No More Learning

_Cast. _ Alas! I can forgive even this to thee:
But let me tell thee, Polydore, I'm grieved
To find thee guilty of such low revenge,
To wrong that virtue which thou couldst not ruin.

_Pol. _ It seems I lie then?

_Cast. _ Should the bravest man
That e'er wore conquering sword but dare to whisper
What thou proclaim'st, he were the worst of liars:
My friend may be mistaken.

_Pol. _ Damn the evasion!
Thou mean'st the worst; and he's a base-born villain
That said I lied.

_Cast. _ Do, draw thy sword, and thrust it through my heart;
There is no joy in life, if thou art lost.
A base-born villain!

_Pol. _ Yes, thou never camest
From old Acasto's loins; the midwife put
A cheat upon my mother, and, instead
Of a true brother, in the cradle by me
Placed some coarse peasant's cub, and thou art he.

_Cast. _ Thou art my brother still.

_Pol. _ Thou liest.

_Cast. _ Nay then: [_He draws. _
Yet I am calm.

_Pol. _ A coward's always so.

_Cast. _ Ah--ah--that stings home: coward!

_Pol. _ Ay, base-born coward, villain.

_Cast. _ This to thy heart then, though my mother bore thee.

[_They fight_; POLYDORE _drops his sword, and runs on_
CASTALIO'S.

_Pol. _ Now my Castalio is again my friend.

_Cast. _ What have I done? my sword is in thy breast!

_Pol. _ So I would have it be, thou best of men,
Thou kindest brother, and thou truest friend.

_Cast. _ Ye gods, we're taught that all your works are justice;
You're painted merciful, and friends to innocence:
If so, then why these plagues upon my head?

_Pol. _ Blame not the Heavens; here lies thy fate, Castalio.
They're not the gods, 'tis Polydore has wronged thee;
I've stained thy bed; thy spotless marriage-joys
Have been polluted by thy brother's lust.

_Cast. _ By thee!

_Pol. _ By me: last night the horrid deed
Was done, when all things slept, but rage and incest.

_Cast. _ Now where's Monimia? Oh!

_Re-enter_ MONIMIA.

_Mon. _ I'm here; who calls me?
Methought I heard a voice
Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains,
When all his little flock's at feed before him.
But what means this? here's blood!

_Cast. _ Ay, brother's blood.
Art thou prepared for everlasting pains?

_Pol. _ Oh, let me charge thee by the eternal justice,
Hurt not her tender life!

_Cast. _ Not kill her! Rack me,
Ye powers above, with all your choicest torments,
Horror of mind, and pains yet uninvented,
If I not practise cruelty upon her,
And wreak revenge some way yet never known!

_Mon. _ That task myself have finished: I shall die
Before we part; I've drunk a healing draught
For all my cares, and never more shall wrong thee.

_Pol. _ Oh, she is innocent.

_Cast. _ Tell me that story,
And thou wilt make a wretch of me indeed.

_Pol. _ Hadst thou, Castalio, used me like a friend,
This ne'er had happened; hadst thou let me know
Thy marriage, we had all now met in joy:
But, ignorant of that,
Hearing the appointment made, enraged to think
Thou hadst outdone me in successful love,
I, in the dark, went and supplied thy place;
Whilst all the night, 'midst our triumphant joys,
The trembling, tender, kind, deceived Monimia
Embraced, caressed, and called me her Castalio.

_Cast. _ And all this is the work of my own fortune!
None but myself could e'er have been so curst.
My fatal love, alas! has ruined thee,
Thou fairest, goodliest frame the gods e'er made,
Or ever human eyes and heart adored!
I've murdered too my brother.
Why wouldst thou study ways to damn me further,
And force the sin of parricide upon me?

_Pol. _ 'Twas my own fault, and thou art innocent.
Forgive the barbarous trespass of my tongue;
'Twas a hard violence; I could have died
With love of thee, even when I used thee worst;
Nay, at each word that my distraction uttered,
My heart recoiled, and 'twas half death to speak them.

