No More Learning

_Ser_. Your worship!

_Just_. Stay, John; did you perceive anything in my chocolate cup
this morning?

_Ser_. Nothing, your worship, unless it was a little grounds.

_Just_. What colour were they?

_Ser_. Blackish, your worship.

_Just_. Ay, arsenic, black arsenic! --Why don't you run for Dr.
Rosy, you rascal?

_Ser_. Now, sir?

_Mrs. Bri_. Oh, lovee, you may be sure it is in vain; let him run
for the lawyer to witness your will, my life.

_Just_. Zounds! go for the doctor, you scoundrel. You are all
confederate murderers.

_Ser_. Oh, here he is, your worship. [_Exit_. ]

_Just_. Now, Bridget, hold your tongue, and let me see if my
horrid situation be apparent.


_Enter_ DOCTOR ROSY.

_Rosy_. I have but just called to inform--hey! bless me, what's
the matter with your worship?

_Just_. There, he sees it already! --Poison in my face, in
capitals! Yes, yes, I'm a sure job for the undertakers indeed!

_Mrs. Bri_. Oh! oh! alas, doctor!

_Just_. Peace, Bridget! --Why, doctor, my dear old friend, do you
really see any change in me?

_Rosy_. Change! never was man so altered: how came these black
spots on your nose?

_Just_. Spots on my nose!

_Rosy_. And that wild stare in your right eye!

_Just_. In my right eye?

_Rosy_. Ay, and, alack, alack, how you are swelled!

_Just_. Swelled!

_Rosy_. Ay, don't you think he is, madam?

_Mrs. Bri_. Oh! 'tis in vain to conceal it! --Indeed, lovee, you
are as big again as you were this morning.

_Just_. Yes, I feel it now--I'm poisoned! --Doctor, help me, for
the love of justice! Give me life to see my murderer hanged.

_Rosy_. What?

_Just_. I'm poisoned, I say!

_Rosy_. Speak out!

_Just_. What! can't you hear me?

_Rosy_. Your voice is so low and hollow, as it were, I can't hear
a word you say.

_Just_. I'm gone then! --_Hic jacet_, many years one of his
majesty's justices!

_Mrs. Bri_. Read, doctor! --Ah, lovee, the will! --Consider, my
life, how soon you will be dead.

_Just_. No, Bridget, I shall die by inches.

_Rosy_. I never heard such monstrous iniquity. --Oh, you are gone
indeed, my friend! the mortgage of your little bit of clay is out, and
the sexton has nothing to do but to close. We must all go, sooner or
later--high and low--Death's a debt; his mandamus binds all alike--no
bail, no demurrer.

_Just_. Silence, Dr. Croaker! will you cure me or will you not?

_Rosy_. Alas! my dear friend, it is not in my power; but I'll
certainly see justice done on your murderer.

_Just_. I thank you, my dear friend, but I had rather see it
myself.

_Rosy_. Ay, but if you recover, the villain will escape.

_Mrs. Bri_. Will he? then indeed it would be a pity you should
recover. I am so enraged against the villain, I can't bear the thought
of his escaping the halter.

_Just_. That's very kind in you, my dear; but if it's the same
thing to you, my dear, I had as soon recover, notwithstanding. --What,
doctor, no assistance!

_Rosy_. Efacks, I can do nothing, but there's the German quack,
whom you wanted to send from town; I met him at the next door, and I
know he has antidotes for all poisons.

_Just_. Fetch him, my dear friend, fetch him! I'll get him a
diploma if he cures me.

_Rosy_. Well, there's no time to be lost; you continue to swell
immensely. [_Exit_. ]

_Mrs. Bri_. What, my dear, will you submit to be cured by a quack
nostrum-monger? For my part, as much as I love you, I had rather
follow you to your grave than see you owe your life to any but a
regular-bred physician.

_Just_. I'm sensible of your affection, dearest; and be assured
nothing consoles me in my melancholy situation so much as the thoughts
of leaving you behind.


_Re-enter_ DOCTOR ROSY, _with_ LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR
_disguised_.

_Rosy_. Great luck; met him passing by the door.

_O'Con_. Metto dowsei pulsum.

_Rosy_. He desires me to feel your pulse.

_Just_. Can't he speak English?

_Rosy_. Not a word.

_O'Con_. Palio vivem mortem soonem.

_Rosy_. He says you have not six hours to live.

_Just_. O mercy! does he know my distemper?

