Act I - Act II - Act III - Act IV - Act V - Main Page
ACT IV.
SCENE [I],û A Club Room.
[Lord Bonton, Captain Daffodil, Macpharo, and others, all seated at tables, playing Hazard, Pharo, &c.û Master of the Club.]DAFFODIL.
I have had duced bad luck; Macpharo, you win
perpetually: pray do you lend me a rouleau.
MACPHARO.
No, faith; I am out of cash—I have had a confounded bad
run lately.
DAFFODIL.
Waiter, bring me a rouleau.
MASTER.
Hold waiter, only twenty guineas, or at most a pony,
for the captain; I have enough bad debts already.
LORD BONTON.
Where the devil is Raymond? [throws] Seven's
the main.
MACPHARO.
I suppose with his wife. [throws.]
LORD BONTON.
I protest, I wonder any man can feel comfortable in his
own house.—Whenever I wish to be at home, I always drive to the clubs. Ha, ha,
ha!
DAFFODIL.
And yet Lady Bonton is so charming a woman. I really
believe, my Lord, you are the only man alive who can desert
Bonton-house.—Besides she is so vastly good-humour'd; she, I dare say, will ask
any one you like, to render it agreeable to you.
LORD BONTON.
Why she is very well, if she was not my wife. But tho'
the woman that I wish the most to have is there, still it is impossible for me
to conquer my aversion to home. [Yawns.] ¥Pon my soul the very
thoughts of it sets me asleep.
DAFFODIL.
"[Appears much agitated at play.] La! all
my money is gone again; pray, my Lord, lend me a few pieces.
LORD BONTON.
"I have lost all of my ready cash to Daffy."
MACPHARO.
Faith, Daffy, my boy, you must console yourself with
your success in love; how do you come on with Lady Raymond?
DAFFODIL.
As fast as I can wish.—Those city-bred dames have few
ceremonies.—I really believe that I shall be forced to cut her
soon—for the Duchess
of Dash and all my set are quite angry that I am such a deserter.—But as I
have initiated her in the Ton, it will prove less cruel to her.
MACPHARO.
Oh! then she will soon come round amongst us;
but, by my soul, here comes her Lord.—
[Enter Lord Raymond.]
Ha! Benedick!—I thought you had been taking a nap in your Lady's great chair: quite domesticated like the family cat.LORD RAYMOND.
Very unlike me, faith.—I have been in quest of Clara,
who has eloped,—and I cannot discover where the devil she has concealed
herself.—She talked in a high style about the dishonor of living with me, now
that I'm married; and cash is so low, I could give her nothing.
DAFFODIL.
Oh, it would have been very foolish to have settled any thing
on her, since she chose to leave you.—I warrant she is gone to some one she
likes better.—He, he, he!
LORD BONTON.
Raymond, when is your sister to be
married?
LORD RAYMOND.
¥Pon my life, I'm so very much hurried, that I've never
had time to ask.
DAFFODIL.
I hear Ormond has a very awkward affair on his hand with
Lady Clairville.
MACPHARO.
Sure he may be tired of her by this time:—It is a year
since that affair began.
DAFFODIL.
Faith, she is a glorious girl:—I past some of the
happiest moments of my life with her, at Tunbridge.
LORD RAYMOND.
So, you have been a happy man,
Daffy.—Will you recommend me?
[Enter Villiers.]
DAFFODIL.
La! I never can take any notice of a woman—but every one
supposes that I am well with her.—Villiers, your present affair seems to be
Lady Worthy. He, he, he!
LORD BONTON.
I doubt that; for I never could make any thing of her:
she is so froide. As unfeeling as marble, and so confoundedly knowing it is
impossible she could be taken in.—
VILLIERS.
You give her no credit for her honor then?—You depraved
fellows put no faith in female virtue—You suppose all women either
profligates—or if chaste,—chaste for want of inclination.
LORD BONTON.
Why, faith, if there are any other sort of women, I
never met with any of them. Ha, ha, ha!
MACPHARO.
And by the Lord Harry,—if there are,—the greater fools
they, for no one now-a-days will give them any credit for it.
VILLIERS.
[To Lord Bonton.] Perhaps not, because a gay
man thinks nothing so tedious as the company of a woman that will not play the
fool;—and tho' she should have the wit, beauty, and accomplishments of an
angel, they look on it as so much lost time, paying court to her.
DAFFODIL.
La! to be sure nothing is so horribly mortifying as to
pay attention to those sort of woman.—I never do, for my part.
VILLIERS.
