Iago. Why, but you are now well enough how came you thus recovered? Caf. It has pleafed the devil Drunken. nefs to give place to the devil Wrath, one imperfectnefs fhews me another, to make me frankly defpise myself, lago. Come, you are too fevere a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country ftands, I could heartily with this had not befallen; but fince it is as it is, mend it for your own good. Caf. I will ask him for my place again -he fhall tell me I am a drunkard!Had I as many mouths as Hydra, fuch an answer would stop them all. To be now a fenfible man, by and by a fool, and prefently a beast!Every inordinate cup is unblefs'd, and the ingredient is a devil. Iago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well us'd; exclaim no more against it. And, good Lieutenant, I think you think I love you. Caf. I have well approv'd it, Sir.-I drunk! Iago. You, or any man living, may be drunk at fome time, man. I tell you what you fhall do. Our general's wife is now the general. Confefs yourfelf freely to her: importune her help, to put you in your place again. She is of fo free, fo kind, fo apt. fo bleffed a difpofition, the holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than fhe is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband, entreat her to fplinter and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love fhall grow ftronger than it was before. Caf. You advise me well lago. I proteft, in the fincerity of love and honeft kindness. Caf. I think it freely; and, betimes in the morning, I will befeech the virtuous Defdemona to undertake for me. Iago. You are in the right. Good night, Lieutenant: I must to the watch. Caf. Good night, honeft lago. Shakespeare. § 26. A Dialogue between MERCURY and a modern fine Lady. Mrs. Modifh. Indeed, Mr. Mercury, I cannot have the pleasure of waiting upon you now, I am engaged, abfolutely engaged. Mercury. I know yon have an amiable affectionate husband, and feveral fine chil X dren: but you need not be told, that neither conjugal attachments, maternal affections, nor even the care of a kingdom's welfare or a nation's glory, can excuse a person who has received a fummons to the realms of death. If the grim messenger was not as peremptory as unwelcome, Charon would not get a paffenger (except now and then a hypocondriacal Englishman) once in a century. You must be content to leave your husband and family, and pass the Styx. Mrs. Modifh. I did not mean to infift on any engagement with my husband and children; I never thought myself engaged to them. I had no engagements but fuch as were common to women of my rank. Look on my chimney-piece, and you will fee I was engaged to the play on Mondays, balls on Tuefdays, the opera on Saturdays, and to card affemblies the reft of the week, for two months to come; and it would be the rudeft thing in the world not to keep my appointments. If you will stay for me till the fummer feafon, I will wait on you with all my heart. Perhaps the Elyfian fields may be lefs deteftable than the country in our world. Pray, have you a fine Vauxhall and Ranelagh? I think I should not diflike drinking the Lethe waters, when you have a full season. Mercury. Surely you could not like to drink the waters of oblivion, who have made pleasure the bufinefs, end, and aim of your life! It is good to drown cares : but who would wash away the remembrance of a life of gaiety and pleasure ? Mrs. Modifh. Diverfion was indeed the bufinefs of my life; but as to pleasure, I have enjoyed none fince the novelty of my amufements was gone off. Can one be pleafed with feeing the fame thing over and over again? Late hours and fatigue gave me the vapours, fpoiled the natural chearfulness of my temper, and even in youth wore away my natural vivacity. Mercury. If this way of life did not give you pleasure, why did you continue in it? I fuppofe you did not think it was very meritorious? Mrs. Modifh. I was too much engaged to think at all: fo far indeed my manner of life was agreeable enough. My friends always told me diverfions were neceffary, and my doctor affured me diffipation was good for my spirits; my hufband infifted that it was not; and you know that one loves to oblige one's friends, comply with one's doctor, and contradict one's hulband; and and befides, I was ambitious to be thought du bon ton *. Mercury. Bon ton! what's that, Madam? Pray define it.. Mrs. Modifo. Oh, Sir, excufe me; it is one of the privileges of the bon ton never to define or be defined. It is the child and the parent of jargon. It is-I can never tell you what it is; but I will try to tell you what it is not. In converfation it is not wit; in manners it is not politenefs; in behaviour it is not addrefs; but it is a little like them all. It can only belong to people of a certain rank, who live in a certain manner, with certain perfons who have not certain virtues, aud who have certain vices, and who inhabit a certain part of the town. Like a place by courtesy, it gets an higher rank than the perfon can claim, but which thofe who have a legal title to precedency dare not difpute, for fear of being thought not to understand the rules of politenefs. Now, Sir, I have told you as much as I know of it, though I have admired and aimed at it all my life. Mercury. Then Madam, you have wafted your time, faded your beauty, and detroyed your health, for the laudable purpofes of contradicting your hufband, and being this fomething and this nothing called the bon ton? Mrs. Modifh. What would you have had me do? Mercury. I will follow your mode of inftructing: I will tell you what I would not have had you do. I would not have had you facrifice your time, your reafon, and your duties to fashion and folly. 