The Way of the World by William Congreve.docx

The Way of the World by William Congreve

Audire est operae pretium, prcedere recte

Qui maechis non vultis.--HOR. Sat. i. 2, 37.

- Metuat doti deprensa.--Ibid.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE RALPH, EARL OF MOUNTAGUE, ETC.

My Lord,--Whether the world will arraign me of vanity or not, that I
have presumed to dedicate this comedy to your lordship, I am yet in
doubt; though, it may be, it is some degree of vanity even to doubt
of it.  One who has at any time had the honour of your lordship's
conversation, cannot be supposed to think very meanly of that which
he would prefer to your perusal.  Yet it were to incur the
imputation of too much sufficiency to pretend to such a merit as

might abide the test of your lordship's censure.

Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it is mine,
will be sufficiently made up to it when it is once become your
lordship's; and it is my security, that I cannot have overrated it
more by my dedication than your lordship will dignify it by your
patronage.

That it succeeded on the stage was almost beyond my expectation; for

but little of it was prepared for that general taste which seems now
to be predominant in the palates of our audience.

Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most of our
comedies are of fools so gross, that in my humble opinion they
should rather disturb than divert the well-natured and reflecting
part of an audience; they are rather objects of charity than
contempt, and instead of moving our mirth, they ought very often to
excite our compassion.

This reflection moved me to design some characters which should
appear ridiculous not so much through a natural folly (which is
incorrigible, and therefore not proper for the stage) as through an
affected wit:  a wit which, at the same time that it is affected, is
also false.  As there is some difficulty in the formation of a
character of this nature, so there is some hazard which attends the
progress of its success upon the stage:  for many come to a play so
overcharged with criticism, that they very often let fly their
censure, when through their rashness they have mistaken their aim.
This I had occasion lately to observe:  for this play had been acted
two or three days before some of these hasty judges could find the
leisure to distinguish betwixt the character of a Witwoud and a
Truewit.

I must beg your lordship's pardon for this digression from the true
course of this epistle; but that it may not seem altogether
impertinent, I beg that I may plead the occasion of it, in part of
that excuse of which I stand in need, for recommending this comedy
to your protection.  It is only by the countenance of your lordship,
and the FEW so qualified, that such who write with care and pains
can hope to be distinguished:  for the prostituted name of poet
promiscuously levels all that bear it.

terence, the most correct writer in the world, had a Scipio and a
Lelius, if not to assist him, at least to support him in his
reputation.  And notwithstanding his extraordinary merit, it may be
their countenance was not more than necessary.

the purity of his style, the delicacy of his turns, and the justness
of his characters, were all of them beauties which the greater part
of his audience were incapable of tasting.  Some of the coarsest
strokes of Plautus, so severely censured by Horace, were more likely
to affect the multitude; such, who come with expectation to laugh at
the last act of a play, and are better entertained with two or three
unseasonable jests than with the artful solution of the fable.

As Terence excelled in his performances, so had he great advantages
to encourage his undertakings, for he built most on the foundations
of Menander:  his plots were generally modelled, and his characters
ready drawn to his hand.  He copied Menander; and Menander had no
less light in the formation of his characters from the observations
of Theophrastus, of whom he was a disciple; and Theophrastus, it is
known, was not only the disciple, but the immediate successor of
Aristotle, the first and greatest judge of poetry.  These were great
models to design by; and the further advantage which Terence
possessed towards giving his plays the due ornaments of purity of
style, and justness of manners, was not less considerable from the
freedom of conversation which was permitted him with Lelius and
Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his age.  And,
indeed, the privilege of such a conversation is the only certain
means of attaining to the perfection of dialogue.

If it has happened in any part of this comedy that I have gained a
turn of style or expression more correct, or at least more
corrigible, than in those which I have formerly written, I must,
with equal pride and gratitude, ascribe it to the honour of your
lordship's admitting me into your conversation, and that of a
society where everybody else was so well worthy of you, in your
retirement last summer from the town:  for it was immediately after,
that this comedy was written.  If I have failed in my performance,
it is only to be regretted, where there were so many not inferior
either to a Scipio or a Lelius, that there should be one wanting
equal in capacity to a Terence.

