[]THE COUNTRY GIRL, A COMEDY.

SCENE Harcourt's lodgings.

HA, ha, ha! and ſo you are in love, ne⯑phew, not reaſonably and gallantly, as a young gentleman ought, but ſighingly, miſerably ſo—not content to be ankle-deep, you have ſous'd over head and ears—ha, Dick?

I am pretty much in that condition, indeed, uncle.

Nay, never bluſh at it—when I was of your age, I was aſham'd too;—but three years at College, and half a one at Paris, methinks ſhould have cur'd you of that unfaſhionable weakneſs—modeſty.

Could I have releas'd myſelf from that, I had, perhaps, been at this inſtant happy in the poſſeſſion of what I muſt deſpair now ever to obtain—heigho!

Ha, ha, ha! very fooliſh indeed.

Don't laugh at me, uncle; I am fooliſh, I know; but, like other fools, I deſerve to be pitied.

Prithee don't talk of pity; how can I help you?—for this country girl of yours is certainly mar⯑ried.

No, no—I won't believe it; ſhe is not mar⯑ried, nor ſhe ſhan't, If I can help it.

Well ſaid, modeſty;—with ſuch a ſpirit you can help yourſelf, Dick, without my aſſiſtance.

But you muſt encourage, and adviſe me too, or I ſhall never make any thing of it.

Provided the girl is not married; for I never, never encourage young men to covet their neighbours wives.

My heart aſſures me, that ſhe is not married.

O to be ſure, your heart is much to be rely'd upon—but to convince you that I have a fellow-feeling of your diſtreſs, and that I am as nearly ally'd to you in misſortunes as in relationſhip—you muſt know—

What, uncle? you alarm me!

That I am in love too.

Indeed!

Miſerably in love.

That's charming.

And my miſtreſs is juſt going to be married to another.

Better, and better.

I knew my fellow-ſufferings would pleaſe you; but now prepare for the wonderful wonder of wonders!

Well!—

My miſtreſs is in the ſame houſe with yours.

What, are you in love with Peggy too?

Well ſaid, jealouſy.—No, no, ſet your heart at reſt.—Your Peggy is too young, and too ſimple for me—I muſt have one a little more knowing, a little bet⯑ter bred, juſt old enough to ſee the difference between me and a coxcomb, ſpirit enough to break from a brother's engagements, and chuſe for herſelf.

You don't mean Alithea, who is to be married to Mr. Sparkiſh?

Can't I be in love with a lady that is going to be married to another, as well as you, Sir?

But Sparkiſh is your friend.

Prithee don't call him my friend; he can be [7] nobody's friend, not even his own—He would thruſt himſelf into my acquaintance, would introduce me to his miſtreſs, tho' I have told him again and again that I was in love with her, which inſtead of ridding me of him, has made him only ten times more troubleſome—and me really in love—He ſhould ſuffer for his ſelf⯑ſufficiency.

'Tis a conceited puppy!—And what ſucceſs with the lady?

No great hopes,—and yet, if I could defer the marriage a few days, I ſhould not deſpair;—her ho⯑nour, I am confident, is her only attachment to my ri⯑val—ſhe can't like Sparkiſh, and if I can work upon his credulity, a credulity which even popery would be aſham'd of, I may yet have the chance of throwing ſixes upon the dice to ſave me.

Nothing can ſave me.

No, not if you whine and ſigh, when you ſhould be exerting every thing that is man about you. I have ſent Sparkiſh, who is admitted at all hours in the houſe, to know how the land lies for you, and if ſhe is not married already.

How cruel you are—you raiſe me up with one hand, and then knock me down with the other.

Well, well, ſhe ſhan't be married.

This is Sparkiſh, I ſuppoſe; don't drop the leaſt hint of your paſſion to him; if you do, you may as well advertiſe it in the publick papers.

I'll be careful.—

An odd ſort of a perſon, from the country I believe, who calls himſelf Moody, wants to ſee you, Sir; but as I did not know him, I ſaid you were not at home, but would return directly; and ſo will I too, ſaid he, very ſhort and ſurly! and away he went, mum⯑bling to himſelf.

