The Way of the World

my Tantony. Sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, and I’ll be thy pig. Sings.

And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.

Exeunt Sir Wilfull and Witwoud. Lady Wishfort This will never do. It will never make a match⁠—at least before he has been abroad. Enter Waitwell disguised as Sir Rowland. Lady Wishfort Dear Sir Rowland, I am confounded with confusion at the retrospection of my own rudeness!⁠—I have more pardons to ask than the pope distributes in the year of jubilee. But I hope where there is likely to be so near an alliance, we may unbend the severity of decorum, and dispense with a little ceremony. Waitwell My impatience, madam, is the effect of my transport; and till I have the possession of your adorable person, I am tantalised on the rack, and do but hang, madam, on the tenter of expectation. Lady Wishfort You have excess of gallantry, Sir Rowland, and press things to a conclusion with a most prevailing vehemence.⁠—But a day or two for decency of marriage⁠— Waitwell For decency of funeral, madam! The delay will break my heart⁠—or if that should fail, I shall be poisoned. My nephew will get an inkling of my designs and poison me⁠—and I would willingly starve him before I die⁠—I would gladly go out of the world with that satisfaction. That would be some comfort to me, if I could but live so long as to be revenged on that unnatural viper! Lady Wishfort Is he so unnatural, say you? Truly I would contribute much both to the saving of your life, and the accomplishment of your revenge.⁠—Not that I respect myself; though he has been a perfidious wretch to me. Waitwell Perfidious to you! Lady Wishfort O Sir Rowland, the hours that he has died away at my feet, the tears that he has shed, the oaths that he has sworn, the palpitations that he has felt, the trances and the tremblings, the ardours and the ecstasies, the kneelings and the risings, the heart-heavings and the hand-gripings, the pangs and the pathetic regards of his protesting eyes!⁠—Oh, no memory can register. Waitwell What, my rival? Is the rebel my rival?⁠—a’dies. Lady Wishfort No, don’t kill him at once, Sir Rowland, starve him gradually, inch by inch. Waitwell I’ll do’t. In three weeks he shall be barefoot; in a month out at knees with begging an alms.⁠—He shall starve upward and upward, ’till he has nothing living but his head, and then go out in a stink like a candle’s end upon a save-all. Lady Wishfort Well, Sir Rowland, you have the way⁠—you are no novice in the labyrinth of love⁠—you have the clue.⁠—But as I am a person, Sir Rowland, you must not attribute my yielding to any sinister appetite or indigestion of widowhood; nor impute my complacency to any lethargy of continence⁠—I hope you do not think me prone to any iteration of nuptials⁠— Waitwell Far be it from me⁠— Lady Wishfort If you do, I protest I must recede⁠—or think that I have made a prostitution of decorums, but in the vehemence of compassion, and to save the life of a person of so much importance⁠— Waitwell I esteem it so. Lady Wishfort Or else you wrong my condescension. Waitwell I do not, I do not! Lady Wishfort Indeed you do. Waitwell I do not, fair shrine of virtue! Lady Wishfort If you think the least scruple of causality was an ingredient⁠— Waitwell Dear madam, no. You are all camphire and frankincense, all chastity and odour. Lady Wishfort Or that⁠— Enter Foible. Foible Madam, the dancers are ready, and there’s one with a letter, who must deliver it into your own hands. Lady Wishfort Sir Rowland, will you give me leave? Think favourably, judge candidly, and conclude you have found a person who would suffer racks in honour’s cause, dear Sir Rowland, and will wait on you incessantly. Exit. Waitwell Fie, fie! What a slavery have I undergone! Spouse, hast thou any cordial? I want spirits. Foible What a washy rogue art thou, to pant thus for a quarter of an hour’s lying and swearing to a fine lady! Waitwell Oh, she is the antidote to desire. Spouse, thou wilt fare the worse for’t. I shall have no appetite to iteration of nuptials⁠—this eight-and-forty hours. By this hand I’d rather be a chairman in the dog-days⁠—than act Sir Rowland till this time tomorrow. Re-enter Lady Wishfort, with a letter. Lady Wishfort Call in the dancers.⁠—Sir Rowland, we’ll sit, if you please, and see the entertainment. A Dance. Now, with your permission, Sir Rowland, I will peruse my letter.⁠—I would open it in your presence, because I would not make you uneasy. If it should make you uneasy, I would burn it.⁠—Speak if it does⁠—but you may see, the superscription is like a woman’s hand. Foible Aside to Waitwell. By Heaven! Mrs. Marwood’s, I know it.⁠—My heart aches⁠—get it from her! Waitwell A woman’s hand! No madam, that’s no woman’s hand, I see that already. That’s somebody whose throat must be cut. Lady Wishfort Nay, Sir Rowland, since you give me a proof of your passion by your jealousy, I promise you I’ll make a return by a frank communication.⁠—You shall see it⁠—we’ll open it together⁠—look you here.⁠—Reads.⁠—“Madam, though unknown to you”⁠—Look you there, ’tis from nobody that I know.⁠—“I have that honour for your character, that I think myself obliged to let you know you are abused. He who pretends to be Sir Rowland is a cheat and a rascal.”⁠—O Heavens! what’s this? Foible Aside. Unfortunate! All’s ruined! Waitwell How, how, let me see, let me see!⁠—Reads. “A rascal, and disguised and suborned for that imposture”⁠—O villainy! O villainy!⁠—“by the contrivance of⁠—” Lady Wishfort I shall faint, I shall die. Oh! Foible Aside to Waitwell. Say ’tis your nephew’s hand. Quickly, his plot, swear, swear it! Waitwell Here’s a villain! Madam, don’t you perceive it? Don’t you see it? Lady Wishfort Too well, too well. I have seen too much. Waitwell I told you at first I knew the hand.⁠—A woman’s hand? The rascal writes a