_Mon. _ Now, my Castalio, the most dear of men,
Wilt thou receive pollution to thy bosom,
And close the eyes of one that has betrayed thee?

_Cast. _ Oh, I'm the unhappy wretch whose cursèd fate
Has weighed thee down into destruction with him;
Why then thus kind to me?

_Mon. _ When I'm laid low i' the grave, and quite forgotten,
Mayst thou be happy in a fairer bride!
But none can ever love thee like Monimia.
When I am dead,--as presently I shall be,
For the grim tyrant grasps my heart already,--
Speak well of me; and if thou find ill tongues
Too busy with my fame, don't hear me wronged;
'Twill be a noble justice to the memory
Of a poor wretch once honoured with thy love.
How my head swims! --'tis very dark. Good-night! [_Dies. _

_Cast. _ If I survive thee! what a thought was that!
Thank Heaven, I go prepared against that curse!

_Enter_ CHAMONT, _disarmed, and held by_ ACASTO
_and_ Servants.

_Cham. _ Gape, hell, and swallow me to quick damnation,
If I forgive your house, if I not live
An everlasting plague to thee, Acasto,
And all thy race! You've overpowered me now;
But hear me, Heaven! --Ah! here's the scene of death.
My sister, my Monimia! breathless! --Now,
Ye powers above, if ye have justice, strike,
Strike bolts through me, and through the cursed Castalio!

_Acast. _ My Polydore!

_Pol. _ Who calls?

_Acast. _ How camest thou wounded?

_Cast. _ Stand off, thou hot-brained, boisterous, noisy ruffian,
And leave me to my sorrows.

_Cham. _ By the love
I bore her living, I will ne'er forsake her!
But here remain till my heart burst with sobbing.

_Cast. _ Vanish, I charge thee, or-- [_Draws a dagger. _

_Cham. _ Thou canst not kill me;
That would be kindness, and against thy nature.

_Acast. _ What means Castalio? Sure thou wilt not pull
More sorrows on thy agèd father's head.
Tell me, I beg you, tell me the sad cause
Of all this ruin.

_Pol. _ That must be my task:
But 'tis too long for one in pains to tell;
You'll in my closet find the story written
Of all our woes. Castalio's innocent,
And so's Monimia; only I'm to blame:
Inquire no farther.

_Cast. _ Thou, unkind Chamont,
Unjustly hast pursued me with thy hate,
And sought the life of him that never wronged thee:
Now, if thou wilt embrace a noble vengeance,
Come join with me and curse.

_Cham. _ What?

_Cast. _ First thyself,
As I do, and the hour that gave thee birth.
Confusion and disorder seize the world,
To spoil all trust and converse amongst men;
'Twixt families engender endless feuds,
In countries needless fears, in cities factions,
In states rebellion, and in churches schism;
Till all things move against the course of nature;
Till form's dissolved, the chain of causes broken,
And the originals of being lost!

_Acast. _ Have patience.

_Cast. _ Patience! preach it to the winds,
To roaring seas, or raging fires! The knaves
That teach it laugh at ye when ye believe them.
Strip me of all the common needs of life,
Scald me with leprosy, let friends forsake me,
I'll bear it all; but, cursed to the degree
That I am now, 'tis this must give me patience:
Thus I find rest, and shall complain no more. [23] [_Stabs himself. _
[_Dies. _

_Pol. _ Castalio! Oh!

_Cast. _ I come.
Chamont, to thee my birthright I bequeath:
Comfort my mourning father, heal his griefs,

[ACASTO _faints into the arms of a_ Servant.

