Country.

Harcourt:
Foul Feeders indeed.

Dorilant:
And your Hospitality is great there.

Harcourt:
Open house, every Man's welcome.

Pinchwife:
So, so, Gentlemen.

Horner:
But prithee, why would thou marry her if she be ugly, ill bred and silly? She must be rich then.

Pinchwife:
As rich as if she brought me twenty thousand pound out of this Town, for she'll be as sure not to spend her moderate portion as a London Baggage would be to spend hers. Because she‟s ugly, she's the likelier to be my own; and being ill bred, she'll hate conversation; and since silly and innocent, will not know the difference betwixt a Man of one and twenty and one of forty.

Horner:
Nine---to my knowledge. But if she be silly, she'll expect as much from a Man of forty nine as from him of one and twenty.

Pinchwife:
'Tis my maxim. He's a Fool that marries, but he's a greater that does not marry a Fool. What is wit in a Wife good for but to make a Man a Cuckold?

Horner:
No, what is worse, if she cannot make her Husband a Cuckold, she'll make him jealous and pass for one, and then 'tis all one.

Pinchwife:
Well, well, I'll take care. My Wife shall make me no Cuckold, though she had your help Mr. Horner.

Dorilant:
(Aside) His help!

Harcourt:
(Aside) He's come newly to Town, it seems, and has not heard how things are with him.

Horner:
But tell me, has Marriage cured thee of whoring?

Pinchwife:
Well, Gentlemen, you may laugh at me, but I know the Town.

Horner:
But prithee, was not the way you were in better than Marriage?

Pinchwife:
A Pox on it, the Jades would jilt me. I could never keep a Whore to myself.

Horner:
So, then, you only married to keep a Whore to yourself. Well, I'd advise my Friends to keep rather than marry, since I find by your example it does not serve one‟s turn, for I saw you yesterday in the eighteen penny place with a pretty Country-wench.

Pinchwife:
(Aside) How the Devil did he see my Wife then? I sat there that she might not be seen.

Horner:
What, dost thou blush at nine and forty for having been seen with a Wench?

Dorilant:
No Faith, I warrant 'twas his Wife which he seated there out of sight.

Harcourt:
He blushes, then 'twas his Wife. For Men are now more ashamed to be seen with them in public than with a Wench.

Pinchwife:
(Aside) Hell and damnation, I'm undone since Horner has seen her.

Horner:
But was it thy Wife? She was exceedingly pretty. I was in love with her at that distance.

Pinchwife:
You are like never to be nearer to her. Your Servant, Gentlemen. (Offers to go.)

Horner:
Nay, prithee stay.

Pinchwife:
I cannot.

Horner:
Come, you shall dine with us.

Pinchwife:
I have dined already.

Horner:
Come, I know thou hast not. I'll treat thee, dear Rogue, thou shall spend none of thy Hampshire Money today.

Pinchwife:
(Aside) Treat me! So, he uses me already like his Cuckold. (Aloud) I have business at home.

(Exit Pinchwife)

Harcourt:
To beat his Wife. He's as jealous of her as a Cheapside Husband of a Covent Garden Wife.

Horner:
Why, 'tis as hard to find an old Whoremaster without the gout as a young one without fear of the Pox.

As Gout in Age, from Pox in Youth proceeds;
So Wenching past, then jealousy succeeds:
The worst disease that Love and Wenching breeds.