1 would not have had you neglect your hufband's happiness, and your children's edu cation. Mrs. Modifh. As to my daughters' education I fpared no expence: they had a dancing-matter, mufic-mafter, and draw ing-maiter, and a French governess to teach them behaviour and the French language. Mercury. So their religion, fentiments, and manners, were to be learnt from a dancing-mafter, mufic-mafter, and a chamber-maid! perhaps they might prepare them to catch the bon ton. Your daughters must have been fo educated as to fit them to be wives without conjugal affection, and mothers without maternal care. I am forry for the fort of life they are commencing, Du bon ton is a cant phrafe in the modern French language, for the fashionable air of converfation and manners, and for that which you have juft concluded. Minos is a four old gentleman, without the leaft fmattering of the bon ton; and I am in a fright for you. The best thing I can advife you is, to do in this world as you did in the other, keep happiness in your view, but never take the road that leads to it. Remain on this fide Styx; wander about without end or aim; look into the Elysian fields, but never attempt to enter into them, left Minos fhould push you into Tartarus; for duties neglected may bring on a fentence not much lefs fevere than crimes committed. Dialogues of the Dead. § 27. Scene between, the Jerus SHYLOCK and TUBAL; in which the latter alternately torments and pleases the former, by giving him an Account of the Extravagance of his Daughter JESSICA, and the Mis fortunes of ANTONIO. Shy. How now, Tubal? What news from Genoa? haft thou heard of my daughter? Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. Shy. Why there, there, there! a diamond gone that coft me two thousand ducats in Francfort! The curfe never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels! I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! O would the were hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them; and I know not what spent in the fearch: lofs upon lofs! the thief gone with fo much, and fo much to find the thief; and no fatisfaction, no revenge; no ill luck ftirring but what lights on my fhoulders; no fighs, but o' my breathing: no tears, but o' my fhedding! Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too! Antonio, as I heard in Genoa Shy. What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck? Tub. Hath an argofie caft away, coming from Tripoli. Shy. Thank God! thank God! is it true? is it true? Tub. I fpoke with fome of the failors. that escaped the wreck. Shy. I thank thee, good Tubal; good news, good news! Tub. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one night, fourfcore du cats. Shy. Shy. Thou ftick'ft a dagger in me; I fhall never fee my gold again: fourscore ducats at a fitting! fourfcore ducats! Tub. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice, that fwear he cannot but break. Shy. I'm glad of it: I'll plague him, I'll torture him: I am glad of it. Tub. One of them fhew'd me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. Shy. Out upon her! thou tortureft me, Tubal! it was my ruby, I had it of Leah when I was a batchelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkies. Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone. Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true: go fee me an officer, befpeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandize I will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our fynagogue; go, good Tubal; at our fynagogue. Tubal. Shakespeare. $28. Humourous Scene between Prince. HENRY and FALSTAFF, in which the Prince detects FALSTAFF'S monstrous Lies. Fal. A plague of all cowards, I fay, and a vengeance too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of fack, boy :-ere I lead this life long, I'll few nether focks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! give me a cup of fack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks.]-You rogue, here's lime in this fack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man; yet a coward is worse than a cup of fack with lime in it. A villainous coward!-Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a fhotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, Heaven help the while! A bad world! I fay-A plague of all cowards! I fay ftill. P. Henry. mutter you? Fal. A king's fon! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy fubjects afore thee like a flock of wild geefe, I'll never wear hair on my face more! You Prince of Wales ! How now, Woolfack! what P. Henry. Why, what's the matter? Fal. Are you not a coward? answer me that. P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an' ye call me coward, I'll flab thee. Fal. I call thee coward! I'l fee thee hang'd ere I'll call thee coward; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canft. You ate ftrait enough in the fhoulders; you care not who fees your back. Call you that backing of your friends? a plague upon fuch backing! give me them that will face me-give me a cup of fack: I am a rogue if I drank to-day. P. Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd fince thou drank'ft laft. Fal. All's one for that. [He drinks.] A plague of all cowards! ftill, say I. P. Henry. What's the matter? Fal. What's the matter! here be four of us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning. P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it ? Fal. Where is it! taken from us, it is: a hundred upon four of us. P. Henry. What! a hundred, man? Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at halffword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thruft through the doublet, four through the hofe, my buckler cut through and through, my fword hack'd like a handfaw, ecce fignum! I never dealt better fince I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards! P. Henry. What, fought you with them all? Fal. All! I know not what ye call all; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish; if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legg'd creature. P. Henry. Pray Heav'n you have not murdered fome of them! Fal. Nay, that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them; two, I am fure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram fuits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, fpit in my face, call me a horse. Thou knoweft my old ward: here I lay, and thus I bore my point; four rogues in buckram let drive at me. P. Henry. What, four! thou faidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal, I told thee four.Thefe four came all a front, and mainly thruft at me: I made no more ado, but took P. Henry. Ay, four, in buckram fuits. Fal. Seven by thefe hilts, or I am a villain elfe. Doft thou hear me, Hal! P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do fo, for it is worth the liftening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee ofP. Henry. So, two more already, Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground; but I follow'd me clofe, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought-feven of the eleven I paid. P. Henry. O monftrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two. Fal. But as the devil would have it, three mifbegotten knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and let drive at me; (for it was fo dark, Hal, that thou couldst not fee thy hand.) P. Henry. Thefe lies are like the father that begets them, grofs as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou obscene greafy tallow-catch Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth? P. Henry. Why, how couldft thou know thefe men in Kendal-green, when it was fo dark thou couldit not fee thy hand? Come, tell us your reafon: what fay't thou to this? Come, your reafon, Jack, your reason. Fal. What upon compulfion!-No: were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulfion! Give you a reafon on compulfion! If reafons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reafon upon compulfion. P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this fin. This fanguine coward, this bedpreffer, this horfe-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh Fal. Away, you ftarveling, you elf-fkin, you dry'd neat's tongue, you stock-fith! O, for breath to utter! what is like thee? you taylor's yard, you fheath, you bowcafe, you vile standing tuck P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou haft tir'd thyfelf in bafe comparisons, hear me fpeak but this:-Poins and I faw you four fet on four; you bound them, and were mafters of their wealth: mark now, how a plain tale fhall put you down. Then did we two fet on you four, and with a word out-fac'd you from your prize, and have it; yea, and can fhew it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carry'd your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and fill ran and roar'd, as ever I heard a bull-calf. What a flave art thou, to hack thy fword as thou haft done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canft thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent fhame? Fal. Ha ha! ha!-D'ye think I did not know you!-By the Lord, I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear ye my mafter, was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? fhould I turn upon the true prince? why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct; the lion will not touch the true prince; inftinct is a great matter. I was a coward on inflinct, I grant you: and I fhall think the better of myself and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. What, fhall we be merry? fhall we have a play extempore? P. Henry. Content!-and the argument fhall be, thy running away. Fal. Ah!-no more of that, Hal, if thou loveft me. Shakespeare. § 29. Manly. Honeft John! Moody. Meafter Manly! I am glad I ha' fun ye.