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Unit-II  - MODERN LITERATURE (1600-1798) 

1.The CanonizationBY JOHN DONNE

For God's sake hold your tongue, and let me love,         Or chide my palsy, or my gout,My five gray hairs, or ruined fortune flout,         With wealth your state, your mind with arts improve,                Take you a course, get you a place,                Observe his honor, or his grace,Or the king's real, or his stampèd face         Contemplate; what you will, approve,         So you will let me love.

Alas, alas, who's injured by my love?         What merchant's ships have my sighs drowned?Who says my tears have overflowed his ground?         When did my colds a forward spring remove?                When did the heats which my veins fill                Add one more to the plaguy bill?Soldiers find wars, and lawyers find out still         Litigious men, which quarrels move,         Though she and I do love.

Call us what you will, we are made such by love;         Call her one, me another fly,We're tapers too, and at our own cost die,         And we in us find the eagle and the dove.                The phœnix riddle hath more wit                By us; we two being one, are it.So, to one neutral thing both sexes fit.         We die and rise the same, and prove         Mysterious by this love.

We can die by it, if not live by love,         And if unfit for tombs and hearse

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Our legend be, it will be fit for verse;         And if no piece of chronicle we prove,                We'll build in sonnets pretty rooms;                As well a well-wrought urn becomesThe greatest ashes, as half-acre tombs,         And by these hymns, all shall approve         Us canonized for Love.

And thus invoke us: "You, whom reverend love         Made one another's hermitage;You, to whom love was peace, that now is rage;         Who did the whole world's soul contract, and drove                Into the glasses of your eyes                (So made such mirrors, and such spies,That they did all to you epitomize)         Countries, towns, courts: beg from above         A pattern of your love!"

“The Canonization”

Summary

The speaker asks his addressee to be quiet, and let him love. If the addressee cannot hold his tongue, the speaker tells him to criticize him for other shortcomings (other than his tendency to love): his palsy, his gout, his “five grey hairs,” or his ruined fortune. He admonishes the addressee to look to his own mind and his own wealth and to think of his position and copy the other nobles (“Observe his Honour, or his Grace, / Or the King’s real, or his stamped face / Contemplate.”) The speaker does not care what the addressee says or does, as long as he lets him love.

The speaker asks rhetorically, “Who’s injured by my love?” He says that his sighs have not drowned ships, his tears have not flooded land, his colds have not chilled spring, and the heat of his veins has not added to the list of those killed by the plague. Soldiers still find wars and lawyers still find litigious men, regardless of the emotions of the speaker and his lover.

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The speaker tells his addressee to “Call us what you will,” for it is love that makes them so. He says that the addressee can “Call her one, me another fly,” and that they are also like candles (“tapers”), which burn by feeding upon their own selves (“and at our own cost die”). In each other, the lovers find the eagle and the dove, and together (“we two being one”) they illuminate the riddle of the phoenix, for they “die and rise the same,” just as the phoenix does—though unlike the phoenix, it is love that slays and resurrects them.

He says that they can die by love if they are not able to live by it, and if their legend is not fit “for tombs and hearse,” it will be fit for poetry, and “We’ll build in sonnets pretty rooms.” A well-wrought urn does as much justice to a dead man’s ashes as does a gigantic tomb; and by the same token, the poems about the speaker and his lover will cause them to be “canonized,” admitted to the sainthood of love. All those who hear their story will invoke the lovers, saying that countries, towns, and courts “beg from above / A pattern of your love!”

Form

The five stanzas of “The Canonization” are metered in iambic lines ranging from trimeter to pentameter; in each of the nine-line stanzas, the first, third, fourth, and seventh lines are in pentameter, the second, fifth, sixth, and eighth in tetrameter, and the ninth in trimeter. (The stress pattern in each stanza is545544543.) The rhyme scheme in each stanza is ABBACCCDD.Commentary

This complicated poem, spoken ostensibly to someone who disapproves of the speaker’s love affair, is written in the voice of a world-wise, sardonic courtier who is nevertheless utterly caught up in his love. The poem simultaneously parodies old notions of love and coins elaborate new ones, eventually concluding that even if the love affair is impossible in the real world, it can become legendary through poetry, and the speaker and his lover will be like saints to later generations of lovers. (Hence the title: “The Canonization” refers to the process by which people are inducted into the canon of saints).

In the first stanza, the speaker obliquely details his relationship to the world of politics, wealth, and nobility; by assuming that these are the concerns of his addressee, he indicates his own background amid such concerns, and he also indicates the extent to which he has moved beyond that background. He hopes that the listener will leave him alone and pursue a career in the court, toadying to aristocrats, preoccupied with favor (the King’s real face) and money (the King’s stamped face, as on a coin). In the second stanza, he parodies contemporary Petrarchan notions of love and continues to mock his addressee, making the point

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that his sighs have not drowned ships and his tears have not caused floods. (Petrarchan love-poems were full of claims like “My tears are rain, and my sighs storms.”) He also mocks the operations of the everyday world, saying that his love will not keep soldiers from fighting wars or lawyers from finding court cases—as though war and legal wrangling were the sole concerns of world outside the confines of his love affair.

In the third stanza, the speaker begins spinning off metaphors that will help explain the intensity and uniqueness of his love. First, he says that he and his lover are like moths drawn to a candle (“her one, me another fly”), then that they are like the candle itself. They embody the elements of the eagle (strong and masculine) and the dove (peaceful and feminine) bound up in the image of the phoenix, dying and rising by love. In the fourth stanza, the speaker explores the possibility of canonization in verse, and in the final stanza, he explores his and his lover’s roles as the saints of love, to whom generations of future lovers will appeal for help. Throughout, the tone of the poem is balanced between a kind of arch, sophisticated sensibility (“half-acre tombs”) and passionate amorous abandon (“We die and rise the same, and prove / Mysterious by this love”).

“The Canonization” is one of Donne’s most famous and most written-about poems. Its criticism at the hands of Cleanth Brooks and others has made it a central topic in the argument between formalist critics and historicist critics; the former argue that the poem is what it seems to be, an anti-political love poem, while the latter argue, based on events in Donne’s life at the time of the poem’s composition, that it is actually a kind of coded, ironic rumination on the “ruined fortune” and dashed political hopes of the first stanza. The choice of which argument to follow is largely a matter of personal temperament. But unless one seeks a purely biographical understanding of Donne, it is probably best to understand the poem as the sort of droll, passionate speech-act it is, a highly sophisticated defense of love against the corrupting values of politics and privilege.

"The Canonization"

The poet demands that some complainer leave him alone to love. The complainer should turn his attention elsewhere, and nobody is hurt by the love. They are not sinking ships or causing floods, delaying spring or causing others to die, or supporting wars or lawsuits. The poet and his lover take their own chances together; they are unified in their love. They are like candles that will burn out on

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their own, yet they have been reborn together in fire like the fabled Phoenix. On the other hand, their love is a beautiful example for the world that will be immortalized, canonized, a pattern for all other love in the world.

Analysis

In “The Canonization,” Donne sets up a five-stanza argument to demonstrate the purity and power of his love for another. Each stanza begins and ends with the word “love.” The fourth and eighth lines of each stanza end with a word also ending -ove (the pattern is consistently abbacccaa), all of which unifies the poem around a central theme.

The title leads the reader to expect a poem concerned with saints and holy practices, but the very first lines sound more like a line delivered on stage. “ForGod’s sake hold your tongue” is nearly blasphemous when following the sacred title. By the end of the poem, the reader determines that “canonization” refers to the way that the poet’s love will enter the canon of true love, becoming the pattern by which others judge their own love. As usual, this hyperbole also leads the reader to find a spiritual or metaphysical meaning in the poem, and as usual, this will lead us to see that Donne sets out the perfection of divine love as the only realistic model for all others.

In the first stanza the poet complains that his verbal assailant is misguided. Has he no more important work to do than criticize others’ love? He could just as easily attack Donne’s “gout” or “palsy” (line 2) or even his “five gray hairs” (line 3), but he should get a job or go to school or enter a profession, so long as he leaves the poet alone. The king’s “stamp'd face” (line 7) most likely refers to coinage with the king’s likeness. The things of the world can be left to the critic and the world, so long as the critic “will let me love (line 9).

The second stanza takes a live-and-let-live individual rights perspective: “who's injured by my love?” (line 10). The lovers are not making war, fighting lawsuits, interfering with commerce, or spreading disease. They respect others’ property; his tears do not trespass. They take their own chances together in their fleeting lives, as the third paragraph notes. To the rest of the world, they are tiny flies, or candles that will burn together in peace.

They may destroy themselves in the act of burning with passion for one another, yet by the middle of the poem, Donne translates their love to a higher plane. First he compares himself and his beloved to the eagle and dove, a reference to the Renaissance idea in which the eagle flies in the sky above the earth while the dove transcends the skies to reach heaven. He immediately shifts to the image of the

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Phoenix, another death-by-fire symbol (the Phoenix is a bird that repeatedly burns in fire and comes back to life out of the ashes), suggesting that even though their flames of passion will consume them, the poet and his beloved will be reborn from the ashes of their love.

In their resurrection, their relationship has become a paradox. The key paradox of love is that two individuals become one. By uniting in this way, they “prove/Mysterious by this love” (lines 26-27). These words may imply the mystery of marriage as it reflects the relationship of Jesus and his church, as stated by Paul in I Corinthians. Indeed, the new union is unsexed even though it incorporates both sexes: “to one neutral thing both sexes fit,” just like in Christ there is no longer any male or female (Galatians 3:28). Compare the story of love in Plato’s Symposium where the original human beings had the marks of both sexes before they were split into male and female, each person being left to seek his or her other half.

The fourth stanza opens out to consider the legacy of the poet’s love with his beloved. Their love will endure in legend; the language of “verse” and “chronicle” suggests canonization at nearly the level of Scripture, which is counted by verses and has books called Chronicles. Even if their love is not quite at that level, songs will be sung and sonnets composed commemorating their romance.

On the one hand, their love is self-contained and perfect, like a “well-wrought urn.” (This is a phrase that would become famous after poet John Keats wrote “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and critic Cleanth Brooks wrote a book treating each poem like its own beautifully and carefully crafted urn, full unto itself.) On the other hand, the ashes in this urn are meant to spread, in this case covering half an acre but symbolic of spreading the tale of perfect love throughout the world.

The final stanza voices the poet’s sense of future vindication over the critic. The poet expects that the rest of the world will “invoke” himself and his beloved, similar to the way Catholics invoke saints in their prayers. In this vision of the future, the lovers’ legend has grown, and they have reached a kind of sainthood. They are role models for all the world, because “Countries, towns, courts beg from above/A pattern of your love” (lines 44-45). From the lovers’ perspective, the whole world is present as they look into each other’s eyes; this sets the pattern of love that the world can follow.

The Ecstasy

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BY JOHN DONNEWhere, like a pillow on a bed         A pregnant bank swell'd up to restThe violet's reclining head,         Sat we two, one another's best.Our hands were firmly cemented         With a fast balm, which thence did spring;Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread         Our eyes upon one double string;So to'intergraft our hands, as yet         Was all the means to make us one,And pictures in our eyes to get         Was all our propagation.As 'twixt two equal armies fate         Suspends uncertain victory,Our souls (which to advance their state         Were gone out) hung 'twixt her and me.And whilst our souls negotiate there,         We like sepulchral statues lay;All day, the same our postures were,         And we said nothing, all the day.If any, so by love refin'd         That he soul's language understood,And by good love were grown all mind,         Within convenient distance stood,He (though he knew not which soul spake,         Because both meant, both spake the same)Might thence a new concoction take         And part far purer than he came.This ecstasy doth unperplex,         We said, and tell us what we love;We see by this it was not sex,         We see we saw not what did move;But as all several souls contain         Mixture of things, they know not what,Love these mix'd souls doth mix again         And makes both one, each this and that.A single violet transplant,         The strength, the colour, and the size,(All which before was poor and scant)

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         Redoubles still, and multiplies.When love with one another so         Interinanimates two souls,That abler soul, which thence doth flow,         Defects of loneliness controls.We then, who are this new soul, know         Of what we are compos'd and made,For th' atomies of which we grow         Are souls, whom no change can invade.But oh alas, so long, so far,         Our bodies why do we forbear?They'are ours, though they'are not we; we are         The intelligences, they the spheres.We owe them thanks, because they thus         Did us, to us, at first convey,Yielded their senses' force to us,         Nor are dross to us, but allay.On man heaven's influence works not so,         But that it first imprints the air;So soul into the soul may flow,            Though it to body first repair.As our blood labors to beget         Spirits, as like souls as it can,Because such fingers need to knit         That subtle knot which makes us man,So must pure lovers' souls descend         T' affections, and to faculties,Which sense may reach and apprehend,         Else a great prince in prison lies.To'our bodies turn we then, that so         Weak men on love reveal'd may look;Love's mysteries in souls do grow,         But yet the body is his book.And if some lover, such as we,         Have heard this dialogue of one,Let him still mark us, he shall see         Small change, when we'are to bodies gone.

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On The Ecstasy, by John Donne

In the opening, Donne is describing the scenery of a river or lakeside bank. He describes himself and another as pillows on a bed as they lie there.

The second stanza describes how their hands were held together and "cemented" with perspiration. He then describes beams coming out of their eyes and twisting like thread which holds their eyes together as with a single, double thread.

The third stanza Donne states that the loversí hands were all they had to make themselves into one, further, he says that the reflections in their eyes were their only way to propagate.

Stanza four uses a metaphor of armies to describe their souls. The two are equal armies, and Fate keeps victory uncertain, which is like the way the loversí souls are suspended.

Furthering the army metaphor, stanza five has the souls negotiating as their bodies lie like memorial statues. They remained that way the whole day and said nothing to each other.

The next stanza postulates whether any man can be so refined in love that he can understand the language of the soul, and furthermore, if that "good" love of the mind stood at a convenient distance.

Stanza seven relates that the two souls now speak as one; they may take a concoction and leave that place better off than when they arrived.

The eighth stanza states that their state of ecstasy "unperplexes" or simplifies things, and they can see that it was not sex that motivated them.

The ninth stanza furthers the idea that two lovers are one soul which is mixedóeach a part of the other.

The next uses a metaphor of a transplanted violet to show how two souls can be interanimated and how this "new" soul can repair the defects of each of the indivualsí souls.

The eleventh stanza again furthers the idea of two souls as one. It says that the lovers know what they are made of, and that no change can invade them.

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The next stanza asks why the bodies are left out, and it says that although the soul is the intelligence, the bodies are the sphere which controls them, like the celestial spheres.

Stanza thirteen thanks the bodies for their service of bringing the soul to be and for yielding their senses. The bodies are not impurities that weaken, but rather alloys that strengthen us.

The next stanza relates the method of how the body and soul are related. Heavenís influence does not work on man like other things. It imprints the air so that peopleís souls may flow out from the body.

Stanza fifteen tells how our blood works to make "Spirits" that can help the body and soul together make us man.

Stanza sixteen postulates that loversí souls must give in to affections and wits that our bodies provide. If not, we are likened to a great prince in prison.

The next stanza says that we turn to our bodies so that weak men may look at them, but that loveís true mysteries are grown in the soul. The body is just the soulís "book."

The last stanza sums up the scene by speculating how they would be regarded by another lover in their "dialogue" of the combined souls. Donne says that this lover will see a small change when their bodies are gone.

The images in The Ecstasy focus on the relationship of the soul to the body. Donne begins with visual images of water, hands, perspiration and things that are physical in nature. He proposes that two loversí souls are formed into one and uses metaphors of alloys, celestial spheres and even a violet to make his point. Furthermore, Donne describes the process at work in the body by relating the mechanisms of blood and air. All of the images between lines 13 and 75 relate to the union of two souls, which creates a third soul that transcends the sum of the two.

The Ecstasy : John Donne - Summary and Critical Analysis

The poem "The Ecstasy" is one of John Donne's most popular poems,

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which expresses his unique and unconventional ideas about love. It expounds the theme that pure, spiritual or real love can exist only in the bond of souls established by the bodies. For Donne, true love only exists when both bodies and souls are inextricably united. Donne criticizes the platonic lover who excludes the body and emphasizes the soul.

The fusion of body and soul strengthens spiritual love. Donne compares bodies to planets and souls to the angels that body and souls are inseparable but they are independent. According to medieval mystical conception, 'ecstasy' means a trance-like state in which the soul leaves the body, comes out, and holds communion with the Divine, the Supreme or the Over-soul of the Universe. In Christianity also, it denotes the state of mystic/religious communion with God. Donne uses the religious and philosophical term with religious and philosophical connotations to build his own theory of love.     The poem is an expression of Donne's philosophy of love. Donne agrees with Plato that true love is spiritual. It is a union of the souls. But unlike Plato, Donne doesn't ignore the claims of the body. It is the body that brings the lovers together. Love begins in sensuous apprehension, and spiritual love follows the sensuous. So the claim of the body must not be ignored. Union of bodies is essential to make possible the union of souls. The poem is in an unbroken series of narration, argument and even contemplation.     The poet begins the narration of the event with a typically passionate scene as the backdrop for the lovers to embrace and experience the 'ecstasy'. The setting is natural, very calm and quiet. The scenery is described in erotic terms: the riverbank is "like a pillow on a bed"; it also is "pregnant". The reference to pillow, bed and pregnancy suggest sexuality, though the poet says that their love is 'asexual'. Indeed, the image of asexual reproduction of the violent plant is used to compare the lovers' only 'propagation'. It is springtime, and violets are in bloom. To a Renaissance reader, the image of violets symbolizes faithful love and truth. It is pastoral settings were lovers are sitting together, holding each others hand and looking intently to each other's eyes. Their eyes meet and reflect the images of each other, and their sights are woven together. They get a kind of sensation with in their hearts and blood, resulting in perspiration and blushing. They become ecstatic because their souls have escaped from their bodies to rise to a state of bliss. When love joins two souls, they mingle with each other and give birth to a new and finer soul, which removes the defects and supplies whatever is lacking in either single soul. The new re-animated soul made up of their two separate souls gives them the ecstasy. But they cannot

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forget the body, which is the vehicle, and container, cover and house of the soul.     The lovers' souls leave their bodies, which become mere lifeless figures. Finally, they are united into a single soul. Donne tries to convey the readers that the foundation of spiritual love is the physical attachment; the eyes serve as a gateway to the soul. Moreover, the physical union has produced an even stronger spiritual bond that is far more powerful than each individual's soul. Donne refers the violet to tell us that the fusion of the lover's soul produces a new "abler sol" like the violet, which doubles its vigor when it is grafted together with another. Then the lovers are now able to seek the spiritual pleasure rather than purely physical pleasure. In this union the two souls find strength like a violet when it is transplanted. As such, the single united soul is able to grow with new energy. The united soul is perfect, unchanging and also with new energy. The united soul is perfect, unchanging and also transcends the "defects of loneliness", or the single soul. The two lovers now understand that true love is the result of their physical attachment provoking spiritual union. Souls are spiritual beings. They move with the help of the bodies. Body is the medium of contact of the two souls. Therefore, the lovers turn to their bodies and try to understand the mystery of love. Body is the medium to experience love. So spirits must act through bodies. If love is to be free, it requires physical as well as spiritual outlets.     The persona asks why our religious institutions have imposed blind thoughts diving the body and soul. The poem is also a criticism of the conventional idea of love that supports the separation of the bodies, and hence the souls. He makes an appeal to his readers to nourish their souls through their bodies and reach towards the point of extreme joy, or 'ecstasy'.     As a metaphysical poem this poem brings together (or juxtaposes) opposites; the poet has also reconciled such opposites as the medieval and the modern the spiritual and physical, the scientific or secular and the religious, the abstract and the concrete, the remote and the familiar, the ordinary and the metaphysical. This is largely done through imagery and conceit in which widely opposite concepts are brought together.

3. The Rape of the LockAlexander PopeSummary

Belinda arises to prepare for the day’s social activities after sleeping late. Her

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guardian sylph, Ariel, warned her in a dream that some disaster will befall her, and promises to protect her to the best of his abilities. Belinda takes little notice of this oracle, however. After an elaborate ritual of dressing and primping, she travels on the Thames River to Hampton Court Palace, an ancient royal residence outside of London, where a group of wealthy young socialites are gathering for a party. Among them is the Baron, who has already made up his mind to steal a lock of Belinda’s hair. He has risen early to perform and elaborate set of prayers and sacrifices to promote success in this enterprise. When the partygoers arrive at the palace, they enjoy a tense game of cards, which Pope describes in mock-heroic terms as a battle. This is followed by a round of coffee. Then the Baron takes up a pair of scissors and manages, on the third try, to cut off the coveted lock of Belinda’s hair. Belinda is furious. Umbriel, a mischievous gnome, journeys down to the Cave of Spleen to procure a sack of sighs and a flask of tears which he then bestows on the heroine to fan the flames of her ire. Clarissa, who had aided the Baron in his crime, now urges Belinda to give up her anger in favor of good humor and good sense, moral qualities which will outlast her vanities. But Clarissa’s moralizing falls on deaf ears, and Belinda initiates a scuffle between the ladies and the gentlemen, in which she attempts to recover the severed curl. The lock is lost in the confusion of this mock battle, however; the poet consoles the bereft Belinda with the suggestion that it has been taken up into the heavens and immortalized as a constellation.

Canto 1

Summary

The Rape of the Lock begins with a passage outlining the subject of the poem and invoking the aid of the muse. Then the sun (“Sol”) appears to initiate the leisurely morning routines of a wealthy household. Lapdogs shake themselves awake, bells begin to ring, and although it is already noon, Belinda still sleeps. She has been dreaming, and we learn that the dream has been sent by “her guardian Sylph,” Ariel. The dream is of a handsome youth who tells her that she is protected by “unnumber’d Spirits”—an army of supernatural beings who once lived on earth as human women. The youth explains that they are the invisible guardians of women’s chastity, although the credit is usually mistakenly given to “Honour” rather than to their divine stewardship. Of these Spirits, one particular group—the Sylphs, who dwell in the air—serve as Belinda’s personal guardians; they are devoted, lover-like, to any woman that “rejects mankind,” and they understand and reward the vanities of an elegant and frivolous lady like

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Belinda. Ariel, the chief of all Belinda’s puckish protectors, warns her in this dream that “some dread event” is going to befall her that day, though he can tell her nothing more specific than that she should “beware of Man!” Then Belinda awakes, to the licking tongue of her lapdog, Shock. Upon the delivery of a billet-doux, or love-letter, she forgets all about the dream. She then proceeds to her dressing table and goes through an elaborate ritual of dressing, in which her own image in the mirror is described as a “heavenly image,” a “goddess.” The Sylphs, unseen, assist their charge as she prepares herself for the day’s activities.

Canto 2

Summary

Belinda, rivaling the sun in her radiance, sets out by boat on the river Thames for Hampton Court Palace. She is accompanied by a party of glitzy ladies (“Nymphs”) and gentlemen, but is far and away the most striking member of the group. Pope’s description of her charms includes “the sparkling Cross she wore” on her “white breast,” her “quick” eyes and “lively looks,” and the easy grace with which she bestows her smiles and attentions evenly among all the adoring guests. Her crowning glories, though, are the two ringlets that dangle on her “iv’ry neck.” These curls are described as love’s labyrinths, specifically designed to ensnare any poor heart who might get entangled in them.

 

One of the young gentlemen on the boat, the Baron, particularly admires Belinda’s locks, and has determined to steal them for himself. We read that he rose early that morning to build an altar to love and pray for success in this project. He sacrificed several tokens of his former affections, including garters, gloves, and billet-doux (love-letters). He then prostrated himself before a pyre built with “all the trophies of his former loves,” fanning its flames with his “am’rous sighs.” The gods listened to his prayer but decided to grant only half of it.

As the pleasure-boat continues on its way, everyone is carefree except Ariel, who remembers that some bad event has been foretold for the day. He summons an army of sylphs, who assemble around him in their iridescent beauty. He reminds them with great ceremony that one of their duties, after regulating celestial bodies and the weather and guarding the British monarch, is “to tend the Fair”: to keep watch over ladies’ powders, perfumes, curls, and clothing, and

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to “assist their blushes, and inspire their airs.” Therefore, since “some dire disaster” threatens Belinda, Ariel assigns her an extensive troop of bodyguards. Brillante is to guard her earrings, Momentilla her watch, and Crispissa her locks. Ariel himself will protect Shock, the lapdog. A band of fifty Sylphs will guard the all-important petticoat. Ariel pronounces that any sylph who neglects his assigned duty will be severely punished. They disperse to their posts and wait for fate to unfold

Canto 3

Summary

The boat arrives at Hampton Court Palace, and the ladies and gentlemen disembark to their courtly amusements. After a pleasant round of chatting and gossip, Belinda sits down with two of the men to a game of cards. They play ombre, a three-handed game of tricks and trumps, somewhat like bridge, and it is described in terms of a heroic battle: the cards are troops combating on the “velvet plain” of the card-table. Belinda, under the watchful care of the Sylphs, begins favorably. She declares spades as trumps and leads with her highest cards, sure of success. Soon, however, the hand takes a turn for the worse when “to the Baron fate inclines the field”: he catches her king of clubs with his queen and then leads back with his high diamonds. Belinda is in danger of being beaten, but recovers in the last trick so as to just barely win back the amount she bid.

The next ritual amusement is the serving of coffee. The curling vapors of the steaming coffee remind the Baron of his intention to attempt Belinda’s lock. Clarissa draws out her scissors for his use, as a lady would arm a knight in a romance. Taking up the scissors, he tries three times to clip the lock from behind without Belinda seeing. The Sylphs endeavor furiously to intervene, blowing the hair out of harm’s way and tweaking her diamond earring to make her turn around. Ariel, in a last-minute effort, gains access to her brain, where he is surprised to find “an earthly lover lurking at her heart.” He gives up protecting her then; the implication is that she secretly wants to be violated. Finally, the shears close on the curl. A daring sylph jumps in between the blades and is cut in two; but being a supernatural creature, he is quickly restored. The deed is done, and the Baron exults while Belinda’s screams fill the air.

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Canto 4

Summary

Belinda’s “anxious cares” and “secret passions” after the loss of her lock are equal to the emotions of all who have ever known “rage, resentment and despair.” After the disappointed Sylphs withdraw, an earthy gnome called Umbriel flies down to the “Cave of Spleen.” (The spleen, an organ that removes disease-causing agents from the bloodstream, was traditionally associated with the passions, particularly malaise; “spleen” is a synonym for “ill-temper.”) In his descent he passes through Belinda’s bedroom, where she lies prostrate with discomfiture and the headache. She is attended by “two handmaidens,” Ill-Nature and Affectation. Umbriel passes safely through this melancholy chamber, holding a sprig of “spleenwort” before him as a charm. He addresses the “Goddess of Spleen,” and returns with a bag of “sighs, sobs, and passions” and a vial of sorrow, grief, and tears. He unleashes the first bag on Belinda, fueling her ire and despair.

There to commiserate with Belinda is her friend Thalestris. (In Greek mythology, Thalestris is the name of one of the Amazons, a race of warrior women who excluded men from their society.) Thalestris delivers a speech calculated to further foment Belinda’s indignation and urge her to avenge herself. She then goes to Sir Plume, “her beau,” to ask him to demand that the Baron return the hair. Sir Plume makes a weak and slang-filled speech, to which the Baron disdainfully refuses to acquiesce. At this, Umbriel releases the contents of the remaining vial, throwing Belinda into a fit of sorrow and self-pity. With “beauteous grief” she bemoans her fate, regrets not having heeded the dream-warning, and laments the lonely, pitiful state of her sole remaining curl.

Canto 5

The Baron remains impassive against all the ladies’ tears and reproaches. Clarissa delivers a speech in which she questions why a society that so adores beauty in women does not also place a value on “good sense” and “good humour.” Women are frequently called angels, she argues, but without reference to the moral qualities of these creatures. Especially since beauty is necessarily so short-lived, we must have something more substantial and permanent to fall back on. This sensible, moralizing speech falls on deaf ears, however, and Belinda, Thalestris and the rest ignore her and proceed to launch an all-out attack on the offending Baron. A chaotic tussle ensues, with the gnome Umbriel

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presiding in a posture of self- congratulation. The gentlemen are slain or revived according to the smiles and frowns of the fair ladies. Belinda and the Baron meet in combat and she emerges victorious by peppering him with snuff and drawing her bodkin. Having achieved a position of advantage, she again demands that he return the lock. But the ringlet has been lost in the chaos, and cannot be found. The poet avers that the lock has risen to the heavenly spheres to become a star; stargazers may admire it now for all eternity. In this way, the poet reasons, it will attract more envy than it ever could on earth.

4.Samson Agonistes Summary

It's a holiday for the Philistines when our poem opens, and this means that their Hebrew prisoner, Samson, gets a day off from the grueling labor he's usually forced to do. But he just can't relax. Instead, he obsesses over the various mistakes he's made in his life that have gotten him to this low point. Also, we learn that he's blind and that he feels he's betrayed his religion and his people.

Well, we're off to a good start!

In comes the Chorus, a group of his Hebrew friends. They try to be helpful, but they don't really have the lingo down and Samson seems to become more and more miserable. Then Manoa, Samson's father, shows up. He wants to negotiate with the Philistine authorities to secure Samson's release, but no dice. Samson feels that he deserves to be in prison. Hey, you can't stop a dad from trying—and off he goes to do just that.

Shortly after his dad departs, Samson's infamous Philistine ex-wife Dalila pays a visit. We learn that she's the reason Samson is in prison: she betrayed the secret that his amazing strength depends on his having a flowing, luscious locks. She told her people, they cut his hair, arrested him, blinded him... and here he is in prison. But she's here to apologize and explain.

Obviously, Samson is completely uninterested in hearing her excuses and says lots of insulting things to her. She leaves in a fury, with this parting shot: she's now a hero among her people.

Last but definitely not least is the Philistine giant Harapha, who says he's just come by to check out this famous Samson. He also says that he wishes Samson

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were in better physical condition so they could fight it out and see who's strongest. Samson is totally down, but Harapha won't fight a blind guy. They trash-talk for a while, and then Harapha leaves in a huff. Harumpha!

Just then, a messenger arrives with the order for Samson to come perform in a Philistine festival. Uh, no thanks, Samson says—and then thinks better of it, saying he has had this vague but powerful feeling that he's meant to go and perform some great deed. Off he trots, just missing his father, who's back with good news that he successfully bribed some Philistine leaders and can now take Samson home.

Uh-oh. We're starting to get a bad feeling about this—and we're right. Just as the Chorus is about to celebrate this good news, they hear a horrible shriek. Another messenger runs in and reports that Samson has killed both himself and the entire Philistine elite by toppling the roof of the theater.

The Chorus and Manoa alternate between being super sad over the death of Samson and super happy that their enemy has been defeated. In the end, they go off to look for Samson's body and Manoa promises he's going to build Samson an awesome tomb. And thus ends Samson.

Samson Agonistes The Argument Summary

Reader Beware! Milton is not actually writing a tragedy he intends to be staged (check out Genre for more on that), so he doesn't provide any of those useful stage directions. This means no background info. However, he does include a little plot summary called "The Argument" just before the poem (phew) so we do know some basic facts:

Samson is a captive in Gaza, and he's blind. We also know that it's a holiday, so he has a little break from prison labor. (And somehow, we suspect that it's a little tougher than making license plates.)

All right? Off we go. Oh—but one quick note. There are no act or scene breaks, so we've divided the text up into parts based on the characters involved. (You'll pick it up quickly.)

Samson Agonistes Samson with Himself (1-114) Summary

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Samson opens on a pretty dismal note. (Hey, this is a tragedy.) Our main man is asking an unknown person to keep guiding him along.

Although it's never stated explicitly, we figure out pretty fast that Samson is blind.

He asks to be led to his favorite spot where the temperature is always perfect so he can relax and get some fresh, non-prison air.

Today is a holiday for the sea-god Dagon, who his captors worship, and so even though he is not down with worshiping such an "idol," he's grateful for the break (13).

This spot is great not only because of the temperature but also because it's away from everyone else. Sometimes a guy just needs some alone time, you know?

But he still can't relax. In fact, being alone is actually more mentally stressful, because he has

nothing to do but dwell on his past. It turns out that Samson was kind of a big deal. An angel prophesied his

birth, there were some pretty spectacular sacrifices, and he was supposedly destined to do all kinds of good stuff for "Abraham's race" (29).

Brain snack! "Abraham's race" is a reference to the Jewish people, which makes sense since this story is adapted from the Old Testament. Check out the Book of Judges chapter 13 for the full story.

So, if he's supposed to be all great, why is he a blind prisoner in some other country?

Thanks, Samson; we're all wondering that. He's especially bummed that his awesome strength is being wasted on

menial laboring instead of saving Israel from the Philistines like he's supposed to be doing.

Another brain snack! (Hope you're hungry.) The Philistines are a group of people often mentioned in the Bible (not in a good way) who lived around, and intermittently conquered, Israel.

Samson admits that he's probably the one who messed up and derailed his whole awesome-savior destiny.

Speaking of that, there was this one time Samson broke a promise and told a secret to a woman he shouldn't have. (Apparently, she was crying and pleading a lot. Guys'll do that.)

KIDDING. No sexism here, Shmoopers; it's all Milton. We don't get many more details than this. However, if you know the

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Biblical story (as almost all the readers in Milton's time would have) you'd know that this woman is his ex-wife Dalilah (although Milton, for unknown reasons, spells it Dalila).

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Samson realizes that he used to be physically strong but also mentally weak and proud. True strength is both mental and physical.

He suspects that God was trying to make him understand just how unreliable physical strength is by making Samson's hair the key to his strength.

Yes, we did just say hair. In fact, Samson's hair is his famous downfall in the Biblical story so Milton doesn't really give his readers any further details.

Anyway, Samson goes on, it isn't very productive to question God's will because, you know, he's God.

Any way you look at it, Samson's strength hasn't been the wonderful gift he thought. It's actually caused his problems.

The worst is going blind, since he can no longer appreciate God's creation.

Without sight, Samson feels lower than even the lowest animal (that would be the snake) since even though snakes creep on the floor, they can at least see.

Brain bite! Milton: not a snake fan. In his most famous work, Paradise Lost, Milton retells the Biblical story of the Fall in the Garden of Eden, where Satan disguised himself as a snake and pretty much ruined everything.

Gee, thanks, Satan. Samson also feels powerless without his sight. And worse—Godless. Since light was the first thing God created (check out the very opening of

the Book of Genesis), being blind seems like having God's presence taken away.

Sun? Moon? All the same to Samson, since he can't see. He feels that light is a force of life itself and wonders why, since it's so

important, we can only experience it through our two little eyes, which are not very sturdy. Why don't we see through every part of our body?

To "live" without this source of life is to practically be dead. He even describes himself as a walking, talking grave.

Actually, he's worse than dead, because he can't enjoy any of the peace death brings. Instead, he's stuck in prison.

Just then—footsteps. Samson (obviously) thinks his captors are coming to

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make fun of him.

Samson Agonistes Samson meets the Chorus (115—329) Summary

But no! It turns out the approaching group is the Chorus, members of the Tribe of Dan. Also a member of the Tribe of Dan? Samson, and therefore these people are his friends and acquaintances.

Brain snack: The Chorus is a standard part of all Greek tragedy. They're like our little on-stage helpers, commenting on the action, offering advice, maybe saying some smart things, singing and dancing, and basically playing the part of "ordinary people."

For some nifty Greek Choruses, check out Aeschylus'Agamemnon or Euripides' Bacchae.

The Chorus is trying to be all hush-hush, but they can't believe how much Samson has changed—dispirited, hopeless, dressed in rags. C'mon, dude, don't buy all your clothes at Goodwill. How could this be the same famously heroic Samson they used to know?

Someone who was stronger than anyone else ever, tore lions apart, would single-handedly destroy armies, and against whom all forms of armor and weapons were useless?

Really, the only way to protect yourself against Samson was to get as far away from him as possible. Famous warriors and even whole armies ran away from him.

And this one time, at a battle? Samson lifted a whole city gate. The Chorus can't decide what's worse at first, Samson's blindness or his

captivity, but they eventually settle on his blindness, which they call "the dungeon of thy self," and describe how sad it must be to be trapped in one's own darkness (156). Way to cheer him up, guys.

They see Samson as a perfect example of how far someone can fall after living a life of impressive potential.

At this point, Samson clues in to the fact that they're there, saying that he can hear some people whispering.

So the Chorus decides to speak to him. They tell him that they're friends and they want to cheer him up.Samson

doesn't seem that grateful but instead explains how suffering has taught him how fake friends can be: when you're doing great, they love you, but when you're doing badly they never visit you. But they're here, so he might as well describe his various problems right?

Here goes:

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He's like the pilot of a ship who has wrecked his ship through carelessness. He feels stupid because he brought all these problems on himself by letting himself be tempted by an untrustworthy woman and gave up this special gift he was given from God.

So, really: is he talking about him? making fun of what's happened to him? saying that he deserves what has happened to him? He may be strong, but he's not too smart—is this unbalance to blame for the disaster of his life?

The Chorus basically shrugs, telling Samson not to question God's plans. He isn't the first person, smart or not, to make a mistake and be seduced by a woman—and he won't be the last. Right, ladies?!

They urge him not to be so down on himself, especially since he has plenty of other problems to worry about.

But, now that he mentions it, it is weird that he chose to marry a Philistine woman, instead of one of the many hotties of his own people.

Samson can explain. He first married a Philistine woman named Timna, against his parents' wishes, because God had revealed to him that this was part of Samson's Important Destiny to save Israel.When that marriage didn't pan out (Samson doesn't explain why), he marries another Philistine woman, Dalila, because he figured if that was the plan for the first one, it should be for this one too.

In case we're wondering, this was not a good decision. We know that, because he calls her "that specious monster" and other not-so-nice things (230).

However, he says he can't really blame Dalila since it was his own stinkin' fault for revealing his secrets.

The Chorus responds by saying that Samson was right to try to do anything he thought would lead to his country's salvation... but it is too bad that Israel is still under Philistine rule (cough cough).

Okay, but that is totally not Samson's fault. It's the fault of Israel's leaders, who didn't even acknowledge Samson's warnings about the Philistines until, wham, Philistine invaded Israel.

Then, guess what? Everyone was asking for Samson's help in fighting the Philistines, which he did amazingly well, thankyouverymuch.

If these leaders had sent out enough support to help Samson, Israel would probably be ruling Philistine, not vice-versa. But now they're just lazy and accustomed to being ruled and now don't even care about poor Samson, who had fought so valiantly to defend them in the past.

The Chorus replies that Samson's story reminds them of other similar

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situations (all, not surprisingly, from the Bible): (1) When a hero named Gideon was refused help by the leaders of

Succoth and Penuel; (2) When a hero named Jephtha was left out to dry by the leaders of Ephraim, even though his fighting in battle was crucial in defending Israel.

Sound familiar?Samson thinks so. He totally thinks he should be added to the list, because he's always followed God's promise for his people's deliverance.

The Chorus replies by saying that God's plans are always just and always "justifiable to men," unless of course, you're an atheist, which they say is the dumbest attitude toward religion (293-294).

But there are plenty of religious people who question the justness of God's actions. Not cool.

These people tend to think themselves in circles, never able to actually reach a conclusion.They act as if God has to follow his own rules, when he obviously made these rules for us to follow and he can do whatever he wants because, um, he's God.

For example, they say, God broke his own "rule" of not allowing Israelites to marry non-Israelites when he urged Samson to marry Timna. But obviously God did this because he had bigger and better plans for freeing Israel completely.

Basically, they suggest that we ignore pointless reasoning and then make a very cryptic and unclear reference to Samson's first wife and her infidelities.

Then the Chorus takes a break from this philosophizing to announce that Samson's father, Manoa, is approaching.

Samson Agonistes Samson with his Father, Manoa (330—709) Summary

Samson doesn't want to see his father (not that he can actually see him, of course), because it'll just bring up more sad memories.

Manoa apparently can't see Samson at first, or doesn't recognize him, or, um, pretends not to be able to in order to further the drama, and asks the Chorus if they are here to comfort his son too. Obviously they got there first, since they're young and spry, while he's old and slow.

The Chorus points Samson out to his dad, remarking on how different and sad he looks.

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Sure enough, Manoa can't believe how altered his son appears. Could this possibly be the same person who was so famous for his strength and valor in battle? Who now couldn't even defend himself against one dinky guy with a spear?

Just goes to show you that physical strength is incredibly unreliable and how human life can go so terribly wrong.

How's this for irony: Manoa and his wife, who were unable to have children, prayed and prayed for a boy.

And then, when they finally had one, he was like the best sonever. But not now.

Maybe Samson was too good to be true and God made him seem to be so awesome because he actually wasn't.

Manoa can't believe all this divine hoopla over someone who was blinded and captured so easily.

Maybe God is particularly harsh in punishing those who were given particularly impressive advantages.

Samson jumps in and tells his dad to stop blaming God. Samson is the one who betrayed God for a woman, which is particularlyembarrassing since Samson had already had one bad experience with his first wife, Timna.

In fact, it was pretty much the exact same situation: Timna revealed a secret to his enemies that he had told her in the intimacy of their bedroom.

And Dalila, wife number two, also betrayed him after being offered lots of money.

She tried three times, with all kinds of flattering, to get Samson to reveal the secret key to his strength.

He avoided telling her, but only by accident: he had no idea what she was trying to do.

However, try number four, which featured some extra-specially persistent Dalila temptations, eventually got to him.

He explains that he was totally exhausted, although if he'd been more of man, he could have resisted.Yay for misogyny!

Alas, he says, he was already slave-like in his mental capacities so it's fair that he's now literally a slave.

In fact his literal slavery and blindness as a captive are better than his metaphorical slavery and blindness when he gave into Dalila and didn't see her obvious treachery.

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Too right, says his dad: "I cannot praise thy Marriage choices, Son" (420). Dad then goes in for a little extra dig, reminding Samson that he and his

mama were both none-too-keen on these women Samson brought home while insisting that this was all part of some Big Divine Plan to ruin the enemy.

Manoa doesn't know anything about a Big Divine Plan, but he certainly does know that what's happened is that the enemy just captured him and made a fool out of him.

What also happened is that Samson totally gave in to these seductive ladies and revealed a secret that he never should have.

However, it's also clear that Samson has paid bigtime for those mistakes. And now for some bad news. In honor of their holiday today, the

Philistines are not only going to have a big party, but are also going to publicly announce how they captured Samson.

By doing this, they are worshiping their idol Dagon instead of God—all thanks to Samson. Manoa suspects this will be the most painful thing for Samson to hear.

Samson replies that he takes full responsibility and blames himself for creating a situation in which Dagon, the Philistine idol, is being worshiped instead of God.

In fact, it's his fault that idolatry and atheism are now gaining strength, that Israel has been shamed, and that some people are so desperate and sad they are turning to these false religions for comfort.

It's these kinds of thoughts, Samson explains, that keep him up at night. His only consolation is that he's out of the picture. Now, it's between God and Dagon, and Samson is certain that God will win.

Manoa agrees with Samson and thinks Samson is right in finding comfort in that fact.

But there's still the question of poor Samson's whole situation. Manoa explains to Samson that he's spoken with some Philistine big shots about the possibility of a ransom, since Samson is no longer a threat.

No way, Samson says. He deserves this punishment and doesn't think it should be alleviated in any way.

It's already really, really bad to have revealed the secrets of friends and family, but Samson revealed a secret of God, which is so much worse.

His dad agrees that Samson should be very sorry for what he's done, but it doesn't make sense for Samson to so drastically punish himself. God wants people to fight for life and to listen to their pleading fathers, not to just give up and accept death.

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In fact, maybe God intended for this opportunity to come up, so Samson should definitely take it. He can be as sorry and penitent to God at home on the couch as he can in prison.

No way, says Samson again. What is there to live for, anyway? Think about it: he was strong, famous, divinely blessed, destined for greatness, had performed amazing deeds, completely fearless... almost like a little God.

Or, so he thought. Actually, maybe it's this kind of thinking that spelled his downfall.

He was too proud and allowed himself to be swayed by his desire for lots of attention and became a little too into the whole partying scene. You know, expensive drugs, nightlife, models, the whole thing. It wasn't pretty.

The downward spiral ended with Samson confiding in this untrustworthy "Concubine," i.e. his wife, revealing the secret of his all-powerful hair.

Once she knew that, she had power over him and, gasp, cut his hair. Samson also compares this whole scenario to being castrated, in case that

wasn't kind of obvious already. Feeling hungry? Time for a brain snack. Milton's readers would have

known this Biblical story up and down, so he drops some pretty major plot events without any explanation—like that God made Samson's hair the key to his strength. (Nice move, God.)

Now, what about castration? Castration is a term that comes to us primarily from psychoanalysis, courtesy of oneSigmund Freud. It's the pervasive male fear of having one's penis cut off, usually by an aggressive and powerful woman, and is linked to images of impotence and sexual inability. Sound nutty? Yeah. Take it down a notch, Sig.

But still, castration is an image that often appears in literature. Like, Samson's "hair"-cutting-no-more-strength situation is a classic example. Or, pretty much any time anyone breaks a sword. Okay, 'nuff said.

The Chorus chimes in here to point out that Samson had actually many good habits and was never once tempted to drink alcohol.

Samson agrees with this and said that he got so much pleasure from drinking delicious, fresh spring water and getting high on life that wine was never very appealing.

The Chorus quickly interjects to wonder why anyone thinks wine is good for health since God forbade Samson from drinking and look how strong he turned out.

Samson keeps it real: all this praise of his moderation with alcohol is

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pointless, since he didn't have any when it came to women. In fact, he undid all that his self-discipline with alcohol accomplished by having none in this other area.

Lack of moderation with the ladies is why he's so miserable and unable to help his country, essentially just a useless "pitied object" waiting around for old age, disease, and death (568). Cheerful.

Manoa then jumps in and asks why Samson would stick around then , especially since, by being the Philistines' slave, he's using his strength for their benefit, which is basically the opposite of The Plan.

If Samson's going to just sit around being useless and waiting for death, he should do that at home.

