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　　EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' COMEDY, "THE WIFE"

　　(1833)

　　When first our Bard his simple will express'd,

　　That I should in his Heroine's robes be dress'd,

　　My fears were with my vanity at strife,

　　How I could act that untried part—a "Wife."

　　But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew,

　　Where Mariana like a wild flower grew,

　　Nursing her garden-kindred: so far I

　　Liked her condition, willing to comply

　　With that sweet single life: when, with a cranch,

　　Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche,

　　Startling my mountain-project! "Take this spade,"

　　Said Fancy then; "dig low, adventurous Maid,

　　For hidden wealth." I did: and, Ladies, lo! }

　　Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, }

　　To dig a life-warm lover from the—snow? }

　　A Wife and Princess see me next, beset

　　With subtle toils, in an Italian net;

　　While knavish Courtiers, stung with rage or fear,

　　Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear.

　　I ponder'd on the boiling Southern vein;

　　Racks, cords, stilettos, rush'd upon my brain!

　　By poor, good, weak Antonio, too disowned—

　　I dream'd each night, I should be Desdemona'd:

　　And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop,

　　Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop:

　　And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn,

　　Some lean Apothecary should suborn

　　To take my hated life? A "tortoise" hung

　　Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled "alligators" rung.

　　But my Othello, to his vows more zealous—

　　Twenty Iagos could not make him jealous!

　　New raised to reputation, and to life— }

　　At your commands behold me, without strife, }

　　Well-pleased, and ready to repeat—"The Wife." }

　　JOHN WOODVIL

　　A TRAGEDY

　　(1798-1802. Text of 1818)

　　CHARACTERS

　　SIR WALTER WOODVIL.

　　JOHN. }

　　SIMON. } his sons.

　　LOVEL. }

　　GRAY. } Pretended friends of John.

　　SANDFORD. Sir Walter's old steward.

　　MARGARET. Orphan ward of Sir Walter.

　　FOUR GENTLEMEN. John's riotous companions.

　　SERVANTS.

　　SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the forest of SHERWOOD.

　　TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.

　　ACT THE FIRST SCENE.—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

　　Servants drinking—Time, the morning.

　　A Song by DANIEL

　　"When the King enjoys his own again."

　　PETER

　　A delicate song. Where did'st learn it, fellow?

　　DANIEL Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

　　MARTIN Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel!—his oaths and his politics! excellent!

　　FRANCIS

　　And where did'st pick up thy knavery, Daniel?

　　PETER

　　That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of

　　Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of

　　his race have come into the world without their conscience.

　　MARTIN

　　Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what

　　Daniel hath got to say in reply.

　　DANIEL I marvel more when thou wilt say any thing to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

　　MARTIN

　　Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

　　FRANCIS See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

　　DANIEL No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and with-holds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

　　MARTIN

　　Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

　　FRANCIS Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.

　　DANIEL " homines tot sententiae.

　　MARTIN

　　And what is that?

　　DANIEL

　　'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

　　MARTIN

　　I hope there is none between us.

　　DANIEL

　　Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)

　　MARTIN

　　And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)

　　FRANCIS

　　And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)

　　PETER

　　Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

　　MARTIN

　　I shall be fuddled anon.

　　DANIEL

　　And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

　　ALL

　　O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)

　　PETER

　　In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

　　DANIEL

　　And makes the eyes red.

　　PETER

　　And the tongue to stammer.

　　DANIEL

　　And to blab out secrets.

　　(During this conversation they continue drinking.)

　　PETER

　　Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

　　DANIEL

　　Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

　　MARTIN

　　Now I know I am going to be drunk.

　　DANIEL

　　How can'st tell, dry-bones?

　　MARTIN

　　Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

　　FRANCIS

　　Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else.

　　(Martin drops asleep.)

　　PETER Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.

　　ALL

　　Greatly altered.

　　FRANCIS I think every thing be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

　　PETER In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good house-keeping.

　　ALL

　　None.

　　DANIEL

　　For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.

　　PETER

　　Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!

　　ALL

　　A quart!! (in derision.)

　　DANIEL

　　Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.

　　PETER Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable serving-men.

　　ALL

　　Like beasts.

　　MARTIN (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.

　　DANIEL

　　To sleep, wag-tail!

　　FRANCIS I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favoured by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

　　DANIEL Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old Knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

　　MARTIN

　　Now that is wilful.

　　FRANCIS

　　But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

　　PETER

　　That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

　　DANIEL

　　Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

　　FRANCIS

　　Well, I have my suspicions.

　　PETER

　　And so have I.

　　MARTIN

　　And I can keep a secret.

　　FRANCIS (To Peter.) Warwickshire you mean. (Aside.)

　　PETER

　　Perhaps not.

　　FRANCIS

　　Nearer perhaps.

　　PETER

　　I say nothing.

　　DANIEL

　　I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

　　ALL

　　O Lord, surely not. (They drink to Sir Walter's safety.)

　　FRANCIS I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.

　　DANIEL

　　Shall I tell the reason?

　　ALL

　　Aye, do.

　　DANIEL

　　'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

　　ALL

　　O! monstrous!

　　PETER Fellow servants, a thought strikes me.—Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment.

　　ALL

　　Truly a sad consideration.

　　To them enters Sandford suddenly.

　　SANDFORD

　　You well-fed and unprofitable grooms,

　　Maintained for state, not use;

　　You lazy feasters at another's cost,

　　That eat like maggots into an estate,

　　And do as little work,

　　Being indeed but foul excrescences,

　　And no just parts in a well-order'd family;

　　You base and rascal imitators,

　　Who act up to the height your master's vices,

　　But cannot read his virtues in your bond:

　　Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying?

