THE TOWN-FOP; OR, SIR TIMOTHY TAWDREY.

ARGUMENT.

Sir Timothy Tawdrey is by the wishes of his mother and the lady’s father designed for Celinda, who loves Bellmour, nephew to Lord Plotwell. A coxcomb of the first water, Sir Timothy receives a sharp rebuff when he opens his suit, and accordingly he challenges Bellmour, but fails to appear at the place of meeting. Celinda’s old nurse, at night, admits Bellmour to her mistress’ chamber, where they are surprized by Friendlove, her brother, who is, however, favourable to the union, the more so as he is a friend of Bellmour, and they have but newly returned from travelling together in Italy. Lord Plotwell warmly welcomes his nephew home, and proceeds to unfold his design of giving him his niece Diana in marriage. When he demurs, the old lord threatens to deprive him of his estate, and he is compelled eventually to acquiesce in the matrimonial schemes of his guardian. Bellmour sends word to Celinda, who replies in a heart-broken letter; and at the wedding feast Friendlove, who himself is deeply enamoured of Diana, appears in disguise to observe

the traitor. He is followed by his sister disguised as a boy, and upon Friendlove’s drawing on Bellmour a scuffle ensues which, however, ends without harm. In the nuptial chamber Bellmour informs Diana that he cannot love her and she quits him maddened with rage and disappointment. Sir Timothy serenades the newly-mated pair and is threatened by Bellmour, whilst Celinda, who has been watching the house, attacks the fop and his fiddlers. During the brawl Diana issuing forth meets Celinda, and taking her for a boy leads her into the house and shortly makes advances of love. They are interrupted by Friendlove, disguised, and he receives Diana’s commands to seek out and challenge Bellmour. At the same time he reveals his love as though he told the tale of another, but he is met with scorn and only bidden to fight the husband who has repulsed her. Bellmour, meantime, in despair and rage at his misery plunges into reckless debauchery, and in company with Sir Timothy visits a bagnio, where they meet Betty Flauntit, the knight’s kept mistress,

and other cyprians. Hither they are tracked by Charles, Bellmour’s younger brother, and Trusty, Lord Plotwell’s old steward. Sharp words pass, the brothers fight and Charles is slighted wounded. Their Uncle hears of this with much indignation, and at the same time receiving a letter from Diana begging for a divorce, he announces his intention to further her purpose, and to abandon wholly Charles and Phillis, his sister, in consequence of their elder brother’s conduct. Sir Timothy, induced by old Trusty, begins a warm courtship of Phillis, and arranges with a parasite named Sham to deceive her by a mock marriage. Sham, however, procures a real parson, and Sir Timothy is for the moment afraid he has got a wife without a dowry or portion. Lord Plotwell eventually promises to provide for her, and at Diana’s request, now she recognizes her mistake in trying to hold a man who does not love her, Bellmour is forgiven and allowed to wed Celinda as soon as the divorce has been pronounced, whilst Diana herself rewards Friendlove with her hand.

SOURCE.

The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey is materially founded upon George Wilkins’ popular play, The Miseries of Enforced Marriage (4to, 1607, 1611, 1629, 1637), reprinted in Dodsley. Sir Timothy himself is moulded to some extent upon Sir Francis Ilford, but, as Geneste aptly remarks, he may be considered a new character. In the older drama, Clare, the original of Celinda, dies tragically of a broken heart. It cannot be denied that Mrs. Behn has greatly improved Wilkins’ scenes. The well-drawn character of Betty Flauntit is her own, and the realistically vivacious bagnio episodes of Act iv replace a not very interesting or lively tavern with a considerable accession to wit and humour, although perhaps not to strict propriety.

THEATRICAL HISTORY.

The Town-Fop; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey was produced at the Duke’s Theatre, Dorset Garden, in September, 1676. There is no record of its performance, and the actors’ names are not given. It was a year of considerable changes in the company, and any attempt to supply these would be the merest surmise.

THE TOWN-FOP; or, Sir Timothy Tawdrey.

PROLOGUE.

_As Country Squire, who yet had never known The long-expected Joy of being in Town; Whose careful Parents scarce permitted Heir To ride from home, unless to neighbouring Fair; At last by happy Chance is hither led, To purchase Clap with loss of Maidenhead; Turns wondrous gay, bedizen’d to Excess; Till he is all Burlesque in Mode and Dress: Learns to talk loud in Pit, grows wily too, That is to say, makes mighty Noise and Show.

So a young Poet, who had never been Dabling beyond the Height of Ballading; Who, in his brisk Essays, durst ne’er excel The lucky Flight of rhyming Doggerel, Sets up with this sufficient Stock on Stage, And has, perchance, the luck to please the Age. He draws you in, like cozening Citizen; Cares not how bad the Ware, so Shop be fine.

As tawdry Gown and Petticoat gain more (Tho on a dull diseas’d ill-favour’d Whore) Than prettier Frugal, tho on Holy-day, | When every City-Spark has leave to play_, | —Damn her, she must be sound, she is so gay; | So let the Scenes be fine, you’ll ne’er enquire For Sense, but lofty Flights in nimble Wire. —What we present to Day is none of these, But we cou’d wish it were, for we wou’d please, And that you’ll swear we hardly meant to do: Yet here’s no Sense; Pox on’t, but here’s no Show; But a plain Story, that will give a Taste Of what your Grandsires lov’d i’th’ Age that’s past.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MEN.

Lord Plotwell. Bellmour, Nephew to the Lord Plotwell, contracted to Celinda. Charles, Brother to Bellmour. Friendlove, Brother to Celinda, in love with Diana. Sir Timothy Tawdrey, a Fop-Knight, design’d to marry Celinda. Sham, | Hangers on to Sir Timothy. Sharp, | Trusty, An old Steward to Bellmour’s Family. Page to Bellmour. Page to Lord Plotwell. Sir Timothy’s Page. Guests, Dancers, Fiddlers, and Servants.

WOMEN.

The Lady Diana, Niece to the Lord Plotwell. Celinda, Sister to Friendlove, contracted to Bellmour. Phillis, Sister to Bellmour. Betty Flauntit, kept by Sir Timothy. Driver, A Bawd. Jenny, | Two Whores Doll, | Nurse, Ladies and Guests.

SCENE, Covent-Garden.

ACT I.

SCENE I. The Street.

Enter Sir Timothy Tawdrey, Sham, and Sharp.

Sir Tim. Hereabouts is the House wherein dwells the Mistress of my Heart; for she has Money, Boys, mind me, Money in abundance, or she were not for me—The Wench her self is good-natur’d, and inclin’d to be civil: but a Pox on’t—she has a Brother, a conceited Fellow, whom the World mistakes for a fine Gentleman; for he has travell’d, talks Languages, bows with a bonne mine, and the rest; but, by Fortune, he shall entertain you with nothing but Words—

Sham. Nothing else!—

Sir Tim. No—He’s no Country-Squire, Gentlemen, will not game, whore; nay, in my Conscience, you will hardly get your selves drunk in his Company—He treats A-la-mode, half Wine, half Water, and the rest—But to the Business, this Fellow loves his Sister dearly, and will not trust her in this leud Town, as he calls it, without him; and hither he has brought her to marry me.

Sham. A Pox upon him for his Pains—

Sir Tim. So say I—But my Comfort is, I shall be as weary of her, as the best Husband of ‘em all. But there’s Conveniency in it; besides, the Match being as good as made up by the old Folks in the Country, I must submit—The Wench I never saw yet, but they say she’s handsom—But no matter for that, there’s Money, my Boys.

Sharp. Well, Sir, we will follow you—but as dolefully as People do their Friends to the Grave, from whence they’re never to return, at least not the same Substance; the thin airy Vision of a brave good Fellow, we may see thee hereafter, but that’s the most.