If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art which has not
yet laid claim to your lordship's patronage.  Architecture and
painting, to the great honour of our country, have flourished under
your influence and protection.  In the meantime, poetry, the eldest
sister of all arts, and parent of most, seems to have resigned her
birthright, by having neglected to pay her duty to your lordship,
and by permitting others of a later extraction to prepossess that
place in your esteem, to which none can pretend a better title.
Poetry, in its nature, is sacred to the good and great:  the
relation between them is reciprocal, and they are ever propitious to
it.  It is the privilege of poetry to address them, and it is their
prerogative alone to give it protection.

this received maxim is a general apology for all writers who
consecrate their labours to great men:  but I could wish, at this
time, that this address were exempted from the common pretence of
all dedications; and that as I can distinguish your lordship even
among the most deserving, so this offering might become remarkable
by some particular instance of respect, which should assure your
lordship that I am, with all due sense of your extreme worthiness
and humanity, my lord, your lordship's most obedient and most
obliged humble servant,

WILL. CONGREVE.

PROLOGUE--Spoken by Mr. Betterton.

Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst,
Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst:
For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes,
And, after she has made 'em fools, forsakes.
With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a diff'rent case,
For Fortune favours all her idiot race.
In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find,
O'er which she broods to hatch the changeling kind:
No portion for her own she has to spare,
So much she dotes on her adopted care.

poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in,
Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win:
But what unequal hazards do they run!
Each time they write they venture all they've won:
The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone.
This author, heretofore, has found your favour,
But pleads no merit from his past behaviour.
To build on that might prove a vain presumption,
Should grants to poets made admit resumption,
And in Parnassus he must lose his seat,
If that be found a forfeited estate.

He owns, with toil he wrought the following scenes,
But if they're naught ne'er spare him for his pains:
Damn him the more; have no commiseration
For dulness on mature deliberation.
he swears he'll not resent one hissed-off scene,
Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain,
Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign.
Some plot we think he has, and some new thought;
Some humour too, no farce--but that's a fault.
Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect;
For so reformed a town who dares correct?
To please, this time, has been his sole pretence,
He'll not instruct, lest it should give offence.
Should he by chance a knave or fool expose,
That hurts none here, sure here are none of those.
In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it)
Give you one instance of a passive poet,
Who to your judgments yields all resignation:
So save or damn, after your own discretion.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

FAINALL, in love with Mrs. Marwood,--Mr. Betterton
MIRABELL, in love with Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Verbruggen
WITWOUD,  follower of Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Bowen
PETULANT, follower of Mrs. Millamant,--Mr. Bowman
SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, half brother to Witwoud, and nephew to Lady
Wishfort,--Mr. Underhill
WAITWELL, servant to Mirabell,--Mr. Bright

WOMEN.

LADY WISHFORT, enemy to Mirabell, for having falsely pretended love
to her,--Mrs. Leigh
MRS. MILLAMANT, a fine lady, niece to Lady Wishfort, and loves
Mirabell,--Mrs. Bracegirdle
MRS. MARWOOD, friend to Mr. Fainall, and likes Mirabell,--Mrs. Barry
MRS. FAINALL, daughter to Lady Wishfort, and wife to Fainall,
formerly friend to Mirabell,--Mrs. Bowman
FOIBLE, woman to Lady Wishfort,--Mrs. Willis
MINCING, woman to Mrs. Millamant,--Mrs. Prince
DANCERS, FOOTMEN, ATTENDANTS.

SCENE:  London.
The time equal to that of the presentation.

ACT I.--SCENE I.

A Chocolate-house.

MIRABELL and FAINALL rising from cards.  BETTY waiting.

MIRA.  You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall.

FAIN.  Have we done?

MIRA.  What you please.  I'll play on to entertain you.

FAIN.  No, I'll give you your revenge another time, when you are not
so indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too
negligently:  the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure
of the winner.  I'd no more play with a man that slighted his ill
fortune than I'd make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of
her reputation.

MIRA.  You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on
your pleasures.

FAIN.  Prithee, why so reserved?  Something has put you out of
humour.

MIRA.  Not at all:  I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay;
that's all.

FAIN.  Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I
left you; my fair cousin has some humours that would tempt the
patience of a Stoic.  What, some coxcomb came in, and was well
received by her, while you were by?

MIRA.  Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your
wife's mother, my evil genius--or to sum up all in her own name, my
old Lady Wishfort came in.
FAIN.  Oh, there it is then:  she has a lasting passion for you, and
with reason.--What, then my wife was there?

MIRA.  Yes, and Mrs. Marwood and three or four more, whom I never
saw before; seeing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered
one another, then complained aloud of the vapours, and after fell
into a profound silence.

FAIN.  They had a mind to be rid of you.