Besides, what about all those times God performed miracles to help Samson out? Maybe God still has something in mind for Samson, and maybe he'll even give Samson back his sight.

One thing's for sure: Samson isn't meant to just sit there being useless. Nuh-uh, says Samson. He doesn't think he'll ever see again, he's lost all

hope, and he doesn't even want to live anymore. Manoa urges Samson not to listen to these pessimistic thoughts that are

only coming from his grief. He's his dad, and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure Samson can at least be safe.

Samson just keeps on lamenting. He hates how his pain isn't just physical but also mental. Since mental pain isn't specifically located anywhere in the body, you just end up feeling it everywhere.

And mental anguish actually gets worse as more time passes, like an infected wound.

These bad thoughts are like tormentors in his mind, targeting the areas where he's weakest and saddest. They never provide any comfort or relief. Plus, he doesn't actually believe it's possible to feel better about being deserted by God, except by dying.

He really does feel deserted, because God used to watched over him and Samson became particularly obedient, strong, and powerful against the enemies of Israel.

But now God has totally dumped him: unfriended him on Facebook, won't return his texts, and basically acts as if they never knew each other.

He didn't even offer Samson any comfort when he lost his eyes and has abandoned Samson to be mocked and scorned by everyone. So, really the only thing worth praying for now is a quick death.

The Chorus responds by saying that patience has long been considered the most meaningful kind of bravery and that many people write essays

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on how to deal with grief, pain and loss. Gee, thanks, Chorus. However, it doesn't seem to them that these kinds of comforts would be

helpful to Samson, since he's so depressed and seems only to want direct comfort from God.

So, God, the Chorus says—let's talk about that. Why do you treat humanity so randomly—sometimes wonderfully, sometimes terribly—when you rule the angels and the animals with such order?

And what's up with the fact that God doesn't seem to be fair even to his special, chosen people? In fact, God seems to be less fair to those who are extra special, because these special ones seem to end up even worse than your average Joe.

They're left with enemies to die unburied, or horribly captured, or if they somehow manage to avoid those ends, still die in poverty, deformed with terrible diseases and pain.

Honestly, the Chorus concludes, it doesn't seem to make a difference whether you live a just life or an unjust one—you end up the same if not worse.

Samson Agonistes Samson with Dalila (710—1060) Summary

And now someone else is approaching—someone surprising. It's a woman, so dressed up that they compare her to a beautiful and

luxurious ship. They assume she must be some rich Philistine woman, and they're right. As soon as she's close enough, they realize it's Dalila.Samson obviously

wants nothing to do with her. Still, she's coming closer, staring straight at him. Oh, and she's crying. Finally, she pipes up to say she has been very nervous to come visit him

(duh) since she's afraid of how angry Samson still is with her (double duh), which, she admits, is completely deserved. (Seriously, lady. We're running out of duhs, here.)

Dalila says that if crying makes any difference, she's been doing a lot of that. Plus, she really didn't know how badly things would turn out. Samson may not be ready to forgive her, but she loves him so much that she's overcome her fear and she wants to check in with him. If she can do anything to make him better, or to make up for what she did, she'll do it.

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Samson is not impressed. He orders her out of his sight and claims that everything she's saying is just further womanly deceptions.

He says she's the kind of woman who is incapable of genuine feeling and is just pretending to be sorry so she can torment him even more. Plenty of men have fallen for this kind of fake apology—but not him, not this time.

Dalila begs Samson to listen: it's only fair to hear her side of the story, plus maybe he'll be able to hate her less. First: she was just plain curious, which is a fault all women (she claims) have. And since Samson told her his secret, she was totally justified in telling other people. Although, okay, maybe those other people shouldn't have been his sworn enemies.

She goes on to say that, as much as her weaknesses are her fault, it's really Samson's fault for being too weak to see her weaknesses. As the guy, he's responsible for being the strong one. (See, Shmoopers? Sexism hurts everyone.) Besides, she did what she did out of love.

How's that? Well, he did leave Timna, his first wife. She just thought that by knowing this important secret of his, she could make sure he'd stick around.

Why she'd tell then? Well, she claims that she was assured the information she passed on wouldn't be used against Samson. It was supposed to keep him from being harmed and keep him with Dalila as her prisoner, not the Philistines'. Love always makes people do foolish things, she says, but because it was for love, they always are forgiven. She asks that Samson be strong and resolved in every respect except for his anger.

Are you convinced, Shmoopers? Not Samson. He calls her a "sorceress" and says that by revealing all her faults, she's just being even more cunning (819). She's just here to do more harm, he says, not to apologize. He says she's right to say that their faults were similar, but he's being just as remorseless and cruel to himself as he is to her—so, go cry on someone else's shoulder.

Her biggest fault is weakness (for money) but, since weakness is the origin of every horrible deed, it's no excuse. He doesn't believe that her actions came from love but rather from raging lust. If she did really love him, she wouldn't want to posses him but would want to be loved in return, which he obviously would never be capable of once she betrayed him. All she's accomplishing is making herself look even worse.

Okay, fine, Dalila says, but she didn't do it for gold. The leaders of her country pressured her into it by appealing to her sense of religious faith and patriotism. Turning in the enemy? That's pretty glorious.

In fact, she only held out as long as she did because of how much she

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loved Samson. But in the end, she felt that the only moral thing to do would be to sacrifice her own personal desires for the good of her country and religion.

Pshaw, Samson says. (Or, uh, something like that.) He totally knew that she was going to make this argument about her false religion and her fake belief. If she had really loved him, she would never have come to these immoral conclusions. And, Samson goes on, why is she even describing him as an enemy? They were married, she knew how much he loved her, how he'd do anything for her, how he chose her over any other woman of his people... so how, exactly, is he the enemy? And, if he was such an enemy, why did she agree to marry him in the first place?

Once Dalila became Samson's wife, her loyalties should have shifted to him and his people, so these leaders pressuring her shouldn't have been persuasive at all. Once they even asked her to betray her husband she should have completely disowned them.

Samson concludes that she did it to win favors from her gods, which aren't even real gods since they don't have any power and so shouldn't be either worshipped or obeyed. Basically, she doesn't have any ground to stand on.You can practically see Dalila rolling her eyes, saying that whenever a woman argues with a man, she always seems to come out as the wrongdoer. Samson sarcastically answers that this is probably because they run out of things to say.

Dalila admits that she was foolish to think she could succeed (although it's not clear exactly what she's referring to). But still, she wishes Samson could forgive her and let her make up for what she did. There are still good things in life, even though he's blind. In fact, she's sure she can gain permission from the government to take him home.

She promises that by tending Samson throughout his old age, she'll make up for all the things he's suffered because of her. As if!

Samson refuses her offer, obviously, saying that it's not her job anymore now that they are separated.

Besides, Samson doesn't want her to think he's so desperate as to go back to someone who tricked him before; he says he knows her deceptive ways all too well and won't be enticed again. He also doesn't trust her. (Makes sense.)

Considering what she did to him as her husband when he was strong, had many friends, and was feared by everyone, he shudders to think what she could do him now when he's weak and helpless. He can only imagine how much she'd enjoy controlling him and how she'd turn him over to her

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government again. His current prison is way freer than her home would be.

Dalila then just asks if she can at least touch his hand. Absolutely not, Samson responds. He might become so angry that he'd tear her to bits. He tells her that he'll forgive her from a distance, and sarcastically recommends she continue her good deeds and to enjoy the gold she'll receive as soon as she becomes a widow.

She finally gets it: He'll never get over her whole "betrayal" things. But is this her fault? Nope. It's his. He's even more stubborn than the sea and his anger will never be quenched. Why did she even bother to come and apologize when all she's been given in return is more hate? She promises never to involve herself in his life again.

Now she muses for a while: Fame is always two-sided, because it makes the same thing look good to some people and bad to others. Samson's people will hate her, but her own country will give her mad props. People will flock from all over the place to honor her grave. There will be perks when she's alive, too. All that honor and respect is going to be pretty sweet.

The Chorus finally lets Samson know that Dalila has left, and they come up with a fun analogy about how she's a serpent whose sting has been hidden until now.

Samson says God sent her to him as a continued punishment and as a reminder of the kind of woman he allowed into his life.

Captain Obvious Chorus over here responds with the profound statement that beauty is powerful enough to bring us back when we've been rejected or burned.

Samson reminds them that the typical lover's quarrel ends happily, not with betrayal and treachery.

Oh well, the Chorus says. Who really knows what attracts women to men? Samson probably won't ever figure that out. They explain that if Samson's first wife Timna hadn't proven so treacherous and preferred Samson's friend, none of Samson's later lady-problems would have happened.

Pleased with their misogynistic streak, the Chorus continues: are women so dumb because they're so beautiful? Or are they just too into themselves to be capable of eternal love? Even wise men can see a woman as all lovely and demure when they first get married. But as soon as she gets comfortable, she turns out to be totally annoying and enslaves him with her charms to do ridiculous things. And how can you blame him (they

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say)? What else can they do when their guiding companion is naturally this way? A man who finds a woman who is actually good must be really blessed by heaven, because it's so rare.

For all these reasons, the Chorus concludes that this is why God gave men authority over women.And for all these reasons, Shmoop decides, we are glad we don't live in the seventeenth century.

Samson Agonistes Samson with the giant, Harapha (1061—1305) Summary

Uh-oh. The Chorus sees a storm a-brewing, and asks if they should think about leaving.

Samson says that storms often come up out of nowhere, but the Chorus cryptically replies that they're talking about a different kind of storm. Oh, spit it out already, Samson says, and they answer that a giant named Harapha is approaching, looking haughty.

They suspect, though aren't sure, that he comes in peace. Not wearing armor is a good clue. Samson says he doesn't care why he's coming and the Chorus astutely remarks that they'll know what he wants soon enough because he's almost there.

Harapha arrives and says he's not there, like everyone else, to sympathize with Samson, although he wishes things hadn't they gone the way they did—but for reasons having nothing to do with Samson's well-being.

He introduces himself as Harapha from Gath who comes from a famous family of giants (but not this one) and says that if Samson hasn't heard of him, Samson is pretty much nobody. 

Harapha knows all about Samson, though—all his strength and fighting skills—so it's too bad they never had the chance to duke it out themselves.

Anyway, he's here to see what's up. Samson replies that the only real way to get to know him is to experience his strength, not to see him. Harapha is surprised that Samson seems to be challenging him since, you know, forced labor usually wears people down.

He continues to whine about never having a chance to fight Samson on the battlefield and is sure he would have dominated Samson completely. This would have set the record straight about whether Palestine or Philistine has the better hero. Now, he can't ever gain that honor from Samson since it's never cool to fight a blind guy. Well, he's right about

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that. Samson tells him to stop bragging about things he would have done and

actually do something right now. But Harapha insists that he wouldn't stoop so low as to fight someone

who's blind, not to mention that Samson "hast need much washing to be toucht" (1108).

Samson responds that Harapha's leaders didn't seem to mind treacherously betraying Samson since they were so afraid of his strength, stooping so low as to bribe his own wife to do it. Why don't they just fight somewhere really narrow and empty so that Harapha's sight won't give him much advantage? Harapha can show up in all his fancy armor and Samson will just come with a wooden club, but he'll beat Harapha so hard Harapha will wish he'd never actually put his boasts to the test.

Harapha doesn't think Samson should be so cocky about not wearing armor. Lots of distinguished warriors wear armor, and it doesn't have some kind of magic in it. But Samson's strength, well, that is some kind of magical, God-given ability. Although, seriously, God, why put it in his hair, which is basically the weakest part of your body?

Samson responds that his strength isn't magical at all but comes from his real God who gave it to him since birth. And, here's a shocker, he says it does exist in his whole body; keeping his hair uncut was just a sign of his promise to God.

Why doesn't Harapha go to Dagon's temple and pray to him to make Samson's "magic" strength go away and to make Harapha Dagon's number one champion? Then, when he and Samson fight, and Samson wins, it'll be obvious whose God is stronger.

Harapha doesn't think Samson is really in any position to be bragging about this god of his. (He has a point.)

It's clear this god has completely abandoned Samson, leaving him in the hands of his enemies to be blinded and imprisoned. And it's not as if Samson's special-hair-strength has really helped him out—all it took was a good barber to defeat him. Or not even a good barber—just a dude with a pair of scissors.

It's cool, Samson says. He takes all of Harapha's insults as punishments from his God, who will one day forgive him. And he challenges Harapha once more to duke it out for the gods.

Harapha doesn't think Samson's god would be very honored to have Samson as his defender, since Samson is a murderer, a robber, and a rebel.

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Oh yeah? Samson says. How's that? Harapha says that since Samson's leaders gave the Philistines control of their country, all of Samson's so-called brave actions were actually crimes of murder and theft against his own government. Samson says that he married a Philistine, in a Philistine ceremony, so he doesn't understand how Harapha can call him an enemy. It was the Philistine who betrayed him at his own wedding, threatening his bride if she didn't spill his secrets. His country was conquered with force to begin with, and Samson, as a heaven-sent savior of his country, had to act as he did according to his own personal sense of duty. If his leaders disagreed with his actions and disowned him, that's their problem, not his.

Samson then asks Harapha again to respond to his challenge. Note: the next bit is a lot of back and forth. It's basically fancy-sounding trash-talk: you come over here and say that to my face; no you come say that to my face. Rinse and repeat.

Harapha can't believe Samson is actually serious. Who in his right mind would fight with a condemned criminal?

Samson asks if this is all that Harapha came for, to just look at him and pass some judgment on him? Samson dares him to come a little closer and really experience Samson's strength.

Harapha can't believe that he has to stand there and take such insults without killing Samson in return.

Oh, Samson asks? What's stopping him? He should come over and take his best shot. Harapha says he'll find a better answer to Samson's insolence. He better go, says Samson, otherwise Samson might just tackle him to the floor and smash his brains in (yep, it gets a little graphic here).

Harapha leaves, promising Samson that he'll regret having been so insulting to him.

The Chorus remarks that Harapha leaves looking much less confident than when he first arrived.

Samson says he isn't afraid of Harapha, or any of his giant family, even if they are all descended from Goliath.

Brain bite time! Does Goliath sound familiar? Maybe a certain David and Goliath? The story of David and Goliath is from (you guess it) the Bible. Goliath is big, mean Philistine giant; David is a little Jewish boy. They battle it out, and guess who wins? Well, duh.

David single-handedly defeats Goliath with the help of his nifty slingshot. Check out the book of Samuel I for the full story.

But the Chorus is worried that Harapha is going to go straight to the

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Philistine officials and make life even more difficult for Samson. Nah. Harapha will be too embarrassed to explain the whole story, since

refusing to accept Samson's challenge will make him look bad. Besides, how could life get any worse? And anyway, anyone who helps Samson die is actually doing him a favor. 

The Chorus, not really responding to what Samson has just said, talks about how wonderful it is when oppressed people are given a strong and valiant defender who squash the mighty in the name of truth and gloriously conquer evildoers. Saints, on the other hand, are more patient and have their strength put to test in that way.

The Chorus says Samson might be either of these types of heroes, but his present situation makes him closer to the saint at the moment. They remark that this holiday hasn't been particularly relaxing for Samson because he's been doing so much mental labor.

Seriously. We're exhausted just reading it.

Samson Agonistes Samson is Ordered to the Theater (1061—1440) Summary

Someone else is coming toward them. Judging by his uniform, it's an officer of the state. And he's looking for Samson. Uh—he's the one in chains. In case that wasn't obvious.

The officer says that he's come to summon Samson to a public demonstration of his strength to honor the holiday of Dagon.

No way, Samson says. His religion won't let him participate in such an event.

Too bad, say the officers—you've got to. Don't they have other talented performers they can round up? Samson

asks. He imagines they not only want to make a spectacle out his strength, but also to make fun of his oppressed condition and blindness. He's not going, end of story.

Watch yourself, says this official, because this is not going to make his leaders happy.

He is watching himself, replies Samson, because he's still listening to his own conscience. Do his superiors really think Samson is so depressed that he'll do whatever they want? They really thought Samson would be down with making a fool out of himself for their entertainment? Not coming, he

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repeats. Well, says the official, he was told to deliver the message quickly so if

this is Samson's final answer, he's out of here. By all means, says Samson. The official worries about what consequences will come from Samson's

stubbornness. Maybe you should be worried about consequences, Samson replies. The Chorus chime in with their own worries. They think Samson has

been acting in ways that will upset the higher-ups. He should probably get ready for some serious payback.

But what's he supposed to do? He's not going to disrespect God again by using his strength for Philistine benefit and worshiping their idols. The whole thing is totally ridic.

Well, says the Chorus, he is helping the Philistines by working the labor camp. At least, replies Samson, it's through honest work, not worshiping a false god. But if your heart isn't in it, claims the Chorus, you won't be doing anything that's actually disrespectful.

Samson isn't buying it. They can drag him to the ceremony, but he's not just going to willingly show up. See, if you put God's wishes second because you're afraid of what a man might do to you, you're putting God himself second. And he's really not cool with that.

Sure, maybe God has some bigger plan that involves Samson going to this event, but he's going to wait for God to establish that.

The Chorus shrugs their shoulders and says that they have no idea how things will turn out for Samson.

Samson tells them to cheer up because, all of sudden, he feels "some rouzing motions" which make him think that something extraordinary is about to happen (1382).

In fact, he suddenly changes his mind and decides it's very important for him to attend this holiday performance and that he's become certain that it won't result in any disrespect to God. Samson suspects that today is going to a big day for him.

The Chorus says that Samson has some fine timing, because that Philistine official is heading back to them. The official tells Samson that he has a second message from his superiors: he has no right to deny the commands of his captors. Samson better agree to come now or they will come up with some very unpleasant ways to convince him and will carry him there by force.

Samson says he isn't afraid of any of these threats, but doesn't relish the

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idea of being dishonorably displayed on the streets if he's carried to the event by force. So he'll go. How can some captive refuse his captors anyway? Samson asks. And who doesn't want to live? But, he does reiterate that he won't do anything in direct violation of his religious beliefs.

The official is glad to hear about Samson's change of heart and suspects that his cooperation will be good for Samson in the long run.

Samson then says goodbye to his friends (the Chorus), telling them not to come with him. He doesn't know how the Philistines will react to seeing him, especially if he arrives with a big group and especially since the Philistines will all probably be a bit drunk.

Plus, people tend to be extra feisty during religious festivals and Samson isn't about to listen to anything disrespectful said about his God.

The Chorus urge him to go with God's protection and hope that he will demonstrate God' glory among the Philistines. They wish that the angel that prophesied his great deeds at his birth would return to Samson now and be on his side again. They all agree that no one has ever seen anyone as strong as Samson.

With that compliment, Samson leaves.

Samson Agonistes The Chorus and Manoa (1441—1508) Summary

But suddenly, they see Manoa, Samson's father, heading toward them in hurry. They notice that he seems to be in a good mood and excited to see Samson—maybe he's bringing good news! Well, okay, probably not.

Manoa says he's come here in a hurry not to see Samson forced to participate in this shameful spectacle, but because he thinks he's found a way to procure Samson's freedom.Hooray! Details, please?

Manoa explains that he's been to see each and every Philistine leader—at home, at work, at the shopping mall, wherever—begging with all kinds of fatherly sadness for them to accept a ransom for his son.

Some of the leaders were totally mean and vindictive. (These were also the leaders who were the most devoted to worshipping Dagon, duh.) Some others had a more moderate take on things, but were also just trying to find an angle for their own gain (which Manoa can't afford). Finally, though, he found some reasonable people who did feel that Philistine revenge had gone far enough. They thought that a reasonable ransom

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would be a good idea. But, whoa now, what was that loud noise? The Chorus thinks that it's probably the sound of the Philistine crowd at

suddenly seeing Samson. Manoa says that he will definitely pay Samson's ransom even if it costs

him all his savings. He'd rather be the poorest person in Israel than be rich knowing his own son was still in prison. And he's not leaving without Samson.

The Chorus remarks that fathers often give up everything for their sons and take care of them and that even though it's typical for sons to then later care for their fathers, Samson won't be able to.Because he's blind. In case you missed that.

Manoa responds that he'll be more than happy to look after Samson once he's home and surrounded by honors for all of his past bravery, including his special hair. He's convinced that God still has big plans for Samson.

The Chorus basically agrees. Since they're Samson's relatives too, they are also glad to think of Samson safe and sound.

Samson Agonistes Samson's Death and The End (1509—1759) Summary

Manoa begins to thank the Chorus for their sympathy, but is interrupted by a louder, even more horrible noise.

The Chorus thinks calling it "noise" is an understatement: it sounds more like utter destruction and death.

Yep, Manoa says, it pretty much sounds like death. He thinks his son has been killed. What's weird is that it was such a big noise. It would have had to have been Samson killing many people, since one person alone couldn't have made such an outcry. Well, whatever happened it must have been terrible.

Manoa asks whether they should stay or go and see. The Chorus wants to avoid getting caught up in anything dangerous. They

think they're safest where they are and wonder if Samson's eyesight has been returned and if he's doing some serious damage to their enemies. The Chorus reminds Manoa that God has worked these kinds of miracles before—so why not again?

Manoa still doesn't think such a miracle has happened. Hope can often overpower rational thought, but he thinks they should probably just wait to hear.

The Chorus says that bad news typically travels fast... and speaking of which, here comes a messenger who seems to be Hebrew. The messenger

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is really worked up, saying that he's just seen something so horrible he can't get the image out of his mind. Everyone wants to know what happened, but the messenger needs to catch his breath.

Manoa tells him to get right to it, skipping any unnecessary details, so the messenger says that the Philistine population has been destroyed all at once. Okay, that's sad, but really not very sad for the Israelites, actually.

So what's the sad part? The messenger urges Manoa to focus on this good news for the moment since he's about to hear something upsetting. More good news is that it's Samson who accomplished this feat. The messenger, however, does not sound happy. He actually doesn't want to tell Manoa the rest of the story, since he's worried it'll be too upsetting.

But Manoa can't deal with this suspense, so the messenger spits it out: Samson is dead. Manoa cries out in sadness, particularly upset since he was just hoping to have Samson released. Death is Samson's release now. How ironic that Samson has died on the very day he was actually able to live free.

So how exactly did this happen? The messenger cryptically states that Samson wasn't killed by any of his enemies. Was it from exhaustion out of killing so many people? No: Samson killed himself.

Manoa wants to know why Samson would do such a thing, especially with all his enemies around.

The messenger says that Samson killed himself in order to kill his enemies: he pulled down the entire building.

So, Manoa says, Samson's strength really did work against him. And then he asks for more details.

So, the messenger launches into a (warning: rather long) story. He came to the city early, which was already buzzing not only with plans for the holiday but with news that the one and only Samson would be making a special appearance at the festival. Although the messenger feels bad for Samson, he still totally wanted to see him at this spectacle.

The venue for the festivities was a theater, half of which was covered by a roof and pillars for the rich and famous while the other half, for the humble plebes, was open air. This is where the messenger planted himself. (Turns out to have been a good move.)

After lunch time, when everyone was well fed, liquored up, and in general good spirits, they decided it was time for some entertainment. Samson was led into the theater in great pomp, not only with soldiers to guard him but also all kinds of instruments and other performers.

When the crowd saw Samson they went nuts, praising their god for

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making Samson their prisoner. Samson remains totally unfazed and performs various tricks of strength perfectly, despite his blindness.

Since no one volunteers to fight Samson in combat, they take a little break and Samson asks if he can rest himself against two pillars before he goes out again. His guards don't have a problem with this, so Samson stands for a while between these two columns, which, P.S., happen to hold the entire building up. He bows his head as if he's praying or thinking over something very important.

Then, he speaks to the Philistine lords. He tells them that he's cooperated so far in their little performance and now it's his turn to enact his own performance of strength, promising it will be something pretty amazing. He presses the two pillars surrounding him, almost like the wind making a mountain tremble, until they shake and shake and then finally collapse, bringing down the entire roof that they held up with them.

Everyone under the roof was crushed: literally all the Philistine nobles from both near and far, and, of course, poor Samson. Only the common people in the cheap seats survived. Done with his story, the messenger stops.

The Chorus begins praising Samson's glorious revenge, while lamenting the cost at which it came. Samson did indeed finally fulfill his destiny, and killed even more Philistines than in the total of his whole life before. It's just too bad that fulfilling his destiny meant ending his own life.

Then, for some reason, the Chorus splits in two. Half (called a Semi-Chorus) begins to describe how God must have

planned this all out so that the Philistines would be all distracted with wine and the worship of their false god Dagon and make the mistake of inviting Samson to perform. They go on to say how often people end up being responsible for their own destruction, and how foolish these Philistines were to only care about partying.

The other half of the Chorus describes Samson, saying how even though he thought his light was gone with his eyesight, he must have found an inner light to lead him. They offer a confusing image of the god Dagon as an attacking bird suddenly surprised by the might of Samson, who they compare to a phoenix.

Brain snack! It's always good to be compared to a phoenix. The phoenix is an old and powerful mythological bird believed to burst into flames at the end of its life only to rise from the ashes again. For this reason, it's often symbol of resurrection and perseverance. It can be connected to images of Jesus as the resurrected God (which Milton is surely

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channeling here) but also appears in numerous magical stories. Manoa tells the Chorus to stop whining—uh, lamenting—since Samson

has ended his life heroically and on his own terms, getting revenge on the Philistines and bringing honor to Israel. Plus, the whole thing proves that God never abandoned Samson after all. Really, there isn't anything to be upset about since Samson died so nobly.

Manoa tells the Chorus that they should all go find Samson's body and clean off the blood of his enemies. He, Manoa, will gather up all his friends and family to organize a proper funeral procession for Samson to take him back to his home.

There, Manoa says he plans to build a beautiful monument covered with shady trees and adorned with all his other honors and a list of all his accomplishments. Samson's deed will go down in song and poetry and be an example to inspire future generations. Virgins will come on festival days to honor his tomb (but not non-virgins?), and will lament only the fact that he made some poor choices in marriage and ended up losing his eyesight.

The Chorus concludes by saying while all ended well, they couldn't help but doubt that things would turn out the way they did. God often seems to have been absent only to make his presence known unexpectedly. Gaza is left to mourn their situation and hopefully have now left the land more peaceful and calm than before.

6.Affliction

When thou didst entice to thee my heart, I thought the service brave: So many joys I writ down for my part, Besides what I might haveOut of my stock of natural delights, Augmented with thy gracious benefits.

I looked on thy furniture so fine, And made it fine to me: Thy glorious household-stuff did me entwine, And 'tice me unto thee.

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Such stars I counted mine: both heav'n and earthPaid me my wages in a world of mirth.

What pleasures could I want, whose King I served? Where joys my fellows were? Thus argu'd into hopes, my thoughts reserved No place for grief or fear.Therefore my sudden soul caught at the place, And made her youth and fierceness seek thy face.

At first thou gav'st me milk and sweetnesses; I had my wish and way: My days were straw'd with flow'rs and happiness; There was no month but May.But with my years sorrow did twist and grow, And made a party unawares for woe.

My flesh began unto my soul in pain, Sicknesses cleave my bones; Consuming agues dwell in ev'ry vein, And tune my breath to groans.Sorrow was all my soul; I scarce believed, Till grief did tell me roundly, that I lived.

When I got health, thou took'st away my life, And more; for my friends die: My mirth and edge was lost; a blunted knifeWas of more use than I.Thus thin and lean without a fence or friend, I was blown through with ev'ry storm and wind.

Whereas my birth and spirit rather tookThe way that takes the town; Thou didst betray me to a lingering book, And wrap me in a gown.I was entangled in the world of strife, Before I had the power to change my life.

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Yet, for I threatened oft the siege to raise, Not simpring all mine age, Thou often didst with Academic praiseMelt and dissolve my rage.I took thy sweetened pill, till I came whereI could not go away, nor persevere.

Yet lest perchance I should too happy beIn my unhappiness, Turning my purge to food, thou throwest meInto more sicknesses.Thus doth thy power cross-bias me; not makingThine own gift good, yet me from my ways taking.

Now I am here, what thou wilt do with me None of my books will show: I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree; For sure I then should growTo fruit or shade: at least some bird would trustHer household to me, and I should be just.

Yet though thou troublest me, I must be meek; In weakness must be stout.Well, I will change the service, and go seekSome other master out.Ah my dear God! though I am clean forgot, Let me not love thee, if I love thee not. 

George Herbert

The Pulley

When God at first made man,Having a glass of blesings standing by;Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie,

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Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;The beauty flow'd, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:When almost all was out, God made a stay,Perceiving that alone of all his treasureRest in the bottom lay.

For if I should (said he)Bestow this jewel also on my creature,He would adore my gifts instead of me,And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:So both should losers be.

Yet let him keep the rest,But keep them with repining restlessness:Let him be rich and weary, that at least,If goodness lead him not, yet wearinessMay toss him to my breast. 

George Herbert

In the poem, the central idea posited by Herbert is that when God made man, he poured all his blessings on him, including strength, beauty, wisdom, honor and pleasure. However, as in Pandora's box, one element remained. We are told that God "made a stay," that is, He kept "Rest in the bottome." We might, in modern parlance, call this God's ace. God is aware that if He were to bestow this "jewel" (i.e. rest) on Man as well then Man would adore God's gifts instead of God Himself. God has withheld the gift of rest from man knowing fully well that His other treasures would one day result in a spiritual restlessness and fatigue in man who, having tired of His material gifts, would necessarily turn to God in his exhaustion. God, being omniscient and prescient, knows that there is the possibility that even the wicked might not turn to Him, but He knows that eventually mortal man is prone to lethargy; his lassitude, then, would be the leverage He needed to toss man to His breast. In the context of the mechanical operation of a pulley, the kind of leverage and force applied makes the difference for the weight being lifted. Applied to man in this poem, we can say that the withholding of Rest by God is the leverage that will hoist or draw mankind towards God when other means would make that task difficult.

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However, in the first line of the last stanza, Herbert puns on the word "rest" suggesting that perhaps God will, after all, let man "keep the rest," but such a reading would seem to diminish the force behind the poem's conceit. The importance of rest -and, by association, sleep- is an idea that was certainly uppermost in the minds of Renaissance writers. Many of Shakespeare's plays include references to sleep or the lack of it as a punishment for sins committed. In Macbeth, for example, the central protagonist is said to "lack the season of all natures, sleep" and both Lady Macbeth and Macbeth are tormented by the lack of sleep. Even Othello is most disconcerted by the fact that he is unable to sleep peacefully once Iago has poisoned him with the possibility of his wife's infidelity with Cassio. Herbert's Pulley, then, does not present a new concept. In fact, the ideas in the poem are quite commonplace for seventeenth century religious verse. What is distinctly metaphysical about the poem is that a religious notion is conveyed through a secular, scientific image that requires the reader's acquaintance with, and understanding of, some basic laws of physics.Pulleys and hoists are mechanical devices aimed at assisting us with moving heavy loads through a system of ropes and wheels (pulleys) to gain advantage. We should not be surprised at the use of a pulley as a central conceit since the domain of physics and imagery from that discipline would have felt quite comfortable to most of the metaphysical poets. 

7. To His Coy Mistress: Text of the Poem

Had we but world enough, and time, This coyness, Lady, were no crime We would sit down and think which way To walk and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires, and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise

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Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. 

But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song: then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave 's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace. 

Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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To His Coy Mistress Summary

"To His Coy Mistress" is divided into three stanzas or poetic paragraphs. It’s spoken by a nameless man, who doesn’t reveal any physical or biographical details about himself, to a nameless woman, who is also biography-less.

During the first stanza, the speaker tells the mistress that if they had more time and space, her "coyness" (see our discussion on the word "coy" in "What’s Up With the Title?") wouldn’t be a "crime." He extends this discussion by describing how much he would compliment her and admire her, if only there was time. He would focus on "each part" of her body until he got to the heart (and "heart," here, is both a metaphor for sex, and a metaphor for love).

In the second stanza he says, "BUT," we don’t have the time, we are about to die! He tells her that life is short, but death is forever. In a shocking moment, he warns her that, when she’s in the coffin, worms will try to take her "virginity" if she doesn’t have sex with him before they die. If she refuses to have sex with him, there will be repercussions for him, too. All his sexual desire will burn up, "ashes" for all time.

In the third stanza he says, "NOW," I’ve told you what will happen when you die, so let’s have sex while we’re still young. Hey, look at those "birds of prey" mating. That’s how we should do it – but, before that, let’s have us a little wine and time (cheese is for sissies). Then, he wants to play a game – the turn ourselves into a "ball" game. (Hmmm.) He suggests, furthermore, that they release all their pent up frustrations into the sex act, and, in this way, be free.

In the final couplet, he calms down a little. He says that having sex can’t make the "sun" stop moving. In Marvell’s time, the movement of the sun around the earth (we now believe the earth rotates around the sun) is thought to create time. Anyway, he says, we can’t make time stop, but we can change places with it. Whenever we have sex, we pursue time, instead of time pursuing us. This fellow has some confusing ideas about sex and time. Come to think of it, we probably do, too. "To His Coy Mistress" offers us a chance to explore some of those confusing thoughts.

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Stanza I (lines 1-20) Summary

Lines 1-2

Had we but world enough, and time,This coyness, Lady, were no crime 

The speaker starts off by telling the mistress that if there was enough time and enough space ("world enough, and time"), then her "coyness" (see "What’s up with the title" for some definitions) wouldn’t be a criminal act.

This is a roundabout way of calling her a criminal, and makes us think of jails, courtrooms, and punishments.

Hmmm. What exactly is her crime? What is she being "coy" about?

Lines 3-4

We would sit down and think which wayTo walk and pass our long love's day. 

In any case, he continues…. If they had all the time and space they wanted, they could Google everything, read guide books, and carefully consider where they might go next, while aimlessly strolling and resting whenever they pleased.

Line 5

Thou by the Indian Ganges' side

She could hang out on the bank of the "Indian Ganges" finding "rubies." The Ganges River is considered sacred and holy by many people all over

the world. In Marvell’s time, the Ganges is pure and pristine. Now, many parts of it are incredibly polluted.

Lines 5-6

Thou by the Indian Ganges' sideShouldst rubies find: I by the tide 

And, he would be across the world at the Humber tidal estuary, skipping

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in the froth from the waves and whining. (Actually, he says "complain," which also means "love song.")

This would place them far away from each other, obviously. The speaker doesn’t sound thrilled at the idea of a long-distance

relationship.

Lines 7-10

Of Humber would complain. I wouldLove you ten years before the Flood,And you should, if you please, refuseTill the conversion of the Jews.

He would go back in time to Noah and the Flood, and forward in time to the "conversion of the Jews," all the while loving her.

The speaker’s grand, Biblical language mocks poems which describe love in divine terms.

Lines 11-12

My vegetable love should growVaster than empires, and more slow; 

Then, we get one of the poem’s most famous lines. The speaker starts telling the mistress about his "vegetable love."

Much debate occurs over the meaning of this term. The word "slow" in line 12 gives us a clue. We think "vegetable love" is

"organic love" – love without the pressure of anything but nature, a natural process resulting in something nourishing – vegetables.

But, be careful. Since it’s organic, vegetable love will cost a little more in the grocery store.

We can’t neglect another connotation, either. A certain part of the male anatomy is shaped like certain members of the

vegetable kingdom. Vegetable love also refers to that. Some literary critics think the "vegetable" in "vegetable love" refers to the

female anatomy, as well. We’ll let you do the math on your own.

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Lines 13-17

An hundred years should go to praiseThine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest;An age at least to every part, 

Anyhow, he says that, if he had time, he would give her compliments about each of her individual body parts, and he would spend a bazillion years doing it.

Line 18

And the last age should show your heart. 

And then, finally, after all that complimenting, she would "show [her] heart," presumably by having sex with him.

Line 19-20

For, Lady, you deserve this state,Nor would I love at lower rate. 

You’re worth it, too, he says, and I wouldn’t give you anything less than that first-class love.

The word "rate" cleverly links with the word "heart" of the previous line, making us think of "heart rate."

Stanza II (lines 21-32) Summary

Get out the microscope, because we’re going through this poem line-by-line.

Lines 21-22

But at my back I always hear

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Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And, then, he gives her a huge gigantic "BUT." Ouch. You see, the speaker hears something behind him: "Time’s winged chariot," to be exact.

He’s being chased down by Time’s hybrid car! He doesn’t say who’s driving, but we can assume it’s probably Time.

Lines 23-24

And yonder all before us lieDeserts of vast eternity. 

Then, he seems to have a hallucination. Look, he tells the mistress, look at all this sand. The future is just endless

sand. We’re all going to die.

Line 25

Thy beauty shall no more be found,

And you won’t look so pretty there, missy.

Lines 26

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 

You sure won’t be able to hear my pretty song when you are in a "grave."

Lines 27-28

My echoing song: then worms shall tryThat long preserved virginity, 

This next part is even creepier. The speaker tells the mistress that, in the grave, worms will have sex with

her.

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According to the line, she’s a virgin.

Line 29

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

In the grave, her "quaint honor" will completely disintegrate. According to The Norton Anthology of English Literature, "quaint" is a

euphemism that means "vagina." So, he’s telling her that she can’t take her virginity with her into the

afterlife, and making icky jokes about her vagina.

Line 30

And into ashes all my lust:

Next, he tells her that if they die without having sex together, his "lust" or desire, will all burn up, with nothing left but the "ashes."

Interestingly, he seems to imply that, if he can’t have sex with her, he won’t have sex at all.

Lines 31-32

The grave 's a fine and private place,But none, I think, do there embrace. 

He rubs in the whole thing by telling her that coffins are great: they have lots of privacy, but no hugging!

Stanza III (lines 33-46) Summary

Get out the microscope, because we’re going through this poem line-by-line.

Line 33

Now therefore, while the youthful hue 

Luckily, he leaves all that morbidity behind, and gives us the old "now,

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therefore." By this, the speaker suggests that his argument is successful, and that he’s about to tell the mistress what she should do, since his argument is so successful.

Lines 34-36

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,And while thy willing soul transpiresAt every pore with instant fires, 

He kind of brings her back from the grave here. Just a minute ago, he imagines her dead in the crypt, and, now, he tells her how young she is, and how her soul rushes around excitedly inside her, leaking out through her pores.

"Transpire" has a few fun meanings that you can ponder. The first is "to come to light." The second is "to happen." The third actually has to do with plants. If a plant "transpires," it loses

water vapor through its stomata (little pores on a plant's leaves), a crucial part of photosynthesis.

Line 37

Now let us sport us while we may, 

Since you are transpiring (rhymes with "perspiring") and all, let’s play some games, he tells her.

Then, he gets a brilliant idea.

Line 38

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

They should pretend to be birds of prey, mating! (Sounds a little dangerous to us.) Also, the word "prey" introduces violence, and therefore uneasiness, into

the scene.

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Line 39

Rather at once our time devour 

But, before the games begin, we should have a little pre-mating dinner. Here, honey, try this seared fillet-o-time, on a bed of vegetable love. And for dessert – time capsules! See, time deserves to be eaten.

Line 40

Than languish in his slow-chapt power.

Time exerts its "slow-chapped power" over the speaker for far too long. According to the Norton Anthology of English Literature, "slow-chapped

power" means "slowly devouring jaws." In short, he feels like he’s dying in Time’s mouth, and that time is slowly

eating him up. He wants to turn the tables, and thinks that sex, or so he tells his mistress,

is the way to get time under his control.

Lines 41-42

Let us roll all our strength and allOur sweetness up into one ball, 

Next comes his actual description of sex. The rolling up in a ball doesn’t sound so bad. "Strength" carries on the idea of sex as sport from line 37. Come to think of it, "ball" works that way, too.

Lines 43-44

And tear our pleasures with rough strifeThorough the iron gates of life: 

But, what’s with "tear" and "strife"? It makes sense from the speaker’s perspective. He claims to believe that sex is the way to another world, a way to break

out of the prison of time.

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This also suggests that he thinks that bringing the "strife" of life into the bedroom will enhance the sexual experience.

Lines 45-46

Thus, though we cannot make our sunStand still, yet we will make him run.

In this final couplet (a couplet is a stanza made up of two lines, usually rhyming), the speaker seems a little bit calmer.

He talks about the sun now, instead of time. In his time, the sun is thought to control time. In the end, he admits that sex is a compromise. They can’t use it to stop time, but they can use it to make time go faster. What? If time goes faster, won’t the speaker and the mistress die sooner? Not if he’s in control. And, not if, as we suggest in "Symbols, Images and Wordplay" under

"The Great Beyond," the sun and time, also represent death. If they can make time run, it won’t have time to kill people. Er, or something like that. It’s not necessarily the most rational argument, but it has its charm. And, the speaker isn’t the first person to think that sex is the answer to all

problems. In any case, the final couplet can give you food for thought for years.

8. Life of Milton

By Samuel Johnson

Edited by Jack Lynch

The text comes from G. B. Hill's edition of Lives of the English Poets, 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905); the notes, including unattributed translations, are my own.Explanatory and Textual Notes appear at the end of the Life.

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An abridged edition, roughly half the length of this text, is also available. Send corrections and comments to Jack Lynch.

[1] The Life of Milton has been already written in so many forms and with such minute enquiry that I might perhaps more properly have contented myself with the addition of a few notes to Mr. Fenton's elegant Abridgement, but that a new narrative was thought necessary to the uniformity of this edition.

[2] JOHN MILTON was by birth a gentleman, descended from the proprietors of Milton near Thame in Oxfordshire, one of whom forfeited his estate in the times of York and Lancaster. Which side he took I know not; his descendant inherited no veneration for the White Rose.

[3] His grandfather John was keeper of the forest of Shotover, a zealous papist who disinherited his son, because he had forsaken the religion of his ancestors.

[4] His father, John, who was the son disinherited, had recourse for his support to the profession of a scrivener. He was a man eminent for his skill in musick, many of his compositions being still to be found; and his reputation in his profession was such that he grew rich, and retired to an estate. He had probably more than common literature, as his son addresses him in one of his most elaborate Latin poems. He married a gentlewoman of the name of Caston, a Welsh family, by whom he had two sons, John the poet, and Christopher who studied the law, and adhered, as the law taught him, to the King's party, for which he was awhile persecuted; but having, by his brother's interest, obtained permission to live in quiet, he supported himself so honourably by chamber-practice, that soon after the accession of King James, he was knighted and made a Judge; but his constitution being too weak for business, he retired before any disreputable compliances became necessary.

[5] He had likewise a daughter Anne, whom he married with a considerable fortune to Edward Philips, who came from Shrewsbury, and rose in the Crown-office to be secondary; by him she had two sons, John and Edward, who were educated by the poet, and from whom is derived the only authentick account of his domestick manners.

[6] John, the poet, was born in his father's house, at the Spread-Eagle in Bread-

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street Dec. 9, 1608, between six and seven in the morning. His father appears to have been very solicitous about his education; for he was instructed at first by private tuition under the care of Thomas Young, who was afterwards chaplain to the English merchants at Hamburgh, and of whom we have reason to think well, since his scholar considered him as worthy of an epistolary Elegy.

[7] He was then sent to St. Paul's School, under the care of Mr. Gill, and removed, in the beginning of his sixteenth year, to Christ's College in Cambridge, where he entered a sizar, Feb. 12, 1624.

[8] He was at this time eminently skilled in the Latin tongue; and he himself by annexing the dates to his first compositions, a boast of which the learned Politian had given him an example, seems to commend the earliness of his own proficiency to the notice of posterity; but the products of his vernal fertility have been surpassed by many, and particularly by his contemporary Cowley. Of the powers of the mind it is difficult to form an estimate; many have excelled Milton in their first essays who never rose to works like Paradise Lost.

[9] At fifteen, a date which he uses till he is sixteen, he translated or versified two Psalms, 114 and 136, which he thought worthy of the publick eye, but they raise no great expectations; they would in any numerous school have obtained praise, but not excited wonder.

[10] Many of his elegies appear to have been written in his eighteenth year, by which it appears that he had then read the Roman authors with very nice discernment. I once heard Mr. Hampton, the translator of Polybius, remark, what I think is true, that Milton was the first Englishman who, after the revival of letters, wrote Latin verses with classick elegance. If any exceptions can be made they are very few;Haddon and Ascham, the pride of Elizabeth's reign, however they may have succeeded in prose, no sooner attempt verses than they provoke derision. If we produced anything worthy of notice before the elegies of Milton it was perhaps Alabaster's   Roxana .

[11] Of these exercises which the rules of the University required, some were published by him in his maturer years. They had been undoubtedly applauded, for they were such as few can perform: yet there is reason to suspect that he was regarded in his college with no great fondness. That he obtained no fellowship is certain; but the unkindness with which he was treated was not merely negative: I am ashamed to relate what I fear is true, that Milton was one of the last students

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in either university that suffered the publick indignity of corporal correction.

[12] It was, in the violence of controversial hostility, objected to him that he was expelled; this he steadily denies, and it was apparently not true; but it seems plain from his own verses to Diodati that he had incurred Rustication, a temporary dismission into the country, with perhaps the loss of a term:

"Me tenet urbs refluâ quam Thamesis alluit undâ,   Meque nec invitum patria dulcis habet.Jam nec arundiferum mihi cura revisere Camum,   Nec dudum vetiti me laris angit amor. —Nec duri libet usque minas perferre magistri   Cæteraque ingenio non subeunda meo.Si sit hoc exilium patrios adiisse penates,   Et vacuum curis otia grata sequi,Non ego vel profugi nomen sortemve recuso,   Lætus et exilii conditione fruor."

[13] I cannot find any meaning but this, which even kindness and reverence can give to the term vetiti laris, "a habitation from which he is excluded," or how exile can be otherwise interpreted. He declares yet more, that he is weary of enduring "the threats of a rigorous master, and something else, which a temper like his cannot undergo." What was more than threat was probably punishment. This poem, which mentions his exile, proves likewise that it was not perpetual, for it concludes with a resolution of returning some time to Cambridge. And it may be conjectured from the willingness with which he has perpetuated the memory of his exile, that its cause was such as gave him no shame.

