[1] CUPID'S REVENGE.

ACT I. SCENE I.

HOW anxious are the creeping hours till fair Tu⯑lippa's mine; yet let me not complain ſince her kind, tho' delicate reception of my vows, raiſes me above a monarch's fortune—My artleſs muſe having tacked together ſome feeble rhimes, expreſſive of my heart, I' [...] hang them on this friendly bough

where they may ſpeak more plainly to her ſight, than my diffident, unpractic'd tongue can to her ear.

Not even ſlumber's leaden mace can remove from my diſtracted mind, the ſevere treatment of ſcornful, cruel Pſyche;—ſhall I, who diſpenſe love or hate upon the points of leaden or golden darts, be made her ſport? Shall rural nymphs and ſwains enjoy a happineſs un⯑known to Cupid? It muſt not be;—no! I'll exert my⯑ſelf to work confuſion amongſt them.

How pleaſingly thoſe ſpray-perch'd warblers chaunt throughout the grove; how ſweetly riſing flowrets ſcent the vernal Air, theſe few ſelected with a careful hand, and pearl'd with honey'd dew, ſhall adorn the faithful boſom of my Amaranthus.—Where can he be wand'ring? Time ſtands ſtill when he is abſent, but imps his wings with double ſpeed, when the dear object of my doating eyes is near.

What's here—one of love's packets—The explana⯑tion of ſome timorous ſwain or baſhful maid who, fear⯑ing ſpeech, has given thought to paper.—Ha! the character of Amaranthus; quick let my eager ſight de⯑vour the ſweet contents.

What do I read? Love's warmeſt effuſion pour⯑ed forth to Verna—The milky ſoftneſs leaves my breaſt, and gall of jealouſy flows in—Ah, fooliſh eyes, in⯑dulge not idle tears!—Ah, ſimple heart, thy fruitleſs throbbing ceaſe—it will not be; how nature's beauties wither in my ſight, falſe, falſe Amaranthus!

But ſee he comes, perhaps to meet with Verna—his new miſtreſs—If ſo—long as I can bear, behind this arbour, I'll ſee the painful interview.

To ſearch ſo long, and not to find her.

Oh, Sir, your new fangled paſſion's impatient.

The paper gone! Sure it has reach'd the beauteous hand I wiſh.

Perhaps not.

Having convey'd this faint, but honeſt picture of my heart—

And a pretty one it is, truly.

I ſhall henceforth be able to addreſs her with more confidence.

Confidence enough, no doubt.—I muſt indulge my ſwelling ſpleen, and ſhow myſelf.—So thoughtful, ſwain.

Ha! my Tulippa here!

Your Tulippa!

Yes! my Tulippa, that is to be—I hope.

Flattering hope, like flattering ſwains, carries much deceit with it.

What agitates my lovely fair? Why ſwim her eyes with tears? Why flies the bloom from off thoſe cheeks, where dimpled beauty always fits.

Becauſe my heart ſo much deteſts falſehood, that even my features muſt ſpeak truth.

You ſpeak in riddles, and cloud me with aſtoniſh⯑ment.

Haſte from theſe honeſt plains, to cities haſte, where double-fac'd hypocriſy is found in every claſs; where virtue and conſtancy are laugh'd out of countenance, and love is nothing but a name.

Theſe plains indeed I'll fly, if my Tulippa proves un⯑kind; but why ſhould I be exil'd from that rural ſimpli⯑city, and all my ſoul admires.

Falſe ſwain, think on the bitter fruit I plucked from yonder bough, and repeat that queſtion if you can.

Fruit! if the produce of my poor brain deſerves that name, I hope, tho' it cannot boaſt the richneſs of ge⯑nius, it may claim the flavour of ſincerity.

Sincerity!—Verna!—

What of her!—Verna!—I know ſhe is eſteemed fair, but—

I know thee falſe, without a but—ſo traitor, fare⯑wel forever.

Falſehood! Traitor! Verna! What a game of con⯑fuſion! what croſs purpoſes—That falſehood which, I ſuppoſe, has waver'd her own heart, ſhe would artfully charge upon mine.

