The Country Wife

with ’em, as you do with rich fools, to laugh at ’em and use ’em ill. Dorilant But I would no more sup with women, unless I could lie with ’em, than sup with a rich coxcomb, unless I could cheat him. Horner Yes, I have known thee sup with a fool for his drinking; if he could set out your hand that way only, you were satisfied, and if he were a wine-swallowing mouth, ’twas enough. Harcourt Yes, a man drinks often with a fool, as he tosses with a marker, only to keep his hand in use. But do the ladies drink? Horner Yes, sir; and I shall have the pleasure at least of laying ’em flat with a bottle, and bring as much scandal that way upon ’em as formerly t’other. Harcourt Perhaps you may prove as weak a brother among ’em that way as t’other. Dorilant Foh! drinking with women is as unnatural as scolding with ’em. But ’tis a pleasure of decayed fornicators, and the basest way of quenching love. Harcourt Nay, ’tis drowning love, instead of quenching it. But leave us for civil women too! Dorilant Ay, when he can’t be the better for ’em. We hardly pardon a man that leaves his friend for a wench, and that’s a pretty lawful call. Horner Faith, I would not leave you for ’em, if they would not drink. Dorilant Who would disappoint his company at Lewis’s for a gossiping? Harcourt Foh! Wine and women, good apart, together are as nauseous as sack and sugar. But hark you, sir, before you go, a little of your advice; an old maimed general, when unfit for action, is fittest for counsel. I have other designs upon women than eating and drinking with them; I am in love with Sparkish’s mistress, whom he is to marry tomorrow: now how shall I get her? Enter Sparkish, looking about. Horner Why, here comes one will help you to her. Harcourt He! he, I tell you, is my rival, and will hinder my love. Horner No; a foolish rival and a jealous husband assist their rival’s designs; for they are sure to make their women hate them, which is the first step to their love for another man. Harcourt But I cannot come near his mistress but in his company. Horner Still the better for you; for fools are most easily cheated when they themselves are accessories: and he is to be bubbled of his mistress as of his money, the common mistress, by keeping him company. Sparkish Who is that that is to be bubbled? Faith, let me snack; I han’t met with a bubble since Christmas. ’Gad, I think bubbles are like their brother woodcocks, go out with the cold weather. Harcourt A pox! he did not hear all, I hope. Apart to Horner. Sparkish Come, you bubbling rogues you, where do we sup?⁠—Oh, Harcourt, my mistress tells me you have been making fierce love to her all the play long: ha! ha!⁠—But I⁠— Harcourt I make love to her! Sparkish Nay, I forgive thee, for I think I know thee, and I know her; but I am sure I know myself. Harcourt Did she tell you so? I see all women are like these of the Exchange; who, to enhance the prize of their commodities, report to their fond customers offers which were never made ’em. Horner Ay, women are apt to tell before the intrigue, as men after it, and so show themselves the vainer sex. But hast thou a mistress, Sparkish? ’Tis as hard for me to believe it, as that thou ever hadst a bubble, as you bragged just now. Sparkish O, your servant, sir: are you at your raillery, sir? But we are some of us beforehand with you today at the play. The wits were something bold with you, sir; did you not hear us laugh? Horner Yes; but I thought you had gone to plays, to laugh at the poet’s wit, not at your own. Sparkish Your servant, sir: no, I thank you. ’Gad I go to a play as to a country treat; I carry my own wine to one, and my own wit to t’other, or else I’m sure I should not be merry at either. And the reason why we are so often louder than the players, is, because we think we speak more wit, and so become the poet’s rivals in his audience: for to tell you the truth, we hate the silly rogues; nay, so much, that we find fault even with their bawdy upon the stage, whilst we talk nothing else in the pit as loud. Horner But why shouldst thou hate the silly poets? Thou hast too much wit to be one; and they, like whores, are only hated by each other: and thou dost scorn writing, I’m sure. Sparkish Yes; I’d have you to know I scorn writing: but women, women, that make men do all foolish things, make ’em write songs too. Everybody does it. ’Tis even as common with lovers, as playing with fans; and you can no more help rhyming to your Phillis, than drinking to your Phillis. Harcourt Nay, poetry in love is no more to be avoided than jealousy. Dorilant But the poets damned your songs, did they? Sparkish Damn the poets! they have turned ’em into burlesque, as they call it. That burlesque is a hocus-pocus trick they have got, which, by the virtue of Hictius doctius topsy turvy, they make a wise and witty man in the world, a fool upon the stage you know not how: and ’tis therefore I hate ’em too, for I know not but it may be my own case; for they’ll put a man into a play for looking asquint. Their predecessors were contented to make serving-men only their stage-fools: but these rogues must have gentlemen, with a pox to ’em, nay, knights; and, indeed, you shall hardly see a fool upon the stage but he’s a knight. And to tell you the truth, they have kept me these six years from being a knight in earnest, for fear of