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Love Chase

<h2>ACT V.</h2> <h3>SCENE I.—A Room in Sir William Fondlove’s.</h3> [Sir William seated with two Lawyers.] Sir Wil. How many words you take to tell few things Again, again say over what, said once, Methinks were told enough! First Lawyer. It is the law, Which labours at precision. Sir Wil. Yes; and thrives Upon uncertainty—and makes it, too, With all its pains to shun it. I could bind Myself, methinks, with but the twentieth part Of all this cordage, sirs.—But every man, As they say, to his own business. You think The settlement is handsome? First Lawyer. Very, sir. Sir Wil. Then now, sirs, we have done, and take my thanks, Which, with your charges, I will render you Again to-morrow. First Lawyer. Happy nuptials, sir. [Lawyers go out.] Sir Wil. Who passes there? Hoa! send my daughter to me, And Master Wildrake too! I wait for them. Bold work!—Without her leave to wait upon her, And ask her go to church!—’Tis taking her By storm! What else could move her yesterday But jealousy? What causeth jealousy But love? She’s mine the moment she receives Conclusive proof, like this, that heart and soul, And mind and person, I am all her own! Heigh ho! These soft alarms are very sweet, And yet tormenting too! Ha! Master Wildrake, [Enter Wildrake.] I am glad you’re ready, for I’m all in arms To bear the widow off. Come! Don’t be sad; All must go merrily, you know, to-day!— She still doth bear him hard, I see! The girl Affects him not, and Trueworth is at fault, Though clear it is that he doth die for her. [Aside.] Well, daughter?—So I see you’re ready too. [Enter Constance.] Why, what’s amiss with thee? Phœbe. [Entering.] The coach is here. Sir Wil. Come, Wildrake, offer her your arm. Con. [To Wildrake.] I thank you! I am not an invalid!—can use my limbs! He knows not how to make an arm, befits A lady lean upon. Sir Wil. Why, teach him, then. Con. Teach him! Teach Master Wildrake! Teach, indeed! I taught my dog to beg, because I knew That he could learn it. Sir Wil. Peace, thou little shrew! I’ll have no wrangling on my wedding-day! Here, take my arm. Con. I’ll not!—I’ll walk alone! Live, die alone! I do abominate The fool and all his sex! Sir Wil. Again! Con. I have done. When do you marry, Master Wildrake? She Will want a husband goes to church with thee! [They go out.] <h3>SCENE II.—Widow Green’s Dressing-room.</h3> [Widow Green discovered at her Toilet, attended by Amelia, Waller’s Letter to Lydia in her hand.] W. Green. Oh, bond of destiny!—Fair bond, that seal’st My fate in happiness! I’ll read thee yet Again—although thou’rt written on my heart. But here his hand, indicting thee, did lie! And this the tracing of his fingers! So I read thee that could rhyme thee, as my prayers! “At morn to-morrow I will make you mine. Will you accept from me the name of wife— The name of husband give me in exchange?” The traitress! to break ope my billet-doux, And take the envelope!—But I forgive her, Since she did leave the rich contents behind. Amelia, give this feather more a slope, That it sit droopingly. I would look all Dissolvement, nought about me to bespeak Boldness! I would appear a timid bride, Trembling upon the verge of wifehood, as I ne’er before had stood there! That will do. Oh dear!—How I am agitated—don’t I look so? I have found a secret out,— Nothing in woman strikes a man so much As to look interesting! Hang this cheek Of mine! It is too saucy; what a pity To have a colour of one’s own!—Amelia! Could you contrive, dear girl, to bleach my cheek, How I would thank you! I could give it then What tint I chose, and that should be the hectic Bespeaks a heart in delicate commotion. I am much too florid! Stick a rose in my hair, The brightest you can find, ’twill help, my girl, Subdue my rebel colour—Nay, the rose Doth lose complexion, not my cheek! Exchange it For a carnation. That’s the flower, Amelia! You see how it doth triumph o’er my cheek. Are you content with me? Amelia. I am, my lady. W. Green. And whither think you has the hussy gone, Whose place you fill so well?—Into the country? Or fancy you she stops in town? Amelia. I can’t Conjecture. W. Green. Shame upon her!—Leave her place Without a moment’s warning!