The walking statue: or, the devil in the wine-cellar. A comedy, as it was acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- Persons Represented.

THE Walking Statue: OR, THE DEVIL IN THE Wine-Cellar.

SCENE, The Street before Sir Timothy's House. EnterTobydisguis'd like an ExchangeGirl with a Band box.

TOBY.

WELL,—of all the cross-grain'd old Fellows breathing, my Master's Mistresses Father is one of the most hard to be dealt withal; and therefore 'tis for a Man of my Parts to succeed in an Assair that has baffled the Wit of all my Fellow-Servants. I perswaded him, before he try'd his own Skill, to make proof of mine, and I'll warrant I'll get the Letter to the Lady's Hands, if once I come near enough to touch 'em. I have a strange Inclination to Woman-Hunting ever since I clamber'd over the House-top, and got to Bed to Moll at the next Door, through the Garret-Window. Stay, this is the House; let me see, I think I am Woman enough in the lower Parts, and I am sure my upper won't fail me. I have Brass enough in my Face, and Depth enough in my Conscience to be really what I look to be—an Exchange Girl, Ifakins, I'll knock, come on't what will; I am sure I am safe enough in this Dress, for tho' 'tis no new thing to find a Knave in Petticoats, 'tis an immodest and an unlawful thing to look for him there.

He knocks, and Sir Timothy looks out at the Window.

Sir Tim.

Who's at the Door?

Toby.

'Tis I.

Sir Tim.

'Tis I, who's I? What's your Business?

Toby.

I would speak with Madam Leonora, Sir Timothy Tough's Daughter.

Sir Tim.

In what Language would you speak with her?

Toby.

In what Language? Why in good old English.

Sir Tim.

Good old Engllsh! I'd have you to know you must speak good plain English, if you talk with my Daughter.

Toby.

Is your Worship Sir Timothy Tough his own self then?

Sir Tim.

I am the Man.

Toby.

I beg your Worship's pardon, I come from Mrs. Stitch in the New-Exchange, so please you, Sir, and have brought home a new Head for the young Lady.

Sir Tim.

Wait, Maiden, you shall have Admittance.

He goes from the Window.

Toby.

Rare Fortune, I faith! Well, I must needs say in my own Commendation, 'tis not every Body's Talent to manage a thing discreetly. What will this Master of mine owe me for so great a Service as I shall certainly do him? When a Man has good luck among Women, they say he was born under Caper-corn, I think they call it; and I shall go near to prove that Caper-corn my Master's best Planet. Adsme, I hear 'em opening the Door, now for it.

The Door opens, and enter Sir Timothy with a great Blunderbuss, and two Servants with Guns and Buff Belts.

Toby.

Bless my Heart, what Figures are here?

Sir Tim.

Houswife! I suspect you for a wicked Hypocritical designing Person, that has a felonious intention to corrupt the Obedience of my Daughter, and, lest you should have more Rogues in Ambush, I issue arm'd, to defend the Honour of my Family. What are you? I say what are you?

Toby.

Oh, dear Sir! what do you mean? I never did you any harm in my Life, Sir—Oh! oh! loving Sir, have Mercy upon me dear Sir, for the sake of my spotless Virginity.

Runs behind Sir Timothy, who present his Blunderbuss against one of his own Servants.

Sir Tim.

What are you? Speak or you die.

1 Ser.

Slife Sir, don't shoot me, I'm Robin.

Sir Tim.

Adso, a bad mistake! I am dimsighted truly; but where is the Whore, the Bawd? I know what sort of a Shop she keeps, by hanging out the Sign of a Band-box. What do you do behind, Housewife? your Business is with the Foreparts. Harry, Robin, present with me thus, and when I speak the Word, give Fire.

They all present their Pieces at Toby.

Toby.

Oh dear Gentlemen, spare me, spare me, good Gentlemen, don't shoot me, and I'll tell you all.

He kneels.

Sir Tim.

In the first place, as you hope to preserve that abominable Life of yours, answer me the Truth, and nothing but the Truth, whence come you?

