Spero equidem mediis, si quid pia Numina possunt.
[Together again.
Bis. Converse with imps of darkness of your make; your nature starts at justice, and shivers at the touch of virtue. – Now, the devil take his impudence! He vexes me so, I don't know whether to cry or laugh at him.
Mir. Bravely performed, my dear Libyan! I'll write the tragedy of Dido, and you shall act the part; but you do nothing at all, unless you fret yourself into a fit; for here the poor lady is stifled with vapours, drops into the arms of her maids, and the cruel, barbarous, deceitful, wanderer, is, in the very next line, called pious Æneas. – There's authority for ye.
Sorry indeed Æneas stood,
To see her in a pout;
But Jove himself, who ne'er thought good
To stay a second bout,
Commands him off, with all his crew,
And leaves poor Dy, as I leave you.
[Runs off.
Bis. Go thy ways, for a dear, mad, deceitful, agreeable fellow! O' my conscience, I must excuse Oriana.
That lover soon his angry fair disarms,
Whose slighting pleases, and whose faults are charms.[Exit.
Enter Petit; runs about to every Door, and knocks
Petit. Mr. Mirabel! Sir, where are you? no where to be found?
Enter Young Mirabel
Y. Mir. What's the matter, Petit?
Petit. Most critically met! – Ah, sir, that one who has followed the game so long, and brought the poor hare just under his paws, should let a mungrel cur chop in, and run away with the puss!
Y. Mir. If your worship can get out of your allegories, be pleased to tell me, in three words, what you mean.
Petit. Plain, plain, sir! Your mistress and mine is going to be married!
Y. Mir. I believe you lie, sir.
Petit. Your humble servant, sir.[Going.
Y. Mir. Come hither, Petit. Married, say you?
Petit. No, sir, 'tis no matter: I only thought to do you a service; but I shall take care how I confer my favours for the future.
Y. Mir. Sir, I beg ten thousand pardons.[Bowing low.
Petit. 'Tis enough, sir. – I come to tell you, sir, that Oriana is this moment to be sacrificed; married past redemption!
Y. Mir. I understand her; she'll take a husband, out of spite to me, and then, out of love to me, she will make him a cuckold! But who is the happy man?
Petit. A lord, sir.
Y. Mir. I'm her ladyship's most humble servant. Now must I be a constant attender at my lord's levee, to work my way to my lady's couchee – A countess, I presume, sir —
Petit. A Spanish count, sir, that Mr. Dugard knew abroad, is come to Paris, saw your mistress yesterday, marries her to-day, and whips her into Spain to-morrow.
Y. Mir. Ay, is it so? and must I follow my cuckold over the Pyrenees? Had she married within the precincts of a billet-doux, I would be the man to lead her to church; but, as it happens, I'll forbid the banns! Where is this mighty don?
Petit. Have a care, sir; he's a rough cross-grained piece, and there's no tampering with him. Would you apply to Mr. Dugard, or the lady herself, something might be done, for it is in despite to you, that the business is carried so hastily. Odso, sir, here he comes! I must be gone.[Exit.
Enter Old Mirabel, dressed in a Spanish Habit, leading Oriana
Oriana. Good my lord, a nobler choice had better suited your lordship's merit. My person, rank, and circumstance, expose me as the public theme of raillery, and subject me so to injurious usage, my lord, that I can lay no claim to any part of your regard, except your pity.
Old Mir. Breathes he vital air, that dares presume,
With rude behaviour, to profane such excellence?
Show me the man —
And you shall see how my sudden revenge
Shall fall upon the head of such presumption.
Is this thing one?
[Strutting up to Young Mirabel.
Y. Mir. Sir!
Oriana. Good my lord.
Old Mir. If he, or any he!
Oriana. Pray, my lord, the gentleman's a stranger.
Old Mir. O, your pardon, sir, – but if you had – remember, sir, – the lady now is mine, her injuries are mine; therefore, sir, you understand me – Come, madam.
[Leads Oriana to the Door; she goes off; Young Mirabel runs to his Father, and pulls him by the Sleeve.