_Rosy_. I believe not.

_Just_. Tell him 'tis black arsenic they have given me.

_Rosy_. Geneable illi arsnecca.

_O'Con_. Pisonatus.

_Just_. What does he say?

_Rosy_. He says you are poisoned.

_Just_. We know that; but what will be the effect?

_Rosy_. Quid effectum?

_O'Con_. Diable tutellum.

_Rosy_. He says you'll die presently.

_Just_. Oh, horrible! What, no antidote?

_O'Con_. Curum benakere bono fullum.

_Just_. What, does he say I must row in a boat to Fulham?

_Rosy_. He says he'll undertake to cure you for three thousand
pounds.

_Mrs. Bri_. Three thousand pounds! three thousand halters! --No,
lovee, you shall never submit to such impositions; die at once, and be
a customer to none of them.

_Just_. I won't die, Bridget--I don't like death.

_Mrs. Bri_. Psha! there is nothing in it: a moment, and it is
over.

_Just_. Ay, but it leaves a numbness behind that lasts a plaguy
long time.

_Mrs. Bri_. O my dear, pray consider the will.


_Enter_ LAURETTA.

_Lau_. O my father, what is this I hear?

_O'Con_. Quiddam seomriam deos tollam rosam.

_Rosy_. The doctor is astonished at the sight of your fair
daughter.

_Just_. How so?

_O'Con_.
Damsellum livivum suvum rislibani.

_Rosy_. He says that he has lost his heart to her, and that if
you will give him leave to pay his addresses to the young lady, and
promise your consent to the union, if he should gain her affections,
he will, on those conditions, cure you instantly, without fee or
reward.

_Just_. The devil! did he say all that in so few words? What a
fine language it is! Well, I agree, if he can prevail on the girl. --
[_Aside_. ] And that I am sure he never will.

_Rosy_. Greal.

_O'Con_. Writhum bothum.

_Rosy_. He says you must give this under your hand, while he
writes you a miraculous receipt. [_Both sit down to write_. ]

_Lau_. Do, mamma, tell me the meaning of this.

_Mrs. Bri_. Don't speak to me, girl. --Unnatural parent!

_Just_. There, doctor; there's what he requires.

_Rosy_. And here's your receipt: read it yourself.

_Just_. Hey! what's here? plain English!

_Rosy_. Read it out; a wondrous nostrum, I'll answer for it.

_Just_. [_Reads_. ] _In reading this you are cured, by your
affectionate son-in-law,_ O'CONNOR. --Who in the name of Beelzebub,
sirrah, who are you?

_O'Con_. Your affectionate son-in-law, O'Connor, and your very
humble servant, Humphrey Hum.

_Just_. 'Tis false, you dog! you are not my son-in-law; for I'll
be poisoned again, and you shall be hanged. --I'll die, sirrah, and
leave Bridget my estate.

_Mrs. Bri_. Ay, pray do, my dear, leave me your estate; I'm sure
he deserves to be hanged.

_Just_. He does, you say! --Hark'ee, Bridget, you showed such a
tender concern for me when you thought me poisoned, that, for the
future, I am resolved never to take your advice again in anything. --
[_To_ LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR] So, do you hear, sir, you are an
Irishman and a soldier, ain't you?

_O'Con_. I am sir, and proud of both.

_Just_. The two things on earth I most hate; so I tell you what--
renounce your country and sell your commission, and I'll forgive you.

_O'Con_. Hark'ee, Mr. Justice--if you were not the father of my
Lauretta, I would pull your nose for asking the first, and break your
bones for desiring the second.

_Rosy_. Ay, ay, you're right.

_Just_. Is he? then I'm sure I must be wrong. --Here, sir, I give
my daughter to you, who are the most impudent dog I ever saw in my
life.

_O'Con_. Oh, sir, say what you please; with such a gift as
Lauretta, every word is a compliment.

_Mrs. Bri_. Well, my lovee, I think this will be a good subject
for us to quarrel about the rest of our lives.

_Just_. Why, truly, my dear,--I think so, though we are seldom at
a loss for that.

