Quotes by Aphra Behn

I must own, Sir, the Obligations I have to you, deserves a greater testimony of my respect, than this little piece, too trivial to bear the honour of your Name, but my increasing Indisposition makes me fear I shall not have many opportunities of this Kind, and shou'd be loath to leave this ungrateful World, without acknowledging my Gratitude more signally than barely by word of Mouth, and without wishing you all the happiness your merit and admirable Vertues deserve and of assuring you how unfeignedly I am (and how Proud of being) Sir, Your most obliged and most humble servant A. Behn. THE LUCKY MISTAKE: A NEW NOVEL. The River _Loyre_ has on its delightful Banks abundance of handsome, beautiful and rich Towns and Villages, to which the noble Stream adds no small Graces and Advantages, blessing their Fields with Plenty, and their Eyes with a thousand Diversions. In one of these happily situated Towns, called _Orleans_, where abundance of People of the best Quality and Condition reside, there was a rich Nobleman, now retir'd from the busy Court, where in his Youth he had been bred, weary'd with the Toils of Ceremony and Noise, to enjoy that perfect Tranquillity of Life, which is no where to be found but in Retreat, a faithful Friend, and a good Library; and, as the admirable _Horace_ says, in a little House and a large Garden. Count _Bellyaurd_, for so was this Nobleman call'd, was of this Opinion; and the rather, because he had one only Son, called _Rinaldo_, now grown to the Age of fifteen, who having all the excellent Qualities and Graces of Youth by Nature, he would bring him up in all Virtues and noble Sciences, which he believ'd the Gaiety and Lustre of the Court might divert: he therefore in his Retirement spar'd no Cost to those that could instruct and accomplish him; and he had the best Tutors and Masters that could be purchased at Court: _Bellyaurd_ making far less Account of Riches than of fine Parts. He found his Son capable of all Impressions, having a Wit suitable to his delicate Person, so that he was the sole Joy of his Life, and the Darling of his Eyes. In the very next House, which join'd close to that of _Bellyaurd's_, there lived another Count, who had in his Youth been banished the Court of _France_ for some Misunderstandings in some high Affairs wherein he was concern'd: his Name was _De Pais_, a Man of great Birth, but of no Fortune; or at least one not suitable to the Grandeur of his Original.

_From overy Look, from every bashful Grace,_ _That still succeed each other in thy Face,_ _I shall the dear transporting Secret learn:_ _But 'tis a Pleasure not to be exprest,_ } _To hear it by the Voice confest,_ } _When soft Sighs breath it on my panting Breast._ } _All calm and silent is the Grove,_ _Whose shading Boughs resist the Day;_ _Here thou mayst blush, and talk of Love,_ _While only Winds, unheeding, stay,_ _That will not bear the Sound away:_ _While I with solemn awful Joy,_ _All my attentive Faculties employ;_ _List'ning to every valu'd Word;_ _And in my Soul the secret Treasure hoard:_ _There like some Mystery Divine,_ _The wond'rous Knowledge I'll enshrine._ _Love can his Joys no longer call his own,_ _Than the dear Secret's kept unknown._ There is nothing more true than those two last Lines: and that Love ceases to be a Pleasure, when it ceases to be a Secret, and one you ought to keep sacred: For the World, which never makes a right Judgment of things, will misinterpret Love, as they do Religion; every one judging it, according to the Notion he has of it, or the Talent of his Sense. _Love_ (as a great Duke said) _is like Apparitions; every one talks of them, but few have seen 'em_: Every body thinks himself capable of understanding Love, and that he is a Master in the Art of it; when there is nothing so nice, or difficult, to be rightly comprehended; and indeed cannot be, but to a Soul very delicate. Nor will he make himself known to the Vulgar: There must be an uncommon Fineness in the Mind that contains him; the rest he only visits in as many Disguises as there are Dispositions and Natures, where he makes but a short stay, and is gone. He can fit himself to all Hearts, being the greatest Flatterer in the World: And he possesses every one with a Confidence, that they are in the number of his Elect; and they think they know him perfectly, when nothing but the Spirits refined possess him in his Excellency.