A fine young fellow, I proteſt—and wonderfully good, they ſay—How active and firm he treads—Such a huſband would be charmingly comfortable to a perſon of my years and circumſtances—But I ſuppoſe he's for ſome flirting young minx—Who knows, all youth are not fools, and properly talk'd to, he may comply;—I'll try however, for as they ſay, ‘"a faint heart never won a fair lady,"’ ſo a baſhful face can never gain a briſk huſband.—Fair ſmile the ſpring upon you, maſter Amaranthus.

Good morrow, mother.

Mother! Nay, young ſwain, tho' day-light and I have been long acquainted, not long enough for that, neither; but you are a handſome, ſenſible young man, and ſhould have all imaginable liberty—I proteſt I ſpeak as I think—I need not tell you, that Autumn is a much richer and kindlier ſeaſon than ſpring.

It may be ſo.

May be! it ſo, I have paſs'd the flirting, and am juſt entering into the ſober, ſenſible time of life.—Do you never think of matrimony, maſter Amaranthus.

Truly, I have thought of it till I began to fear enter⯑ing upon ſo dangerous a connection.

Very true, it is a dangerous ſtate, indeed, but not with a prudent partner.—Lack-a-day, you ſeem mighty uneaſy—a good wife would certainly comfort you—methinks you and I would make a very happy couple.

How, match with you!

Me! why not, ſhepherd—You'll be ſafe from any diſhonour to your family; my virtue will guard againſt that—Then I'll be as loving and conſtant as a turtle dove.

Ay, ſtick like a bliſter, no doubt.

Then I'll be as merry as a Jay, and make life one entire holiday—Difference of a few years is an idle, a very idle diſtinction.

How this beldam increaſes my perplexity.

Sure nothing can be more painful, eſpecially in my ſtate of mind, than a forward, fulſome, amorous old woman.

Well, young ſwain, and what ſay you? Good offers don't come often; when they do, to refuſe them is ſtand⯑ing in one's own light.—Sir Gregory Greybeard, exa⯑miner and licencer of marriages for this diſtrict, ſits to⯑day, [11] ſo we may be ſettled for life—and I love to follow that excellent maxim, ‘"ſtrike while the Iron is hot."’

Well, Well, give me half an hour to think, and you ſhall have my determination.

So far ſo good—Well, I vow he's a ſweet creature—ay, and ſenſible too—When I have him all to my⯑ſelf, the gilflirts of the plain will ſo envy me—But I muſt ſtick cloſe, fools only are mealy-mouth'd.

I will ſing for all you, and all day too, if I like.

Ay, ay, you make a noiſe like a falſe fellow, as you are, to ſtop my mouth; but if you call it ſinging, ſcreech-owls ſhall turn teachers of muſic, and ravens vocal performers.

My bad ſinging, is better than your loud ſcolding.

Have I not reaſon?

Nimble tongues find ready excuſe for wagging.

And fickle hearts prove falſe without any excuſe at all—did not you promiſe to marry me, varlet?

What then? Greater folks than I make promiſes they never mean to keep—Moreover, than that, I lov'd you then, but I don't now.

You don't! And why not, ſcape-grace?

Why! becauſe my mind's chang'd.

Mighty well, faſhionable Sir, I ſuppoſe, ſince you have got that mon'ſtrous fine tail to your crow's-neſt hair, your large toſſel'd cane, and that carving knife, to apologize for a ſword, at your ſide, you are ſetting up for ſome flauntier body, than a plain, honeſt, induſtrious cook-maid.

You have hit it.

I have—then, ſirrah, henceforth I baniſh you the kitchen—Never ſhall your hungry jaws be liquor'd with ſops i'th' pan.

If you ſop yourſelf there, Mrs. Culina, I ſhan't burn my fingers to take you out.

Provoking knave, I have much ado to keep my hands off your ugly face.

Ugly face, thank you for that; you'd give all the ſhoes in your ſhop to be half ſo handſome; then, as to fiſtycuffs, I'm as pretty a bit of fleſh as in all Arcadia, [14] ſo if I ſhould draw a tooth, or paint an eye, blame yourſelf.

Our maſter, Sir Gregory, ſhall know what a knave you are—If I had believ'd all you ſaid, I might have loſt all my vartue; but I'll put a ſpoke in your wheel—and ſince you won't have me, you ſhall have nobody elſe.