Y. Mir. Ecoute, Monsieur le Count.
Old Mir. Your business, sir?
Y. Mir. Boh!
Old Mir. Boh! what language is that, sir?
Y. Mir. Spanish, my lord.
Old Mir. What d'ye mean?
Y. Mir. This, sir.
[Trips up his Heels.
Old Mir. A very concise quarrel, truly – I'll bully him. —Trinidade Seigneur, give me fair play.
[Offering to rise.
Y. Mir. By all means, sir. [Takes away his Sword.] Now, seigneur, where's that bombast look, and fustian face, your countship wore just now?
[Strikes him.
Old Mir. The rogue quarrels well, very well; my own son right! – But hold, sirrah, no more jesting; I'm your father, sir! your father!
Y. Mir. My father! Then, by this light, I could find in my heart to pay thee. [Aside.] Is the fellow mad? Why, sure, sir, I han't frighted you out of your senses?
Old Mir. But you have, sir!
Y. Mir. Then I'll beat them into you again.
[Offers to strike him.
Old Mir. Why, rogue! – Bob! dear Bob! don't you know me, child?
Y. Mir. Ha! ha! ha! the fellow's downright distracted! Thou miracle of impudence! wouldst thou make me believe, that such a grave gentleman as my father would go a masquerading thus? That a person of threescore and three would run about, in a fool's coat, to disgrace himself and family? why, you impudent villain, do you think I will suffer such an affront to pass upon my honoured father, my worthy father, my dear father? 'Sdeath, sir! mention my father but once again, and I'll send your soul to thy grandfather this minute!
[Offering to stab him.
Old Mir. Well, well, I am not your father.
Y. Mir. Why, then, sir, you are the saucy, hectoring Spaniard, and I'll use you accordingly.
Enter Dugard, Oriana, Maid, and Petit. Dugard runs to Young Mirabel, the rest to the Old Gentleman.
Dug. Fie, fie, Mirabel! murder your father!
Y. Mir. My father? What, is the whole family mad? Give me way, sir, I won't be held.
Old Mir. No? nor I neither; let me begone, pray.
[Offering to go.
Y. Mir. My father!
Old Mir. Ay, you dog's face! I am your father, for I have borne as much for thee, as your mother ever did.
Y. Mir. O ho! then this was a trick, it seems, a design, a contrivance, a stratagem! – Oh, how my bones ache!
Old Mir. Your bones, sirrah! why yours?
Y. Mir. Why sir, han't I been beating my own flesh and blood all this while? O, madam, [To Oriana.] I wish your ladyship joy of your new dignity. Here was a contrivance indeed!
Oriana. Pray, sir, don't insult the misfortunes of your own creating.
Dug. My prudence will be counted cowardice, if I stand tamely now. – [Comes up between Young Mirabel and his Sister.] Well, sir!
Y. Mir. Well, sir! Do you take me for one of your tenants, sir, that you put on your landlord's face at me?
Dug. On what presumption, sir, dare you assume thus?[Draws.
Old Mir. What's that to you, sir?[Draws.
Petit. Help! help! the lady faints!
[Oriana falls into her Maid's Arms.
Y. Mir. Vapours! vapours! she'll come to herself: If it be an angry fit, a dram of assa fœtida – If jealousy, hartshorn in water – if the mother, burnt feathers – If grief, ratafia – If it be straight stays, or corns, there's nothing like a dram of plain brandy.[Exit.
Oriana. Hold off, give me air – O, my brother! would you preserve my life, endanger not your own; would you defend my reputation, leave it to itself; 'tis a dear vindication that's purchased by the sword; for, though our champion proves victorious, yet our honour is wounded.
Old Mir. Ay, and your lover may be wounded, that's another thing. But I think you are pretty brisk again, my child.
Oriana. Ay, sir, my indisposition was only a pretence to divert the quarrel; the capricious taste of your sex, excuses this artifice in ours.[Exit.
Petit. Come, Mr. Dugard, take courage; there is a way still left to fetch him again.
