The Way of the World
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THE WAY OF THE WORLD
A COMEDY
_Audire est operæ pretium_, _procedere recte_
_Qui mæchis non vultis_.—HOR. _Sat._ i. 2, 37.
—_Metuat doti deprensa_.—_Ibid_.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
RALPH, EARL OF MOUNTAGUE, ETC.
MY LORD,—Whether the world will arraign me of vanity or not, that I have
presumed to dedicate this comedy to your lordship, I am yet in doubt;
though, it may be, it is some degree of vanity even to doubt of it. One
who has at any time had the honour of your lordship’s conversation,
cannot be supposed to think very meanly of that which he would prefer to
your perusal. Yet it were to incur the imputation of too much
sufficiency to pretend to such a merit as might abide the test of your
lordship’s censure.
Whatever value may be wanting to this play while yet it is mine, will be
sufficiently made up to it when it is once become your lordship’s; and it
is my security, that I cannot have overrated it more by my dedication
than your lordship will dignify it by your patronage.
That it succeeded on the stage was almost beyond my expectation; for but
little of it was prepared for that general taste which seems now to be
predominant in the palates of our audience.
Those characters which are meant to be ridiculed in most of our comedies
are of fools so gross, that in my humble opinion they should rather
disturb than divert the well-natured and reflecting part of an audience;
they are rather objects of charity than contempt, and instead of moving
our mirth, they ought very often to excite our compassion.
This reflection moved me to design some characters which should appear
ridiculous not so much through a natural folly (which is incorrigible,
and therefore not proper for the stage) as through an affected wit: a wit
which, at the same time that it is affected, is also false. As there is
some difficulty in the formation of a character of this nature, so there
is some hazard which attends the progress of its success upon the stage:
for many come to a play so overcharged with criticism, that they very
often let fly their censure, when through their rashness they have
mistaken their aim. This I had occasion lately to observe: for this play
had been acted two or three days before some of these hasty judges could
find the leisure to distinguish betwixt the character of a Witwoud and a
Truewit.
I must beg your lordship’s pardon for this digression from the true
course of this epistle; but that it may not seem altogether impertinent,
I beg that I may plead the occasion of it, in part of that excuse of
which I stand in need, for recommending this comedy to your protection.
It is only by the countenance of your lordship, and the _few_ so
qualified, that such who write with care and pains can hope to be
distinguished: for the prostituted name of poet promiscuously levels all
that bear it.
Terence, the most correct writer in the world, had a Scipio and a Lelius,
if not to assist him, at least to support him in his reputation. And
notwithstanding his extraordinary merit, it may be their countenance was
not more than necessary.
The purity of his style, the delicacy of his turns, and the justness of
his characters, were all of them beauties which the greater part of his
audience were incapable of tasting. Some of the coarsest strokes of
Plautus, so severely censured by Horace, were more likely to affect the
multitude; such, who come with expectation to laugh at the last act of a
play, and are better entertained with two or three unseasonable jests
than with the artful solution of the fable.
As Terence excelled in his performances, so had he great advantages to
encourage his undertakings, for he built most on the foundations of
Menander: his plots were generally modelled, and his characters ready
drawn to his hand. He copied Menander; and Menander had no less light in
the formation of his characters from the observations of Theophrastus, of
whom he was a disciple; and Theophrastus, it is known, was not only the
disciple, but the immediate successor of Aristotle, the first and
greatest judge of poetry. These were great models to design by; and the
further advantage which Terence possessed towards giving his plays the
due ornaments of purity of style, and justness of manners, was not less
considerable from the freedom of conversation which was permitted him
with Lelius and Scipio, two of the greatest and most polite men of his
age. And, indeed, the privilege of such a conversation is the only
certain means of attaining to the perfection of dialogue.
If it has happened in any part of this comedy that I have gained a turn
of style or expression more correct, or at least more corrigible, than in
those which I have formerly written, I must, with equal pride and
gratitude, ascribe it to the honour of your lordship’s admitting me into
your conversation, and that of a society where everybody else was so well
worthy of you, in your retirement last summer from the town: for it was
immediately after, that this comedy was written. If I have failed in my
performance, it is only to be regretted, where there were so many not
inferior either to a Scipio or a Lelius, that there should be one wanting
equal in capacity to a Terence.
If I am not mistaken, poetry is almost the only art which has not yet
laid claim to your lordship’s patronage. Architecture and painting, to
the great honour of our country, have flourished under your influence and
protection. In the meantime, poetry, the eldest sister of all arts, and
parent of most, seems to have resigned her birthright, by having
neglected to pay her duty to your lordship, and by permitting others of a
later extraction to prepossess that place in your esteem, to which none
can pretend a better title. Poetry, in its nature, is sacred to the good
and great: the relation between them is reciprocal, and they are ever
propitious to it. It is the privilege of poetry to address them, and it
is their prerogative alone to give it protection.
