would be arbitrary with her husband, she wheedles her booby up to town – A man dare not play the tyrant in London, because there are so many examples to encourage the subject to rebel, O Dorinda, Dorinda! a fine woman may do any thing in London: On my conscience, she may raise an army of forty thousand men.
Dor. I fancy, sister, you have a mind to be trying your power that way here in Litchfield; you have drawn the French Count to your colours already.
Mrs. Sul. The French are a people that can't live without their gallantries.
Dor. And some English that I know, sister, are not averse to such amusements.
Mrs. Sul. Well, sister, since the truth must out, it may do as well now as hereafter; I think, one way to rouse my lethargic, sottish, husband, is to give him a rival; security begets negligence in all people, and men must be alarmed to make them alert in their duty; women are like pictures, of no value in the hands of a fool, till he hears men of sense bid high for the purchase.
Dor. This might do, sister, if my brother's understanding were to be convinced into a passion for you; but, I believe, there's a natural aversion on his side; and I fancy, sister, that you don't come much behind him, if you dealt fairly.
Mrs. Sul. I own it; we are united contradictions, fire and water. But I could be contented, with a great many other wives, to humour the censorious vulgar, and give the world an appearance of living well with my husband, could I bring him but to dissemble a little kindness, to keep me in countenance.
Dor. But how do you know, sister, but that instead of rousing your husband by this artifice to a counterfeit kindness, he should awake in a real fury?
Mrs. Sul. Let him: – If I can't entice him to the one, I would provoke him to the other.
Dor. But how must I behave myself between ye?
Mrs. Sul. You must assist me.
Dor. What, against my own brother!
Mrs. Sul. He is but your half brother, and I'm your entire friend: If I go a step beyond the bounds of honour, leave me; till then, I expect you should go along with me in every thing; while I trust my honour in your hands, you may trust your brother's in mine – The Count is to dine here to-day.
Dor. 'Tis a strange thing, sister, that I can't like that man.
Mrs. Sul. You like nothing; your time is not come; love and death have their fatalities, and strike home one time or other: – You'll pay for all one day, I warrant ye – But come, my lady's tea is ready, and 'tis almost church time. [Exeunt.
SCENE II
Aim. And was she the daughter of the house?
Arch. The Landlord is so blind as to think so; but, I dare swear, she has better blood in her veins.
Aim. Why dost think so?
Arch. Because the baggage has a pert je-ne-sçai-quoi; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled with vapours.
Aim. By which discoveries, I guess that you know more of her.
Arch. Not yet, 'faith: the lady gives herself airs, forsooth; nothing under a gentleman.
Aim. Let me take her in hand.
Arch. Say one word more o'that, and I'll declare myself, spoil your sport there, and every where else: lookye, Aimwell, every man in his own sphere.
Aim. Right; and therefore you must pimp for your master.
Arch. In the usual forms, good sir, after I have served myself. – But to our business – You are so well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a figure, that I fancy you may do execution in a country church; the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the right to make that impression favourable.
Aim. There's something in that which may turn to advantage: the appearance of a stranger in a country church draws as many gazers as a blazing star; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation in a moment: – Who is he? whence comes he? do you know him? – Then I, sir, tip the verger half a crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the Bishop or the Dean, if he be the commanding officer; single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by the strength of imagination, and show the whole church my concern, by my endeavouring to hide it: after the sermon, the whole town gives me to her for a lover; and, by persuading the lady that I am dying for her, the tables are turned, and she, in good earnest, falls in love with me.
Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent; but, instead of riveting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix them upon a fortune; that's our business at present.
Aim. Pshaw! no woman can be a beauty without a fortune. – Let me alone for a marksman.
Arch. Tom!
Aim. Ay!
Arch. When were you at church before, pray?
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