Love for Love | Page 4

gratify ill-nature,?(If there be any here), and that is satire.?Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild?Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.?As asses thistles, poets mumble wit,?And dare not bite for fear of being bit:?They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,?And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.?Since the Plain-Dealer's scenes of manly rage,?Not one has dared to lash this crying age.?This time, the poet owns the bold essay,?Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play;?And he declares, by me, he has designed?Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.?And should th' ensuing scenes not chance to hit,?He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ?Before your late encouragement of wit.
EPILOGUE. Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mrs?Bracegirdle.
Sure Providence at first designed this place?To be the player's refuge in distress;?For still in every storm they all run hither,?As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather.?But thinking of this change which last befel us,?It's like what I have heard our poets tell us:?For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading,?To help their love, sometimes they show their reading;?And, wanting ready cash to pay for hearts,?They top their learning on us, and their parts.?Once of philosophers they told us stories,?Whom, as I think, they called--Py--Pythagories,?I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em,?And we, who know no better, must believe 'em.?Now to these men, say they, such souls were given,?That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven,?But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then?When many years were past, in men again.?Methinks, we players resemble such a soul,?That does from bodies, we from houses stroll.?Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was,?May now be damned to animate an ass,?Or in this very house, for ought we know,?Is doing painful penance in some beau;?And thus our audience, which did once resort?To shining theatres to see our sport,?Now find us tossed into a tennis-court.?These walls but t'other day were filled with noise?Of roaring gamesters and your dam'me boys;?Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast,?And now they're filled with jests, and flights, and bombast! I vow, I don't much like this transmigration,?Strolling from place to place by circulation;?Grant heaven, we don't return to our first station!?I know not what these think, but for my part?I can't reflect without an aching heart,?How we should end in our original, a cart.?But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us,?That you have only set us up, to leave us.?Thus from the past we hope for future grace,?I beg it -?And some here know I have a begging face.?Then pray continue this your kind behaviour,?For a clear stage won't do, without your favour.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, father to Valentine and Ben,--Mr Underhill. VALENTINE, fallen under his father's displeasure by his expensive way of living, in love with Angelica,--Mr Betterton.?SCANDAL, his friend, a free speaker,--Mr Smith.?TATTLE, a half-witted beau, vain of his amours, yet valuing himself for secrecy,--Mr Bowman.?BEN, Sir Sampson's younger son, half home-bred and half sea-bred, designed to marry Miss Prue,--Mr Dogget.?FORESIGHT, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and positive,?superstitious, and pretending to understand astrology, palmistry, physiognomy, omens, dreams, etc; uncle to Angelica,--Mr Sanford. JEREMY, servant to Valentine,--Mr Bowen.?TRAPLAND, a scrivener,--Mr Triffusis.?BUCKRAM, a lawyer,--Mr Freeman.
WOMEN.
ANGELICA, niece to Foresight, of a considerable fortune in her own hands,--Mrs Bracegirdle.?MRS FORESIGHT, second wife to Foresight,--Mrs Bowman.?MRS FRAIL, sister to Mrs Foresight, a woman of the town,--Mrs Barry. MISS PRUE, daughter to Foresight by a former wife, a silly, awkward country girl,--Mrs Ayliff.?NURSE to MISS,--Mrs Leigh.?JENNY,--Mrs Lawson.
A STEWARD, OFFICERS, SAILORS, AND SEVERAL SERVANTS.
The Scene in London.
LOVE FOR LOVE--ACT I.--SCENE I.
VALENTINE in his chamber reading. JEREMY waiting.
Several books upon the table.
VAL. Jeremy.
JERE. Sir?
VAL. Here, take away. I'll walk a turn and digest what I have read.
JERE. You'll grow devilish fat upon this paper diet. [Aside, and taking away the books.]
VAL. And d'ye hear, go you to breakfast. There's a page doubled down in Epictetus, that is a feast for an emperor.
JERE. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts?
VAL. Read, read, sirrah, and refine your appetite; learn to live upon instruction; feast your mind and mortify your flesh; read, and take your nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of understanding. So Epictetus advises.
JERE. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that Epictetus?
VAL. A very rich man.--Not worth a groat.
JERE. Humph, and so he has made a very fine feast, where there is nothing to be eaten?
VAL. Yes.
JERE. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably understand this fine feeding: but if you please, I had rather be at board wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich rogues, teach you how to