That's as much as to say, that you are well with every
woman that you are seen with.
DAFFODIL.
With a heroine of sentiment and virtue I should be
terrified to get attached—and that would be a devilish foolish scrape indeed.
He, he, he!
LORD BONTON.
Attached! that would be silly
enough. Ridiculous! Ha, ha, ha!
MACPHARO.
In love! What nonsense! Ha, ha, ha!
LORD RAYMOND.
Foolish enough, faith! Ha, ha, ha!
LORD BONTON.
Being in love. Why it is as ideal as that there exist
such a woman. Ha, ha, ha!
DAFFODIL.
Yet both parties find it very convenient sometimes to
assume the appearance. He, he, he!
MACPHARO.
There is no one such thing in reality exists, however,
on either side, except in a fanciful poet, or madman's brain.
DAFFODIL.
Waiter, bring the list of the women of fortune who want
husbands.
LORD BONTON.
Oh! there is nothing new on the fortune list but little
Miss Dapper.
DAFFODIL.
And she only has thirty thousand; that's far below my
purchase.
MACPHARO.
Faith, and there is Miss Doily, who has a plumb.
LORD BONTON.
Yes; but she refused poor Daffy at Brighton.
DAFFODIL.
That was because she only saw me once;—for I was always
with the Duchess of Dash—She would not lose sight of me for a moment.
LORD BONTON.
Saw you once! that was a miracle if she did,—for I'm
told she is blind; and well she may, for she is past seventy: but less seen of
you the better.
VILLIERS.
Sure no one would marry a low-born creature, worn out
with age and infirmity—because a fool has left her an enormous fortune?
DAFFODIL.
She is good enough to make a wife of—What signifies it
whether she is in person an angel or a devil.
LORD BONTON.
Very true, Daffy—A man of sense marries for
convenience—and only as far as it is convenient thinks of his wife
afterwards. Ha, ha, ha!
VILLIERS.
One cannot wonder then at those ladies, who seem
indifferent about their conduct, since they find it a matter of such indifference
to their lords.
LORD BONTON.
If one's wife is good-humour'd, and has some variety in
her; why a man may be led to have a little kindness for her, when every thing
better is out of the way:—but, mercy on us, Villiers, you wou'd not have a man of
Ton, like a vulgar mechanic, regularly attend prayers and the duties of
matrimony. Ha, ha, ha!
DAFFODIL.
Shocking vulgar, indeed!
MACPHARO.
Very vulgar, faith:—If they did, we single fellows
should have nothing for it, but to take wives of our own. Ha, ha, ha!
LORD BONTON.
Come, come; let us settle our match, for five thousand
on the race between the two earwigs.
LORD RAYMOND.
I bet my brown against your black for a thousand.
LORD BONTON.
Done.
MACPHARO.
I take the same bet, Raymond.
LORD RAYMOND.
Done.
MACPHARO.
[Aside.] ¥Pon my soul then, I'll put a little
wax on his road, that will stiffen his legs a bit.
LORD RAYMOND.
Come, let us go to the Jockey Club, settle our bets, and
see what's in for Newmarket.
VILLIERS.
What contemptible wretches give the Ton in the beau
monde! fellows who call themselves your dearest, most faithful friends—yet pass
their whole time in studying your ruin—how to dupe you out of your peace of
mind and fortune—and to profess an interest in you, only to get into your
family upon an intimate footing, that they may the more easily seduce your wife
or daughter, and render you a beggar.
[Exit.
SCENE [II],û A Room.
[Lady Bonton, Lady Raymond, and Mrs. Tender.]
LADY RAYMOND.
Alas! I fear that I shall be tempted to regret, that I
slighted my honest father's advice to marry a sober citizen.—I doated upon Lord
Raymond, and fancied that we should live a tender, social, and domestic life.
LADY BONTON.
Pray, my dear, did you mean to get to Greenland to
live?—for I do believe nothing but some such situation would make a fine
gentleman take to his wife. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
Heavens forbid that I should leave the gay world! I
don't dislike admiration: gaiety and parade delight me, but—
LADY BONTON.
Still harping on the same string: whining after
your husband:—you must learn to enjoy that gay world without him.—I must teach
you to act your part well in it:—not like an actress to feign
feelings, but to appear in the beau monde totally divested of them.
LADY RAYMOND.
My mother was a woman of rank, but she possessed none of
those vices; and in giving me a turn for polite life, fondly cherished in my
soul that love of virtue, which, when once it is rivetted in the heart, no
surrounding temptations ever can destroy.