Old Mir. Sir, I'll have no plot that has any relation to Spain.
Dug. I scorn all artifice whatsoever; my sword shall do her justice.
Petit. Pretty justice, truly! Suppose you run him through the body, you run her through the heart at the same time.
Old Mir. And me through the head – rot your sword, sir, we'll have plots! Come, Petit, let's hear.
Petit. What if she pretended to go into a nunnery, and so bring him about to declare himself?
Dug. That, I must confess, has a face.
Old Mir. A face! a face like an angel, sir! Ad's my life, sir, 'tis the most beautiful plot in Christendom! We'll about it immediately.[Exeunt.
ACT THE FOURTH
SCENE I
Old Mirabel's House
Enter Old Mirabel and Dugard
Dug. The Lady Abbess is my relation, and privy to the plot.
Old Mir. Ay, ay, this nunnery will bring him about, I warrant ye.
Enter Duretete
Dur. Here, where are ye all? – O, Mr. Mirabel! you have done fine things for your posterity – And you, Mr. Dugard, may come to answer this – I come to demand my friend at your hands; restore him, sir, or —
[To Old Mirabel.
Old Mir. Restore him! What, d'ye think I have got him in my trunk, or my pocket?
Dur. Sir, he's mad, and you are the cause on't.
Old Mir. That may be; for I was as mad as he when I begot him.
Dug. Mad, sir! What d'ye mean?
Dur. What do you mean, sir, by shutting up your sister, yonder, to talk like a parrot through a cage? or a decoy-duck, to draw others into the snare? Your son, sir, because she has deserted him, he has forsaken the world; and, in three words, has —
Old Mir. Hanged himself!
Dur. The very same – turned friar!
Old Mir. You lie, sir! 'tis ten times worse. Bob turned friar! – Why should the fellow shave his foolish crown, when the same razor may cut his throat?
Dur. If you have any command, or you any interest over him, lose not a minute: He has thrown himself into the next monastery, and has ordered me to pay off his servants, and discharge his equipage.
Old Mir. Let me alone to ferret him out: I'll sacrifice the Abbot, if he receives him; I'll try whether the spiritual or the natural father has the most right to the child. – But, dear Captain, what has he done with his estate?
Dur. Settled it upon the church, sir.
Old Mir. The church! Nay, then the devil won't get him out of their clutches – Ten thousand livres a year upon the church! – 'Tis downright sacrilege – Come, gentlemen, all hands to work: for half that sum, one of these monasteries shall protect you a traitor from the law, a rebellious wife from her husband, and a disobedient son from his own father.[Exit.
Dug. But will ye persuade me that he's gone to a monastery?
Dur. Is your sister gone to the Filles Repenties? I tell you, sir, she's not fit for the society of repenting maids.
Dug. Why so, sir?
Dur. Because she's neither one nor t'other; she's too old to be a maid, and too young to repent.
[Exit– Dugard after him.
SCENE II
The Inside of a Monastery
Enter Oriana, in a Nun's Habit, and Bisarre
Oriana. I hope, Bisarre, there is no harm in jesting with this religious habit.
Bis. To me, the greatest jest in the habit, is taking it in earnest.
Oriana. But I'm reconciled, methinks, to the mortification of a nunnery; because I fancy the habit becomes me.
Bis. A well-contrived mortification, truly, that makes a woman look ten times handsomer than she did before! – Ay, my dear, were there any religion in becoming dress, our sex's devotion were rightly placed; for our toilets would do the work of the altar; we should all be canonized.
Oriana. But don't you think there is a great deal of merit in dedicating a beautiful face and person to the service of religion?
Bis. Not half so much as devoting them to a pretty fellow. Come, come, mind your business. Mirabel loves you, 'tis now plain, and hold him to't; give fresh orders that he shan't see you: we get more by hiding our faces, sometimes, than by exposing them; a very mask, you see, whets desire; but a pair of keen eyes, through an iron grate, fire double upon them, with view and disguise. But I must begone upon my affairs; I have brought my captain about again.
Oriana. But why will you trouble yourself with that coxcomb?