For I perceive they fall with weight upon him;
And for Monimia's sake, whom thou wilt find
I never wronged, be kind to poor Serina.
Now all I beg is, lay me in one grave
Thus with my love. Farewell! I now am--nothing. [_Dies. _

_Cham. _ Take care of good Acasto, whilst I go
To search the means by which the fates have plagued us.
'Tis thus that Heaven its empire does maintain;
It may afflict, but man must not complain. [_Exeunt. _

FOOTNOTES:

[23] This may be rant, but it is rant in the right place. The line is
a fine one that divides true from false hyperbole, but this utterance
of Castalio has, I think, the real ring of maddened emotion, which is
often absent from Dryden's heroic plays. Rage and despair do sometimes
vent themselves in hyperbole and trope. Whether the poet can make us
feel the utterance to be inevitable is the question, and that depends
on his own sympathy with the situation.

[Illustration:




EPILOGUE. ]


SPOKEN BY SERINA.

You've seen one Orphan ruined here; and I
May be the next, if old Acasto die.
Should it prove so, I'd fain amongst you find
Who 'tis would to the fatherless be kind.
To whose protection might I safely go?
Is there amongst you no good-nature? No.
What should I do? Should I the godly seek,
And go a conventicling twice a week;
Quit the lewd stage, and its profane pollution,
Affect each form and saint-like institution;
So draw the brethren all to contribution?
Or shall I (as I guess the poet may
Within these three days) fairly run away?
No; to some city-lodgings I'll retire;
Seem very grave, and privacy desire;
Till I am thought some heiress rich in lands,
Fled to escape a cruel guardian's hands:
Which may produce a story worth the telling,
Of the next sparks that go a fortune-stealing.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _


Quem recitas, meus est, O Fidentine, libellus;
Sed male quum recitas, incipit esse tuus. [24]--

MARTIAL, Lib. I. , Ep. 39.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

This Play is neither more nor less indecent than Otway's other
comedies, but less uninteresting, on account of its autobiographical
allusions to the writer's own adventures in Flanders, and the
disbandment without their pay of the troops he was sent to join. Like
most of the old comedies, this one throws light upon the manners,
customs, and costumes of the period represented. Its distinctive
quality is a certain rollicking vein of fun and mere buffoonery,
together with a rapidity of movement and variety of incident, that
vindicate the work from any charge of absolute dulness--nay, it is
undeniably amusing to those whose stomach is strong enough not to be
nauseated with the dirt. The play is not a mere jumble of bustling
incidents, as many of the contemporary comedies are, written by one
who "faggoted his notions as they fell. " At least the main intrigue is
regular and connected, and the characters speak naturally.

Otway wrote hastily, and "lived to please," since he must "please to
live. " _The Soldier's Fortune_ is the kind of thing that pleased very
much. For Downes tells us that the play was extraordinarily successful,
bringing both profit and reputation to the theatre. Betterton acted the
part of Beaugard, and Mrs. Barry played Lady Dunce. The dedication to
Bentley, the publisher, is unique and curious, while the Epilogue shows
the gloomy and bitter feelings to which the writer was now frequently a
prey. Langbaine and Thornton have respectively drawn attention to the
many different sources from which much of the plot and material of the
play seems to have been taken. Thus Lady Dunce's scheme for conveying
the ring and letter to her lover may be found in several earlier plays,
and Otway probably derived it from Molière's _L'Ecole des Maris_; the
story comes originally from Boccaccio.

_The Soldier's Fortune_ was acted in 1681 and printed in 4to in the
same year. In 1748 a farce, founded upon it, was brought out at Covent
Garden, but was never printed.

[Illustration]


TO MR. BENTLEY.

I have often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned
for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in
vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as
briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be
pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a
preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be
the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to
his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr.
Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort
of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of
higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which
he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part
with ready money for.

As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance,
I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as
heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish
qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay,
I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once
brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.

The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must
confess, are very grievous--

First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think
civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no
modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick! "
When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily
digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington,
and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can
extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can
poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much
concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct;
they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as
well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I
have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics,
and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of
her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called _bawdy_. So,
Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and
the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above
her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal
education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent
neither.

