The Peckham frolic: or Nell Gwyn. A comedy: in three acts.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- Advertisement.

- Characters.

- ACT I.

- ACT II.

- ACT III.

- [publishersadvertisement]

THE PECKHAM FROLIC: OR NELL GWYN.

A Comedy: IN THREE ACTS.

London: PRINTED FOR J. HATCHARD, OPPOSITE BURLINGTON HOUSE, PICCADILLY.

1799.

Advertisement.

THE following dramatic whim having afforded some amusement to a small but polished and enlightened circle, the author is tempted to offer it to the candour of a more extensive tribunal.

Characters.

- THE KING,

- LORD ROCHESTER,

- SIR CHARLES SEDLEY,

- THOMAS KILLIGREW,

- SIR OLIVER LUKE,

- ANN KILLIGREW, afterwards Lady Luke,

- NELL GWYN,

- Servants, &c.

THE Scene is laid at Peckham, (in Surry,) Where Charles the Second frequently resided With some select Companions.

ACT I.

Enter NELL GWYN and KILLIGREW.

KILLIGREW.

THE King, I find, is not expected today.

Nell Gwyn.

My hero is gone to the Olympic games at Newmarket; nor do I know when he will return.

Killigrew.

That is unfortunate; for I understand that Sir Oliver Luke, the formal knight who was created by CROMWELL, is coming here to present a petition by the King's appointment.

Nell Gwyn.

'Tis very true.

Killigrew.

What can we do with this ragged remnant of the commonwealth?

Nell Gwyn.

I intend to keep him till the King returns.

Killigrew.

He will be a projecting rock, and break the flowing course of our merriment.

Nell Gwyn.

Perhaps not: I have been forming a scheme, in the prosecution of which I must beg your assistance. I mean to sacrifice this Cromwelian calf at the altar of Hymen.

Killigrew.

Who is to be the priestess at this altar?

Nell Gwyn.

Your maiden aunt, Ann Killigrew.

Killigrew.

Impossible! you cannot be serious.

Nell Gwyn.

I beg your attention for a moment:—Ann Killigrew has been invariably my friend. Long before I was the Infanta's deputy, she was zealous in my service: she encouraged my propensity to comedy, flattered my feeble talent, and obtained my admission to the stage.

Killigrew.

But what has this to do with her marrying Sir Oliver?

Nell Gwyn.

Suppress your impatience:—you shall know in a moment. My friend has laughed away 45 years, inattentive to her interest, and careless of her income, which, like a glittering bubble, glided down the stream so fast, till at length if burst. I propose, that, in this shipwreck of her fortune, the Oliverian knight shall save her from sinking.—Thus I have an opportunity offered me of repaying her friendship.

Killigrew.

This is one of your whimsical flights, an airy child of your creation—a chimera.

Nell Gwyn.

No chimera, I assure you: Sir Oliver will most certainly apply to the intervention of my good offices, for the success of his memorial: I shall freely promise him my interest; and shall intimate to him, at the same time, that a matrimonial connection with some royalist would smooth every obstacle to his petition; as it would be a proof to the king of the truth of his political conversion.

Killigrew.

I allow that the avaricious knight will be governed by his interest: but how will you induce the lady to connect herself with this formal old batchelor? take my word she will never relish a seast composed of such obsolete ingredients.

Nell Gwyn.

The person, my dear Killigrew, who waits for dinner, till it is very late, without having taken any intervening refreshment, is not exacting or fastidious concerning the cookery. Direct the application to Ann Killigrew, and you will not, I think, despair of my obtaining her consent. I hear a carriage; it is most likely the knight with his formality and his memorial. I beg you will receive him, and inform him of my royal injunction, to stay here till the arrival of his majesty. As to the matrimonial negociation, leave that entirely to me.

Killigrew.

Depend upon it you will not succeed, in assimilating such incongruities, as the formal knight and the laughter-loving dame, Ann Killigrew.

Nell Gwyn.

If I do not succeed, the negociating part will divert me: In the comedy of life, as well as of the theatre, I require some under plot beside the main design—Adieu.

[Exit.

Killigrew.

Though I have nothing to do with the negociation, I may perhaps be able to chissel away some rough parts of the moving statue.

Enter Servant, and announces SIR OLIVER LUKE.

Killigrew.

I am ordered, Sir Oliver, to do the honours of this mansion, and to welcome you to Peckham—My name is Killigrew.

Sir Oliver.

I am proud to form an acquaintance with so celebrated a young gentleman.

Killigrew.

I did not expect flattery from the lips of Sir Oliver Luke: but you speak the language of the country you now honour with your presence.

Sir Oliver.

There, Mr. Killigrew, you touch the difficulty under which I labour. To the language of Peckham, its manners, its usages, its habits, I am an ignorant foreigner.

Killigrew.

Do not be disheartened on that account; we shall be happy to naturalise you among us. In the first place, I have to inform you, that the beautiful lady of this mansion insists upon your remaining here, till his Majesty returns.

Sir Oliver.

Business of great importance, I presume, detains him, as his Majesty appointed me to be here this morning.

Killigrew.

My good Sir Oliver, as you are not a shepherdess, you must not expect the royal shepherd to be scrupulously exact to his appointment with you; and, as you are a going to be a member of the Peckham Club, I will take the liberty of asking a few preliminary questions, which compose as it were a qualifying test to your initiation.

Sir Oliver.

I am ready and proud to answer any question made me by Mr. Killigrew.

Killigrew.

Can you, Sir Oliver, pour down a bumper to the King's health without coughing?

Sir Oliver.

I can assure you I am a perfect proselyte, as to that ceremony?

Killigrew.

Can you bear the sight of a Bishop.

Sir Oliver.

I must confess Mr. Killigrew, that my mind still revolts at the lawn sleeve; but I presume I shall not meet with any of that order in this mansion.

Killigrew.

Most assuredly not: the Queen of Peckham is rather a diffenter in that particular; she has no communication with the episcopacy.

Sir Oliver.

I should imagine it would be of use to me to study with some attention the royal almanack.

Killigrew.