[14] He took both the usual degrees, that of Batchelor in 1628, and that of Master in 1632; but he left the university with no kindness for its institution, alienated either by the injudicious severity of his governors, or his own captious perverseness. The cause cannot now be known, but the effect appears in his writings. His scheme of education, inscribed to Hartlib, supersedes all academical instruction; being intended to comprise the whole time which men usually spend in literature, from their entrance upon grammar, "till they proceed, as it is called, masters of arts." And in his Discourse On the likeliest Way to remove Hirelings out of the Church, he ingeniously proposes that "the profits of the lands forfeited by the act for superstitious uses should be applied to such academies all over the land, where languages and arts may be taught together;

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so that youth may be at once brought up to a competency of learning and an honest trade, by which means such of them as had the gift, being enabled to support themselves (without tithes) by the latter, may, by the help of the former, become worthy preachers."

[15] One of his objections to academical education as it was then conducted is that men designed for orders in the Church were permitted to act plays, "writhing and unboning their clergy limbs to all the antick and dishonest gestures of Trincalos, buffoons and bawds, prostituting the shame of that ministry which they had or were near having to the eyes of courtiers and court-ladies, their grooms and mademoiselles."

[16] This is sufficiently peevish in a man who, when he mentions his exile from the college, relates with great luxuriance the compensation which the pleasures of the theatre afford him. Plays were therefore only criminal when they were acted by academicks.

[17] He went to the university with a design of entering into the church, but in time altered his mind; for he declared that whoever became a clergyman must "subscribe slave and take an oath withal, which, unless he took with a conscience that could retch, he must straight perjure himself. He thought it better to prefer a blameless silence before the office of speaking, bought and begun with servitude and forswearing."

[18] These expressions are I find applied to the subscription of the Articles, but it seems more probable that they relate to canonical obedience. I know not any of the Articles which seem to thwart his opinions; but the thoughts of obedience, whether canonical or civil, raised his indignation.

[19] His unwillingness to engage in the ministry, perhaps not yet advanced to a settled resolution of declining it, appears in a letter to one of his friends who had reproved his suspended and dilatory life, which he seems to have imputed to an insatiable curiosity and fantastick luxury of various knowledge. To this he writes a cool and plausible answer, in which he endeavors to persuade him that the delay proceeds not from the delights of desultory study, but from the desire of obtaining more fitness for his task; and that he goes on "not taking thought of being late, so it give advantage to be more fit."

[20] When he left the university he returned to his father, then residing at

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Horton in Buckinghamshire, with whom he lived five years; in which time he is said to have read all the Greek and Latin writers. With what limitations this universality is to be understood who shall inform us?

[21] It might be supposed that he who read so much should have done nothing else; but Milton found time to write the Masque of Comus, which was presented at Ludlow, then the residence of the Lord President of Wales, in 1634, and had the honour of being acted by the Earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughter. The fiction is derived from Homer's Circe; but we never can refuse to any modern the liberty of borrowing from Homer:

      "— a quo ceu fonte perenniVatum Pieriis ora rigantur aquis."

[22] His next production was Lycidas, an elegy written in 1637 on the death of Mr. King, the son of Sir John King, secretary for Ireland in the time of Elizabeth, James, and Charles. King was much a favourite at Cambridge, and many of the wits joined to do honour to his memory. Milton's acquaintance with the Italian writers may be discovered by a mixture of longer and shorter verses, according to the rules of Tuscan poetry, and his malignity to the Church by some lines which are interpreted as threatening its extermination.

[23] He is supposed about this time to have written his Arcades; for while he lived at Horton he used sometimes to steal from his studies a few days, which he spent at Harefield, the house of the countess dowager of Derby, where the Arcades made part of a dramatick entertainment.

[24] He began now to grow weary of the country, and had some purpose of taking chambers in the Inns of Court, when the death of his mother set him at liberty to travel, for which he obtained his father's consent and Sir Henry Wotton's directions, with the celebrated precept of prudence, i pensieri stretti, ed il viso sciolto, "thoughts close, and looks loose."

[25] In 1638 he left England, and went first to Paris, where, by the favour of Lord Scudamore, he had the opportunity of visiting Grotius, then residing at the French court as ambassador from Christina of Sweden. From Paris he hasted into Italy, of which he had with particular diligence studied the language and literature; and, though he seems to have intended a very quick perambulation of the country, staid two months at Florence; where he found his way into the

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academies, and produced his compositions with such applause as appears to have exalted him in his own opinion, and confirmed him in the hope, that "by labour and intense study, which," says he, "I take to be my portion in this life, joined with a strong propensity of nature," he might "leave something so written to after-times, as they should not willingly let it die."

[26] It appears in all his writings that he had the usual concomitant of great abilities, a lofty and steady confidence in himself, perhaps not without some contempt of others; for scarcely any man ever wrote so much and praised so few. Of his praise he was very frugal, as he set its value high; and considered his mention of a name as a security against the waste of time and a certain preservative from oblivion.

[27] At Florence he could not indeed complain that his merit wanted distinction. Carlo Dati presented him with an encomiastick inscription, in the tumid lapidary style; and Francini wrote him an ode, of which the first stanza is only empty noise, the rest are perhaps too diffuse on common topicks, but the last is natural and beautiful.

[28] From Florence he went to Sienna, and from Sienna to Rome, where he was again received with kindness by the Learned and the Great. Holstenius, the keeper of the Vatican Library, who had resided three years at Oxford, introduced him to Cardinal Barberini; and he at a musical entertainment waited for him at the door, and led him by the hand into the assembly. Here Selvaggi praised him in a distich and Salsilli in a tetrastick; neither of them of much value. The Italians were gainers by this literary commerce: for the encomiums with which Milton repaid Salsilli, though not secure against a stern grammarian, turn the balance indisputably in Milton's favour.

[29] Of these Italian testimonies, poor as they are, he was proud enough to publish them before his poems; though he says, he cannot be suspected but to have known that they were said non tam de se, quam supra se.

[30] At Rome, as at Florence, he staid only two months; a time indeed sufficient if he desired only to ramble with an explainer of its antiquities or to view palaces and count pictures, but certainly too short for the contemplation of learning, policy, or manners.

[31] From Rome he passed on to Naples, in company of a hermit; a companion

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from whom little could be expected, yet to him Milton owed his introduction to Manso, marquis of Villa, who had been before the patron of Tasso. Manso was enough delighted with his accomplishments to honour him with a sorry distich, in which he commends him for every thing but his religion; and Milton in return addressed him in a Latin poem, which must have raised an high opinion of English elegance and literature.

[32] His purpose was now to have visited Sicily and Greece, but hearing of the differences between the king and parliament, he thought it proper to hasten home rather than pass his life in foreign amusements while his countrymen were contending for their rights. He therefore came back to Rome, though the merchants informed him of plots laid against him by the Jesuits, for the liberty of his conversations on religion. He had sense enough to judge that there was no danger, and therefore kept on his way, and acted as before, neither obtruding nor shunning controversy. He had perhaps given some offence by visiting Galileo, then a prisoner in the Inquisition for philosophical heresy; and at Naples he was told by Manso that, by his declarations on religious questions, he had excluded himself from some distinctions which he should otherwise have paid him. But such conduct, though it did not please, was yet sufficiently safe; and Milton staid two months more at Rome, and went on to Florence without molestation.

[33] From Florence he visited Lucca. He afterwards went to Venice, and having sent away a collection of musick and other books travelled to Geneva, which he probably considered as the metropolis of orthodoxy. Here he reposed as in a congenial element, and became acquainted with John Diodati and Frederick Spanheim, two learned professors of Divinity. From Geneva he passed through France, and came home after an absence of a year and three months.

[34] At his return he heard of the death of his friend Charles Diodati; a man whom it is reasonable to suppose of great merit, since he was thought by Milton worthy of a poem, intituled Epitaphium Damonis, written with the common but childish imitation of pastoral life.

[35] He now hired a lodging at the house of one Russel, a taylor in St. Bride's Churchyard, and undertook the education of John and Edward Philips, his sister's sons. Finding his rooms too little he took a house and garden in Aldersgate street, which was not then so much out of the world as it is now, and chose his dwelling at the upper end of a passage that he might avoid the noise of

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the street. Here he received more boys, to be boarded and instructed.

[36] Let not our veneration for Milton forbid us to look with some degree of merriment on great promises and small performance, on the man who hastens home because his countrymen are contending for their liberty, and, when he reaches the scene of action, vapours away his patriotism in a private boarding-school. This is the period of his life from which all his biographers seem inclined to shrink. They are unwilling that Milton should be degraded to a schoolmaster; but, since it cannot be denied that he taught boys, one finds out that he taught for nothing, and another that his motive was only zeal for the propagation of learning and virtue; and all tell what they do not know to be true, only to excuse an act which no wise man will consider as in itself disgraceful. His father was alive, his allowance was not ample, and he supplied its deficiencies by an honest and useful employment.

[37] It is told that in the art of education he performed wonders, and a formidable list is given of the authors, Greek and Latin, that were read in Aldersgate-street by youth between ten and fifteen or sixteen years of age. Those who tell or receive these stories should consider that nobody can be taught faster than he can learn. The speed of the horseman must be limited by the power of his horse. Every man that has ever undertaken to instruct others can tell what slow advances he has been able to make, and how much patience it requires to recall vagrant inattention, to stimulate sluggish indifference, and to rectify absurd misapprehension.

[38] The purpose of Milton, as it seems, was to teach something more solid than the common literature of schools, by reading those authors that treat of physical subjects; such as the Georgick, and astronomical treatises of the ancients. This was a scheme of improvement which seems to have busied many literary projectors of that age. Cowley, who had more means than Milton of knowing what was wanting to the embellishments of life, formed the same plan of education in his imaginary College.

[39] But the truth is that the knowledge of external nature, and the sciences which that knowledge requires or includes, are not the great or the frequent business of the human mind. Whether we provide for action or conversation, whether we wish to be useful or pleasing, the first requisite is the religious and moral knowledge of right and wrong; the next is an acquaintance with the history of mankind, and with those examples which may be said to embody

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truth and prove by events the reasonableness of opinions. Prudence and Justice are virtues and excellences of all times and of all places; we are perpetually moralists, but we are geometricians only by chance. Our intercourse with intellectual nature is necessary; our speculations upon matter are voluntary and at leisure. Physiological learning is of such rare emergence that one man may know another half his life without being able to estimate his skill in hydrostaticks or astronomy, but his moral and prudential character immediately appears.

[40] Those authors, therefore, are to be read at schools that supply most axioms of prudence, most principles of moral truth, and most materials for conversation; and these purposes are best served by poets, orators, and historians.

[41] Let me not be censured for this digression as pedantick or paradoxical, for if I have Milton against me I have Socrates on my side. It was his labour to turn philosophy from the study of nature to speculations upon life, but the innovators whom I oppose are turning off attention from life to nature. They seem to think that we are placed here to watch the growth of plants, or the motions of the stars. Socrates was rather of opinion that what we had to learn was, how to do good and avoid evil.

Hotti toi en megaroisi kakon t' agathon te tetuktai.

[42] Of institutions we may judge by their effects. From this wonder-working academy I do not know that there ever proceeded any man very eminent for knowledge; its only genuine product, I believe, is a small History of Poetry, written in Latin by his nephew Philips, of which perhaps none of my readers has ever heard.

[43] That in his school, as in every thing else which he undertook, he laboured with great diligence, there is no reason for doubting. One part of his method deserves general imitation: he was careful to instruct his scholars in religion. Every Sunday was spent upon theology, of which he dictated a short system, gathered from the writers that were then fashionable in the Dutch universities.

[44] He set his pupils an example of hard study and spare diet; only now and then he allowed himself to pass a day of festivity and indulgence with some gay gentlemen of Gray's Inn.

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[45] He now began to engage in the controversies of the times, and lent his breath to blow the flames of contention. In 1641 he published a treatise of Reformation, in two books, against the established Church; being willing to help the Puritans, who were, he says, "inferior to the Prelates in learning."

[46] Hall, bishop of Norwich, had published an Humble Remonstrance in defence of Episcopacy, to which in 1641 six ministers, of whose names the first letters made the celebrated word Smectymnuus, gave their Answer. Of this answer a Confutation was attempted by the learned Usher; and to the Confutation Milton published a Reply, intituled Of Prelatical Episcopacy, and whether it may be deduced from the Apostolical Times, by virtue of those testimonies which are alledged to that purpose in some late treatises, one whereof goes under the name of James, Lord Bishop of Armagh.

[47] I have transcribed this title to shew, by his contemptuous mention of Usher, that he had now adopted the puritanical savageness of manners. His next work was The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelacy, by Mr. John Milton, 1642. In this book he discovers, not with ostentatious exultation, but with calm confidence, his high opinion of his own powers; and promises to undertake something, he yet knows not what, that may be of use and honour to his country. "This," says he, "is not to be obtained but by devout prayer to that Eternal Spirit that can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends out his Seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar to touch and purify the lips of whom he pleases. To this must be added industrious and select reading, steady observation, and insight into all seemly and generous arts and affairs; till which in some measure be compast, I refuse not to sustain this expectation. From a promise like this, at once fervid, pious, and rational, might be expected the Paradise Lost.

[48] He published the same year two more pamphlets upon the same question. To one of his antagonists, who affirms that he was "vomited out of the university," he answers in general terms:

"The Fellows of the College wherein I spent some years, at my parting, after I had taken two degrees, as the manner is, signified many times how much better it would content them that I should stay. — As for the common approbation or dislike of that place as now it is, that I should esteem or disesteem myself the more for that, too simple is the answerer, if he think to obtain with me. Of small practice were the physician who could not judge, by what she and her sister

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have of long time vomited, that the worser stuff she strongly keeps in her stomach, but the better she is ever kecking at, and is queasy: she vomits now out of sickness; but before it be well with her she must vomit by strong physick. The university in the time of her better health, and my younger judgement, I never greatly admired, but now much less."

[49] This is surely the language of a man who thinks that he has been injured. He proceeds to describe the course of his conduct, and the train of his thoughts; and, because he has been suspected of incontinence, gives an account of his own purity: "That if I be justly charged," says he, "with this crime, it may come upon me, with tenfold shame."

[50] The style of his piece is rough, and such perhaps was that of his antagonist. This roughness he justifies, by great examples, in a long digression. Sometimes he tries to be humorous:

"Lest I should take him for some chaplain in hand, some squire of the body to his prelate, one who serves not at the altar only, but at the Court-cupboard, he will bestow on us a pretty model of himself; and sets me out half a dozen ptisical mottos, wherever he had them, hopping short in the measure of convulsion fits; in which labour the agony of his wit having scaped narrowly, instead of well-sized periods, he greets us with a quantity of thumb-ring posies." — And thus ends this section, or rather dissection, of himself.

Such is the controversial merriment of Milton; his gloomy seriousness is yet more offensive. Such is his malignity that hell grows darker at his frown.

[51] His father, after Reading was taken by Essex, came to reside in his house; and his school increased. At Whitsuntide, in his thirty-fifth year, he married Mary, the daughter of Mr. Powel, a justice of the Peace in Oxfordshire. He brought her to town with him, and expected all the advantages of a conjugal life. The lady, however, seems not much to have delighted in the pleasures of spare diet and hard study; for, as Philips relates, "having for a month led a philosophical life, after having been used at home to a great house, and much company and joviality, her friends, possibly by her own desire, made earnest suit to have her company the remaining part of the summer; which was granted, upon a promise of her return at Michaelmas."

[52] Milton was too busy to much miss his wife; he pursued his studies, and now and then visited the Lady Margaret Leigh, whom he has mentioned in one

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of his sonnets. At last Michaelmas arrived; but the lady had no inclination to return to the sullen gloom of her husband's habitation, and therefore very willingly forgot her promise. He sent her a letter, but had no answer; he sent more with the same success. It could be alleged that letters miscarry; he therefore dispatched a messenger, being by this time too angry to go himself. His messenger was sent back with some contempt. The family of the lady were Cavaliers.

[53] In a man whose opinion of his own merit was like Milton's, less provocation than this might have raised violent resentment. Milton soon determined to repudiate her for disobedience; and, being one of those who could easily find arguments to justify inclination, published (in 1644) The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce, which was followed by The Judgement of Martin Bucer, concerning Divorce; and the next year his Tetrachordon, Expositions upon the four chief Places of Scripture which treat of Marriage.

[54] This innovation was opposed, as might be expected, by the clergy, who, then holding their famous assembly at Westminster, procured that the author should be called before the Lords; "but that House," says Wood, "whether approving the doctrine, or not favouring his accusers, did soon dismiss him."

[55] There seems not to have been much written against him, nor any thing by any writer of eminence. The antagonist that appeared is styled by him, "a Serving man turned Solicitor." Howel in his letters mentions the new doctrine with contempt; and it was, I suppose, though more worthy of derision than of confutation. He complains of this neglect in two sonnets, of which the first is contemptible, and the second not excellent.

[56] From this time it is observed that he became an enemy to the Presbyterians, whom he had favoured before. He that changes his party by his humour is not more virtuous than he that changes it by his interest; he loves himself rather than truth.

[57] His wife and her relations now found that Milton was not an unresisting sufferer of injuries; and perceiving that he had begun to put his doctrine in practice, by courting a young woman of great accomplishments, the daughter of one Doctor Davis, who was however not ready to comply, they resolved to endeavour a reunion. He went sometimes to the house of one Blackborough, his relation, in the lane of St. Martin's-le-Grand, and at one of his usual visits was

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surprised to see his wife come from another room, and implore forgiveness on her knees. He resisted her intreaties for a while; "but partly," says Philips, "his own generous nature, more inclinable to reconciliation than to perseverance in anger or revenge, and partly the strong intercession of friends on both sides, soon brought him to an act of oblivion and a firm league of peace." It were injurious to omit, that Milton afterwards received her father and her brothers in his own house, when they were distressed, with other Royalists.

[58] He published about the same time his Areopagitica, a Speech of Mr. John Milton for the liberty of unlicensed Printing. The danger of such unbounded liberty and the danger of bounding it have produced a problem in the science of Government, which human understanding seems hitherto unable to solve. If nothing may be published but what civil authority shall have previously approved, power must always be the standard of truth; if every dreamer of innovations may propagate his projects, there can be no settlement; if every murmurer at government may diffuse discontent, there can be no peace; and if every sceptick in theology may teach his follies, there can be no religion. The remedy against these evils is to punish the authors; for it is yet allowed that every society may punish, though not prevent, the publication of opinions, which that society shall think pernicious: but this punishment, though it may crush the author, promotes the book; and it seems not more reasonable to leave the right of printing unrestrained, because writers may be afterwards censured, than it would be to sleep with doors unbolted, because by our laws we can hang a thief.

[59] But whatever were his engagements, civil or domestick, poetry was never long out of his thoughts. About this time (1645) a collection of his Latin and English poems appeared, in which the Allegroand Penseroso, with some others, were first published.

[60] He had taken a larger house in Barbican for the reception of scholars, but the numerous relations of his wife, to whom he generously granted refuge for a while, occupied his rooms. In time, however, they went away; "and the house again," says Philips, "now looked like a house of the Muses only, though the accession of scholars was not great. Possibly his having proceeded so far in the education of youth may have been the occasion of his adversaries calling him pedagogue and school-master; whereas it is well known he never set up for a publick school to teach all the young fry of a parish, but only was willing to

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impart his learning and knowledge to relations and the sons of gentlemen who were his intimate friends, and that neither his writings nor his way of teaching ever savoured in the least of pedantry."

[61] Thus laboriously does his nephew extenuate what cannot be denied, and what might be confessed without disgrace. Milton was not a man who could become mean by a mean employment. This, however, his warmest friends seem not to have found; they therefore shift and palliate. He did not sell literature to all comers at an open shop; he was a chamber-milliner, and measured his commodities only to his friends.

[62] Philips, evidently impatient of viewing him in this state of degradation, tells us that it was not long continued; and, to raise his character again, has a mind to invest him with military splendour: "He is much mistaken," he says, "if there was not about this time a design of making him an adjutant-general in Sir William Waller's army. But the new modelling of the army proved an obstruction to the design." An event cannot be set at a much greater distance than by having been only designed, about some time, if a man be not much mistaken. Milton shall be a pedagogue no longer; for, if Philips be not much mistaken, somebody at some time designed him for a soldier.

[63] About the time that the army was new-modelled (1645) he removed to a smaller house in Holbourn, which opened backward into Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. He is not known to have published any thing afterwards till the King's death, when, finding his murderers condemned by the Presbyterians, he wrote a treatise to justify it, and "to compose the minds of the people."

[64] He made some Remarks on the Articles of Peace between Ormond and the Irish Rebels. While he contented himself to write, he perhaps did only what his conscience dictated; and if he did not very vigilantly watch the influence of his own passions, and the gradual prevalence of opinions, first willingly admitted and then habitually indulged, if objections by being overlooked were forgotten, and desire superinduced conviction, he yet shared only the common weakness of mankind, and might be no less sincere than his opponents. But as faction seldom leaves a man honest, however it might find him, Milton is suspected of having interpolated the book called Icon Basilike, which the Council of State, to whom he was now made Latin secretary, employed him to censure, by inserting a prayer taken from Sidney'sArcadia, and imputing it to the King; whom he charges, in his Iconoclastes, with the use of this prayer as with a heavy crime, in

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the indecent language with which prosperity had emboldened the advocates for rebellion to insult all that is venerable or great: "Who would have imagined so little fear in him of the true all-seeing Deity . . . as, immediately before his death, to pop into the hands of the grave bishop that attended him, as a special relique of his saintly exercises, a prayer stolen word for word from the mouth of a heathen woman praying to a heathen god?"

[65] The papers which the King gave to Dr. Juxon on the scaffold the regicides took away, so that they were at least the publishers of this prayer; and Dr. Birch, who had examined the question with great care, was inclined to think them the forgers. The use of it by adaptation was innocent; and they who could so noisily censure it, with a little extension of their malice could contrive what they wanted to accuse.

[66] King Charles the Second, being now sheltered in Holland, employed Salmasius, professor of Polite Learning at Leyden, to write a defence of his father and of monarchy; and, to excite his industry, gave him, as was reported, a hundred Jacobuses. Salmasius was a man of skill in languages, knowledge of antiquity, and sagacity of emendatory criticism, almost exceeding all hope of human attainment; and having by excessive praises been confirmed in great confidence of himself, though he probably had not much considered the principles of society or the rights of government, undertook the employment without distrust of his own qualifications; and, as his expedition in writing was wonderful, in 1649 published Defensio Regis.

[67] To this Milton was required to write a sufficient answer, which he performed (1651) in such a manner that Hobbes declared himself unable to decide whose language was best, or whose arguments were worst. In my opinion, Milton's periods are smoother, neater, and more pointed; but he delights himself with teasing his adversary as much as with confuting him. He makes a foolish allusion of Salmasius, whose doctrine he considers as servile and unmanly, to the stream of Salmacis, which whoever entered left half his virility behind him. Salmasius was a Frenchman, and was unhappily married to a scold. "Tu es Gallus," says Milton, "et, ut aiunt, nimium gallinaceus." But his supreme pleasure is to tax his adversary, so renowned for criticism, with vitious Latin. He opens his book with telling that he has used Persona, which, according to Milton, signifies only a Mask, in a sense not known to the Romans, by applying it as we apply Person. But as Nemesis is always on the watch, it is

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memorable that he has enforced the charge of a solecism by an expression in itself grossly solecistical, when, for one of those supposed blunders, he says, as Ker, and I think some one before him, has remarked, "propino te grammatistis tuis vapulandum." From vapulo, which has a passive sense, vapulandus can never be derived. No man forgets his original trade: the rights of nations and of kings sink into questions of grammar, if grammarians discuss them.

[68] Milton when he undertook this answer was weak of body and dim of sight; but his will was forward, and what was wanting of health was supplied by zeal. He was rewarded with a thousand pounds, and his book was much read; for paradox, recommended by spirit and elegance, easily gains attention: and he who told every man that he was equal to his King could hardly want an audience.

[69] That the performance of Salmasius was not dispersed with equal rapidity or read with equal eagerness, is very credible. He taught only the stale doctrine of authority and the unpleasing duty of submission; and he had been so long not only the monarch but the tyrant of literature that almost all mankind were delighted to find him defied and insulted by a new name, not yet considered as any one's rival. If Christina, as is said, commended the Defence of the people, her purpose must be to torment Salmasius, who was then at her Court; for neither her civil station nor her natural character could dispose her to favour the doctrine, who was by birth a queen and by temper despotick.

[70] That Salmasius was, from the appearance of Milton's book, treated with neglect, there is not much proof; but to a man so long accustomed to admiration, a little praise of his antagonist would be sufficiently offensive, and might incline him to leave Sweden; from which, however, he was dismissed, not with any mark of contempt, but with a train of attendance scarce less than regal.

[71] He prepared a reply, which, left as it was imperfect, was published by his son in the year of the Restauration. In the beginning, being probably most in pain for his Latinity, he endeavours to defend his use of the word persona; but, if I remember right, he misses a better authority than any that he has found, that of Juvenal in his fourth satire;

"— Quid agis cum dira & foedior omniCrimine Persona est?"

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[72] As Salmasius reproached Milton with losing his eyes in the quarrel, Milton delighted himself with the belief that he had shortened Salmasius's life; and both perhaps with more malignity than reason. Salmasius died at the Spa, Sept. 3, 1653; and, as controvertists are commonly said to be killed by their last dispute, Milton was flattered with the credit of destroying him.

[73] Cromwell had now dismissed the parliament by the authority of which he had destroyed monarchy, and commenced monarch himself under the title of protector, but with kingly and more than kingly power. That his authority was lawful, never was pretended; he himself founded his right only in necessity: but Milton, having now tasted the honey of publick employment, would not return to hunger and philosophy, but, continuing to exercise his office under a manifest usurpation, betrayed to his power that liberty which he had defended. Nothing can be more just than that rebellion should end in slavery: that he, who had justified the murder of his king, for some acts which to him seemed unlawful, should now sell his services and his flatteries to a tyrant, of whom it was evident that he could do nothing lawful.

[74] He had now been blind for some years; but his vigour of intellect was such that he was not disabled to discharge his office of Latin secretary, or continue his controversies: his mind was too eager to be diverted, and too strong to be subdued.

[75] About this time his first wife died in childbed, having left him three daughters. As he probably did not much love her he did not long continue the appearance of lamenting her, but after a short time married Catherine, the daughter of one captain Woodcock of Hackney; a woman doubtless educated in opinions like his own. She died within a year of childbirth, or some distemper that followed it; and her husband has honoured her memory with a poor sonnet.

[76] The first Reply to Milton's Defensio Populi was published in 1651, called Apologia pro Rege et Populo Anglicano, contra Johannis Polypragmatici (alias Miltoni) defensionem destructivam Regis et Populi. Of this the author was not known; but Milton and his nephew Philips, under whose name he published an answer so much corrected by him that it might be called his own, imputed it to Bramhal, and, knowing him no friend to regicides, thought themselves at liberty to treat him as if they had known what they only suspected.

[77] Next year appeared Regii Sanguinis clamor ad Coelum. Of this the author

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was Peter du Moulin, who was afterwards prebendary of Canterbury; but Morus, or More, a French minister, having the care of its publication, was treated as the writer by Milton in his Defensio Secunda, and overwhelmed by such violence of invective that he began to shrink under the tempest, and gave his persecutors the means of knowing the true author. Du Moulin was now in great danger, but Milton's pride operated against his malignity; and both he and his friends were more willing that Du Moulin should escape than that he should be convicted of mistake.

[78] In this second Defence he shews that his eloquence is not merely satirical; the rudeness of his invective is equalled by the grossness of his flattery.

"Deserimur, Cromuelle; tu solus superes, ad te summa nostrarum rerum rediit, in te solo consistit, insuperabili tuæ virtuti cedimus cuncti, nemine vel obloquente, nisi qui æquales inæqualis ipse honores sibi quærit, aut digniori concessos invidet, aut non intelligit nihil esse in societate hominum magis vel Deo gratum, vel rationi consentaneum, esse in civitate nihil æquius, nihil utilius, quam potiri rerum dignissimum. Eum te agnoscunt omnes, Cromuelle, ea tu civis maximus et gloriosissimus, dux publici consilii, fortissimorum exercituum imperator, pater patriæ gessisti. Sic tu spontanea bonorum omnium et animitus missa voce salutaris."

[79] Cæsar when he assumed the perpetual dictatorship had not more servile or more elegant flattery. A translation may shew its servility, but its elegance is less attainable. Having exposed the unskilfulness or selfishness of the former government

"We were left," says Milton, "to ourselves; the whole national interest fell into your hands, and subsists only in your abilities. To your virtue, overpowering and resistless, every man gives way, except some who without equal qualifications aspire to equal honours, who envy the distinctions of merit greater than their own, or who have yet to learn that in the coalition of human society nothing is more pleasing to God or more agreeable to reason than that the highest mind should have the sovereign power. Such, Sir, are you by general confession; such are the things atchieved by you, the greatest and most glorious of our countrymen, the director of our publick councils, the leader of unconquered armies, the father of your country: for by that title does every good man hail you, with sincere and voluntary praise."

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[80] Next year, having defended all that wanted defence, he found leisure to defend himself: he undertook his own vindication against More, whom he declares in his title to be justly called the author of theRegii Sanguinis clamor. In this there is no want of vehemence nor eloquence, nor does he forget his wonted wit, "Morus es? an Momus? an uterque idem est?" He then remembers that Morus is Latin for a Mulberry-tree, and hints at the known transformation:

      "Poma alba ferebatQuæ post nigra tulit Morus."

[81] With this piece ended his controversies; and he from this time gave himself up to his private studies and his civil employment.

[82] As secretary to the Protector he is supposed to have written the Declaration of the reasons for a war with Spain. His agency was considered as of great importance; for when a treaty with Sweden was artfully suspended, the delay was publickly imputed to Mr. Milton's indisposition; and the Swedish agent was provoked to express his wonder, that only one man in England could write Latin, and that man blind.

[83] Being now forty-seven years old, and seeing himself disencumbered from external interruptions, he seems to have recollected his former purposes, and to have resumed three great works which he had planned for his future employment: an epick poem, the history of his country, and a dictionary of the Latin tongue.

[84] To collect a dictionary seems a work of all others least practicable in a state of blindness, because it depends upon perpetual and minute inspection and collation. Nor would Milton probably have begun it after he had lost his eyes, but, having had it always before him, he continued it, says Philips, "almost to his dying-day; but the papers were so discomposed and deficient, that they could not be fitted for the press." The compilers of the Latin dictionary printed at Cambridge had the use of those collections in three folios; but what was their fate afterwards is not known.

[85] To compile a history from various authors, when they can only be consulted by other eyes, is not easy nor possible, but with more skilful and attentive help than can be commonly obtained; and it was probably the difficulty of consulting and comparing that stopped Milton's narrative at the Conquest; a

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period at which affairs were not yet very intricate nor authors very numerous.

[86] For the subject of his epick poem, after much deliberation, "long chusing, and beginning late," he fixed upon Paradise Lost; a design so comprehensive that it could be justified only by success. He had once designed to celebrate King Arthur, as he hints in his verses to Mansus; but "Arthur was reserved," says Fenton, "to another destiny."

[87] It appears by some sketches of poetical projects left in manuscript, and to be seen in a library at Cambridge, that he had digested his thoughts on this subject into one of those wild dramas which were anciently called Mysteries; and Philips had seen what he terms part of a tragedy, beginning with the first ten lines of Satan's address to the Sun. These Mysteries consist of allegorical persons, such asJustice, Mercy, Faith. Of the tragedy or mystery of Paradise Lost there are two plans:

"The Persons.   The Persons.

Michael.Chorus of Angels.Heavenly Love.Lucifer.

Adam,Eve,

} with the} Serpent.

Conscience.Death.

Labour,Sickness,Discontent,Ignorance,with others;

}}} Mutes.}}

Faith.Hope.Charity.

  Moses.Divine Justice, Wisdom, Heavenly Love.The Evening Star, Hesperus.Chorus of Angels.Lucifer.Adam.Eve.Conscience.

Labour,Sickness,Discontent,Ignorance,Fear,Death;

}}} Mutes.}}}

Faith.Hope.

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Charity.

Paradise Lost.

The Persons.

[88] "Moses prologizei, recounting how he assumed his true body: that it corrupts not, because it is with God in the mount; declares the like of Enoch and Elijah; besides the purity of the place, that certain pure winds, dews, and clouds preserve it from corruption; whence exhorts to the sight of God; tells they cannot see Adam in the state of innocence, by reason of their sin.

Justice,Mercy,Wisdom,

} debating what should become of man, if he fall.

Chorus of Angels singing a hymn of the Creation.

ACT II.

Heavenly Love.Evening Star.Chorus sing the marriage-song and describe Paradise.

ACT III.

Lucifer, contriving Adam's ruin.Chorus fears for Adam, and relates Lucifer's rebellion and fall.

ACT IV.

Adam,Eve,

} fallen.

Conscience cites them to God's examination.Chorus bewails, and tells the good Adam has lost.

ACT V.

Adam and Eve driven out of Paradise.

"   " presented by an angel with

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Labour, Grief Hatred, Envy, War,   Famine, Pestilence, Sickness, Dis-   content, Ignorance, Fear, Death

}} Mutes}

To whom he gave their names. Likewise Winter, Heat,   Tempest, &c.

Faith,Hope,Charity,

}} comfort him and instruct him.}

Chorus briefly concludes."

[89] Such was his first design, which could have produced only an allegory or mystery. The following sketch seems to have attained more maturity.

"Adam unparadised:

[90] "The angel Gabriel, either descending or entering; shewing, since this globe was created, his frequency as much on earth as in heaven; describes Paradise. Next, the Chorus, shewing the reason of his coming — to keep his watch in Paradise, after Lucifer's rebellion, by command from God; and withal expressing his desire to see and know more concerning this excellent new creature, man. The angel Gabriel, as by his name signifying a prince of power, tracing Paradise with a more free office, passes by the station of the Chorus, and, desired by them, relates what he knew of man; as the creation of Eve, with their love and marriage. After this, Lucifer appears; after his overthrow, bemoans himself, seeks revenge on man. The Chorus prepare resistance at his first approach. At last, after discourse of enmity on either side, he departs: whereat the Chorus sings of the battle and victory in heaven, against him and his accomplices: as before, after the first act, was sung a hymn of the creation. Here again may appear Lucifer, relating and insulting in what he had done to the destruction of man. Man next, and Eve having by this time been seduced by the Serpent, appears confusedly covered with leaves. Conscience, in a shape, accuses him; Justice cites him to the place whither Jehovah called for him. In the mean while the Chorus entertains the stage, and is informed by some angel the manner of the Fall. Here the Chorus bewails Adam's fall; Adam then and

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Eve return; accuse one another; but especially Adam lays the blame to his wife; is stubborn in his offence. Justice appears, reasons with him, convinces him. The Chorus admonisheth Adam, and bids him beware Lucifer's example of impenitence. The angel is sent to banish them out of Paradise; but before causes to pass before his eyes, in shapes, a mask of all the evils of this life and world. He is humbled, relents, despairs: at last appears Mercy, comforts him, promises the Messiah; then calls in Faith, Hope, and Charity; instructs him; he repents, gives God the glory, submits to his penalty. The Chorus briefly concludes. Compare this with the former draught."

[91] These are very imperfect rudiments of Paradise Lost, but it is pleasant to see great works in their seminal state pregnant with latent possibilities of excellence; nor could there be any more delightful entertainment than to trace their gradual growth and expansion, and to observe how they are sometimes suddenly advanced by accidental hints, and sometimes slowly improved by steady meditation.

[92] Invention is almost the only literary labour which blindness cannot obstruct, and therefore he naturally solaced his solitude by the indulgence of his fancy and the melody of his numbers. He had done what he knew to be necessarily previous to poetical excellence: he had made himself acquainted with "seemly arts and affairs," his comprehension was extended by various knowledge, and his memory stored with intellectual treasures. He was skilful in many languages, and had by reading and composition attained the full mastery of his own. He would have wanted little help from books, had he retained the power of perusing them.

[93] But while his greater designs were advancing, having now, like many other authors, caught the love of publication, he amused himself as he could with little productions. He sent to the press (1658) a manuscript of Raleigh, called The Cabinet Council, and next year gratified his malevolence to the clergy by a Treatise of Civil Power in Ecclesiastical Cases, and The Means of removing Hirelings out of the Church.

[94] Oliver was now dead; Richard was constrained to resign: the system of extemporary government, which had been held together only by force, naturally fell into fragments when that force was taken away; and Milton saw himself and his cause in equal danger. But he had still hope of doing something. He wrote letters, which Toland has published, to such men as he thought friends to the

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new commonwealth; and even in the year of the Restoration he "bated no jot of heart or hope," but was fantastical enough to think that the nation, agitated as it was, might be settled by a pamphlet, called A ready and easy way to establish a Free Commonwealth, which was, however, enough considered to be both seriously and ludicrously answered.

[95] The obstinate enthusiasm of the commonwealthmen was very remarkable. When the king was apparently returning, Harrington, with a few associates as fanatical as himself, used to meet, with all the gravity of political importance, to settle an equal government by rotation; and Milton, kicking when he could strike no longer, was foolish enough to publish, a few weeks before the Restoration, Notes upon a sermon preached by one Griffiths, intituled The Fear of God and the King. To these notes an answer was written by L'Estrange, in a pamphlet petulantly called No blind Guides.

[96] But whatever Milton could write or men of greater activity could do the king was now about to be restored with the irresistible approbation of the people. He was therefore no longer secretary, and was consequently obliged to quit the house which he held by his office; and, proportioning his sense of danger to his opinion of the importance of his writings, thought it convenient to seek some shelter, and hid himself for a time in Bartholomew-Close by West Smithfield.

[97] I cannot but remark a kind of respect, perhaps unconsciously, paid to this great man by his biographers: every house in which he resided is historically mentioned, as if it were an injury to neglect naming any place that he honoured by his presence.

[98] The King, with lenity of which the world has had perhaps no other example, declined to be the judge or avenger of his own or his father's wrongs, and promised to admit into the Act of Oblivion all, except those whom the parliament should except; and the parliament doomed none to capital punishment but the wretches who had immediately co-operated in the murder of the King. Milton was certainly not one of them; he had only justified what they had done.

[99] This justification was indeed sufficiently offensive; and (June 16) an order was issued to seize Milton's Defence, and Goodwin's Obstructors of Justice, another book of the same tendency, and burn them by the common hangman.

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The attorney-general was ordered to prosecute the authors; but Milton was not seized, nor perhaps very diligently pursued.

[100] Not long after (August 19) the flutter of innumerable bosoms was stilled by an act, which the King, that his mercy might want no recommendation of elegance, rather called an act of oblivion than of grace. Goodwin was named, with nineteen more, as incapacitated for any publick trust; but of Milton there was no exception.

[101] Of this tenderness shewn to Milton the curiosity of mankind has not forborne to enquire the reason. Burnet thinks he was forgotten; but this is another instance which may confirm Dalrymple's observation, who says, "that whenever Burnet's narrations are examined, he appears to be mistaken."

[102] Forgotten he was not, for his prosecution was ordered; it must be therefore by design that he was included in the general oblivion. He is said to have had friends in the House, such as Marvel, Morrice, and Sir Thomas Clarges; and undoubtedly a man like him must have had influence. A very particular story of his escape is told by Richardson in his Memoirs, which he received from Pope, as delivered by Betterton, who might have heard it from Davenant. In the war between the King and Parliament, Davenant was made prisoner and condemned to die, but was spared at the request of Milton. When the turn of success brought Milton into the like danger, Davenant repaid the benefit by appearing in his favour. Here is a reciprocation of generosity and gratitude so pleasing that the tale makes its own way to credit. But if help were wanted, I know not where to find it. The danger of Davenant is certain from his own relation; but of his escape there is no account. Betterton's narration can be traced no higher; it is not known that he had it from Davenant. We are told that the benefit exchanged was life for life, but it seems not certain that Milton's life ever was in danger. Goodwin, who had committed the same kind of crime, escaped with incapacitation; and as exclusion from publick trust is a punishment which the power of government can commonly inflict without the help of a particular law, it required no great interest to exempt Milton from a censure little more than verbal. Something may be reasonably ascribed to veneration and compassion — to veneration of his abilities, and compassion for his distresses, which made it fit to forgive his malice for his learning. He was now poor and blind; and who would pursue with violence an illustrious enemy, depressed by fortune, and disarmed by nature?

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[103] The publication of the act of oblivion put him in the same condition with his fellow-subjects. He was however, upon some pretence not now known, in the custody of the serjeant in December; and when he was released, upon his refusal of the fees demanded, he and the serjeant were called before the House. He was now safe within the shade of oblivion, and knew himself to be as much out of the power of a griping officer as any other man. How the question was determined is not known. Milton would hardly have contended, but that he knew himself to have right on his side.

[104] He then removed to Jewin-street, near Aldersgate-street; and being blind, and by no means wealthy, wanted a domestick companion and attendant, and therefore, by the recommendation of Dr. Paget, married Elizabeth Minshul, of a gentleman's family in Cheshire, probably without a fortune. All his wives were virgins, for he has declared that he thought it gross and indelicate to be a second husband: upon what other principles his choice was made cannot now be known, but marriage afforded not much of his happiness. The first wife left him in disgust, and was brought back only by terror; the second, indeed, seems to have been more a favourite, but her life was short; the third, as Philips relates, oppressed his children in his life-time, and cheated them at his death.

[105] Soon after his marriage, according to an obscure story, he was offered the continuance of his employment, and, being pressed by his wife to accept it, answered, "You, like other women, want to ride in your coach; my wish is to live and die an honest man." If he considered the Latin secretary as exercising any of the powers of government, he that had shared authority either with the Parliament or Cromwell might have forborne to talk very loudly of his honesty; and if he thought the office purely ministerial, he certainly might have honestly retained it under the king. But this tale has too little evidence to deserve a disquisition; large offers and sturdy rejections are among the most common topicks of falsehood.

[106] He had so much either of prudence or gratitude that he forbore to disturb the new settlement with any of his political or ecclesiastical opinions, and from this time devoted himself to poetry and literature. Of his zeal for learning in all its parts he gave a proof by publishing the next year (1661) Accidence commenced Grammar; a little book which has nothing remarkable, but that its author, who had been lately defending the supreme powers of his country and was then writing Paradise Lost, could descend from his elevation to rescue

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children from the perplexity of grammatical confusion, and the trouble of lessons unnecessarily repeated.

[107] About this time Elwood the quaker, being recommended to him as one who would read Latin to him, for the advantage of his conversation, attended him every afternoon, except on Sundays. Milton, who, in his letter to Hartlib, had declared that "to read Latin with an English mouth is as ill a hearing as Law French," required that Elwood should learn and practise the Italian pronunciation, which, he said, was necessary, if he would talk with foreigners. This seems to have been a task troublesome without use. There is little reason for preferring the Italian pronunciation to our own, except that it is more general; and to teach it to an Englishman is only to make him a foreigner at home. He who travels, if he speaks Latin, may so soon learn the sounds which every native gives it, that he need make no provision before his journey; and if strangers visit us, it is their business to practise such conformity to our modes as they expect from us in their own countries. Elwood complied with the directions, and improved himself by his attendance; for he relates that Milton, having a curious ear, knew by his voice when he read what he did not understand, and would stop him and "open the most difficult passages."

[108] In a short time he took a house in the Artillery Walk, leading to Bunhill fields; the mention of which concludes the register of Milton's removals and habitations. He lived longer in this place than in any other.

[109] He was now busied by Paradise Lost. Whence he drew the original design has been variously conjectured by men who cannot bear to think themselves ignorant of that which, at last, neither diligence nor sagacity can discover. Some find the hint in an Italian tragedy. Voltaire tells a wild and unauthorised story of a farce seen by Milton in Italy, which opened thus: "Let the Rainbow be the Fiddlestick of the Fiddle of Heaven." It has been already shewn that the first conception was a tragedy or mystery, not of a narrative but a dramatick work, which he is supposed to have begun to reduce to its present form about the time (1655) when he finished his dispute with the defenders of the King.

[110] He long before had promised to adorn his native country by some great performance, while he had yet perhaps no settled design, and was stimulated only by such expectations as naturally arose from the survey of his attainments and the consciousness of his powers. What he should undertake it was difficult

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to determine. He was "long chusing, and began late."

[111] While he was obliged to divide his time between his private studies and affairs of state, his poetical labour must have been often interrupted; and perhaps he did little more in that busy time than construct the narrative, adjust the episodes, proportion the parts, accumulate images and sentiments, and treasure in his memory or preserve in writing such hints as books or meditation would supply. Nothing particular is known of his intellectual operations while he was a statesman, for, having every help and accommodation at hand, he had no need of uncommon expedients.

[112] Being driven from all publick stations he is yet too great not to be traced by curiosity to his retirement, where he has been found by Mr. Richardson, the fondest of his admirers, sitting "before his door in a grey coat of coarse cloth, in warm sultry weather, to enjoy the fresh air; and so, as well as in his own room, receiving the visits of people of distinguished parts as well as quality. His visitors of high quality must now be imagined to be few; but men of parts might reasonably court the conversation of a man so generally illustrious, that foreigners are reported by Wood to have visited the house in Bread-street where he was born.

[113] According to another account he was seen in a small house, "neatly enough dressed in black cloaths, sitting in a room hung with rusty green; pale but not cadaverous, with chalkstones in his hands. He said, that if it were not for the gout, his blindness would be tolerable."

[114] In the intervals of his pain, being made unable to use the common exercises, he used to swing in a chair, and sometimes played upon an organ.

[115] He was now confessedly and visibly employed upon his poem, of which the progress might be noted by those with whom he was familiar; for he was obliged, when he had composed as many lines as his memory would conveniently retain, to employ some friend in writing them, having, at least for part of the time, no regular attendant. This gave opportunity to observations and reports.

[116] Mr. Philips observes that there was a very remarkable circumstance in the composure of Paradise Lost,

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"which I have a particular reason," says he, "to remember; for whereas I had the perusal of it from the very beginning for some years, as I went from time to time to visit him, in parcels of ten, twenty, or thirty verses at a time (which, being written by whatever hand came next, might possibly want correction as to the orthography and pointing), having, as the summer came on, not been shewed any for a considerable while, and desiring the reason thereof, was answered that his vein never happily flowed but from the Autumnal Equinox to the Vernal; and that whatever he attempted at other times was never to his satisfaction, though he courted his fancy never so much: so that, in all the years he was about this poem, he may be said to have spent half his time therein."

[117] Upon this relation Toland remarks, that in his opinion Philips has mistaken the time of the year; for Milton, in his Elegies, declares that with the advance of the Spring he feels the increase of his poetical force, "redeunt in carmina vires." To this it is answered, that Philips could hardly mistake time so well marked; and it may be added that Milton might find different times of the year favourable to different parts of life. Mr. Richardson conceives it impossible that "such a work should be suspended for six months, or for one. It may go on faster or slower, but it must go on." By what necessity it must continually go on, or why it might not be laid aside and resumed, it is not easy to discover.

[118] This dependance of the soul upon the seasons, those temporary and periodical ebbs and flows of intellect, may, I suppose, justly be derided as the fumes of vain imagination. "Sapiens dominabitur astris." The author that thinks himself weather-bound will find, with a little help from hellebore, that he is only idle or exhausted; but while this notion has possession of the head, it produces the inability which it supposes. Our powers owe much of their energy to our hopes; "possunt quia posse videntur." When success seems attainable, diligence is enforced; but when it is admitted that the faculties are suppressed by a cross wind or a cloudy sky the day is given up without resistance; for who can contend with the course of Nature?

[119] From such prepossessions Milton seems not to have been free. There prevailed in his time an opinion that the world was in its decay, and that we have had the misfortune to be produced in the decrepitude of Nature. It was suspected that the whole creation languished, that neither trees nor animals had the height or bulk of their predecessors, and that every thing was daily sinking by gradual diminution. Milton appears to suspect that souls partake of the general degeneracy, and is not without some fear that his book is to be written in

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"an age too late" for heroick poesy.

[120] Another opinion wanders about the world, and sometimes finds reception among wise men — an opinion that restrains the operations of the mind to particular regions, and supposes that a luckless mortal may be born in a degree of latitude too high or too low for wisdom or for wit. From this fancy, wild as it is, he had not wholly cleared his head, when he feared lest the "climate" of his country might be "too cold" for flights of imagination.

[121] Into a mind already occupied by such fancies, another not more reasonable might easily find its way. He that could fear lest his genius had fallen upon too old a world or too chill a climate, might consistently magnify to himself the influence of the seasons, and believe his faculties to be vigorous only half the year.

[122] His submission to the seasons was at least more reasonable than his dread of decaying Nature or a frigid zone, for general causes must operate uniformly in a general abatement of mental power; if less could be performed by the writer, less likewise would content the judges of his work. Among this lagging race of frosty grovellers he might still have risen into eminence by producing something which "they should not willingly let die." However inferior to the heroes who were born in better ages, he might still be great among his contemporaries, with the hope of growing every day greater in the dwindle of posterity: he might still be the giant of the pygmies, the one-eyed monarch of the blind.

[123] Of his artifices of study or particular hours of composition we have little account, and there was perhaps little to be told. Richardson, who seems to have been very diligent in his enquiries, but discovers always a wish to find Milton discriminated from other men, relates, that

"he would sometimes lie awake whole nights, but not a verse could he make; and on a sudden his poetical faculty would rush upon him with an impetus or oestrum, and his daughter was immediately called to secure what came. At other times he would dictate perhaps forty lines in a breath, and then reduce them to half the number."

[124] These bursts of lights and involutions of darkness, these transient and involuntary excursions and retrocessions of invention, having some appearance

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of deviation from the common train of Nature, are eagerly caught by the lovers of a wonder. Yet something of this inequality happens to every man in every mode of exertion, manual or mental. The mechanick cannot handle his hammer and his file at all times with equal dexterity; there are hours, he knows not why, when "his hand is out." By Mr. Richardson's relation casually conveyed much regard cannot be claimed. That in his intellectual hour Milton called for his daughter "to secure what came," may be questioned, for unluckily it happens to be known that his daughters were never taught to write; nor would he have been obliged, as is universally confessed, to have employed any casual visiter in disburthening his memory, if his daughter could have performed the office.

[125] The story of reducing his exuberance has been told of other authors, and, though doubtless true of every fertile and copious mind, seems to have been gratuitously transferred to Milton.

[126] What he has told us, and we cannot now know more, is that he composed much of his poem in the night and morning, I suppose before his mind was disturbed with common business; and that he poured out with great fluency his "unpremeditated verse." Versification, free, like his, from the distresses of rhyme, must by a work so long be made prompt and habitual; and, when his thoughts were once adjusted, the words would come at his command.

[127] At what particular times of his life the parts of his work were written cannot often be known. The beginning of the third book shews that he had lost his sight; and the Introduction to the seventh that the return of the King had clouded him with discountenance, and that he was offended by the licentious festivity of the Restoration. There are no other internal notes of time. Milton, being now cleared from all effects of his disloyalty, had nothing required from him but the common duty of living in quiet, to be rewarded with the common right of protection; but this, which, when he sculked from the approach of his King, was perhaps more than he hoped, seems not to have satisfied him, for no sooner is he safe than he finds himself in danger, "fallen on evil days and evil tongues, and with darkness and with danger compass'd round." This darkness, had his eyes been better employed, had undoubtedly deserved compassion; but to add the mention of danger was ungrateful and unjust. He was fallen indeed on "evil days"; the time was come in which regicides could no longer boast their wickedness. But of "evil tongues" for Milton to complain required impudence at least equal to his other powers — Milton, whose warmest advocates must allow

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that he never spared any asperity of reproach or brutality of insolence.

[128] But the charge itself seems to be false, for it would be hard to recollect any reproach cast upon him, either serious or ludicrous, through the whole remaining part of his life. He pursued his studies or his amusements without persecution, molestation, or insult. Such is the reverence paid to great abilities, however misused: they who contemplated in Milton the scholar and the wit were contented to forget the reviler of his King.

[129] When the plague (1665) raged in London, Milton took refuge at Chalfont in Bucks, where Elwood, who had taken the house for him, first saw a complete copy of Paradise Lost, and, having perused it, said to him, "Thou hast said a great deal upon Paradise Lost, what hast thou to say upon Paradise Found?"

[130] Next year, when the danger of infection had ceased, he returned to Bunhill-fields, and designed the publication of his poem. A license was necessary, and he could expect no great kindness from a chaplain of the archbishop of Canterbury. He seems, however, to have been treated with tenderness; for though objections were made to particular passages, and among them to the simile of the sun eclipsed in the first book, yet the license was granted; and he sold his copy, April 27, 1667, to Samuel Simmons, for an immediate payment of five pounds, with a stipulation to receive five pounds more when thirteen hundred should be sold of the first edition, and again, five pounds after the sale of the same number of the second edition, and another five pounds after the same sale of the third. None of the three editions were to be extended beyond fifteen hundred copies.

[131] The first edition was ten books, in a small quarto. The titles were varied from year to year; and an advertisement and the arguments of the book were omitted in some copies, and inserted in others.

[132] The sale gave him in two years a right to his second payment, for which the receipt was signed April 26, 1669. The second edition was not given till 1674; it was printed in small octavo, and the number of books was increased to twelve, by a division of the seventh and twelfth, and some other small improvements were made. The third edition was published in 1678, and the widow, to whom the copy was then to devolve, sold all her claims to Simmons for eight pounds, according to her receipt given Dec. 21, 1680. Simmons had

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already agreed to transfer the whole right to Brabazon Aylmer for twenty-five pounds; and Aylmer sold to Jacob Tonson half, August 17, 1683, and half, March 24, 1690, at a price considerably enlarged. In the history of Paradise Lost a deduction thus minute will rather gratify than fatigue.

[133] The slow sale and tardy reputation of this poem have been always mentioned as evidences of neglected merit and of the uncertainty of literary fame, and enquiries have been made and conjectures offered about the causes of its long obscurity and late reception. But has the case been truly stated? Have not lamentation and wonder been lavished on an evil that was never felt?

[134] That in the reigns of Charles and James the Paradise Lost received no publick acclamations is readily confessed. Wit and literature were on the side of the Court; and who that solicited favour or fashion would venture to praise the defender of the regicides? All that he himself could think his due, from "evil tongues" in "evil days," was that reverential silence which was generously preserved. But it cannot be inferred that his poem was not read or not, however unwillingly, admired.

[135] The sale, if it be considered, will justify the publick. Those who have no power to judge of past times but by their own, should always doubt their conclusions. The call for books was not in Milton's age what it is in the present. To read was not then a general amusement; neither traders nor often gentlemen thought themselves disgraced by ignorance. The women had not then aspired to literature, nor was every house supplied with a closet of knowledge. Those, indeed, who professed learning were not less learned than at any other time; but of that middle race of students who read for pleasure or accomplishment and who buy the numerous products of modern typography, the number was then comparatively small. To prove the paucity of readers, it may be sufficient to remark that the nation had been satisfied, from 1623 to 1664, that is, forty-one years, with only two editions of the works of Shakespeare, which probably did not together make one thousand copies.

[136] The sale of thirteen hundred copies in two years, in opposition to so much recent enmity and to a style of versification new to all and disgusting to many, was an uncommon example of the prevalence of genius. The demand did not immediately increase; for many more readers than were supplied at first the nation did not afford. Only three thousand were sold in eleven years; for it forced its way without assistance: its admirers did not dare to publish their

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opinion, and the opportunities now given of attracting notice by advertisements were then very few. The means of proclaiming the publication of new books have been produced by that general literature which now pervades the nation through all its ranks.

[137] But the reputation and price of the copy still advanced, till the Revolution put an end to the secrecy of love, and Paradise Lost broke into open view with sufficient security of kind reception.

[138] Fancy can hardly forbear to conjecture with what temper Milton surveyed the silent progress of his work, and marked his reputation stealing its way in a kind of subterraneous current through fear and silence. I cannot but conceive him calm and confident, little disappointed, not at all dejected, relying on his own merit with steady consciousness, and waiting without impatience the vicissitudes of opinion and the impartiality of a future generation.

[139] In the mean time he continued his studies, and supplied the want of sight by a very odd expedient, of which Philips gives the following account:

[140] Mr. Philips tells us,

"that though our author had daily about him one or other to read, some persons of man's estate, who, of their own accord, greedily catched at the opportunity of being his readers, that they might as well reap the benefit of what they read to him as oblige him by the benefit of their reading, and others of younger years were sent by their parents to the same end; yet excusing only the eldest daughter, by reason of her bodily infirmity and difficult utterance of speech (which, to say truth, I doubt was the principal cause of excusing her), the other two were condemned to the performance of reading and exactly pronouncing of all the languages of whatever book he should at one time or other think fit to peruse, viz. the Hebrew (and I think the Syriac), the Greek, the Latin, the Italian, Spanish, and French. All which sorts of books to be confined to read, without understanding one word, must needs be a trial of patience almost beyond endurance. Yet it was endured by both for a long time, though the irksomeness of this employment could not be always concealed, but broke out more and more into expressions of uneasiness; so that at length they were all, even the eldest also, sent out to learn some curious and ingenious sorts of manufacture, that are proper for women to learn; particularly embroideries in gold or silver."

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[141] In the scene of misery which this mode of intellectual labour sets before our eyes, it is hard to determine whether the daughters or the father are most to be lamented. A language not understood can never be so read as to give pleasure, and very seldom so as to convey meaning. If few men would have had resolution to write books with such embarrassments, few likewise would have wanted ability to find some better expedient.

[142] Three years after his Paradise Lost (1667), he published his History of England, comprising the whole fable of Geoffry of Monmouth, and continued to the Norman invasion. Why he should have given the first part, which he seems not to believe, and which is universally rejected, it is difficult to conjecture. The style is harsh; but it has something of rough vigour, which perhaps may often strike though it cannot please.

[143] On this history the licenser again fixed his claws, and before he would transmit it to the press tore out several parts. Some censures of the Saxon monks were taken away, lest they should be applied to the modern clergy; and a character of the Long Parliament and Assembly of Divines was excluded, of which the author gave a copy to the Earl of Anglesea, and which, being afterwards published, has been since inserted in its proper place.

[144] The same year were printed Paradise Regained and Sampson Agonistes, a tragedy written in imitation of the Ancients and never designed by the author for the stage. As these poems were published by another bookseller it has been asked, whether Simmons was discouraged from receiving them by the slow sale of the former? Why a writer changed his bookseller a hundred years ago I am far from hoping to discover. Certainly he who in two years sells thirteen hundred copies of a volume in quarto, bought for two payments of five pounds each, has no reason to repent his purchase.

[145] When Milton shewed Paradise Regained to Elwood, "This," said he, "is owing to you; for you put it in my head by the question you put to me at Chalfont, which otherwise I had not thought of."

[146] His last poetical offspring was his favourite. He could not, as Elwood relates, endure to hear Paradise Lost preferred to Paradise Regained. Many causes may vitiate a writer's judgement of his own works. On that which has cost him much labour he sets a high value, because he is unwilling to think that he has been diligent in vain: what has been produced without toilsome efforts is

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considered with delight as a proof of vigorous faculties and fertile invention; and the last work, whatever it be, has necessarily most of the grace of novelty. Milton, however it happened, had this prejudice, and had it to himself.

[147] To that multiplicity of attainments and extent of comprehension that entitle this great author to our veneration may be added a kind of humble dignity, which did not disdain the meanest services to literature. The epick poet, the controvertist, the politician, having already descended to accommodate children with a book of rudiments, now in the last years of his life composed a book of Logick, for the initiation of students in philosophy, and published (1672) Artis Logicæ plenior Institutio ad Petri Rami methodum concinnata, that is, "A new Scheme of Logick, according to the Method of Ramus." I know not whether even in this book he did not intend an act of hostility against the Universities; for Ramus was one of the first oppugners of the old philosophy, who disturbed with innovations the quiet of the schools.

[148] His polemical disposition, again revived. He had now been safe so long that he forgot his fears, and published a treatise Of true Religion, Heresy, Schism, Toleration, and the best Means to prevent the Growth of Popery.

[149] But this little tract is modestly written, with respectful mention of the Church of England and an appeal to the thirty-nine articles. His principle of toleration is agreement in the sufficiency of the Scriptures, and he extends it to all who, whatever their opinions are, profess to derive them from the sacred books. The papists appeal to other testimonies, and are therefore in his opinion not to be permitted the liberty of either publick or private worship; for though they plead conscience, "we have no warrant," he says, "to regard conscience which is not grounded in Scripture."

[150] Those who are not convinced by his reasons may be perhaps delighted with his wit: the term "Roman catholick" is, he says, "one of the Pope's bulls; it is particular universal, or catholick schismatick."

[151] He has, however, something better. As the best preservative against Popery he recommends the diligent perusal of the Scriptures; a duty, from which he warns the busy part of mankind not to think themselves excused.

[152] He now reprinted his juvenile poems with some additions.

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[153] In the last year of his life he sent to the press, seeming to take delight in publication, a collection of Familiar Epistles in Latin; to which, being too few to make a volume, he added some academical exercises, which perhaps he perused with pleasure, as they recalled to his memory the days of youth; but for which nothing but veneration for his name could now procure a reader.

[154] When he had attained his sixty-sixth year the gout, with which he had been long tormented, prevailed over the enfeebled powers of nature. He died by a quiet and silent expiration, about the tenth of November 1674, at his house in Bunhill-fields, and was buried next his father in the chancel of St. Giles at Cripplegate. His funeral was very splendidly and numerously attended.

[155] Upon his grave there is supposed to have been no memorial; but in our time a monument has been erected in Westminster-Abbey To the Author of Paradise Lost, by Mr. Benson, who has in the inscription bestowed more words upon himself than upon Milton.

[156] When the inscription for the monument of Philips, in which he was said to be soli Miltono secundus, was exhibited to Dr. Sprat, then dean of Westminster, he refused to admit it; the name of Milton was, in his opinion, too detestable to be read on the wall of a building dedicated to devotion. Atterbury, who succeeded him, being author of the inscription, permitted its reception. "And such has been the change of publick opinion," said Dr. Gregory, from whom I heard this account, "that I have seen erected in the church a statue of that man, whose name I once knew considered as a pollution of its walls."

[157] Milton has the reputation of having been in his youth eminently beautiful, so as to have been called the Lady of his college. His hair, which was of a light brown, parted at the foretop, and hung down upon his shoulders, according to the picture which he has given of Adam. He was, however, not of the heroick stature, but rather below the middle size, according to Mr. Richardson, who mentions him as having narrowly escaped from being "short and thick." He was vigorous and active, and delighted in the exercise of the sword, in which he is related to have been eminently skilful. His weapon was, I believe, not the rapier, but the backsword, of which he recommends the use in his book on Education.

[158] His eyes are said never to have been bright; but, if he was a dexterous

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fencer, they must have been once quick.

[159] His domestick habits, so far as they are known, were those of a severe student. He drank little strong drink of any kind, and fed without excess in quantity, and in his earlier years without delicacy of choice. In his youth he studied late at night; but afterwards changed his hours, and rested in bed from nine to four in the summer, and five in winter. The course of his day was best known after he was blind. When he first rose he heard a chapter in the Hebrew Bible, and then studied till twelve; then took some exercise for an hour; then dined; then played on the organ, and sung, or heard another sing; then studied to six; then entertained his visiters till eight; then supped, and, after a pipe of tobacco and a glass of water, went to bed.

[160] So is his life described; but this even tenour appears attainable only in Colleges. He that lives in the world will sometimes have the succession of his practice broken and confused. Visiters, of whom Milton is represented to have had great numbers, will come and stay unseasonably; business, of which every man has some, must be done when others will do it.

[161] When he did not care to rise early he had something read to him by his bedside; perhaps at this time his daughters were employed. He composed much in the morning and dictated in the day, sitting obliquely in an elbow-chair with his leg thrown over the arm.

[162] Fortune appears not to have had much of his care. In the civil wars he lent his personal estate to the parliament, but when, after the contest was decided, he solicited repayment, he met not only with neglect, but "sharp rebuke"; and, having tired both himself and his friends, was given up to poverty and hopeless indignation, till he shewed how able he was to do greater service. He was then made Latin secretary, with two hundred pounds a year, and had a thousand pounds for his Defence of the People. His widow, who after his death retired to Namptwich in Cheshire, and died about 1729, is said to have reported that he lost two thousand pounds by entrusting it to a scrivener; and that, in the general depredation upon the Church, he had grasped an estate of about sixty pounds a year belonging to Westminster-Abbey, which, like other sharers of the plunder of rebellion, he was afterwards obliged to return. Two thousand pounds, which he had placed in the Excise-office, were also lost. There is yet no reason to believe that he was ever reduced to indigence: his wants being few were competently supplied. He sold his library before his death, and left his family

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fifteen hundred pounds; on which his widow laid hold, and only gave one hundred to each of his daughters.

[163] His literature was unquestionably great. He read all the languages which are considered either as learned or polite: Hebrew, with its two dialects, Greek, Latin, Italian, French, and Spanish. In Latin his skill was such as places him in the first rank of writers and criticks; and he appears to have cultivated Italian with uncommon diligence. The books in which his daughter, who used to read to him, represented him as most delighting, after Homer, which he could almost repeat, were Ovid's Metamorphoses and Euripides. His Euripides is, by Mr. Cradock's kindness, now in my hands: the margin is sometimes noted, but I have found nothing remarkable.

[164] Of the English poets he set most value upon Spenser, Shakespeare, and Cowley. Spenser was apparently his favourite; Shakespeare he may easily be supposed to like, with every other skilful reader, but I should not have expected that Cowley, whose ideas of excellence were different from his own, would have had much of his approbation. His character of Dryden, who sometimes visited him, was that he was a good rhymist, but no poet.

[165] His theological opinions are said to have been first Calvinistical, and afterwards, perhaps when he began to hate the Presbyterians, to have tended towards Arminianism. In the mixed questions of theology and government he never thinks that he can recede far enough from popery or prelacy; but what Baudius says of Erasmus seems applicable to him: "magis habuit quod fugeret, quam quod sequeretur." He had determined rather what to condemn than what to approve. He has not associated himself with any denomination of Protestants: we know rather what he was not, than what he was. He was not of the church of Rome; he was not of the church of England.

[166] To be of no church is dangerous. Religion, of which the rewards are distant and which is animated only by Faith and Hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary influence of example. Milton, who appears to have had full conviction of the truth of Christianity, and to have regarded the Holy Scriptures with the profoundest veneration, to have been untainted by any heretical peculiarity of opinion, and to have lived in a confirmed belief of the immediate and occasional agency of Providence, yet grew old without any visible worship. In the distribution of his hours, there was

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no hour of prayer, either solitary or with his household; omitting publick prayers, he omitted all.

[167] Of this omission the reason has been sought, upon a supposition which ought never to be made, that men live with their own approbation, and justify their conduct to themselves. Prayer certainly was not thought superfluous by him, who represents our first parents as praying acceptably in the state of innocence, and efficaciously after their fall. That he lived without prayer can hardly be affirmed; his studies and meditations were an habitual prayer. The neglect of it in his family was probably a fault for which he condemned himself, and which he intended to correct, but that death, as too often happens, intercepted his reformation.

[168] His political notions were those of an acrimonious and surly republican, for which it is not known that he gave any better reason than that "a popular government was the most frugal; for the trappings of a monarchy would set up an ordinary commonwealth." It is surely very shallow policy, that supposes money to be the chief good; and even this without considering that the support and expence of a Court is for the most part only a particular kind of traffick, by which money is circulated without any national impoverishment.

[169] Milton's republicanism was, I am afraid, founded in an envious hatred of greatness, and a sullen desire of independence; in petulance impatient of controul, and pride disdainful of superiority. He hated monarchs in the state and prelates in the church; for he hated all whom he was required to obey. It is to be suspected that his predominant desire was to destroy rather than establish, and that he felt not so much the love of liberty as repugnance to authority.

[170] It has been observed that they who most loudly clamour for liberty do not most liberally grant it. What we know of Milton's character in domestick relations is, that he was severe and arbitrary. His family consisted of women; and there appears in his books something like a Turkish contempt of females, as subordinate and inferior beings. That his own daughters might not break the ranks, he suffered them to be depressed by a mean and penurious education. He thought woman made only for obedience, and man only for rebellion.

[171] Of his family some account may be expected. His sister, first married to Mr. Philips, afterwards married Mr. Agar, a friend of her first husband, who succeeded him in the Crown-office. She had by her first husband Edward and

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John, the two nephews whom Milton educated; and by her second two daughters.

[172] His brother, Sir Christopher, had two daughters, Mary and Catherine, and a son Thomas, who succeeded Agar in the Crown-office, and left a daughter living in 1749 in Grosvenorstreet.

[173] Milton had children only by his first wife: Anne, Mary, and Deborah. Anne, though deformed, married a master-builder, and died of her first child. Mary died single. Deborah married Abraham Clark, a weaver in Spitalfields, and lived seventy-six years, to August 1727. This is the daughter of whom publick mention has been made. She could repeat the first lines of Homer, the Metamorphoses, and some of Euripides, by having often read them. Yet here incredulity is ready to make a stand. Many repetitions are necessary to fix in the memory lines not understood; and why should Milton wish or want to hear them so often! These lines were at the beginning of the poems. Of a book written in a language not understood the beginning raises no more attention than the end, and as those that understand it know commonly the beginning best, its rehearsal will seldom be necessary. It is not likely that Milton required any passage to be so much repeated as that his daughter could learn it, nor likely that he desired the initial lines to be read at all; nor that the daughter, weary of the drudgery of pronouncing unideal sounds, would voluntarily commit them to memory.

[174] To this gentlewoman Addison made a present, and promised some establishment; but died soon after. Queen Caroline sent her fifty guineas. She had seven sons and three daughters; but none of them had any children, except her son Caleb and her daughter Elizabeth. Caleb went to Fort St. George in the East Indies, and had two sons, of whom nothing is now known. Elizabeth married Thomas Foster, a weaver in Spitalfields, and had seven children, who all died. She kept a petty grocer's or chandler's shop, first at Holloway, and afterwards in Cock-lane near Shoreditch Church. She knew little of her grandfather, and that little was not good. She told of his harshness to his daughters, and his refusal to have them taught to write; and, in opposition to other accounts, represented him as delicate, though temperate in his diet.

[175] In 1750, April 5, Comus was played for her benefit. She had so little acquaintance with diversion or gaiety, that she did not know what was intended when a benefit was offered her. The profits of the night were only one hundred and thirty pounds, though Dr. Newton brought a large contribution; and twenty

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pounds were given by Tonson, a man who is to be praised as often as he is named. Of this sum one hundred pounds was placed in the stocks, after some debate between her and her husband in whose name it should be entered; and the rest augmented their little stock, with which they removed to Islington. This was the greatest benefaction that Paradise Lost ever procured the author's descendents; and to this he who has now attempted to relate his Life, had the honour of contributing a Prologue.

[176] IN the examination of Milton's poetical works I shall pay so much regard to time as to begin with his juvenile productions. For his earlier pieces he seems to have had a degree of fondness not very laudable: what he has once written he resolves to preserve, and gives to the publick an unfinished poem, which he broke off because he was "nothing satisfied with what he had done," supposing his readers less nice than himself. These preludes to his future labours are in Italian, Latin, and English. Of the Italian I cannot pretend to speak as a critick, but I have heard them commended by a man well qualified to decide their merit. The Latin pieces are lusciously elegant; but the delight which they afford is rather by the exquisite imitation of the ancient writers, by the purity of the diction, and the harmony of the numbers, than by any power of invention or vigour of sentiment. They are not all of equal value; the elegies excell the odes, and some of the exercises on Gunpowder Treason might have been spared.

[177] The English poems, though they make no promises of Paradise Lost, have this evidence of genius, that they have a cast original and unborrowed. But their peculiarity is not excellence: if they differ from verses of others, they differ for the worse; for they are too often distinguished by repulsive harshness; the combinations of words are new, but they are not pleasing; the rhymes and epithets seem to be laboriously sought and violently applied.

[178] That in the early parts of his life he wrote with much care appears from his manuscripts, happily preserved at Cambridge, in which many of his smaller works are found as they were first written, with the subsequent corrections. Such reliques shew how excellence is acquired: what we hope ever to do with ease we may learn first to do with diligence.

[179] Those who admire the beauties of this great poet sometimes force their own judgement into false approbation of his little pieces, and prevail upon themselves to think that admirable which is only singular. All that short compositions can commonly attain is neatness and elegance. Milton never

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learned the art of doing little things with grace; he overlooked the milder excellence of suavity and softness: he was a "Lion" that had no skill "in dandling the Kid."

[180] One of the poems on which much praise has been bestowed is Lycidas; of which the diction is harsh, the rhymes uncertain, and the numbers unpleasing. What beauty there is we must therefore seek in the sentiments and images. It is not to be considered as the effusion of real passion; for passion runs not after remote allusions and obscure opinions. Passion plucks no berries from the myrtle and ivy, nor calls upon Arethuse and Mincius, nor tells of "rough satyrs and fauns with cloven heel." "Where there is leisure for fiction there is little grief."

[181] In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, for there is nothing new. Its form is that of a pastoral, easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting: whatever images it can supply are long ago exhausted; and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind. When Cowley tells of Hervey that they studied together, it is easy to suppose how much he must miss the companion of his labours and the partner of his discoveries; but what image of tenderness can be excited by these lines!

"We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the grey fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night."

We know that they never drove a field, and that they had no flocks to batten; and though it be allowed that the representation may be allegorical, the true meaning is so uncertain and remote that it is never sought because it cannot be known when it is found.

[182] Among the flocks and copses and flowers appear the heathen deities, Jove and Phoebus, Neptune and Æolus, with a long train of mythological imagery, such as a College easily supplies. Nothing can less display knowledge or less exercise invention than to tell how a shepherd has lost his companion and must now feed his flocks alone, without any judge of his skill in piping; and how one god asks another god what is become of Lycidas, and how neither god can tell. He who thus grieves will excite no sympathy; he who thus praises will confer no honour.

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[183] This poem has yet a grosser fault. With these trifling fictions are mingled the most awful and sacred truths, such as ought never to be polluted with such irreverent combinations. The shepherd likewise is now a feeder of sheep, and afterwards an ecclesiastical pastor, a superintendent of a Christian flock. Such equivocations are always unskilful; but here they are indecent, and at least approach to impiety, of which, however, I believe the writer not to have been conscious.

[184] Such is the power of reputation justly acquired that its blaze drives away the eye from nice examination. Surely no man could have fancied that he read Lycidas with pleasure had he not known its author.

[185] Of the two pieces, L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, I believe opinion is uniform; every man that reads them, reads them with pleasure. The author's design is not, what Theobald has remarked, merely to shew how objects derived their colours from the mind, by representing the operation of the same things upon the gay and the melancholy temper, or upon the same man as he is differently disposed; but rather how, among the successive variety of appearances, every disposition of mind takes hold on those by which it may be gratified.

[186] The chearful man hears the lark in the morning; the pensive man hears the nightingale in the evening. The chearful man sees the cock strut, and hears the horn and hounds echo in the wood; then walks "not unseen" to observe the glory of the rising sun or listen to the singing milk-maid, and view the labours of the plowman and the mower; then casts his eyes about him over scenes of smiling plenty, and looks up to the distant tower, the residence of some fair inhabitant: thus he pursues rural gaiety through a day of labour or of play, and delights himself at night with the fanciful narratives of superstitious ignorance.

[187] The pensive man at one time walks "unseen" to muse at midnight, and at another hears the sullen curfew. If the weather drives him home he sits in a room lighted only by "glowing embers"; or by a lonely lamp outwatches the North Star to discover the habitation of separate souls, and varies the shades of meditation by contemplating the magnificent or pathetick scenes of tragick and epick poetry. When the morning comes, a morning gloomy with rain and wind, he walks into the dark trackless woods, falls asleep by some murmuring water, and with melancholy enthusiasm expects some dream of prognostication or

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some musick played by aerial performers.

[188] Both Mirth and Melancholy are solitary, silent inhabitants of the breast that neither receive nor transmit communication; no mention is therefore made of a philosophical friend or a pleasant companion. The seriousness does not arise from any participation of calamity, nor the gaiety from the pleasures of the bottle.

[189] The man of chearfulness having exhausted the country tries what "towered cities" will afford, and mingles with scenes of splendor, gay assemblies, and nuptial festivities; but he mingles a mere spectator as, when the learned comedies of Jonson or the wild dramas of Shakespeare are exhibited, he attends the theatre.

[190] The pensive man never loses himself in crowds, but walks the cloister or frequents the cathedral. Milton probably had not yet forsaken the Church.

[191] Both his characters delight in musick; but he seems to think that chearful notes would have obtained from Pluto a compleat dismission of Eurydice, of whom solemn sounds only procured a conditional release.

[192] For the old age of Chearfulness he makes no provision; but Melancholy he conducts with great dignity to the close of life. His Chearfulness is without levity, and his Pensiveness without asperity.

[193] Through these two poems the images are properly selected and nicely distinguished, but the colours of the diction seem not sufficiently discriminated. I know not whether the characters are kept sufficiently apart. No mirth can, indeed, be found in his melancholy; but I am afraid that I always meet some melancholy in his mirth. They are two noble efforts of imagination.

[194] The greatest of his juvenile performances is the Mask of Comus, in which may very plainly be discovered the dawn or twilight of Paradise Lost. Milton appears to have formed very early that system of diction and mode of verse which his maturer judgement approved, and from which he never endeavoured nor desired to deviate.

[195] Nor does Comus afford only a specimen of his language: it exhibits likewise his power of description and his vigour of sentiment, employed in the

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praise and defence of virtue. A work more truly poetical is rarely found; allusions, images, and descriptive epithets embellish almost every period with lavish decoration. As a series of lines, therefore, it may be considered as worthy of all the admiration with which the votaries have received it.

[196] As a drama it is deficient. The action is not probable. A Masque, in those parts where supernatural intervention is admitted, must indeed be given up to all the freaks of imagination; but so far as the action is merely human it ought to be reasonable, which can hardly be said of the conduct of the two brothers, who, when their sister sinks with fatigue in a pathless wilderness, wander both away in search of berries too far to find their way back, and leave a helpless Lady to all the sadness and danger of solitude. This however is a defect over-balanced by its convenience.

[197] What deserves more reprehension is that the prologue spoken in the wild wood by the attendant Spirit is addressed to the audience; a mode of communication so contrary to the nature of dramatick representation that no precedents can support it.

[198] The discourse of the Spirit is too long, an objection that may be made to almost all the following speeches; they have not the spriteliness of a dialogue animated by reciprocal contention, but seem rather declamations deliberately composed and formally repeated on a moral question. The auditor therefore listens as to a lecture, without passion, without anxiety.

[199] The song of Comus has airiness and jolity; but, what may recommend Milton's morals as well as his poetry, the invitations to pleasure are so general that they excite no distinct images of corrupt enjoyment, and take no dangerous hold on the fancy.

[200] The following soliloquies of Comus and the Lady are elegant, but tedious. The song must owe much to the voice, if it ever can delight. At last the Brothers enter, with too much tranquillity; and when they have feared lest their sister should be in danger, and hoped that she is not in danger, the Elder makes a speech in praise of chastity, and the Younger finds how fine it is to be a philosopher.

[201] Then descends the Spirit in form of a shepherd; and the Brother, instead of being in haste to ask his help, praises his singing, and enquires his business in

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that place. It is remarkable that at this interview the Brother is taken with a short fit of rhyming. The Spirit relates that the Lady is in the power of Comus, the Brother moralises again, and the Spirit makes a long narration, of no use because it is false, and therefore unsuitable to a good Being.

[202] In all these parts the language is poetical and the sentiments are generous, but there is something wanting to allure attention.

[203] The dispute between the Lady and Comus is the most animated and affecting scene of the drama, and wants nothing but a brisker reciprocation of objections and replies, to invite attention and detain it.

[204] The songs are vigorous and full of imagery; but they are harsh in their diction, and not very musical in their numbers.

[205] Throughout the whole the figures are too bold and the language too luxuriant for dialogue: it is a drama in the epick style, inelegantly splendid, and tediously instructive.

[206] The Sonnets were written in different parts of Milton's life upon different occasions. They deserve not any particular criticism; for of the best it can only be said that they are not bad, and perhaps only the eighth and the twenty-first are truly entitled to this slender commendation. The fabrick of a sonnet, however adapted to the Italian language, has never succeeded in ours, which, having greater variety of termination, requires the rhymes to be often changed.

[207] Those little pieces may be dispatched without much anxiety; a greater work calls for greater care. I am now to examine Paradise Lost, a poem which, considered with respect to design, may claim the first place, and with respect to performance the second, among the productions of the human mind.

[208] By the general consent of criticks the first praise of genius is due to the writer of an epick poem, as it requires an assemblage of all the powers which are singly sufficient for other compositions. Poetry is the art of uniting pleasure with truth, by calling imagination to the help of reason. Epick poetry undertakes to teach the most important truths by the most pleasing precepts, and therefore relates some great event in the most affecting manner. History must supply the writer with the rudiments of narration, which he must improve and

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exalt by a nobler art, must animate by dramatick energy, and diversify by retrospection and anticipation; morality must teach him the exact bounds and different shades of vice and virtue; from policy and the practice of life he has to learn the discriminations of character and the tendency of the passions, either single or combined; and physiology must supply him with illustrations and images. To put these materials to poetical use is required an imagination capable of painting nature and realizing fiction. Nor is he yet a poet till he has attained the whole extension of his language, distinguished all the delicacies of phrase, and all the colours of words, and learned to adjust their different sounds to all the varieties of metrical modulation.

[209] Bossu is of opinion that the poet's first work is to find a moral, which his fable is afterwards to illustrate and establish. This seems to have been the process only of Milton: the moral of other poems is incidental and consequent; in Milton's only it is essential and intrinsick. His purpose was the most useful and the most arduous: "to vindicate the ways of God to man"; to shew the reasonableness of religion, and the necessity of obedience to the Divine Law.

[210] To convey this moral there must be a fable, a narration artfully constructed so as to excite curiosity and surprise expectation. In this part of his work Milton must be confessed to have equalled every other poet. He has involved in his account of the Fall of Man the events which preceded, and those that were to follow it: he has interwoven the whole system of theology with such propriety that every part appears to be necessary, and scarcely any recital is wished shorter for the sake of quickening the progress of the main action.

[211] The subject of an epick poem is naturally an event of great importance. That of Milton is not the destruction of a city, the conduct of a colony, or the foundation of an empire. His subject is the fate of worlds, the revolutions of heaven and of earth; rebellion against the Supreme King raised by the highest order of created beings; the overthrow of their host and the punishment of their crime; the creation of a new race of reasonable creatures; their original happiness and innocence, their forfeiture of immortality, and their restoration to hope and peace.

[212] Great events can be hastened or retarded only by persons of elevated dignity. Before the greatness displayed in Milton's poem all other greatness shrinks away. The weakest of his agents are the highest and noblest of human beings, the original parents of mankind; with whose actions the elements

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consented; on whose rectitude or deviation of will depended the state of terrestrial nature and the condition of all the future inhabitants of the globe.

[213] Of the other agents in the poem the chief are such as it is irreverence to name on slight occasions. The rest were lower powers;

"of which the least could wieldThose elements, and arm him with the forceOf all their regions";

powers which only the controul of Omnipotence restrains from laying creation waste, and filling the vast expanse of space with ruin and confusion. To display the motives and actions of beings thus superiour, so far as human reason can examine them or human imagination represent them, is the task which this mighty poet has undertaken and performed.

[214] In the examination of epick poems much speculation is commonly employed upon the characters. The characters in the Paradise Lost which admit of examination are those of angels and of man; of angels good and evil, of man in his innocent and sinful state.

[215] Among the angels the virtue of Raphael is mild and placid, of easy condescension and free communication; that of Michael is regal and lofty, and, as may seem, attentive to the dignity of his own nature. Abdiel and Gabriel appear occasionally, and act as every incident requires; the solitary fidelity of Abdiel is very amiably painted.

[216] Of the evil angels the characters are more diversified. To Satan, as Addison observes, such sentiments are given as suit "the most exalted and most depraved being." Milton has been censured byClarke for the impiety which sometimes breaks from Satan's mouth. For there are thoughts, as he justly remarks, which no observation of character can justify, because no good man would willingly permit them to pass, however transiently, through his own mind. To make Satan speak as a rebel, without any such expressions as might taint the reader's imagination, was indeed one of the great difficulties in Milton's undertaking, and I cannot but think that he has extricated himself with great happiness. There is in Satan's speeches little that can give pain to a pious ear. The language of rebellion cannot be the same with that of obedience. The malignity of Satan foams in haughtiness and obstinacy; but his expressions are

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commonly general, and no otherwise offensive than as they are wicked.

[217] The other chiefs of the celestial rebellion are very judiciously discriminated in the first and second books; and the ferocious character of Moloch appears, both in the battle and the council, with exact consistency.

[218] To Adam and to Eve are given during their innocence such sentiments as innocence can generate and utter. Their love is pure benevolence and mutual veneration; their repasts are without luxury and their diligence without toil. Their addresses to their Maker have little more than the voice of admiration and gratitude. Fruition left them nothing to ask, and Innocence left them nothing to fear.

[219] But with guilt enter distrust and discord, mutual accusation, and stubborn self-defence; they regard each other with alienated minds, and dread their Creator as the avenger of their transgression. At last they seek shelter in his mercy, soften to repentance, and melt in supplication. Both before and after the Fall the superiority of Adam is diligently sustained.

[220] Of the probable and the marvellous, two parts of a vulgar epick poem which immerge the critick in deep consideration, the Paradise Lost requires little to be said. It contains the history of a miracle, of Creation and Redemption; it displays the power and the mercy of the Supreme Being: the probable therefore is marvellous, and the marvellous is probable. The substance of the narrative is truth; and as truth allows no choice, it is, like necessity, superior to rule. To the accidental or adventitious parts, as to every thing human, some slight exceptions may be made. But the main fabrick is immovably supported.

[221] It is justly remarked by Addison that this poem has, by the nature of its subject, the advantage above all others, that it is universally and perpetually interesting. All mankind will, through all ages, bear the same relation to Adam and to Eve, and must partake of that good and evil which extend to themselves.

[222] Of the machinery, so called from Theos apo mêchanês, by which is meant the occasional interposition of supernatural power, another fertile topic of critical remarks, here is no room to speak, because every thing is done under the immediate and visible direction of Heaven; but the rule is so far observed that no part of the action could have been accomplished by any other means.

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[223] Of episodes I think there are only two, contained in Raphael's relation of the war in heaven and Michael's prophetick account of the changes to happen in this world. Both are closely connected with the great action; one was necessary to Adam as a warning, the other as a consolation.

[224] To the compleatness or integrity of the design nothing can be objected; it has distinctly and clearly what Aristotle requires, a beginning, a middle, and an end. There is perhaps no poem of the same length from which so little can be taken without apparent mutilation. Here are no funeral games, nor is there any long description of a shield. The short digressions at the beginning of the third, seventh, and ninth books might doubtless be spared; but superfluities so beautiful who would take away? or who does not wish that the author of the Iliad had gratified succeeding ages with a little knowledge of himself? Perhaps no passages are more frequently or more attentively read than those extrinsick paragraphs; and, since the end of poetry is pleasure, that cannot be unpoetical with which all are pleased.

[225] The questions, whether the action of the poem be strictly one, whether the poem can be properly termed heroick, and who is the hero, are raised by such readers as draw their principles of judgement rather from books than from reason. Milton, though he intituled Paradise Lost only a "poem," yet calls it himself "heroick song." Dryden, petulantly and indecently, denies the heroism of Adam because he was overcome; but there is no reason why the hero should not be unfortunate except established practice, since success and virtue do not go necessarily together. Cato is the hero of Lucan, but Lucan's authority will not be suffered by Quintilian to decide. However, if success be necessary, Adam's deceiver was at last crushed; Adam was restored to his Maker's favour, and therefore may securely resume his human rank.

[226] After the scheme and fabrick of the poem must be considered its component parts, the sentiments, and the diction.

[227] The sentiments, as expressive of manners or appropriated to characters, are for the greater part unexceptionably just.

[228] Splendid passages containing lessons of morality or precepts of prudence occur seldom. Such is the original formation of this poem that as it admits no human manners till the Fall, it can give little assistance to human conduct. Its end is to raise the thoughts above sublunary cares or pleasures. Yet the praise of

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that fortitude, with which Abdiel maintained his singularity of virtue against the scorn of multitudes, may be accommodated to all times; and Raphael's reproof of Adam's curiosity after the planetary motions, with the answer returned by Adam, may be confidently opposed to any rule of life which any poet has delivered.

[229] The thoughts which are occasionally called forth in the progress are such as could only be produced by an imagination in the highest degree fervid and active, to which materials were supplied by incessant study and unlimited curiosity. The heat of Milton's mind might be said to sublimate his learning, to throw off into his work the spirit of science, unmingled with its grosser parts.

[230] He had considered creation in its whole extent, and his descriptions are therefore learned. He had accustomed his imagination to unrestrained indulgence, and his conceptions therefore were extensive.The characteristick quality of his poem is sublimity. He sometimes descends to the elegant, but his element is the great. He can occasionally invest himself with grace; but his natural port is gigantick loftiness. He can please when pleasure is required; but it is his peculiar power to astonish.

[231] He seems to have been well acquainted with his own genius, and to know what it was that Nature had bestowed upon him more bountifully than upon others; the power of displaying the vast, illuminating the splendid, enforcing the awful, darkening the gloomy, and aggravating the dreadful: he therefore chose a subject on which too much could not be said, on which he might tire his fancy without the censure of extravagance.

[232] The appearances of nature and the occurrences of life did not satiate his appetite of greatness. To paint things as they are requires a minute attention, and employs the memory rather than the fancy. Milton's delight was to sport in the wide regions of possibility; reality was a scene too narrow for his mind. He sent his faculties out upon discovery, into worlds where only imagination can travel, and delighted to form new modes of existence, and furnish sentiment and action to superior beings, to trace the counsels of hell, or accompany the choirs of heaven.

[233] But he could not be always in other worlds: he must sometimes revisit earth, and tell of things visible and known. When he cannot raise wonder by the

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sublimity of his mind he gives delight by its fertility.

[234] Whatever be his subject he never fails to fill the imagination. But his images and descriptions of the scenes or operations of Nature do not seem to be always copied from original form, nor to have the freshness, raciness, and energy of immediate observation. He saw Nature, as Dryden expresses it, "through the spectacles of books"; and on most occasions calls learning to his assistance. The garden of Eden brings to his mind the vale of Enna, where Proserpine was gathering flowers. Satan makes his way through fighting elements, like Argo between the Cyanean rocks, or Ulysses between the twoSicilian whirlpools, when he shunned Charybdis "on the larboard." The mythological allusions have been justly censured, as not being always used with notice of their vanity; but they contribute variety to the narration, and produce an alternate exercise of the memory and the fancy.

[235] His similes are less numerous and more various than those of his predecessors. But he does not confine himself within the limits of rigorous comparison: his great excellence is amplitude, and he expands the adventitious image beyond the dimensions which the occasion required. Thus, comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the Moon, he crowds the imagination with the discovery of the telescope and all the wonders which the telescope discovers.

[236] Of his moral sentiments it is hardly praise to affirm that they excel those of all other poets; for this superiority he was indebted to his acquaintance with the sacred writings. The ancient epick poets, wanting the light of Revelation, were very unskilful teachers of virtue: their principal characters may be great, but they are not amiable. The reader may rise from their works with a greater degree of active or passive fortitude, and sometimes of prudence; but he will be able to carry away few precepts of justice, and none of mercy.

[237] From the Italian writers it appears that the advantages of even Christian knowledge may be possessed in vain. Ariosto's pravity is generally known; and, though the Deliverance of Jerusalemmay be considered as a sacred subject, the poet has been very sparing of moral instruction.