Why, the woman chatters worſe than ten couple of magpies in pairing time, or two ſcore goſſips half ſeas over at a chriſtening—Are you any thing the worſe of my wear.

Sirrah, ſirrah, I'd have you to know I can get a bet⯑ter huſband than ever ſtood on your ſhanks for holding up a finger; but to be ſlighted by ſuch a pitiful ſap⯑ſkull'd fellow—Sir Gregory, Sir Gregory, ſirrah, ſhall bring you to your marrow-bones.

I'm glad ſhe's gone—If I had not ſpoke a little ſtoutly of tooth drawing, ſhe would have claw'd me.—I'm not the firſt brave fellow who has ſaved broken bones by big words—Boh—and arms a kimbo, have often paſs'd for courage—When ſhe talked of the drip⯑ping-pan, the baſting ladle could not be far off—Oh! here comes Mrs. Tulippa, the very ſight of her has turn'd my heart upſide down, like a Shrove-tide pan⯑cake, and made it jump, for all the world, like a new [15] caught ſquirrel in a bell-cage.—Shall I ſpeak to her, or do the buſineſs with ogling—both's beſt, I believe—ut I' l liſten to find what humour ſhe is in.

A fine day, fair miſtreſs.

Agreeable enough to thoſe who can enjoy it.

But I believe there's going to be a change, for laſt night the man in the moon had got his beard on—Old Mother Grazy complained of the rheumatice, our cat waſhed her face over the left ear, and I have a corn that ſhoots like any thing.

Heigho!

Nay, you need not be ſorry for the corn—I have a worſer pain than that.

It may be ſo.

Ay, a pain in the heart.

If ſo, indeed I pity you.

Then you know what makes it.

Not I, indeed.

But you can gueſs.

No, truly.

Was you—can't you ſee ſomething in in my eyes—was you ever in love, Mrs. Tulippa?

Why do you aſk?

Becauſe, becauſe I want to know what it feels like.

That you had better never know.

Ay, but what if I know againſt my will? I dream'd ſuch a dream laſt night about bride-cake drawn through a gold ring, throwing the ſtocking, whip ſullabbubs, ſweethearts, and pin-cuſhions, that I thinks, as how, I am in love with you.

Have you any other reaſon to think ſo?

Oh, yes, for my eyes have gliſten'd ever fince I ſaw you, like dry whitings in a dark night; and when you turn'd the corner juſt now, my heart began to dance a horn-pipe without muſic.

Yonder I ſee Amaranthus coming—Liſt'ning to, and giving this ſimpleton encouragement, will at leaſt ſhew how light he is in my eſteem, and if he has any ſpirit, mortify him.

May I hope.

Did you ever make love to any body before?

What, this wretch her gallant.

Oh, yes, to one—but lack-a-day, ſhe is no more to be compar'd to you, than a cowſlip to a cabbage, or a pancake to a plumb-pudding.

If I was ſure you did not flatter—

This is too much to bear.

Flatter! no, no, I'm not ſcholar enough for that.

Then here's my hand.

You have made my heart as light as a merry duck⯑ling in a fiſh-pond.

Oh, Mr. Amaranthus, you are luckily come to wit⯑neſs our bargain.

Mrs. Tulippa, any bargain you think proper to make, I ſhall readily agree to.

No doubt—you are a moſt condeſcending creature.

Very good-natured and deſcending, indeed, Mr. Amaranthus.

I find no great pleaſure in the praiſe of a fool.

Oh, ſweet Sir, an honeſt fool is much better than a ſenſible knave.

If ſo be I am a fool, my family is very old and nu⯑merous, with many near relations among people of faſhion.

I hope when this charming match takes place, you'll now and then lend that gingling cap to your lady, it will add much to her charms.

Wonderfully ſmart.

She's handſome enough without—but now you talk of that, maſter Amaranthus, if every fool was to wear ſuch a cap, would not it cauſe rare trade for bell⯑makers—I can't help laughing to think how many great folks, who ſeldom ſay more than aye, or no, would then make a very conſiderable noiſe—How many pulpits would then ring almoſt as loud as the church ſteeple, and how many phyſicians would toll the knell of thoſe patients they had kill'd.