I shall beg leave to recommend to your notice a court calendar that I am compiling, in which you will meet with innumerable red letter-days and holy-days; but no saints, some martyrs, and scarce one virgin.

Sir Oliver.

You there gave a specimen of the idiom that obtains under this roof, of which I do not possess the first elements.

Killigrew.

The language spoken here is the same as is used at Whitehall; and it is a language acquired without much difficulty, as it is not very copious: for example, we have but two vowels which govern our whole alphabet, and they are U and I: but U is always kept in slavish subjection to I.

Sir Oliver.

I am not so dull, but what I can guess a little at your meaning, and shall avail myself of your instructions.

Killigrew.

Here then concludes our first lesson; but, before we are interrupted, permit me, Sir Oliver, to make you an offer of my interest with his Majesty, with whom I am in the habit of intimacy.

Sir Oliver.

My gratitude binds me to you for ever. I regret it is not in my insignificant power to make you a return.

Killigrew.

Indeed, my dear Sir Oliver, you have it in your power to serve me: I am now going to speak in the most undisguised manner; and I must tell you, that, although I reside at Whitehall, and bask as it were in the very rays of royalty, I am sorry to add, that no silver rivulets refresh the torrid region,—no golden showers descend. The pipes and conductors of the royal stream sleep in disgraceful repose—the playful fountains of royal remuneration glitter no more to the garish day.

Indeed, my dear Sir Oliver, you have it in your power to serve me: I am now going to speak in the most undisguised manner; and I must tell you, that, although I reside at Whitehall, and bask as it were in the very rays of royalty, I am sorry to add, that no silver rivulets refresh the torrid region,—no golden showers descend. The pipes and conductors of the royal stream sleep in disgraceful repose—the playful fountains of royal remuneration glitter no more to the garish day.

Sir Oliver.

I beg, Mr. Killigrew, you will indulge me with a commentary; for I do not comprehend one word of your text.

Killigrew.

I am at present like the rest of my brethren the courtiers, not in a state of the greatest affluence; and if I could obtain from your generosity the sum of five hundred pounds, you would essentially serve me: This act of complacency would operate in your regard like a magician; it would immediately mature our commencing friendship, and invigorate my zeal for your interest.

Sir Oliver. (aside).

What must I do with this beggarly royalist? I must not let his intimacy with the king act to my disfavour.

Killigrew.

Well, Sir Oliver, have you lost the powers of speech? I hope his Majesty will not take up so much considering time in granting the object of your memorial.

Sir Oliver.

I accede to your request, and will in a few days supply you with the sum you demand.

Killigrew.

Which sum I will repay in as many months, upon my honour.

Sir Oliver.

That is sufficient.

Enter Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

Killigrew.

Give me leave, Sir Charles, to present you to my worthy friend, Sir Oliver Luke.

Sir Charles Sedley.

The Queen of our society sent me here on purpose to have that honour.

Killigrew.

Sir Oliver, this is the gentleman of whom Rochester says:

Sedley has that prevailing gentle art

That can, with a resistless charm, impart

The soster wishes to the chastest heart.

Sir Oliver.

I am proud to take Sir Charles Sedley by the hand: I know he is one of the most splendid stars of the court.

Sir Charles Sedley.

I am in doubt whether or no, I shall be vain of that compliment; for since, Sir Oliver, you denominate us courtiers stars, it seems as if you thought our whole crowded constellation made at most a brilliant night, since the sun of the common-wealth is gone down.

Sir Oliver.

Indeed, Sir Charles, I meant no such thing.

Killigrew.

Sedley, you are too severe with my friend. Sir Oliver acknowledges his past errors: He wishes to be a convert, and has chosen me for his confessor.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Let me also put a hand to this good work: I think Killigrew, between you and me, our catechumen will soon acquire the necessary qualifications.

Sir Oliver.

I am sure, under such professors, even a scholar as dull as myself cannot fail of making a rapid progress.

Sir Charles Sedley.

And if you should not make a rapid progress, it matters not; since your masters take no entrance money.

Sir Oliver. (aside).

That is not strictly true: one master has made me pay five hundred pounds entrance.

Killigrew.

Suppose, Sedley, we give our pupil a cursory knowledge of the current expressions in our society, which are stamped with our peculiar meaning. For example, Sir Oliver, when we speak of a Lady's monster, we always mean the Lady's husband.

Sir Charles Sedley.

You will frequently hear us say, such a Lady has a short memory; observe this has nothing to do with the retentive faculty in general, it only signifies that the Lady is inadvertent to one small unimportant article of the matrimonial state—that is to say, the vow of fidelity.

Sir Oliver.

I am apt to believe the Ladies at Whitehall are not peculiarly gifted with memory.

Killigrew.

Bravo, Sir Oliver, you are an apt scholar.

Sir Charles Sedley.

If you should hear us, by chance, call a man an unicorn; the meaning we apply to that term is, that the Gentleman is possessed of a wife, who has only once deviated from the conjugal path, and therefore he is not entitled to the full honours of the fraternity.

Killigrew.

I think it is quite superfluous to load Sir Oliver's memory with that term; for I smcerely believe, that, among the whole herd of courtiers, there is not one single unicorn.

Sir Charles.

We have other expressions which we admit; though, like bad coin, they scarce amount to half the value they pretend to.—When any person among us says, 'I promise you' such a thing; we interpret that expresson into a conditional value: that is to say, the person intends to keep his promise, unless some intervening objection should arise.—Is it not so, Killigrew?

Killigrew.

Most assuredly! Promises, with us, dissolve as easily as snow into water, when the sun shines.

Sir Charles.

Again: Suppose a man borrows money of you, and he solemnly declares that he will repay it upon his honour: we explain that affirmative negatively.

Sir Oliver.

How negatively.

Sir Charles.

That he means never to return the money.

Sir Oliver.

Indeed!

Sir Charles.

You appear ruffled, Sir, at what I say.

Killigrew, (confused.)

Sir Charles, you talk a little at random in the last instance.

Sir Charles.

What the devil is the matter? you both seem so confounded.

Sir Oliver.

I have no reason to be distrubed, since Mr. Killigrew tells me, that a promise, in the circle of Whitehail, dissolves like snow before the sun.