Sir Tim. Your Pardon, sweet Sharp, my whole Design in it is to be Master of my self, and with part of her Portion to set up my Miss, Betty Flauntit; which, by the way, is the main end of my marrying; the rest you’ll have your shares of—Now I am forc’d to take you up Suits at treble Prizes, have damn’d Wine and Meat put upon us, ‘cause the Reckoning is to be book’d: But ready Money, ye Rogues! What Charms it has! makes the Waiters fly, Boys, and the Master with Cap in Hand—excuse what’s amiss, Gentlemen—Your Worship shall command the best—and the rest—How briskly the Box and Dice dance, and the ready Money submits to the lucky Gamester, and the gay Wench consults with every Beauty to make her self agreeable to the Man with ready Money! In fine, dear Rogues, all things are sacrific’d to its Power; and no Mortal conceives the Joy of Argent Content. ‘Tis this powerful God that makes me submit to the Devil, Matrimony; and then thou art assur’d of me, my stout Lads of brisk Debauch.

Sham. And is it possible you can be ty’d up to a Wife? Whilst here in London, and free, you have the whole World to range in, and like a wanton Heifer, eat of every Pasture.

Sir Tim. Why, dost think I’ll be confin’d to my own dull Enclosure? No, I had rather feed coarsely upon the boundless Common; perhaps two or three days I may be in love, and remain constant, but that’s the most.

Sharp. And in three Weeks, should you wed a Cynthia, you’d be a Monster.

Sir Tim. What, thou meanest a Cuckold, I warrant. God help thee! But a Monster is only so from its Rarity, and a Cuckold is no such strange thing in our Age.

Enter Bellmour and Friendlove.

But who comes here? Bellmour! Ah, my little dear Rogue! how dost thou? —Ned Friendlove too! Dear Lad, how dost thou too? Why, welcome to Town, i’faith, and I’m glad to see you both.

Friend. Sir Timothy Tawdrey!—

Sir Tim. The same, by Fortune, dear Ned: And how, and how, Man, how go Matters?

Friend. Between who, Sir?

Sir Tim. Why, any Body, Man; but, by Fortune, I’m overjoy’d to meet thee: But where dost think I was going?

Friend. Is’t possible one shou’d divine?

Sir Tim. Is’t possible you shou’d not, and meet me so near your Sister’s Lodgings? Faith, I was coming to pay my Respects and Services, and the rest—Thou know’st my meaning—The old Business of the Silver-World, Ned; by Fortune, it’s a mad Age we live in, Ned; and here be so many—wicked Rogues, about this damn’d leud Town, that, ’.aith, I am fain to speak in the vulgar modish Style, in my own Defence, and railly Matrimony and the rest.

Friend. Matrimony!—I hope you are so exactly refin’d a Man of the Town, that you will not offer once to think of so dull a thing: let that alone for such cold Complexions as Bellmour here, and I, that have not attain’d to that most excellent faculty of Keeping yet, as you, Sir Timothy, have done; much to your Glory, I assure you.

Sir Tim. Who, I, Sir? You do me much Honour: I must confess I do not find the softer Sex cruel; I am received as well as another Man of my Parts.

Friend. Of your Money you mean, Sir.

Sir Tim. Why, ‘faith, Ned, thou art i’th’ right; I love to buy my Pleasure: for, by Fortune, there’s as much pleasure in Vanity and Variety, as any Sins I know; What think’st thou, Ned?

Friend. I am not of your Mind, I love to love upon the square; and that I may be sure not to be cheated with false Ware, I present ‘em nothing but my Heart.

Sir Tim. Yes, and have the Consolation of seeing your frugal huswifery Miss in the Pit, at a Play, in a long Scarf and Night-gown, for want of Points, and Garniture.

Friend. If she be clean, and pretty, and drest in Love, I can excuse the rest, and so will she.