—with a man, too! Seemed he a gentleman that took her hence? Amelia. He did. W. Green. You never saw him here before? Amelia. Never. W. Green. Not lounging on the other side Of the street, and reconnoitring the windows? Amelia. Never. W. Green. ’Twas planned by letter. Notes, you know, Have often come to her—But I forgive her, Since this advice she chanced to leave behind Of gentle Master Waller’s wishes, which I bless myself in blessing!—Gods, a knock! ’Tis he! Show in those ladies are so kind To act my bridemaids for me on this brief And agitating notice. [Amelia goes out.] Yes, I look A bride sufficiently! And this the hand That gives away my liberty again. Upon my life it is a pretty hand, A delicate and sentimental hand! No lotion equals gloves; no woman knows The use of them that does not sleep in them! My neck hath kept its colour wondrously! Well; after all it is no miracle That I should win the heart of a young man. My bridemaids come!—Oh dear! [Enter two Ladies.] First Lady. How do you, love? A good morning to you—Poor dear, How much you are affected! Why we thought You ne’er would summon us. W. Green. One takes, you know, When one is flurried, twice the time to dress. My dears, has either of you salts? I thank you! They are excellent; the virtue’s gone from mine, Nor thought I of renewing them—Indeed, I’m unprovided, quite, for this affair. First Lady. I think the bridegroom’s come! W. Green. Don’t say so! How You’ve made my heart jump! First Lady. As you sent for us, A new-launched carriage drove up to the door; The servants all in favours. W. Green. ’Pon my life, I never shall get through it; lend me your hand. [Half rises, and throws herself back on her chair again.] I must sit down again! There came just now A feeling like to swooning over me. I am sure before ’tis over I shall make A fool of myself! I vow I thought not half So much of my first wedding-day! I’ll make An effort. Let me lean upon your arm, And give me yours, my dear. Amelia, mind Keep near me with the smelling-bottle. Servant. [Entering.] Madam, The bridegroom’s come. [Goes out.] W. Green. The brute has knocked me down! To bolt it out so! I had started less If he had fired a cannon at my ear. How shall I ever manage to hold up Till all is done! I’m tremor head to foot. You can excuse me, can’t you?—Pity me! One may feel queer upon one’s wedding-day. [They go out.] <h3>SCENE THE LAST.—A Drawing-room.</h3> [Enter Servants, showing in Sir William Fondlove, Constance, and Master Wildrake—Servants go out again.] Sir Wil. [Aside to Wildrake.] Good Master Wildrake, look more cheerfully!—Come, You do not honour to my wedding-day. How brisk am I! My body moves on springs! My stature gives no inch I throw away; My supple joints play free and sportfully; I’m every atom what a man should be. Wild. I pray you pardon me, Sir William! Sir Wil. Smile, then, And talk and rally me! I did expect, Ere half an hour had passed, you would have put me A dozen times to the blush. Without such things, A bridegroom knows not his own wedding-day. I see! Her looks are glossary to thine, She flouts thee still, I marvel not at thee; There’s thunder in that cloud! I would to-day It would disperse, and gather in the morning. I fear me much thou know’st not how to woo. I’ll give thee a lesson. Ever there’s a way, But knows one how to take it? Twenty men Have courted Widow Green. Who has her now? I sent to advertise her that to-day I meant to marry her. She wouldn’t open My note. And gave I up? I took the way To make her love me! I did send, again To pray her leave my daughter should be bridemaid. That letter too came back. Did I give up? I took the way to make her love me! Yet, Again I sent to ask what church she chose To marry at; my note came back again; And did I yet give up? I took the way To make her love me! All the while I found She was preparing for the wedding. Take A hint from me! She comes! My fluttering heart Gives note the empress of its realms is near. Now, Master Wildrake, mark and learn from me How it behoves a bridegroom play his part. [Enter Widow Green, supported by her Bridemaids, and followed by Amelia.] W. Green. I cannot raise my eyes—they cannot bear The beams of his, which, like the sun’s, I feel Are on me, though I see them not enlightening The heaven of his young