Toby.

From the Exchange, an't please you.

Sir Tim.

What business had you?

Toby.

The Exchange, Sir.

Sir Tim.

And what are you? Jilt, speak presently, what are you?

Toby.

The New-Exchange in the Strand Sir.

Sir Tim.

What are you the New-Exchange? 'Slife, speak sense or you die, I don't think the Tone of your Voice treble enough for a Whore, and therefore you must be a Rogue, Sirrah.

Toby.

The New-Exchange indeed, Sir.

Sir Tim.

Sirrah, tell me truly what Sex you are of, Sirrah?

Toby.

The Exchange, upon my Word, Sir.

Sir Tim.

Is the Exchange your Sex, Rogue? Are you a Man, or a Whore, Sirrah?

Toby.

About the middle of the Inner Walk Sir.

Sir Tim.

Adslife, Robin, make ready.

Toby.

Oh! oh! spare my Life, and take my band-box, Sir.

Sir Tim.

Give it me, you Whore.

Toby.

I'm no Whore, upon my Honour, Sir, I am but 'Squire Sprightly's Rogue Toby, make the worst of me. Wou'd I were buried 6 Foot deep in my Master's Dunghil.

Aside. SirTim. opens the Band-box, and finds a Letter.

Sir Tim.

Let's see, what's here, a Letter? Oh, Rogue! here, Harry, Robin, rifle the Ribons, and see if there's never another Snake in the Fools Grass. What's here, Puts on a pair of Spectacles. To the lovely Hands of the engaging Leonora—Fool, Ass, adzooks this Fellow makes love like an Oxford Scholar. I'll open the Seal.

He breaks open the Letter, and while the two Fellows are fumbling in the Band-box,Toby steals back.

Toby.

Timor adds—Wing as.

He runs off.

Sir Tim. Reading.

After many vain Endeavours to get a Letter to your Hands, the trusty Toby undertook—Oh Rogue, did you so—I'll—Ha! where is he?

1 Ser.

An't please your Worship, I believe he got off while we were rummaging the band-box.

Sir Tim.

I'll rummage you, you careless Rascals; I'll teach you to plunder before you have secur'd the Enemy, you Dogs you.

He beats 'em with the Blunderbuss off the stage. SCENE changes to Sprightly's House. Sprightly and Toby.

Spright.

Nay, Faith, Toby, I pitty thee with all my Heart; but thou may'st make a moral use of this unlucky Accident, and learn to believe thy self no wiser than other People. Go, lay aside the Woman, and and take up the Statue; all things are now ready for the last Trial, and it shall be put in Execution this very Evening.

Toby,

Truly, Sir, if your Worship pleases, I had rather be the Carver's Man, than the Statue; for if the old Knight shou'd find out a Trick, my Disguise wou'd be so heavy that I cou'd not run away, and he might chance to shoot me thro' the Head with his Blunderbuss.

Spright.

Pish! Fool! you know he's so purblind he can scarce see.

Toby.

Ay, but if he can't see, he can feel tho'; and, Sir, if he should happen to tickle my Sides, I shou'd burst out a laughing, and discover all.

Spright.

It's impossible he shou'd suspect thee. I saw the Statue at the Stone-Cutter's, who told me, the old Gentleman expects it to be brought home every day, My painted Canvas is exactly copied from the Original, and the Pedestal 'tis to be plac'd on in the Hall is so high, that he won't be able to reach your Sides; or if he did, the Daub is so hard and so thick, 'twou'd deceive a nicer Touch than his I'll warrant thee. But are the Fellows at hand, who are to be concern'd in the management.

Toby.

They are all drinking at the next Ale-house, and the Gentleman who is to act the Statue instead of me, Sir, is a Man every Inch of him. He married a Woman who had beat six Husbands to death with the But-ends of their own Muskets, and in three Nights time made the wild Beast so very tame, Sir, that she fawns upon him like a Spaniel Bitch when she's afraid of a Kicking.

Spright.