　　Was it you, or you, or, thin-face, was it you?

　　MARTIN

　　Whom does he call thin-face?

　　SANDFORD

　　No prating, loon, but tell me who he was,

　　That I may brain the villain with my staff,

　　That seeks Sir Walter's life?

　　You miserable men,

　　With minds more slavish than your slave's estate,

　　Have you that noble bounty so forgot,

　　Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs,

　　Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, cloth'd ye,

　　And entertain'd ye in a worthy service,

　　Where your best wages was the world's repute,

　　That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live?

　　Have you forgot too,

　　How often in old times

　　Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears,

　　Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?—

　　Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies

　　Out of the reach of your poor treacheries.

　　This learn from me,

　　Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues,

　　Than will unlock themselves to carls like you.

　　Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff

　　Shall teach you better manners else.

　　ALL

　　Well, we are going.

　　SANDFORD

　　And quickly too, ye had better, for I see

　　Young mistress Margaret coming this way.

　　(Exeunt all but Sandford.)

　　Enter Margaret, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman,

　　who, seeing Sandford, retires muttering a curse.

　　Sandford, Margaret.

　　SANDFORD

　　Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance

　　I saw you, lady, so intent was I

　　On chiding hence these graceless serving-men,

　　Who cannot break their fast at morning meals

　　Without debauch and mis-timed riotings.

　　This house hath been a scene of nothing else

　　But atheist riot and profane excess,

　　Since my old master quitted all his rights here.

　　MARGARET

　　Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn

　　Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests,

　　And free discourses, of the dissolute men,

　　That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.

　　SANDFORD

　　Does my young master know of these affronts?

　　MARGARET

　　I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told.

　　Perhaps he might have seen them if he would.

　　I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass.

　　All things seem chang'd, I think. I had a friend,

　　(I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,)

　　These things are best forgotten; but I knew

　　A man, a young man, young, and full of honor,

　　That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw,

　　And fought it out to the extremity,

　　E'en with the dearest friend he had alive,

　　On but a bare surmise, a possibility,

　　That Margaret had suffer'd an affront.

　　Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

　　SANDFORD

　　'Twere best he should be told of these affronts.

　　MARGARET

　　I am the daughter of his father's friend,

　　Sir Walter's orphan-ward.

　　I am not his servant maid, that I should wait

　　The opportunity of a gracious hearing,

　　Enquire the times and seasons when to put

　　My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet,

　　And sue to him for slow redress, who was

　　Himself a suitor late to Margaret.

　　I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride.

　　I was his favourite once, his playfellow in infancy,

　　And joyful mistress of his youth.

　　None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret.

　　His conscience, his religion, Margaret was,

　　His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart,

　　And all dear things summ'd up in her alone.

　　As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died:

　　His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all

　　Being fashion'd to her liking.

　　His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem,

　　His flatteries and caresses, while he loved.

　　The world esteem'd her happy, who had won

　　His heart, who won all hearts;

　　And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

　　SANDFORD

　　He doth affect the courtier's life too much,

　　Whose art is to forget,

　　And that has wrought this seeming change in him,

　　That was by nature noble.

　　'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house,

　　Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy

　　With images of state, preferment, place,

　　Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

　　MARGARET

　　I know not how it is;

　　A cold protector is John grown to me.

　　The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil

　　Can never stoop so low to supplicate

　　A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs,

　　Which he was bound first to prevent;

　　But which his own neglects have sanction'd rather,

　　Both sanction'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect,

　　And strangeness fast'ning bitter on his love,

　　His love which long has been upon the wane.

　　For me, I am determined what to do:

　　To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John,

　　And trust for food to the earth and Providence.

　　SANDFORD

　　O lady, have a care

　　Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves.

　　You know not half the dangers that attend

　　Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now,

　　Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger,

　　To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely,

　　Portray without its terrors, painting lies

　　And representments of fallacious liberty—

　　You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

　　MARGARET

　　I have thought on every possible event,

　　The dangers and discouragements you speak of,

　　Even till my woman's heart hath ceas'd to fear them,

　　And cowardice grows enamour'd of rare accidents.

　　Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think,

　　Of practicable schemes.

　　SANDFORD

　　Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

　　MARGARET

　　I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford,

　　And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

　　SANDFORD

　　But what course have you thought on?

　　MARGARET

　　To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood.

　　I have letters from young Simon,

　　Acquainting me with all the circumstances

　　Of their concealment, place, and manner of life,

　　And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts

　　Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house

　　In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners,

　　Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.—

　　All which I have perus'd with so attent

　　And child-like longings, that to my doting ears

　　Two sounds now seem like one,

　　One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty.

　　And, gentle Mr. Sandford,

　　'Tis you that must provide now

　　The means of my departure, which for safety

　　Must be in boy's apparel.

　　SANDFORD

　　Since you will have it so

　　(My careful age trembles at all may happen)

　　I will engage to furnish you.

　　I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you

　　With garments to your size.

　　I know a suit

　　Of lively Lincoln Green, that shall much grace you

　　In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom.

　　Young Stephen Woodvil wore them, while he lived.

　　I have the keys of all this house and passages,

　　And ere day-break will rise and let you forth.

　　What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you;

　　And will provide a horse and trusty guide,

　　To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

　　MARGARET

　　That once this day and night were fairly past!

　　For then I'll bid this house and love farewell;

　　Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John;

　　For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone.

　　Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—

　　(Exeunt divers ways.) The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb — Volume 4