face; nor dare I scan The brightness of his form, which symmetry And youth and beauty in enriching vie. He kneels to me! Now grows my breathing thick, As though I did await a seraph’s voice, Too rich for mortal ear. Sir Wil. My gentle bride! W. Green. Who’s that! who speaks to me? Sir Wil. These transports check. Lo, an example to mankind I set Of amorous emprise; and who should thrive In love, if not Love’s soldier, who doth press The doubtful siege, and will not own repulse. Lo, here I tender thee my fealty, To live thy duteous slave. My queen thou art, In frowns or smiles, to give me life or death. Oh, deign look down upon me! In thy face Alone I look on day; it is my sun Most bright; the which denied, no sun doth rise. Shine out upon me, my divinity! My gentle Widow Green! My wife to be; My love, my life, my drooping, blushing bride! W. Green. Sir William Fondlove, you’re a fool! Sir Wil. A fool! W. Green. Why come you hither, sir, in trim like this? Or rather why at all? Sir Wil. Why come I hither? To marry thee! W. Green. The man will drive me mad! Sir William Fondlove, I’m but forty, sir, And you are sixty, seventy, if a day; At least you look it, sir. I marry you! When did a woman wed her grandfather? Sir Wil. Her brain is turned! W. Green. You’re in your dotage, sir, And yet a boy in vanity! But know Yourself from me; you are old and ugly, sir. Sir Wil. Do you deny you are in love with me? W. Green. In love with thee! Sir Wil. That you are jealous of me? W. Green. Jealous! Sir Wil. To very lunacy. W. Green. To hear him! Sir Wil. Do you forget what happened yesterday? W. Green. Sir William Fondlove!— Sir Wil. Widow Green, fair play!— Are you not laughing? Is it not a jest? Do you believe me seventy to a day? Do I look it? Am I old and ugly? Why, Why do I see those favours in the hall, These ladies dressed as bridemaids, thee as bride, Unless to marry me? [Knock.] W. Green. He is coming, sir, Shall answer you for me! [Enter Waller, with Gentlemen as Bridemen.] Wal. Where is she? What! All that bespeaks the day, except the fair That’s queen of it? Most kind of you to grace My nuptials so! But that I render you My thanks in full, make full my happiness, And tell me where’s my bride? W. Green. She’s here. Wal. Where? W. Green. Here, Fair Master Waller! Wal. Lady, do not mock me. W. Green. Mock thee! My heart is stranger to such mood, ’Tis serious tenderness and duty all. I pray you mock not me, for I do strive With fears and soft emotions that require Support. Take not away my little strength, And leave me at the mercy of a feather. I am thy bride! If ’tis thy happiness To think me so, believe it, and be rich To thy most boundless wishes! Master Waller, I am thy waiting bride, the Widow Green! Wal. Lady, no widow is the bride I seek, But one the church has never given yet The nuptial blessing to! W. Green. What mean you, sir? Why come a bridegroom here, if not to me You sued to be your bride? Is this your hand, sir? [Showing letter.] Wal. It is, addressed to your fair waiting-maid. W. Green. My waiting-maid! The laugh is passing round, And now the turn is yours, sir. She is gone! Eloped! run off! and with the gentleman That brought your billet-doux. Wal. Is Trueworth false? He must be false. What madness tempted me To trust him with such audience as I knew Must sense, and mind, and soul of man entrance, And leave him but the power to feel its spell! Of his own lesson he would profit take, And plead at once an honourable love, Supplanting mine, less pure, reformed too late! And if he did, what merit I, except To lose the maid I would have wrongly won; And, had I rightly prized her, now had worn! I get but my deservings! [Enter Trueworth, leading in Lydia, richly dressed, and veiled front head to foot.] Master Trueworth, Though for thy treachery thou hast excuse, Thou must account for it; so much I lose! Sir, you have wronged me to amount beyond Acres, and gold, and life, which makes them rich. And compensation I demand of you, Such as a man expects, and none but one That’s less than man refuses! Where’s the maid You falsely did abstract? True. I took her hence, But not by guile, nor yet enforcement, sir; But of her free will, knowing what she did. That, as I found, I cannot give her back, I own her state is