[238] In Milton every line breathes sanctity of thought and purity of manners, except when the train of the narration requires the introduction of the rebellious spirits; and even they are compelled to acknowledge their subjection to God in

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such a manner as excites reverence and confirms piety.

[239] Of human beings there are but two; but those two are the parents of mankind, venerable before their fall for dignity and innocence, and amiable after it for repentance and submission. In their first state their affection is tender without weakness, and their piety sublime without presumption. When they have sinned they shew how discord begins in mutual frailty, and how it ought to cease in mutual forbearance; how confidence of the divine favour is forfeited by sin, and how hope of pardon may be obtained by penitence and prayer. A state of innocence we can only conceive, if indeed in our present misery it be possible to conceive it; but the sentiments and worship proper to a fallen and offending being we have all to learn, as we have all to practise.

[240] The poet whatever be done is always great. Our progenitors in their first state conversed with angels; even when folly and sin had degraded them they had not in their humiliation "the port of mean suitors;" and they rise again to reverential regard when we find that their prayers were heard.

[241] As human passions did not enter the world before the Fall, there is in the Paradise Lost little opportunity for the pathetick; but what little there is has not been lost. That passion which is peculiar to rational nature, the anguish arising from the consciousness of transgression and the horrours attending the sense of the Divine Displeasure, are very justly described and forcibly impressed. But the passions are moved only on one occasion; sublimity is the general and prevailing quality in this poem — sublimity variously modified, sometimes descriptive, sometimes argumentative.

[242] The defects and faults of Paradise Lost, for faults and defects every work of man must have, it is the business of impartial criticism to discover. As in displaying the excellence of Milton I have not made long quotations, because of selecting beauties there had been no end, I shall in the same general manner mention that which seems to deserve censure; for what Englishman can take delight in transcribing passages, which, if they lessen the reputation of Milton, diminish in some degree the honour of our country?

[243] The generality of my scheme does not admit the frequent notice of verbal inaccuracies which Bentley, perhaps better skilled in grammar than in poetry, has often found, though he sometimes made them, and which he imputed to the obtrusions of a reviser whom the author's blindness obliged him

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to employ. A supposition rash and groundless, if he thought it true; and vile and pernicious, if, as is said, he in private allowed it to be false.

[244] The plan of Paradise Lost has this inconvenience, that it comprises neither human actions nor human manners. The man and woman who act and suffer are in a state which no other man or woman can ever know. The reader finds no transaction in which he can be engaged, beholds no condition in which he can by any effort of imagination place himself; he has, therefore, little natural curiosity or sympathy.

[245] We all, indeed, feel the effects of Adam's disobedience; we all sin like Adam, and like him must all bewail our offences; we have restless and insidious enemies in the fallen angels, and in the blessed spirits we have guardians and friends; in the Redemption of mankind we hope to be included: in the description of heaven and hell we are surely interested, as we are all to reside hereafter either in the regions of horrour or of bliss.

[246] But these truths are too important to be new: they have been taught to our infancy; they have mingled with our solitary thoughts and familiar conversation, and are habitually interwoven with the whole texture of life. Being therefore not new they raise no unaccustomed emotion in the mind: what we knew before we cannot learn; what is not unexpected, cannot surprise.

[247] Of the ideas suggested by these awful scenes, from some we recede with reverence, except when stated hours require their association; and from others we shrink with horrour, or admit them only as salutary inflictions, as counterpoises to our interests and passions. Such images rather obstruct the career of fancy than incite it.

[248] Pleasure and terrour are indeed the genuine sources of poetry; but poetical pleasure must be such as human imagination can at least conceive, and poetical terrour such as human strength and fortitude may combat. The good and evil of Eternity are too ponderous for the wings of wit; the mind sinks under them in passive helplessness, content with calm belief and humble adoration.

[249] Known truths however may take a different appearance, and be conveyed to the mind by a new train of intermediate images. This Milton has undertaken, and performed with pregnancy and vigour of mind peculiar to himself. Whoever considers the few radical positions which the Scriptures afforded him will

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wonder by what energetick operations he expanded them to such extent and ramified them to so much variety, restrained as he was by religious reverence from licentiousness of fiction.

[250] Here is a full display of the united force of study and genius; of a great accumulation of materials, with judgement to digest and fancy to combine them: Milton was able to select from nature or from story, from ancient fable or from modern science, whatever could illustrate or adorn his thoughts. An accumulation of knowledge impregnated his mind, fermented by study and exalted by imagination.

[251] It has been therefore said without an indecent hyperbole by one of his encomiasts, that in reading Paradise Lost we read a book of universal knowledge.

[252] But original deficience cannot be supplied. The want of human interest is always felt. Paradise Lost is one of the books which the reader admires and lays down, and forgets to take up again. None ever wished it longer than it is. Its perusal is a duty rather than a pleasure. We read Milton for instruction, retire harassed and overburdened, and look elsewhere for recreation; we desert our master, and seek for companions.

[253] Another inconvenience of Milton's design is that it requires the description of what cannot be described, the agency of spirits. He saw that immateriality supplied no images, and that he could not show angels acting but by instruments of action; he therefore invested them with form and matter. This being necessary was therefore defensible; and he should have secured the consistency of his system by keeping immateriality out of sight, and enticing his reader to drop it from his thoughts. But he has unhappily perplexed his poetry with his philosophy. His infernal and celestial powers are sometimes pure spirit and sometimes animated body. When Satan walks with his lance upon the "burning marle" he has a body; when in his passage between hell and the new world he is in danger of sinking in the vacuity and is supported by a gust of rising vapours he has a body; when he animates the toad he seems to be mere spirit that can penetrate matter at pleasure; when he "starts up in his own shape," he has at least a determined form; and when he is brought before Gabriel he has "a spear and a shield," which he had the power of hiding in the toad, though the arms of the contending angels are evidently material.

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[254] The vulgar inhabitants of Pandæmonium, being "incorporeal spirits," are "at large though without number" in a limited space, yet in the battle when they were overwhelmed by mountains their armour hurt them, "crushed in upon their substance, now grown gross by sinning." This likewise happened to the uncorrupted angels, who were overthrown "the sooner for their arms, for unarmed they might easily as spirits have evaded by contraction or remove." Even as spirits they are hardly spiritual, for "contraction" and "remove" are images of matter; but if they could have escaped without their armour, they might have escaped from it and left only the empty cover to be battered. Uriel, when he rides on a sun-beam, is material; Satan is material when he is afraid of the prowess of Adam.

[255] The confusion of spirit and matter which pervades the whole narration of the war of heaven fills it with incongruity; and the book in which it is related is, I believe, the favourite of children, and gradually neglected as knowledge is increased.

[256] After the operation of immaterial agents which cannot be explained may be considered that of allegorical persons, which have no real existence. To exalt causes into agents, to invest abstract ideas with form, and animate them with activity has always been the right of poetry. But such airy beings are for the most part suffered only to do their natural office, and retire. Thus Fame tells a tale and Victory hovers over a general or perches on a standard; but Fame and Victory can do no more. To give them any real employment or ascribe to them any material agency is to make them allegorical no longer, but to shock the mind by ascribing effects to non-entity. In the Prometheus of Æschylus we see Violence and Strength, and in the Alcestis of Euripides we see Death, brought upon the stage, all as active persons of the drama; but no precedents can justify absurdity.

[257] Milton's allegory of Sin and Death is undoubtedly faulty. Sin is indeed the mother of Death, and may be allowed to be the portress of hell; but when they stop the journey of Satan, a journey described as real, and when Death offers him battle, the allegory is broken. That Sin and Death should have shewn the way to hell might have been allowed; but they cannot facilitate the passage by building a bridge, because the difficulty of Satan's passage is described as real and sensible, and the bridge ought to be only figurative. The hell assigned to the rebellious spirits is described as not less local than the residence of man.

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It is placed in some distant part of space, separated from the regions of harmony and order by a chaotick waste and an unoccupied vacuity; but Sin and Death worked up a "mole of aggregated soil," cemented with asphaltus; a work too bulky for ideal architects.

[258] This unskilful allegory appears to me one of the greatest faults of the poem; and to this there was no temptation, but the author's opinion of its beauty.

[259] To the conduct of the narrative some objections may be made. Satan is with great expectation brought before Gabriel in Paradise, and is suffered to go away unmolested. The creation of man is represented as the consequence of the vacuity left in heaven by the expulsion of the rebels; yet Satan mentions it as a report "rife in heaven" before his departure.

[260] To find sentiments for the state of innocence was very difficult; and something of anticipation perhaps is now and then discovered. Adam's discourse of dreams seems not to be the speculation of a new-created being. I know not whether his answer to the angel's reproof for curiosity does not want something of propriety: it is the speech of a man acquainted with many other men. Some philosophical notions, especially when the philosophy is false, might have been better omitted. The angel in a comparison speaks of "timorous deer," before deer were yet timorous, and before Adam could understand the comparison.

[261] Dryden remarks that Milton has some flats among his elevations. This is only to say that all the parts are not equal. In every work one part must be for the sake of others; a palace must have passages, a poem must have transitions. It is no more to be required that wit should always be blazing than that the sun should always stand at noon. In a great work there is a vicissitude of luminous and opaque parts, as there is in the world a succession of day and night. Milton, when he has expatiated in the sky, may be allowed sometimes to revisit earth; for what other author ever soared so high or sustained his flight so long?

[262] Milton, being well versed in the Italian poets, appears to have borrowed often from them; and, as every man catches something from his companions, his desire of imitating Ariosto's levity has disgraced his work with the "Paradise of Fools"; a fiction not in itself ill-imagined, but too ludicrous for its place.

[263] His play on words, in which he delights too often; his equivocations, which Bentley endeavours to defend by the example of the ancients; his

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unnecessary and ungraceful use of terms of art, it is not necessary to mention, because they are easily remarked and generally censured, and at last bear so little proportion to the whole that they scarcely deserve the attention of a critick.

[264] Such are the faults of that wonderful performance Paradise Lost; which he who can put in balance with its beauties must be considered not as nice but as dull, as less to be censured for want of candour than pitied for want of sensibility.

[265] Of Paradise Regained the general judgement seems now to be right, that it is in many parts elegant, and every-where instructive. It was not to be supposed that the writer of Paradise Lost could ever write without great effusions of fancy and exalted precepts of wisdom. The basis of Paradise Regained is narrow; a dialogue without action can never please like an union of the narrative and dramatick powers. Had this poem been written, not by Milton but by some imitator, it would have claimed and received universal praise.

[266] If Paradise Regained has been too much depreciated, Sampson Agonistes has in requital been too much admired. It could only be by long prejudice and the bigotry of learning that Milton could prefer the ancient tragedies with their encumbrance of a chorus to the exhibitions of the French and English stages; and it is only by a blind confidence in the reputation of Milton that a drama can be praised in which the intermediate parts have neither cause nor consequence, neither hasten nor retard the catastrophe.

[267] In this tragedy are however many particular beauties, many just sentiments and striking lines; but it wants that power of attracting attention which a well-connected plan produces.

[268] Milton would not have excelled in dramatick writing; he knew human nature only in the gross, and had never studied the shades of character, nor the combinations of concurring or the perplexity of contending passions. He had read much and knew what books could teach; but had mingled little in the world, and was deficient in the knowledge which experience must confer.

[269] Through all his greater works there prevails an uniform peculiarity of Diction, a mode and cast of expression which bears little resemblance to that of any former writer, and which is so far removed from common use that an unlearned reader when he first opens his book finds himself surprised by a new

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language.

[270] This novelty has been, by those who can find nothing wrong in Milton, imputed to his laborious endeavours after words suitable to the grandeur of his ideas. "Our language," says Addison, "sunk under him." But the truth is, that both in prose and verse, he had formed his style by a perverse and pedantick principle. He was desirous to use English words with a foreign idiom. This in all his prose is discovered and condemned, for there judgement operates freely, neither softened by the beauty nor awed by the dignity of his thoughts; but such is the power of his poetry that his call is obeyed without resistance, the reader feels himself in captivity to a higher and a nobler mind, and criticism sinks in admiration.

[271] Milton's style was not modified by his subject: what is shown with greater extent in Paradise Lost may be found in Comus. One source of his peculiarity was his familiarity with the Tuscan poets: the disposition of his words is, I think, frequently Italian; perhaps sometimes combined with other tongues. Of him, at last, may be said what Jonson says of Spenser, that "he wrote no language," but has formed what Butler calls "a Babylonish Dialect," in itself harsh and barbarous, but made by exalted genius and extensive learning the vehicle of so much instruction and so much pleasure that, like other lovers, we find grace in its deformity.

[272] Whatever be the faults of his diction he cannot want the praise of copiousness and variety; he was master of his language in its full extent, and has selected the melodious words with such diligence that from his book alone the Art of English Poetry might be learned.

[273] After his diction something must be said of his versification. "The measure," he says, "is the English heroick verse without rhyme." Of this mode he had many examples among the Italians, and some in his own country. The Earl of Surrey is said to have translated one of Virgil's books without rhyme, and besides our tragedies a few short poems had appeared in blank verse; particularly one tending to reconcile the nation to Raleigh's wild attempt upon Guiana, and probably written by Raleigh himself. These petty performances cannot be supposed to have much influenced Milton, who more probably took his hint from Trisino's Italia Liberata; and, finding blank verse easier than rhyme, was desirous of persuading himself that it is better.

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[274] "Rhyme," he says, and says truly, "is no necessary adjunct of true poetry." But perhaps of poetry as a mental operation metre or musick is no necessary adjunct; it is however by the musick of metre that poetry has been discriminated in all languages, and in languages melodiously constructed with a due proportion of long and short syllables metre is sufficient. But one language cannot communicate its rules to another; where metre is scanty and imperfect some help is necessary. The musick of the English heroick line strikes the ear so faintly that it is easily lost, unless all the syllables of every line co-operate together; this co-operation can be only obtained by the preservation of every verse unmingled with another as a distinct system of sounds, and this distinctness is obtained and preserved by the artifice of rhyme. The variety of pauses, so much boasted by the lovers of blank verse, changes the measures of an English poet to the periods of a declaimer; and there are only a few skilful and happy readers of Milton who enable their audience to perceive where the lines end or begin. "Blank verse," said an ingenious critick, "seems to be verse only to the eye."

[275] Poetry may subsist without rhyme, but English poetry will not often please; nor can rhyme ever be safely spared but where the subject is able to support itself. Blank verse makes some approach to that which is called the "lapidary style"; has neither the easiness of prose nor the melody of numbers, and therefore tires by long continuance. Of the Italian writers without rhyme, whom Milton alleges as precedents, not one is popular; what reason could urge in its defence has been confuted by the ear.

[276] But whatever be the advantage of rhyme I cannot prevail on myself to wish that Milton had been a rhymer, for I cannot wish his work to be other than it is; yet like other heroes he is to be admired rather than imitated. He that thinks himself capable of astonishing may write blank verse, but those that hope only to please must condescend to rhyme.

[277] The highest praise of genius is original invention. Milton cannot be said to have contrived the structure of an epick poem, and therefore owes reverence to that vigour and amplitude of mind to which all generations must be indebted for the art of poetical narration, for the texture of the fable, the variation of incidents, the interposition of dialogue, and all the stratagems that surprise and enchain attention. But of all the borrowers from Homer Milton is perhaps the least indebted. He was naturally a thinker for himself, confident of his own

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abilities and disdainful of help or hindrance; he did not refuse admission to the thoughts or images of his predecessors, but he did not seek them. From his contemporaries he neither courted nor received support; there is in his writings nothing by which the pride of other authors might be gratified or favour gained, no exchange of praise nor solicitation of support. His great works were performed under discountenance and in blindness, but difficulties vanished at his touch; he was born for whatever is arduous; and his work is not the greatest of heroick poems, only because it is not the first.

Explanatory Notes

[1] already written: A number of biographies of Milton had appeared by the time Johnson's Life appeared in 1779, some as standalone biographies, others in editions of Milton's works. Among most notable are Wood's Athenae Oxonienses (1691–92); Letters of State Written by Milton, with Life (1694), by Milton's nephew, Edward Phillips; John Toland's radical Whiggish Life (1698); Jonathan Richardson (father and son), Explanatory Notes, &c. on Paradise Lost (1734); Milton's Prose Works, ed. Thomas Birch (1738); Milton's Poems, ed. Thomas Newton (1749–52).

[1] the uniformity of this edition: Johnson's Life of Milton originally appeared as one contribution in a series of fifty-two biographical and critical prefaces to a multi-volume edition of The Works of the English Poets. Now known as The Lives of the Poets, these works were originally published in their own right as Prefaces Biographical and Critical to the Works of the English Poets, 10 vols. (London, 1779–81).

[2] the white rose: The white rose was the symbol of the York family, who battled against the Lancasters (symbolized by the red rose) in the War of the Roses.

[4] the king's party: John Milton was one of the most vociferous critics of Charles I throughout the Civil War of the 1640s and through the Interregnum. The poet's brother Christopher, however, remained loyal to the king.

[5] Edward Philips: Edward Phillips, Milton's nephew, was Milton's first

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biographer.

[7] sizar: "In the University of Cambridge, and at Trinity College, Dublin, an undergraduate member admitted under this designation and receiving an allowance from the college to enable him to study" (OED).

[8] the learned Politian: Angelo Poliziano (1454–94), Italian poet and scholar, and one of the important early figures in the Italian Renaissance. One of Johnson's publishing plans when he first arrived in London in the 1730s was an edition of Politian's works.

[8] Cowley: Abraham Cowley (1618–67), English poet. Johnson included a Life of Cowley in his Lives of the Poets, in which he famously describes the characteristics of "metaphysical" poetry.

[10] Haddon and Ascham: Walter Haddon (1516–72) and Roger Ascham (1515–68), English scholars.

[10] Alabaster's Roxana: William Alabaster (1567–1640), author of a Latin poem modeled on Seneca called Alabaster, written 1592, and published in 1632.

[12] Rustication: A temporary suspension from a university.

[12] Me tenet . . .: Milton's Elegy to his friend Diodati. In the late eighteenth century, William Cowper translated the lines thus: "I well content, where Thames with influent tide/ My native city laves, meantime reside,/ Nor zeal nor duty now my steps impel/ To ready Cam, and my forbidden cell./ . . . / 'Tis time that I a pedant's threats disdain,/ And fly from wrongs my woul will ne'er sustain./ If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent/ Beneath my father's roof, be banishment,/ Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse/ A name expressive of the lot I choose."

[12] Hartlib: Samuel Hartlib (c. 1600–70), English educational theorist, born in Germany.

[15] permitted to act plays: Many Puritans vigorously attacked the theatre throughout the seventeenth century, and succeeded in closing all public theatres in Britain between 1642 and 1660.

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[15] Trincalos: Trincalo is a character in Albumazar by Thomas Tomkis (1614).

[21] a quo ceu fonte . . .: From Ovid's Amores, 3.9.25: As translated by John Nichol, "from whose perennial lay / Flow the rich fonts of the Pierian wave / To wet the lips of bards."

[29] non tam de se, quam supra se: Said "not so much about him as over him."

[31] Tasso: Torquato Tasso (1544–95), Renaissance Italian poet, known for Gerusalemme liberata.

[32] the differences between the king and parliament: Throughout the late 1630s and early '40s, tension was growing between Charles I and an increasingly Puritan Parliament, leading to a series of Civil Wars in the 1640s and the execution of Charles in 1649.

[32] Galileo: Galileo Galilei (1564–1642), Italian astronomer. In 1632 he was imprisoned by the Church for espousing the heretical heliocentric theory of Copernicus. Milton alludes to Galileo as "the Tuscan artist" in Paradise Lost 1.288.

[41] Hotti toi en megaroisi kakon t' agathon te tetuktai: "What evil and what good has happened in your house" (Odyssey 4.392).

[46] Smectymnuus: Stephen Marshall, Edmund Calamy, Thomas Young, Matthew Newcomen, and William Spurstow — five ministers not six, as Johnson writes — combined their initials (counting W asUU) to produce the pen name Smectymnuus.

[46] the learned Usher: James Usher (or Ussher) (1581–1656), Irish divine and Royalist.

[50] that hell grows darker at his frown: From Paradise Lost 2.719.

[52] The family of the lady were Cavaliers: "Cavalier" was a common name for royalists, i.e., defenders of the king against whom the Puritans struggled.

[56] Presbyterians: The sect of Puritanism that took hold in Scotland, whose name comes from Greek presbyter, "elder." Presbyterians rejected priests for a council of elders, and though Milton began by supporting them, he later came to

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insist "New Presbyter is but old priest writ large."

[59] a collection of his Latin and English poems: The 1645 collection of Poems includes many of Milton's most famous shorter works.

[66] Salmasius: Claude de Saumaise (1588–1653), French scholar, perhaps the most famous scholar in Europe during his lifetime. His Defensio regio pro Carolo I appeared in 1649.

[71] Quid agis cum dira . . .: Slightly misquoted from Juvenal, Satires 4.14.

[73] Cromwell: Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658), leader of the English Protectorate from the execution of Charles I in 1649 until his death. His son, Richard, took over in 1658, but in 1660 Charles II, son of the executed king, was restored to power.

[80] Poma alba ferebat . . .: "Which once bore white fruit, but now is turned black by blood" (Ovid, Metamorphoses 4.51).

[84] To collection a dictionary: Johnson himself compiled one of the most important English dictionaries in 1755.

[86] long chusing, and beginning late: Quoted from Paradise Lost 9.26. Johnson quotes it again in paragraph 110.

[94] Oliver: Oliver Cromwell, succeeded by his son Richard. See the note on paragraph 73 above.

[95] Harrington: James Harrington (1611–77), political theorist, best known for his description of a commonwealth, Oceana (1656).

[95] Griffiths: Matthew Griffith (c. 1599–1665), Royalist preacher.

[95] L'Estrange: Sir Roger L'Estrange (1616–1704), English polemical journalist and Royalist.

[98] Act of Oblivion: Upon assuming the throne in 1660, Charles II, son of the executed Charles I, issued a blanket pardon for most of those who fought on the Parliamentarian side.

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[102] Marvell: Andrew Marvell (1621–78), English poet.

[107] to read Latin with an English mouth: There have been different standards for the pronunciation of Latin in various countries. The English tended to pronounce the vowels as if they were English vowels.

[107] He who travels, if he speaks Latin: Latin was nearly dead as a spoken language in Johnson's day, although he famously spoke to priests only in Latin the one time he visited France.

[112] Mr. Richardson: Jonathan Richardson, and his son of the same name, make the point in their Explanatory Notes, &c. on Paradise Lost (1734).

[117] redeunt in carmina vires: From Milton's fifth Elegy: "Fallor? an et nobis redeunt in carmina vires,/ Ingeniumque mihi munere veris adest?" ("Am I deluded? Or are my powers of song returning, and is my inspiration with me again?").

[118] Sapiens dominabitur astris: Anonymous proverb, "The wise man will rule the stars."

[118] possunt quia posse videntur: "They can because they are seen to be able" (Virgil, Aeneid 5.231).

[119] an age too late: Quoting Paradise Lost 9.44: "Unless an age too late, or cold/ Climate, or years, damp my intended wing/ Depress'd."

[126] unpremeditated verse: From Paradise Lost 9.20–24: "If answerable style I can obtain/ Of my celestial patroness, who deigns/ Her nightly visitation unimplor'd,/ And dictates to me slumb'ring, or inspires/ Easy my unpremeditated verse."

[127] The beginning of the third book: "Hail holy Light, offspring of Heav'n first-born,/ Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam/ May I express the unblam'd? since God is Light,/ And never but in unapproached Light/ Dwelt from Eternity, dwelt then in thee,/ Bright effluence of bright essence increate. . . . Thee I revisit safe,/ And feel thy sovran vital Lamp; but thou/ Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain/ To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn" (Paradise Lost 1–24).

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[127] fallen on evil days and evil tongues: "More safe I Sing with mortal voice, unchang'd/ To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days,/ On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues;/ In darkness, and with dangers compast round,/ And solitude" (Paradise Lost 7.24–28).

[129] When the plague (1665) raged in London: Bubonic plague gripped London in 1665 and 1666, causing many to flee to the country. The most famous accounts of this plague are Samuel Pepys'sDiary and Daniel Defoe's Journal of the Plague Year.

[137] the Revolution: In 1688–89, the Catholic James II was driven from England in the so-called "Glorious Revolution," and was replaced by the Dutch Protestant William of Orange, who ruled with his wife, Mary.

[142] Geoffry of Monmouth: Geoffrey of Monmouth (c. 1100–1154), Welsh chronicler and Bishop of St. Asaph. He is best known for his Historia regum Britanniae, History of the Kings of England, a collection of mostly legendary material. It contains many tales of Arthur and Camelot, is the source of Shakespeare's King Lear and Cymbeline.

[147] Ramus: Petrus Ramus, or Pierre de la Ramée (1515–72), French philosopher, known for his work of philosophy, Dialectic (1544).

[149] the thirty-nine articles: The official statement of faith of the Anglican Church.

[156] soli Miltono secundus: "Second only to Milton."

[157] the picture which he has given of Adam: "Hyacinthin locks/ Round from his parted forelock manly hung/ Clustr'ing, but not beneath his shoulders broad" (Paradise Lost 4.301–3).

[164] Spenser: Edmund Spenser (c. 1552–99), English poet, best known for his epic poem, The Faerie Queene (1590–96). John Dryden relates that "Milton has acknowledged to me that Spenser was his original."

[165] Arminianism: The followers of Jacobus Arminius rejected Calvin's doctrine of absolute predestination.

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[168] an acrimonious and surly republican: Johnson's rejection of Milton's anti-monarchical politics is often quoted in discussions of Johnson's own political opinions.

[170] they who most loudly clamour for liberty do not most liberally grant it: Compare Johnson's comment on cries for independence among American slaveholders: "How is it we hear the loudest yelps for liberty from the drivers of negroes?"

[179] a "Lion" that had no skill "in dandling the Kid": "Sporting the lion ramp'd, and in his paw/ Dandl'd the kid" (Paradise Lost, 4.343–44). Compare Johnson's remark to Hannah More: "Milton, Madam, was a genius that could cut a Colossus from a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones."

[181] a pastoral, easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting: Johnson rejects the artificiality of the pastoral in a number of his critical essays.

[181] We drove a field . . .: Lycidas, 27–29.

[183] sacred truths, such as ought never to be polluted with such irreverent combinations: Johnson often comments on poetry's inability to express religious truths. Here he complains that Christian morality is being reduced to the stock images of classical pastoral poetry.

[206] The fabrick of a sonnet . . . has never succeeded in ours: Although surprising to modern sensibilities, Johnson's judgment of English sonnets was not idiosyncratic in his day. The sonnets of Sidney, Spenser, and Shakespeare were little read, and almost no poets of note produced English sonnets between Milton and Charlotte Smith in the 1790s. A similar complaint about the paucity of English rhymes appears in many discussions of the Spenserian stanza.

[208] the first praise of genius is due to the writer of an epick poem: Aristotle placed tragedy above epic in his hierarchy of genres, though few eighteenth-century critics followed him in this; Johnson reports the conventional wisdom of his day.

[209] uniting pleasure with truth: Recalling Horace's observation that the function of poetry is to instruct and delight.

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[209] Bossu: René Le Bossu (1631–80), French critic, best known for his Traité du poem epique (1675).

[209] to vindicate the ways of God to man: Johnson apparently confuses Paradise Lost, 1.26 ("And justify the ways of God to Men"), with Pope's Essay on Man, 1.16 ("But vindicate the ways of God to Man").

[210] fable: The common term for plot, with no suggestions of Aesopian fables.

[216] as Addison observes: See Spectator 303: "His Sentiments are every way answerable to his Character, and suitable to a created Being of the most exalted and most depraved Nature."

[216] Clarke: John Clarke, author of an Essay upon Study, little read today.

[222] Theos apo mêchanês: Greek for "god from the machine"; cf. Latin deus ex machina. Aristotle warns in the Poetics, "Obviously the resolutions of plots should come from the plot itself, and not from adeus ex machina as in the Medea and the departure scene in the Iliad. The deus ex machina should be used on events outside the play, preceding events beyond human knowledge, or later events that require prediction and announcement" (15.10).

[224] a beginning, a middle, and an end: See Aristotle's Poetics: "Tragedy is the imitation of an action that is complete, whole, and of magnitude (for you can have a whole that has no magnitude). A whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which doesn't follow necessarily from something else, but after which something naturally happens. An end, on the other hand, is that which occurs naturally (whether necessarily or usually) after an event that came before, but it needn't be followed by anything. A middle is that which follows an earlier event and has further consequences. Well-constructed plots, should therefore neither begin nor end at an arbitrary point" (7.3).

[224] Here are no funeral games, nor is there any long description of a shield: References to the funeral games in Iliad, 23.257 and Aeneid, 5.104, and to the description of Achilles' shield in Iliad, 18.478.

[230] The characteristick quality of his poem is sublimity: Compare Addison: "Milton's chief Talent, and indeed his distinguishing Excellence, lies in the

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Sublimity of his Thoughts" (Spectator 279), and John Dennis: "Milton . . . carried away the Prize of Sublimity from both Ancients and Moderns." Dennis goes on to call sublimity "his distinguishing and Characteristick Quality, . . . which sets him above Mankind" (Letters on Milton and Wycherley, Letter I).

[230] his element is the great: Compare Johnson's comment in conversation that Milton "was a genius who could cut a Colossus from a rock; but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones."

[235] comparing the shield of Satan to the orb of the Moon: Paradise Lost, 1.286.

[237] Ariosto's pravity is generally known: Ludovico Ariosto (1474–1533), often criticized in the eighteenth century for the structure of his epic-romance, Orlando Furioso (1516).

[237] Deliverance of Jerusalem: Torquato Tasso's Gerusalemme liberata.

[243] verbal inaccuracies which Bentley . . . has often found: Richard Bentley's edition of Paradise Lost appeared in 1732. In it he proposes thousands of textual corrections, arguing that Milton, being blind, "could only dictate his Verses to be writ by another. Whence it naturally follows, that any Errors in Spelling, Pointing, nay even in whole Words of a like or near Sound in Pronunciation, are not to be charg'd upon the Poet, but on the Amanuensis." He goes on to argue that an anonymous editor, "knowing Milton's bad Circumstances, . . . thought he had a fit Opportunity to foist into the Book several of his own Verses." Of the thousands of changes Bentley proposed, virtually none are accepted today.

[252] None ever wished it longer than it is: Compare Johnson's remark to Mrs. Thrale, "Was there ever yet any thing written by mere man that was wished longer by its readers, excepting Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, and the Pilgrim's Progress?"

[257] Milton's allegory of Sin and Death is undoubtedly faulty: Paradise Lost, 2.648. Many eighteenth-century critics, including Addison, agreed.

[263] His play on words, in which he delights too often: Eighteenth-century critics were singularly unforgiving of puns and other wordplay. Compare Johnson's comments on Shakespeare: "A quibble [pun] is to Shakespeare, what

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luminous vapours are to the traveller; he follows it at all adventures, it is sure to lead him out of his way, and sure to engulf him in the mire. It has some malignant power over his mind, and its fascinations are irresistible. Whatever be the dignity or profundity of his disquisition, whether he be enlarging knowledge or exalting affection, whether he be amusing attention with incidents, or enchaining it in suspense, let but a quibble spring up before him, and he leaves his work unfinished. A quibble is the golden apple for which he will always turn aside from his career, or stoop from his elevation. A quibble poor and barren as it is, gave him such delight, that he was content to purchase it, by the sacrifice of reason, propriety and truth. A quibble was to him the fatal Cleopatra for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it."

Notes on the TextThe text comes from The Lives of the English Poets, ed. G. B. Hill, 3 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1905), vol. 1. I have removed Hill's notes and appendices, and substituted my own explanatory notes.

Hill's paragraph numbers appear in brackets at the beginning of each paragraph.

A few obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected (such as an opening quotation mark left unclosed in the Latin quotation in paragraph 12).

'Inverted commas' are replaced with "quotation marks." oe ligatures are reproduced as two separate letters. Greek words are transliterated. Hill corrects Johnson's inaccurate quotations, supplying the corrections in

brackets. I have removed these corrections, giving the quotations as Johnson wrote them.

10.DRYDEN’S ALL FOR LOVE:

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CHARACTERSAntony - Mark Antony the one who has an affair with Cleo when married to Octavia Cleopatra - Queen of Egypt, has an affair with Antony Octavia - Antony's wife Ventidius - works under Antony and tries to get Antony to return to Octavia Dolabella - supposed friend of Antony, accused of having relations with Cleo Alexas - eunich of Cleopatra Serapion - priest Myris - priest Charmion - servant of Cleo Iras - servant of Cleo 

SUMMARYIn the beginning, the two priests, Serapion and Myris, are talking about the military position of Rome and the Egyptians. They then begin to discuss the Queen's relations with Antony. Ventidius then enters discussing the same things and emphasizes the fact that he feels that Antony should never have met Cleopatra and that it is very important for him to end the relationship. Antony is greatly disturbed by the situation that he has gotten himself into and debates what his next action should be and considers who he most wants to be with. Ventidius continues to attempt to convince Antony to break off the relationship. Eventually, he achieves his objective and Antony seems determined to break off the relationship and so refuses to see Cleopatra because of the power that she holds over him. Both lovers are in pain because of the distance that lies between them. However most of the people around them feel that this is best as they have both lost their good reputations and Antony has lost his family. At one point, Octavia, Antony's wife, offers herself to be left somewhere and forgotten so that Antony can continue his relationship with Cleopatra without hindrance, but Antony refuses her offer because she only does it out of duty, not love. Finally, Antony chooses Dolabella, his greatest friend, to tell Cleopatra that their relationship must end. However, Dolabella has secretly been in love with Cleopatra and initially betrays his friend, trying to make Cleopatra angry at

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Antony. However, not long after his betrayal he admits to Cleopatra that he lied and that it was only out of love that he did so. During all this time, Alexas and Ventidius have been plotting, both trying to separate Antony and Cleopatra and destroy their relationship. Ventidius, seeing that Dolabella is alone with Cleopatra reports to Antony that the two had an affair, this infuriates Antony and he threatens both his best friend and his lover. Alexas during all this is creating a scheme of his own and tells Antony that because of his harsh accusations against her, Cleopatra has killed herself. At this news Antony is shocked and realizes that his dear Cleopatra was indeed innocent and at this decides to kill himself. Antony asks that Ventidius kill him in order to reconcile with Caesar. In a desperate attempt to prove to Antony that he was completely loyal during the time that he served under him, Ventidius kills himself instead of killing Antony. Seeing this Antony falls on his own sword. Cleopatra enters, too late to save her dear Antony, and finds him dying. They give each other parting words and then Antony dies. Cleopatra, at the thought of living without her love, decides to follow him into the next dimension and so kills herself in his presence. Her servants then kill themselves as the guards arrive to capture Cleopatra presumably under Caesar's orders.

COMMENTSThe characters, as written by Dryden, differ greatly from those that most people think of when they consider the character of Cleopatra for example. Cleopatra, specifically, seems very different in that in Dryden's version she seems to actually care for Anthony and does not seem to be out to get him or trick him into giving her his fortune. Antony as well seems less smitten with simply the beauty of Cleopatra and truly seems to see deeper into her soul. However, the scheming that is done behind the scenes by the servants of both Cleopatra and Antony is rarely thought of as a possible cause for the collapse of their relationship. Without the knowledge of the story of Antony and Cleopatra, people do not realize that it could possibly have been love that made the great Antony fall and not simply trickery and seduction on the part of Cleopatra. This type of realization is something that Dryden seemed to point out and emphasize throughout his version of Anthony and Cleopatra.

11. Plot Summary for

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School for Scandal

The School for Scandal has many central characters that all play key roles in the complicated plots and subplots. Lady Teazle and her husband Sir Peter Teazle, who is in charge of a ward named Maria, are major players. Rawley and Sir Oliver Surface are friends of Sir Peter. Charles and Joseph Surface are Sir Oliver's nephews. Sir Oliver has been away in India. Lady Sneerwell and Snake are the schemers. Mrs. Candour, Mr. Crabtree, and his nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite are minor players who feed on gossip. At the start of the play Charles is in love with Maria, Joseph is in love with Maria, Sir Benjamin is in love with Maria, and Lady Sneerwell is in love with Charles. Charles has a horrible reputation for being a gambler and a ladies' man. Sir Peter hates Charles and loves his brother Joseph. Rawley loves Charles and hates his brother Joseph. Sir Oliver is coming to town secretly with the help of Rawley in order to see which of his nephews is worthy of his money. Sir Peter and Lady Teazle are having a hard time with their marriage because she is very young and he is older. Lady Sneerwell is plotting with Snake and Joseph to make Sir Peter think that Lady Teazel is having an affair with Charles, so that Maria will not love Charles so Lady Sneerwell can marry Charles and Joseph can marry Maria. The play really starts to go crazy when Sir Oliver arrives. He wants to test his nephews and see what kind of people they are so he has sent a letter from an imaginary distant relative, Mr. Stanley, asking for money. When Sir Oliver arrives he pretends to be a money lender, Mr. Premium. He goes to Charles and offers to buy all the portraits of his ancestors. Charles will sell all the portraits except the one of Sir Oliver. This pleases Sir Oliver and he then sets out to test Joseph. He goes to Joseph and pretends to be Mr. Stanley, asking for money. Joseph says no and shoos him away because he is preoccupied. While trying to woo Maria, Joseph inadvertently got Lady Teazle, so he invites her to his house. She comes over, but suddenly Sir Peter shows up. Lady Teazle hides behind a screen while Joseph tells Sir Peter that Charles is not having an affair with his wife. Charles comes and Sir Peter hides in a box so that he can hear that Charles is not guilty. Joseph also tells Sir Peter that he has a French lady behind the screen. Charles comes in and says he is not having an affair, but indicates that Joseph is. Charles finds out that Sir Peter is hiding in the box and calls him out. Then Joseph has to go out to deal with another guest. Sir Peter and Charles decide to look at the French girl that Joseph has in his house. They pull down the screen and Joseph

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comes back just in time to see that Lady Teazle has been revealed to Sir Peter. They all stand in silence until Lady Teazle tells Sir Peter how touched she is by all the things he said while she was hiding. They vow to improve the marriage. The gossips of the town try to decide if it was Joseph or Charles who was having the affair with Lady Teazle. They all come together at Joseph's house and Sir Oliver reveals himself. He tells how he prefers Charles to Joseph and then Lady Sneerwell tries to say that Charles has gotten her pregnant. Fortunately, Snake reveals the truth about all the schemes and clears Charles's name. Charles and Maria are to be married and all is well

THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

THE TEXT OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

The text of THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL in this edition is taken, byMr. Fraser Rae's generous permission, from his SHERIDAN'S PLAYSNOW PRINTED AS HE WROTE THEM. In his Prefatory Notes (xxxvii),Mr. Rae writes: "The manuscript of it [THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL]in Sheridan's own handwriting is preserved at Frampton Court andis now printed in this volume. This version differs in manyrespects from that which is generally known, and I think it iseven better than that which has hitherto been read and acted.As I have endeavoured to reproduce the works of Sheridan as hewrote them, I may be told that he was a bad hand at punctuatingand very bad at spelling. . . . But Sheridan's shortcomings as aspeller have been exaggerated." Lest "Sheridan's shortcomings"either in spelling or in punctuation should obscure the text,

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I have, in this edition, inserted in brackets some explanatorysuggestions. It has seemed best, also, to adopt a uniform methodfor indicating stage-directions and abbreviations of the names ofcharacters. There can be no gain to the reader in reproducing,for example, Sheridan's different indications for the part ofLady Sneerwell--LADY SNEERWELL, LADY SNEER., LADY SN., and LADY S.--or his varying use of EXIT and EX., or his inconsistencies inthe use of italics in the stage-directions. Since, however,Sheridan's biographers, from Moore to Fraser Rae, have shown thatno authorised or correct edition of THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL waspublished in Sheridan's lifetime, there seems unusual justificationfor reproducing the text of the play itself with absolute fidelityto the original manuscript. Mr. Ridgway, who repeatedly sought toobtain a copy corrected by the author, according to Moore's account(LIFE OF SHERIDAN, I. p. 260), "was told by Mr. Sheridan, as anexcuse for keeping it back, that he had been nineteen yearsendeavouring to satisfy himself with the style of The School forScandal, but had not yet succeeded." Mr. Rae (SHERIDAN, I. p. 332)recorded his discovery of the manuscript of "two acts of The Schoolfor Scandal prepared by Sheridan for publication," and hoped, beforehis death, to publish this partial revision. Numberless unauthorizedchanges in the play have been made for histrionic purposes,

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fromthe first undated Dublin edition to that of Mr. Augustin Daly.Current texts may usually be traced, directly or indirectly,to the two-volume Murray edition of Sheridan's plays, in 1821.Some of the changes from the original manuscript, such as theblending of the parts of Miss Verjuice and Snake, are doubtlesseffective for reasons of dramatic economy, but many of the "cuts"are to be regretted from the reader's standpoint. The studentof English drama will prefer Sheridan's own text to editorialemendations, however clever or effective for dramatic ends.

 THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

 A COMEDY

 A PORTRAIT<1>

 ADDRESSED TO MRS. CREWE,WITH THE COMEDY OF THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL

 BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

Tell me, ye prim adepts in Scandal's school,Who rail by precept, and detract by rule,Lives there no character, so tried, so known,So deck'd with grace, and so unlike your own,That even you assist her fame to raise,Approve by envy, and by silence praise!--

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Attend!--a model shall attract your view--Daughters of calumny, I summon you!You shall decide if this a portrait prove,Or fond creation of the Muse and Love.--Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage,Ye matron censors of this childish age,Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declareA fixt antipathy to young and fair;By cunning, cautious; or by nature, cold,In maiden madness, virulently bold!--Attend! ye skilled to coin the precious tale,Creating proof, where innuendos fail!Whose practised memories, cruelly exact,Omit no circumstance, except the fact!--Attend, all ye who boast,--or old or young,--The living libel of a slanderous tongue!So shall my theme as far contrasted be,As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny.Come, gentle Amoret (for 'neath that name,In worthier verse is sung thy beauty's fame);Come--for but thee who seeks the Muse? and whileCelestial blushes check thy conscious smile,With timid grace, and hesitating eye,The perfect model, which I boast, supply:--Vain Muse! couldst thou the humblest sketch createOf her, or slightest charm couldst imitate--Could thy blest strain in kindred colours traceThe faintest wonder of her form and face--Poets would study the immortal line,And REYNOLDS own HIS art subdued by thine;That art, which well might added lustre giveTo Nature's best and Heaven's superlative:On GRANBY'S cheek might bid new glories rise,Or point a purer beam from DEVON'S eyes!Hard is the task to shape that beauty's praise,Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays!

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But praising Amoret we cannot err,No tongue o'ervalues Heaven, or flatters her!Yet she, by Fate's perverseness--she aloneWould doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her own!Adorning Fashion, unadorn'd by dress,Simple from taste, and not from carelessness;Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild:No state has AMORET! no studied mien;She frowns no GODDESS, and she moves no QUEEN.The softer charm that in her manner liesIs framed to captivate, yet not surprise;It justly suits th' expression of her face,--'Tis less than dignity, and more than grace!On her pure cheek the native hue is such,That, form'd by Heav'n to be admired so much,The hand divine, with a less partial care,Might well have fix'd a fainter crimson there,And bade the gentle inmate of her breast,--Inshrined Modesty!--supply the rest.But who the peril of her lips shall paint?Strip them of smiles--still, still all words are faint!But moving Love himself appears to teachTheir action, though denied to rule her speech;And thou who seest her speak and dost not hear,Mourn not her distant accents 'scape thine ear;Viewing those lips, thou still may'st make pretenceTo judge of what she says, and swear 'tis sense:Cloth'd with such grace, with such expression fraught,They move in meaning, and they pause in thought!But dost thou farther watch, with charm'd surprise,The mild irresolution of her eyes,Curious to mark how frequent they repose,In brief eclipse and momentary close--Ah! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there,Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care

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Veils and unveils those beams of heav'nly light,Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight?Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet,In pard'ning dimples hope a safe retreat.What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allowSubduing frowns to arm her altered brow,By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,More fatal still the mercy of her smiles!Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, possessing allOf bright or fair that can to woman fall,The height of vanity might well be thoughtPrerogative in her, and Nature's fault.Yet gentle AMORET, in mind supremeAs well as charms, rejects the vainer theme;And, half mistrustful of her beauty's store,She barbs with wit those darts too keen before:--Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,Though GREVILLE, or the MUSE, should deign to teach,Fond to improve, nor tim'rous to discernHow far it is a woman's grace to learn;In MILLAR'S dialect she would not proveApollo's priestess, but Apollo's love,Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,The timid blush, and mild submitted tone:Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout,Displays the tender hue of female doubt;Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears,How graceful SCIENCE, when that robe she wears!Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined:A taste for mirth, by contemplation school'd,A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;An awe of talent, which she owns with pride!Peace, idle Muse! no more thy strain prolong,But yield a theme thy warmest praises wrong;

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Just to her merit, though thou canst not raiseThy feeble verse, behold th' acknowledged praiseHas spread conviction through the envious train,And cast a fatal gloom o'er Scandal's reign!And lo! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue,Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung--Owns all the colours just--the outline true;Thee my inspirer, and my MODEL--CREWE!

 DRAMATIS PERSONAE<2>

SIR PETER TEAZLE Mr. KingSIR OLIVER SURFACE Mr. YatesYOUNG SURFACE Mr. PalmerCHARLES (his Brother) Mr. SmithCRABTREE Mr. ParsonsSIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE Mr. DoddROWLEY Mr. AikinSPUNGEMOSESSNAKECARELESS--and other companions to CHARLES

LADY TEAZLEMARIALADY SNEERWELLMRS. CANDOURMISS VERJUICE

 PROLOGUE

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 WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK

A school for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,Needs there a school this modish art to teach you?No need of lessons now, the knowing think;We might as well be taught to eat and drink.Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapoursDistress our fair ones--let them read the papers;Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;Crave what you will--there's quantum sufficit."Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshingStrong tea and scandal--"Bless me, how refreshing!Give me the papers, Lisp--how bold and free! [Sips.]LAST NIGHT LORD L. [Sips] WAS CAUGHT WITH LADY D.For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.]IF MRS. B. WILL STILL CONTINUE FLIRTING,WE HOPE SHE'LL draw, OR WE'LL undraw THE CURTAIN.Fine satire, poz--in public all abuse it,But, by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can't refuse it.Now, Lisp, read you--there, at that dash and star:""Yes, ma'am--A CERTAIN LORD HAD BEST BEWARE,WHO LIVES NOT TWENTY MILES FROM GROSVENOR SQUARE;FOR, SHOULD HE LADY W. FIND WILLING,WORMWOOD IS BITTER"----"Oh! that's me! the villain!Throw it behind the fire, and never moreLet that vile paper come within my door."Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart.Is our young bard so young, to think that heCan stop the full spring-tide of calumny?

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Knows he the world so little, and its trade?Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid.So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging:Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging.Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd,Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;To show his gratitude he draws his pen,And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den.For your applause all perils he would through--He'll fight--that's write--a cavalliero true,Till every drop of blood--that's ink--is spilt for you.

 ACT I

 SCENE I.--LADY SNEERWELL'S House

 LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET;MISS VERJUICE drinking chocolate

LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted:

VERJUICE. They were Madam--and as I copied them myself in a feignedHand there can be no suspicion whence they came.

LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle'sIntrigue with Captain Boastall?

VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of

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half theTown--and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep.

LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as toa certain Baronet's Lady and a certain Cook.

VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish.I told the story yesterday to my own maid with directions tocommunicate it directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informedhas a Brother who courts a Milliners' Prentice in Pallmallwhose mistress has a first cousin whose sister is Feme [Femme]de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit--so that in the common course of Thingsit must reach Mrs. Clackit's Ears within four-and-twenty hoursand then you know the Business is as good as done.

LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent--a great deal of industry--yet--yes--been tolerably successfulin her way--To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking offsix matches[,] of three sons being disinherited and four Daughtersbeing turned out of Doors. Of three several Elopements, as manyclose confinements--nine separate maintenances and two Divorces.--nay I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the

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Town and Country Magazine--when the Parties perhaps had never seeneach other's Faces before in the course of their Lives.

VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents.

LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross.

VERJUICE. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] hasa free tongue and a bold invention--but her colouring is too darkand her outline often extravagant--She wants that delicacy ofTint--and mellowness of sneer--which distinguish your Ladyship'sScandal.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice.

VERJUICE. Not in the least--everybody allows that Lady Sneerwellcan do more with a word or a Look than many can with the mostlaboured Detail even when they happen to have a little truthon their side to support it.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to denythe satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Woundedmyself, in the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of

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Slander I confess I have since known no Pleasure equal to thereducing others to the Level of my own injured Reputation.

VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural--But my dear Lady SneerwellThere is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein,I confess I am at a Loss to guess your motives.

LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour,Sir Peter Teazle, and his Family--Lappet.--And has my conductin this matter really appeared to you so mysterious?[Exit MAID.]

VERJUICE. Entirely so.

LADY SNEERWELL. [VERJUICE.?] An old Batchelor as Sir Peter was[,]having taken a young wife from out of the Country--as Lady Teazleis--are certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery--but here are two young men--to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kindof Guardian since their Father's death, the eldest possessingthe most amiable Character and universally well spoken of[,]the youngest the most dissipated and extravagant young Fellowin the Kingdom, without Friends or caracter--the former onean avowed admirer of yours and apparently your Favourite[,]the latter attached to Maria Sir Peter's ward--and confessedlybeloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it is

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utterly unaccountable to me why you a young Widow with no greatjointure--should not close with the passion of a man of suchcharacter and expectations as Mr. Surface--and more so why youshould be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual Attachmentsubsisting between his Brother Charles and Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Then at once to unravel this mistery--I mustinform you that Love has no share whatever in the intercoursebetween Mr. Surface and me.

VERJUICE. No!

LADY SNEERWELL. His real attachment is to Maria or her Fortune--but finding in his Brother a favoured Rival, He has been obligedto mask his Pretensions--and profit by my Assistance.

VERJUICE. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interestyourself in his success.

LADY SNEERWELL. Heavens! how dull you are! cannot you surmisethe weakness which I hitherto, thro' shame have concealed evenfrom you--must I confess that Charles--that Libertine, thatextravagant, that Bankrupt in Fortune and Reputation--that He

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it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious and to gain whomI would sacrifice--everything----

VERJUICE. Now indeed--your conduct appears consistent and Ino longer wonder at your enmity to Maria, but how came you andSurface so confidential?

LADY SNEERWELL. For our mutual interest--but I have found outhim a long time since[,] altho' He has contrived to deceiveeverybody beside--I know him to be artful selfish and malicious--while with Sir Peter, and indeed with all his acquaintance,He passes for a youthful Miracle of Prudence--good senseand Benevolence.

VERJUICE. Yes yes--I know Sir Peter vows He has not his equalin England; and, above all, He praises him as a MAN OF SENTIMENT.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and with the assistance of his sentimentsand hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interestswith respect to Maria and is now I believe attempting to flatterLady Teazle into the same good opinion towards him--while poorCharles has no Friend in the House--though I fear he has a powerfulone in Maria's Heart, against whom we must direct our

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schemes.

SERVANT. Mr. Surface.

LADY SNEERWELL. Shew him up. He generally calls about this Time.I don't wonder at People's giving him to me for a Lover.

 Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day--your mostobedient.

LADY SNEERWELL. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on ourmutual attachment now; but I have informed her of our real viewsand the Purposes for which our Geniuses at present co-operate.You know how useful she has been to us--and believe me the confidenceis not ill-placed.

SURFACE. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a Lady ofMiss Verjuice's sensibility and discernment----

LADY SNEERWELL. Well--well--no compliments now--but tell me whenyou saw your mistress or what is more material to me your

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Brother.

SURFACE. I have not seen either since I saw you--but I can informyou that they are at present at Variance--some of your stories havetaken good effect on Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah! my dear Verjuice the merit of this belongsto you. But do your Brother's Distresses encrease?

SURFACE. Every hour. I am told He had another execution in hishouse yesterday--in short his Dissipation and extravagance exceedanything I have ever heard of.

LADY SNEERWELL. Poor Charles!

SURFACE. True Madam--notwithstanding his Vices one can't helpfeeling for him--ah poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it was inmy Power to be of any essential Service to him--for the manwho does not share in the Distresses of a Brother--even thoughmerited by his own misconduct--deserves----

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud you are going to be moral, and forget

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that you are among Friends.

SURFACE. Egad, that's true--I'll keep that sentiment till I seeSir Peter. However it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria fromsuch a Libertine who--if He is to be reclaim'd, can be so only by aPerson of your Ladyship's superior accomplishments and understanding.

VERJUICE. 'Twould be a Hazardous experiment.

SURFACE. But--Madam--let me caution you to place no more confidencein our Friend Snake the Libeller--I have lately detected himin frequent conference with old Rowland [Rowley] who was formerlymy Father's Steward and has never been a friend of mine.

LADY SNEERWELL. I'm not disappointed in Snake, I never suspectedthe fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his ownVillany.

 Enter MARIA

Maria my dear--how do you do--what's the matter?

MARIA. O here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir BenjaminBackbite, has just call'd at my guardian's with his odious

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Uncle Crabtree--so I slipt out and ran hither to avoid them.

LADY SNEERWELL. Is that all?

VERJUICE. Lady Sneerwell--I'll go and write the Letter I mention'dto you.

SURFACE. If my Brother Charles had been of the Party, madam,perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay now--you are severe for I dare swear the Truthof the matter is Maria heard YOU were here--but my dear--what hasSir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so----

MARIA. Oh He has done nothing--but his conversation is a perpetualLibel on all his Acquaintance.

SURFACE. Aye and the worst of it is there is no advantage in notknowing Them, for He'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his bestFriend--and Crabtree is as bad.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay but we should make allowance[--]Sir Benjamin

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is a wit and a poet.

MARIA. For my Part--I own madam--wit loses its respect with me,when I see it in company with malice.--What do you think,Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Certainly, Madam, to smile at the jest which plantsa Thorn on another's Breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pshaw--there's no possibility of being wittywithout a little [ill] nature--the malice of a good thingis the Barb that makes it stick.--What's your opinion, Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Certainly madam--that conversation where the Spirit ofRaillery is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid--

MARIA. Well I'll not debate how far Scandal may be allowable--but in a man I am sure it is always contemtable.--We have Pride,envy, Rivalship, and a Thousand motives to depreciate each other--but the male-slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman beforeHe can traduce one.

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LADY SNEERWELL. I wish my Cousin Verjuice hadn't left us--sheshould embrace you.

SURFACE. Ah! she's an old maid and is privileged of course.

 Enter SERVANT

Madam Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship's at leisure willleave her carriage.

LADY SNEERWELL. Beg her to walk in. Now, Maria[,] however here isa Character to your Taste, for tho' Mrs. Candour is a littletalkative everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sortof woman.

MARIA. Yes with a very gross affectation of good Nature andBenevolence--she does more mischief than the Direct malice ofold Crabtree.

SURFACE. Efaith 'tis very true Lady Sneerwell--Whenever I hearthe current running again the characters of my Friends, I neverthink them in such Danger as when Candour undertakes their Defence.

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LADY SNEERWELL. Hush here she is----

 Enter MRS. CANDOUR

MRS. CANDOUR. My dear Lady Sneerwell how have you been this Century.I have never seen you tho' I have heard of you very often.--Mr. Surface--the World says scandalous things of you--but indeedit is no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothingelse but scandal.

SURFACE. Just so, indeed, Ma'am.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah Maria Child--what[!] is the whole affair offbetween you and Charles? His extravagance; I presume--The Towntalks of nothing else----

MARIA. I am very sorry, Ma'am, the Town has so little to do.

MRS. CANDOUR. True, true, Child; but there's no stopping people'sTongues. I own I was hurt to hear it--as I indeed was to learnfrom the same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter[,] and LadyTeazle have not agreed lately so well as could be wish'd.

MARIA. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy

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themselves so.

MRS. CANDOUR. Very true, Child; but what's to be done? People willtalk--there's no preventing it.--why it was but yesterday I was toldthat Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord!there is no minding what one hears; tho' to be sure I had this fromvery good authority.

MARIA. Such reports are highly scandalous.

MRS. CANDOUR. So they are Child--shameful! shameful! but the worldis so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would havesuspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion Yet such is theill-nature of people, that they say her unkle stopped her last weekjust as she was stepping into a Postchaise with her Dancing-master.

MARIA. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for the Report.

MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear[;]no more probably than for the story circulated last month,of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino--tho' to be sure

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that matter was never rightly clear'd up.

SURFACE. The license of invention some people take is monstrousindeed.

MARIA. 'Tis so but in my opinion, those who report such thingsare equally culpable.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure they are[;] Tale Bearers are as bad asthe Tale makers--'tis an old observation and a very true one--butwhat's to be done as I said before--how will you prevent People fromtalking--to-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoonwere at last become mere man and wife--like [the rest of their]acquaintance--she likewise hinted that a certain widow in the nextstreet had got rid of her Dropsy and recovered her shape in a mostsurprising manner--at the same [time] Miss Tattle, who was byaffirm'd, that Lord Boffalo had discover'd his Lady at a house ofno extraordinary Fame--and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunterwere to measure swords on a similar Provocation. but--Lord! do youthink I would report these Things--No, no[!] Tale Bearers as I said

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before are just as bad as the talemakers.

SURFACE. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your Forbearance andgood nature--

MRS. CANDOUR. I confess Mr. Surface I cannot bear to hear Peopletraduced behind their Backs[;] and when ugly circumstances come outagainst our acquaintances I own I always love to think the best--bythe bye I hope 'tis not true that your Brother is absolutely ruin'd--

SURFACE. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, Ma'am--

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah! I heard so--but you must tell him to keep uphis Spirits--everybody almost is in the same way--Lord Spindle,Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit--all up, I hear,within this week; so, if Charles is undone, He'll find half hisAcquaintance ruin'd too, and that, you know, is a consolation--

SURFACE. Doubtless, Ma'am--a very great one.

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 Enter SERVANT

SERVANT. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

LADY SNEERWELL. Soh! Maria, you see your lover pursues you--Positively you shan't escape.

 Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE

CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don'tbelieve you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite--Egad, Ma'am, He has a pretty wit--and is a pretty Poet too isn't HeLady Sneerwell?

SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle!

CRABTREE. Nay egad it's true--I back him at a Rebus or a Charadeagainst the best Rhymer in the Kingdom--has your Ladyship heardthe Epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's Feather catchingFire--Do Benjamin repeat it--or the Charade you made last Nightextempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione--Come now your firstis the Name of a Fish, your second a great naval commander--

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and

SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle--now--prithee----

CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma'am--'twould surprise you to hear how readyhe is at all these Things.

LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.

SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to Print andas my little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I findthey circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friendsof the Parties--however I have some love-Elegies, which, whenfavoured with this lady's smile I mean to give to the Public.[Pointing to MARIA.]

CRABTREE. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you--you'llbe handed down to Posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller'sSacharissa.

SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them--when you shallsee in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shallmeander thro' a meadow of margin--'fore Gad, they will be the

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mostelegant Things of their kind--

CRABTREE. But Ladies, have you heard the news?

MRS. CANDOUR. What, Sir, do you mean the Report of----

CRABTREE. No ma'am that's not it.--Miss Nicely is going to bemarried to her own Footman.

MRS. CANDOUR. Impossible!

CRABTREE. Ask Sir Benjamin.

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Tis very true, Ma'am--everything is fixed and thewedding Livery bespoke.

CRABTREE. Yes and they say there were pressing reasons for't.

MRS. CANDOUR. It cannot be--and I wonder any one should believesuch a story of so prudent a Lady as Miss Nicely.

SIR BENJAMIN. O Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believedat once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that

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everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes a Tale of Scandal is as fatal to the Reputationof a prudent Lady of her stamp as a Fever is generally to thoseof the strongest Constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sicklyReputation, that is always ailing yet will outlive the robustercharacters of a hundred Prudes.

SIR BENJAMIN. True Madam there are Valetudinarians in Reputationas well as constitution--who being conscious of their weak Part,avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of Staminaby care and circumspection--

MRS. CANDOUR. Well but this may be all mistake--You know,Sir Benjamin very trifling circumstances often give rise tothe most injurious Tales.

CRABTREE. That they do I'll be sworn Ma'am--did you ever hearhow Miss Shepherd came to lose her Lover and her Characterlast summer at Tunbridge--Sir Benjamin you remember it--

SIR BENJAMIN. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance--

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LADY SNEERWELL. How was it Pray--

CRABTREE. Why one evening at Mrs. Ponto's Assembly--the conversationhappened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia Sheepin this country--says a young Lady in company[, "]I have knowninstances of it[--]for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine,had a Nova-Scotia Sheep that produced her Twins.["--"]What!["] criesthe old Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a Post),["]has Miss Letitia Shepherd had twins["]--This Mistake--as you mayimagine, threw the whole company into a fit of Laughing--However'twas the next morning everywhere reported and in a few Days believedby the whole Town, that Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually beenbrought to Bed of a fine Boy and Girl--and in less than a weekthere were People who could name the Father, and the Farm Housewhere the Babies were put out to Nurse.

LADY SNEERWELL. Strange indeed!

CRABTREE. Matter of Fact, I assure you--O Lud! Mr. Surface prayis it true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home--

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SURFACE. Not that I know of indeed Sir.

CRABTREE. He has been in the East Indies a long time--you canscarcely remember him--I believe--sad comfort on his arrivalto hear how your Brother has gone on!

SURFACE. Charles has been imprudent Sir to be sure[;] but I hopeno Busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him--He may reform--

SIR BENJAMIN. To be sure He may--for my Part I never believed himto be so utterly void of Principle as People say--and tho'he has lost all his Friends I am told nobody is better spoken of--by the Jews.

CRABTREE. That's true egad nephew--if the Old Jewry was a WardI believe Charles would be an alderman--no man more popular there,'fore Gad I hear He pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontineand that whenever He's sick they have Prayers for the recoveryof his Health in the synagogue--

SIR BENJAMIN. Yet no man lives in greater Splendour:--they tell me

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when He entertains his Friends--He can sit down to dinner witha dozen of his own Securities, have a score Tradesmen waitingin the Anti-Chamber, and an officer behind every guest's Chair.

SURFACE. This may be entertainment to you Gentlemen but you payvery little regard to the Feelings of a Brother.

MARIA. Their malice is intolerable--Lady Sneerwell I must wish youa good morning--I'm not very well.[Exit MARIA.]

MRS. CANDOUR. O dear she chang'd colour very much!

LADY SNEERWELL. Do Mrs. Candour follow her--she may want assistance.

MRS. CANDOUR. That I will with all my soul ma'am.--Poor dear Girl--who knows--what her situation may be![Exit MRS. CANDOUR.]

LADY SNEERWELL. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hearCharles reflected on notwithstanding their difference.

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SIR BENJAMIN. The young Lady's Penchant is obvious.

CRABTREE. But Benjamin--you mustn't give up the Pursuit for that--follow her and put her into good humour--repeat her some of yourverses--come, I'll assist you--

SIR BENJAMIN. Mr. Surface I did not mean to hurt you--but dependon't your Brother is utterly undone--[Going.]

CRABTREE. O Lud! aye--undone--as ever man was--can't raise a guinea.

SIR BENJAMIN. And everything sold--I'm told--that was movable--[Going.]

CRABTREE. I was at his house--not a thing left but some emptyBottles that were overlooked and the Family Pictures, whichI believe are framed in the Wainscot.[Going.]

SIR BENJAMIN. And I'm very sorry to hear also some bad storiesagainst him.[Going.]

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CRABTREE. O He has done many mean things--that's certain!

SIR BENJAMIN. But however as He is your Brother----[Going.]

CRABTREE. We'll tell you all another opportunity.[Exeunt.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leavea subject they have not quite run down.

SURFACE. And I believe the Abuse was no more acceptable to yourLadyship than Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. I doubt her Affections are farther engaged thanwe imagin'd but the Family are to be here this Evening so you mayas well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity ofobserving farther--in the meantime, I'll go and plot Mischiefand you shall study Sentiments.[Exeunt.]

 SCENE II.--SIR PETER'S House

 Enter SIR PETER

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SIR PETER. When an old Bachelor takes a young Wife--what is Heto expect--'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiestof men--and I have been the most miserable Dog ever since that evercommitted wedlock. We tift a little going to church--and came toa Quarrel before the Bells had done ringing--I was more than oncenearly chok'd with gall during the Honeymoon--and had lost all comfortin Life before my Friends had done wishing me Joy--yet I chose withcaution--a girl bred wholly in the country--who never knew luxurybeyond one silk gown--nor dissipation above the annual Gala of aRace-Ball--Yet she now plays her Part in all the extravagant Fopperiesof the Fashion and the Town, with as ready a Grace as if she had neverseen a Bush nor a grass Plot out of Grosvenor-Square! I am sneered atby my old acquaintance--paragraphed--in the news Papers--She dissipates my Fortune, and contradicts all my Humours--yet the worst of it is I doubt I love her or I should never bearall this. However I'll never be weak enough to own it.

 Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Sir Peter, your servant:--how is 't with you Sir--

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SIR PETER. Very bad--Master Rowley--very bad[.] I meet with nothingbut crosses and vexations--

ROWLEY. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday?

SIR PETER. A good--question to a married man--

ROWLEY. Nay I'm sure your Lady Sir Peter can't be the cause of youruneasiness.

SIR PETER. Why has anybody told you she was dead[?]

ROWLEY. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding yourtempers do not exactly agree.

SIR PETER. But the Fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley--I ammyself, the sweetest temper'd man alive, and hate a teasing temper;and so I tell her a hundred Times a day--

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR PETER. Aye and what is very extraordinary in all our disputesshe is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and the Set

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she meetsat her House, encourage the perverseness of her Disposition--thento complete my vexations--Maria--my Ward--whom I ought to havethe Power of a Father over, is determined to turn Rebel too andabsolutely refuses the man whom I have long resolved on for herhusband--meaning I suppose, to bestow herself on his profligateBrother.

ROWLEY. You know Sir Peter I have always taken the Liberty to differwith you on the subject of these two young Gentlemen--I only wishyou may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles,my life on't! He will retrieve his errors yet--their worthy Father,once my honour'd master, was at his years nearly as wild a spark.

SIR PETER. You are wrong, Master Rowley--on their Father's Deathyou know I acted as a kind of Guardian to them both--till their uncleSir Oliver's Eastern Bounty gave them an early independence. Ofcourse no person could have more opportunities of judging of theirHearts--and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model

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for the young men of the Age--He is a man of Sentiment--and acts upto the Sentiments he professes--but for the other[,] take my wordfor't [if] he had any grain of Virtue by descent--he has dissipated itwith the rest of his inheritance. Ah! my old Friend, Sir Oliver willbe deeply mortified when he finds how Part of his Bounty has beenmisapplied.

ROWLEY. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young manbecause this may be the most critical Period of his Fortune.I came hither with news that will surprise you.

SIR PETER. What! let me hear--

ROWLEY. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in Town.

SIR PETER. How!--you astonish me--I thought you did not expect himthis month!--

ROWLEY. I did not--but his Passage has been remarkably quick.

SIR PETER. Egad I shall rejoice to see my old Friend--'Tis sixteenyears since we met--We have had many a Day together--but

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does he stillenjoin us not to inform his Nephews of his Arrival?

ROWLEY. Most strictly--He means, before He makes it known to makesome trial of their Dispositions and we have already planned somethingfor the purpose.

SIR PETER. Ah there needs no art to discover their merits--howeverhe shall have his way--but pray does he know I am married!

ROWLEY. Yes and will soon wish you joy.

SIR PETER. You may tell him 'tis too late--ah Oliver will laughat me--we used to rail at matrimony together--but He has been steadyto his Text--well He must be at my house tho'--I'll instantly giveorders for his Reception--but Master Rowley--don't drop a word thatLady Teazle and I ever disagree.

ROWLEY. By no means.

SIR PETER. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes; so I'dhave him think that we are a very happy couple.

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ROWLEY. I understand you--but then you must be very careful notto differ while He's in the House with you.

SIR PETER. Egad--and so we must--that's impossible. Ah! MasterRowley when an old Batchelor marries a young wife--He deserves--no the crime carries the Punishment along with it.[Exeunt.]

 END OF THE FIRST ACT

 ACT II

 SCENE I.--SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle--Lady Teazle I'll not bear it.

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter--Sir Peter you--may scold or smile, accordingto your Humour[,] but I ought to have my own way in everything,and what's more I will too--what! tho' I was educated in the countryI know very well that women of Fashion in London are accountableto nobody after they are married.

SIR PETER. Very well! ma'am very well! so a husband is to have

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no influence, no authority?

LADY TEAZLE. Authority! no, to be sure--if you wanted authorityover me, you should have adopted me and not married me[:] I am sureyou were old enough.

SIR PETER. Old enough--aye there it is--well--well--Lady Teazle,tho' my life may be made unhappy by your Temper--I'll not be ruinedby your extravagance--

LADY TEAZLE. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagantthan a woman of Fashion ought to be.

SIR PETER. No no Madam, you shall throw away no more sums on suchunmeaning Luxury--'Slife to spend as much to furnish your DressingRoom with Flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheoninto a Greenhouse, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas.

LADY TEAZLE. Lord! Sir Peter am I to blame because Flowers are dearin cold weather? You should find fault with the Climate, and notwith me. For my Part I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year

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round--and that Roses grew under one's Feet!

SIR PETER. Oons! Madam--if you had been born to those FopperiesI shouldn't wonder at your talking thus;--but you forget what yoursituation was when I married you--

LADY TEAZLE. No, no, I don't--'twas a very disagreeable one orI should never nave married you.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humblerStyle--the daughter of a plain country Squire. Recollect Lady Teazlewhen I saw you first--sitting at your tambour in a pretty figuredlinen gown--with a Bunch of Keys at your side, and your apartmenthung round with Fruits in worsted, of your own working--

LADY TEAZLE. O horrible!--horrible!--don't put me in mind of it!

SIR PETER. Yes, yes Madam and your daily occupation to inspectthe Dairy, superintend the Poultry, make extracts from the FamilyReceipt-book, and comb your aunt Deborah's Lap Dog.

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LADY TEAZLE. Abominable!

SIR PETER. Yes Madam--and what were your evening amusements?to draw Patterns for Ruffles, which you hadn't the materials to make--play Pope Joan with the Curate--to read a sermon to your Aunt--or be stuck down to an old Spinet to strum your father to sleepafter a Fox Chase.

LADY TEAZLE. Scandalous--Sir Peter not a word of it true--

SIR PETER. Yes, Madam--These were the recreations I took you from--and now--no one more extravagantly in the Fashion--Every Foperyadopted--a head-dress to o'er top Lady Pagoda with feathers pendanthorizontal and perpendicular--you forget[,] Lady Teazle--when a littlewired gauze with a few Beads made you a fly Cap not much bigger thana blew-bottle, and your Hair was comb'd smooth over a Roll--

LADY TEAZLE. Shocking! horrible Roll!!

SIR PETER. But now--you must have your coach--Vis-a-vis, and threepowder'd Footmen before your Chair--and in the summer a pair ofwhite cobs to draw you to Kensington Gardens--no

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recollection when you were content to ride double, behind the Butler, on a dockedCoach-Horse?

LADY TEAZLE. Horrid!--I swear I never did.

SIR PETER. This, madam, was your situation--and what have I not donefor you? I have made you woman of Fashion of Fortune of Rank--in short I have made you my wife.

LADY TEAZLE. Well then and there is but one thing more you can makeme to add to the obligation.

SIR PETER. What's that pray?

LADY TEAZLE. Your widow.--

SIR PETER. Thank you Madam--but don't flatter yourself for thoughyour ill-conduct may disturb my Peace it shall never break my HeartI promise you--however I am equally obliged to you for the Hint.

LADY TEAZLE. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself sodisagreeable to me--and thwart me in every little elegant

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expense.

SIR PETER. 'Slife--Madam I pray, had you any of these elegantexpenses when you married me?

LADY TEAZLE. Lud Sir Peter would you have me be out of the Fashion?

SIR PETER. The Fashion indeed!--what had you to do with the Fashionbefore you married me?

LADY TEAZLE. For my Part--I should think you would like to haveyour wife thought a woman of Taste--

SIR PETER. Aye there again--Taste! Zounds Madam you had no Tastewhen you married me--

LADY TEAZLE. That's very true indeed Sir Peter! after having marriedyou I should never pretend to Taste again I allow.

SIR PETER. So--so then--Madam--if these are your Sentiments pray howcame I to be honour'd with your Hand?

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LADY TEAZLE. Shall I tell you the Truth?

SIR PETER. If it's not too great a Favour.

LADY TEAZLE. Why the Fact is I was tired of all those agreeableRecreations which you have so good naturally [naturedly] Described--and having a Spirit to spend and enjoy a Fortune--I determinedto marry the first rich man that would have me.

SIR PETER. A very honest confession--truly--but pray madam was thereno one else you might have tried to ensnare but me.

LADY TEAZLE. O lud--I drew my net at several but you were the onlyone I could catch.

SIR PETER. This is plain dealing indeed--

LADY TEAZLE. But now Sir Peter if we have finish'd our daily JangleI presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's?

SIR PETER. Aye--there's another Precious circumstance--a charmingset of acquaintance--you have made there!

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LADY TEAZLE. Nay Sir Peter they are People of Rank and Fortune--and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

SIR PETER. Yes egad they are tenacious of Reputation witha vengeance, for they don't chuse anybody should have a Characterbut themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on hurdleswho has done less mischief than these utterers of forged Tales,coiners of Scandal, and clippers of Reputation.

LADY TEAZLE. What would you restrain the freedom of speech?

SIR PETER. Aye they have made you just as bad [as] any oneof the Society.

LADY TEAZLE. Why--I believe I do bear a Part with a tolerable Grace--But I vow I bear no malice against the People I abuse, when I sayan ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure Good Humour--and I take itfor granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me,but Sir Peter you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.

SIR PETER. Well well I'll call in, just to look after my owncharacter.

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LADY TEAZLE. Then, indeed, you must make Haste after me, or you'llbe too late--so good bye to ye.

SIR PETER. So--I have gain'd much by my intended expostulation--yet with what a charming air she contradicts every thing I say--and how pleasingly she shows her contempt of my authority--Welltho' I can't make her love me, there is certainly a great satisfactionin quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to suchadvantage as when she is doing everything in her Power to plague me.[Exit.]

 SCENE II.--At LADY SNEERWELL'S

 LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE,and SURFACE

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay, positively, we will hear it.

SURFACE. Yes--yes the Epigram by all means.

SiR BENJAMIN. O plague on't unkle--'tis mere nonsense--

CRABTREE. No no; 'fore gad very clever for an extempore!

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SIR BENJAMIN. But ladies you should be acquainted withthe circumstances. You must know that one day last weekas Lady Betty Curricle was taking the Dust in High Park,in a sort of duodecimo Phaeton--she desired me to writesome verses on her Ponies--upon which I took out my Pocket-Book--and in one moment produced--the following:--

 'Sure never were seen two such beautiful Ponies;Other Horses are Clowns--and these macaronies,Nay to give 'em this Title, I'm sure isn't wrong,Their Legs are so slim--and their Tails are so long.

CRABTREE. There Ladies--done in the smack of a whip and on Horsebacktoo.

SURFACE. A very Phoebus, mounted--indeed Sir Benjamin.

SIR BENJAMIN. Oh dear Sir--Trifles--Trifles.

 Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA

MRS. CANDOUR. I must have a Copy--

LADY SNEERWELL. Lady Teazle--I hope we shall see Sir Peter?

LADY TEAZLE. I believe He'll wait on your Ladyship

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presently.

LADY SNEERWELL. Maria my love you look grave. Come, you sit downto Piquet with Mr. Surface.

MARIA. I take very little Pleasure in cards--however, I'll doas you Please.

LADY TEAZLE. I am surprised Mr. Surface should sit down her--I thought He would have embraced this opportunity of speakingto me before Sir Peter came--[Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. Now, I'll die but you are so scandalous I'll forswearyour society.

LADY TEAZLE. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?

MRS. CANDOUR. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillionto be handsome.

LADY SNEERWELL. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman. . . .

[CRABTREE.] I am very glad you think so ma'am.

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MRS. CANDOUR. She has a charming fresh Colour.

CRABTREE. Yes when it is fresh put on--

LADY TEAZLE. O fie! I'll swear her colour is natural--I have seenit come and go--

CRABTREE. I dare swear you have, ma'am: it goes of a Night,and comes again in the morning.

SIR BENJAMIN. True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what'smore egad her maid can fetch and carry it--

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so!But surely, now, her Sister, is or was very handsome.

CRABTREE. Who? Mrs. Stucco? O lud! she's six-and-fifty if she'san hour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Now positively you wrong her[;] fifty-two,or fifty-three is the utmost--and I don't think she looks more.

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one was

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to see her Face.

LADY SNEERWELL. Well--well--if she does take some pains to repairthe ravages of Time--you must allow she effects it with greatingenuity--and surely that's better than the careless mannerin which the widow Ocre chaulks her wrinkles.

SIR BENJAMIN. Nay now--you are severe upon the widow--come--come,it isn't that she paints so ill--but when she has finished her Faceshe joins it on so badly to her Neck, that she looks like a mendedStatue, in which the Connoisseur sees at once that the Head's moderntho' the Trunk's antique----

CRABTREE. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Nephew!

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh but I vow I hateyou for it--what do you think of Miss Simper?

SIR BENJAMIN. Why, she has very pretty Teeth.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes and on that account, when she is neither speakingnor laughing (which very seldom happens)--she never absolutely shuts

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her mouth, but leaves it always on a-Jar, as it were----

MRS. CANDOUR. How can you be so ill-natured!

LADY TEAZLE. Nay, I allow even that's better than the Pains Mrs. Primtakes to conceal her losses in Front--she draws her mouth tillit resembles the aperture of a Poor's-Box, and all her words appearto slide out edgewise.

LADY SNEERWELL. Very well Lady Teazle I see you can be a littlesevere.

LADY TEAZLE. In defence of a Friend it is but justice, but here comesSir Peter to spoil our Pleasantry.

 Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ladies, your obedient--Mercy on me--here is the whole set!a character's dead at every word, I suppose.

MRS. CANDOUR. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter--they have beenso censorious and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

SIR PETER. That must be very distressing to you, Mrs.

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Candour I dareswear.

MRS. CANDOUR. O they will allow good Qualities to nobody--not evengood nature to our Friend Mrs. Pursy.

LADY TEAZLE. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Codrille's[Quadrille's] last Night?

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay--her bulk is her misfortune and when she takessuch Pains to get rid of it you ought not to reflect on her.

MRS. CANDOUR. 'Tis very true, indeed.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey--laces herself by pulleys and often in the hottest noon of summeryou may see her on a little squat Pony, with her hair plaited upbehind like a Drummer's and puffing round the Ring on a full trot.

MRS. CANDOUR. I thank you Lady Teazle for defending her.

SIR PETER. Yes, a good Defence, truly!

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MRS. CANDOUR. But for Sir Benjamin, He is as censorious asMiss Sallow.

CRABTREE. Yes and she is a curious Being to pretend to becensorious--an awkward Gawky, without any one good Pointunder Heaven!

LADY SNEERWELL. Positively you shall not be so very severe.Miss Sallow is a Relation of mine by marriage, and, as forher Person great allowance is to be made--for, let me tell youa woman labours under many disadvantages who tries to passfor a girl at six-and-thirty.

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho', surely she is handsome still--and for theweakness in her eyes considering how much she reads by candle-lightit is not to be wonder'd at.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and then as to her manner--upon my wordI think it is particularly graceful considering she never had theleast Education[:] for you know her Mother was a Welch milliner,and her Father a sugar-Baker at Bristow.--

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!

SIR PETER. Yes, damned good-natured! Her own relation!

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mercy on me! [Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. For my Part I own I cannot bear to hear a friendill-spoken of?

SIR PETER. No, to be sure!

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah you are of a moral turn Mrs. Candour and can sitfor an hour to hear Lady Stucco talk sentiments.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the Dessertafter Dinner for she's just like the Spanish Fruit one cracksfor mottoes--made up of Paint and Proverb.

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, I never will join in ridiculing a Friend--and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle--and you all know whatpretensions she has to be critical in Beauty.

LADY TEAZLE. O to be sure she has herself the oddest countenancethat ever was seen--'tis a collection of Features from all thedifferent Countries of the globe.

SIR BENJAMIN. So she has indeed--an Irish Front----

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CRABTREE. Caledonian Locks----

SIR BENJAMIN. Dutch Nose----

CRABTREE. Austrian Lips----

SIR BENJAMIN. Complexion of a Spaniard----

CRABTREE. And Teeth a la Chinoise----

SIR BENJAMIN. In short, her Face resembles a table d'hote at Spa--where no two guests are of a nation----

CRABTREE. Or a Congress at the close of a general War--wherein allthe members even to her eyes appear to have a different interestand her Nose and Chin are the only Parties likely to join issue.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Mercy on my Life[!] a Person they dine with twice a week![Aside.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Go--go--you are a couple of provoking Toads.

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MRS. CANDOUR. Nay but I vow you shall not carry the Laugh off so--for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle----

SIR PETER. Madam--madam--I beg your Pardon--there's no stoppingthese good Gentlemen's Tongues--but when I tell you Mrs. Candourthat the Lady they are abusing is a particular Friend of mine,I hope you'll not take her Part.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter--but you area cruel creature--too Phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too peevishto allow wit in others.

SIR PETER. Ah Madam true wit is more nearly allow'd [allied?]to good Nature than your Ladyship is aware of.

LADY SNEERWELL. True Sir Peter--I believe they are so near akinthat they can never be united.

SIR BENJAMIN. O rather Madam suppose them man and wife becauseone seldom sees them together.

LADY TEAZLE. But Sir Peter is such an Enemy to Scandal I believe

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He would have it put down by Parliament.

SIR PETER. 'Fore heaven! Madam, if they were to consider theSporting with Reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors--and pass an Act for the Preservation of Fame--there are many wouldthank them for the Bill.

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud! Sir Peter would you deprive us of ourPrivileges--

SIR PETER. Aye Madam--and then no person should be permitted to killcharacters or run down reputations, but qualified old Maids anddisappointed Widows.--

LADY SNEERWELL. Go, you monster--

MRS. CANDOUR. But sure you would not be quite so severe on thosewho only report what they hear?

SIR PETER. Yes Madam, I would have Law Merchant for that too--and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the Drawer of the Liewas not to be found, the injured Party should have a right to

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comeon any of the indorsers.

CRABTREE. Well for my Part I believe there never was a ScandalousTale without some foundation.<3>

LADY SNEERWELL. Come Ladies shall we sit down to Cards in the nextRoom?

 Enter SERVANT, whispers SIR PETER

SIR PETER. I'll be with them directly.--[Exit SERVANT.]I'll get away unperceived.

LADY SNEERWELL. Sir Peter you are not leaving us?

SIR PETER. Your Ladyship must excuse me--I'm called away byparticular Business--but I leave my Character behind me--[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Well certainly Lady Teazle that lord of yoursis a strange being--I could tell you some stories of him would makeyou laugh heartily if He wern't your Husband.

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LADY TEAZLE. O pray don't mind that--come do let's hear 'em.[join the rest of the Company going into the Next Room.]

SURFACE. Maria I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

MARIA. How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smilesat the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured usbe the province of wit or Humour, Heaven grant me a double Portionof Dullness--

SURFACE. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are--they haveno malice at heart--

MARIA. Then is their conduct still more contemptible[;] for in myopinion--nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tonguesbut a natural and ungovernable bitterness of Mind.

SURFACE. Undoubtedly Madam--and it has always been a sentimentof mine--that to propagate a malicious Truth wantonly--is moredespicable than to falsify from Revenge, but can you Maria feelthus [f]or others and be unkind to me alone--nay is hope to be

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deniedthe tenderest Passion.--

MARIA. Why will you distress me by renewing this subject--

SURFACE. Ah! Maria! you would not treat me thus and oppose yourguardian's Sir Peter's wishes--but that I see that my ProfligateBrother is still a favour'd Rival.

MARIA. Ungenerously urged--but whatever my sentiments of thatunfortunate young man are, be assured I shall not feel more boundto give him up because his Distresses have sunk him so low asto deprive him of the regard even of a Brother.

SURFACE. Nay but Maria do not leave me with a Frown--by all that'shonest, I swear----Gad's Life here's Lady Teazle--you must not--no you shall--for tho' I have the greatest Regard for Lady Teazle----

MARIA. Lady Teazle!

SURFACE. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect----

 [Enter LADY TEAZLE, and comes forward]

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LADY TEAZLE. What's this, Pray--do you take her for me!--Child youare wanted in the next Room.--What's all this, pray--

SURFACE. O the most unlucky circumstance in Nature. Maria hassomehow suspected the tender concern I have for your happiness,and threaten'd to acquaint Sir Peter with her suspicions--and I wasjust endeavouring to reason with her when you came.

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed but you seem'd to adopt--a very tender modeof reasoning--do you usually argue on your knees?

SURFACE. O she's a Child--and I thought a little Bombast----but Lady Teazle when are you to give me your judgment on my Libraryas you promised----

LADY TEAZLE. No--no I begin to think it would be imprudent--and you know I admit you as a Lover no farther than Fashion requires.

SURFACE. True--a mere Platonic Cicisbeo, what every London wifeis entitled to.

LADY TEAZLE. Certainly one must not be out of the

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Fashion--however,I have so much of my country Prejudices left--that--though Sir Peter'sill humour may vex me ever so, it never shall provoke me to----

SURFACE. The only revenge in your Power--well I applaud yourmoderation.

LADY TEAZLE. Go--you are an insinuating Hypocrite--but we shall bemiss'd--let us join the company.

SURFACE. True, but we had best not return together.

LADY TEAZLE. Well don't stay--for Maria shan't come to hearany more of your Reasoning, I promise you--[Exit.]

SURFACE. A curious Dilemma truly my Politics have run me into.I wanted at first only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle that shemight not be my enemy with Maria--and I have I don't know how--become her serious Lover, so that I stand a chance of Committinga Crime I never meditated--and probably of losing Maria by thePursuit!--Sincerely I begin to wish I had never made such a

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Pointof gaining so very good a character, for it has led me into so manycurst Rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last.[Exit.]

 SCENE III.--At SIR PETER'S

 --ROWLEY and SIR OLIVER--

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! ha! and so my old Friend is married, hey?--a young wife out of the country!--ha! ha! that he should have stoodBluff to old Bachelor so long and sink into a Husband at last!

ROWLEY. But you must not rally him on the subject Sir Oliver--'tisa tender Point I assure you though He has been married only sevenmonths.

SIR OLIVER. Ah then he has been just half a year on the stoolof Repentance--Poor Peter! But you say he has entirely given upCharles--never sees him, hey?

ROWLEY. His Prejudice against him is astonishing--and I am suregreatly increased by a jealousy of him with Lady Teazle--

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whichhe has been industriously led into by a scandalous Society--in the neighbourhood--who have contributed not a little to Charles'sill name. Whereas the truth is[,] I believe[,] if the ladyis partial to either of them his Brother is the Favourite.

SIR OLIVER. Aye--I know--there are a set of malicious pratingprudent Gossips both male and Female, who murder characters to killtime, and will rob a young Fellow of his good name before He has yearsto know the value of it. . . but I am not to be prejudiced againstmy nephew by such I promise you! No! no--if Charles has done nothingfalse or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.

ROWLEY. Then my life on't, you will reclaim him. Ah, Sir, it givesme new vigour to find that your heart is not turned against him--and that the son of my good old master has one friend however left--

SIR OLIVER. What! shall I forget Master Rowley--when I was at hishouse myself--egad my Brother and I were neither of us very prudentyouths--and yet I believe you have not seen many better men than your

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old master was[.]

ROWLEY. 'Tis this Reflection gives me assurance that Charles may yetbe a credit to his Family--but here comes Sir Peter----

SIR OLIVER. Egad so He does--mercy on me--He's greatly altered--and seems to have a settled married look--one may read Husbandin his Face at this Distance.--

 Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ha! Sir Oliver--my old Friend--welcome to England--a thousand Times!

SIR OLIVER. Thank you--thank you--Sir Peter--and Efaith I amas glad to find you well[,] believe me--

SIR PETER. Ah! 'tis a long time since we met--sixteen year I doubtSir Oliver--and many a cross accident in the Time--

SIR OLIVER. Aye I have had my share--but, what[!] I find you aremarried--hey my old Boy--well--well it can't be help'd--and so I wish

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you joy with all my heart--

SIR PETER. Thank you--thanks Sir Oliver.--Yes, I have entered intothe happy state but we'll not talk of that now.

SIR OLIVER. True true Sir Peter old Friends shouldn't beginon grievances at first meeting. No, no--

ROWLEY. Take care pray Sir----

SIR OLIVER. Well--so one of my nephews I find is a wild Rogue--hey?

SIR PETER. Wild!--oh! my old Friend--I grieve for your disappointmentthere--He's a lost young man indeed--however his Brother will make youamends; Joseph is indeed what a youth should be--everybody in theworld speaks well of him--

SIR OLIVER. I am sorry to hear it--he has too good a character to bean honest Fellow. Everybody speaks well of him! Psha! then He hasbow'd as low to Knaves and Fools as to the honest dignity of Virtue.

SIR PETER. What Sir Oliver do you blame him for not

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making Enemies?

SIR OLIVER. Yes--if He has merit enough to deserve them.

SIR PETER. Well--well--you'll be convinced when you know him--'tisedification to hear him converse--he professes the noblest Sentiments.

SIR OLIVER. Ah plague on his Sentiments--if he salutes me witha scrap sentence of morality in his mouth I shall be sick directly--but however don't mistake me Sir Peter I don't mean to defendCharles's Errors--but before I form my judgment of either of them,I intend to make a trial of their Hearts--and my Friend Rowleyand I have planned something for the Purpose.

ROWLEY. And Sir Peter shall own he has been for once mistaken.

SIR PETER. My life on Joseph's Honour----

SIR OLIVER. Well come give us a bottle of good wine--and we'lldrink the Lads' Healths and tell you our scheme.

SIR PETER. Alons [Allons], then----

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SIR OLIVER. But don't Sir Peter be so severe against your oldFriend's son.

SIR PETER. 'Tis his Vices and Follies have made me his Enemy.--

ROWLEY. Come--come--Sir Peter consider how early He was leftto his own guidance.

SIR OLIVER. Odds my Life--I am not sorry that He has run outof the course a little--for my Part, I hate to see dry Prudenceclinging to the green juices of youth--'tis like ivy rounda sapling and spoils the growth of the Tree.

 END OF THE SECOND ACT

 ACT III

 SCENE I.--At SIR PETER'S

 SIR PETER, SIR OLIVER, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. Well, then, we will see the Fellows first and have ourwine afterwards.--but how is this, Master Rowley--I don't seethe Jet of your scheme.

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ROWLEY. Why Sir--this Mr. Stanley whom I was speaking of, is nearlyrelated to them by their mother. He was once a merchant in Dublin--but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes--and nowlately coming over to solicit the assistance of his friends here--has been flyng [flung] into prison by some of his Creditors--where he is now with two helpless Boys.--

SIR OLIVER. Aye and a worthy Fellow too I remember him. But whatis this to lead to--?

ROWLEY. You shall hear--He has applied by letter both to Mr. Surfaceand Charles--from the former he has received nothing but evasivepromises of future service, while Charles has done all that hisextravagance has left him power to do--and He is at this timeendeavouring to raise a sum of money--part of which, in the midst ofhis own distresses, I know He intends for the service of poor Stanley.

SIR OLIVER. Ah! he is my Brother's Son.