MRS. TENDER.
My dear, those once were the manners: now your virtue,
as far as it consists in reputation, the envy of the woman and disappointed
coxcombs speedily destroy.
LADY BONTON.
True, for one often finds that the men get credit for
gallantries in which the ladies' conduct has no part.
MRS. TENDER.
Yes, young Phaeton has got all the world to credit his
having an intrigue with Lady Sang Froide, from this sort of manÒuvering.
LADY RAYMOND.
What! without her having done anything to justify the
scandal?—how is that possible?
LADY BONTON.
La, child, very, very easy:—fine gentlemen are far more
desirous of the appearance, you know, than the reality of a bonne fortune; and
will at all times sacrifice the reality for the appearance of success.
LADY RAYMOND.
But how is it possible to be so silly as to have the
appearance so decidedly without the reality?
LADY BONTON.
Why, you see young Phaeton, when he has any thing to say
to her, assumed a half-tender, reserved sort of a something in his air—seems
all meaning—thus: [whispering.] Shall I call your ladyship's
carriage?—then looking down—and languishing—Pray, are those flowers natural?
Ha, ha, ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
What a puppy! Ha, ha, ha!
LADY BONTON.
But he puts on such looks, that all the world sets it
down as an appointment made, or at least an assurance that he dies all deaths
to obtain one.
LADY RAYMOND.
And this is all the ground they generally have for
suspecting women!—Is this the mighty crim.
con. so much talked of? Ha, ha, ha!
MRS. TENDER.
Hold, my dear,—there is a great deal more:—a whole
system of conduct to make it seem real.
LADY BONTON.
Yes, when she goes any where, then the make-believe Enamoratto
attends—keeps a mark'd distance—has the eye ever upon her, in such a
manner as to call the attention of every one.—He never speaks to any other
woman, or even to her but by stealth.
MRS. TENDER.
And the poor lady, you know, can't save appearances in
this case, as he takes care to do nothing that she can find fault with.
LADY BONTON.
No, no; he for more reasons than one avoids any thing of
that sort.
OMNES.
Ha, ha, ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
And yet, were any one to say a word against her in his
presence, he assumes a grave, angry air, as if she was in a particular manner
his proteg¹e.
LADY BONTON.
And when any one hints a connection with her, he denies
it as one denies a truth, with an—Oh no such thing—I flatter myself no one she
had a greater regard for;—but consider, my dear friend, how cruel it would be
to make my Lord jealous—and awaken the world's attention, which we fortunately
have avoided hitherto.—Now pray keep people as ignorant as possible of the
affair—you sly wretch! to be so knowing!—but don't blab now. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
Ha, ha, ha! The monster!—Why this is absolutely giving
rise to the story, and authenticating it.
LADY BONTON.
Yet this is pretty near all the cause which beaux give
for the scandals one hears every day.
MRS. TENDER.
Pardon me, though some of the beaux of fashion speculate
in this way, yet there are some very sly fellows, and wickedness enough goes on
I warrant.—Had it not been for Lady Bonton's savoir faire—we should have had
four right honourable divorces last winter.
LADY BONTON.
Perhaps you mean to be severe, Mrs. Tender, but I an't
asham'd to be taxed with the concealing the follies of my own sex; for no
character I so much detest as that malevolent one which is ever on the fret to
destroy the confidence of the married, and the reputation of the single.
LADY RAYMOND.
A censorious character can never be truly virtuous.
LADY BONTON.
I am the last creature alive that would plant suspicion
in your candid mind; but indeed, my dear, you must not be so feeling, reflecting,
and all that sort of tiresome stuff; if you continue to be such a piece of
stiff life, your cara sposa will absolutely look on himself as a widower, and
that your ladyship no longer exists:—Nothing is such an enemy as sober
sentiment to those who are married, and live in the whirl of fashion.
MRS. TENDER.
Men absolutely look on us in the chain of animals, as
inferior to dogs and horses.
LADY RAYMOND.
Yes, but they don't even chuse a wife with such care as
they do dogs and horses—and value them for spirit, figure and training.
MRS. TENDER.
No, they chuse their wives for what they bring to
market, as mere beasts of burden.
LADY RAYMOND.
And if a favorite foal turns out well and escapes having
a false quarter, every wish is gratified; yet they are quite
indifferent who looks after the quarters of their son and heir.
MRS. TENDER.
They think themselves ill-used, however, if their wives
do—or if they, following the superior judgement of their lords, also prefer the
brute creation, and cherish the increase of horned cattle. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY BONTON.