Enter NELL GWYN.

Sir Charles.

Here comes the fair deity of our temple.

Nell Gwyn.

I make no apology, Sir Oliver, for not waiting upon you sooner, as I knew you was in such agreeable company.

Sir Oliver.

Indeed, madam, these young gentlemen have been extremely entertaining, and have also condescended to give me some instructions, of which I shall avail myself.

Sir Charles Sedley.

You are too courteous; any information you may have received from me, is not worth the value of a groat.

Sir Oliver.

I ask your pardon, Sir Charles; your information is to me worth 500l.

Killigrew.

You affix, Sir Oliver, too literal a meaning to what Sedley just now advanced.

Nell Gwyn.

Gentlemen, you must take another time to settle your dispute; I beg you will leave me alone with my new acquaintance, as I have something to communicate to Sir Oliver of a private nature.

Sir Charles and Killigrew.

We obey your commands.

[Exeunt.

Sir Oliver (aside)

What would our reverend Elders say, if they knew I was tête-a-tète with Nell Gwyn?

Nell Gwyn.

I am apprised of the object of the paper you have to present to a certain great personage, and you may rely on the influence I may possess with regard to his Majesty.

Sir Oliver.

Your affability equals your beauty.

Nell Gwyn.

I must, however, inform you, that my warm wishes for your success will not be powerful enough to persuade his Majesty to accede to a grant of such magnitude, without some strong assurance of your being a sincere and contrite convert to the royal cause.

Sir Oliver. (Emphatically)

I renounce the Common-wealth.

Nell Gwyn.

Yes! like the shard-born beetle that creeps out of a ruin. But, to throw off the veil of disguise, I assure you, Sir Oliver, that nothing would strengthen your interest with the King so much, as the entering into a matrimonial contact with some lady of the court.

Sir Oliver.

What young lady of the Court would stoop to a knight of the late Common-wealth, whose age is fifty-eight?

Nell Gwyn.

There are ladies who have passed their meridian, and whose years amounting to the number (I'll suppose) of forty-two, would easily assimilate with the number fifty-eight. The two separate numbers, thus coupled, would summed up make exactly 4258, which union carries with it a good omen; for it is the number that came up the first prize in the last year's lottery.

Sir Oliver.

I am afraid, Madam, you are bantering with your humble servant.

Nell Gwyn.

I never was more in earnest in my life: I have a lady in view, who would suit you in every respect: She is about the age I mentioned; displaying a rich shew of autumnal beauty; attended by all the charms that affability, courteousness, sprightliness, and innocence, can bestow.

Sir Oliver.

You will forgive me, if I interpose a doubt concerning the last article of the inventory.

Nell Gwyn.

Her innocence, I suppose, you mean?

Sir Oliver.

I do!

Nell Gwyn.

The last article of the inventory is as much her property as her other good qualities: and, it is an additional merit to have lived so many years in the warm climate of Whitehall, without singeing the ermine of her innocence. Lord Rochester frequently compares her to an isicle hanging over the mouth of a volcano:—and take notice, Sir Oliver, that Rochester is of great authority on a subject of this nature.

Sir Oliver.

But this immaculate lady, whoever she may be, knows nothing of your humble servant.

Nell Gwyn.

I will perform the part of Cupid in this business; I will lay the cornerstone of this new temple of love.

Sir Oliver.

If it was the first day of April, I should be apt to think, Madam, that you intended to—You understand what I mean.

Nell Gwyn.

Indeed Sir Oliver, if I had a mind to be severe, I might say that the first of April need not take the trouble of coming for the purpose you allude to, as it would find the work already done: but I once more assure you, that I never was more resolutely in earnest. The marrying a lady for whom the King entertains the highest regard, will be the means, the only means, of promoting the success of your memorial. The coming into a matrimonial contact with a Lady of the Court, will be a passport to the royal favour—it will, like the waters of Lethe, wash out of remembrance your original spot of republicanism.

Sir Oliver.

I begin to think you are giving me wholesome advice—But may I not inquire who the fair Incognita is you intend for my bride?

Nell Gwyn.

I am happy to obsserve this youthful impatience in you—nevertheless, you shall not know who your bride is, till you are introduced to her; which will be in the course of a few hours.

Sir Oliver.

I confess, there is something romantic in all this, which does not displease me.

Nell Gwyn.

You shall have reason to boast the power of your attraction. The isicle, which did not melt as it hung over the Whitehall volcano, shall dissolve before the firebrand, of the commonwealth: Don't knit your brow, Sir Oliver, it does not become you—Indulge my frolicksome manner of talking; no reproach, no retrospective censure was intended. Look upon me as your friend—Adieu. I advise you, Sir Oliver, to go into the garden, and meditate among the flowers: the persume of the aromatic tribe sostens the heart and disposes it to love; it stimulates the imagination and tinges it with all the bright diversity of colouring—To the following lines Sir John Davies attempered his lyre, in the days of the Virgin Queen.

'Tis said that odours purify the brain,

Awake the fancy, and the soul refine:

Hence Old Devotion incense did ordain,

To make man's spirits apt for thoughts divine.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II.

Enter ANN KILLIGREW and NELL GWYN.

ANN KILLIGREW.

It is impossible not to laugh at this mad scheme of yours.

Nell Gwyn.

You ought to laugh, for you are the winner—consider his immense fortune.

Ann Killigrew.

How came the knight so easily into your toils?

Nell Gwyn.

I led him to think, that his marrying a lady of the court would be the only method of accomplishing the object of his petition

Ann Killigrew.

But I beg you will give me a short catalogue of the qualities of my bridegroom.

Nell Gwyn.

In the sirst place he has the character of good nature: as for his wit, I have not much to boast of; you, my dear, have enough of that commodity to serve you both.

Ann Killigrew.

How is his person?

Nell Gwyn.

His person observes a strict neutrality between invitation and disgust.

Ann Killigrew.

Well, as long as he is rich, and perfectly good humoured—

Nell Gwyn.

I make no doubt, but your dexterity will enable you to mould this republican lump into any form you please. I must, however, not forget to acquaint you, that he made a very penetrating inquiry into your moral character; and, though he hesitated belief, I convinced him at last of the purity of your conduct.