Very well, Will.—I'll ſee him when he comes.

Moody call to ſee me!—He has ſome⯑thing more in his head than making me a viſit—'tis to complain of you, I ſuppoſe.

How can he know me?

We muſt ſuppoſe the worſt, and be prepared for him—tell me all you know of this ward of his, this Peggy—Peggy what's her name?

Thrift, Thrift, uncle.

Ay, ay, Sir Thomas Thrift's daughter, of Hampſhire, and left very young, under the guardianſhip of my old companion and acquaintance, Jack Moody.

Your companion!—he's old enough to be your father.

Thank you, nephew—he has greatly the ad⯑vantage of me in years, as well as wiſdom—When I firſt launched from the univerſity, into this ocean of London—he was the greateſt rake in it; I knew him well, for near two years, but all of a ſudden he tooka freak (a very prudent one) of retiring wholly into the country.

There he gain'd ſuch an aſcendency over the odd diſpoſition of his neighbour, Sir Thomas, that he left him ſole guardian to his daughter, who forfeits half her fortune, if ſhe does not marry with his con⯑ſent—there's the devil, uncle.

And are you ſo young, ſo fooliſh, and ſo much in love, that you would take her with half her value? ha, nephew?

I'll take her with any thing—with nothing.

What! ſuch an unaccompliſh'd, aukward, ſilly creature—he has ſcarce taught her to write—ſhe has ſeen nobody to converſe with, but the country people about 'em; ſo ſhe can do nothing but dangle her arms, look gawky, turn her toes in, and talk broad Hampſhire.

Don't abuſe her ſweet ſimplicity—had you but heard her talk, as I have done, from the garden-wall in the country, by moon-light.

Romeo and Juliet, I proteſt, ha, ha, ha! Ariſe fair ſun, and kill the envious—ha, ha, ha! How often have you ſeen this fair Capulet?

I ſaw her three times in the country, and ſpoke to her twice; I have leap'd an orchard-wall, like Ro⯑meo, to come at her, play'd the balcony-ſcene, from an old ſummer-houſe in the garden; and if I loſe her, I [9] will find out an apothecary, and play the tomb-ſcene too, for I cannot bear to be croſs'd in love.

Well ſaid, Dick!—this ſpirit muſt produce ſomething—but has the old dragon ever caught you ſighing at her?

Never in the country; he ſaw me yeſterday kiſſing my hand to her, from the new tavern-window that looks upon the back of his houſe, and immediately drove her from it, and faſten'd up the window-ſhut⯑ters.

Very well, Will. I'll go up to 'em.

I hear Sparkiſh coming up—take care of what I told you—not a word of Peggy;—hear his intelli⯑gence, and make uſe of it, without ſeeming to mind it.

Mum, mum, uncle.

O, my dear Harcourt, I ſhall die with laugh⯑ing—I have ſuch news for thee—ha, ha, ha!—What, your nephew too, and a little dumpiſh or ſo—you have been giving him a lecture upon oeconomy, I ſuppoſe—you, who never had any, can beſt deſcribe the evils that ariſe from the want of it.—I never mind my own affairs, not I.—I hear, Mr. Belville, you have got a pretty ſnug houſe, with a bow-window that looks into the Park, and a back-door that goes out into it.—Very convenient, and well imagin'd—no young handſome fellow ſhould be without one—you may be always ready there, like a ſpider in his web, to ſeize upon ſtray'd women of quality.

As you us'd to do—you vain fellow you—prithee don't teach my nephew your abandoned tricks—he is a modeſt young man, and you muſt not ſpoil him.—

May be ſo; but his modeſty has done ſome miſchief at our houſe—my ſurly, jealous brother-in-law ſaw that modeſt young gentleman caſting a wiſhful eye at his forbidden fruit from the new tavern window.

You miſtake the perſon, Mr. Sparkiſh, I don't know what young lady you mean.

Explain yourſelf, Sparkiſh, you muſt miſtake—Dick has never ſeen the girl.