Agnes_ was the most impatient to approach her, and the Princess could not forbear weeping, They were both silent for some time, and _Constantia_ attributed this silence of _Agnes_ to some Remorse which she felt: and this unhappy Maid being able to hold no longer; 'Is it possible, Madam, (said she) that two Days should have taken from me all the Goodness you had for me? What have I done? And for what do you punish me?' The Princess regarded her with a languishing Look, and return'd her no Answer but Sighs. _Agnes_, offended with this reserve, went out with very great Dissatisfaction and Anger; which contributed to her being thought criminal. The Prince came in immediately after, and found _Constantia_ more disorder'd than usual, and conjur'd her in a most obliging manner to take care of her Health: _The greatest good for me_ (said she) _is not the Continuation of my Life; I should have more care of it if I loved you less: but--_ She could not proceed; and the Prince, excessively afflicted at her trouble, sigh'd sadly, without making her any answer, which redoubled her Grief. Spite then began to mix it self; and all things persuading the Princess that they made a Sacrifice of her, she would enter into no Explanation with her Husband, but suffered him to go away without saying any thing to him. Nothing is more capable of troubling our Reason, and consuming our Health, than secret Notions of Jealousy in Solitude. _Constantia_, who us'd to open her Heart freely to _Agnes_, now believing she had deceiv'd her, abandon'd her self so absolutely to Grief, that she was ready to sink under it; she immediately fell sick with the violence of it, and all the Court was concern'd at this Misfortune: _Don Pedro_ was truly afflicted at it, but _Agnes_ more than all the World beside. _Constantia's_ Coldness towards her, made her continually sigh; and her Distemper created merely by fancy, caus'd her to reflect on every thing that offer'd it self to her Memory: so that at last she began even to fear her self, and to reproach her self for what the Princess suffer'd. But the Distemper began to be such, that they fear'd _Constantia's_ Death, and she her self began to feel the Approaches of it. This Thought did not at all disquiet her: she look'd on Death as the only relief from all her Torments; and regarded the Despair of all that approach'd her without the least concern. The King, who lov'd her tenderly, and who knew her Virtue, was infinitely mov'd at the Extremity she was in.

You lye, you would by any thing of Horror: yet these things of Horror have Beauties too, Beauties thou canst not boast of, Beauties that will not fade; Diamonds to supply the lustre of their Eyes, and Gold the brightness of their Hair, a well-got Million to atone for Shape, and Orient Pearls, more white, more plump and smooth, than that fair Body Men so languish for, and thou hast set such Price on. Aria. I like not this so well, ’tis a trick to make her jealous. Will. Their Hands too have their Beauties, whose very mark finds credit and respect, their Bills are current o’er the Universe; besides these, you shall see waiting at my Door, four Footmen, a Velvet Coach, with Six _Flanders_ Beauties more: And are not these most comely Virtues in a Soldier’s Wife, in this most wicked peaceable Age? Luc. He’s poor too, there’s another comfort. [Aside. Aria. The most incouraging one I have met with yet. Will. Pox on’t, I grow weary of this virtuous Poverty. There goes a gallant Fellow, says one, but gives him not an Onion; the Women too, faith, ’tis a handsom Gentleman, but the Devil a Kiss he gets _gratis_. 166 Aria. Oh, how I long to undeceive him of that Error. La Nu. He speaks not of me; sure he knows me not. [Aside. Will. —No, Child, Money speaks sense in a Language all Nations understand, ’tis Beauty, Wit, Courage, Honour, and undisputable Reason—see the virtue of a Wager, that new philosophical way lately found out of deciding all hard Questions—_Socrates_, without ready Money to lay down, must yield. Aria. Well, I must have this gallant Fellow. [Aside. La Nu. Sure he has forgot this trival thing. Will. —Even thou—who seest me dying unregarded, wou’d then be fond and kind, and flatter me. [Soft tone. By Heaven, I’ll hate thee then; nay, I will marry to be rich to hate thee: the worst of that, is but to suffer nine Days Wonderment. Is not that better than an Age of Scorn from a proud faithless Beauty? La Nu. Oh, there’s Resentment left—why, yes faith, such a Wedding would give the Town diversion: we should have a lamentable Ditty made on it, entitled, The Captain’s Wedding, with the doleful Relation of his being over-laid by an o’er-grown Monster. Will. I’ll warrant ye I escape that as sure as cuckolding; for I would fain see that hardy Wight that dares attempt my Lady Bright, either by Force or Flattery.