MIRA.  For which reason I resolved not to stir.  At last the good
old lady broke through her painful taciturnity with an invective
against long visits.  I would not have understood her, but Millamant
joining in the argument, I rose and with a constrained smile told
her, I thought nothing was so easy as to know when a visit began to
be troublesome; she reddened and I withdrew, without expecting her
reply.

FAIN.  You were to blame to resent what she spoke only in compliance
with her aunt.

MIRA.  She is more mistress of herself than to be under the
necessity of such a resignation.

FAIN.  What? though half her fortune depends upon her marrying with
my lady's approbation?

MIRA.  I was then in such a humour, that I should have been better
pleased if she had been less discreet.

FAIN.  Now I remember, I wonder not they were weary of you; last
night was one of their cabal-nights:  they have 'em three times a
week and meet by turns at one another's apartments, where they come
together like the coroner's inquest, to sit upon the murdered
reputations of the week.  You and I are excluded, and it was once
proposed that all the male sex should be excepted; but somebody
moved that to avoid scandal there might be one man of the community,
upon which motion Witwoud and Petulant were enrolled members.

MIRA.  And who may have been the foundress of this sect?  My Lady
Wishfort, I warrant, who publishes her detestation of mankind, and
full of the vigour of fifty-five, declares for a friend and ratafia;
and let posterity shift for itself, she'll breed no more.

FAIN.  The discovery of your sham addresses to her, to conceal your
love to her niece, has provoked this separation.  Had you dissembled
better, things might have continued in the state of nature.

MIRA.  I did as much as man could, with any reasonable conscience; I
proceeded to the very last act of flattery with her, and was guilty
of a song in her commendation.  Nay, I got a friend to put her into
a lampoon, and compliment her with the imputation of an affair with
a young fellow, which I carried so far, that I told her the
malicious town took notice that she was grown fat of a sudden; and
when she lay in of a dropsy, persuaded her she was reported to be in
labour.  The devil's in't, if an old woman is to be flattered
further, unless a man should endeavour downright personally to
debauch her:  and that my virtue forbade me.  But for the discovery
of this amour, I am indebted to your friend, or your wife's friend,
Mrs. Marwood.

FAIN.  What should provoke her to be your enemy, unless she has made
you advances which you have slighted?  Women do not easily forgive
omissions of that nature.

MIRA.  She was always civil to me, till of late.  I confess I am not
one of those coxcombs who are apt to interpret a woman's good
manners to her prejudice, and think that she who does not refuse 'em
everything can refuse 'em nothing.

FAIN.  You are a gallant man, Mirabell; and though you may have
cruelty enough not to satisfy a lady's longing, you have too much
generosity not to be tender of her honour.  Yet you speak with an
indifference which seems to be affected, and confesses you are
conscious of a negligence.

MIRA.  You pursue the argument with a distrust that seems to be
unaffected, and confesses you are conscious of a concern for which
the lady is more indebted to you than is your wife.

FAIN.  Fie, fie, friend, if you grow censorious I must leave you:-
I'll look upon the gamesters in the next room.

MIRA.  Who are they?

FAIN.  Petulant and Witwoud.--Bring me some chocolate.

MIRA.  Betty, what says your clock?

BET.  Turned of the last canonical hour, sir.

MIRA.  How pertinently the jade answers me!  Ha! almost one a'
clock!  [Looking on his watch.]  Oh, y'are come!

SCENE II.

MIRABELL and FOOTMAN.

MIRA.  Well, is the grand affair over?  You have been something
tedious.

SERV.  Sir, there's such coupling at Pancras that they stand behind
one another, as 'twere in a country-dance.  Ours was the last couple
to lead up; and no hopes appearing of dispatch, besides, the parson
growing hoarse, we were afraid his lungs would have failed before it
came to our turn; so we drove round to Duke's Place, and there they
were riveted in a trice.

MIRA.  So, so; you are sure they are married?

SERV.  Married and bedded, sir; I am witness.

MIRA.  Have you the certificate?

SERV.  Here it is, sir.

MIRA.  Has the tailor brought Waitwell's clothes home, and the new
liveries?

SERV.  Yes, sir.

MIRA.  That's well.  Do you go home again, d'ye hear, and adjourn
the consummation till farther order; bid Waitwell shake his ears,
and Dame Partlet rustle up her feathers, and meet me at one a' clock
by Rosamond's pond, that I may see her before she returns to her
lady.  And, as you tender your ears, be secret.

SCENE III.

MIRABELL, FAINALL, BETTY.

FAIN.  Joy of your success, Mirabell; you look pleased.

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