This received maxim is a general apology for all writers who consecrate
their labours to great men: but I could wish, at this time, that this
address were exempted from the common pretence of all dedications; and
that as I can distinguish your lordship even among the most deserving, so
this offering might become remarkable by some particular instance of
respect, which should assure your lordship that I am, with all due sense
of your extreme worthiness and humanity, my lord, your lordship’s most
obedient and most obliged humble servant,
WILL. CONGREVE.
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by MR. BETTERTON.
OF those few fools, who with ill stars are curst,
Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst:
For they’re a sort of fools which fortune makes,
And, after she has made ’em fools, forsakes.
With Nature’s oafs ’tis quite a diff’rent case,
For Fortune favours all her idiot race.
In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find,
O’er which she broods to hatch the changeling kind:
No portion for her own she has to spare,
So much she dotes on her adopted care.
Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in,
Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win:
But what unequal hazards do they run!
Each time they write they venture all they’ve won:
The Squire that’s buttered still, is sure to be undone.
This author, heretofore, has found your favour,
But pleads no merit from his past behaviour.
To build on that might prove a vain presumption,
Should grants to poets made admit resumption,
And in Parnassus he must lose his seat,
If that be found a forfeited estate.
He owns, with toil he wrought the following scenes,
But if they’re naught ne’er spare him for his pains:
Damn him the more; have no commiseration
For dulness on mature deliberation.
He swears he’ll not resent one hissed-off scene,
Nor, like those peevish wits, his play maintain,
Who, to assert their sense, your taste arraign.
Some plot we think he has, and some new thought;
Some humour too, no farce—but that’s a fault.
Satire, he thinks, you ought not to expect;
For so reformed a town who dares correct?
To please, this time, has been his sole pretence,
He’ll not instruct, lest it should give offence.
Should he by chance a knave or fool expose,
That hurts none here, sure here are none of those.
In short, our play shall (with your leave to show it)
Give you one instance of a passive poet,
Who to your judgments yields all resignation:
So save or damn, after your own discretion.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
MEN.
FAINALL, in love with Mrs. Marwood, _Mr. Betterton_.
MIRABELL, in love with Mrs. Millamant, _Mr. Verbruggen_.
WITWOUD, follower of Mrs. Millamant, _Mr. Bowen_.
PETULANT, follower of Mrs. Millamant, _Mr. Bowman_.
SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, half brother to Witwoud, _Mr. Underhill_.
and nephew to Lady Wishfort,
WAITWELL, servant to Mirabell, _Mr. Bright_.
WOMEN.
LADY WISHFORT, enemy to Mirabell, for having _Mrs. Leigh_.
falsely pretended love to her,
MRS. MILLAMANT, a fine lady, niece to Lady _Mrs. Bracegirdle_.
Wishfort, and loves Mirabell,
MRS. MARWOOD, friend to Mr. Fainall, and likes _Mrs. Barry_.
Mirabell,
MRS. FAINALL, daughter to Lady Wishfort, and _Mrs. Bowman_.
wife to Fainall, formerly friend to Mirabell,
FOIBLE, woman to Lady Wishfort, _Mrs. Willis_.
MINCING, woman to Mrs. Millamant, _Mrs. Prince_.
DANCERS, FOOTMEN, ATTENDANTS.
SCENE: London.
_The time equal to that of the presentation_.
ACT I.—SCENE I.
_A Chocolate-house_.
MIRABELL _and_ FAINALL _rising from cards_. BETTY _waiting_.
MIRA. You are a fortunate man, Mr. Fainall.
FAIN. Have we done?
MIRA. What you please. I’ll play on to entertain you.
FAIN. No, I’ll give you your revenge another time, when you are not so
indifferent; you are thinking of something else now, and play too
negligently: the coldness of a losing gamester lessens the pleasure of
the winner. I’d no more play with a man that slighted his ill fortune
than I’d make love to a woman who undervalued the loss of her reputation.
MIRA. You have a taste extremely delicate, and are for refining on your
pleasures.
FAIN. Prithee, why so reserved? Something has put you out of humour.
MIRA. Not at all: I happen to be grave to-day, and you are gay; that’s
all.
FAIN. Confess, Millamant and you quarrelled last night, after I left
you; my fair cousin has some humours that would tempt the patience of a
Stoic. What, some coxcomb came in, and was well received by her, while
you were by?
MIRA. Witwoud and Petulant, and what was worse, her aunt, your wife’s
mother, my evil genius—or to sum up all in her own name, my old Lady
Wishfort came in.
FAIN. Oh, there it is then: she has a lasting passion for you, and with
reason.—What, then my wife was there?
MIRA. Yes, and Mrs. Marwood and three or four more, whom I never saw
before; seeing me, they all put on their grave faces, whispered one
another, then complained aloud of the vapours, and after fell into a
profound silence.
FAIN. They had a mind to be rid of you.
MIRA. For which reason I resolved not to stir. At last the good old
lady broke through her painful taciturnity with an invective against long
visits. I would not have understood her, but Millamant joining in the