These Stories are the Fantoms of mad Brains, To puzzle Fools withal--the Wise laugh at 'em-- Come, Sir, you shall no longer be impos'd upon. _Doct_. No Emperor of the Moon, and no Moon World! _Char_. Ridiculous Inventions. If we 'ad not lov'd you you'ad been still impos'd on; You had brought a Scandal on your learned Name, And all succeeding Ages had despis'd it. [Doct. _leaps up_. _Doct_. Burn all my Books and let my study blaze, Burn all to Ashes, and be sure the Wind Scatter the vile contagious monstrous Lyes. --Most Noble Youths--you've honour'd me with your Alliance, and you, and all your Friends, Assistances in this glorious Miracle, I invite to Night to revel with me.--Come all and see my happy Recantation of all the Follies, Fables have inspir'd till now. Be pleasant to repeat your Story, to tell me by what kind degrees you cozen'd me. I see there's nothing in Philosophy-- [_Gravely to himself_. Of all that writ, he was the wisest Bard, who spoke this mighty Truth-- "He that knew all that ever Learning writ, Knew only this--that he knew nothing yet." [_Exeunt_. EPILOGUE, To be spoken by _Mrs. Cooke_. _With our old Plays, as with dull Wife it fares, To whom you have been marry'd tedious Years. You cry--She's wondrous good, it is confessed, | But still 'tis_ Chapon Boüillé _at the best; | That constant Dish can never make a Feast: | Yet the pall'd Pleasure you must still pursue, You give so small Incouragement for new; And who would drudge for such a wretched Age, Who want the Bravery to support one Stage? The wiser Wits have now new Measures set, And taken up new Trades that they may hate. No more your nice fantastick Pleasures serve, Your Pimps you pay, but let your Poets starve, They long in vain for better Usage hop'd, Till quite undone and tir'd, they dropt and dropt; Not one is left will write for thin third Day, Like desperate Pickeroons, no Prize no Pay; And when they have done their best, the Recompence Is, Damn the Sot, his Play wants common Sense, Ill-natured Wits, who can so ill requite The drudging Slaves, who for your Pleasure write.

I heard an _English_ Capuchin swear, that if the King’s Followers could be brought to pray as well as fast, there would be more Saints among ’em than the Church has ever canoniz’d. Will. All this with Pride I own, since ’tis a royal Cause I suffer for; go pursue your Business your own way, insnare the Fool—I saw the Toils you set, and how that Face was ordered for the Conquest, your Eyes brimful of dying lying Love; and now and then a wishing Glance or Sigh 134 thrown as by chance; which when the happy Coxcomb caught—you feign’d a Blush, as angry and asham’d of the Discovery: and all this Cunning’s for a little mercenary Gain—fine Clothes, perhaps some Jewels too, whilst all the Finery cannot hide the Whore! La Nu. There’s your eternal Quarrel to our Sex, ’twere a fine Trade indeed to keep a Shop and give your Ware for Love: would it turn to account think ye, Captain, to trick and dress, to receive all wou’d enter? faith, Captain, try the Trade. Pet. What in Discourse with this Railer!—come away; Poverty’s catching. [Returns from Discourse with _Feth._ speaks to _San._ Will. So is the Pox, good Matron, of which you can afford good Penniworths. La Nu. He charms me even with his angry Looks, and will undo me yet. Pet. Let’s leave this Place, I’ll tell you my Success as we go. [Ex. all, some one way, some another, the Forepart of the Church shuts over, except _Will._ _Blunt_, _Aria_, and _Lucia_. Will. She’s gone, and all the Plagues of Pride go with her. Blunt. Heartlikins, follow her—Pox on’t, an I’d but as good a Hand at this Game as thou hast, I’ll venture upon any Chance— Will. Damn her, come, let’s to Dinner. Where’s _Fetherfool?_ Blunt. Follow’d a good Woodman, who gave him the Sign: he’ll lodge the Deer e’er night. Will. Follow’d her—he durst not, the Fool wants Confidence enough to look on her. Blunt. Oh you know not how a Country Justice may be improved by Travel; the Rogue was hedg’d in at home with the Fear of his Neighbours and the Penal Statutes, now he’s broke loose, he runs neighing like a Stone-Horse upon the Common.