Thou hast chose an odd sort of a Simile, Toby; but hark! some body knocks; Go, see who it is.

Toby goes out, and re-enters with Cuttum.

Toby.

An't please your Worship, this is the Gentleman we were discoursing about.

Spright.

May I know your Name, Sir?

Cuttum.

I am vulgarly known by the Name of Corporal Cuttum; I have been a Soldier from my Cradle, and a Cuckold from my Marriage-Bed, Sir: I have run thro' all the Mazes of Fortune, but cou'd ne'r lay hold of the Gypsie: I believe I'm too honest to be prosperous in this Age! and if I live much longer, I shall be too old to be knavish. I wou'd gladly make some use of my time, Sir; for I have lately learn'd to remember, that I come of a Race so much the Reverse of my way of living hitherto, that egad—if I continue honest much longer, I shall be the only Fool of my Family!

Spright.

Pray, Mr. Cuttum, what Country are you of?

Cuttum.

Why, Sir, to tell you the plain Truth, there is no Country will own us, and we own no Country; we should be French by our Air, and Spaniards by our steps, Sir; but a parcel of scoundrel Rogues about Town will needs have the Cuttums to be an Irish Family, sor no other Reason egad, than the reach of their assurance.

Spright.

Have you no Friends in Town to apply to?

Cut.

Yes, Sir, there's a Relation of mine generally known about Town; he's a kind of a Wit, and has writ Plays; but he has an odd Humour, that makes him incapable of serving a Kinsman.

Spright.

What Humour is that, pray?

Cut.

Why, Sir, he has been so fond of fathering Strangers Children, that he scarce knows how to look upon the Son of a poor Relation.

Spright.

Well, Mr. Cuttum, you are a merry Fellow; you know the task and the reward design'd you, I suppose.

Cut.

My worthy Friend, Mr. Toby here, has inform'd me at large; and I am ready to prove with how much Zeal I would undertake an action of greater difficulty upon a less temptation.

Spright.

I assure you you have heard the utmost of your danger; come the worst to the worst 'tis but a beating, and that I presume you could bear with Resolution.

Cut.

Am I a Cuttum, and do you ask that Question? 'slife, Sir! bear a beating?—Why, there's not a Branch of our Family, but has Patience enough that way sor an informing Constable, Bailiff's follower, Female Tatler, or Marshal of France, egad.

Spright.

That's well; I think all things are now in a readiness, we'll go in, and about it presently. But heark'e, Toby, is your disguise come home yet?

Toby.

Four hours ago, Sir—But now you talk of a Disguise, am I to be a Jew, or a Gentile?

Spright.

Oh! a Jew by all means. Come along Mr. Corporal; while you are getting ready I'll instruct you what to say to the Lady, for the ill Success of my last Letter forbids me all Thoughts of sending another.

Toby.

Well! o'my Conscience, my Master is the first that ever went about to send a Message by a Stone Porter!—

They go in. SCENE, Sir Timothy's House; Sir Tim, and Leonora.

Sir Tim.

'Sbud, don't tell me of my Promise; ask any Statesman in Christendom, if Promises are Chains on a wise Man's Will. 'Tis true, I told the young Fool Sprightly he should have you, but that was when no Body of a better Estate was of his Mind, Girl.

Leon.

The ties of Duty, Sir, first led me to encourage Mr. Sprightly's Addresses, in obedience to your Commands; and now the ties of Honour forbid me to wrong a Man who so sincerely loves me.

Sir Tim.

I gave him my word, that if he could outwit me, he should keep what he got, with my good Will, and a good Fortune; but alas, poor young Fool, his Birdlime is no better than Chaff, and an old Fowl is too wise to be taken by it. I have defeated five or six of his Projects already; and if he comes within the reach of my Blunderbuss, have at him, by Sir Jeremy.

Leon.

Oh, Sir, you are the most barbarous of Fathers! and have contrived this surest way to make me miserable.

Sir Tim.