Sir Tim. I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come to London, and be a little manag’d: ‘slife, Man, shouldst thou talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange Fellow. Pretty—and drest with Love—a fine Figure, by Fortune: No, Ned, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune, that you shall not know one from t’other, till some scandalous, out-of-favour’d laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry—Damn her for a Bitch—how scornfully the Whore regards me—She has forgot since Jack—such a one, and I, club’d for the keeping of her, when both our Stocks well manag’d wou’d not amount to above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook’s.—Then the other laughs, and crys—Ay, rot her—and tells his Story too, and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first. But, Ned, these are Rogues, and Rascals,

that value no Man’s Reputation, because they despise their own. But faith, I have laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony; but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest—’tis not altogether so Jantee.

Friend. Sir, I assure you, it shall be so great a Secret for me, that I will never ask you who the happy Woman is, that’s chosen for this great Work of your Conversion.

Sir Tim. Ask me—No, you need not, because you know already.

Friend. Who, I? I protest, Sir Timothy—

Sir Tim. No Swearing, dear Ned, for ‘tis not such a Secret, but I will trust my Intimates: these are my Friends, Ned; pray know them—This Mr. Sham, and this—by Fortune, a very honest Fellow [Bows to ‘em] Mr. Sharp, and may be trusted with a Bus’ness that concerns you as well as me.

Friend. Me! What do you mean, Sir Timothy?

Sir Tim. Why, Sir, you know what I mean.

Friend. Not I, Sir.

Sir Tim. What, not that I am to marry your Sister Celinda?

Friend. Not at all.

Bel. O, this insufferable Sot! [Aside.

Friend. My Sister, Sir, is very nice.

Sir Tim. That’s all one, Sir, the old People have adjusted the matter, and they are the most proper for a Negotiation of that kind, which saves us the trouble of a tedious Courtship.

Friend. That the old People have agreed the matter, is more than I know.

Sir Tim. Why, Lord, Sir, will you persuade me to that? Don’t you know that your Father (according to the Method in such Cases, being certain of my Estate) came to me thus—Sir Timothy Tawdrey,—you are a young Gentleman, and a Knight, I knew your Father well, and my right worshipful Neighbour, our Estates lie together; therefore, Sir, I have a desire to have a near Relation with you—At which, I interrupted him, and cry’d—Oh Lord, Sir, I vow to Fortune, you do me the greatest Honour, Sir, and the rest—

Bel. I can endure no more; he marry fair Celinda!

Friend. Prithee let him alone. [Aside.

Sir Tim. To which he answer’d—I have a good Fortune—have but my Son Ned, and this Girl, call’d Celinda, whom I will make a Fortune, sutable to yours; your honoured Mother, the Lady Tawdrey, and I, have as good as concluded the Match already. To which I (who, though I say it, am well enough bred for a Knight) answered the Civility thus—I vow to Fortune, Sir—I did not swear, but cry’d—I protest, Sir, Celinda, deserves—no, no, I lye again, ‘twas merits—Ay, Celinda—merits a much better Husband than I.

Friend. You speak more Truth than you are aware of. [Aside.] Well, Sir, I’ll bring you to my Sister; and if she likes you, as well as My Father does, she’s yours; otherwise, I have so much Tenderness for her, as to leave her Choice free.

Sir Tim. Oh, Sir, you compliment. _Alons, Entrons.

[Exeunt_.

SCENE II. A Chamber.

Enter Celinda, and Nurse.

Cel. I wonder my Brother stays so long: sure Mr. Bellmour is not yet arriv’d, yet he sent us word he would be here to day. Lord, how impatient I grow!

Nur. Ay, so methinks; if I had the hopes of enjoying so sweet a Gentleman as Mr. Bellmour, I shou’d be so too—But I am past it—Well, I have had my Pantings, and Heavings, my Impatience, and Qualms, my Heats, and my Colds, and my I know not whats—But I thank my Stars, I have done with all those Fooleries.

Cel. Fooleries!— Is there any thing in Life but Love? Wou’dst thou praise Heaven for thy Being, Without that grateful part of it? For I confess I love.