So, ſo, I have overtaken you at laſt; its almoſt Sir Gregory's ſitting time, and I would not miſs the day for any thing, becauſe it would delay us a whole month.

Well, I am ready to attend you there; I have now no further occaſion for liberty; marriage and the grave are equally indifferent.

The grave! good lack, I would not think of ſuch a place for ever ſo much—I'll ſoon put better thoughts in your head young ſwain.

And is that the Lady of your choice?

Prudent age is better than deceitful youth.

Maſter Amaranthus, ſhall I lend you my cap, or get a new one made for you?

ACT II.

HOW goes the day, Regiſter?

Both ſun and clocks agree, that it approacheth the mid hour, Sir.

Regiſter, tho' you have been my clerk ſome time, yet I don't recollect ever telling you how I came to the dignity of marriage-licencer for this diſtrict.

Your Worſhip never did.

Becauſe I travelled much—not like many modern travellers to go out a fool, and return a coxcomb—not to diſcover uſeleſs countries, or pick up unintelligible cu⯑rioſities, but to ſtudy mankind eaſt, weſt, north, and ſouth.

Then no doubt your Worſhip has ſeen wonderful ſtrange things.

Ay, ſtrange enough—in France I found light hearts with empty pockets—in Italy much religion, with little morality—in Spain indolent pride, with wretched po⯑verty—in Germany great courage, ſmall ſobriety—and in Holland ſtrict oeconomy, with pitiful ſpirit—but of all places, Great Britain produces the moſt ſingular and extenſive variety.

And what may that be, your Worſhip?

Why a wonderful mixture of good ſenſe and folly; induſtry, and extravagance; diſcontent and negligence; place-hunting and patriotiſm; elegance and frippery; plenty and want; ſelfiſhneſs and humanity.

Surpriſing mixtures in truth, Sir Gregory.

And then, Regiſter, they have a favourite amongſt them, called faſhion, almoſt as changeable as their cli⯑mate—One month their men ſtride forth with ſuch cloſs trimm'd ſkirts, that they reſemble ſo many curlews, all legs and no bodies; the next they are ſo lengthened, that petit maitres waddle forth like ducks, all bodies and no legs.

At that rate, Sir Gregory, one can't be ſure of know⯑ing an acquaintance three months together—Do they marry there?

Yes, yes, they have the word, marriage, and a cere⯑mony amongſt them; but mutual inclination is ſeldom conſulted—This makes a place, they call Doctors Com⯑mons, thrive vaſtly.

And what do they do there, Sir?

Divorce—that is, unmarry thoſe couples who are tired of one another.

I don't know, your Worſhip, whether ſuch a ſhop would not have pretty buſineſs here.

Here! ſimpleton—to be ſure we have ſome jarring—but all Arcadia would not ſupply one Engliſh [24] proctor with beef and pudding, excluſive of claret and a carriage—No, no, we have not quality enough among us for that.

I ſee a young ſhepherdeſs approaching.

Then I'll proceed to buſineſs, which magiſtrates ſhould never delay when it can be attended to.

Now, fair maid, what have you to propoſe?

Not much, an pleaſe your Worſhip—Only a young ſhepherd made love to me—

And you liked that he ſhould do ſo—I could almoſt make love to her myſelf.

Why, it was pleaſant enough among the reſt.

What roguiſh eyes ſhe has!

Among the reſt! So then you have had variety of ſweet-hearts?

As many as moſt of my neighbours—Not leſs than twenty or ſo.

And I could make one more.

But how can you manage ſo many?

So many! Oh la, your Worſhip, I could manage as many more.

That voice; thoſe lips; thoſe eyes;—in ſhort, the young jade has ſcorch'd me to a cinder!

—Well, but as to the young ſhepherd you mentioned—what of him?

So pleaſe your Worſhip, he courted me full three months; and becauſe, as how, I would not have him, he firſt threatened to put himſelf away with a piſtol, then with a rope, then with a razor, and laſt of all in the mill-pond: he frighten'd me, that's for ſure, as thinking how his ghoſt might haunt me; but all would not do, till he proved firſt of all my ſweethearts that came into my father's houſe laſt May-day morning—beſides, that very ſelf ſame night, a ſnail wrote the firſt letters of his name on our pantry-wall; ſo, your Worſhip, thinking, as how, he was fated for me, I conſented.