This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I
throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your
customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will
complete the wishes of

Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.

FOOTNOTES:

[24]

"The lines you read were writ by me alone,
But your bad reading makes them half your own. "--H. S.



[Illustration:




PROLOGUE. ]


BY LORD FALKLAND.

Forsaken dames with less concern reflect
On their inconstant hero's cold neglect
Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.
With grief we see you ravished from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime! )
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believed your treach'rous hearts as true
As e'er was nymph of ours to one of you.
But a more powerful Saint[25] enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addressed;
She's both your love's and your religion's test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you're all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,
And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.
But all rash oaths of love and constancy
With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;
Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.
Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you'll e'er return again?
Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now's our only treasure left in store,
And that's a coin will pass with you no more.
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,--
True bullies! quiet when there's danger near,--
Show your great souls in damning poets here.

FOOTNOTES:

[25] This was the _Female Prelate_, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon
the well-known story of a female Pope.

[Illustration:




_DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _]


Captain BEAUGARD.
COURTINE.
Sir DAVY DUNCE.
Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.
FRISK.
FOURBIN, a Servant To Beaugard.
BLOODY-BONES.
VERMIN, a Servant To Sir Davy.
WILL, Sylvia's Footman.
A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.

Lady DUNCE.
SYLVIA.
Maid.

SCENE--LONDON.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

_THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE. _




ACT THE FIRST.


SCENE I. --_The Mall in St. James's Park. _

_Enter_ BEAUGARD, COURTINE, _and_ FOURBIN.

Beau. A pox o' fortune! Thou art always teasing me about
fortune: thou risest in a morning with ill-luck in thy mouth;
nay, never eatest a dinner, but thou sighest two hours after
it, with thinking where to get the next. Fortune be damned,
since the world's so wide!

_Cour. _ As wide as it is, 'tis so thronged and crammed with
knaves and fools, that an honest man can hardly get a living in
it.

_Beau. _ Do, rail, Courtine, do: it may get thee employment.

_Cour. _ At you I ought to rail; 'twas your fault we left our
employments abroad, to come home and be loyal; and now we as
loyally starve for it.

_Beau. _ Did not thy ancestors do it before thee, man? I tell
thee, loyalty and starving are all one. The old cavaliers got
such a trick of it in the king's exile, that their posterity
could never thrive since.

_Cour. _ 'Tis a fine equipage I am like to be reduced to; I
shall be ere long as greasy as an Alsatian bully; this flopping
hat, pinned up on one side, with a sandy, weather-beaten
peruke, dirty linen, and, to complete the figure, a long
scandalous iron sword jarring at my heels, like a--

_Beau. _ Snarling, thou meanest, like its master.

_Cour. _ My companions the worthy knights of the most noble
order of the post; your peripatetic philosophers of the
Temple-walks,[26] rogues in rags, and yet not honest; villains
that undervalue damnation, will forswear themselves for a
dinner, and hang their fathers for half-a-crown.

_Beau. _ I am ashamed to hear a soldier talk of starving.

_Cour. _ Why, what shall I do? I can't steal.

_Beau. _ Though thou canst not steal, thou hast other vices
enough for any industrious fellow to live comfortably upon.

_Cour. _ What! wouldst thou have me turn rascal, and run
cheating up and down the town for a livelihood? I would no more
keep a blockhead company, and endure his nauseous nonsense,
in hopes to get him, than I would be a drudge to an old woman
with rheumatic eyes, hollow teeth, and stinking breath, for a
pension: of all rogues, I would not be a fool-monger.

_Beau. _ How well this niceness becomes thee! I'd fain see e'en
thee turn parson in a pet, o' purpose to rail at all those
vices which I know thou naturally art fond of. Why, surely an
old lady's pension need not be so despicable in the eyes of a
disbanded officer, as times go, friend.

_Cour. _ I am glad, Beaugard, you think so.

_Beau. _ Why thou shalt think so too, man; be ruled by me,
and I'll bring thee into good company,--families, Courtine,
families; and such families, where formality's a scandal, and
pleasure is the business; where the women are all wanton, and
the men all witty, you rogue.

_Cour. _ What, some of your worship's Wapping acquaintance, that
you made last time you came over for recruits, and spirited
away your landlady's daughter a-volunteering with you into
France?

_Beau. _ I'll bring thee, Courtine, where cuckoldom's in credit,
and lewdness laudable; where thou shalt wallow in pleasures and
preferments, revel all day, and every night lie in the arms of
melting beauty, sweet as roses, and as springs refreshing.

_Cour. _ Pr'ythee don't talk thus; I had rather thou wouldst
tell me where new levies are to be raised: a pox of whores,
when a man has not money to make 'em comfortable!

_Beau. _ That shall shower upon us in abundance; and for
instance, know, to thy everlasting amazement, all this dropped
out of the clouds to-day.

_Cour. _ Ha! gold, by this light!

_Four. _ Out of the clouds?

_Beau. _ Ay, gold! does it not smell of the sweet hand that sent
it? Smell--smell, you dog!

[_To_ FOURBIN.

[FOURBIN _smells the handful of gold, and_
_gathers up some pieces in his mouth_.

_Four. _ Truly, sir, of heavenly sweetness, and very refreshing.

_Cour. _ Dear Beaugard, if thou hast any good-nature in thee, if
thou wouldst not have me hang myself before my time, tell me
where the devil haunts that helped thee to this, that I may go
make a bargain with him presently: speak, speak, or I am a lost
man.

_Beau. _ Why, thou must know this devil, which I have given
my soul to already, and must I suppose have my body very
speedily, lives I know not where, and may, for aught I know, be
a real devil; but if it be, 'tis the best natured devil under
Beelzebub's dominions,--that I'll swear to.

_Cour. _ But how came the gold, then?

_Beau. _ To deal freely with my friend, I am lately happened
into the acquaintance of a very reverend pimp, as fine a
discreet, sober, grey-bearded old gentleman as one would wish;
as good a natured public-spirited person as the nation holds;
one that is never so happy as when he is bringing good people
together, and promoting civil understanding betwixt the sexes:
nay, rather than want employment, he will go from one end of
the town to t'other, to procure my lord's little dog to be
civil to my lady's little languishing bitch.

_Cour. _ A very worthy member of the commonwealth!

_Beau. _ This noble person one day--but Fourbin can give you
a more particular account of the matter. Sweet sir, if you
please, tell us the story of the first encounter betwixt you
and Sir Jolly Jumble. You must know that's his title.

_Four. _ Sir, it shall be done. Walking one day upon the
Piazza,[27] about three of the clock i' the afternoon, to get
me a stomach to my dinner, I chanced to encounter a person
of goodly presence and worthy appearance; his beard and hair
white, grave, and comely; his countenance ruddy, plump, smooth,
and cheerful; who perceiving me also equipped as I am, with
a mien and air which might well inform him I was a person of
no inconsiderable quality, came very respectfully up to me,
and, after the usual ceremonies between persons of parts and
breeding had passed, very humbly inquired of me "What is it
o'clock? " I presently understanding by the question that he was
a man of parts and business, told him I did presume it was at
most but nicely turned of three.

_Beau. _ Very court-like, civil, quaint, and new, I think.

_Four. _ The freedom of commerce increasing, after some little
inconsiderable questions _pour passer le temps_, and so, he
was pleased to offer me the courtesy of a glass of wine: I
told him I very seldom drank, but, if he so pleased, I would
do myself the honour to present him with a dish of meat at an
eating-house hard by, where I had an interest.

_Cour. _ Very well: I think this squire of thine, Beaugard, is
as accomplished a person as any of the employment I ever saw.

