Epicoene; Or, The Silent Woman Part 2

CUTBEARD, a Barber.

MUTE, one of MOROSE's Servants.

PARSON.

Page to CLERIMONT.

EPICOENE, supposed the Silent Woman.

LADY HAUGHTY, LADY CENTAURE, MISTRESS DOL MAVIS, Ladies Collegiates.

MISTRESS OTTER, the Captain's Wife, MISTRESS TRUSTY, LADY HAUGHTY'S Woman, Pretenders.

Pages, Servants, etc.

SCENE -- LONDON.

PROLOGUE

Truth says, of old the art of making plays Was to content the people; and their praise Was to the poet money, wine, and bays.

But in this age, a sect of writers are, That, only, for particular likings care, And will taste nothing that is popular.

With such we mingle neither brains nor b.r.e.a.s.t.s; Our wishes, like to those make public feasts, Are not to please the cook's taste, but the guests'.

Yet, if those cunning palates. .h.i.ther come, They shall find guests' entreaty, and good room; And though all relish not, sure there will be some,

That, when they leave their seats, shall make them say, Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play, But that he knew this was the better way.

For, to present all custard, or all tart, And have no other meats, to bear a part.

Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art.

The poet prays you then, with better thought To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought, Though there be none far-fet, there will dear-bought,

Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, 'squires; Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires; Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.

Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat: If his muse be true, Who commends her to you.

ANOTHER.

The ends of all, who for the scene do write, Are, or should be, to profit and delight.

And still't hath been the praise of all best times, So persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes.

Then, in this play, which we present to-night, And make the object of your ear and sight, On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true: Lest so you make the maker to judge you, For he knows, poet never credit gain'd By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feign'd.

If any yet will, with particular sleight Of application, wrest what he doth write; And that he meant, or him, or her, will say: They make a libel, which he made a play.

ACT 1.

SCENE 1.1.

A ROOM IN CLERIMONT'S HOUSE.

ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.

CLER: Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?

PAGE: Yes, sir.

CLER: Let me hear it.

PAGE: You shall, sir, but i'faith let n.o.body else.

CLER: Why, I pray?

PAGE: It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir; besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomest thing under a man that comes there.

CLER: I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you.

PAGE: No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a peruke on my head; and asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go.

CLER: No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you--well sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir.

PAGE [SINGS]: Still to be neat, still to be drest--

[ENTER TRUEWIT.]

TRUE: Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad, and his ingle at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for it.

CLER: Why what should a man do?

TRUE: Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle.

Harken after the next horse-race or hunting-match; lay wagers, praise Puppy, or Pepper-corn, White-foot, Franklin; swear upon Whitemane's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you; visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the character of every bowler or better on the green. These be the things wherein your fas.h.i.+onable men exercise themselves, and I for company.

CLER: Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have gray heads and weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on 'em then; and we'll pray and fast.

TRUE: Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil!

CLER: Why, then 'tis time enough.

TRUE: Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, because it is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mock ourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and misery indeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing the matter still.