of his grace, of his daring manner, his magnificence in compliment, and his polished sarcasm. He writes as if he was so accustomed to conquer, that he has a poor opinion of his victims. Nothing's new except their faces, says he, "Every woman is the same." He says this in his first comedy, which he wrote languidly[1] in
- ↑ "There seems to be a strange affectation in authors of appearing to have done everything by chance. The Old Bachelor was written for amusement in the languor of convalescence. Yet it is apparently composed with great elaborateness of dialogue, and incessant ambition of wit."—Johnson. Lives of the Poets.
won't trust my honour, I assure you; my honour is infallible and uncomatable.
Mellefont.—For Heaven's sake, madam ——
Lady Plyant.—O, name it no more. Bless me, how can you talk of heaven, and have so much wickedness in your heart? May be, you dosn't think it a sin. They say some of you gentlemen don't think it a sin; but still, my honour, if it were no sin ——. Rut, then, to marry my daughter for the convenience of frequent opportunities,—I'll never consent to that: as sure as can be, I'll break the match.
Mellefont.—Death and amazement! Madam, upon my knees ——
Lady Plyant.—Nay, nay, rise up; come, you shall see my good-nature. I know love is powerful, and nobody can help his passion. 'Tis not your fault; nor I swear, it is not mine. How can I help it, if I have charms? And how can you help it, if you are made a captive? I swear it is pity it should be a fault; but, my honour. Well, but your honour, too—but the sin! Well, but the necessity. O Lord, here's somebody coming. I dare not stay. Well, you must consider of your crime; and strive as much as can be against it—strive, be sure; but don't be melancholick—don't despair; but never think that I'll grant you anything. O Lord, no; but be sure you lay all thoughts aside of the marriage, for though I know you don't love Cynthia, only as a blind for your passion to me; yet it will make me jealous. O Lord, what did I say? Jealous! No, I can't be jealous; for I must not love you; therefore don't hope; but don't despair neither. They're coming; I must fly.—The Double Dealer, Act 2nd, scene v. page 156.