Bis. Because he is a coxcomb: had I not better have a lover like him, that I can make an ass of, than a lover like yours, to make a fool of me. [Knocking below.] A message from Mirabel, I'll lay my life! [She runs to the Door.] Come hither! run, thou charming nun, come hither!
Oriana. What's the news?[Runs to her.
Bis. Don't you see who's below?
Oriana. I see nobody but a friar.
Bis. Ah, thou poor blind Cupid! A friar! Don't you see a villanous genteel mien, under that cloak of hypocrisy?
Oriana. As I live, Mirabel turned friar! I hope, in Heaven, he's not in earnest.
Bis. In earnest! Ha! ha! ha! are you in earnest? Remember what I say, if you would yield to advantage, and hold out the attack; to draw him on, keep him off, to be sure.
The cunning gamesters never gain too fast,
But lose at first, to win the more at last.
[Exit.
Enter Young Mirabel, in a Friar's Habit
Y. Mir. 'Save you, sister – Your brother, young lady, having a regard for your soul's health, has sent me to prepare you for the sacred habit, by confession.
Oriana. My brother's care I own; and to you, sacred sir, I confess, that the great crying sin, which I have long indulged, and now prepare to expiate, was love. My morning thoughts, my evening prayers, my daily musings, nightly cares, was love!
Y. Mir. She's downright stark mad in earnest! Death and confusion, I have lost her! [Aside.] – You confess your fault, madam, in such moving terms, that I could almost be in love with the sin.
Oriana. Take care, sir; crimes, like virtues, are their own rewards; my chief delight became my only grief; he, in whose breast I thought my heart secure, turned robber, and despoiled the treasure that he kept.
Y. Mir. Perhaps that treasure he esteemed so much, that, like the miser, though afraid to use it, he reserves it safe.
Oriana. No, holy father: who can be miser in another's wealth, that's prodigal of his own? His heart was open, shared to all he knew, and what, alas! must then become of mine! But the same eyes, that drew this passion in, shall send it out in tears, to which now hear my vow —
Y. Mir. [Discovering himself.] No, my fair angel! Here, on my knees, behold the criminal, that vows repentance his. [Kneels.] Ha! no concern upon her!
Enter Old Mirabel
Old Mir. Where, where's this counterfeit nun?
Oriana. Madness! confusion! I'm ruined!
Y. Mir. What do I hear? [Puts on his Hood.] What did you say, sir?
Old Mir. I say she's a counterfeit, and you may be another, for aught I know, sir: I have lost my child by these tricks, sir.
Y. Mir. What tricks, sir?
Old Mir. By a pretended trick, sir. A contrivance to bring my son to reason, and it has made him stark mad; I have lost him, and a thousand pound a year.
Y. Mir. [Discovering himself.] My dear father, I'm your most humble servant.
Old Mir. My dear boy! [Runs and kisses him.] – Welcome, ex inferis, my dear boy! 'tis all a trick, she's no more a nun than I am.
Y. Mir. No!
Old Mir. The devil a bit.
Y. Mir. Then kiss me again, my dear dad, for the most happy news – And now, most venerable holy sister,[Kneels.
Your mercy and your pardon I implore,
For the offence of asking it before.
Lookye, my dear counterfeiting nun, take my advice, be a nun in good earnest; women make the best nuns always, when they can't do otherwise
Oriana. O, sir! how unhappily have you destroyed what was so near perfection! He is the counterfeit, that has deceived you.
Old Mir. Ha! Lookye, sir, I recant; she is a nun.
Y. Mir. Sir, your humble servant; then I'm a friar this moment.
Old Mir. Was ever an old fool so bantered by a brace o' young ones! Hang you both! you're both counterfeits, and my plot's spoiled, that's all.
Oriana. Shame and confusion, love, anger, and disappointment, will work my brain to madness!
[Takes off her Habit—Exit.
Y. Mir. Ay, ay, throw by the rags; they have served a turn for us both, and they shall e'en go off together.
[Takes off his Habit.[Exit, throwing away the Habit.