I don't ſay he has; I only tell you what Moody ſays. Beſides, he went to the tavern himſelf, and enquir'd of the waiter, who din'd in the back⯑room,—No. 4,—and they told him it was Mr. Bel⯑ville, your nephew—that's all I know of the matter, or deſire to know of it—faith.

He kiſs'd his hand, indeed, to your lady, Ali⯑thea, and is more in love with her than you are, and very near as much as I am; ſo look about you, ſuch a youth may be dangerous.

The more danger the more honour, I defy you both—win her and wear her, if you can—Dolus an vir⯑tus in love as well as in war—tho' you muſt be expedi⯑tious, faith; for I believe, if I don't change my mind, I ſhall marry her to-morrow or the day after.—Have you no honeſt clergyman, Harcourt, no fellow-colle⯑gian to recommend to me to do the buſineſs?

Nothing ever ſure was ſo lucky.

Why, faith, I have, Sparkiſh—my brother, a twin⯑brother, Ned Harcourt, will be in town to day, and proud to attend your commands—I am a very generous rival, you ſee, to lend my brother to marry the woman I love?

And ſo am I too, to let your brother come ſo near us—But Ned ſhall be the man; poor Alithea grows impatient—I can't put off the evil day any longer—I fancy the brute, her brother, has a mind to marry his country ideot at the ſame time.

How, country idiot, Sir!

Taiſez vous bete.

I thought he had been married already.

No, no, he's not married, that's the joke of it.

No, no, he is not married.

Hold your tongue—

Not he—I have the fineſt ſtory to tell you—by the by, he intends calling upon you, for he aſk'd me where you liv'd, to complain of modeſty there—He pick'd up an old raking acquaintance of his, as we came along together—Will. Frankly, who ſaw him with his girl, ſculking and mu [...]led up, at the play laſt night—he plagu'd him much about matrimony, and his [11] being aſham'd to ſhew himſelf; ſwore he was in love with his wife, and intended to cuckold him; do you, cry'd Moody, folding his arms, and ſcouling with his eyes thus—You muſt have more wit than you us'd to have—Beſides, if you have as much as you think you have, I ſhall be out of your reach, and this profligate metropolis, in leſs than a week—Moody would feign have got rid of him, but the other held him by the ſleeve, ſo I left 'em; rejoic'd moſt luxuriouſly to ſee the poor devil tormented.

I thought you ſaid, juſt now, that he was not married—is not that a contradiction, Sir?

Why, it is a kind of a one—but conſidering your modeſty, and your ignorance of the young lady, you are pretty tolerably inquiſitive methinks, ha, Har⯑court! ha, ha, ha!

Pooh, pooh! don't talk to that baby, tell me all you know.

You muſt know, my boody of a brother-in-law hath brought up this ward of his (a good fortune let me tell you) as he coops up, and fattens his chick⯑ens, for his own eating—he is plaguy jealous of her, and was very ſorry that he could not marry her in the country, without coming up to town; which he could not do on account of ſome writings or other; ſo what does my gentleman, he perſuades that poor ſilly girl by breaking a ſix-pence, or ſome nonſenſe or another, that they are to all intents married in heaven; but that the laws require the ſigning of articles, and the church ſervice to compleat their union—ſo he has made her call him huſband, and bud, which ſhe conſtantly does, and he calls her wife, and gives out ſhe is married, that ſhe may not look after younger fellows, nor younger fellows after her, egad; ha, ha, ha! and all won't do.

Thank you, Sir—what heav'nly news, uncle!

What an ideot you are nephew! And ſo then you make but one trouble of it; and are both to be tack'd together the ſame day?

No▪ no, he can▪t be married this week; he damns the lawyers for keeping him in town;—beſides [12] I am out of favour; and he is continually ſnarling at me, and abuſing me, for not being jealous.

There he is—I muſt not be ſeen with you, for he'll ſuſpect ſomething; I'll go with your nephew to his houſe, and we'll wait for you, and make a viſit to my wife that is to be, and, perhaps, we ſhall ſhew young Modeſty here a ſight of Peggy too.