Goodnow, Goodnow, pretty Turtle-Dove; how naturally it mourns the loss of its Mate: Come, come, 'tis just your Sex should share a little in the Sorrow you bestow, Housewise. A Woman's Tears are like Showers in April, a necessary Ingredient to make up her natural Composition of Change and Inconstancy.

Enter a Servant.

Ser.

Sir, here's a Man without has brought home a great Stone Thing, that looks like the Great Turk, Sir.

Sir Tim.

How! the Statue! bring him in, bring him in, Sirrah.

Exit Ser.

Leon.

Sir, you are likely to talk of what I don't understand, and if you please I'll retire to my Chamber.

Sir Tim.

No, no, pray stay, Daughter; I'll warrant you, if Sprightly was coming instead of the Statue, you would not be in such haste to be gone; but you Women never care much for a Man of Marble

Leon.

I am all Obedience, Sir.

She turns her Back upon the Door, and leans pensively against the Hangings. Re-enter the Servant with Toby disguis'd like a Jew, with great Whiskers and a short Cloak, followed by four Men bearing in a Frame upon which stands Corporal Cuttum in the Posture of a Statue.

Toby.

Save you, Sir!—have a care, have a care, gently, gently, I say,—Sir, Mr. Chissel has sent home your Statue, Sir, and where would you please it should be set? Have a care, I say, gently, gently.

Sir Tim.

Stay, let me put on my Spectacles, and I'll tell you presently—Humph, who are you, Sir?

Toby.

I am by Profession a Statuary, by Country a Portuguese, but brought up in England; by Quality a Foreman, alias a Journeyman, and by Religion a Jew, Sir.

Sir Tim.

A Jew! adzooks, what have you to do in a Christian Country, Sirrah?

Toby.

Ha, ha, you are pleas'd to be merry, Sir! But where must the Statue be placed, an't please you?

Sir Tim.

Plac'd? Aside. Egad I don't like this Fellow, he says he's a Jew, but he looks like a Philistin.

Toby.

Set him down there, gently, gently, be careful how you place him, pray, Gentlemen—So, now he stands right; go—stay without till I come to you.

Exit Bearers.

Sir Tim.

Let me see how this Statue looks.—Ads my Life, a pretty piece of Workmanship truly: But pray, Friend, why did not Mr. Chissel come himself? Am I so bad a Customer that he must send Servants to do my Business? Nay, and Heathen Servants too!

Toby.

Your Worship, I perceive, is a facetious old Gentleman. But my Master, an't please you, is sick a present.

Sir Tim.

Old Gentleman! Sirrah! Is that your Hebrew Breeding! Get out of my House, you Rogue! that Levitical Face of thine stirs up my Indignation.

Toby.

I beg your pardon heartily, if I have said any thing that offends you, Sir; but pray don't be in a Passion for nothing; is not the Work done as you expected it?

All the while Sir Tim. is talking with Toby, Cuttum makes whimsical Motions from the Table to Leonora, who leans pensively, and don't observe him.

Sir Tim.

Expected it, Sirrah! I did not expect to have the Figure to be sent home by a Rogue of a Jew, Sirrah! Let me look all round the piece, egad, 'tis 10 to 1 but the superstitious Dog has circumcis'd my Statue.

Toby.

Ha, ha, ha, ha.

Sir Tim.

Villain, Rascal, what, am I to be laughed at to my Face?

Toby.

Ha, ha, ha, you must excuse me, Sir, ha, ha, ha, I vow you are the pleasant'st Gentleman of your age that ever I met with.

Sir Tim.

Again at my age, Sirrah; here, Robin, Jonathan, quickly, bring me my Blunderbuss. Sirrah, get out of my House, or I'll break off a Limb of the Statue, and knock out your Brains with it.

He runs to pull off one of the Statue's Legs, and Cuttam kicks him down backward with the other.

Toby.

'Slife! all's out: I'll make off while I can.

He runs out.

Sir Tim.

Rogues! Murder! help! Dogs! Murder! Murder!

Leon.

Heav'ns, Sir! what's the Matter?

Sir Tim.