SIR PETER. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally to----

ROWLEY. Why Sir I will inform Charles and his Brother that Stanley

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has obtain'd permission to apply in person to his Friends--and as theyhave neither of them ever seen him[,] let Sir Oliver assume hischaracter--and he will have a fair opportunity of judging at leastof the Benevolence of their Dispositions.

SIR PETER. Pshaw! this will prove nothing--I make no doubt Charlesis Coxcomb and thoughtless enough to give money to poor relationsif he had it--

SIR OLIVER. Then He shall never want it--. I have broughta few Rupees home with me Sir Peter--and I only want to be sureof bestowing them rightly.--

ROWLEY. Then Sir believe me you will find in the youngest Brotherone who in the midst of Folly and dissipation--has still, as ourimmortal Bard expresses it,--

 "a Tear for Pity and a Hand open as the day for melting Charity."

SIR PETER. Pish! What signifies his having an open Hand or Purseeither when He has nothing left to give!--but if you talk of humaneSentiments--Joseph is the man--Well, well, make the trial, if you

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please. But where is the fellow whom you brought for Sir Oliverto examine, relative to Charles's affairs?

ROWLEY. Below waiting his commands, and no one can give him betterintelligence--This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who to do himjustice, has done everything in his power to bring your nephew toa proper sense of his extravagance.

SIR PETER. Pray let us have him in.

ROWLEY. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs.

 [Calls to SERVANT.]

SIR PETER. But Pray why should you suppose he will speak the truth?

ROWLEY. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of recoveringcertain Sums advanced to Charles but through the bounty of Sir Oliver,who He knows is arrived; so that you may depend on his Fidelity to hisinterest. I have also another evidence in my Power, one Snake, whomI shall shortly produce to remove some of YOUR Prejudices[,] Sir

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Peter[,] relative to Charles and Lady Teazle.

SIR PETER. I have heard too much on that subject.

ROWLEY. Here comes the honest Israelite.

 Enter MOSES

--This is Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. Sir--I understand you have lately had great dealingswith my Nephew Charles.

MOSES. Yes Sir Oliver--I have done all I could for him, but He wasruined before He came to me for Assistance.

SIR OLIVER. That was unlucky truly--for you have had no opportunityof showing your Talents.

MOSES. None at all--I hadn't the Pleasure of knowing his Distressestill he was some thousands worse than nothing, till it was impossibleto add to them.

SIR OLIVER. Unfortunate indeed! but I suppose you have

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done allin your Power for him honest Moses?

MOSES. Yes he knows that--This very evening I was to have broughthim a gentleman from the city who does not know him and willI believe advance some money.

SIR PETER. What[!] one Charles has never had money from before?

MOSES. Yes[--]Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars.

SIR PETER. Egad, Sir Oliver a Thought strikes me!--Charles you saydoes'nt know Mr. Premium?

MOSES. Not at all.

SIR PETER. Now then Sir Oliver you may have a better opportunity ofsatisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale of a poor Relation--go with my friend Moses and represent Mr. Premium and then I'll answerfor't you'll see your Nephew in all his glory.

SIR OLIVER. Egad I like this Idea better than the other, and I may

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visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.

SIR PETER. True so you may.

ROWLEY. Well this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, to besure--however Moses--you understand Sir Peter and will be faithful----

MOSES. You may depend upon me--and this is near the Time I wasto have gone.

SIR OLIVER. I'll accompany you as soon as you please, Moses----but hold--I have forgot one thing--how the plague shall I be ableto pass for a Jew?

MOSES. There's no need--the Principal is Christian.

SIR OLIVER. Is He--I'm very sorry to hear it--but then again--an't I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money-Lender?

SIR PETER. Not at all; 'twould not be out of character, if youwent in your own carriage--would it, Moses!

MOSES. Not in the least.

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SIR OLIVER. Well--but--how must I talk[?] there's certainly somecant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know.

SIR PETER. Oh, there's not much to learn--the great point as Itake it is to be exorbitant enough in your Demands hey Moses?

MOSES. Yes that's very great Point.

SIR OLIVER. I'll answer for't I'll not be wanting in that--I'llask him eight or ten per cent. on the loan--at least.

MOSES. You'll be found out directly--if you ask him no more thanthat, you'll be discovered immediately.

SIR OLIVER. Hey!--what the Plague!--how much then?

MOSES. That depends upon the Circumstances--if he appears notvery anxious for the supply, you should require only forty orfifty per cent.--but if you find him in great Distress, and wantthe monies very bad--you may ask double.

SIR PETER. A good--[h]onest Trade you're learning, Sir Oliver--

SIR OLIVER. Truly, I think so--and not unprofitable--

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MOSES. Then you know--you haven't the monies yourself, but areforced to borrow them for him of a Friend.

SIR OLIVER. O I borrow it of a Friend do I?

MOSES. And your friend is an unconscion'd Dog--but you can't help it.

SIR OLIVER. My Friend's an unconscionable Dog, is he?

MOSES. Yes--and He himself hasn't the monies by him--but is forcedto sell stock--at a great loss--

SIR OLIVER. He is forced to sell stock is he--at a great loss,is he--well that's very kind of him--

SIR PETER. Efaith, Sir Oliver--Mr. Premium I mean--you'll soonbe master of the Trade--but, Moses would have him inquire if theborrower is a minor--

MOSES. O yes--

SIR PETER. And in that case his Conscience will direct him--

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MOSES. To have the Bond in another Name to be sure.

SIR OLIVER. Well--well I shall be perfect--

SIR PETER. But hearkee wouldn't you have him also run out a littleagainst the annuity Bill--that would be in character I should think--

MOSES. Very much--

ROWLEY. And lament that a young man now must be at yearsof discretion before He is suffered to ruin himself!

MOSES. Aye, great Pity!

SIR PETER. And abuse the Public for allowing merit to an actwhose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence fromthe rapacious Relief of usury! and give the minor a chance ofinheriting his estate without being undone by coming into Possession.

SIR OLIVER. So--so--Moses shall give me further instructionsas we go together.

SIR PETER. You will not have much time[,] for your Nephew lives

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hard bye--

SIR OLIVER. Oh Never--fear[:] my Tutor appears so able that tho'Charles lived in the next street it must be my own Fault if I amnot a compleat Rogue before I turn the Corner--[Exeunt SIR OLIVER and MOSES.]

SIR PETER. So--now I think Sir Oliver will be convinced--you shan'tfollow them Rowley. You are partial and would have prepared Charlesfor 'tother plot.

ROWLEY. No upon my word Sir Peter--

SIR PETER. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I'll hear what he hasto say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with her.--[Exit ROWLEY.]I should be glad to be convinced my suspicions of Lady Teazle andCharles were unjust--I have never yet opened my mind on this subjectto my Friend Joseph. . . . I am determined. I will do it--He willgive me his opinion sincerely.--

 Enter MARIA

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So Child--has Mr. Surface returned with you--

MARIA. No Sir--He was engaged.

SIR PETER. Well--Maria--do you not reflect[,] the more you conversewith that amiable young man[,] what return his Partiality for youdeserves?

MARIA. Indeed Sir Peter--your frequent importunity on this subjectdistresses me extremely--you compell me to Declare that I know no manwho has ever paid me a particular Attention whom I would not preferto Mr. Surface--

SIR PETER. Soh! Here's Perverseness--no--no--Maria, 'tis Charlesonly whom you would prefer--'tis evident his Vices and Follies havewon your Heart.

MARIA. This is unkind Sir--You know I have obey'd you in neitherseeing nor corresponding with him--I have heard enough to convinceme that He is unworthy my regard--Yet I cannot think it culpable--if while my understanding severely condemns his Vices, my Heart

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suggests some Pity for his Distresses.

SIR PETER. Well well pity him as much as you please, but give yourHeart and Hand to a worthier object.

MARIA. Never to his Brother!

SIR PETER. Go--perverse and obstinate! but take care, Madam--you have never yet known what the authority of a Guardian is--don't compel me to inform you of it.--

MARIA. I can only say, you shall not have just Reason--'tis true,by my Father's will I am for a short period bound to regard youas his substitute, but I must cease to think you so when you wouldcompel me to be miserable.[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Was ever man so crossed as I am[?] everything conspiringto fret me! I had not been involved in matrimony a fortnight[,]before her Father--a hale and hearty man, died on purpose, I believe--for the Pleasure of plaguing me with the care of his Daughter . . .but here comes my Helpmate!--She appears in great good humour----

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how happy I should be if I could teaze her into loving me tho'but a little----

 Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. Lud! Sir Peter I hope you haven't been quarrelling withMaria? It isn't using me well to be ill humour'd when I am not bye--!

SIR PETER. Ah! Lady Teazle you might have the Power to make megood humour'd at all times--

LADY TEAZLE. I am sure--I wish I had--for I want you to be in acharming sweet temper at this moment--do be good humour'd now--and let me have two hundred Pounds will you?

SIR PETER. Two hundred Pounds! what an't I to be in a good humourwithout paying for it--but speak to me thus--and Efaith there'snothing I could refuse you. You shall have it--but seal me a bondfor the repayment.

LADY TEAZLE. O no--there--my Note of Hand will do as well--

SIR PETER. And you shall no longer reproach me with not

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giving youan independent settlement--I shall shortly surprise you--and you'llnot call me ungenerous--but shall we always live thus--hey?

LADY TEAZLE. If you--please--I'm sure I don't care how soon we leaveoff quarrelling provided you'll own you were tired first--

SIR PETER. Well--then let our future contest be who shall be mostobliging.

LADY TEAZLE. I assure you Sir Peter Good Nature becomes you--you look now as you did before we were married--when you usedto walk with me under the Elms, and tell me stories of whata Gallant you were in your youth--and chuck me under the chinyou would--and ask me if I thought I could love an old Fellowwho would deny me nothing--didn't you?

SIR PETER. Yes--yes--and you were as kind and attentive----

LADY TEAZLE. Aye so I was--and would always take your Part, whenmy acquaintance used to abuse you and turn you into ridicule--

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SIR PETER. Indeed!

LADY TEAZLE. Aye--and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiffpeevish old batchelor and laugh'd at me for thinking of marrying onewho might be my Father--I have always defended you--and said I didn'tthink you so ugly by any means, and that you'd make a very good sortof a husband--

SIR PETER. And you prophesied right--and we shall certainly nowbe the happiest couple----

LADY TEAZLE. And never differ again.

SIR PETER. No never--tho' at the same time indeed--my dear LadyTeazle--you must watch your Temper very narrowly--for in all ourlittle Quarrels--my dear--if you recollect my Love you always began

first--

LADY TEAZLE. I beg your Pardon--my dear Sir Peter--indeed--you always gave the provocation.

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SIR PETER. Now--see, my Love take care--contradicting isn't the wayto keep Friends.

LADY TEAZLE. Then don't you begin it my Love!

SIR PETER. There now--you are going on--you don't perceive[,]my Life, that you are just doing the very thing my Love whichyou know always makes me angry.

LADY TEAZLE. Nay--you know if you will be angry without any reason--my Dear----

SIR PETER. There now you want to quarrel again.

LADY TEAZLE. No--I am sure I don't--but if you will be so peevish----

SIR PETER. There--now who begins first?

LADY TEAZLE. Why you to be sure--I said nothing[--]but there'sno bearing your Temper.

SIR PETER. No--no--my dear--the fault's in your own temper.

LADY TEAZLE. Aye you are just what my Cousin Sophy

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said youwould be--

SIR PETER. Your Cousin Sophy--is a forward impertinent Gipsey--

LADY TEAZLE. Go you great Bear--how dare you abuse my Relations--

SIR PETER. Now may all the Plagues of marriage be doubled on me,if ever I try to be Friends with you any more----

LADY TEAZLE. So much the Better.

SIR PETER. No--no Madam 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me--I was a madman to marry you--

LADY TEAZLE. And I am sure I was a Fooll to marry you--an olddangling Batchelor, who was single of [at] fifty--only becauseHe never could meet with any one who would have him.

SIR PETER. Aye--aye--Madam--but you were pleased enough to listento me--you never had such an offer before--

LADY TEAZLE. No--didn't I refuse Sir Jeremy Terrier--who everybody

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said would have been a better Match--for his estate is just as goodas yours--and he has broke his Neck since we have been married!

SIR PETER. I have done with you Madam! You are an unfeeling--ungrateful--but there's an end of everything--I believe you capableof anything that's bad--Yes, Madam--I now believe the Reportsrelative to you and Charles--Madam--yes--Madam--you and Charles are--not without grounds----

LADY TEAZLE. Take--care Sir Peter--you had better not insinuate anysuch thing! I'll not be suspected without cause I promise you----

SIR PETER. Very--well--Madam--very well! a separate maintenance--as soon as you Please. Yes Madam or a Divorce--I'll make an exampleof myself for the Benefit of all old Batchelors--Let us separate,Madam.

LADY TEAZLE. Agreed--agreed--and now--my dear Sir Peter we areof a mind again, we may be the happiest couple--and never differagain, you know--ha! ha!--Well you are going to be in a

217

PassionI see--and I shall only interrupt you--so, bye! bye! hey--young Jockey try'd and countered.[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Plagues and tortures! She pretends to keep her temper,can't I make her angry neither! O! I am the miserable fellow!But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her Temper--No she maybreak my Heart--but she shan't keep her Temper.[Exit.]

 SCENE II.--At CHARLES's House

 Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER

TRIP. Here Master Moses--if you'll stay a moment--I'll try whetherMr.----what's the Gentleman's Name?

SIR OLIVER. Mr.----Moses--what IS my name----

MOSES. Mr. Premium----

TRIP. Premium--very well.[Exit TRIP--taking snuff.]

SIR OLIVER. To judge by the Servants--one wouldn't believe the master

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was ruin'd--but what--sure this was my Brother's House----

MOSES. Yes Sir Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with theFurniture, Pictures, &c.--just as the old Gentleman left it--Sir Peter thought it a great peice of extravagance in him.

SIR OLIVER. In my mind the other's economy in selling it to himwas more reprehensible by half.----

 Enter TRIP

TRIP. My Master[,] Gentlemen[,] says you must wait, he has company,and can't speak with you yet.

SIR OLIVER. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhapshe wouldn't have sent such a Message.

TRIP. Yes--yes--Sir--He knows you are here--I didn't forgetlittle Premium--no--no----

SIR OLIVER. Very well--and pray Sir what may be your Name?

TRIP. Trip Sir--my Name is Trip, at your Service.

SIR OLIVER. Well then Mr. Trip--I presume your master is

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seldomwithout company----

TRIP. Very seldom Sir--the world says ill-natured things of himbut 'tis all malice--no man was ever better beloved--Sir he seldomsits down to dinner without a dozen particular Friends----

SIR OLIVER. He's very happy indeed--you have a pleasant sortof Place here I guess?

TRIP. Why yes--here are three or four of us pass our time agreeablyenough--but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear--and notvery great either--but fifty Pounds a year and find our own Bags andBouquets----

SIR OLIVER. Bags and Bouquets!--Halters and Bastinadoes! [Aside.]

TRIP. But a propos Moses--have you been able to get me that littleBill discounted?

SIR OLIVER. Wants to raise money too!--mercy on me! has hisdistresses, I warrant[,] like a Lord--and affects Creditors and

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Duns![Aside.]

MOSES. 'Twas not be done, indeed----

TRIP. Good lack--you surprise me--My Friend Brush has indorsed itand I thought when he put his name at the Back of a Bill 'twasas good as cash.

MOSES. No 'twouldn't do.

TRIP. A small sum--but twenty Pound--harkee, Moses do you thinkyou could get it me by way of annuity?

SIR OLIVER. An annuity! ha! ha! a Footman raise money by annuity--Well done Luxury egad! [Aside.]

MOSES. Who would you get to join with you?

TRIP. You know my Lord Applice--you have seen him however----

MOSES. Yes----

TRIP. You must have observed what an appearance he makes--nobody

221

dresses better, nobody throws off faster--very well this Gentlemanwill stand my security.

MOSES. Well--but you must insure your Place.

TRIP. O with all my Heart--I'll insure my Place, and my Life too,if you please.

SIR OLIVER. It's more than I would your neck----

MOSES. But is there nothing you could deposit?

TRIP. Why nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has drop'dlately--but I could give you a mortgage on some of his winterCloaths with equity of redemption before November or--you shallhave the reversion--of the French velvet, or a post obit on theBlue and Silver--these I should think Moses--with a few Pair ofPoint Ruffles as a collateral security--hey, my little Fellow?

MOSES. Well well--we'll talk presently--we detain the Gentlemen----

SIR OLIVER. O pray don't let me interrupt Mr. Trip's Negotiation.

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TRIP. Harkee--I heard the Bell--I believe, Gentlemen I can nowintroduce you--don't forget the annuity little Moses.

SIR OLIVER. If the man be a shadow of his Master this is the Templeof Dissipation indeed![Exeunt.]

 SCENE III.--CHARLES, CARELESS, etc., etc.

 At Table with Wine

CHARLES. 'Fore Heaven, 'tis true!--there is the great Degeneracyof the age--many of our acquaintance have Taste--Spirit, andPoliteness--but plague on't they won't drink----

CARELESS. It is so indeed--Charles--they give into all thesubstantial Luxuries of the Table--and abstain from nothing butwine and wit--Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably--for now instead of the social spirit of Raillery that usedto mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy their conversationis become just like the Spa water they drink which has all thePertness and flatulence of champaine without its spirit or Flavour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. But what are they to do who love Play better than

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wine----

CARELESS. True--there's Harry diets himself--for gaming and is nowunder a hazard Regimen.

CHARLES. Then He'll have the worst of it--what you wouldn't traina horse for the course by keeping him from corn--For my Part egadI am never so successful as when I'm a little--merry--let me throwon a Bottle of Champaine and I never lose--at least I never feelmy losses which is exactly the same thing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Aye that may be--but it is as impossible to followwine and play as to unite Love and Politics.

CHARLES. Pshaw--you may do both--Caesar made Love and Lawsin a Breath--and was liked by the Senate as well as the Ladies--but no man can pretend to be a Believer in Love, who is an abjurerof wine--'tis the Test by which a Lover knows his own Heart--fill a dozen Bumpers to a dozen Beauties, and she that floatsatop is the maid that has bewitched you.

CARELESS. Now then Charles--be honest and give us

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yours----

CHARLES. Why I have withheld her only in compassion to you--if I toast her you should give a round of her Peers, whichis impossible! on earth!

CARELESS. O, then we'll find some canonized Vestals or heathenGoddesses that will do I warrant----

CHARLES. Here then--Bumpers--you Rogues--Bumpers! Maria--Maria----

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Maria who?

CHARLES. Oh, damn the Surname 'tis too formal to be register'din Love's calendar--but now Careless beware--beware--we must haveBeauty's superlative.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nay Never study[,] Careless--we'll stand to theToast--tho' your mistress should want an eye--and you know you havea song will excuse you----

CARELESS. Egad so I have--and I'll give him the song instead

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of the Lady.----

 SONG.--AND CHORUS--<4>

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;Here's to the widow of fifty;Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.Chorus. Let the toast pass,--Drink to the lass,I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize;Now to the maid who has none, sir;Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow:Now to her that's as brown as a berry:Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,And now to the damsel that's merry.Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,Young or ancient, I care not a feather;So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,And let us e'en toast them together.Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

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 [Enter TRIP whispers CHARLES]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Bravo Careless--Ther's Toast and Sentiment too.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. E' faith there's infinite charity in that song.----

CHARLES. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little.--Careless,take the Chair, will you?

CARELESS. Nay prithee, Charles--what now--this is one of yourPeerless Beauties I suppose--has dropped in by chance?

CHARLES. No--Faith--to tell you the Truth 'tis a Jew and a Brokerwho are come by appointment.

CARELESS. O dam it let's have the Jew in.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Aye and the Broker too by all means----

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes yes the Jew and the Broker.

CHARLES. Egad with all my Heart--Trip--bid the Gentlemen walk in--

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tho' there's one of them a Stranger I can tell you----

TRIP. What Sir--would you chuse Mr. Premium to come up with----

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes--yes Mr. Premium certainly.

CARELESS. To be sure--Mr. Premium--by all means Charles,let us give them some generous Burgundy, and perhaps they'llgrow conscientious----

CHARLES. O, Hang 'em--no--wine does but draw forth a man's naturalqualities; and to make them drink would only be to whet their Knavery.

 Enter TRIP, SIR OLIVER, and MOSES

CHARLES. So--honest Moses--walk in--walk in pray Mr. Premium--that's the Gentleman's name isn't it Moses.

MOSES. Yes Sir.

CHARLES. Set chairs--Trim.--Sit down, Mr Premium.--Glasses Trim.--sit down Moses.--Come, Mr. Premium I'll give you a sentiment--Here's Success to Usury--Moses fill the Gentleman a bumper.

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MOSES. Success to Usury!

CARELESS. Right Moses--Usury is Prudence and industry and deservesto succeed----

SIR OLIVER. Then Here is--all the success it deserves![Drinks.]

CHARLES. Mr. Premium you and I are but strangers yet--but I hopewe shall be better acquainted by and bye----

SIR OLIVER. Yes Sir hope we shall--more intimately perhaps thanyou'll wish. [Aside.<5>]

CARELESS. No, no, that won't do! Mr. Premium, you have demurredat the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. A pint bumper, at least.

MOSES. Oh, pray, sir, consider--Mr. Premium's a gentleman.

CARELESS. And therefore loves good wine.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Give Moses a quart glass--this is mutiny,

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and a high contempt for the chair.

CARELESS. Here, now for't! I'll see justice done, to the lastdrop of my bottle.

SIR OLIVER. Nay, pray, gentlemen--I did not expect this usage.

CHARLES. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Premium's a stranger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside.]

CARELESS. Plague on 'em then! if they won't drink, we'll not sit downwith them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room.--Charles,you'll join us when you have finished your business with thegentlemen?

CHARLES. I will! I will!--[Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.]Careless.

CARELESS. [Returning.] Well!

CHARLES. Perhaps I may want you.

230

CARELESS. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond,'tis all the same to me.[Exit.]

MOSES. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictesthonour and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes.Mr. Premium, this is----

CHARLES. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very honestfellow, but a little slow at expression: he'll be an hour givingus our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this:I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow money; you Itake to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money to lend. I amblockhead enough to give fifty per cent. sooner than not have it!and you, I presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you canget it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceedto business without further ceremony.

SIR OLIVER. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you arenot a man of many compliments.

CHARLES. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in business I always think best.

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SIR OLIVER. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, You aremistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believeI could procure some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable dog.Isn't he, Moses? And must sell stock to accommodate you. Mustn't he,Moses!

MOSES. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth, and scornto tell a lie!

CHARLES. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But theseare trifles, Mr. Premium. What! I know money isn't to be boughtwithout paying for't!

SIR OLIVER. Well, but what security could you give? You haveno land, I suppose?

CHARLES. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the bough potsout of the window!

SIR OLIVER. Nor any stock, I presume?

CHARLES. Nothing but live stock--and that's only a few pointers

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and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted at allwith any of my connections?

SIR OLIVER. Why, to say the truth, I am.

CHARLES. Then you must know that I have a devilish rich unclein the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the greatestexpectations?

SIR OLIVER. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard; but how yourexpectations will turn out is more, I believe, than you can tell.

CHARLES. Oh, no!--there can be no doubt. They tell me I'ma prodigious favourite, and that he talks of leaving me everything.

SIR OLIVER. Indeed! this is the first I've heard of it.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true; don't you,Moses?

MOSES. Oh, yes! I'll swear to't.

SIR OLIVER. Egad, they'll persuade me presently I'm at Bengal.

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[Aside.]

CHARLES. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to you,a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the same time the oldfellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, I shouldbe very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him.

SIR OLIVER. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the bond youmention happens to be just the worst security you could offer me--for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal.

CHARLES. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies, you know,you would come on me for the money.

SIR OLIVER. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dunyou ever had in your life.

CHARLES. What! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver is too gooda life?

SIR OLIVER. No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he is as haleand healthy as any man of his years in Christendom.

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CHARLES. There again, now, you are misinformed. No, no,the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver.Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I'm told--and is so much alteredlately that his nearest relations would not know him.

SIR OLIVER. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much altered lately that hisnearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! egad--ha! ha! ha!

CHARLES. Ha! ha!--you're glad to hear that, little Premium?

SIR OLIVER. No, no, I'm not.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, you are--ha! ha! ha!--you know that mends yourchance.

SIR OLIVER. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay, some sayhe is actually arrived.

CHARLES. Psha! sure I must know better than you whether he's come ornot. No, no, rely on't he's at this moment at Calcutta. Isn't he,Moses?

MOSES. Oh, yes, certainly.

SIR OLIVER. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I,

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though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I, Moses?

MOSES. Yes, most undoubted!

SIR OLIVER. But, Sir, as I understand you want a few hundredsimmediately, is there nothing you could dispose of?

CHARLES. How do you mean?

SIR OLIVER. For instance, now, I have heard that your father leftbehind him a great quantity of massy old plate.

CHARLES. O Lud! that's gone long ago. Moses can tell you howbetter than I can.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups andcorporation-bowls!--[Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that hislibrary was one of the most valuable and compact.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, so it was--vastly too much so for a privategentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative disposition,so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to myself.

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SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learning that had run in thefamily like an heir-loom!--[Aloud.] Pray, what has become of thebooks?

CHARLES. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master Premium, forI don't believe even Moses can direct you.

MOSES. I know nothing of books.

SIR OLIVER. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I suppose?

CHARLES. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind to the familypictures. I have got a room full of ancestors above: and if youhave a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain!

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell yourforefathers, would you?

CHARLES. Every man of them, to the best bidder.

SIR OLIVER. What! your great-uncles and aunts?

CHARLES. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers

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too.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Now I give him up!--[Aloud.] What the plague,have you no bowels for your own kindred? Odd's life! do you take mefor Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your ownflesh and blood?

CHARLES. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry: what need you care,if you have your money's worth?

SIR OLIVER. Well, I'll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose ofthe family canvas.--[Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive him this! never!

 Re-enter CARELESS

CARELESS. Come, Charles, what keeps you?

CHARLES. I can't come yet. I'faith, we are going to have a saleabove stairs; here's little Premium will buy all my ancestors!

CARELESS. Oh, burn your ancestors!

CHARLES. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases.

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Stay,Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer--so comealong with us.

CARELESS. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handlea hammer as well as a dice box! Going! going!

SIR OLIVER. Oh, the profligates! [Aside.]

CHARLES. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want one.Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like the business?

SIR OLIVER. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I thinkit a rare joke to sell one's family by auction--ha! ha!--[Aside.]Oh, the prodigal!

CHARLES. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague shouldhe get assistance, if he can't make free with his own relations?[Exeunt.]

SIR OLIVER. I'll never forgive him; never! never!

 END OF THE THIRD ACT

239

 ACT IV

 SCENE I.--A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S House

 Enter CHARLES, SIR OLIVER, MOSES, and CARELESS

CHARLES. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;--here they are, the familyof the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.

SIR OLIVER. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection.

CHARLES. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of portrait-painting; no volontiere grace or expression. Not like the worksof your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest resemblance,yet contrive to make your portrait independent of you; so thatyou may sink the original and not hurt the picture. No, no;the merit of these is the inveterate likeness--all stiff andawkward as the originals, and like nothing in human nature besides.

SIR OLIVER. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again.

CHARLES. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a domesticcharacter I am; here I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. But

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come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old gouty chairof my grandfather's will answer the purpose.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a hammer;and what's an auctioneer without his hammer?

CHARLES. Egad, that's true. What parchment have we here? Oh,our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.] Here, Careless,you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the family treefor you, you rogue! This shall be your hammer, and now you mayknock down my ancestors with their own pedigree.

SIR OLIVER. What an unnatural rogue!--an ex post facto parricide![Aside.]

CARELESS. Yes, yes, here's a list of your generation indeed;--faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could havefound for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a hammer,but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin--A-going, a-going,a-going!

CHARLES. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my great uncle, Sir

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RichardRavelin, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure you.He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got that cutover his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium?look at him--there's a hero! not cut out of his feathers, as yourmodern clipped captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals,as a general should be. What do you bid?

SIR OLIVER. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak.

MOSES. Mr. Premium would have you speak.

CHARLES. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and I'm surethat's not dear for a staff-officer.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle Richardfor ten pounds!--[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him at that.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.--Here, now,is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller,in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness.There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock. You shallhave her for five pounds ten--the sheep are worth the money.

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SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set such a valueon herself!--[Aloud.] Five pounds ten--she's mine.

CHARLES. Knock down my aunt Deborah! Here, now, are two that werea sort of cousins of theirs.--You see, Moses, these pictures were donesome time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own hair.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a littlelower in those days.

CHARLES. Well, take that couple for the same.

MOSES. 'Tis a good bargain.

CHARLES. Careless!--This, now, is a grandfather of my mother's,a learned judge, well known on the western circuit,--What do yourate him at, Moses?

MOSES. Four guineas.

CHARLES. Four guineas! Gad's life, you don't bid me the priceof his wig.--Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack;

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do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.

SIR OLIVER. By all means.

CARELESS. Gone!

CHARLES. And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt,Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers; and, what'svery extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were everbought or sold.

SIR OLIVER. That is very extraordinary, indeed! I'll take them atyour own price, for the honour of Parliament.

CARELESS. Well said, little Premium! I'll knock them down at forty.

CHARLES. Here's a jolly fellow--I don't know what relation, buthe was mayor of Norwich: take him at eight pounds.

SIR OLIVER. No, no; six will do for the mayor.

CHARLES. Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two aldermen

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here into the bargain.

SIR OLIVER. They're mine.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But,plague on't! we shall be all day retailing in this manner;do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium?Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.

SIR OLIVER. Well, well, anything to accommodate you; they are mine.But there is one portrait which you have always passed over.

CARELESS. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee?

SIR OLIVER. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't think him soill-looking a little fellow, by any means.

CHARLES. What, that? Oh; that's my uncle Oliver! 'Twas donebefore he went to India.

CARELESS. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll never be friends,

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Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as everI saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance!an inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't you think so, little Premium?

SIR OLIVER. Upon my soul, Sir, I do not; I think it is as honest alooking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose uncleOliver goes with the rest of the lumber?

CHARLES. No, hang it! I'll not part with poor Noll. The old fellowhas been very good to me, and, egad, I'll keep his picture while I'vea room to put it in.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew after all!--[Aloud.]But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.

CHARLES. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly will not have it.Oons, haven't you got enough of them?

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] I forgive him everything!--[Aloud.] But,Sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value money. I'llgive you as much for that as for all the rest.

CHARLES. Don't tease me, master broker; I tell you I'll not

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partwith it, and there's an end of it.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is.-- [Aloud.]Well, well, I have done.-- [Aside.] I did not perceive it before,but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance.-- [Aloud.]Here is a draught for your sum.

CHARLES. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds!

SIR OLIVER. You will not let Sir Oliver go?

CHARLES. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more.

SIR OLIVER. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance thatanother time. But give me your hand on the bargain; you are anhonest fellow, Charles--I beg pardon, sir, for being so free.--Come, Moses.

CHARLES. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow!--But hark'ee,Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or two.

CHARLES. But, hold; do now send a genteel conveyance for them,

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for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in theirown carriages.

SIR OLIVER. I will, I will--for all but Oliver.

CHARLES. Ay, all but the little nabob.

SIR OLIVER. You're fixed on that?

CHARLES. Peremptorily.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue!--[Aloud.] Good day!Come, Moses.--[Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call him profligate![Exit with MOSES.]

CARELESS. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with!

CHARLES. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder howthe devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow.--Ha! here'sRowley.--Do, Careless, say I'll join the company in a few moments.

CARELESS. I will--but don't let that old blockhead persuade youto squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any

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suchnonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows.

CHARLES. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them.

CARELESS. Nothing else.

CHARLES. Ay, ay, never fear.--[Exit CARELESS.]So! this was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirdsof these five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right.Fore Heaven! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relationsthan I took them for!--Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedientand very grateful servant.[Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.]

 Enter ROWLEY

Ha! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in time to take leaveof your old acquaintance.

ROWLEY. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you canhave such spirits under so many distresses.

CHARLES. Why, there's the point! my distresses are so many, that

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I can't affort to part with my spirits; but I shall be rich andsplenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprisedthat I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near relations;to be sure, 'tis very affecting; but you see they never move a muscle,so why should I?

ROWLEY. There's no making you serious a moment.

CHARLES. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley, here,get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of itimmediately to old Stanley.

ROWLEY. A hundred pounds! Consider only----

CHARLES. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor Stanley's wantsare pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have some onecall that has a better right to the money.

ROWLEY. Ah! there's the point! I never will cease dunning youwith the old proverb----

CHARLES. BE JUST BEFORE YOU'RE GENEROUS.--Why, so I would if I could;but Justice is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to

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keeppace with Generosity, for the soul of me.

ROWLEY. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection----

CHARLES. Ay, ay, it's very true; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while I have,by Heaven I'll give; so, damn your economy! and now for hazard.[Exeunt.]

 SCENE II.--The Parlour

 Enter SIR OLIVER and MOSES

MOSES. Well sir, I think as Sir Peter said you have seen Mr. Charlesin high Glory--'tis great Pity He's so extravagant.

SIR OLIVER. True--but he would not sell my Picture--

MOSES. And loves wine and women so much--

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture.

MOSES. And game so deep--

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture. O--here's

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Rowley!

 Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. So--Sir Oliver--I find you have made a Purchase----

SIR OLIVER. Yes--yes--our young Rake has parted with his Ancestorslike old Tapestry--sold Judges and Generals by the foot--and maidenAunts as cheap as broken China.--

ROWLEY. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you Partof the purchase-money--I mean tho' in your necessitous characterof old Stanley----

MOSES. Ah! there is the Pity of all! He is so damned charitable.

ROWLEY. And I left a Hosier and two Tailors in the Hall--whoI'm sure won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy 'em.

SIR OLIVER. Well--well--I'll pay his debts and his Benevolencestoo--I'll take care of old Stanley--myself-- But now I am no morea Broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder Brother

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as Stanley----

ROWLEY. Not yet a while--Sir Peter I know means to call there aboutthis time.

 Enter TRIP

TRIP. O Gentlemen--I beg Pardon for not showing you out--this way--Moses, a word.[Exit TRIP with MOSES.]

SIR OLIVER. There's a Fellow for you-- Would you believe it thatPuppy intercepted the Jew, on our coming, and wanted to raise moneybefore he got to his master!

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR OLIVER. Yes--they are now planning an annuity Business--Ah Master Rowley[,] in my Day Servants were content with the Folliesof their Masters when they were worn a little Thread Bare but nowthey have their Vices like their Birth Day cloaths with the gloss on.[Exeunt.]

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 SCENE III.--A Library

 SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. No letter from Lady Teazle?

SERVANT. No Sir--

SURFACE. I am surprised she hasn't sent if she is prevented fromcoming--! Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me--yet I wishI may not lose the Heiress, thro' the scrape I have drawn myselfin with the wife--However, Charles's imprudence and bad characterare great Points in my Favour.

SERVANT. Sir--I believe that must be Lady Teazle--

SURFACE. Hold[!] see--whether it is or not before you go to theDoor--I have a particular Message for you if it should be my Brother.

SERVANT. 'Tis her ladyship Sir--She always leaves her Chair at themilliner's in the next Street.

SURFACE. Stay--stay--draw that Screen before the Window--that will

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do--my opposite Neighbour is a maiden Lady of so curious a temper!--[SERVANT draws the screen and exit.]I have a difficult Hand to play in this Affair--Lady Teazle as latelysuspected my Views on Maria--but She must by no means be let intothat secret, at least till I have her more in my Power.

 Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. What[!] Sentiment in soliloquy--have you been veryimpatient now?--O Lud! don't pretend to look grave--I vow I couldn'tcome before----

SURFACE. O Madam[,] Punctuality is a species of Constancy, a veryunfashionable quality in a Lady.

LADY TEAZLE. Upon my word you ought to pity me, do you now Sir Peteris grown so ill-tempered to me of Late! and so jealous! of Charles toothat's the best of the story isn't it?

SURFACE. I am glad my scandalous Friends keep that up. [Aside.]

LADY TEAZLE. I am sure I wish He would let Maria marry

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him--and then perhaps He would be convinced--don't you--Mr. Surface?

SURFACE. Indeed I do not.--[Aside.] O certainly I do--for thenmy dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how wrong her suspicionswere of my having any design on the silly Girl----

LADY TEAZLE. Well--well I'm inclined to believe you--besidesI really never could perceive why she should have so any admirers.

SURFACE. O for her Fortune--nothing else--

LADY TEAZLE. I believe so for tho' she is certainly very pretty--yet she has no conversation in the world--and is so grave andreserved--that I declare I think she'd have made an excellent wifefor Sir Peter.--

SURFACE. So she would.

LADY TEAZLE. Then--one never hears her speak ill of anybody--whichyou know is mighty dull--

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SURFACE. Yet she doesn't want understanding--

LADY TEAZLE. No more she does--yet one is always disapointed whenone hears [her] speak--For though her Eyes have no kind of meaningin them--she very seldom talks Nonsense.

SURFACE. Nay--nay surely--she has very fine eyes--

LADY TEAZLE. Why so she has--tho' sometimes one fancies there'sa little sort of a squint--

SURFACE. A squint--O fie--Lady Teazle.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes yes--I vow now--come there is a left-handed Cupidin one eye--that's the Truth on't.

SURFACE. Well--his aim is very direct however--but Lady Sneerwellhas quite corrupted you.

LADY TEAZLE. No indeed--I have not opinion enough of her to be taughtby her, and I know that she has lately rais'd many scandalous hints ofme--which you know one always hears from one common Friend, or other.

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SURFACE. Why to say truth I believe you are not more obliged to herthan others of her acquaintance.

LADY TEAZLE. But isn't [it] provoking to hear the most ill-naturedThings said to one and there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulatedI don't know how many scandalous tales of me, and all withoutany foundation, too; that's what vexes me.

SURFACE. Aye Madam to be sure that is the Provoking circumstance--without Foundation--yes yes--there's the mortification indeed--for when a slanderous story is believed against one--there certainlyis no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it----

LADY TEAZLE. No to be sure--then I'd forgive their malice--but to attack me, who am really so innocent--and who never sayan ill-natured thing of anybody--that is, of any Friend--!and then Sir Peter too--to have him so peevish--and so suspicious--when I know the integrity of my own Heart--indeed 'tis monstrous.

SURFACE. But my dear Lady Teazle 'tis your own fault if you sufferit--when a Husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his

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Wife andwithdraws his confidence from her--the original compact is broke andshe owes it to the Honour of her sex to endeavour to outwit him--

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed--So that if He suspects me without causeit follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give himreason for't--

SURFACE. Undoubtedly--for your Husband [should] never be deceivedin you--and in that case it becomes you to be frail in complimentto his discernment--

LADY TEAZLE. To be sure what you say is very reasonable--and whenthe consciousness of my own Innocence----

SURFACE. Ah: my dear--Madam there is the great mistake--'tis thisvery conscious Innocence that is of the greatest Prejudice to you--what is it makes you negligent of Forms and careless of the world'sopinion--why the consciousness of your Innocence--what makes youthoughtless in your Conduct and apt to run into a thousand littleimprudences--why the consciousness of your Innocence--what

259

makes youimpatient of Sir Peter's temper, and outrageous at his suspicions--why the consciousness of your own Innocence--

LADY TEAZLE. 'Tis very true.

SURFACE. Now my dear Lady Teazle if you but once make a triflingFaux Pas you can't conceive how cautious you would grow, and howready to humour and agree with your Husband.

LADY TEAZLE. Do you think so--

SURFACE. O I'm sure on't; and then you'd find all scandal wouldcease at once--for in short your Character at Present is likea Person in a Plethora, absolutely dying of too much Health--

LADY TEAZLE. So--so--then I perceive your Prescription is thatI must sin in my own Defence--and part with my virtue to preservemy Reputation.--

SURFACE. Exactly so upon my credit Ma'am[.]

LADY TEAZLE. Well certainly this is the oddest Doctrine--and the

260

newest Receipt for avoiding calumny.

SURFACE. An infallible one believe me--Prudence like experiencemust be paid for--

LADY TEAZLE. Why if my understanding were once convinced----

SURFACE. Oh, certainly Madam, your understanding SHOULD beconvinced--yes--yes--Heaven forbid I should persuade you to doanything you THOUGHT wrong--no--no--I have too much honorto desire it--

LADY TEAZLE. Don't--you think we may as well leave Honorout of the Argument? [Rises.]

SURFACE. Ah--the ill effects of your country education I seestill remain with you.

LADY TEAZLE. I doubt they do indeed--and I will fairly own to you,that If I could be persuaded to do wrong it would be by Sir Peter'sill-usage--sooner than your honourable Logic, after all.

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SURFACE. Then by this Hand, which He is unworthy of----

 Enter SERVANT

Sdeath, you Blockhead--what do you want?

SERVANT. I beg your Pardon Sir, but I thought you wouldn't chuseSir Peter to come up without announcing him?

SURFACE. Sir Peter--Oons--the Devil!

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter! O Lud! I'm ruined! I'm ruin'd!

SERVANT. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in.

LADY TEAZLE. O I'm undone--what will become of me now Mr. Logick.--Oh! mercy, He's on the Stairs--I'll get behind here--and if everI'm so imprudent again----[Goes behind the screen--]

SURFACE. Give me that--Book!----

 [Sits down--SERVANT pretends to adjust his Hair--]

 Enter SIR PETER

262

SIR PETER. Aye--ever improving himself!--Mr. Surface--

SURFACE. Oh! my dear Sir Peter--I beg your Pardon--[Gaping andthrows away the Book.] I have been dosing [dozing] over a stupidBook! well--I am much obliged to you for this Call--You haven'tbeen here I believe since I fitted up this Room--Books you knoware the only Things I am a Coxcomb in--

SIR PETER. 'Tis very neat indeed--well well that's proper--and you make even your Screen a source of knowledge--hungI perceive with Maps--

SURFACE. O yes--I find great use in that Screen.

SIR PETER. I dare say you must--certainly--when you want to findout anything in a Hurry.

SURFACE. Aye or to hide anything in a Hurry either--

SIR PETER. Well I have a little private Business--if we were alone--

SURFACE. You needn't stay.

SERVANT. No--Sir----

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[Exit SERVANT.]

SURFACE. Here's a Chair--Sir Peter--I beg----

SIR PETER. Well--now we are alone--there IS a subject--my dearFriend--on which I wish to unburthen my Mind to you--a Pointof the greatest moment to my Peace--in short, my good Friend--Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made me very unhappy.

SURFACE. Indeed I'm very sorry to hear it--

SIR PETER. Yes 'tis but too plain she has not the least regardfor me--but what's worse, I have pretty good Authority to suspectthat she must have formed an attachment to another.

SURFACE. Indeed! you astonish me.

SIR PETER. Yes--and between ourselves--I think I have discover'dthe Person.

SURFACE. How--you alarm me exceedingly!

SIR PETER. Ah: my dear Friend I knew you would sympathize with me.--

264

SURFACE. Yes--believe me Sir Peter--such a discovery would hurt mejust as much as it would you--

SIR PETER. I am convinced of it--ah--it is a happiness to havea Friend whom one can trust even with one's Family secrets--but have you no guess who I mean?

SURFACE. I haven't the most distant Idea--it can't beSir Benjamin Backbite.

SIR PETER. O--No. What say you to Charles?

SURFACE. My Brother--impossible!--O no Sir Peter you mustn't creditthe scandalous insinuations you hear--no no--Charles to be surehas been charged with many things but go I can never thinkHe would meditate so gross an injury--

SIR PETER. Ah! my dear Friend--the goodness of your own Heartmisleads you--you judge of others by yourself.

SURFACE. Certainly Sir Peter--the Heart that is conscious of its ownintegrity is ever slowest to credit another's Treachery.--

SIR PETER. True--but your Brother has no sentiment[--]you never hear

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him talk so.--

SURFACE. Well there certainly is no knowing what men are capable of--no--there is no knowing--yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herselfhas too much Principle----

SIR PETER. Aye but what's Principle against the Flattery of ahandsome--lively young Fellow--

SURFACE. That's very true--

SIR PETER. And then you know the difference of our ages makes it veryimprobable that she should have any great affection for me--and if shewere to be frail and I were to make it Public--why the Town would onlylaugh at the foolish old Batchelor, who had married a girl----

SURFACE. That's true--to be sure People would laugh.

SIR PETER. Laugh--aye and make Ballads--and Paragraphs and the Devilknows what of me--

SURFACE. No--you must never make it public--

SIR PETER. But then again that the Nephew of my old

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Friend,Sir Oliver[,] should be the Person to attempt such an injury--hurts me more nearly--

SURFACE. Undoubtedly--when Ingratitude barbs the Dart of Injury--the wound has double danger in it--

SIR PETER. Aye--I that was in a manner left his Guardian--in his House he had been so often entertain'd--who never in my Lifedenied him my advice--

SURFACE. O 'tis not to be credited--There may be a man capableof such Baseness, to be sure--but for my Part till you can give mepositive Proofs you must excuse me withholding my Belief. However,if this should be proved on him He is no longer a brother of mineI disclaim kindred with him--for the man who can break thro' the Lawsof Hospitality--and attempt the wife of his Friend deserves to bebranded as the Pest of Society.

SIR PETER. What a difference there is between you--what noblesentiments!--

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SURFACE. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honor.

SIR PETER. I'm sure I wish to think well of her--and to removeall ground of Quarrel between us--She has lately reproach'd me morethan once with having made no settlement on her--and, in our lastQuarrel, she almost hinted that she should not break her Heart ifI was dead.--now as we seem to differ in our Ideas of ExpenseI have resolved she shall be her own Mistress in that Respectfor the future--and if I were to die--she shall find that I have notbeen inattentive to her Interests while living--Here my Friendare the Draughts of two Deeds which I wish to have your opinion on--by one she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live--and by the other the bulk of my Fortune after my Death.

SURFACE. This conduct Sir Peter is indeed truly Generous! I wishit may not corrupt my pupil.--[Aside.]