Ann Killigrew.

Indeed, my dear, I cannot but smile at the having you for a witness of my virgin innocence.

Nell Gwyn.

This witness, however, has effectually served you. My friendship in this instance triumphed over all my suspicions.

Ann Killigrew.

I am obliged to your friendship, but not to your suspicions.

Nell Gwyn.

Pretty innocent! are then my suspicions groundless?

Ann Killigrew.

Though it is impossible to refrain from laughing, at the arch look you now assume, and the significant tone of voice you gave to the last question: yet, the giddy laughter-loving Ann Killigrew can, with truth, assirm that your suspicions are not founded in fact.

Nell Gwyn.

To indulge that easy unrestricted flow of conversation, which peculiarly distinguishes our friendship, I must confess that I cannot easily comprehend, how you have escaped every snare that art and ingenuity prepared for you, in the younger part of your life.

Ann Killigrew.

You allude, I suppose, to the report concerning the Duke of Buckingham.

Nell Gwyn.

I do! and also to the report relative to Sir John Suckling, St. Evremond, Rochester, and even, old Waller.

Ann Killigrew.

I must own I had some felicitous escapes from these gentlemen: I must, however, except against one person on your list: I mean Sir John Suckling, with whom I never was a favourite.

Nell Gwyn.

There are enough remaining on the list, after Sir John is erased.

Ann Killigrew.

As for Buckingham, he was very assiduous, and extremely in earnest: he called upon me one day, when he was a candidate for my favour, at a time when, in the heat of his canvass, he presumed of his election. He found me reading the poem of Absalom and Achitophel (then recently published), in which you know Buckingham is excellently pourtrayed under the denomination of Zimri. I asked his Grace in what character he paid me the honour of a visit—whether as a lover, a painter, a chymist, a fidler, or a buffoon?—This, I suppose, enraged him; for he abruptly withdrew, and never returned.—So much for Buckingham—

St. Evremond was also very pressing to obtain my favour. He brought with him that refined civilisation, that elegance of manners, that playful converse, that enamelled wit, so characteristic of his countrymen. He talked a philosophical jargon, which I did not comprehend, though it pleased me. He laughed at the folly of the restrictive virtues, and sent them all to Milton's paradise of fools. But his ugliness unfascinated the powers of his eloquence: my Guardian Angel sat astride on the large wen on his forehead, and saved me from ruin—so much for St. Evremond.

Nell Gwyn. (Laughing)

I think your memoirs exceedingly entertaining; I beg you will continue your narrative.

Ann Killigrew.

Old Waller used also to shoot at me, but his bullets being nothing more than poetical sugar-plumbs, no mischief ensued. But the most formidable battle that ever I was engaged in, was against Rochester: It was some years ago, when he acted the part of a German conjuror in the city: the celebrity of 'the German fortune-teller excited my curiosity, for I had not the smallest intimation who it was—But I tire you perhaps.

Nell Gwyn.

Quite the reverse, I am impatience to hear the remainder of your story.

Ann Killigrew.

I dressed myself in the most simple manner, in the costume of a village girl: and stole away (at night) into the city, in a hackney coach. As soon as I was introduced to the venerable necromancer, he accosted me in these words:—"My beautiful little rustic, you will most certainly be wedded to the youth you love."—To which gracious prophecy I returned a very humble, aukward, and cottagelike curtesey. He added—"I perceive however, my dear girl, that the stars will not consent to the marriage you have so much at heart, till you have made some other person happy first; and the sooner you make some person happy, the sooner you will possess the youth of your affection." He next put a Portugal piece into my hand, then locked the door, threw away his necromantic garment, tore off his whiskers, dismissed his hoary locks, and suddenly the German Doctor was transformed into the gay, the daring, the amorous Rochester.

Nell Gwyn.

I begin to tremble for you.

Ann Killigrew.

In that alarming moment, where was my governess? She had run off with a Captain of the Guards the day before. My three maiden aunts, where were they?—the three scare-crow guardians of the Hesperian fruit! They were caterwauling round some card table. Where was my poor grandmother? She was at rest with my ancestors, in the honourable vault of the Killigrews?

Nell Gwyn.

Where was your virginity?

Ann Killigrew.

Secure in the circle of six watchmen, who broke open the door, attended by constables who came with a warrant to seize the German Doctor, under the notion of his being a spy. I applied to the reverend watchmen for protection, and they conducted me through Maiden-Alley, to a coach.—So much for Rochester.

Enter Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

Sir Charles Sedley.

I have to tell Miss Ann Killigrew, that her inamorato will wait upon her immediately: He has almost finished his toilet: I left him adjusting his new black perriwig, whose virgin curls have never been kissed by the amorous gales. He has been scenting his bushy eye-brows with the essence of jessamine.

Ann Killigrew.

Do you envy his destiny?

Sir Charles Sedley.

Upon my soul, I think he is a lucky dog, and I rejoice to find you are going to honour the married state: An unmarried woman is an instrument without a musician.

Nell Gwyn.

A ravishing lute, without a lutist.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Or as an old lady obseryed to me the other day,—'we unmarried women' said she 'are the roses without a thorn.'

Ann Killigrew.

But why, Sir Charles, don't you practise the doctrine you recommend? You are a widower, but as you do not appear a disconsolate one, why do you not resume the conjugal yoke?

Sir Charles Sedley.

It is my intention, I look upon myself a pierre d'attente, a corner-stone left out from a building to be connected with another edifice.

Ann Killigrew.

I really am of opinion, the marriage state has several advantages.

Nell Gwyn.

Particularly if the husband be as rich as Sir Oliver.

Ann Killigrew.

I mean independent of that consideration.

Nell Gwyn.

It secures one from temptation.

Sir Charles Sedley.

From which one is never secure in a state of celibacy, not even in a nunnery. I have an old aunt a nun at Antwerp, who is frequently troubled with temptations: The Abbess proposed that she should ring the church bell whenever she was tempted, to give notice to the community to pray for her, and sometimes the old lady is ringing the whole day long.

Nell Gwyn.

Bravo, Sir Charles! This is a most excellent family anecdote.