Sir, here's the ſtrange odd ſort of a gentleman come again, and I have ſhewn him into the fore-parlour.

That muſt he Moody! well ſaid, Will, an odd ſort of a ſtrange gentleman indeed; we'll ſtep into the next room 'till he comes into this, and then you may have him all to yourſelf—much good may do you.

Remember that he is married, or he'll ſuſpect me of betraying him.

Shew him up Will. Now muſt I prepare my⯑ſelf to ſee a very ſtrange, tho' a very natural meta⯑morphoſis—a once high-ſpirited, handſome, well⯑dreſs'd, raking prodigal of the town, ſunk into a ſurly, ſuſpicious oeconomical, country ſloven—le voila.

Mr. Harcourt, your humble ſervant—have you forgot me?

What, my old friend Jack Moody! by thy long abſence from the town, the grumneſs of thy coun⯑tenance, and the ſlovenlyneſs of thy habit, I ſhould give thee joy—you are certainly married.

My long ſtay in the country will excuſe my dreſs, and I have a ſuit of law, that brings me up to town, and puts me out of humour—beſides, I muſt give Sparkiſh ten thouſand pounds to-morrow to take my ſiſter off my hands.

Your ſiſter is very much obliged to you—be⯑ing ſo much older than her, you have taken upon you the authority of a father, and have engaged her to a coxcomb.

I have, and to oblige her—nothing but cox⯑combs, or debauchees are the favourites now-a-days, and a coxcomb is rather the more innocent animal of the two.

She has ſenſe, and taſte, and can't like him; ſo you muſt anſwer for the conſequences.

When ſhe is out of my hands, her huſband muſt look to conſequences. He's a faſhionable fool, and will cut his horns kindly.

And what is to ſecure your worſhip from con⯑ſequences—I did not expect marriage from ſuch a rake—one that knew the town ſo well: fye, fye, Jack.

I'll tell you my ſecurity—I have married no London wife.

That's all one—that grave circumſpection in marrying a country wife, is like refuſing a deceitful, pamper'd, Smithfield-jade, to go and be cheated by a friend in the country.

I wiſh the devil had both him and his ſimile.

Well, never grumble about it; what's done can't be undone; is your wife handſome and young?

She has little beauty but her youth, nothing to brag of but her health, and no attraction but her modeſty—wholeſome, homely, and houſewifely—that's all.

You talk as like a grazier, as you look, Jack—why did you not bring her to town before to be taught ſomething?

Which ſomething I might repent as long as I live—No, no, women and private ſoldiers ſhould beig⯑norant.

But prithee why wouldſt thou marry her, if ſhe be ugly, ill-bred, and ſilly? She muſt be rich then.

As rich, as if ſhe had the wealth of the mo⯑gul—ſhe'll not ruin her huſband, like a London bag⯑gage, with a million of vices ſhe never heard of—then becauſe ſhe's ugly, ſhe's the likelier to be my own; and being ill-bred, ſhe'll hate converſation; and ſince ſilly and innocent, will not know the difference between me and you; that is, between a man of thirty, and one of forty.

Fifty, to my knowledge—

But ſee how you and I differ, Jack—wit to me is more neceſſary than beauty: I think no young woman ugly, that has it; and no handſome woman agreeable without it.

'Tis my maxim—He's a fool that marries; but he's a greater that does not marry a fool.—I know the town, Mr. Harcourt; and my wife ſhall be virtuous in ſpite of you or your nephew.

My nephew!—poor ſheepiſh lad—he runs a⯑way from every woman he ſees—he ſaw your ſiſter Ali⯑thea at the opera, and was much ſmitten with her—He always toaſts her—and hates the very name of Spark⯑iſh; I'll bring him to your houſe—and you ſhall ſee what a formidable Tarquin he is.

I have no curioſity, ſo give yourſelf no trou⯑ble.—You have heard of a wolf in ſheep's cloathing, and I have ſeen your innocent nephew kiſſing his hands at my windows.

At your ſiſter, I ſuppoſe; nor at her unleſs he was tipſy—How can you, Jack, be ſo outragiouſly ſuſpicious? Sparkiſh has promis'd to introduce him to his miſtreſs.

Sparkiſh is a fool, and may be, what I'll take care not to be—I confeſs my viſit to you, Mr. Har⯑court, was partly for old acquaintance ſake, but chiefly to deſire your nephew to confine his gallantries to the tavern, and not ſend 'em in looks, ſigns, or tokens, on the other ſide the way—I keep no brothel—ſo pray tell your nephew.

Nay, prithee, Jack, leave me in better hu⯑mour—Well, I'll tell him, ha, ha, ha! poor Dick, how he'll ſtare. This will give him a reputation, and the girls won't laugh at him any longer. Shall we dine to⯑gether at the tavern, and ſend for my nephew to chide him for his gallantry? ha, ha, ha! we ſhall have fine ſport.

I am not to be laught out of my ſenſes, Mr. Harcourt—I was once a modeſt, meek young gentle⯑man myſelf, and I never have been half ſo miſchievous before or ſince, as I was in that ſtate of innocence—And ſo, old friend, make no ceremony with me—I have [15] much buſineſs, and you have much pleaſure, and there⯑fore, as I hate forms, I will excuſe your returning my viſit; or ſending your nephew to ſatisfy me of his mo⯑deſty—and ſo your ſervant.

Ha, ha, ha! poor Jack! what a life of ſuſpicion does he lead! I pity the poor fellow, tho' he ought, and will, ſuffer for his folly—Folly! 'tis treaſon, murder, ſacrilege! When perſons of a certain age will indulge their falſe, ungenerous appetites, at the expence of a young creature's happineſs, dame na⯑ture will revenge herſelf upon them for thwarting her moſt heavenly will and pleaſure.

SCENE a Chamber in Moody's houſe.

PRAY, ſiſter, where are the beſt fields and woods to walk in, in London?

A pretty queſtion! why, ſiſter, Vauxhall, Ra⯑nelagh, and St. James's Park, are the moſt frequented.

Pray, ſiſter, tell me why my Bud looks ſo grum here in town, and keeps me up cloſe, and will not let me go a walking, nor let me wear my beſt gown yeſterday.

O, he's jealous, ſiſter.

Jealous! what's that?

He's afraid you ſhould love another man.

How ſhould he be afraid of my loving another man, when he will not let me ſee any but himſelf?

Did he not carry you yeſterday to a play?

Ay; but we ſat amongſt ugly people: he would not let me come near the gentry, who ſat under us, ſo that I could not ſee 'em. He told me none but naughty women ſat there—but I would have ventured for all that.

But how did you like the play?

Indeed I was weary of the play; but I lik'd hugeouſly the actors; they are the goodlieſt, propereſt men, ſiſter.

O, but you muſt not like the actors, ſiſter.

Ay, how ſhould I help it, ſiſter? Pray, ſiſter when my guardian comes in, will you aſk leave for me to go a walking?

A walking, ha, ha, ha! Lord a country gen⯑tlewoman's pleaſure is the drudgery of a footpoſt; and ſhe requires as much airing as her huſband's horſes.

But here comes my brother, I'll aſk him, tho' I'm ſure he'll not grant it.

O my dear, dear Bud, welcome home; why doſt thou look ſo ſropiſh? who has nanger'd thee?

You're a fool.

Faith, and ſo ſhe is, for crying for no fault—poor tender creature!

What, you would have her as impudent as yourſelf, as arrant a gilflirt, a gadder, a magpye, and, to ſay all, a mere notorious town-woman!

Brother, you are my only cenſurer; and the honour of your family will ſooner ſuffer in your wife that is to be, than in me, tho' I take the innocent li⯑berty of the town.

Hark you, Miſtreſs, do not talk ſo before my wife: the innocent liberty of the town!

Pray, what ill people frequent my lodgings? I keep no company with any woman of ſcandalous reputation.

No, you keep the men of ſcandalous reputa⯑tion company.

Would you not have me civil, anſwer 'em at public places, walk with 'em when they join me in the Park, Ranelagh, or Vauxhall?

Hold, hold; do not teach my wife where the men are to be found: I believe ſhe's the worſe for your town ducuments already. I bid you keep her in ignorance, as I do.

Indeed, be not angry with her, Bud, ſhe will tell me nothing of the town, tho' I aſk her a thouſand times a-day.

Then you are very inquiſitive to know, I find?

Not I, indeed, Dear; I hate London: our place-houſe in the country is worth a thouſand of't; would I were there again.

So you ſhall, I warrant. But were you not talking of plays and players when I came in? you are her encourager in ſuch diſcourſes.

No, indeed, Dear, ſhe chid me juſt now for liking the player-men.

Nay, if ſhe is ſo innocent as to own to me her liking them, there is no hurt in't.

Come, my poor Rogue, but thou likeſt none better than me?

Yes, indeed, but I do; the player-men are finer folks.

But you love none better than me?

You are my own dear Bud, and I know you; I hate ſtrangers.

Ay, my Dear, you muſt love me only; and not be like the naughty town-women, who only hate their huſbands, and love every man elſe, love plays, viſits, fine coaches, fine cloaths, fiddles, balls, treats, and ſo lead a wicked town-life.

Nay, if to enjoy all theſe things be a town-life, London is not ſo bad a place, Dear.

How! if you love me, you muſt hate London.

The fool has forbid me diſcovering to her the pleaſures of the town, and he is now ſetting her agog upon them himſelf.

But, Bud, do the town-women love the player-men too?

Yes, I warrant you.

Ay, I warrant you.

Why, you do not, I hope?

No, no, Bud; but why have we no player-men in the country?

Ha! Mrs. Minx, aſk me no more to go to a play.

Nay, why, Love? I did not care for going: but when you forbid me, you make me as 'twere deſire [...].

So 'twill be in other things, I warrant.

Pray let me go to a play, Dear?

Hold your peace, I won't.

Why, Love?

Why, I'll tell you.

Nay, if he tell her, ſhe'll give him more cauſe to forbid her that place.

Pray, why, Dear?

Firſt, you like the actors; and the gal⯑lants may like you.

What, a homely country girl? No, Bud, no body will like me.

I tell you, yes, they may.

No, no, you jeſt—I won't believe you: I will go.

I tell you then, that one of the moſt raking fellows in town, who ſaw you there, told me he was in love with you.

Indeed, who, who, pray, who was't?

I've gone too far, and ſlipt before I was aware. How overjov'd ſhe is.

Was it any Hampſhire gallant, any of our neighbours?—Promiſe you, I am beholden to him.

I promiſe you, you lye; for he wou'd but ruin you, as he has done hundreds.

Ay, but if he loves me, why ſhould he ruin me? anſwer me to that. Methinks he ſhou'd not; I wou'd do him no harm.

Ha, ha, ha!

'Tis very well; but I'll keep him from doing you any harm, or me either. But here comes com⯑pany, get you in, get you in.

But pray, huſband, is he a pretty gentleman, that loves me?

In, baggage, in.

What, all the libertines of the town brought to my lodging, by this eaſy coxcomb! 'Sdeath, I'll not ſuffer it.

Here, Belville, do you approve my choice? Dear little rogue, I told you, I'd bring you acquainted with all my friends, the wits.

Ay, they ſhall know her as well as you your⯑ſelf will, I warrant you.

This is one of thoſe, my pretty rogue, that are to dance at your wedding to morrow, and one you muſt make welcome, for he's modeſt.

Harcourt makes himſelf welcome, and has not the ſame foible, tho' of the ſame family.

You are too obliging, Sparkiſh.

And ſo he is indeed—the fop's horns will as naturally ſprout upon his brows, as muſhrooms upon dunghills.

This, Mr. Moody, is my nephew you men⯑tioned to me; I would bring him with me, for a ſight of him will be ſufficient, without poppy or mandra⯑gora, to reſtore you to your reſt.

I am ſorry, Sir, that any miſtake, or impru⯑dence of mine, ſhould have given you any uneaſineſs; it was not ſo intended, I aſſure you, Sir.

It may be ſo, Sir, but not the leſs criminal for that—My wife, Sir, muſt not be ſmirk'd and nod⯑ded at from tavern windows; I am a good ſhot, young gentleman, and don't ſuffer magpyes to come near my cherries.

Was it your wife, Sir?

What's that to you, Sir,—ſuppoſe it was my grandmother?

I would not dare to offend her,—permit me to ſay a word in private to you.

Now old ſurly is gone, tell me, Harcourt, if thou lik'ſt her as well as ever—My dear, don't look down, I ſhould hate to have a wife of mine out of countenance at any thing.

For ſhame, Mr. Sparkiſh.

Tell me, I ſay, Harcourt, how doſt like her? thou haſt ſtar'd upon her enough to reſolve me.

So infinitely well, that I could wiſh I had a miſtreſs too, that might differ from her in nothing but her love and engagement to you.

Sir, Mr. Sparkiſh has often told me, that his acquaintance were all wits and railers, and now I find it.

No, by the univerſe, Madam, he does not rally now; you may believe him; I do aſſure you he is the honeſteſt, worthieſt, true-hearted gen⯑tleman; [20] a man of ſuch perfect honour, he would ſay nothing to a lady he does not mean.

Sir, you are ſo beyond expectation obliging, that—

Nay, egad, I am ſure you do admire her extremely, I ſee it in your eyes.—He does admire you, Madam, he has told me ſo a thouſand and a thouſand times—have not you, Harcourt? You do admire her, by the world, you do—don't you?

Yes, above the world, or the moſt glorious part of it, her whole ſex; and till now, I never thought I ſhould have envied you or any man about to marry: but you have the beſt excuſe to marry I ever knew.

Nay, now, Sir, I am ſatisfied you are of the ſociety of the wits, and railers ſince you cannot ſpare your friend, even when he is moſt civil to you; but the ſureſt ſign is, you are an enemy to marriage, the common butt of every railer.

Truly, Madam, I was never an enemy to marriage till now, becauſe marriage was never an enemy to me before.

But why, Sir, is marriage an enemy to you now? becauſe it robs you of your friend here? for you look upon a friend married, as one gone into a monaſtery, that is dead to the world.

'Tis indeed, becauſe you marry him; I ſee, Madam, you can gueſs my meaning: I do confeſs heartily and openly, I wiſh it were in my power to break the match; by heavens, I wou'd.

Poor Frank!

Wou'd you be ſo unkind to me?

No, no, 'tis not becauſe I wou'd be unkind to you.

Poor Frank, no, egad, 'tis only his kindneſs to me.

Great kindneſs to you, indeed—inſenſible! Let a man make love to his miſtreſs to his face.

Come, dear Frank, for all my wiſe there, that ſhall be, thou ſhalt enjoy me ſometimes, dear rogue: by my honour, we men of wit condole for our deceaſed brother in marriage, as much as for one dead [21] in earneſt: I think that was prettily ſaid of me, ha, Har⯑court?—But come, Frank, be not melancholy for me.

No, I aſſure you, I am not melancholy for you.

Prithee, Frank, do'ſt think my wife, that ſhall be, there, a fine perſon?

I cou'd gaze upon her, till I became as blind as you are.

How, as I am? how?

Becauſe you are a lover, and true lovers are blind, ſtock blind.

True, true; but, by the world, ſhe has wit too, as well as beauty: go, go with her into a corner, and try if ſhe has wit; talk to her any thing, ſhe's baſhful before me.

Sir, you diſpoſe of me a little before your time.

Nay, nay, Madam, let me have an earneſt of your obedience, or—go, go, Madam.

How, Sir, if you are not concern'd for the honour of a wife, I am for that of a ſiſter; be a pan⯑der to your own wife, bring men to her, let e'm make love before your face, huſt 'em into a corner together, then leave 'em in private! is this your town wit and conduct?

Ha, ha, ha! a ſilly wiſe rogue wou'd make one laugh more than a ſtark fool, ha, ha, ha! I ſhall burſt. Nay, you ſhall not diſturb'em; I'll vex thee, by the world. What have you done with Belville?