_Beau. _ Let the rogue go on.

_Four. _ In short, we agreed and went together. As soon as we
entered the room, "I am your most humble servant, sir," says
he. "I am the meanest of your vassals, sir," said I. "I am
very happy in lighting into the acquaintance of so worthy a
gentleman as you appear to be, sir," said he again. "Worthy Sir
Jolly,"--then came I upon him again on t'other side (for you
must know by that time I had groped out his title), "I kiss
your hands from the bottom of my heart, which I shall be always
ready to lay at your feet. "

_Cour. _ Well, Fourbin, and what replied the knight then?

_Four. _ Nothing, he had nothing to say; his sense was
transported with admiration of my parts: so we sat down, and
after some pause, he desired to know by what title he was to
distinguish the person that had so highly honoured him.

_Beau. _ That is as much as to say, sir, whose rascal you were.

_Four. _ Sir, you may make as bold with your poor slave as
you please. --I told him those that knew me well were pleased
to call me the Chevalier Fourbin; that I was a cadet of the
ancient family of the Fourbinois; and that I had had the honour
of serving the great monarch of France in his wars in Flanders,
where I contracted great familiarity and intimacy with a
gallant officer of the English troops in that service, one
Captain Beaugard.

_Beau. _ Oh, sir, you did me too much honour. What a true-bred
rogue's this!

_Cour. _ Well, but the money, Fourbin, the money?

_Four. _ "Beaugard, hum! Beaugard," says he--"ay, it must be
so,--a black man, is he not? " "Ay," says I, "blackish--a dark
brown. " "Full-faced? " "Yes. " "A sly, subtle, observing eye? "
"The same. " "A strong-built, well-made man? " "Right. " "A
devilish fellow for a wench, a devilish fellow for a wench,
I warrant him; a thundering rogue upon occasion--Beaugard! a
thundering fellow for a wench: I must be acquainted with him. "

_Cour. _ But to the money, the money, man; that's the thing I
would be acquainted withal.

_Beau. _ This civil gentleman of the chevalier's acquaintance
comes yesterday morning to my lodging, and seeing my picture in
miniature upon the toilet, told me, with the greatest ecstasy
in the world, that was the thing he came to me about: he told
me there was a lady of his acquaintance had some favourable
thoughts of me, and "I'gad," says he, "she's a hummer; such a
_bona roba_,[28] ah! "--So without more ado begs me to lend it
him till dinner (for we concluded to eat together); so away he
scuttled with as great joy as if he had found the philosopher's
stone.

_Cour. _ Very well.

_Beau. _ At Locket's[29] we met again; where after a thousand
grimaces, to show how much he was pleased, instead of my
picture, presents me with the contents aforesaid; and told me
the lady desired me to accept of them for the picture, which
she was much transported withal, as well as with the original.

_Cour. _ Ha!

_Beau. _ Now, whereabouts this taking quality lies in me, the
devil take me, Ned, if I know; but the fates, Ned, the fates!

_Cour. _ A curse on the fates! Of all strumpets, fortune's the
basest. 'Twas fortune made me a soldier, a rogue in red, the
grievance of the nation; fortune made the peace just when we
were on the brink of a war; then fortune disbanded us, and lost
us two months' pay: fortune gave us debentures instead of ready
money, and by very good fortune I sold mine, and lost heartily
by it, in hopes the grinding ill-natured dog that bought it
will never get a shilling for't.

_Beau. _ Leave off thy railing, for shame! it looks like a cur
that barks for want of bones. Come, times may mend, and an
honest soldier be in fashion again.

_Cour. _ These greasy, fat, unwieldy, wheezing rogues that live
at home, and brood over their bags, when a fit of fear's upon
them, then if one of us pass but by, all the family is ready at
the door to cry, "Heavens bless you, sir! the Laird go along
with you! "

_Beau. _ "Ah, good men; what pity 'tis such proper gentlemen
should ever be out of employment!