Nur. You need not, your Sighs, and daily (nay, and nightly too) Disorders, plainly enough betray the Truth.

Cel. Thou speak’st as if it were a Sin: But if it be so, you your self help’d to make me wicked. For e’er I saw Mr. Bellmour, you spoke the kindest things of him, As would have mov’d the dullest Maid to love; And e’er I saw him, I was quite undone.

Nur. Quite undone! Now God forbid it; what, for loving? You said but now there was no Life without it.

Cel. But since my Brother came from Italy, And brought young Bellmour to our House, How very little thou hadst said of him! How much above thy Praise, I found the Youth!

Nur. Very pretty! You are grown a notable Proficient in Love—And you are resolv’d (if he please) to marry him?

Cel. Or I must die.

Nur. Ay, but you know the Lord Plotwell has the Possession of all his Estate, and if he marry without his liking, has Power to take away all his Fortune, and then I think it were not so good marrying him.

Cel. Not marrying him! Oh, canst thou think so poorly of me? Yes, I would marry him, though our scanty Fortune Cou’d only purchase us A lonely Cottage, in some silent Place, All cover’d o’er with Thatch, Defended from the Outrages of Storms By leafless Trees, in Winter; and from Heat, With Shades, which their kind Boughs wou’d bear anew; Under whose Covert we’d feed our gentle Flock, That shou’d in gratitude repay us Food, And mean and humble Clothing.

Nur. Very fine!

Cel. There we wou’d practise such degrees of Love, Such lasting, innocent, unheard of Joys, As all the busy World should wonder at, And, amidst all their Glories, find none such.

Nur. Good lack! how prettily Love teaches his Scholars to prattle.— But hear ye, fair Mrs. Celinda, you have forgot to what end and purpose you came to Town; not to marry Mr. Bellmour, as I take it—but Sir Timothy Tawdrey, that Spark of Men.

Cel. Oh, name him not—Let me not in one Moment Descend from Heaven to Hell— How came that wretched thing into thy Noddle?

Nur. Faith, Mistress, I took pity of thee, I saw you so elevated with Thoughts of Mr. Bellmour, I found it necessary to take you down a degree lower.

Cel. Why did not Heaven make all Men like lo Bellmour? So strangely sweet and charming!

Nur. Marry come up, you speak well for your self; Oh intolerable loving Creature! But here comes the utmost of your Wishes.

Cel. My Brother, and Bellmour! with strange Men!

Enter Friendlove, Bellmour, Sir Timothy, Sham, and Sharp.

Friend. Sister, I’ve brought you here a Lover, this is the worthy Person you have heard of, Sir Timothy Tawdrey.

Sir Tim. Yes, faith, Madam, I am Sir Timothy Tawdrey, at your Service—Pray are not you Mrs. Celinda Dresswell?

Cel. The same, but cannot return your Compliment.

Sir Tim. Oh Lord, oh Lord, not return a Compliment. Faith, Ned, thy Sister’s quite spoil’d, for want of Town-Education; ‘tis pity, for she’s devilish pretty.

Friend. She’s modest, Sir, before Company; therefore these Gentlemen and I will withdraw into the next Room.

Cel. Inhuman Brother! Will you leave me alone with this Sot?

Friend. Yes, and if you would be rid of the trouble of him, be not coy, nor witty; two things he hates.

Bel. ‘Sdeath! Must she be blown upon by that Fool?

Friend. Patience, dear Frank, a little while.

[Exeunt Friend. Bell. Sham and Sharp.

[Sir Timothy walks about the Room, expecting when Celinda should speak.

Cel. Oh, dear Nurse, what shall I do?

Nur. I that ever help you at a dead Lift, will not fail you now.

Sir Tim. What a Pox, not a Word?

Cel. Sure this Fellow believes I’ll begin.

Sir Tim. Not yet—sure she has spoke her last—

Nur. The Gentleman’s good-natur’d, and has took pity on you, and will not trouble you, I think.