When a husband has no other idea or feeling in his head
but of hounds and horses—some wives are wicked enough to think, that like their
kennel doors—they cannot have a more natural ornament than a pair of
antlers outside. Ha, ha, ha!
MRS. TENDER.
Why in truth, there are a number one could name, who,
except their coronets, have no other capital distinction. Ha, ha, ha!
LADY RAYMOND.
I shall never have any thing to reproach myself with;
and that feeling will supply me every comfort; "it will cheer my saddest
moments of disappointment, and guard each lively sally of my sportive mind. But
I forgot I have an appointment I must keep, at seven o'clock; I fear I shall be
too late.
MRS. TENDER.
An appointment with a lover I'll be sworn, for all her
air of purity{.}
LADY BONTON.
It is not impossible, from her haste; but I'll not
detain you, Madam.
[Exeunt curtsying.
SCENE [III],û Clara's Room, Clothes Press, &c.
[Enter Lord Bonton.]
This is the room I was desired to hide in. I shall be charmed if this saucy little puss, Clara, approves of my stratagem,—but here comes somebody. [Steps into one side of the clothes press.[Enter Daffodil.]
DAFFODIL.
Where can I conceal myself till Lady Raymond comes? [Looks about and opens the press t'other side.] I'll e'en step in here, and trust to
fortune for an opportunity of coming forth with all the eclat of
having been with her prudish Ladyship. Oh, Charming! I shall have my caricature
in all the print shops, and amuse the Ton Ladies for a week in describing a
thousand luxuriant scenes and anecdotes which never existed—but here they come.
[Enter Clara, and Lady Raymond (as Mrs. Tender.)]
CLARA.
I have often heard, Mrs. Tender, of your rigid virtue;
O! how benevolent to stoop to rescue an unfortunate, overwhelmed in guilt and
shame!
LADY RAYMOND.
I cannot bear that an unhappy female, who has been
hurried by unguarded tenderness, or perhaps, an artful seducer, to one crime,
shou'd be driven to infamy, by stern necessity. I wish not to possess that
rigour of virtue, which tempts us to add insult to a fallen Penitent; and tho'
my heart must ever shun each vice, never can it be divested of compassion, and
a desire to rescue from shame, its repentent votaries.
CLARA.
Did all act thus, virtue would seldomer be sunk in
depravity. How many poor girls, from one false step, from base seductions, which
situation has rendered irresistible, and sometimes from only the appearance of
guilt, are driven, by the hardened favourites of fortune, to the most abhorred
situation, to rescue them from want, beggary, and a jail!
LADY RAYMOND.
I wish not to wound your feelings by any question of
your unhappy story; but have you no friends that I can interest in your fate?
CLARA.
Alas! friendless and forlorn, the only hand that was
stretched forth to aid me, cruelly made my gratitude, and sense of his
liberality, the means of ruining that peace which he falsely seemed solicitous
to protect.
LADY RAYMOND.
What art thou, tyrant man! who thus dare destroy us by
such cruel arts; of which unsuspecting innocence renders us the too
easy dupes.
CLARA.
Quite unpractised in the voice of deceit, I judged him
after the purity of my own heart, which cou'd not suspect that the man, who
cou'd, with such apparent humanity, relieve my distresses, wou'd barbarously
plunge me in infamy for ever.
LADY RAYMOND.
Ungenerous, merciless man! But have
you no relations?—no friends?
CLARA.
I had a beloved friend; a kind, a much-loved husband—But
now, alas, am friendless and forlorn.
LADY RAYMOND.
Tell me, how you came to leave him for another, and yet
so fondly love him?
CLARA.
We married from the tenderest attachment, and but for my
Edward's love of play, I still might have been happy: but alas! that one vice,
like a tempestuous torrent, roots up every honest feeling from the heart, and
excludes all hope of happiness from the wedded state.
CLARA.
He lost his all at play: he paid his debts of honor with
that liberality which dictated all his conduct, but left his honorable, needy
debt unsatisfied. He forgot the honest tradesman and labourer, who,
exasperated, threw him into jail:—frantic with his distress, I, with my lovely
boys, followed him to sooth his sorrow, and partake his miseries; "we had
not been long there, when the trifle which we had about us was exhausted. The
bad air made my infants sick." [Weeps.
LADY RAYMOND.
Poor little innocents! how cruel their situation.
CLARA.
"I felt more anguish than even hunger caused in
seeing those beloved objects starving." Every time the gates of our
horrid dungeon were unlocked, "and gave a doleful creek at opening."
