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There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got,
And for the thinking party there's a plot.
We've something, too, to gratify ill-nature,
(If there be any here) and that is satire;

Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild,
Or only shows its teeth as if it smiled.

As asses thistles, poets mumble wit,

And dare not bite, for fear of being bit.

They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.
Since The Plain Dealer's scenes of manly rage,"
Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
This time the poet owns the bold essay,
Yet hopes there's no ill manners in his play:
And he declares by me, he has designed
Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.
And should the ensuing scenes not chance to hit.
He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ
Before your late encouragement of wit.

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DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, Father of VALENTINE and BEN. VALENTINE, fallen under his Father's displeasure by his expensive way of living, in love with ANGELICA.

SCANDAL, his Friend, a free speaker.

TATTLE, a half-witted Beau, vain of his amours, yet valuing him

self for secrecy.

BEN, SIR SAMPSON's younger Son, half home-bred and half seabred, designed to marry MISS Prue.

FORESIGHT, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and positive, superstitious, and pretending to understand Astrology, Palmistry, Physiognomy, Omens, Dreams, etc., Uncle to ANGELICA.

JEREMY, Servant to VALENTINE.

TRAPLAND, a Scrivener.

BUCKRAM, a Lawyer.

SNAP, a Bailiff.

Stewards, Sailors, and Servants.

ANGELICA, Niece to FORESIGHT, of a considerable Fortune in her own hands.

MRS. FORESIGHT, second Wife of FORESIGHT.

MRS. FRAIL, Sister to MRS. FORESIGHT, a Woman of the Town. MISS PRUE, Daughter of FORESIGHT by a former Wife, a silly awkward country Girl.

Nurse to MISS PRUE.

JENNY, Maid to ANGELICA.

SCENE-LONDON

LOVE FOR LOVE

ACT THE FIRST

SCENE I

VALENTINE'S Lodging

VALENTINE in his chamber reading, JEREMY waiting: several books upon the table

Val. Jeremy!

Jer. Sir?

Val. Here, take away; I'll walk a turn, and digest what I have read.

Jer. [Aside.] You'll grow devilish fat upon this paper diet. [Takes away the books.

Val. And d'ye hear, go you to breakfast. There's a page doubled down in Epictetus that is a feast for an emperor.

Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts?

II

Val. Read, read, sirrah! and refine your appetite; learn to live upon instruction; feast your mind, and mortify your flesh; read, and take your nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of understanding; so Epictetus advises.

Jer. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that

Epictetus?

Val. A very rich man not worth a groat.

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Jer. Humph, and so he has made a very fine feast where there is nothing to be eaten?

152

Val. Yes.

LOVE FOR LOVE

[ACT I

Jer. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably understand this fine feeding; but if you please, I had rather be at board-wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich rogues, teach you how to pay your debts without money? Will they shut up the mouths of your creditors? Will Plato be bail for you? or Diogenes, because he understands confinement, and [30 lived in a tub, go to prison for you? 'Slife, sir, what do you mean? to mew yourself up here with three or four musty books, in commendation of starving and poverty?

Val. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know it; and therefore resolve to rail at all that have; and in that I but follow the examples of the wisest and wittiest men in all ages; these poets and philosophers whom you naturally hate, for just such another reason," because they abound in sense, and you are a fool.

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Jer. Aye, sir, I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit - but I was always a fool when I told you what your expenses would bring you to; your coaches and your liveries, your treats and your balls; your being in love with a lady that did not care a farthing for you in your prosperity; and keeping company with wits that cared for nothing but your prosperity, and now, when you are poor, hate you as much as they do one another.

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Val. Well, and now I am poor I have an opportunity to be revenged on 'em all; I'll pursue Angelica with more love than ever, and appear more notoriously her admirer in this restraint, than when I openly rivalled the rich fops that made court to her; so shall my poverty be a mortification to her pride, and perhaps make her compassionate the love, which has principally reduced me to this lowness of fortune. And for the wits, I'm sure I am in a condition to be even with them.

Jer. Nay, your position is pretty even with theirs, that's the truth on't.

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Val. I'll take some of their trade out of their hands. Jer. Now Heaven, of mercy, continue the tax upon paper! You don't mean to write?

Val. Yes, I do; I'll write a play.

Jer. Hem! Sir, if you please to give me a small certificate of three lines only to certify those whom it may concern, that the bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by name, has for the space of seven years, truly and faithfully served Valentine Legend, Esq.; and that he is not now turned away for any misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his master from any future authority over him.

Val. No, sirrah, you shall live with me still.

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Jer. Sir, it's impossible: I may die with you, starve with you, or be damned with your works; but to live, even three days, the life of a play, I no more expect it, than to be canonized for a Muse after my decease.

Val. You are witty, you rogue! I shall want your help; I'll have you learn to make couplets, to tag the ends of acts; d'ye hear, get the maids to crambo" in an evening, and learn the knack of rhyming: you may arrive at the height of a song sent by an unknown hand," or a chocolate-house lampoon."

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Jer. But, sir, is this the way to recover your father's favour? Why, Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your younger brother should come from sea, he'd never look upon you again. You're undone, sir, you're ruined, you won't have a friend left in the world if you turn poet. Ah, pox confound that Will's Coffee-house!" it has ruined more young men than the Royal Oak lottery"—nothing thrives that belongs to't. The man of the house would [90 have been an alderman by this time with half the trade, if he had set up in the city. For my part, I never sit at the door that I don't get double the stomach that I do at a horse-race the air upon Banstead downs is nothing to it for a whetter. Yet I never see it, but the spirit of famine appears to me, sometimes like a decayed porter,

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