The Old Debauchees. A Comedy. Henry FieldingЧитать онлайн книгу.
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The Old Debauchees. A Comedy
PROLOGUE
I Wish, with all my Heart, the Stage and Town
Would both agree to cry all Prologues down;
That we, no more oblig'd to say or sing,
Might drop this useless necessary Thing:
No more with aukward Strut, before the Curtain,
Chaunt out some Rhimes – there's neither good nor hurt in.
What is this Stuff the Poets make us deal in,
But some old worn-out Jokes of their Retailing:
From Sages of our own, or former Times,
Transvers'd from Prose, perhaps transpros'd from Rhimes.
Perhaps, for Change, you, now and then, by Fits,
Are told that Criticks are the Bane of Wits;
How they turn Vampyres, being dead and damn'd,
And with the Blood of living Bards are cramm'd:
That Poets thus tormented die, and then
The Devil gets in them, and they suck agen.
As something must be spoke, no matter what;
No Friends are now by Prologues lost or got;
By such Harangues we raise nor Spleen, nor Pity —
Thus ends this idle, but important Ditty.
Dramatis Personæ
Old Laroon. Mr. Shepard.
Young Laroon. Mr. Mills, Junior.
Father Martin. Mr. Cibber, Junior.
Old Jourdain. Mr. Roberts.
Isabel. Miss Raftor.
Beatrice. Miss Williams.
ACT I
A Nunnery! Ha, ha, ha! And is it possible, my dear Beatrice, you can intend to sacrifice your Youth and Beauty, to go out of the World as soon as you come into it!
Bea. No one, my dear Isabel, can sacrifice too much or too soon to Heaven.
Isa. Pshaw! Heaven regards Hearts and not Faces, and an old Woman will be as acceptable a Sacrifice as a young one.
Bea. It is possible you may come to a better Understanding, and value the World as little as I do.
Isa. As you say, it is possible when I can enjoy it no longer, I may; nay, I do not care if I promise you when I grow old and ugly, I'll come and keep you Company: But this I am positive, till the World is weary of me, I never shall be weary of the World.
Bea. What can a Woman of Sense see in it worth her valuing?
Isa. Oh! ten thousand pretty things! Equipage, Cards, Musick, Plays, Balls, Flattery, Visits, and that prettiest thing of all pretty things, a pretty Fellow – I rather wonder what Charms a Woman of any Spirit can fancy in a Nunnery, in watching, working, praying, and sometimes, I am afraid, wishing for other Company than that of an old fusty Friar – Oh! 'tis a delightful State, when every Man one sees, instead of tempting us to Sin, is to rebuke us for them.
Bea. Such Sentiments as these would indeed make you very uneasy – but believe me, Child, you would soon bring yourself to hate Mankind; fasting and praying are the best Cures in the World for these violent Passions.
Isa. On my Conscience I should want neither; if the continual Sight of a Set of dirty Priests would not bring me to abhor Mankind, I dare swear nothing could.
Old Lar. Good-morrow, my little Wag-tail – my Grashopper, my Butterfly. Odso! you little Baggage, you look as full of – as full of Love and Sport and Wantonness – I wish I was a young Fellow again – Oh! that I was but five and twenty for thy sake. Where's my Boy? What, has not he been with you, has not he serenaded you? – Odsheart – I never let his Mother sleep for a Month before I married her.
Isa. Indeed!
Old Lar. No Madam, nor for a Month afterwards neither. The young Fellows of this Age are nothing, mere Butterflies, to those of ours – Odsheart I remember the Time, when I could have taken a Hop, Step, and Jump over the Steeple of Notre Dame.
Bea. I fancy the Sparks of your Age had Wings, Sir.
Old Lar. Wings, you little Baggage, no – but they had – they had Limbs, like Elephants, and as strong they were as Sampson, and as swift as – Why, I have my self run down a Stag in a fair Chace, and eat him afterwards for my Dinner. But come, where is my old Neighbour, my old Friend, my old Jourdain?
Isa. At his Devotions, I suppose, this is the Hour he generally employs in them.
Old Lar. This Hour! ay, all Hours. I dare swear he spends more Time in them, than all the Priests in Toulon. Well, give him his due, he was wicked as long as he could be so, and when he could sin no longer, why he began to repent that he had sinned at all. Oh! there is nothing so devout as an old Whoremaster.
Bea. I fancy then it will be shortly Time for you to think of it, Sir!
Old Lar. Ay, Madam, about some thirty or forty Years hence it may – Odsheart! I am but in the prime of my Years yet: And if it was not for a saucy young Rascal who looks me in the Face and calls me Father, might make a very good Figure among the Beaus. But tho' I am not so young in Years, I am in Constitution as any of them; and I don't question but to live to see a Son and a great Grandson both born on the same Day.
Isa. You will excuse this Lady, Mr. Laroon, who is going to retire so much earlier —
Old Lar. Retire! – Then it is with a young Fellow, I hope.
Isa. Into a Cloister, I assure you.
Old Lar. A Cloister! – Why, Madam, if you have a mind to hang your self at the Year's End; would it not be better to spend your Time in Matrimony than in a Nunnery? Don't let a Set of rascally Priests put strange Notions in your Head. Take my Word for it, and I am a very honest Fellow, there are no Raptures worth a Louse, but those in the Arms of a brisk young Cavalier. Of all the Actions of my Youth, there are none I reflect on with so much Pleasure as having burnt half a Dozen Nunneries, and delivered several hundred Virgins out of Captivity.
Bea. Oh! Villany! unheard of Villany!
Isa. Unheard of till this Moment I dare swear.
Old Lar. Out of which Number there are at present nine Countesses, three Dutchesses, and a Queen, who owe their Liberty and their Promotion to this Arm.
Old Lar. You are a fine Spark truly to let your Father visit your Mistress before you – 'Sdeath! I believe you are no Son of mine. Where have you been, Sir? What have you been doing, Sir, hey?
Y. Lar. Sir, I have been at my Devotions.
Old Lar. At your Devotions! nay, then you are no Son of mine, that's certain. Is not this the Shrine you are to offer up at, Sirrah! Is not here the Altar you are to officiate at? – Sirrah! you have no Blood of mine in you. I believe you are the Bastard of some travelling English Alderman, and must have come into the World with a Custard in your Mouth.
Y.