with a young wife whom he locks up: Sir Mirabel robs him of his wife, trips up his gouty old heels and leaves the old hunx—the old fool what business has he to hoard his money, or to lock up blushing eighteen? Money is for youth, love is for youth, away with the old people. When Millamant is sixty, having of course divorced the first Lady Millamant, and married his friend Doricourt's grand-daughter out of the nursery—it will be his turn; and young Belmour will make a fool of him. All this pretty morality you have in the comedies of William Congreve, Esq. They are full of wit. Such manners as he observes, he observes with great humour; but ah! it's a weary feast that banquet of wit were no love is. It palls very soon; sad indigestions follow it and lonely blank headaches in the morning.
I can't pretend to quote scenes from the splendid Congreve's plays[1]—which are undeniably bright, witty,
- ↑ The scene of Valentine's pretended madness in "Love for Love," is a splendid specimen of Congreve's daring manner:—
Scandal.—And have you given your master a hint of their plot upon him?
Jeremy.—Yes, Sir; he says he'll favour it, and mistake her for Angelica.
Scandal.—It may make us sport.
Foresight.—Mercy on us!
Valentine.—Husht—interrupt me not—I'll whisper predictions to thee, and thou shalt prophesie;—I am truth, and can teach thy tongue a new trick,—I have told thee what's passed,—now I'll tell what's to come:—Dost thou know what will happen to-morrow? Answer me not—for I will tell thee, To-morrow knaves will thrive thro' craft, and
