She Stoops to Conquer

By Oliver Goldsmith.

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Dedication

To Samuel Johnson, LL.D.

Dear Sir,

By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety.

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful.

Dramatis Personae

Sir Charles Marlow
Young Marlow (his son)
Hardcastle
Hastings
Tony Lumpkin
Diggory
Mrs. Hardcastle
Miss Hardcastle
Miss Neville
Maid
Landlord, Servants, etc.

She Stoops to Conquer

Prologue

By David Garrick, Esq.

	Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes.
	Excuse me, sirs, I pray⁠—I can’t yet speak⁠— Excuse me, sirs, I pray⁠—I can’t yet speak⁠— I’m crying now⁠—and have been all the week! “ ’Tis not alone this mourning suit,” good masters; “I’ve that within”⁠—for which there are no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I’m crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying! And if she goes, my tears will never stop; For as a player, I can’t squeeze out one drop; I am undone, that’s all⁠—shall lose my bread⁠— I’d rather, but that’s nothing⁠—lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us, They’ll turn us out, and no one else will take us. But why can’t I be moral?⁠—Let me try: My heart thus pressing⁠—fixed my face and eye⁠— With a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes), Thus I begin⁠—“All is not gold that glitters, Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand; Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.”
	I give it up⁠—morals won’t do for me; To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. One hope remains⁠—hearing the maid was ill, A Doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion: A kind of magic charm⁠—for be assured, If you will swallow it, the maid is cured: But desperate the Doctor, and her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces. This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he gives. Should he succeed, you’ll give him his degree; If not, within he will receive no fee! The college you, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

Act I

Scene I. A Chamber in an old-fashioned house.

	Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcastle.
Mrs. Hardcastle	I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you’re very particular. Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There’s the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month’s polishing every winter.
Hardcastle	Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.
Mrs. Hardcastle	Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate’s wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories