In these three cases I have noted substantive changes between versions in the end notes.

It was common seventeenth-century practice to vary type for effect and emphasis, with proper names and important passages in italics and occasionally in variously sized capitals and in gothic script; in addition, nouns and other parts of speech were frequently capitalized. Spelling often differs from modern spelling and is inconsistent within the works and across works, and punctuation occasionally obscures meaning for a modern reader. Since this is a collection for the general reader I have regularized spelling and modernized punctuation, but only where this seems necessary. I have in addition avoided capitalization, italics and typographical extravagancies. I have not, however, altered words in the original except when the sense demanded it; these occasions have been recorded in the end notes. It is possible that Aphra Behn had the opportunity to correct works published in her lifetime; posthumously produced, The Widow Ranter, which may have been printed from manuscript or possibly from actors’ copies, is by far the most carelessly presented of her plays and it requires considerably more emendation and addition than the other works included in this anthology.

Information about the source and publishing history of individual plays, poems and prose works collected in this volume is provided in the initial end note to each work.

THE FAIR JILT 1
OR
THE HISTORY OF PRINCE TARQUIN
AND MIRANDA

AS love is the most noble and divine passion of the soul, so is it that to which we may justly attribute all the real satisfactions of life, and without it, man is unfinished, and unhappy.

There are a thousand things to be said of the advantages this generous passion brings to those, whose hearts are capable of receiving its soft impressions; for ’tis not every one that can be sensible of its tender touches. How many examples, from history and observation could I give of its wondrous power, nay, even to a degree of transmigration? How many idiots has it made wise? How many fools, eloquent? How many home-bred squires, accomplished? How many cowards, brave? And there is no sort or species of mankind on whom it cannot work some change and miracle, if it be a noble, well-grounded passion, except on the fop in fashion, the hardened, incorrigible fop so often wounded, but never reclaimed. For still, by a dire mistake, conducted by vast opinionatreism,2 and a greater portion of self-love, than the rest of the race of man, he believes that affectation in his mien and dress, that mathematical movement, that formality in every action, that face managed with care, and softened into ridicule, the languishing turn, the toss, and the back shake of the periwig, is the direct way to the heart of the fine person he adores; and instead of curing love in his soul, serves only to advance his folly; and the more he is enamoured, the more industriously he assumes (every hour) the coxcomb. These are love’s playthings, a sort of animals with whom he sports, and whom he never wounds, but when he is in good humour, and always shoots laughing. ’Tis the diversion of the little god, to see what a fluttering and bustle one of these sparks, new-wounded, makes, to what fantastic fooleries he has recourse: the glass is every moment called to counsel, the valet consulted and plagued for new invention of dress, the footman and scrutore3 perpetually employed; billets-doux4 and madrigals take up all his mornings, till play-time in dressing, till night in gazing; still, like a sun-flower, turned towards the beams of the fair eyes of his Celia, adjusting himself in the most amorous posture he can assume, his hat under his arm, while the other hand is put carelessly into his bosom, as if laid upon his panting heart, his head a little bent to one side, supported with a world of cravat-string, which he takes mighty care not to put into disorder, as one may guess by a never-failing, and horrid stiffness in his neck; and if he have an occasion to look aside, his whole body turns at the same time, for fear the motion of the head alone should incommode the cravat or periwig. And sometimes the glove is well managed, and the white hand displayed. Thus, with a thousand other little motions and formalities, all in the common place or road of foppery, he takes infinite pains to show himself to the pit and boxes,5 a most accomplished ass. This is he, of all human kind, on whom love can do no miracles; and who can no where, and upon no occasion, quit one grain of his refined foppery, unless in a duel, or a battle, if ever his stars should be so severe and ill-mannered to reduce him to the necessity of either. Fear then would ruffle that fine form he had so long preserved in nicest order, with grief considering that an unlucky, chance wound in his face, if such a dire misfortune should befall him, would spoil the sale of it for ever.