My heart leapt with the hope that some hospitable hand was stretched forth to
relieve our perishing wants. But our jailor, grown callous from our inability
to pay, was deaf to our cry of anguish.
LADY RAYMOND.
It is a melancholy truth, every day sees some wretched
object thus miserable from unmerited misfortune, that ought to command relief
from humanity. But riches, dissipation and success, from never having witnessed
such scenes, forget that they exist—Yet, what honour would it secure the great
Ladies, did they give to a charitable purse, to be extended in relieving such
unfortunates, one throw at the hazard-table.
CLARA.
True, Madam; but the happy seldom reflect! "Oh, had
you seen my little blooming boy, when perishing, with its little wan face
looking up to ours, transfixed with horror! and when we wept in silent anguish,
he cried, Papa, dear Mamma, what distresses you thus? Why, Oh! why don't you
give me to eat? Indeed, indeed, I shall die. Alas! we had it not to give, and
the drooping innocent murmuring at our seeming cruelty, fainted and
expired."
LADY RAYMOND.
"How hard your fate! with what merciless cruelty
the law seconds the inhumane creditor, in persecuting the unfortunate when
unable to pay!" but proceed—my heart bleeds for you.
CLARA.
We were overwhelm'd in sorrow, at last my Edward got
liberated on paying those cruel ones that had imprisoned him, which stript us
of every thing. Lord Raymond procured him an appointment in India—He cou'd not
pay my passage, and, I, with my infant, were left behind, till increase of
fortune should enable him to send for me. The last ships brought me the
melancholy account of his death. Lord Raymond, liberally furnished necessaries
which I cou'd not refuse for the support of my child.
LADY RAYMOND.
[Agitated.] Oh, proceed! How few of the soulless
Lords of the Creation are capable of disinterested attachment, or any sacrifice
for the repose of another.
CLARA.
My heart is grateful to excess: and fatal opportunity
with that freedom, which I feared to deny the only benefactor of my husband,
led me insensibly on the brink of dishonor. [weeps]—Remorse has
haunted me ever since the fatal moment of my ruin. Alas! I could not think he
could be so cruel as to make my honor the price of his bounty. [weeps.]
LADY RAYMOND.
How was this friendship degraded by this ungenerous
triumph o'er your virtue! a triumph perhaps only rendered possible by excess of
gratitude! awakened by a false parade of sentiment and honor, to so exquisite a
degree, that it disarmed the victim he thus cruelly destroyed.
CLARA.
Hearing of his marriage I fled from him; for I'd brave
every misery, prefer poverty and scorn to the destroying the repose of another.
LADY RAYMOND.
Such generosity of sentiment has proved your ruin, and I
trust will restore to honor and peace.—He has left you without any money I'm
told?
CLARA.
His displeasure at my leaving him, must have caused this
want of generosity.
LADY RAYMOND.
For your infant's sake, look on me as your protectress;
there is a hundred guineas, which I shall pay you annually, and I hope I shall
be able to pass my word that the purity of your conduct shall equal the probity
of your heart; which may yet bestow on you a long life of comfort.
CLARA.
[Kissing her hand.]—I shall be most happy, thus
protected.—Alas! Lord Raymond, like most of his ungenerous sex only triumphed
to tyrannize; but I trust he will prove worthy of the amiable wife—that every
voice is raised in praises of: may she—but hark! I heard his voice on the
stairs. How has he discovered my retreat!
LADY RAYMOND.
For mercy's sake, hide me; else I'm
undone!
CLARA.
Indeed, Mrs Tender, he is not so very illiberal, as to
think the worse of you for pitying even a wretch like me.
LADY RAYMOND.
Oh! have you no closet? alas! you know not the cruel
risk that I run.
CLARA.
Here is no place but this clothes-press.
LADY RAYMOND.
I perceive I have been decieved, but necessity now
compels me to conceal myself.
CLARA.
Lord Bonton here! Heavens{,} what has tempted you thus-meanly
to insult me?
LORD BONTON.
Love, my fair one; all powerful love. I wished to see
you, unknown to Raymond.
CLARA.
I have too well merited this humiliation; but I must fly
from him, my still more cruel enemy.
LORD RAYMOND.
Stop, Madam, have I caught you?
CLARA.
Oh, my Lord! why thus pursue me?
LORD RAYMOND.
[Amaz'd] What Clara here!
CLARA.
Why thus distress me by a conduct which must now prove
us equally unworthy! Alas—when your honor cou'd not suffer, I but too
easily forgot my own.
