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DRAMATIS PERSONE.

Morose, a gentleman that loves no noise.
Sir Dauphine Eugenie, a knight, his nephew.
Ned Clerimont, a gentleman, his friend.
Truewit, another friend.

Sir John Daw, a knight.

Sir Amorous La-Foole, a knight also.
Thomas Otter, a land and sea captain.
Cutbeard, a barber.

Mute, one of Morose's servants.

Parson.

[blocks in formation]

Mistress Otter, the Captain's wife.

Mistress Trusty, lady Haughty's pretenders.

woman.

Pages, Servants, &c.

The SCENE London.

OR,

THE SILENT WOMAN.

PROLOGUE.

Truth says, of old the art of making plays
Was to content the people; and their praise
Was to the poet money, wine, and bays.

But in this age, a sect of writers are,
That, only, for particular likings care,
And will taste nothing that is popular.

With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts;
Our wishes, like to those make public feasts,
Are not to please the cook's taste but the guests.

Yet, if those cunning palates hither come,
They shall find guests entreaty, and good room;
And though all relish not, sure there will be some,

That, when they leave their seats, shall make them say,
Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play;
But that he knew this was the better way.

For, to present all custard, or all tart,
And have no other meats to bear a part,

Or to want bread, and salt, were but coarse art.

■ Truth says, of old the art of making plays

Was to content the people ;] From the Prologue to the Andria; as Upton observes:

Id sibi negoti credidit solum dari,

Populo ut placerent, quas fecisset fabulas.

The poet prays you then, with better thought
To sit; and, when his cates are all in brought,
Though there be none far-fet, there will dear-bought,

Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, 'squires;
Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires;*
Some for your men, and daughters of White-friars.

Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat
Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat
A week at ord'naries, on his broken meat :
If his muse be true,

Who commends her to you.

ANOTHER.

The ends of all, who for the scene do write,
Aré, or should be, to profit and delight.
And still't hath been the praise of all best times,
So
persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes.
Then, in this play, which we present to-night,
And make the object of your ear and sight,
On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true:
Lest so you make the maker to judge you.
For he knows, poet never credit gain'd

By writing truths, but things, like truths, well feign'd.
If any yet will, with particular sleight
Of application, wrest what he doth write;
And that he meant, or him, or her, will say:
They make a libel, which he made a play.

City-wires;] This term, which seems to designate the matrons of the city in opposition to the "White-friar's nation," (see p. 275,) is new to me. In the stiff and formal dresses of those days, wire indeed was much used; but I know not that it was peculiar to the city dames. Perhaps I have missed the

sense.

Occasioned by some persons impertinent exceptions."

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Room in Clerimont's House.

Enter CLERIMONT making himself ready, followed by his Page.

Cler. Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?

Page. Yes, sir.

Cler. Let me hear it.

Page. You shall, sir; but i'faith let nobody else.

Cler. Why, I pray?

Page. It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir; besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of, whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomest thing under a man that comes there.

Cler. I think; and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you.

Page. No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me on the bed, and carry me in to my lady; and she kisses me with her oil'd face, and puts a peruke on my head; and asks me an I will wear her gown? and I say no: and then she hits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent!' and lets me go.

Cler. No marvel if the door be kept shut

This marginal note of the author confirms what is said in the Dedication that some particular person was supposed to be aimed at in one of the characters. As the opinion was unfounded, it is needless to pursue the enquiry.

3 And calls me Innocent!] i, e. fool, or simpleton. See A. III.

against your master, when the entrance is so easy to you-well, sir, you shall go there no more, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, a fortnight hence. Sing, sir. [Page sings. Still to be neat, still to be drest

Enter TRUEWIT.

True. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time, and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad and his ingle" at home, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute,' or condemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would begin then to think, and value every article of

4 And his ingle at home,] This word is invariably confounded by the commentators with enghle, though perfectly distinct in its meaning. Enghle, as I have already observed, Vol. II. p. 429, is either a gull, a simpleton, or a bait to decoy this description of persons: whereas engle or ingle is a familiar, a bosom friend. It is loosely used also by our old writers in an opprobrious sense, for catamite, &c. I know not whence it crept into our language. If it be the Spanish word ingle, (a groin,) its acceptation in the latter sense is accounted for: but it is more probably corrupted from ignicule, a little fire; whence, perhaps, it came to signify a chimney-companion, an inmate of the same house. Ingle is still used for fire in many parts of the country.

5 Well, sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute,] There had been no plague in London since the dreadful one of 1603-4 but as Jonson usually brings up his action as closely as possible to the period of writing, it is not unlikely that he alludes to a dangerous contagious distemper which broke out in 1607, and of which some remains might still linger about the city when Epicene was produced. Of this disease, which seems to have escaped the notice of our historians, the following account occurs in a book called the City Remembrancer: "In 1607 was a pestilential distemper at London; and the "time so sickly in general, that sailors did not escape at great "distance from land: as may be seen in some diaries in Pur"chas's Pilgrim." Vol. I. p. 266.

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