THE TOWN-FOP
A monologue from the
play by Aphra
Behn
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NOTE: This monologue is reprinted
from The Works of Aphra Behn, Vol. 3. Ed. Montague Summers.
London: Heinemann, 1915. |
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SIR TIMOTHY: I vow to Fortune, Ned, thou must come
to London, and be a little manag'd: 'slife, Man, shouldst thou
talk so aloud in good Company, thou wouldst be counted a strange
Fellow. Pretty--and drest with Love--a find Figure, by Fortune:
No, Ned, the painted Chariot gives a Lustre to every ordinary
Face, and makes a Woman look like Quality; Ay, so like, by Fortune,
that you shall not know one from t'other, till some scandalous,
out-of-favour'd laid-aside Fellow of the Town, cry--Damn her
for a Bitch--how scornfully the Whore regards me--She has forgot
since Jack--such a one, and I, club'd for the keeping
of her, when both our Stocks well manag'd wou'd not amount to
above seven Shillings six Pence a week; besides now and then
a Treat of a Breast of Mutton from the next Cook's.--Then the
other laughs, and crys--Ay, rot her--and tells his Story too,
and concludes with, Who manages the Jilt now; Why, faith, some
dismal Coxcomb or other, you may be sure, replies the first.
But, Ned, these are Rogues, and Rascals, that value no Man's
Reputation, because they despise their own. But faith, I have
laid aside all these Vanities, now I have thought of Matrimony;
but I desire my Reformation may be a Secret, because, as you
know, for a Man of my Address, and the rest--'tis not altogether
so Jantee.
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MONOLOGUES BY APHRA BEHN |
