She Stoops of Conquer
by Oliver Goldsmith
Dear Sir,--By
inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean
so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to
inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with
you.
It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that
the
greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the
most
unaffected piety.
I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to
this
performance. The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was
very
dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various
stages,
always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the
public;
and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I
have
every reason to be grateful.
I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
PROLOGUE,
BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief
to his eyes.
Excuse me, sirs, I pray--I can't yet speak-- I'm crying now--and
have been all the week. "'Tis not alone this mourning suit,"
good masters: "I've that within"--for which there are
no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying? The
Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying! And if she goes, my tears
will never stop; For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop: I
am undone, that's all--shall lose my bread-- I'd rather, but that's
nothing--lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab
of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed! Poor
Ned and I are dead to all intents; We can as soon speak Greek as
sentiments! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up. We now
and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do? If Comedy
forsake us, They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But why can't I be moral?--Let me try-- My heart thus pressing--fixed
my face and eye-- With a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces
are blocks in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin: "All is not
gold that glitters, "Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a
glass of bitters. "When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand:
"Learning is better far than house and land. "Let not
your virtue trip; who trips may stumble, "And virtue is not
virtue, if she tumble."
I give it up--morals won't do for me; To make you laugh, I must
play tragedy. One hope remains--hearing the maid was ill, A
Doctor comes this night to show his skill. To cheer her heart,
and give your muscles motion, He, in Five Draughts prepar'd,
presents a potion: A kind of magic charm--for be assur'd, If you
will swallow it, the maid is cur'd: But desperate the Doctor, and
her case is, If you reject the dose, and make wry faces! This
truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, No poisonous drugs
are mixed in what he gives. Should he succeed, you'll give him
his degree; If not, within he will receive no fee! The College
YOU, must his pretensions back, Pronounce him Regular, or dub him
Quack.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
SIR CHARLES MARLOW Mr. Gardner.
YOUNG MARLOW (His Son) Mr. Lee Lewes.
HARDCASTLE Mr. Shuter.
HASTINGS Mr. Dubellamy.
TONY LUMPKIN Mr. Quick.
DIGGORY Mr. Saunders.
WOMEN.
MRS. HARDCASTLE Mrs. Green.
MISS HARDCASTLE Mrs. Bulkley.
MISS NEVILLE Mrs. Kniveton.
MAID Miss Williams.
LANDLORD, SERVANTS, Etc. Etc.
ACT THE FIRST.
SCENE--A Chamber in an old-fashioned House.
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular.
Is there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does
not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a
little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs.
Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter.
HARDCASTLE. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last
them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own
fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly
among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its
fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the
very basket.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have
been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an
old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn,
but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs.
Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame
dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of
Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned
trumpery.
HARDCASTLE. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old
friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and I
believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty
fond of an old wife.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your
Dorothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no
Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more
than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that.
HARDCASTLE. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty
and seven.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was but twenty
when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my
first husband; and he's not come to years of discretion yet.
HARDCASTLE. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have
taught him finely.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My
son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants
much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.
HARDCASTLE. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and
mischief.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr.
Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour.
HARDCASTLE. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the
footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens
be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to
the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my
bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too
sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes
to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may
do for him?
HARDCASTLE. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse
and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I
believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in
his face may see he's consumptive.
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