The Country Wife

ill poet; or what is yet more impudent, a secondhand critic. Horner But what say the ladies? have they no pity? Harcourt What ladies? The vizard-masks, you know, never pity a man when all’s gone, though in their service. Dorilant And for the women in the boxes, you’d never pity them when ’twas in your power. Harcourt They say ’tis pity but all that deal with common women should be served so. Dorilant Nay, I dare swear they won’t admit you to play at cards with them, go to plays with ’em, or do the little duties which other shadows of men are wont to do for ’em. Horner What do you call shadows of men? Dorilant Half-men. Horner What, boys? Dorilant Ay, your old boys, old beaux garçons, who, like superannuated stallions, are suffered to run, feed, and whinny with the mares as long as they live, though they can do nothing else. Horner Well, a pox on love and wenching! Women serve but to keep a man from better company. Though I can’t enjoy them, I shall you the more. Good fellowship and friendship are lasting, rational, and manly pleasures. Harcourt For all that, give me some of those pleasures you call effeminate too; they help to relish one another. Horner They disturb one another. Harcourt No, mistresses are like books. If you pore upon them too much, they doze you, and make you unfit for company; but if used discreetly, you are the fitter for conversation by ’em. Dorilant A mistress should be like a little country retreat near the town; not to dwell in constantly, but only for a night and away, to taste the town the better when a man returns. Horner I tell you, ’tis as hard to be a good fellow, a good friend, and a lover of women, as ’tis to be a good fellow, a good friend, and a lover of money. You cannot follow both, then choose your side. Wine gives you liberty, love takes it away. Dorilant Gad, he’s in the right on’t. Horner Wine gives you joy; love, grief and tortures, besides surgeons. Wine makes us witty; love, only sots. Wine makes us sleep; love breaks it. Dorilant By the world he has reason, Harcourt. Horner Wine makes⁠— Dorilant Ay, wine makes us⁠—makes us princes; love makes us beggars, poor rogues, egad⁠—and wine⁠— Horner So, there’s one converted.⁠—No, no, love and wine, oil and vinegar. Harcourt I grant it; love will still be uppermost. Horner Come, for my part, I will have only those glorious manly pleasures of being very drunk and very slovenly. Enter Boy. Boy Mr. Sparkish is below, sir. Exit. Harcourt What, my dear friend! a rogue that is fond of me only, I think, for abusing him. Dorilant No, he can no more think the men laugh at him than that women jilt him; his opinion of himself is so good. Horner Well, there’s another pleasure by drinking I thought not of⁠—I shall lose his acquaintance, because he cannot drink: and you know ’tis a very hard thing to be rid of him; for he’s one of those nauseous offerers at wit, who, like the worst fiddlers, run themselves into all companies. Harcourt One that, by being in the company of men of sense, would pass for one. Horner And may so to the shortsighted world; as a false jewel amongst true ones is not discerned at a distance. His company is as troublesome to us as a cuckold’s when you have a mind to his wife’s. Harcourt No, the rogue will not let us enjoy one another, but ravishes our conversation; though he signifies no more to’t than Sir Martin Mar-all’s4 gaping, and awkward thrumming upon the lute, does to his man’s voice and music. Dorilant And to pass for a wit in town shows himself a fool every night to us, that are guilty of the plot. Horner Such wits as he are, to a company of reasonable men, like rooks to the gamesters; who only fill a room at the table, but are so far from contributing to the play, that they only serve to spoil the fancy of those that do. Dorilant Nay, they are used like rooks too, snubbed, checked, and abused; yet the rogues will hang on. Horner A pox on ’em, and all that force nature, and would be still what she forbids ’em! Affectation is her greatest monster. Harcourt Most men are the contraries to that they would seem. Your bully, you see, is a coward with a long sword; the little humbly-fawning physician, with his ebony cane, is he that destroys men. Dorilant The usurer, a poor rogue, possessed of mouldy bonds and mortgages; and we they call spendthrifts, are only wealthy, who lay out his money upon daily new purchases of pleasure. Horner Ay, your arrantest cheat is your trustee or executor; your jealous man, the greatest cuckold; your churchman the greatest atheist; and your noisy pert rogue of a wit, the greatest fop, dullest ass, and worst company, as you shall see; for here he comes. Enter Sparkish. Sparkish How is’t, sparks? how is’t? Well, faith, Harry, I must rally thee a little, ha! ha! ha! upon the report in town of thee, ha! ha! ha! I can’t hold i’faith; shall I speak? Horner Yes; but you’ll be so bitter then. Sparkish Honest Dick and Frank here shall answer for me; I will not be extreme bitter, by the universe. Harcourt We will be bound in a ten thousand pound bond, he shall not be bitter at all. Dorilant Nor sharp, nor sweet. Horner What, not downright insipid? Sparkish Nay then, since you are so brisk, and provoke me, take what follows. You must know, I was discoursing and rallying with some ladies yesterday, and they happened to talk of the fine new signs in town⁠— Horner Very fine ladies, I believe. Sparkish Said I, I know where the best new sign is.⁠—Where? says one of the ladies.⁠—In Covent-Garden, I replied.⁠—Said another, In what street?⁠—In Russel-street, answered I.⁠—Lord, says another, I’m sure there was never a fine new sign there yesterday.⁠—Yes, but there was, said I again; and it came out of France,