Enter Sir OLIVER and KILLIGREW.

Nell Gwyn.

Sir Oliver, give me leave to present you to Miss Ann Killigrew, my most intimate friend, whom I propose as an amiable companion for the remainder of your journey through life.

[Sir OLIVER Bows, offers to speak, but cannot procced.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Sir Oliver, I perceive is tongue-tied with extasy.

Ann Killigrew.

I suppose it is incumbent on me, Sir Oliver, to express my gratitude for the flattering distinction with which you are going to honour me.

Nell Gwyn.

My dear Ann, I beg you will not be rhetorical, and attempt any flourishing speech:—As the conversation of lovers affects solitude, let me advise you to accompany Sir Oliver in the long shady arbour.

Ann Killigrew.

I certainly can have no objection to what you propose.

Sir Oliver.

I cherish the proposal, and should wish to have some private conference with this lady. Give me leave to attend you.

[Offers his hand.

Nell Gwyn.

Miss Killigrew, I wish you a pleasant walk, I hope my dear, you will not stand in need of your friends the watchmen, upon this occasion.

[Excunt ANN KILLIGREW and Sir OLIVER.

Well I must own I take a pride in having accomplished this business.

Killigrew.

This business is not so near being accomplished as you imagine. Sir Oliver just now assured me, that he would defer the ceremony till he had the approbation of the match from the King himself.

Nell Gwyn.

I am displeased to hear this: It is quite uncertain when the King will be here: And if the Knight should go from hence before the ceremony has taken place, we shall lose him without hope; for should he return to his round-headed relations—

Killigrew.

They would laugh him out of conceit with this marriage.

Nell Gwyn.

I ask your pardon; they never laugh, but they will sigh and groan him out of conceit with this union, and absolutely dissuade him from a courtly monarchical irreligious connection.

Enter LORD ROCHESTER.

Lord Rochester.

Queen Eleanor, I am the most faithful of your subjects. I find I am come to assist at a wedding. Is it possible, as I am this instant informed, that you are meditating so incongruous an assimilation, as to ingraft the savage oliverian crab on the luscious pine-apple?

Nell Gwyn.

Even so! But there is a difficulty which has just now occurred. The Knight will not accept, it seems, of the hand of my friend, without the King's concurrence, or rather his command; and as I do not expect the King, I am afraid the republican bear will break through my toils.

Lord Rochester.

I have a remedy at hand. I will ply him rapidly with the circling bottle after dinner, and make him so amorous, that I will charm from him a promise to marry the Lady to-morrow morning.

Nell Gwyn.

No, no, I have a better inventive head at a crisis that your Lordship. As you have performed the part of a conjurer with such success; suppose you try how you can act the King! The Cromwelian Knight has no personal knowledge of you, and has never seen his Majesty; it will consequently be no difficult matter to impose upon him.

Lord Rochester.

I am ready to perform the part you assign to me in this new Comedy, as it is for the benefit of Ann Killigrew.

Nell Gwyn.

When the Knight is presented to your Majesty, you will express to him your full approbation of the match, and then I will attend upon the willing pair to town, and desire one of the King's Chaplains to tie the knot immediately.

Killigrew.

It is a most excellent stratagem.

Nell Gwyn.

Sir Charles! I beg you will run to the King's apartment and bring back with you the garter and the blue ribband.

[Exit Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

Lord Rochester.

But will not his Majesty be displeased at the liberty I am now going to assume.

Nell Gwyn.

I will take upon myself the whole impropriety of this transaction: I am certain it will excite his laughter, and the King will lament that he did not come time enough to be a partaker of the frolick.

Enter Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

Nell Gwyn.

Let me invest your Majesty—

[She takes the ribband, and gives it to Lord Rochester, who puts it on.

Now gird your knee with this little badge, which I am apt to pronounce a whimsical badge of honour, since (if History speaks the truth) it was invented in memorial of a young slovenly Countess who did not know how to tie her garters.

Sir Charles Sedley. (Bowing).

May your Majesty's short reign be a prosperous one!

Nell Gwyn.

Go you two, directly, to the lovers: You, Sir Charles, inform the knight of his Majesty's arrival; and you, Killigrew, whisper in the ear of my friend, the stratagem that is carrying on, and order the carriage to be got ready immediately.

[Exeunt SIR CHARLES & KILLIGREW.

Lord Rochester.

Do not be offended, if, under the sanction of my transitory royal prerogative, I address you in a language I never dared utter before—Venus has many Cupids which at once denote her empire and the extent of her benevolence.

Nell Gwyn.

For shame, Rochester! is this acting a generous part toward your absent friend the King. If I had any pretensions to the title of Venus, my Cupids should not be link-boys to thrust their torches in every face.

Lord Rochester.

I intended no offence—it was only my libertine way of talking.

Nell Gwyn.

The man, who now possesses my undivided attachment, shall ever hold undivided possession. He is the final object of my wishes, my home, my constant residence. I beg you will look upon my former frailties as stations in my journey to the abode, from which I will never, never depart.

Lord Rochester.

Excellently, most excellently said. You have long gained my admiration, you have now conquered my esteem.

Nell Gwyn.

The esteem of Rochester, I fear, is a coin of doubtful value; however, such as it is, I will accept it.

Enter SIR OLIVER LUKE, ANN KILLIGREW, SIR CHARLES SEDLEY and KILLIGREW.

Permit me, Sir Oliver, to present you to his Majesty.

[SIR OLIVER kneels and kisses LORD ROCHESTER'S hand.

Sir Oliver, (much confused).

This honour Sire—this accumulated honour, most religious Sovereign—owing to her Ladyship, I ask pardon, I mean Mrs. Gwyn—I crave forgiveness, I should say Miss Eleanor Gwyn.

Lord Rochester.

It is impossible for me, Sir Oliver, to do justice to your elegant harangue by my own words—so I will only say that I am happy to commence an acquaintance with you.

Sir Oliver.

Here is the petition which your Majesty knows I was to deliver into your royal hands.

Lord Rochester.