And what follow'd?

I hope he likes ſome⯑body elſe hetter.

Why, after all was ſettled, and we were ſetting out this morning to aſk your Worſhip's conſent, he turned his back upon me.

Ay!

True, as your Worſhip is a wiſe man—So I hopes your Worſhip won't let him have any body elſe—and I'll take care he ſhall never have me;—between ourſelves, I valu'd him no more than an old ſlipper—but to be affronted ſo! I want to be revenged of his falſeneſs.

And thou ſhalt to thy wiſh—I am glad ſhe don't like him.

Ay, ay, let me alone, I'll trim the young rogue, I warrant you—Give my clerk the par⯑ticulars, and he'll minute them down—Upon my word, Sir Greg. thou haſt made a fine kettle of fiſh on't at ſixty-three, to fall plump in love with twenty-three.—Hark ye, fair maid—what's your name?

Friſketta, Sir.

Friſketta! truly a merry name for a gameſome laſs—What think you, as there is no dependance on young, could you like a little advance of age?

Oh, dear, your Worſhip—ſixty-three has a very whimſical ſound in my ears—and I—but here comes my falſe ſwain.

Well, you little leering rogue, we'll talk more of this matter preſently—Now, muſt I ſhew authority; but I hope it won't frighten him.

So, young ſhepherd, here's a fair maid complains that you are falſe to her.

Why, an I be, I can't help it, your Worſhip.

Lo, you there now, he dare not deny it.

Not help it! why ſo?

Why ſo! your Worſhip does not like one thing al⯑ways—Why may not minds change, as well as the weather? I could not help loving her once, and now I can't help loving another.

Mighty modeſt!

Another! who's that?

Tulippa, an like your Worſhip.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ya, ya, ya! and what do you laugh at, Miſtreſs?

To think how Amaranthus would baſte your bones, if he heard you ſay ſo.

He baſte my bones! no, nor your lubberly brother to help him—whey-face.

My lubberly brother—butter-chops.

I ſnap my fingers at your tongue, and his fiſts, tho' he's ſo fine, and thinks himſelf cock of the game—I've eſcap'd your mouſe-trap—ſo you may bait it for ſome other fool.

Ha' done both—None of your mouſe-traps, ſirrah, as you fear my cane.

I've done, your Worſhip.

And I too, Sir.

You confeſs deceiving this ſhepherdeſs?

May hap I might.

Might you ſo! Regiſter put down this Varlet in the liſt of batchelors for life.

With all my heart, I can take care of one, ſo a fig for matrimony.

A light-hearted fellow that—Well, little Friſketta, and where do you dwell.

Your Worſhip knows the ſilver current, which pur⯑ling over gliſtening pebbles, winds along the bottom of the vale, and ſkirts the grove of poplars:—upon its flowery bank, beneath their ſhade, I dwell.

I know the place—ah, many a time have I fiſhed there for trouts with burniſh'd ſcales—perhaps I may ſoon angle near it for ſomething elſe—Well, my pretty dear, I'll call to ſee you, and provide a good huſ⯑band ſome way.

I thank your Worſhip heartily, but I would rather provide one myſelf.

Adad, ſhe's as harmonious as a nightingale, as beau⯑tiful as a flower-garden, and luſcious as a rich grape ri⯑pened by the ſun's kindlieſt beams—I muſt have her—and to countenance my own o [...] match, I'll give con⯑ſent to all who come before me this day, however ill coupled they may be.

An pleaſe your Worſhip, Sir Gregory, this young ſhepherd—I may ſay this handſome young ſhepherd, fearing a girliſh marriage, has prudently made choice of me, and we are come to aſk your Worſhip's approba⯑tion.

That ſhan't be wanting, if you are both agreed—What ſays the young man?