Ay faith, and nothing remains with me but the sad Remembrance—not so much as the least Part of her hundred thousand Crowns; _Brussels_ that inchanted Court has eas’d me of that Grief, where our Heroes act _Tantalus_ better than ever _Ovid_ describ’d him, condemn’d daily to see an Apparition of Meat, Food in Vision only. Faith, I had Bowels, was good-natur’d, and lent upon the publick Faith as far as ’twill go—But come, let’s leave this mortifying Discourse, and tell me how the price of Pleasure goes. 123 Beau. At the old Rates still; he that gives most is happiest, some few there are for Love! Will. Ah, one of the last, dear _Beaumond_; and if a Heart or Sword can purchase her, I’ll bid as fair as the best. Damn it, I hate a Whore that asks me Mony. Beau. Yet I have known thee venture all thy Stock for a new Woman. Will. Ay, such a Fool I was in my dull Days of Constancy, but I am now for Change, (and should I pay as often,’twould undo me)—for Change, my Dear, of Place, Clothes, Wine, and Women. Variety is the Soul of Pleasure, a Good unknown; and we want Faith to find it. Beau. Thou wouldst renounce that fond Opinion, _Willmore_, didst thou see a Beauty here in Town, whose Charms have Power to fix inconstant Nature or Fortune were she tottering on her Wheel. Will. Her Name, my Dear, her Name? Beau. I would not breathe it even in my Complaints, lest amorous Winds should bear it o’er the World, and make Mankind her Slaves; But that it is a Name too cheaply known, And she that owns it may be as cheaply purchas’d. Will. Hah! cheaply purchas’d too! I languish for her. Beau. Ay, there’s the Devil on’t, she is—a Whore. Will. Ah, what a charming Sound that mighty Word bears! Beau. Damn her, she’ll be thine or any body’s. Will. I die for her— Beau. Then for her Qualities— Will. No more—ye Gods, I ask no more, Be she but fair and much a Whore—Come let’s to her. Beau. Perhaps to morrow you may see this Woman. Will. Death,’tis an Age. Feth. Oh, Captain, the strangest News, Captain.

hah, does the Light deceive me, or is that indeed my Uncle, in earnest conference with a Cavalier?--'tis he--I'll step aside till he's past, lest he hinders this Night's diversion. [_Goes aside_. _Mor_. I say 'twas rashly done, to fight him unexamin'd. _Oct_. I need not ask; my Reason has inform'd me, and I'm convinc'd, where-e'er he has concealed her, that she is fled with _Fillamour_. _Jul_. Who is't they speak of? _Mor_. Well, well, sure my Ancestors committed some horrid crime against Nature, that she sent this Pest of Woman-kind into our Family,--two Nieces for my share;--by Heaven, a Proportion sufficient to undo six Generations. _Jul_. Hah? two Nieces, what of them? [_Aside_. _Mor_. I am like to give a blessed account of 'em to their Brother _Julio_ my Nephew, at his return; there's a new plague now:--but my comfort is, I shall be mad, and there's an end on't. [_Weeps_. _Jul_. My Curiosity must be satisfied,--have patience, Noble Sir.-- _Mor_. Patience is a flatterer, Sir,--and an Ass, Sir; and I'll have none on't--hah, what art thou? _Jul_. Has five or six Years made ye lose the remembrance of your Nephew--_Julio_? _Mor. Julio!_ I wou'd I had met thee going to thy Grave. [_Weeps_. _Jul_. Why so, Sir? _Mor_. Your Sisters, Sir, your Sisters are both gone.-- [_Weeps_. _Jul_. How gone, Sir? _Mor_. Run away, Sir, flown, Sir. _Jul_. Heavens! which way? _Mor_. Nay, who can tell the ways of fickle Women--in short, Sir, your Sister _Marcella_ was to have been married to this noble Gentleman,--nay, was contracted to him, fairly contracted in my own Chappel; but no sooner was his back turn'd, but in a pernicious Moon-light Night she shews me a fair pair of heels, with the young Baggage, your other Sister _Cornelia_, who was just come from the Monastery where I bred her, to see her Sister married. _Jul_. A curse upon the Sex! why must Man's Honour Depend upon their Frailty?