My royal hands will put the petition into my royal pocket, and shall consider the contents at some other time and in some other place: For business is excluded from this spot, and only mirth and love are admitted. And therefore I rejoice to find you are going to add to the festivity of Peckham, by espousing my good friend Ann Killigrew.

Sir Oliver.

I am overjoyed to hear my intended marriage meets with the royal approbation.

Lord Rochester.

It meets with my most decided approbation, and will be a strong argument with me in favour of your petition.

Nell Gwyn.

I told you so, Sir Oliver!

Lord Rochester.

I hope before Apollo reclines on the lap of Thetis, you will conduct the fair nymph to the Hymeneal Temple.

Sir Oliver.

Are your royal words addressed to me?

Lord Rochester.

My meaning is, Sir Oliver, that I hope before the close of day, my friend will be entitled to the honourable appellation of Lady Luke.

Sir Oliver.

I am your Majesty's most obedient subject.

Lord Rochester.

If you please, Sir Oliver, I will write a note to my worthy friend Juxon, the Archbishop, and order him to perform the ceremony.

Sir Oliver.

By no means—by no means—by no means.

Nell Gwyn.

An inferior dignitary will answer the purpose as effectually.

Lord Rochester.

Why did Sir Oliver start at my proposal.

Nell Gwyn.

Sir Oliver is afflicted with an hereditary disease, called the anti-mitral-antipathy, which time only can eradicate.

Enter THE KING.

The King.

Heyday, what are you masquerading in the morning?

[Nell Gwyn runs up to the King and whispers.

Lord Rochester, (aside).

I fear I am going to be dethroned.

Killigrew, (aside).

This sudden arrival will put an end to the wedding.

Ann Killigrew, (aside to Sir Charles Sedley).

I begin to fear I must still perform, as you call it, the irksome function of a vestal.

The King, (advancing towards Lord Rochester.

I ask your Majesty's pardon, I did not at sirst perceive you was here.

Lord Rochester.

I am this instant arrived!

The King (to Nell Gwyn).

I little imagined the King would have been at Peckham before me.

Nell Gwyn, (taking the King by the hand).

Give me leave, Sir Oliver Luke, to present this brother knight, Sir Charles Stuart, to you.

Sir Oliver.

I am happy in forming an acquaintance with Sir Charles Stuart: I presume you received the honour of knighthood from his present Majesty.

The King.

I can't say I did.

Sir Oliver.

Then I suppose your honours flow from the same fountain as mine.

The King.

You mean the Protector?

Sir Oliver.

Yes! Sir Charles Stuart.

The King.

My title does not stream from so immaculate a fountain; my family is not under any particular obligations to the Protector.

Nell Gwyn.

Sir Charles Stuart, you must not engross your new acquaintance; for as I just informed you, he is going to be married. The carriage is at the door. Killigrew and I will attend Sir Oliver and Miss Killigrew to town, and we will bring them back in the evening bride and bridegroom.

The King.

I assure you, Sir Oliver, you are going to be united with the most amiable woman in England. If I had not been unluckily yoked in marriage with a d—'d Portugal merchant's daughter, I should myself have proposed to her. Give me leave, Miss Killigrew, to have the honour of handing you to your carriage.

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III.

Enter The KING, Sir CHARLES SEDLEY, and LORD ROCHESTER.

LORD ROCHESTER.

AT your command, I retain the honour of being your Majesty's usurper.

The King.

I beg the farce may be continued till the bride and bridegroom are introduced. Did not you say, Sedley, they were returned?

Sir Charles Sedley.

They are now coming up stairs.

Lord Rochester.

Is the reigning monarch or the pretender to salute the bride first?

The King.

The reigning monarch, by all means.

Enter SIR OLIVER LUKE, LADY LUKE, NELL GWYN, and KILLIGREW,

Nell Gwyn.

I have the honor of presenting Lady Luke to your Majesty.

Lord Rochester.

Allow me to touch these virgin lips.—Sir Oliver, I give you joy.

The King.

Your Majesty is incorrect—Lady Luke is the dispenser of joy upon this occasion. Sir Oliver, you and your amiable confort have my best wishes.

Sir Oliver.

Methinks, Sir Charles Stuart, you are too free with his Majesty.

The King.

My dear brother knight, you will perceive presently that I shall take a still greater freedom with his Majesty.

Sir Oliver.

In what manner?

The King.

I shall enter into a plot against him, and dethrone him.

Sir Oliver.

Dethrone his Majesty!—what blasphemy strikes my ear?

The King.

A blasphemy, Sir Oliver, to which your ear is not a virgin.

Sir Oliver.

Sir Charles Stuart, I wear a sword.

The King.

Then draw it in defence of his Majesty, whose reign will not extend to five minutes more.

Sir Oliver (to Nell Gwyn).

Good Lady, tell me what all this means?

Nell Gwyn.

Don't be alarmed.

The King.

I have no intention, Sir Oliver, of involving you in my plot, and of endangering your life, or of making Lady Luke a disconsolate widow.

Sir Oliver (to Lady Luke).

How can you laugh at this indecorous language?

Lady Luke.

Look round, Sir Oliver—You fee every person in the room is laughing.

Sir Oliver.

Damn these Peckham jokes, I don't comprehend them.

The King.

Sir Charles Sedley, I desire you to ungarnish his Majesty.

[Lord Rochester resigns the Ribband and Garter to Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.

Sir Oliver.

Is it possible?—is it possible?

[The King puts on the ribband and garter.

The King.

Now, Sir Oliver, will you kneel and salute my hand?

Sir Oliver.

I had rather be cuckolded this very night.

Lady Luke.

I am much obliged to you Sir Oliver.

Sir Charles.

I would be obliged to him, Lady Luke, if I was you, and take him at his word.

Lord Rochester.

And comfort me,—a poor dethroned monarch!

Nell Gwyn.

It is now time to put an end to this idle merriment. I direct my discourse to you, Sir Oliver, and now inform you that the innocent stratagem which has been played upon you was my invention, for the purpose of securing to my friend so honourable a partner for life.

Lord Rochester.

'Tis very true!

Sir Oliver (to Lord Rochester).

Are you not Sir, the King?

Lord Rochester.

For the misfortune of England, I am not.

Sir Oliver.