Matter! you Baggage? Don't you see what's the Matter? That long bearded Rogue of a Jew has affronted me to my Face, and beat out my Teeth behind my Back. Rogues! Robin, Harry, Jonathan, what, must I be murder'd, and no body come in to my assistance.

He runs out calling the Servants.

Cut.

I am glad he's gone, for my Heart ak'd plaguily when he came to pull my Leg off. 'Tis a lucky Mistake that he thinks Toby struck him; but I'll take this Opportunity to speak to the Lady. Madam—Madam—

He leaps down, and stalks towards Leon. who turns, and shrieks at his approaching her.

Leon.

Oh! Heav'ns, what's here! Ghosts! Spirits! Devils! ah! help! help! help!

Cut.

Nay, now we are all undone, and egad! if you die a Maid, 'tis no more than you deserve for your damu'd unseasonable squeaking.

He runs to the Table, and with much ado gets up, and stands in his old Posture; but for haste mistakes, and puts the wrong Leg forward.

Leon.

Ah me! I see too late this is a Trick of Sprightly's.

Enter Sir Timothy, and his Servants.

Oh! Sir! I was half frighted, but beg your pardon for alarming you; being in a melancholy Humour, I had forgot the Statue stood upon the Table, and looking that way on the sudden took it for a naked Man.

Sir Tim.

Oh! did you so, good Daughter! I see very well what you would be at; this Excess of your Folly betrays the Lewdness of your Thoughts. Let's see, that Rascal Jew beat off my Spectacles—oh! here they lie—Well, I vow this is a very curious piece of Sculpture, no real Flesh and Blood could appear more lively. If that Knave Chissel had not sent it by a Jew, I could have been extreamly pleas'd with it. He views Cuttum all round, who expresses a great deal of Fear. But stay, I forgot to look whether I have not-hurt the Leg tho'—adso! what's here? I am sure this Limb does not stand as it did just now. Daughter, Daughter. Leon. Sir.

Sir Tim.

Look here, is it the right Posture or no?

While Sir Tim. turns to speak to his Daughter, Cut. puts his Leg as it was before.

Leon.

Right, Sir? Yes, pray what ails it?

Sir Tim.

Ails it? 'Slife I am bewitch'd—I am sure the Devil's either in me, or my Spectacles; why 'twas but this moment the Leg stood here, and now—

Cut.

Death, Sir, stand out of my way, or you're as dead as a door-nail. Aside. 'Slife, I'll be gone while I may; if I stay a quarter of an hour longer, I shall be pounded in a Mortar.

He leaps down furiously and runs out.

Sir Tim.

Hey day! is my House become an enchanted Castle? What a plague, I shall be hooted at as I walk along the streets if this Jest passes on me. Here follow me, ye Rascals, I'll statue the Dog, I'll warrant him.

He runs out with his Servants after Cuttum.

Leon.

What a wretched Condition has my Folly brought me to? if I slip this Opportunity of escaping while the House is in so great a Confusion, I shall be miserable for ever. I'll get out the back-way, and trust fortune for the Event of my Undertaking.

She goes out. SCENE changes to a Court-yard, with a Well in it. Enter Toby Frighted.

Toby.

Here have I crawl'd about this quarter of an hour, and can find no means to reach the Door, without being discover'd by some of the old Fellow's Maidenhead-watchers; and, if I stay here much longer, the danger will be equal. A Pox take Petticoats for Toby, if this be the Effect of following them. What shall I do?—let me think a little—adsbobs I have it, I have an old black Mask in my Pocket with Horns upon it, I'll tie it on, and creep down into yonder Well, it looks like a dry one; or if I am drown'd, 'tis a better Death than to be drubb'd to Destruction—I'll lie quietly all Night, and in the Morning bolt thro' the Door in my Vizor and black Wastcoat; it may so happen, that the Rogues will take me for the Devil that they say walks in this Neighbourhood, and give me free Passage—But first, down Cloak, that if the Well be deeper than ordinary, I may be sure to fall softly; I'll tie on the Mask when I'm safe at the bottom. So now for it, Neck or nothing, as the Proverb says.