-Well, and how d'ye do, Meafter? Manly. I am glad to fee you in London, I hope all the good family are well. Moody. Thanks be prais'd, your honour, they are all in pretty good heart; thof' we have had a power of croffes upo' the road. Manly. What has been the matter, John? Moody. Why, we came up in fuch a hurry, you mun think, that our tackle was not fo tight as it should be. Manly. Come, tell us all-Pray, how do they travel? Moody. Why, i'the awld coach, Meafter; and 'caufe my Lady loves to do things handfome, to be fure, the would have a couple of cart-horfes clapt to the four old geldings, that neighbours might fee the went up to London in her coach and fix; and fo Giles Joulter, the ploughman, rides poftillion. Manly. And when do you expect them here, John? Moody. Why, we were in hopes to ha' come come yesterday, an' it had no' been that th'awld weazle-belly horfe tired: and then we were fo cruelly loaden, that the two forewheels came crash down at once, in Waggon-rut-lane, and there we loft four hours 'fore we could fet things to rights again. Manly. So they bring all their baggage with the coach, then? Moody. Ay, ay, and good ftore on't there is-Why, my lady's gear alone were as much as filled four portmantel trunks, befides the great deal box that heavy Ralph and the monkey fit upon behind. Manly. Ha, ha, ha!-And, pray, how many are they within the coach? Moody. Why there's my lady and his worship, and the younk 'fquoire, and Mifs Jenny, and the fat lap-dog, and my lady's maid Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook, that's all-only Doll puked a little with riding backward; fo they hoifted her into the coach-box, and then her ftomach was easy. Manly. Ha, ha, ha! Moody. Then you mun think, Meafter, there was fome ftowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; children are apt to be famifh'd upo' the road; fo we had fuch cargoes of plumb cake, and baskets of tongues, and bifcuits, and cheese, and cold boil'd beef-and then, in cafe of fickness, bottles of cherry-brandy, plague-water, fack, tent, and ftrong beer fo plenty, as made th' awld coach crack again. Mercy upon them! and fend them all well to town, I fay. Manly. Ay, and well out on't again, John. Moody. Meafter! you're a wife mon! and, for that matter, fo am I-Whoam's whoam, I fay: I am fure we ha' got but little good e'er fin' we turn'd our backs on't. Nothing but mischief! fome devil's trick or other plagued us aw th' day Jung. Crack, goes one thing! bawnce, goes another! Woa! fays Roger-Then, fowfe! we are all fet faft in a flough. Whaw! cries Mifs: Scream! go the maids; and bawl juft as thof' they were ftuck. And fo, mercy on us! this was the trade from morning to night. Manly. Ha, ha, ha! Moody. But I mun hie me whoam; the coach will be coming every hour naw. Manly. Well, honeft John. Moody. Dear Meafter Manly! the goodnefs of goodness blefs and preferve you! §. 30. Directions for the Management of Wit. If you have wit (which I am not fure that I wish you, unless you have at the fame time at least an equal portion of judgment to keep it in good order) wear it, like your fword, in the fcabbard, and do not blandish it to the terror of the whole company. Wit is a fhining quality, that every body admires; moft people aim at it, all people fear it, and few love it, unless in themfelves:-a man muft have a good fhare of wit himself, to endure a great share in another. When wit exerts itself in fatire, it is a moft malignant distemper: wit, it is true, may be fhewn in fatire, but fatire does not conftitute wit, as many imagine. A man of wit ought to find a thousand better occafions of fhewing it. Abstain, therefore, molt carefully from fatire; which, though it fall on no particular perfon in company, and momentarily, from the malignancy of the human heart," pleafes all; yet, upon reflection, it fright ens all too. Every one thinks it may be his turn next; and will hate you for what he finds you could fay of him, more than be obliged to you for what you do not say. Fear and hatred are next-door neigh bours: the more wit you have, the more good-nature and politenefs you must fhew, to induce people to pardon your fuperiority; for that is no eafy matter. Appear to have rather lefs than more wit than you really have. A wife man will live at least as much within his wit as his income. Content yourself with good fenfe and reason, which at the long run are ever fure to please every body who has either; if wit comes into the bargain, welcome it, but never invite it. Bear this truth always in your mind, that you may be admired for your wit, if you have any; but that nothing but good fenfe and good qualities can make you be beloved. These are fubftantial every day's wear: whereas wit is a holiday-fuit, which people put on chiefly to be stared at. There is a fpecies of minor wit, which is much ufed, and much more abused; I mean raillery. It is a most mischievous' and dangerous weapon, when in unfkilful and clumly hands; and it is much fafer to let it quite alone than to play with it; and yet almost every body plays with it, though they fee daily the quarrels and heart-burnings that it occafions. The injuftice of a bad man is sooner forgiven than the infults of a witty one; the former only hurts one's liberty and property; but the latter hurts and mortifies that fecret pride which no human breast is free from. I will allow, that there is a fort |