The Way of the World by William Congreve (bts book recommendations TXT) 📕

a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants, like a maker of pincushions⁠—thou art in truth (metaphorically speaking) a speaker of shorthand. Petulant Thou art (without a figure) just one half of an ass, and Baldwin yonder,84 thy half-brother, is the rest.⁠—A Gemini of asses split would make just four of you.85 Witwoud Thou dost bite, my dear mustard-seed; kiss me for that. Petulant Stand off⁠—I’ll kiss no more males⁠—I have kissed your twin yonder in a humour of reconciliation till he Hiccups. rises upon my stomach like a radish. Mrs. Millamant Eh! filthy creature! what was the quarrel? Petulant There was no quarrel⁠—there might have been a quarrel. Witwoud If there had been words enow between ’em to have expressed provocation, they had gone together by the ears like a pair of castanets. Petulant You were the quarrel. Mrs. Millamant Me! Petulant If I have a humour to quarrel, I can make less matters conclude premises.⁠—If you are not handsome, what then? If I have a humour to prove it? If I shall have my reward, say so; if not, fight for your face the next time yourself⁠—I’ll go sleep. Witwoud Do, wrap thyself up like a woodlouse, and dream revenge.⁠—and, hear me, if thou canst learn to write by tomorrow morning, pen me a challenge.⁠—I’ll carry it for thee. Petulant Carry your mistress’s monkey a spider!⁠—Go flea dogs and read romances. I’ll go to bed to my maid. Exit. Mrs. Fainall He’s horridly drunk.⁠—How came you all in this pickle? Witwoud A plot! a plot! to get rid of the knight⁠—your husband’s advice; but he sneaked off. Scene II

The dining room in Lady Wishfort’s house.

Sir Wilfull drunk, Lady Wishfort, Witwoud, Mrs. Millamant, and Mrs. Fainall. Lady Wishfort Out upon’t, out upon’t! At years of discretion, and comport yourself at this rantipole rate! Sir Wilful No offence, aunt. Lady Wishfort Offence! as I’m a person, I’m ashamed of you⁠—foh! How you stink of wine! D’ye think my niece will ever endure such a Borachio!86 You’re an absolute Borachio. Sir Wilful Borachio? Lady Wishfort At a time when you should commence an amour, and put your best foot foremost⁠— Sir Wilful

S’heart, an you grutch me your liquor, make a bill⁠—give me more drink, and take my purse⁠—Sings.

Prithee fill me the glass,
Till it laugh in my face,
With ale that is potent and mellow;
He that whines for a lass
Is an ignorant ass,
For a bumper has not its fellow.

But if you would have me marry my cousin⁠—say the word, and I’ll do’t⁠—Wilfull will do’t, that’s the word⁠—Wilfull will do’t, that’s my crest⁠—my motto I have forgot.

Lady Wishfort My nephew’s a little overtaken, cousin⁠—but ’tis drinking your health.⁠—O’ my word, you are obliged to him. Sir Wilful

In vino veritas, aunt.⁠—If I drunk your health today, cousin⁠—I am a Borachio. But if you have a mind to be married, say the word and send for the piper; Wilfull will do’t. If not, dust it away, and let’s have t’other round.⁠—Tony!⁠—Ods-heart, where’s Tony!⁠—Tony’s an honest fellow, but he spits after a bumper, and that’s a fault⁠—Sings.

We’ll drink and we’ll never ha’ done, boys,
Put the glass then around with the sun, boys,
Let Apollo’s example invite us;
For he’s drunk every night,
And that makes him so bright,
That he’s able next morning to light us.

The sun’s a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodes⁠—your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I’d stand upon my head and drink a health to ’em.⁠—A match or no match, cousin with the hard name?⁠—Aunt, Wilfull will do’t. If she has her maidenhead let her look to ’t; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months’ end.

Mrs. Millamant Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer⁠—Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Eh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay.⁠—Come, cousin. Exeunt Mrs. Millamant and Mrs. Fainall. Lady Wishfort Smells! He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family! Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him.⁠—Travel, quotha; aye, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks!⁠—for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan! Sir Wilful

Turks, no; no Turks, aunt: your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Muhammadan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkard⁠—no offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian. I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox⁠—whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and Hiccups. Greek for claret.⁠—Sings.

To drink is a Christian diversion,
Unknown to the Turk or the Persian.
Let Muhammadan fools
Live by heathenish rules,
And be damned over teacups and coffee.
But let British lads sing,
Crown a health to the King,
And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.

Ah, Tony!

Enter Foible, who whispers to Lady Wishfort. Lady Wishfort Aside to Foible.⁠—Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril?⁠—Aloud. Go lie down and sleep, you sot!⁠—or as I’m a person, I’ll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks.87⁠—Call up the wenches. Sir Wilful Ahey! Wenches, where are the wenches? Lady Wishfort Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitation⁠—you will oblige me to all futurity. Witwoud Come, knight.⁠—Pox on him, I don’t know what to say to him.⁠—Will you go to a cock-match? Sir Wilful With a wench, Tony? Is she a shakebag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. Witwoud Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe!⁠—Aye, aye; come, will you march, my Salopian?88 Sir Wilful

Lead on, little Tony⁠—I’ll follow thee, my Anthony,