SIR PETER. Yes I am determined she shall have no cause to complain--tho' I would not have her acquainted with the latter instance of myaffection yet awhile.

SURFACE. Nor I--if I could help it.

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SIR PETER. And now my dear Friend if you please we will talk overthe situation of your Hopes with Maria.

SURFACE. No--no--Sir Peter--another Time if you Please--[softly].

SIR PETER. I am sensibly chagrined at the little Progress you seemto make in her affection.

SURFACE. I beg you will not mention it--What are my Disappointmentswhen your Happiness is in Debate [softly]. 'Sdeath I shall be ruinedevery way.

SIR PETER. And tho' you are so averse to my acquainting Lady Teazlewith YOUR passion, I am sure she's not your Enemy in the Affair.

SURFACE. Pray Sir Peter, now oblige me.--I am really too muchaffected by the subject we have been speaking of to bestow a thoughton my own concerns--The Man who is entrusted with his Friend'sDistresses can never----

269

 Enter SERVANT

Well, Sir?

SERVANT. Your Brother Sir, is--speaking to a Gentleman in the Street,and says He knows you're within.

SURFACE. 'Sdeath, Blockhead--I'm NOT within--I'm out for the Day.

SIR PETER. Stay--hold--a thought has struck me--you shall be at home.

SURFACE. Well--well--let him up.--[Exit SERVANT.]He'll interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside.]

SIR PETER. Now, my good Friend--oblige me I Intreat you--beforeCharles comes--let me conceal myself somewhere--Then do you tax himon the Point we have been talking on--and his answers may satisfy meat once.--

SURFACE. O Fie--Sir Peter--would you have ME join in so meana Trick? to trepan my Brother too?

270

SIR PETER. Nay you tell me you are SURE He is innocent--if so youdo him the greatest service in giving him an opportunity to clearhimself--and--you will set my Heart at rest--come you shall not refuseme--here behind this Screen will be--hey! what the Devil--there seemsto be one listener here already--I'll swear I saw a Petticoat.--

SURFACE. Ha! ha! ha! Well this is ridiculous enough--I'll tell you,Sir Peter--tho' I hold a man of Intrigue to be a most despicableCharacter--yet you know it doesn't follow that a man is to be anabsolute Joseph either--hark'ee--'tis a little French Milliner--a silly Rogue that plagues me--and having some character, on yourcoming she ran behind the Screen.--

SIR PETER. Ah a Rogue--but 'egad she has overheard all I have beensaying of my Wife.

SURFACE. O 'twill never go any farther, you may depend on't.

SIR PETER. No!--then efaith let her hear it out.--Here's a Closetwill do as well.--

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SURFACE. Well, go in there.--

SIR PETER. Sly rogue--sly Rogue.--

SURFACE. Gad's my Life what an Escape--! and a curious situationI'm in!--to part man and wife in this manner.--

LADY TEAZLE. [peeps out.] Couldn't I steal off--

SURFACE. Keep close, my Angel!

SIR PETER. [Peeping out.] Joseph--tax him home.

SURFACE. Back--my dear Friend

LADY TEAZLE. [Peeping out.] Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in?--

SURFACE. Be still--my Life!

SIR PETER. [Peeping.] You're sure the little Milliner won't blab?

SURFACE. In! in! my good Sir Peter--'Fore Gad, I wish I had a keyto the Door.

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 Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Hollo! Brother--what has been the matter? your Fellowwouldn't let me up at first--What[?] have you had a Jew or a wenchwith you.--

SURFACE. Neither Brother I assure you.

CHARLES. But--what has made Sir Peter steal off--I thought He hadbeen with you--

SURFACE. He WAS Brother--but hearing you were coming He didn'tchuse to stay--

CHARLES. What[!] was the old Gentleman afraid I wanted to borrowmoney of him?

SURFACE. No Sir--but I am sorry to find[,] Charles--you have latelygiven that worthy man grounds for great Uneasiness.

CHARLES. Yes they tell me I do that to a great many worthy men--but how so Pray?

273

SURFACE. To be plain with you Brother He thinks you are endeavouringto gain Lady Teazle's Affections from him.

CHARLES. Who I--O Lud! not I upon my word.--Ha! ha! ha! so the oldFellow has found out that He has got a young wife has He? or what'sworse she has discover'd that she has an old Husband?

SURFACE. This is no subject to jest on Brother--He who can laugh----

CHARLES. True true as you were going to say--then seriously I neverhad the least idea of what you charge me with, upon my honour.

SURFACE. Well it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this.

CHARLES. [Aloud.] To be sure, I once thought the lady seemedto have taken a fancy--but upon my soul I never gave her the leastencouragement.--Beside you know my Attachment to Maria--

SURFACE. But sure Brother even if Lady Teazle had betray'd thefondest Partiality for you----

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CHARLES. Why--look'ee Joseph--I hope I shall never deliberatelydo a dishonourable Action--but if a pretty woman was purposelyto throw herself in my way--and that pretty woman married to a manold enough to be her Father----

SURFACE. Well?

CHARLES. Why I believe I should be obliged to borrow a little of yourMorality, that's all.--but, Brother do you know now that you surprizeme exceedingly by naming me with Lady Teazle--for faith I alwaysunderstood YOU were her Favourite--

SURFACE. O for shame--Charles--This retort is Foolish.

CHARLES. Nay I swear I have seen you exchange such significantGlances----

SURFACE. Nay--nay--Sir--this is no jest--

CHARLES. Egad--I'm serious--Don't you remember--one Day, whenI called here----

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SURFACE. Nay--prithee--Charles

CHARLES. And found you together----

SURFACE. Zounds, Sir--I insist----

CHARLES. And another time when your Servant----

SURFACE. Brother--brother a word with you--Gad I must stop him--[Aside.]

CHARLES. Informed--me that----

SURFACE. Hush!--I beg your Pardon but Sir Peter has overheard allwe have been saying--I knew you would clear yourself, or I shouldn'thave consented--

CHARLES. How Sir Peter--Where is He--

SURFACE. Softly, there! [Points to the closet.]

CHARLES. [In the Closet!] O 'fore Heaven I'll have him out--Sir Peter come forth!

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SURFACE. No--no----

CHARLES. I say Sir Peter--come into court.--[Pulls in SIR PETER.]What--my old Guardian--what[!] turn inquisitor and take evidenceincog.--

SIR PETER. Give me your hand--Charles--I believe I have suspectedyou wrongfully; but you mustn't be angry with Joseph--'twas my Plan--

CHARLES. Indeed!--

SIR PETER. But I acquit you--I promise you I don't think near so illof you as I did--what I have heard has given me great satisfaction.

CHARLES. Egad then 'twas lucky you didn't hear any more. Wasn't itJoseph?

SIR PETER. Ah! you would have retorted on him.

CHARLES. Aye--aye--that was a Joke.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, I know his honor too well.

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CHARLES. Yet you might as well have suspected him as me in thismatter, for all that--mightn't He, Joseph?

SIR PETER. Well well I believe you--

SURFACE. Would they were both out of the Room!

 Enter SERVANT, whispers SURFACE

SIR PETER. And in future perhaps we may not be such Strangers.

SURFACE. Gentlemen--I beg Pardon--I must wait on you downstairs--Here is a Person come on particular Business----

CHARLES. Well you can see him in another Room--Sir Peter andI haven't met a long time and I have something to say [to] him.

SURFACE. They must not be left together.--I'll send this man awayand return directly--[SURFACE goes out.]

SIR PETER. Ah--Charles if you associated more with your Brother,one might indeed hope for your reformation--He is a man of

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Sentiment--Well! there is nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!

CHARLES. Pshaw! He is too moral by half--and so apprehensive ofhis good Name, as he calls it, that I suppose He would as soon leta Priest in his House as a Girl--

SIR PETER. No--no--come come,--you wrong him. No, no, Joseph is noRake but he is no such Saint in that respect either. I have a greatmind to tell him--we should have such a Laugh!

CHARLES. Oh, hang him? He's a very Anchorite--a young Hermit!

SIR PETER. Harkee--you must not abuse him, he may chance to hearof it again I promise you.

CHARLES. Why you won't tell him?

SIR PETER. No--but--this way. Egad, I'll tell him--Harkee, haveyou a mind to have a good laugh against Joseph?

CHARLES. I should like it of all things--

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SIR PETER. Then, E'faith, we will--I'll be quit with him fordiscovering me.--He had a girl with him when I called. [Whispers.]

CHARLES. What[!] Joseph[!] you jest--

SIR PETER. Hush!--a little French Milliner--and the best of the jestis--she's in the room now.

CHARLES. The devil she is--

SIR PETER. Hush! I tell you. [Points.]

CHARLES. Behind the screen! Odds Life, let's unveil her!

SIR PETER. No--no! He's coming--you shan't indeed!

CHARLES. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little milliner!

SIR PETER. Not for the world--Joseph will never forgive me.

CHARLES. I'll stand by you----

SIR PETER. Odds Life! Here He's coming--

 [SURFACE enters just as CHARLES throws down the

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Screen.]

 Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE

CHARLES. Lady Teazle! by all that's wonderful!

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle! by all that's Horrible!

CHARLES. Sir Peter--This is one of the smartest French MillinersI ever saw!--Egad, you seem all to have been diverting yourselveshere at Hide and Seek--and I don't see who is out of the Secret!--Shall I beg your Ladyship to inform me!--Not a word!--Brother!--will you please to explain this matter? What! is Honesty Dumb too?--Sir Peter, though I found you in the Dark--perhaps you are not sonow--all mute! Well tho' I can make nothing of the Affair, I makeno doubt but you perfectly understand one another--so I'll leave youto yourselves.--[Going.] Brother I'm sorry to find you have giventhat worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness!--Sir Peter--there'snothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!--

 [Stand for some time looking at one another. Exit

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CHARLES.]

SURFACE. Sir Peter--notwithstanding I confess that appearancesare against me. If you will afford me your Patience I make no doubtbut I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.--

SIR PETER. If you please--Sir--

SURFACE. The Fact is Sir--that Lady Teazle knowing my Pretensionsto your ward Maria--I say Sir Lady Teazle--being apprehensive of theJealousy of your Temper--and knowing my Friendship to the Family. She Sir--I say call'd here--in order that I might explain thosePretensions--but on your coming being apprehensive--as I said of yourJealousy--she withdrew--and this, you may depend on't is the wholetruth of the Matter.

SIR PETER. A very clear account upon the [my] word and I dare swearthe Lady will vouch for every article of it.

LADY TEAZLE. For not one word of it Sir Peter--

SIR PETER. How[!] don't you think it worthwhile to agree in

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the lie.

LADY TEAZLE. There is not one Syllable of Truth in what thatGentleman has told you.

SIR PETER. I believe you upon my soul Ma'am--

SURFACE. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray me! [Aside.]

LADY TEAZLE. Good Mr. Hypocrite by your leave I will speak formyself--

SIR PETER. Aye let her alone Sir--you'll find she'll make outa better story than you without Prompting.

LADY TEAZLE. Hear me Sir Peter--I came hither on no matter relatingto your ward and even ignorant of this Gentleman's pretensions toher--but I came--seduced by his insidious arguments--and pretendedPassion[--]at least to listen to his dishonourable Love if notto sacrifice your Honour to his Baseness.

SIR PETER. Now, I believe, the Truth is coming indeed[.]

SURFACE. The Woman's mad--

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LADY TEAZLE. No Sir--she has recovered her Senses. Your own Artshave furnished her with the means. Sir Peter--I do not expect youto credit me--but the Tenderness you express'd for me, when I am sureyou could not think I was a witness to it, has penetrated so to myHeart that had I left the Place without the Shame of this discovery--my future life should have spoken the sincerity of my Gratitude--as for that smooth-tongued Hypocrite--who would have seduced the wifeof his too credulous Friend while he pretended honourable addressesto his ward--I behold him now in a light so truly despicable thatI shall never again Respect myself for having Listened to him.[Exit.]

SURFACE. Notwithstanding all this Sir Peter--Heaven knows----

SIR PETER. That you are a Villain!--and so I leave you to yourconscience--

SURFACE. You are too Rash Sir Peter--you SHALL hear me--The manwho shuts out conviction by refusing to----[Exeunt, SURFACE following and speaking.]

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 END OF THE FOURTH

 ACT V

 SCENE I.--The Library

 Enter SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would see him?--you must know he came to ask something!

SERVANT. Sir--I shouldn't have let him in but that Mr. Rowleycame to the Door with him.

SURFACE. Pshaw!--Blockhead to suppose that I should now be ina Temper to receive visits from poor Relations!--well why don'tyou show the Fellow up?

SERVANT. I will--Sir--Why, Sir--it was not my Fault that Sir Peterdiscover'd my Lady----

SURFACE. Go, fool!--[Exit SERVANT.]Sure Fortune never play'd a man of my policy such a Trick before--

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my character with Sir Peter!--my Hopes with Maria!--destroy'd ina moment!--I'm in a rare Humour to listen to other People'sDistresses!--I shan't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentimenton Stanley--So! here--He comes and Rowley with him--I MUST try torecover myself, and put a little Charity into my Face however.----[Exit.]

 Enter SIR OLIVER and ROWLEY

SIR OLIVER. What! does He avoid us? that was He--was it not?

ROWLEY. It was Sir--but I doubt you are come a little too abruptly--his Nerves are so weak that the sight of a poor Relation may be toomuch for him--I should have gone first to break you to him.

SIR OLIVER. A Plague of his Nerves--yet this is He whom Sir Peterextolls as a Man of the most Benevolent way of thinking!--

ROWLEY. As to his way of thinking--I can't pretend to decide[,]for, to do him justice He appears to have as much speculativeBenevolence as any private Gentleman in the Kingdom--though he isseldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of

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it----

SIR OLIVER. Yet [he] has a string of charitable Sentiments I supposeat his Fingers' ends!--

ROWLEY. Or, rather at his Tongue's end Sir Oliver; for I believethere is no sentiment he has more faith in than that 'Charity beginsat Home.'

SIR OLIVER. And his I presume is of that domestic sort which neverstirs abroad at all.

ROWLEY. I doubt you'll find it so--but He's coming--I mustn't seemto interrupt you--and you know immediately--as you leave him--I comein to announce--your arrival in your real Character.

SIR OLIVER. True--and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's----

ROWLEY. Without losing a moment.[Exit.]

SIR OLIVER. So--I see he has premeditated a Denial by theComplaisance of his Features.

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 Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. Sir--I beg you ten thousand Pardons for keeping--you a moment waiting--Mr. Stanley--I presume----

SIR OLIVER. At your Service.

SURFACE. Sir--I beg you will do me the honour to sit down--I entreat you Sir.

SIR OLIVER. Dear Sir there's no occasion--too civil by half!

SURFACE. I have not the Pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley--but I am extremely happy to see you look so well--you were nearlyrelated to my mother--I think Mr. Stanley----

SIR OLIVER. I was Sir--so nearly that my present Poverty I fearmay do discredit to her Wealthy Children--else I should nothave presumed to trouble you.--

SURFACE. Dear Sir--there needs no apology--He that is in Distresstho' a stranger has a right to claim kindred with the wealthy--I am sure I wish I was of that class, and had it in my powerto offer you even a small relief.

SIR OLIVER. If your Unkle, Sir Oliver were here--I should

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havea Friend----

SURFACE. I wish He was Sir, with all my Heart--you should not wantan advocate with him--believe me Sir.

SIR OLIVER. I should not need one--my Distresses would recommendme.--but I imagined--his Bounty had enabled you to become the agentof his Charity.

SURFACE. My dear Sir--you are strangely misinformed--Sir Oliveris a worthy Man, a worthy man--a very worthy sort of Man--but avariceMr. Stanley is the vice of age--I will tell you my good Sir inconfidence:--what he has done for me has been a mere--nothing[;]tho' People I know have thought otherwise and for my Part I neverchose to contradict the Report.

SIR OLIVER. What!--has he never transmitted--you--Bullion--Rupees--Pagodas!

SURFACE. O Dear Sir--Nothing of the kind--no--no--a few Presentsnow and then--china, shawls, congo Tea, Avadavats--and indian

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Crackers--little more, believe me.

SIR OLIVER. Here's Gratitude for twelve thousand pounds!--Avadavats and indian Crackers.

SURFACE. Then my dear--Sir--you have heard, I doubt not, of theextravagance of my Brother--Sir--there are very few would creditwhat I have done for that unfortunate young man.

SIR OLIVER. Not I for one!

SURFACE. The sums I have lent him! indeed--I have been exceedinglyto blame--it was an amiable weakness! however I don't pretendto defend it--and now I feel it doubly culpable--since it hasdeprived me of the power of serving YOU Mr. Stanley as my Heartdirects----

SIR OLIVER. Dissembler! Then Sir--you cannot assist me?

SURFACE. At Present it grieves me to say I cannot--but wheneverI have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from me.

SIR OLIVER. I am extremely sorry----

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SURFACE. Not more than I am believe me--to pity without the Powerto relieve is still more painful than to ask and be denied----

SIR OLIVER. Kind Sir--your most obedient humble servant.

SURFACE. You leave me deeply affected Mr. Stanley--William--be ready to open the door----

SIR OLIVER. O, Dear Sir, no ceremony----

SURFACE. Your very obedient----

SIR OLIVER. Your most obsequious----

SURFACE. You may depend on hearing from me whenever I can beof service----

SIR OLIVER. Sweet Sir--you are too good----

SURFACE. In the mean time I wish you Health and Spirits----

SIR OLIVER. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble Servant----

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SURFACE. Sir--yours as sincerely----

SIR OLIVER. Charles!--you are my Heir.[Exit.]

SURFACE, solusSoh!--This is one bad effect of a good Character--it invitesapplications from the unfortunate and there needs no small degreeof address to gain the reputation of Benevolence without incurringthe expence.--The silver ore of pure Charity is an expensive articlein the catalogue of a man's good Qualities--whereas the sentimentalFrench Plate I use instead of it makes just as good a shew--and paysno tax.

 Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Mr. Surface--your Servant: I was apprehensive ofinterrupting you, tho' my Business demands immediate attention--as this Note will inform you----

SURFACE. Always Happy to see Mr. Rowley--how--Oliver--Surface!--My Unkle arrived!

ROWLEY. He is indeed--we have just parted--quite well--

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aftera speedy voyage--and impatient to embrace his worthy Nephew.

SURFACE. I am astonished!--William[!] stop Mr. Stanley, if He's notgone----

ROWLEY. O--He's out of reach--I believe.

SURFACE. Why didn't you let me know this when you came in together.--

ROWLEY. I thought you had particular--Business--but must be goneto inform your Brother, and appoint him here to meet his Uncle.He will be with you in a quarter of an hour----

SURFACE. So he says. Well--I am strangely overjoy'd at his coming--never to be sure was anything so damn'd unlucky!

ROWLEY. You will be delighted to see how well He looks.

SURFACE. O--I'm rejoiced to hear it--just at this time----

ROWLEY. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect him----

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SURFACE. Do--do--pray--give my best duty and affection--indeed,I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeinghim!--certainly his coming just at this Time is the cruellestpiece of ill Fortune----[Exeunt.]

 SCENE II.--At SIR PETER'S House

 Enter MRS. CANDOUR and SERVANT

SERVANT. Indeed Ma'am, my Lady will see nobody at Present.

MRS. CANDOUR. Did you tell her it was her Friend Mrs. Candour----

SERVANT. Yes Ma'am but she begs you will excuse her----

MRS. CANDOUR. Do go again--I shall be glad to see her if it beonly for a moment--for I am sure she must be in great Distress[exit MAID]--Dear Heart--how provoking!--I'm not mistress of half thecircumstances!--We shall have the whole affair in the newspaperswith the Names of the Parties at length before I have dropt the storyat a dozen houses.

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 Enter SIR BENJAMIN

Sir Benjamin you have heard, I suppose----

SIR BENJAMIN. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface----

MRS. CANDOUR. And Sir Peter's Discovery----

SIR BENJAMIN. O the strangest Piece of Business to be sure----

MRS. CANDOUR. Well I never was so surprised in my life!--I am sosorry for all Parties--indeed,

SIR BENJAMIN. Now I don't Pity Sir Peter at all--he was soextravagant--partial to Mr. Surface----

MRS. CANDOUR. Mr. Surface!--why 'twas with Charles Lady Teazlewas detected.

SIR BENJAMIN. No such thing Mr. Surface is the gallant.

MRS. CANDOUR. No--no--Charles is the man--'twas Mr. Surface broughtSir Peter on purpose to discover them----

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SIR BENJAMIN. I tell you I have it from one----

MRS. CANDOUR. And I have it from one----

SIR BENJAMIN. Who had it from one who had it----

MRS. CANDOUR. From one immediately--but here comes Lady Sneerwell--perhaps she knows the whole affair.

 Enter LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. So--my dear Mrs. Candour Here's a sad affairof our Friend Teazle----

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye my dear Friend, who could have thought it.

LADY SNEERWELL. Well there is no trusting to appearances[;] tho'--indeed she was always too lively for me.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure, her manners were a little too--free--but she was very young----

LADY SNEERWELL. And had indeed some good Qualities.

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MRS. CANDOUR. So she had indeed--but have you heard the Particulars?

LADY SNEERWELL. No--but everybody says that Mr. Surface----

SIR BENJAMIN. Aye there I told you--Mr. Surface was the Man.

MRS. CANDOUR. No--no--indeed the assignation was with Charles----

LADY SNEERWELL. With Charles!--You alarm me Mrs. Candour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Yes--yes He was the Lover--Mr. Surface--do himjustice--was only the Informer.

SIR BENJAMIN. Well I'll not dispute with you Mrs. Candour--but be it which it may--I hope that Sir Peter's wound will not----

MRS. CANDOUR. Sir Peter's wound! O mercy! I didn't hear a wordof their Fighting----

LADY SNEERWELL. Nor I a syllable!

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SIR BENJAMIN. No--what no mention of the Duel----

MRS. CANDOUR. Not a word--

SIR BENJAMIN. O, Lord--yes--yes--they fought before they leftthe Room.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pray let us hear.

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye--do oblige--us with the Duel----

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Sir'--says Sir Peter--immediately after the Discovery,'you are a most ungrateful Fellow.'

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye to Charles----

SIR BENJAMIN. No, no--to Mr. Surface--'a most ungrateful Fellow;and old as I am, Sir,' says He, 'I insist on immediate satisfaction.'

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye that must have been to Charles for 'tis veryunlikely Mr. Surface should go to fight in his own House.

SIR BENJAMIN. Gad's Life, Ma'am, not at all--giving me immediate

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satisfaction--on this, Madam--Lady Teazle seeing Sir Peter in suchDanger--ran out of the Room in strong Hysterics--and Charles afterher calling out for Hartshorn and Water! Then Madam--they beganto fight with Swords----

 Enter CRABTREE

CRABTREE. With Pistols--Nephew--I have it from undoubted authority.

MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, Mr. Crabtree then it is all true----

CRABTREE. Too true indeed Ma'am, and Sir Peter Dangerouslywounded----

SIR BENJAMIN. By a thrust in second--quite thro' his left side

CRABTREE. By a Bullet lodged in the Thorax----

MRS. CANDOUR. Mercy--on me[!] Poor Sir Peter----

CRABTREE. Yes, ma'am tho' Charles would have avoided the matterif he could----

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MRS. CANDOUR. I knew Charles was the Person----

SIR BENJAMIN. O my Unkle I see knows nothing of the matter----

CRABTREE. But Sir Peter tax'd him with the basest ingratitude----

SIR BENJAMIN. That I told you, you know----

CRABTREE. Do Nephew let me speak--and insisted on immediate----

SIR BENJAMIN. Just as I said----

CRABTREE. Odds life! Nephew allow others to know something too--A Pair of Pistols lay on the Bureau--for Mr. Surface--it seems,had come home the Night before late from Salt-Hill where He had beento see the Montem with a Friend, who has a Son at Eton--so unluckilythe Pistols were left Charged----

SIR BENJAMIN. I heard nothing of this----

CRABTREE. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one and they fired--it seems pretty nearly together--Charles's shot took Place as I tell

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you--and Sir Peter's miss'd--but what is very extraordinary the Ballstruck against a little Bronze Pliny that stood over the Fire Place--grazed out of the window at a right angle--and wounded the Postman,who was just coming to the Door with a double letter fromNorthamptonshire.

SIR BENJAMIN. My Unkle's account is more circumstantial I mustconfess--but I believe mine is the true one for all that.

LADY SNEERWELL. I am more interested in this Affair than theyimagine--and must have better information.--[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accountedfor.--

CRABTREE. Yes yes, they certainly DO say--but that's neither herenor there.

MRS. CANDOUR. But pray where is Sir Peter at present----

CRABTREE. Oh! they--brought him home and He is now in the House,

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tho' the Servants are order'd to deny it----

MRS. CANDOUR. I believe so--and Lady Teazle--I suppose attendinghim----

CRABTREE. Yes yes--and I saw one of the Faculty enter just beforeme----

SIR BENJAMIN. Hey--who comes here----

CRABTREE. Oh, this is He--the Physician depend on't.

MRS. CANDOUR. O certainly it must be the Physician and now we shallknow----

 Enter SIR OLIVER

CRABTREE. Well, Doctor--what Hopes?

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye Doctor how's your Patient?

SIR BENJAMIN. Now Doctor isn't it a wound with a small sword----

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CRABTREE. A bullet lodged in the Thorax--for a hundred!

SIR OLIVER. Doctor!--a wound with a small sword! and a Bulletin the Thorax!--oon's are you mad, good People?

SIR BENJAMIN. Perhaps, Sir, you are not a Doctor.

SIR OLIVER. Truly Sir I am to thank you for my degree If I am.

CRABTREE. Only a Friend of Sir Peter's then I presume--but, sir,you must have heard of this accident--

SIR OLIVER. Not a word!

CRABTREE. Not of his being dangerously wounded?

SIR OLIVER. The Devil he is!

SIR BENJAMIN. Run thro' the Body----

CRABTREE. Shot in the breast----

SIR BENJAMIN. By one Mr. Surface----

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CRABTREE. Aye the younger.

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the plague! you seem to differ strangelyin your accounts--however you agree that Sir Peter is dangerouslywounded.

SIR BENJAMIN. Oh yes, we agree in that.

CRABTREE. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that.

SIR OLIVER. Then, upon my word, for a person in that Situation,he is the most imprudent man alive--For here he comes walkingas if nothing at all was the matter.

 Enter SIR PETER

Odd's heart, sir Peter! you are come in good time I promise you,for we had just given you over!

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Egad, Uncle this is the most sudden Recovery!

SIR OLIVER. Why, man, what do you do out of Bed with a Small Sword

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through your Body, and a Bullet lodg'd in your Thorax?

SIR PETER. A Small Sword and a Bullet--

SIR OLIVER. Aye these Gentlemen would have kill'd you without Lawor Physic, and wanted to dub me a Doctor to make me an accomplice.

SIR PETER. Why! what is all this?

SIR BENJAMIN. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the Story of the Duelis not true--and are sincerely sorry for your other Misfortune.

SIR PETER. So--so--all over the Town already! [Aside.]

CRABTREE. Tho', Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blameto marry at all at your years.

SIR PETER. Sir, what Business is that of yours?

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho' Indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a Husband,he's very much to be pitied.

SIR PETER. Plague on your pity, Ma'am, I desire none of it.

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SIR BENJAMIN. However Sir Peter, you must not mind the Laughingand jests you will meet with on the occasion.

SIR PETER. Sir, I desire to be master in my own house.

CRABTREE. 'Tis no Uncommon Case, that's one comfort.

SIR PETER. I insist on being left to myself, without ceremony,--I insist on your leaving my house directly!

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, well, we are going and depend on't, we'llmake the best report of you we can.

SIR PETER. Leave my house!

CRABTREE. And tell how hardly you have been treated.

SIR PETER. Leave my House--

SIR BENJAMIN. And how patiently you bear it.

SIR PETER. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh that their own Venomwould choke them!

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SIR OLIVER. They are very provoking indeed, Sir Peter.

 Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. I heard high words: what has ruffled you Sir Peter--

SIR PETER. Pshaw what signifies asking--do I ever pass a Daywithout my Vexations?

SIR OLIVER. Well I'm not Inquisitive--I come only to tell you,that I have seen both my Nephews in the manner we proposed.

SIR PETER. A Precious Couple they are!

ROWLEY. Yes and Sir Oliver--is convinced that your judgment was rightSir Peter.

SIR OLIVER. Yes I find Joseph is Indeed the Man after all.

ROWLEY. Aye as Sir Peter says, He's a man of Sentiment.

SIR OLIVER. And acts up to the Sentiments he professes.

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ROWLEY. It certainly is Edification to hear him talk.

SIR OLIVER. Oh, He's a model for the young men of the age!But how's this, Sir Peter? you don't Join us in your FriendJoseph's Praise as I expected.

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world,and the fewer we praise the better.

ROWLEY. What do YOU say so, Sir Peter--who were never mistakenin your Life?

SIR PETER. Pshaw--Plague on you both--I see by your sneeringyou have heard--the whole affair--I shall go mad among you!

ROWLEY. Then to fret you no longer Sir Peter--we are indeedacquainted with it all--I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's sohumbled, that she deigned to request ME to be her advocate with you--

SIR PETER. And does Sir Oliver know all too?

SIR OLIVER. Every circumstance!

SIR PETER. What of the closet and the screen--hey[?]

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SIR OLIVER. Yes yes--and the little French Milliner. Oh,I have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. 'Twas very pleasant!

SIR OLIVER. I never laugh'd more in my life, I assure you: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. O vastly diverting! ha! ha!

ROWLEY. To be sure Joseph with his Sentiments! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes his sentiments! ha! ha! a hypocritical Villain!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and that Rogue Charles--to pull Sir Peter out of thecloset: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish entertaining to be sure--

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter I should like to have seenyour Face when the screen was thrown down--ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes, my face when the Screen was thrown down: ha! ha! ha!O I must never show my head again!

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SIR OLIVER. But come--come it isn't fair to laugh at you neithermy old Friend--tho' upon my soul I can't help it--

SIR PETER. O pray don't restrain your mirth on my account: it doesnot hurt me at all--I laugh at the whole affair myself--Yes--yes--I think being a standing Jest for all one's acquaintance a very happysituation--O yes--and then of a morning to read the Paragraphs aboutMr. S----, Lady T----, and Sir P----, will be so entertaining!--I shall certainly leave town tomorrow and never look mankindin the Face again!

ROWLEY. Without affectation Sir Peter, you may despise the ridiculeof Fools--but I see Lady Teazle going towards the next Room--I am sureyou must desire a Reconciliation as earnestly as she does.

SIR OLIVER. Perhaps MY being here prevents her coming to you--well I'll leave honest Rowley to mediate between you; but he mustbring you all presently to Mr. Surface's--where I am now returning--if not to reclaim a Libertine, at least to expose Hypocrisy.

SIR PETER. Ah! I'll be present at your discovering yourself therewith all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky Place for

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discoveries.

SIR OLIVER. However it is very convenient to the carrying on ofmy Plot that you all live so near one another![Exit SIR OLIVER.]

ROWLEY. We'll follow--

SIR PETER. She is not coming here you see, Rowley--

ROWLEY. No but she has left the Door of that Room open youperceive.--see she is in Tears--!

SIR PETER. She seems indeed to wish I should go to her.--howdejected she appears--

ROWLEY. And will you refrain from comforting her--

SIR PETER. Certainly a little mortification appears very becomingin a wife--don't you think it will do her good to let her Pinea little.

ROWLEY. O this is ungenerous in you--

SIR PETER. Well I know not what to think--you remember

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Rowleythe Letter I found of her's--evidently intended for Charles?

ROWLEY. A mere forgery, Sir Peter--laid in your way on Purpose--this is one of the Points which I intend Snake shall give youconviction on--

SIR PETER. I wish I were once satisfied of that--She looks thisway----what a remarkably elegant Turn of the Head she has!Rowley I'll go to her--

ROWLEY. Certainly--

SIR PETER. Tho' when it is known that we are reconciled, Peoplewill laugh at me ten times more!

ROWLEY. Let--them laugh--and retort their malice only byshowing them you are happy in spite of it.

SIR PETER. Efaith so I will--and, if I'm not mistaken we may yetbe the happiest couple in the country--

ROWLEY. Nay Sir Peter--He who once lays aside suspicion----

SIR PETER. Hold Master Rowley--if you have any Regard

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for me--never let me hear you utter anything like a Sentiment. I have hadenough of THEM to serve me the rest of my Life.[Exeunt.]

 SCENE THE LAST.--The Library

 SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. Impossible! will not Sir Peter immediatelybe reconciled to CHARLES? and of consequence no longer opposehis union with MARIA? the thought is Distraction to me!

SURFACE. Can Passion--furnish a Remedy?

LADY SNEERWELL. No--nor cunning either. O I was a Fool, an Ideot--to league with such a Blunderer!

SURFACE. Surely Lady Sneerwell I am the greatest Sufferer--yet yousee I bear the accident with Calmness.

LADY SNEERWELL. Because the Disappointment hasn't reached yourHEART--your interest only attached you to Maria--had you felt forher--what I have for that ungrateful Libertine--neither your

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Tempernor Hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of yourVexation.

SURFACE. But why should your Reproaches fall on me for thisDisappointment?

LADY SNEERWELL. Are not you the cause of it? what had you to batein your Pursuit of Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the way.--had younot a sufficient field for your Roguery in blinding Sir Peter andsupplanting your Brother--I hate such an avarice of crimes--'tisan unfair monopoly and never prospers.

SURFACE. Well I admit I have been to blame--I confess I deviatedfrom the direct Road of wrong but I don't think we're so totallydefeated neither.

LADY SNEERWELL. No!

SURFACE. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we met--and that you still believe him faithful to us--

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LADY SNEERWELL. I do believe so.

SURFACE. And that he has undertaken should it be necessary--to swearand prove that Charles is at this Time contracted by vows and Honourto your Ladyship--which some of his former letters to you will serveto support--

LADY SNEERWELL. This, indeed, might have assisted--

SURFACE. Come--come it is not too late yet--but hark! this isprobably my Unkle Sir Oliver--retire to that Room--we'll consultfurther when He's gone.--

LADY SNEERWELL. Well but if HE should find you out to--

SURFACE. O I have no fear of that--Sir Peter will hold his tonguefor his own credit sake--and you may depend on't I shall soon DiscoverSir Oliver's weak side!--

LADY SNEERWELL. I have no diffidence of your abilities--onlybe constant to one roguery at a time--

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[Exit.]

SURFACE. I will--I will--So 'tis confounded hard after such badFortune, to be baited by one's confederate in evil--well at allevents my character is so much better than Charles's, that Icertainly--hey--what!--this is not Sir Oliver--but old Stanleyagain!--Plague on't that He should return to teaze me just now--I shall have Sir Oliver come and find him here--and----

 Enter SIR OLIVER

Gad's life, Mr. Stanley--why have you come back to plague meat this time? you must not stay now upon my word!

SIR OLIVER. Sir--I hear your Unkle Oliver is expected here--and tho' He has been so penurious to you, I'll try what He'lldo for me--

SURFACE. Sir! 'tis impossible for you to stay now--so I mustbeg----come any other time and I promise you you shall be assisted.

SIR OLIVER. No--Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted--

SURFACE. Zounds Sir then [I] insist on your quitting the--Room directly--

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SIR OLIVER. Nay Sir----

SURFACE. Sir--I insist on't--here William show this Gentleman out.Since you compel me Sir--not one moment--this is such insolence.[Going to push him out.]

 Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Heyday! what's the matter now?--what the Devil have yougot hold of my little Broker here! Zounds--Brother, don't hurtlittle Premium. What's the matter--my little Fellow?

SURFACE. So! He has been with you, too, has He--

CHARLES. To be sure He has! Why, 'tis as honest a little----But sure Joseph you have not been borrowing money too have you?

SURFACE. Borrowing--no!--But, Brother--you know sure we expectSir Oliver every----

CHARLES. O Gad, that's true--Noll mustn't find the little Brokerhere to be sure--

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SURFACE. Yet Mr. Stanley insists----

CHARLES. Stanley--why his name's Premium--

SURFACE. No no Stanley.

CHARLES. No, no--Premium.

SURFACE. Well no matter which--but----

CHARLES. Aye aye Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same thing as yousay--for I suppose He goes by half a hundred Names, besides A. B'sat the Coffee-House. [Knock.]

SURFACE. 'Sdeath--here's Sir Oliver at the Door----Now I beg--Mr. Stanley----

CHARLES. Aye aye and I beg Mr. Premium----

SIR OLIVER. Gentlemen----

SURFACE. Sir, by Heaven you shall go--

CHARLES. Aye out with him certainly----

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SIR OLIVER. This violence----

SURFACE. 'Tis your own Fault.

CHARLES. Out with him to be sure.[Both forcing SIR OLIVER out.]

 Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. My old Friend, Sir Oliver!--hey! what in the nameof wonder!--Here are dutiful Nephews!--assault their Unkleat his first Visit!

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed Sir Oliver 'twas well we came in to rescue you.

ROWLEY. Truly it was--for I perceive Sir Oliver the characterof old Stanley was no Protection to you.

SIR OLIVER. Nor of Premium either--the necessities of the formercould not extort a shilling from that benevolent Gentleman; andwith the other I stood a chance of faring worse than my Ancestors,and being knocked down without being bid for.

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SURFACE. Charles!

CHARLES. Joseph!

SURFACE. 'Tis compleat!

CHARLES. Very!

SIR OLIVER. Sir Peter--my Friend and Rowley too--look on thatelder Nephew of mine--You know what He has already received frommy Bounty and you know also how gladly I would have look'd on halfmy Fortune as held in trust for him--judge then my Disappointmentin discovering him to be destitute of Truth--Charity--and Gratitude--

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver--I should be more surprized at thisDeclaration, if I had not myself found him to be selfish--treacherous and Hypocritical.

LADY TEAZLE. And if the Gentleman pleads not guilty to thesepray let him call ME to his Character.

SIR PETER. Then I believe we need add no more--if He knows himselfHe will consider it as the most perfect Punishment that He is known

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to the world--

CHARLES. If they talk this way to Honesty--what will they say to MEby and bye!

SIR OLIVER. As for that Prodigal--his Brother there----

CHARLES. Aye now comes my Turn--the damn'd Family Pictures will ruinme--

SURFACE. Sir Oliver--Unkle--will you honour me with a hearing--

CHARLES. I wish Joseph now would make one of his long speeches andI might recollect myself a little--

SIR OLIVER. And I suppose you would undertake to vindicate yourselfentirely--

SURFACE. I trust I could--

SIR OLIVER. Nay--if you desert your Roguery in its Distress andtry to be justified--you have even less principle than I thoughtyou had.--[To CHARLES SURFACE] Well, Sir--and YOU could JUSTIFY

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yourself too I suppose--

CHARLES. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. What[!] little Premium has been let too much into thesecret I presume.

CHARLES. True--Sir--but they were Family Secrets, and should not bementioned again you know.

ROWLEY. Come Sir Oliver I know you cannot speak of Charles's Follieswith anger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd's heart no more I can--nor with gravity either--Sir Peter do you know the Rogue bargain'd with me for all hisAncestors--sold me judges and Generals by the Foot, and Maiden Auntsas cheap as broken China!

CHARLES. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free withthe Family Canvas that's the truth on't:--my Ancestors may certainlyrise in judgment against me there's no denying it--but believe mesincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was

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not--that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my Follies,it is because I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeingyou, my liberal benefactor.

SIR OLIVER. Charles--I believe you--give me your hand again:the ill-looking little fellow over the Couch has made your Peace.

CHARLES. Then Sir--my Gratitude to the original is still encreased.

LADY TEAZLE. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is onewhom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to.

SIR OLIVER. O I have heard of his Attachment there--and, with theyoung Lady's Pardon if I construe right that Blush----

SIR PETER. Well--Child--speak your sentiments--you know--we aregoing to be reconciled to Charles--

MARIA. Sir--I have little to say--but that I shall rejoice to hearthat He is happy--For me--whatever claim I had to his Affection--

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I willing resign to one who has a better title.

CHARLES. How Maria!

SIR PETER. Heyday--what's the mystery now? while he appearedan incorrigible Rake, you would give your hand to no one elseand now that He's likely to reform I'll warrant You won't have him!

MARIA. His own Heart--and Lady Sneerwell know the cause.

[CHARLES.] Lady Sneerwell!

SURFACE. Brother it is with great concern--I am obligedto speak on this Point, but my Regard to justice obliges me--and Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer--be concealed--[Goes to the Door.]

 Enter LADY SNEERWELL

SIR PETER. Soh! another French milliner egad! He has onein every Room in the House I suppose--

LADY SNEERWELL. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised andfeel for the indelicate situation which your Perfidy has forced meinto.

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CHARLES. Pray Unkle, is this another Plot of yours? for as I haveLife I don't understand it.

SURFACE. I believe Sir there is but the evidence of one Personmore necessary to make it extremely clear.

SIR PETER. And that Person--I imagine, is Mr. Snake--Rowley--youwere perfectly right to bring him with us--and pray let him appear.

ROWLEY. Walk in, Mr. Snake--

 Enter SNAKE

I thought his Testimony might be wanted--however it happens unluckilythat He comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and not to support her--

LADY SNEERWELL. A Villain!--Treacherous to me at last! Speak,Fellow, have you too conspired against me?

SNAKE. I beg your Ladyship--ten thousand Pardons--you paid meextremely Liberally for the Lie in question--but I unfortunately

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have been offer'd double to speak the Truth.

LADY SNEERWELL. The Torments of Shame and Disappointment on you all!

LADY TEAZLE. Hold--Lady Sneerwell--before you go let me thank youfor the trouble you and that Gentleman have taken in writing Lettersfrom me to Charles and answering them yourself--and let me alsorequest you to make my Respects to the Scandalous College--of whichyou are President--and inform them that Lady Teazle, Licentiate,begs leave to return the diploma they granted her--as she leaves of[f]Practice and kills Characters no longer.

LADY SNEERWELL. Provoking--insolent!--may your Husband live thesefifty years![Exit.]

SIR PETER. Oons what a Fury----

LADY TEAZLE. A malicious Creature indeed!

SIR PETER. Hey--not for her last wish?--

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LADY TEAZLE. O No--

SIR OLIVER. Well Sir, and what have you to say now?

SURFACE. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell couldbe guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to impose on usall that I know not what to say----however, lest her RevengefulSpirit should prompt her to injure my Brother I had certainly betterfollow her directly.[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Moral to the last drop!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and marry her Joseph if you can.--Oil and Vinegaregad:--you'll do very well together.

ROWLEY. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at Present--

SNAKE. Before I go--I beg Pardon once for all for whatever uneasinessI have been the humble instrument of causing to the Parties present.

SIR PETER. Well--well you have made atonement by a good Deed

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at last--

SNAKE. But I must Request of the Company that it shall neverbe known--

SIR PETER. Hey!--what the Plague--are you ashamed of having donea right thing once in your life?

SNAKE. Ah: Sir--consider I live by the Badness of my Character!--I have nothing but my Infamy to depend on!--and, if it were onceknown that I had been betray'd into an honest Action, I should loseevery Friend I have in the world.

SIR OLIVER. Well--well we'll not traduce you by saying anythingto your Praise never fear.[Exit SNAKE.]

SIR PETER. There's a precious Rogue--Yet that fellow is a Writerand a Critic.

LADY TEAZLE. See[,] Sir Oliver[,] there needs no persuasion nowto reconcile your Nephew and Maria--

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SIR OLIVER. Aye--aye--that's as it should be and egad we'll havethe wedding to-morrow morning--

CHARLES. Thank you, dear Unkle!

SIR PETER. What! you rogue don't you ask the Girl's consent first--

CHARLES. Oh, I have done that a long time--above a minute ago--nd She has look'd yes--

MARIA. For Shame--Charles--I protest Sir Peter, there has not beena word----

SIR OLIVER. Well then the fewer the Better--may your love for eachother never know--abatement.

SIR PETER. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazleand I--intend to do--

CHARLES. Rowley my old Friend--I am sure you congratulate me andI suspect too that I owe you much.

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SIR OLIVER. You do, indeed, Charles--

ROWLEY. If my Efforts to serve you had not succeeded you would havebeen in my debt for the attempt--but deserve to be happy--and youover-repay me.

SIR PETER. Aye honest Rowley always said you would reform.

CHARLES. Why as to reforming Sir Peter I'll make no promises--and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it--But here shall be my Monitor--my gentle Guide.--ah! can I leavethe Virtuous path those Eyes illumine?

 Tho' thou, dear Maid, should'st wave [waive] thy Beauty's Sway,--Thou still must Rule--because I will obey:An humbled fugitive from Folly View,No sanctuary near but Love and YOU:You can indeed each anxious Fear remove,For even Scandal dies if you approve. [To the audience.]

 EPILOGUE

 BY MR. COLMAN

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 SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE

I, who was late so volatile and gay,Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way,Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,To one dull rusty weathercock--my spouse!So wills our virtuous bard--the motley BayesOf crying epilogues and laughing plays!Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,Learn from our play to regulate your lives:Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her--London will prove the very source of honour.Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves,When principles relax, to brace the nerves:Such is my case; and yet I must deploreThat the gay dream of dissipation's o'er.And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife,Born with a genius for the highest life,Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom?Save money--when I just knew how to waste it!Leave London--just as I began to taste it!Must I then watch the early crowing cock,The melancholy ticking of a clock;In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded?With humble curate can I now retire,(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,)And at backgammon mortify my soul,That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole?Seven's the main! Dear sound that must expire,Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire;The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tete,

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That takes the cushion from its proper seat!That spirit-stirring drum!--card drums I mean,Spadille--odd trick--pam--basto--king and queen!And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,The welcome visitors' approach denote;Farewell all quality of high renown,Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!Farewell! your revels I partake no more,And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er!All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas clear,I ought to play deep tragedy next year.Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:---"Bless'd were the fair like you; her faults who stopp'd,And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd!No more in vice or error to engage,Or play the fool at large on life's great stage."