LORD RAYMOND.
Talk not of honor in this house of infamy, and with my
Lord Bonton. You have fled with him from my arms to this scene of infamy, yet
talk of honor! but, Madam, I came not here in quest of you, but that
monster my wife, who they told me was in this room.
CLARA.
Be calm, my Lord, I never saw your
wife [aside] what can he mean?
LORD RAYMOND.
[Looks all around, then opens both sides of the
Press—discovers Lady
Raymond and Captain Daffodil.]û
Damnation! My wife and Captain Daffodil!
CLARA.
Heavens! is this Angel, Lady
Raymond!
LORD RAYMOND.
Heavens! is this devil, Lady
Raymond!
LADY RAYMOND.
For once, My Lord, refrain the impetuosity of your
temper, and listen.
LORD RAYMOND.
To a defence your Ladyship had no doubt prepared, before
you came here.
CLARA.
Don't misjudge her angel purity; she came here to rescue
me from misery: she has seen none but me: the sound of your voice made her
conceal herself.
LORD RAYMOND.
Seen no one! oh, very likely; she was perhaps all the
time as I found her, in a place where her sense of seeing could not so well be
gratified. Your Ladyship has indeed soon perfected yourself in modern manners;
soon adopted the vices of the Ton—and with a fool too: oh, damnation! what
depravity it shews!—As for you, Sir, [to Daffodil] I shall speak to
you in a proper place.
DAFFODIL.
[Terrified.] I protest and vow, my Lord, I'm as
innocent as the babe unborn, I never even attempted to injure you.
LORD BONTON.
Yes, my Lord, I can swear all he wished he succeeded
in—that was, to come forth with the ¹clat of being secreted with her Ladyship.
Don't look so terrified, Daffy. Ha, ha, ha! don't be so cast down;—you shall be
made happy by a caricature in the print-shops, and you need not doubt, but the
Ladies will invent some interesting circumstances. Ha, ha, ha!
DAFFODIL.
Make me as risible a figure as you please in the
print-shops; but as I don't like first impressions, or a proof copy, I shall
take myself off. He, he, he!
LORD RAYMOND.
[To Lady
Raymond] ûWhat still silent—not once
attempt a vindication?—hardened, profligate woman!
LADY RAYMOND.
[Stepping forth haughtily.] And dare you suspect my honor? had you,
My Lord, been as careful of your own. I had not been forced to this
concealment. Those gentleman's appearance astonish me more than it can you—but
all explanations are beneath me, when thus accused.
CLARA.
I knew not this was Lady Raymond, I thought it had been
Mrs. Tender.
LORD RAYMOND.
Oh, Tender indeed! but to my eternal shame and sorrow,
it is my damn'd false wife; who till this moment I never knew I loved to
distraction.
CLARA.
Alas! I never suspected that this house was a vile one.
Will none aid the wretched but from unworthy motives! but look into your own
heart, my Lord, does your conduct justify this suspicion which your depravity
alone dictates?—I hope, for the honor of nobility, that Lord Bonton has a
better excuse for his unmanly concealment;—as for Captain Daffodil, his excuse
and aim is to be found in his character, which is nothing.
LORD BONTON.
"Why faith, Raymond, this appears a strange affair;
but pray come with me to the club, and I will give you an account of what has
passed that will make you deify your charming wife."
LORD RAYMOND.
"Ah! what can ever vindicate her folly? above all,
with such a thing as Daffodil!"
LORD BONTON.
"Oh, I will prove to you her innocence. As for me I
shall rejoice at this adventure as long as I live—for your wife's generosity,
and poor Clara's sentiments, have made me a convert to virtue, which had we men
of fashion more opportunity of attesting the reality of, few of us would be so
devoted to the follies of fashion."
LORD RAYMOND.
"No wonder we should give it's existence as little
credit as we do miracles; would you believe it, in looking in this vile house
for my wife, I found Mrs. Tender?"
LORD BONTON.
"Oh, she is the most likely character alive for
artful vice:—such a precise, nice sense of honor and religious cant ever on her
lips;—these prudish ones I always suspect. Innocence is gay, sportive and
open—come to White's, and I'll make you laugh at poor Daffodil's plot to get
himself talked of: you could not suppose such a coxcomb had a wish beyond
it."
LORD RAYMOND.
"Yes, she must be virtuous—every circumstance
attest it; but how shall I be able to justify my conduct to her? or you your
being with Clara."
LORD BONTON.
"Oh your wife is an Angel, and will pardon
all."
END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