Who, then, is King?

Lord Rochester.

Your brother Knight, Sir Charles Stuart.

Lady Luke.

Indeed, Sir Oliver, that Gentleman speaks the truth: he is Lord Rochester; and the person, whom you imagine to be Sir Charles Stuart, is, upon my word, his most gracious Majesty, to whose protection I now consign my husband, Sir Oliver Luke—

[Leading Sir Oliver to the King.

Sir Oliver.

Do I dream? or have I lost my senses to day?

The King.

Not more at present than any other day: but I trust you will indulge this Peckham frolic, and I can assure you that your brother knight, Sir Charles Stuart, will prompt King Charles to grant to Sir Oliver the object of his petition.

Sir Oliver. (bowing)

I am your Majesty's truly devoted subject.

The King.

As the table is prepared, and spread with a splendid collation, let us sit down in harmony and goodhumour: dismiss the servants, and let the dumb-waiters, who have long had the character of being very discreet, have the full benefit of our convivial wit and merriment—

[They sit down to table.

Lord Rochester.

I perfectly concur with his Majesty, concerning the advantage of dumbwaiters. The ease and freedom of convivial festivity is thus betrer ascertained, with all the gay privileges of Commensality.

The King.

I never before heard the word commensality.

Lord Rochester.

It is an expressive word, invented by my friend, Sir Thomas Browne, the celebrated physician at Norwich.

Nell Gwyn.

Is it possible, Lord Rochefter, that you should call that man your friend? wicked, profane man! he wishes, in his Religio Medici, these are his very words, "that we might procreate like trees without conjunction!

Sir Charles Sedley.

This is treason against the enthroned majesty of nature.

Killigrew.

What does Lady Browne say to such a contemptuous declaration?

Lord Rochester.

She, like a loving wife, obtained his pardon from the queen of nature, on condition that he should make an Aménde Honorable, to which, it seems, he has consented, for he is the father of ten children.

The King.

As I am not a disciple of Sir Thomas Browne, nor consequently a friend to the arboreal procreation, I propose a bumper to the happiness of the bride and bridegroom.

Lord Rochester.

I second the proposal.

[They drink to the bride and bridegroom.

The King.

Now tell me, Rochester, what is become of your hebdomadal seraglio? I saw lately Monday and Saturday walking arm in arm together.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Your Majesty will see them no more.

Lord Rochester.

I beg, Sedley, you will not say any thing of this affair,

The King.

Now my curiosity is excited, I must intreat you, Sedley, to proceed.

Sir Charles Sedley

I shall most certainly obey your commands: and shall first inform my audience, that Rochester, in the plenitude of extravagance, collected seven nymphs, which he denominated by the days of the week. The beautiful hours that draw the car in Guido's famous picture, were not to be compared to the days of Rochester. They were, however, not halcyon days. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were tempestuous: Thursday was a peevish, ungenial day: Friday was sullen, and cloudy: and Saturday thundered like a scold.

Nell Gwyn.

Poor Rochester!

Sir Charles Sedley.

To conclude my narrative debts were incurred: the treasury of Rochester, not being adequate to the expenditure of the seven days. Yesterday morning, (horresco referrens) the whole week was sent to jail.

Lord Rochester.

Lazy, extravagant gypsies, they deserve their fate.

Sir Oliver.

Indeed, Lord Rochester, the epithet of lazy is ill applied: it appears to me that it was a very industrious week: for I do not meet with one holy day in it.

The King.

Bravo, Sir Oliver, I give you credit for that pun.

Sir Oliver.

I am bold to tell your Majesty. that I seldom offer at a smart saying; but when I do, it is my own:—I do not borrow from others.

The King.

You are then, Sir Oliver, like a country squire, who lives upon his own farm: who kills his own calf, and plucks his own geese.

Nell Gwyn.

With your Majesty's permission, I will call for a song—I should wish to hear the Soldier's Catch—the words by Sir Charles Sedley.

[SIR CHARLES, LORD ROCHESTER, and KILLIGREW, sing.

THE SOLDIERS' CATCH.

IF some blood we have spilt,

To compound for the guilt

In Love's camp we'll do double duty;

Mankind we'll repair.

With the leave of the Fair,

And pay our arrears to true beauty.

The King.

Most excellently performed! observe, Sir Oliver, as you have been a soldier, the moral of the song seems particularly pointed at you.

Sir Oliver.

I am happy to see your Majesty so facetious.

Nell Gwyn.

As we have already drank to the bride and bridegroom, I beg leave to propose my favourite toast.

[SIR OLIVER looks at his watch.

Lord Rochester.

Sir Oliver! it is against the canon-law of this society to look at a watch.

The King.

I think, Sir Oliver should be exempted from the rule: it denotes no drowsiness in Sir Oliver—His looking at his watch is the same thing as looking at the countenance of Lady Luke; but I give you notice, Sir Oliver, that, if you look again at your watch, I shall obey your intimation, and adjourn the court.

Sir Oliver.

I hope I have committed no indecorum: I am now all impatience, madam, for your favourite toast.

Nell Gwyn. (rising)

Every body except his Majesty must stand up, while my toast is going round.

[Lifting up her glass.

I drink to the Royal oak, which, when the hellhounds of rebellion were in full chace, spread around its hospitable arms, and sheltered from destruction the monarch of my heart! hail to the Royal Oak!

Omnes.

Hail to the Royal oak?

The King.

It becomes me now to rise, and make my acknowledgments to the company for the honour they have conferred upon my good friend the oak. Now I will beg leave to offer a toast of my own; which the mistress of the house can witness is the one that I constantly give.

Lord Rochester.

Then, Sir, your toast is not a woman.

Nell Gwyn.

I ask your pardon, Lord Rochester, it is a woman.

Sir Charles Sedley.

'Tis then a beautiful woman you frequently see before your glass.

Nell Gwyn.

No, Sir! it is a Lady I never saw in my life. And, as there is an interesting circumstance annex'd to her, I humbly intreat his Majesty to relate it to the company.

The King.