He throws down his Cloak, and gets into the Well. Re-enter Sir Timothy, and the Servants with Guns, Staves, &c.

Sir Tim.

Who would have thought that the four Rogues who brought in that Dog of a Statue, should have waited so cunningly to carry him off again upon occasion? Adzooks but we maul'd them in their Retreat. Go, ye Rogues, get ye into the Cellar, and drink your selves drunk, as a Reward for your Valour. The Servants go out bowing. Well, after all, this Sprightly is a brave bold Fellow, and deserves the Baggage heartily; for I never could imagine till now, that any Woman in the World was worth a Man's venturing a knock on the Pate for. My Daughter is afraid of a Reprof, and is crept silently into her Closet. I'll not disturb her till Morning, but go write an Account of this Nights Works to her good old Grandmother in the Country.

He goet out. SCENE changes to a Cellar, with a Wicket in the front Scene, and discovereth the Servants sitting round a black Jack, drinking and merry.

1 Ser.

Here, honest Thomas, here's to thee.

2 Ser.

Prithee, what Subject shall we be on to Night, Politics are grown musty, Learning is below Men of a genteel Education, and Scandal you know is taking upon us the Conversation of our Betters.

3 Ser.

Why faith, since we have leave to be merry, honest Thomas had best give us a Song.

2 Ser.

A Match, Boys—I'll sing you a Song of my own making.

1 Ser.

Of thy making! What, a Footman turn Poet?

2 Ser.

A Footman turn Poet! ay, Sir; why not? Since the Peots have met with Footmen's Encouragement, Footmen have taken up the Poets Profession.

3 Ser.

But how can a Fellow without Learning, Brother Thomas, be Master of that seeling, touching way that the Poets talk of?

2 Ser.

Pugh, Fool, the Art of Poetry is the Gift of Nature, and 'twould be no new thing to tell the World, that there's many a Footman can touch, and move, and feel, and stir up the Passions with the best Poet in Christendom. But listen to the Song, Boys.

Here a SONG.

All Ser.

Rarely sung, 'sfaith Thomas.

3 Ser.

Adzookers, he has pleas'd me so well, that I'll e'en make bold with a Bottle of the fine Wine my Master has set a cooling in the old Well there, and treat ye like Gentlemen.

All.

Why, that's kindly done now.

3 Ser. rises, and opening the Wicket, takes out a Bottle, and holds it between him and the Light.

3 Ser.

Let's see, I think I have got the right sort, no, 'tis not;—this is the Rotgut Rhenish—

While the Fellow turns to look at the Bottle, Toby, having put on the black horn'd Mask, thrusts his Head out of the Wicket, and the Servant, going to change the Bottle, strikes it against his Forehead.

3 Ser.

Ah! the Devil, the Devil.

Throws down the Bottle, and runs backward.

1 Ser.

'Slife, there's the Devil in good earnest!

Toby.

Rogues, Thieves, I'll be among you suddenly.

He tumbles forward into the Cellar.

2 Ser.

Oons, Roger, fly, the Devil's amongst us.

All.

Help, help! the Devil, the Devil, the Devil!

They beat one another down, and hurry out headlong, and Toby after 'em. The SCENE changes to the Hall. Enter Sir Timothy with his Blunderbuss.

Sir Tim.

Here, Harry, Thomas Jonathan, Rogues, Rascals, where are you? What's the Matter below? Hey day! what's here to do?—

Enter Servants running.

1 Ser.

Help, help! the Devil!

3 Ser.

The Pope, the Pope! the Devil!

2 Ser.

Oh, Sir! the Devil has taken possession of your Worship's Cellar.

Sir Tim.

The Devil, ye Rogues! and are ye such pitiful, cowardly, unchristian soul'd Fellows, as to be afraid of the Devil. Adsbob, wou'd he had been impudent enough to have come into my presence, I'd have Devil'd him with a—'Slife, Rogues stand out of my way—Help, help, help!