_Rosy_. This is all as it should be. --My Alexander, I give you
joy, and you, my little god-daughter; and now my sincere wish is, that
you may make just such a wife as my poor dear Dolly. [_Exeunt
omnes_. ]



A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH

_A COMEDY_

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1777

LORD FOPPINGTON _Mr. Dodd. _
SIR TUNBELLY CLUMSY _Mr. Moody. _
COLONEL TOWNLY _Mr. Brereton. _
LOVELESS _Mr. Smith. _
TOM FASHION _Mr. J. Palmer. _
LA VAROLE _Mr. Burton. _
LORY _Mr. Baddeley. _
PROBE _Mr. Parsons. _
MENDLEGS _Mr. Norris. _
JEWELLER _Mr. Lamash_
SHOEMAKER _Mr. Carpenter. _
TAILOR _Mr. Parker. _
AMANDA _Mrs. Robinson. _
BERINTHIA _Miss Farren. _
MISS HOYDEN _Mrs. Abington. _
MRS. COUPLER _Mrs. Booth. _
NURSE _Mrs. Bradshaw. _

Sempstress, Postilion, Maid, _and_ Servants.

SCENE--SCARBOROUGH AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.


PROLOGUE
SPOKEN BY MR. KING

What various transformations we remark,
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde Park!
Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions,
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours and the passions;
The Exchange, 'Change Alley, wheresoe'er you're ranging,
Court, city, country, all are changed or changing
The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones,
Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your bones.
The purest lovers then indulged in bliss;
They ran great hazard if they stole a kiss.
One chaste salute! --the damsel cried--Oh, fie!
As they approach'd--slap went the coach awry--
Poor Sylvia got a bump, and Damon a black eye.

But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam,
And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home;
Of former times, that polish'd thing a beau,
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe;
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders,
Conceal'd the shallow head from the beholders.
But now the whole's reversed--each fop appears,
Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head and ears:
The buckle then its modest limits knew,
Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view,
Hath broke its bounds, and swallowed up the shoe:
The wearer's foot like his once fine estate,
Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great.
Ladies may smile--are they not in the plot?
The bounds of nature have not they forgot?
Were they design'd to be, when put together,
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather?
Their pale-faced grandmammas appeared with grace
When dawning blushes rose upon the face;
No blushes now their once-loved station seek;
The foe is in possession of the cheek!
No heads of old, too high in feather'd state,
Hinder'd the fair to pass the lowest gate;
A church to enter now, they must be bent,
If ever they should try the experiment.
As change thus circulates throughout the nation,
Some plays may justly call for alteration;
At least to draw some slender covering o'er,
That _graceless wit_
[Footnote: "And _Van_ wants grace, who never wanted wit. "
--POPE. ]
which was too bare before:
Those writers well and wisely use their pens,
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens;
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em,
We hope to find in you their stage asylum.

* * * * *




ACT I.

SCENE I. --_The Hall of an Inn_.
_Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a
portmanteau_.
_Fash_. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau.
_Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION_. ] Faith, sir, we had better
let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself.
_Fash. [Aside to LORY_. ] Why, sure, there's something left
in it!
_Lory_. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of
your wardrobe at New Malton--and, if we had had twenty miles
further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag.
_Fash_. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full!
_Lory_. Yes, sir--I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save
appearances, and look like baggage.
_Fash. [Aside_. ] What the devil shall I do? --[_Aloud_. ]
Hark'ee, boy, what's the chaise?
_Post_. Thirteen shillings, please your honour.
_Fash_. Can you give me change for a guinea?
_Post_. Oh, yes, sir.
_Lory. [Aside_. ] So, what will he do now? --[_Aloud_. ]
Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below.
_Fash_. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well.
_Lory_. Yes, yes, I'll tell them to discharge you below,
honest friend.
_Post_. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too.
_Fash_. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means.
_Post_. And I hope your honour will order me something for
myself.
_Fash_. To be sure; bid them give you a crown.
_Lory_. Yes, yes--my master doesn't care what you charge
them--so get along, you--
_Post_. And there's the ostler, your honour.
_Lory_. Psha! damn the ostler! --would you impose upon the
gentleman's generosity? --[_Pushes him out_. ] A rascal, to be
so cursed ready with his change!
_Fash_. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me.
_Lory_. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth
a guinea! I hope you'll own yourself a happy man--you have
outlived all your cares.
_Fash_. How so, sir?
_Lory_. Why, you have nothing left to take care of.
_Fash_. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of
still.
_Lory_. Sir, if you could prevail with somebody else to do
that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for it. But
now, sir, for my Lord Foppington, your elder brother.
_Fash_. Damn my eldest brother.
_Lory_. With all my heart; but get him to redeem your
annuity, however.