_Mistress Loveit._ You are grown an early riser, I hear.

_Belinda._ Do you not wonder, my dear, what made me abroad so soon?

_Lov._ You do not use to do so.

_Bel._ The country gentlewomen I told you of (Lord! they have the oddest diversions) would never let me rest till I promised to go with them to the markets this morning, to eat fruit and buy nosegays.

_Lov._ Are they so fond of a filthy nosegay?

_Bel._ They complain of the stinks of the town, and are never well but when they have their noses in one.

_Lov._ There are essences and sweet waters.

_Bel._ O, they cry out upon perfumes they are unwholesome, one of 'em was falling into a fit with the smell of these Narolii.

_Lov._ Methinks, in complaisance, you should have had a nosegay too.

_Bel._ Do you think, my dear, I could be so loathsome to trick myself up with carnations and stock-gilly flowers? I begged their pardon, and told them I never wore anything but Orange-flowers and Tuberose. That which made me willing to go was a strange desire I had to eat some fresh nectarines.

Wycherley was the son of a Shropshire gentleman who being a Royalist, and not willing to trust him to the Puritans, sent him to be educated in France. He became a Roman Catholic, but afterwards recanted.

Wycherley was remarkable for his beauty, and stalwart proportions, he was called "manly" or "brawny" Wycherley; and the notorious d.u.c.h.ess of Cleveland was so captivated by his appearance, that she made his acquaintance when pa.s.sing in her carriage by jocosely calling out at him some abusive epithets. Afterwards, we are told that she often visited Wycherley at the Temple, disguised as a country girl in a straw hat, with pattens on her feet, and a basket on her arm. Later, he had the misfortune to make the acquaintance of the Countess of Drogheda on the Pantiles at Tunbridge Wells, and by secretly marrying her incurred the King's displeasure. He was finally reduced to great distress, but James II., recognising his talent, gave him a pension, and saved him from dest.i.tution in his old age.

Wycherley wrote his first play in 1667. In comparing him with Shakespeare we find the same difference as existed between the old and new comedy in Greece. Political characters have disappeared together with hostility and combats on the stage, while amorous intrigue is largely developed. There is at the same time considerable sprightliness in the dialogue, and the tricks, deceptions and misadventures of lovers fill the pages with much that is ingenious and amusing. In the "Gentleman Dancing Master," a young spark pretends to a rich father that he is only visiting his daughter to teach her to dance. A rival lover--a Frenchified puppy--is made unconsciously to co-operate in his own discomfiture, while the duped father jokes with the supposed "dancing master," and asks him whether he is not engaged to one of his rich pupils, laughing heartily at the picture he draws to himself of her father's indignation. Again, in "A Country Wife," a jealous husband obliges his spouse to write a disdainful letter to a gallant, but the lady slyly subst.i.tutes one of quite a different character, which the husband duly and pompously delivers to him. The humour of Wycherley is almost entirely of this kind. Here are no verbal quips, no sallies of professed fools, no stupidities of country b.o.o.bies. These have pa.s.sed away from good comedy. Speaking of the change, he says that formerly they were contented to make serving-men fools on the stage, "but now you shall scarcely see a fool on the stage who is not a knight." The fact was that a higher kind of humour was required, and accordingly we now, for the first time, hear of "wits"--men of good birth and position, who prided themselves on their talent. They were generally remarkable for their manners and address, and affected a superiority in acuteness, but not always in humour. Wycherley speaks of wits not exactly in the sense of humorists, but rather as c.o.xcombs, endued with a certain cunning: "Your court wit is a fashionable, insinuating, flattering, cringing, grimacing fellow, and has wit enough to solicit a suit of love; and if he fail he has malice enough to ruin the woman with a dull lampoon; but he rails still at the man that is absent, for all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes, matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other peoples' clothes."

_Lydia._ Now, what is your coffee wit?

_Dapperwit._ He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, quibbling wretch, and sets people together by the ears over that sober drink--coffee; he is a wit as he is a commentator upon the Gazette; and he rails at the pirates of Algiers, the Grand Signior of Constantinople, and the Christian Grand Signior.

_Lydia._ What kind of wit is your pollwit?

_Dap._ He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot-headed fop, that speaks always in sentences and proverbs, and he rails perpetually against the present Government. His wit lies in projects and monopolies, and penning speeches for Parliament men--

He goes on to speak of the scribble wit, and judge wit or critic, but in general wits were regarded as rakes and not long afterwards we find it debated whether a woman can be witty and virtuous.

Wycherley did not aim much at facetiousness, nor introduce many humorous episodes, but pa.s.sages incidentally occur which show he had considerable talent in that direction. The first from "Love in a Wood," is an ironical conflict between one Gripe, a rich but parsimous Alderman, and a Mrs. Joyner, a sly, designing old woman.

_Gripe._ I am full of your praise, and it will run over.

_Joyner._ Nay, sweet Sir, you are----

_Gripe._ Nay, sweet Mrs. Joyner, you are----

_Joy._ Nay, good your worship, you are----

(_Stops her mouth with his handkerchief_)

_Gripe._ I say you are----

_Joy._ I must not be rude with your worship.

_Gripe._ You are a nursing mother to the saints; through you they gather together, through you they fructify and increase, and through you the child cries out of the hand-basket.

_Joy._ Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well; through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband.

_Gripe._ Through you----

_Joy._ Indeed you will put me to the blush.

_Gripe._ Blushes are badges of imperfection--Saints have no shame.

You are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner.

_Joy._ You are the pink of courteous Aldermen.

_Gripe._ You are the m.u.f.fler of secrecy.

_Joy._ You are the head-band of Justice.

_Gripe._ Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner; do you think so indeed? You are--you are the bonfire of devotion.

_Joy._ You are the bellows of zeal.

_Gripe._ You are the cupboard of charity.

_Joy._ You are the fob of liberality.

_Gripe._ You are the rivet of sanctified love or wedlock.

_Joy._ You are the pick-lock and dark-lantern of policy; and in a word a conventicle of virtues.

_Gripe._ Your servant, your servant, sweet Mrs. Joyner! You have stopped my mouth.

_Joy._ Your servant, your servant, sweet Alderman! I have nothing to say.

Indelicacy in words has by this time become very much reduced, although here and there we find some cant expressions of the day which shock our sensibilities. Much refinement in this respect could not be expected at a period where a young lady of fortune could be represented as calling her maid, and afterwards herself, a "d.a.m.ned jade," and a lady from the country as saying she had not yet had "her bellyful of sights" in London.

"The Plain Dealer" is a naval captain in the time of the Dutch war.

Olivia says,

"If he be returned, then shall I be pestered again with his boisterous sea-love; have my alcove smell like a cabin, my chamber perfumed with his tarpaulin Brandenburgh, and hear volleys of brandy-sighs, enough to make a fog in one's room. Foh! I hate a lover that smells like Thames Street."

The Plain Dealer, _i.e._, the sea-captain Manly, meets with a lawyer, and they converse in this way,

_Manly._ Here's a lawyer I know threatening us with another greeting.

_Lawyer._ Sir! Sir! your very servant; I was afraid you had forgotten me.

_Man._ I was not afraid you had forgotten me.