changed, but in her place This maid I offer you, her image far As feature, form, complexion, nature go! Resemblance halting, only there, where thou Thyself didst pause, condition, for this maid Is gently born and generously bred. Lo! for your fair loss, fair equivalent! Wal. Show me another sun, another earth I can inherit, as this Sun and Earth; As thou didst take the maid, the maid herself Give back! herself, her sole equivalent! True. Her sole equivalent I offer you! My sister, sir, long counted lost, now found, Who fled her home unwelcome bands to ’scape, Which a half-father would have forced upon her, Taking advantage of her brother’s absence Away on travel in a distant land! Returned, I missed her; of the cause received Invention, coward, false and criminating! And gave her up for lost; but happily Did find her yesterday—Behold her, sir! [Removes veil.] Wal. Lydia! W. Green. My waiting-maid! Wal. Thy sister, Trueworth! Art thou fit brother to this virtuous maid? True. [Giving Lydia to Waller.] Let this assure thee. Lydia. [To Widow Green.] Madam, pardon me My double character, for honesty, No other end assumed—and my concealment Of Master Waller’s love. In all things else I trust I may believe you hold me blameless; At least, I’ll say for you, I should be so, For it was pastime, madam, not a task, To wait upon you! Little you exacted, And ever made the most of what I did In mere obedience to you! W. Green. Give me your hand; No love without a little roguery. If you do play the mistress well as maid, You will bear off the bell! There never was A better girl!—I have made myself a fool. I am undone, if goes the news abroad. My wedding dress I donned for no effect Except to put it off! I must be married. I’m a lost woman, if another day I go without a husband!—What a sight He looks by Master Waller!—Yet he is physic I die without, so needs must gulp it down. I’ll swallow him with what good grace I can. Sir William Fondlove! Sir Wil. Widow Green! W. Green. I own I have been rude to you. Thou dost not look So old by thirty, forty, years as I Did say. Thou’rt far from ugly—very far! And as I said, Sir William, once before, Thou art a kind and right good-humoured man: I was but angry with you! Why, I’ll tell you At more convenient season—and you know An angry woman heeds not what she says, And will say anything! Sir Wil. I were unworthy The name of man, if an apology So gracious came off profitless, and from A lady! Will you take me, Widow Green? W. Green. Hem! [Curtsies.] True. [To Wildrake.] Master Wildrake dressed to go to church! She has acknowledged, then, she loves thee?—No? Give me thy hand, I’ll lead thee up to her. Wild. ’Sdeath! what are you about? You know her not. She’ll brain thee! True. Fear not: come along with me. Fair Mistress Constance! Con. Well, sir! Wild. [To Trueworth.] Mind! True. Don’t fear. Love you not neighbour Wildrake? Con. Love, sir? True. Yes, You do. Con. He loves another, sir, he does! I hate him. We were children, sir, together For fifteen years and more; there never came The day we did not quarrel, make it up, Quarrel again, and make it up again: Were never neighbours more like neighbours, sir. Since he became a man, and I a woman, It still has been the same; nor cared I ever To give a frown to any other, sir. And now to come and tell me he’s in love, And ask me to be bridemaid to his bride! How durst he do it, sir!—To fall in love! Methinks at least he might have asked my leave, Nor had I wondered had he asked myself, sir! Wild. Then give thyself to me! Con. How! what! Wild. Be mine, Thou art the only maid thy neighbour loves. Con. Art serious, neighbour Wildrake? Wild. In the church I’ll answer thee, if thou wilt take me; though I neither dress, nor walk, nor dance, nor know “The Widow Jones” from an Italian, French, Or German air. Con. No more of that.—My hand. Wild. Givest it as free as thou didst yesterday? Con. [Affecting to strike him.] Nay! Wild. I will thank it, give it how thou wilt. W. Green. A triple wedding! May the Widow Green Obtain brief hearing e’er she quits the scene, The Love-Chase to your kindness to commend In favour of an old, now absent, friend! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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