Now ſtand I on the brink, yet dare not leap in—What an extenſive gloom hangs over the proſpect—Why, Sir, I muſt confeſs I came here for the purpoſe ſhe mentions; and as I never was, ſo I never will be falſe to my word, but—

Well, well, you ſeem an honeſt lad; ſtep aſide with the good-woman, and ſettle the matter perfectly.

How, my man Ninny! What are you upon?

Why, an like your Worſhip, this young ſhepherdeſs having taken a great liking to my parts, and I to her's—We want to make a match—that's all.

That's all! Has the fair maid agreed?

I can't ſay, your Worſhip, but I have—There was a ſwain I lov'd moſt dearly, but he proved falſe—and once I t hought it would have broke my heart; now my minds quite changed, and I fully agree to this ſweet⯑heart's propoſal.

We have quite agreed, ſo pleaſe your Worſhip.

Ha, Tulippa here! ſo diſengag'd! ſo fond! every negligent feature ſpeaks her falſehood, and confirms the contempt of my reſentment—Yes, Sir Gregory, I am, I am moſt thoroughly determined.

'Tis well—But ſtay till all parties who come are ſettled, and then my approbation ſhall enſue.

Oh, Mr. Amaranthus, you have for once kept your word.

That's once more than you would wiſh to do.

So, Aunt Silver-locks, though you have loſt all the teſt, I ſee the colt's tooth ſtands faſt yet.

Ah, ungracious, you want no other proof of folly, but your impertinent tongue.

Come, come, no wrangling in my preſence.—Re⯑giſter, enter theſe two [...]ouple, paying proper fees, for marriage, and when the day's buſineſs is done, I'll ratify the whole.

Hey day, old Blunderbuſs, what are you about here? joining winter and ſummer, froſt and fire together—You are a hopeful judge indeed.

How now, jackanapes, dare you impeach my autho⯑rity—a goſling face an eagle.

A buzzard, an owl you mean, that can't face the light.

Light! I'll light you—here—where are my fellows—ſecure that urchin, and give him the correction of an impudent ſchool-boy.

Ay, ay, you may ſtrive, but 'tis all in vain—Think not, fooliſh mortals, of withſtanding the god of Love.

What, are you the little great blind boy, that ſhoots arrows about, and makes riddles of folks hearts.

Yes; but not ſo great a boy, nor ſo blind as you.

Mayhap not—your eyes look well enough—but what then? Though my grand-mother was as blind as a beetle, you might ſee your face in her dark peepers—But, maſter Cupid, ſuppoſe you was to lend me your bow and arrows, I could knock down half a dozen yel⯑low hammers in a trice—and that would be rare ſport, I can tell you.

My ſhafts are of more importance and danger than to be truſted in ſuch hands as yours—Look not all ſo amazed, nor wonder that you have been turn'd topſy⯑turvy—Pſyche's cruelty forced me to throw this con⯑fuſion among ye; but a diſpatch by one of my mother Ve⯑nus's doves having brought me favourable advices, you ſhall all come right at laſt.

What miſts have vaniſh'd from my eyes? Methinks Tulippa is more fair and kind than ever.

And to my reſtor'd ſenſes, Amaranthus appears more engaging, more conſtant than ever.

For my part I begin to think my kitchen compa⯑nion fitter for me than this fair weather noſegay—So an you pleaſe, Sir Greg. I'll have my old ſweetheart again.

What a wonderful change I feel in myſelf too! all of a ſudden I find that Hyema is more ſuitable to me, than Friſketta; as the young one has left you, what ſay you, old Dame, to me?

Say! why, I ſay if we can't get what we would, we muſt take what we can; and tho' I would rather have a huſband twenty or thirty years younger, yet to be Lady Greybeard is ſomething.

An pleaſe your Worſhip, the ſtrangeſt thing—as Do⯑rilas and I were ſcolding tooth and nail, and ready to claw one another, ſomething gave me a flap o'the heart, and then gave him a flap o'the heart—ſo we made all up, and with your Worſhip's leave we would—

As the wind's changed into the warm corner, come to a cloſe bargain, Sir Gregory.

With all my heart; well, I believe by every one's looks matters are better ſettled than if we had been left to ourſelves—So by way of merry example, I'll chaunt a ſtave of rejoicing, and let thoſe who are pleaſed follow me.