I am very willing to comply with your request—At that eventful period of my life when I was obliged to wander in disguise, it happened that at the close of day, tortured with hunger and overpowered with fatigue, I adventured to approach the door of a magnificent seat, in order to solicit the charity of a little food. A young man, who by his emotion appeared to know me, begged he might introduce me to the respectable Lady of the mansion—a widow, whose name was Wyndham, and who was impatient, he said, of the honour of receiving me beneath her roof. He then led me into an antique hall, where sat, in an oaken richly carved chair, the aged Lady. A pleasurable air of affability illumed her countenance; still did her faded check display a lingering grace! a winter flower! Then slowly rising from her seat, the venerable form advanced, and thus she accosted me:—"Three sons! my valiant sons! were slain in battle, fighting in your father's cause! and at their side my little grandson, scarce fourteen, my lovely, my endearing Henry, fell!—Since that sad day oppressed with the weight of maternal affliction, I have daily implored the great dispenser of events to remove me from this scene of misery: but at this moment, I thank my God, that he decrees I still should linger on this side the grave, for the purpose of administering some little comfort to your unfortunate situation! The tear that now weeps down my cheek is not the effusion of parental sorrow, it is the gush of wounded affection for my afflicted Sovereign!" She then attempted to salute my hand, which I declined; and, yielding to the warm impulse of nature, with a grateful heart I threw my arms around her neck, and wept.—I now pour a libation to the venerable dame.[*]

Rochester.

I presume it is now my turn to propose a toast.

Nell Gwyn.

I will tell you who you shall give.

Rochester.

I accede to your proposal.

Nell Gwyn.

You shall give us, the Country Girl, whose fortune you told when you was the German Conjurer.

Rochester.

How is it possible you should know any thing of that incident?

Nell Gwyn.

The confusion you are in betrays you.

Lady Luke.

I hope you did not seduce the poor silly Country Girl?

Rochester.

I scorn your idea.

Lady Luke.

Have you never seen her since?

Lord Rochester.

Never.

Lady Luke.

You have often seen her, and have frequently spoken to her.

Lord Rochester.

Never, never.

Lady Luke.

Suppose I tell you, that you have been speaking to her this moment:—

[Mimicking the Country Girl.

Good Christian Doctor, tell me when I am to be married.

Lord Rochester.

Confusion! I recollect that voice. Had I known it had been you—

Lady Luke.

However, you will bear testimony to the innocence of the poor girl.

Lord Rochester.

Yes! But not to her integrity, for she robbed me of a guinea.

Lady Luke.

That guinea was well distributed among the watchmen who protected her.

Sir Oliver.

What are you talking of, Lady Luke?

Nell Gwyn.

We allude to a disguise her Ladyship once assumed, to deceive Lord Rochester.

The King.

I never heard of this frolic.

Nell Gwyn.

I will tell you the whole circumstance some other time.

The King.

Let me ask you, Rochester, if you have lately displayed any flashes of wit, if you have uttered any bon mot worth being recorded, without raising a blush on the female cheek?

Lord Rochester.

The latter part of your question is superfluous respecting blushes; for, though we live among the fair creation, and may very properly denominate them flowers, we cannot so properly give them the poetical appellation of Blushing Roses?

The King.

Very good!

Lord Rochester.

With regard to your Majesty's general inquiry, I must own I have been dull and melancholy of late.

Killigrew.

Rochester was delivered of a tolerable bon mot yesterday. We were walking, Sir, together, and we met Shadwell the poet: He accosted us, and said,—"Gentlemen, I wonder to see you abroad in such bad weather." To which Rochester replied. "I believe you and I are walking from different motives; I walk in order to get an appetite to my dinner; and you, perhaps, Mr. Shadwell, to procure a dinner for your appetite: and therefore you shall dine with me."

Nell Gwyn.

I think there is as much illnature as wit in that bon mot.

Lord Rochester.

However, the bard drank copiously of the viny helicon, till, big with the god, he reeled with poetic majesty into my carriage, which conveyed him home.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Give me leave to inform your Majesty that Sir Oliver is stealing again a glance at his watch.

The King.

Then I'll keep my word, and adjourn the Court.

[They all rise, the King goes to Lady Luke, and salutes her.

Sir Charles Sedley.

Are we, Sir, to follow your example?

The King.

By no means, I am in this instance only, Sir Oliver's taster! Before we part, I will repeat to the bridegroom four lines, written some time ago by Sir Charles Sedley, addressed to the bride:—

Were I Apollo? no! I would not chuse

The gay Ann Kill'grew for my darling muse;

Let other nymphs the learned mount ascend;

She should be Thetis!—and the day should end.

Now I imagine, Sir Oliver, that you are Apollo: here is Thetis, and the day is ended.—Adieu.

[The King retires—the Gentlemen follow.

Nell Gwyn.

I will now, as your Ladyship's bride-maid, attend you to your bedchamber; where, like a poor hare, after various windings, you will be taken on the very spot from which you sat out.

Lady Luke.

You never can be serious.

Nell Gwyn.

What has happened? You appear suddenly depressed.

Lady Luke.

It is impossible for me, in the present moment, not to be agitated.

Nell Gwyn.

What! does the spirited Ann Killigrew yield to visionary fears?

Lady Luke.

I beg you will suppress your jocularity for the present.

Nell Gwyn.

I will only add a few words more: as we both have gargled our mind with a little sputtering of the Latin tongue, I will disperse your apprehensions with a line from Martial's Epigrams:—Poete non dolet.

THE END OF THE THIRD AND LAST ACT.

Notes

*
See Hume.
↵

Lately published by J. Hatchard, THE FOURTH EDITION OF THE WELCH HEIRESS.

A COMEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

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Title statement

The Peckham frolic: or Nell Gwyn. A comedy: in three acts.

Jerningham, Mr. (Edward), 1737?-1812.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5111

ID [isbn10]

110602110X

ID [isbn13]

9781106021106

ID [TCP]

K100817.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3309976966

ID [ECLL]

0057900300

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— The Peckham frolic: or Nell Gwyn. A comedy: in three acts., Jerningham, Mr. (Edward), 1737?-1812.. [6],53,[1]p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for J. Hatchard,. 1799.. [Anonymous. By Edward Jerningham.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT126418.] [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).]

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