In the midst of Sir Timothy's Speech, Toby appears at the Hall Door, and the Knight beats down his Servants, and runs out first; the Men follow, crying out as before.

Toby.

Well, I have better luck now I'm a Devil, than I had when I was a Woman; and some arch Wags would from thence take occasion to swear that the Devil is the least of the two Evils. But I have no time to be witty at present. I see the Street Door open, and will lay hold on the Opportunity.

He goes out. Re-enter Sir Timothy, and the Servants, peeping.

Sir Tim.

Is he gone?

1 Ser.

I think the Coast is clear at present.

They come forwards.

Sir Tim.

I'll ordain a Yearly Thanksgiving to be kept on this Day throughout my Family, for the wonderful Deliverance. Loud knocking at the Door. Stand close here, for Heav'ns sake stand close, for I'm afraid he's a coming again.

They huddle close together, and stand gazing as in Expectation; and enter Sprightly with Leonora in a Mask, attended by Corporal Cuttum, and Toby, in his Visor.

Sir Tim.

Deliver me, ye Pow'rs, for yonder's the Devil return'd with his whole Family.

Spright.

Ha, ha, ha, poon Sir Timothy, 'tis a Devil of my Breeding.

Pulls off Toby's Mask.

Toby.

'Tis I, my own self, in very deed, Sir.

Sir Tim.

Why then in very deed, Sir, I wish the real Devil would run away with the pretended one.

Toby.

Adsme, Sir, if you wish your Wishes upon me, I'll snatch off my Friend the Statue's Leg here, and knock your Brains out.

Sir Tim.

to Cut. Why, were you the Dog that was turn'd into Stone, Sir?

Cut.

The very same, at your Service, Sir.

Spright.

O, Sir, Love has been Author of stranger Metamorphoses, than any in Ovid.

Sir Tim.

And pray, Mr. Sprightly, what pretty Part are you to act in your turn here?

Spright.

A double one, Sir, in Conjunction with this Lady.

Takes off Leonora's Mask, and kneels with her to Sir Tim.

Leon.

Our first Request, Sir, is for your pardon; and our next, that you will please to ratifie our Articles of Agreement, according to the Promise you were pleas'd to make us.

Sir Tim.

Confusion! Furies! Devils! Witchcraft! Rogues! Tricks! Damnation! Conjuration! and Destraction!

He raves, and stamps, and runs off the Stage.

Spright.

Come, lovely Leonora, let us follow him, and mollifie his Passion by Submission and Entreaty; and may our Example teach the World this certain Maxim:

Love, like the Palm-Tree, by Oppression grows,

Check'd, like stop'd Rivers, more impetuous flows,

And, like Antaeus, gathers strength from Blows.

FINIS.

THE Walking Statue: OR, THE DEVIL IN THE Wine-Cellar. A COMEDY, As it was Acted at the THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.

Printed in the Year 1709. (Price 6 d.)

Persons Represented.

Sir Timothy Tough, an old Knight,

Mr. Norris

Leenora, his Daughter,

Mrs. Moor

Sprightly, a young Gentleman in Love with Leonora,

Mr. Bickerstaff

Toby, Sprightly's Man,

Mr. Pack

Corporal Cuttum, the Statue,

Mr. Spiller

Servants and Bearers.

The SCENE London.

Information about this book

Title statement

The walking statue: or, the devil in the wine-cellar. A comedy, as it was acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane.

Hill, Aaron, 1685-1750.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3492

ID [isbn10]

1106004914

ID [isbn13]

9781106004918

ID [TCP]

K014189.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3306514472

ID [ECFA]

1119501000

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— The walking statue: or, the devil in the wine-cellar. A comedy, as it was acted at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane., Hill, Aaron, 1685-1750.. [2],22p. ; 8⁰. [London] :: Printed in the year,. 1709.. [Anonymous. By Aaron Hill.] ["comedy" in title is a paste-over covering the words: "farce of one act.".] [Reproduction of original from the Bodleian Library (Oxford).] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN24813.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.