Perhaps it will be urged, that since no metamorphosis can be made in a fop by love, you must consider him one of those that only talks of love, and thinks himself that happy thing, a lover; and wanting fine sense enough for the real passion, believes what he feels to be it. There are in the quiver of the god a great many different darts; some that wound for a day, and others for a year; they are all fine, painted, glittering darts, and show as well as those made of the noblest metal; but the wounds they make, reach the desire only, and are cured by possessing, while the short-lived passion betrays the cheats. But ’tis that refined and illustrious passion of the soul, whose aim is virtue, and whose end is honour, that has the power of changing nature, and is capable of performing all those heroic things, of which history is full.

How far distant passions may be from one another, I shall be able to make appear in these following rules. I’ll prove to you the strong effects of love in some unguarded and ungoverned hearts; where it rages beyond the inspirations of a god all soft and gentle, and reigns more like a Fury from Hell.

I do not pretend here to entertain you with a feigned story, or anything pieced together with romantic accidents; but every circumstance, to a tittle, is truth. To a great part of the main, I myself was an eye-witness;6 and what I did not see, I was confirmed of by actors in the intrigue, holy men, of the Order of St Francis.7 But for the sake of some of her relations, I shall give my fair jilt a feigned name, that of Miranda; but my hero must retain his own, it being too illustrious to be concealed.

You are to understand, that in all the Catholic countries where Holy Orders are established, there are abundance of differing kinds of religious, both of men and women. Amongst the women there are those we call nuns, that make solemn vows of perpetual chastity; there are others who make but a simple vow, as, for five or ten years, or more or less; and that time expired, they may contract anew for longer time, or marry, or dispose of themselves as they shall see good; and these are ordinarily called Galloping Nuns.8 Of these there are several Orders; as, Chanonesses,9 Beguines,10 Quests,11 Swart-sisters,12 and Jesuitesses,13 with several others I have forgot. Of those of the Beguines was our fair votress.

These Orders are taken up by the best persons of the town, young maids of fortune, who live together, not enclosed, but in palaces that will hold about fifteen hundred or two thousand of these filles dévotes,14 where they have a regulated government, under a sort of abbess, or prioress; or rather, a governante.15 They are obliged to a method of devotion, and are under a sort of obedience. They wear a habit much like our widows of quality in England, only without a bando;16 and their veil is of a thicker crape than what we have here, through which one cannot see the face; for when they go abroad, they cover themselves all over with it, but they put them up in the churches, and lay them by in the houses. Every one of these have a confessor, who is to them a sort of steward: for, you must know, they that go into these places, have the management of their own fortunes, and what their parents design them. Without the advice of this confessor, they act nothing, nor admit of a lover that he shall not approve of; at least, this method ought to be taken, and is by almost all of them, though Miranda thought her wit above it, as her spirit was.

But as these women are, as I said, of the best quality, and live with the reputation of being retired from the world a little more than ordinary, and because there is a sort of difficulty to approach them, they are the people the most courted, and liable to the greatest temptations; for as difficult as it seems to be, they receive visits from all the men of the best quality, especially strangers. All the men of wit and conversation meet at the apartments of these fair filles dévotes, where all manner of gallantries are performed, while all the study of these maids is to accomplish themselves for these noble conversations. They receive presents, balls, serenades and billets; all the news, wit, verses, songs, novels, music, gaming, and all fine diversion, is in their apartments, they themselves being of the best quality and fortune. So that to manage these gallantries, there is no sort of female arts they are not practised in, no intrigues they are ignorant of, and no management of which they are not capable.

Of this happy number was the fair Miranda, whose parents being dead, and a vast estate divided between herself, and a young sister (who lived with an unmarried old uncle, whose estate afterwards was all divided between them) put herself into this unenclosed religious house; but her beauty, which had all the charms that ever Nature gave, became the envy of the whole sisterhood. She was tall, and admirably shaped; she had a bright hair, and hazel eyes, all full of love and sweetness. No art could make a face so fair as hers by Nature, which every feature adorned with a grace that imagination cannot reach: every look, every motion charmed, and her black dress showed the lustre of her face and neck. She had an air, though gay as so much youth could inspire, yet so modest, so nobly reserved, without formality, or stiffness, that one who looked on her would have imagined her soul the twin-angel of her body; and both together, made her appear something divine. To this she had a great deal of wit, read much, and retained all that served her purpose.