A Garden behind LOVELESS’S Lodgings.
Enter LOVELESS and SERVANT.
Love. Is my wife within?
Ser. No, sir, she has gone out this half-hour.
Love. Well, leave me. — [Exit SERVANT.] How strangely does my mind run on this widow! — Never was my heart so suddenly seized on before. That my wife should pick out her, of all womankind, to be her playfellow! But what fate does, let fate answer for: I sought it not. So! by Heavens! here she comes.
Enter BERINTHIA.
Ber. What makes you look so thoughtful, sir? I hope you are not ill.
Love. I was debating, madam, whether I was so or not, and that was it which made me look so thoughtful.
Ber. Is it then so hard a matter to decide? I thought all people were acquainted with their own bodies, though few people know their own minds.
Love. What if the distemper I suspect be in the mind?
Ber. Why then I’ll undertake to prescribe you a cure.
Love. Alas! you undertake you know not what.
Ber. So far at least, then, you allow me to be a physician.
Love. Nay, I’ll allow you to be so yet further: for I have reason to believe, should I put myself into your hands, you would increase my distemper.
Ber. How?
Love. Oh, you might betray me to my wife.
Ber. And so lose all my practice.
Love. Will you then keep my secret?
Ber. I will.
Love. Well — but swear it.
Ber. I swear by woman.
Love. Nay, that’s swearing by my deity; swear by your own, and I shall believe you.
Ber. Well then, I swear by man!
Love. I’m satisfied. Now hear my symptoms, and give me your advice. The first were these; when I saw you at the play, a random glance you threw at first alarmed me. I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger came — I gazed upon you till my heart began to pant — nay, even now, on your approaching me, my illness is so increased that if you do not help me I shall, whilst you look on, consume to ashes. [Takes her hand.]
Ber. O Lord, let me go! ’tis the plague, and we shall be infected. [Breaking from him.]
Love. Then we’ll die together, my charming angel.
Ber. O Gad! the devil’s in you! Lord, let me go! — here’s somebody coming.
Re-enter SERVANT.
Ser. Sir, my lady’s come home, and desires to speak with you.
Love. Tell her I’m coming. — [Exit SERVANT.] But before I go, one glass of nectar to drink her health. [To
BERINTHIA.]
Ber. Stand off, or I shall hate you, by Heavens!
Love. [Kissing her.] In matters of love, a woman’s oath is no more to be minded than a man’s. [Exit.]
Ber. Um!
Enter COLONEL TOWNLY.
Col. Town. [Aside.] So? what’s here — Berinthia and
Loveless — and in such close conversation! — I cannot now wonder at her indifference in excusing herself to me! — O rare woman! — Well then, let Loveless look to his wife, ‘twill be but the retort courteous on both sides. — [Aloud.] Your servant, madam; I need not ask you how you do, you have got so good a colour.
Ber. No better than I used to have, I suppose.
Col. Town. A little more blood in your cheeks.
Ber. I have been walking!
Col. Town. Is that all? Pray was it Mr. Loveless went from here just now?
Ber. O yes — he has been walking with me.
Col. Town. He has!
Ber. Upon my word I think he is a very agreeable man; and there is certainly something particularly insinuating in his address.
Col. Town. [Aside.] So, so! she hasn’t even the modesty to dissemble! [Aloud.] Pray, madam, may I, without impertinence, trouble you with a few serious questions?
Ber. As many as you please; but pray let them be as little serious as possible.
Col. Town. Is it not near two years since I have presumed to address you?
Ber. I don’t know exactly — but it has been a tedious long time.
Col. Town. Have I not, during that period, had every reason to believe that my assiduities were far from being unacceptable?
Ber. Why, to do you justice, you have been extremely troublesome — and I confess I have been more civil to you than you deserved.
Col. Town. Did I not come to this place at your express desire, and for no purpose but the honour of meeting you? — and after waiting a month in disappointment, have you condescended to explain, or in the slightest way apologise for, your conduct?
Ber. O heavens! apologise for my conduct! — apologise to you! O you barbarian! But pray now, my good serious colonel, have you anything more to add?
Col. Town. Nothing, madam, but that after such behaviour I am less surprised at what I saw just now; it is not very wonderful that the woman who can trifle with the delicate addresses of an honourable lover should be found coquetting with the husband of her friend.
Ber. Very true: no more wonderful than it was for this honourable lover to divert himself in the absence of this coquette, with endeavouring to seduce his friend’s wife! O colonel, colonel, don’t talk of honour or your friend, for
Heaven’s sake!
Col. Town. [Aside.] ‘Sdeath! how came she to suspect this! — [Aloud.] Really, madam, I don’t understand you.
Ber. Nay, nay, you saw I did not pretend to misunderstand you. — But here comes the lady; perhaps you would be glad to be left with her for an explanation.
Col. Town. O madam, this recrimination is a poor resource; and to convince you how much you are mistaken, I beg leave to decline the happiness you propose me. — Madam, your servant.
Enter AMANDA. COLONEL TOWNLY whispers AMANDA,
and exit.
Ber. [Aside.] He carries it off well, however; upon my word, very well! How tenderly they part! — [Aloud] So, cousin; I hope you have not been chiding your admirer for being with me? I assure you we have been talking of you.
Aman. Fy, Berinthia! — my admirer! will you never learn to talk in earnest of anything?
Ber. Why this shall be in earnest, if you please; for my part, I only tell you matter of fact.
Aman. I’m sure there’s so much jest and earnest in what you say to me on this subject, I scarce know how to take it. I have just parted with Mr. Loveless; perhaps it is fancy, but I think there is an alteration in his manner which alarms me.
Ber. And so you are jealous; is that all?
Aman. That all! is jealousy, then, nothing?
Ber. It should be nothing, if I were in your case.
Aman. Why, what would you do?
Ber. I’d cure myself.
Aman. How?
Ber. Care as little for my husband as he did for me. Look you, Amanda, you may build castles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and lean, and pale, and ugly, if you please; but I tell you, no man worth having is true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be so.
Aman. Do you then really think he’s false to me? for I did not suspect him.
Ber. Think so? I am sure of it.
Aman. You are sure on’t?
Ber. Positively — he fell in love at the play.
Aman. Right — the very same. But who could have told you this?
Ber. Um! — Oh, Townly! I suppose your husband has made him his confidant.
Aman. O base Loveless! And what did Townly say on’t?
Ber. [Aside.] So, so! why should she ask that? —
[Aloud.] Say! why he abused Loveless extremely, and said all the tender things of you in the world.
Aman. Did he? — Oh! my heart! — I’m very ill — dear
Berinthia, don’t leave me a moment. [Exeunt.]