Shewn him the way out of my houſe, as you ſhould to that gentleman.

Nay, but prithee—let me reaſon with thee.

The writings are drawn, Sir, ſettlements made, 'tis too late, Sir, and paſt all revocation.

Them ſo is my death.

I wou'd not be unjuſt to him.

Then why to me ſo?

I have no obligation to you.

My love.

I had his before.

You never had it; he wants, you ſee, jea⯑louſy, the only infallible ſign of it.

Love proceeds from eſteem; he cannot diſ⯑truſt my virtue; beſides, he loves me, or he would not marry me.

Marrying you, is no more a ſign of his lo ve, than bribing your woman, that he may marry you, is a ſign of his generoſity. But if you take marriage for a ſign of lo ve, take it from me immediately.

No, now you have put a ſcruple in my head; but in ſhort, Sir, to end our diſpute, I muſt marry him; my reputation wou'd ſuffer in the world elſe.

No; if you do marry him, with your par⯑don, Madam, your reputation ſuffers in the world.

Nay, now you are rude, Sir—Mr. Spark⯑iſh, pray come hither, your friend here is very trou⯑bleſome, and very loving.

Hold, hold.

D'ye hear that;—ſenſeleſs puppy!

Why, d'ye think I'll ſeem jealous, like a coun⯑try bumkin?

No, rather be diſhonour'd like a credulous driv'ler.

Madam, you would not have been ſo little generous as to have told him?

Yes, ſince you could be ſo little generous as to wrong him.

Wrong him, no man can do't, he's beneath an injury; a bubble, a coward, a ſenſeleſs idiot, a wretch ſo contemptible to all the world but you, that—

Hold, do not rail at him, for ſince he is like to be my huſband, I am reſolv'd to like him: nay, I think I am oblig'd to tell him, you are not his friend—Mr. Sparkiſh, Mr. Sparkiſh!

What, what; now, dear rogue, has not ſhe wit?

Not ſo much as I thought, and hoped ſhe had.

Mr. Sparkiſh, do you bring people to rail at you?

Madam!

How! no; but if he does rail at me, 'tis but in jeſt, I warrant: what we wits do for one another, and never take any notice of it.

He ſpoke ſo ſcurrilouſly of you, I had no patience to hear him.

And he was in the right on't.

Beſides, he has been making love to me.

And I told the fool ſo—

True, damn'd tell-tale woman.

Pſhaw, to ſhew his parts—We wits rail and make love often, but to ſhew our parts; as we have no affections, ſo we have no malice, we—

Did you ever hear ſuch an aſs!

He ſaid you were a wretch below an injury.

Pſhaw.

Madam!

A common bubble.

Pſhaw.

A coward!

Pſhaw, pſhaw!

A ſenſeleſs drivelling idiot.

True, true, true; all true.

How! did he diſparage my parts? nay, then my honour's concern'd. I can't put up that, Sir; by the world, brother, help me to kill him.

Hold, hold.

What, what?

I muſt not let 'em kill the gentleman neither.

I'll be thy death.

If Harcourt would but kill Sparkiſh, and run away with my ſiſter, I ſhou'd be rid of three plagues at once.

Hold, hold; indeed, to tell the truth, the gentleman ſaid, after all, that what he ſpoke, was but out of friendſhip to you.

How! ſay, I am a fool, that is, no wit, out of friendſhip to me?

Yes, to try whether I was concern'd enough [24] for you; and made love to me only to be ſatisfy'd of my virtue, for your ſake.

Kind, however.

Nay, if it were ſo, my dear rogue, I aſk thee pardon; but why wou'd not you tell me ſo, faith?

Becauſe I did not think on't, faith!

Come, Belville is gone away; Harcourt, let's be gone to the new play—Come, Madam.

I will not go, if you intend to leave me alone in the box, and run all about the houſe as you uſe to do.

Pſhaw, I'll leave Harcourt with you in the box, to entertain you, and that's as good; if I ſat in the box, I ſhou'd be thought no critick—I muſt run about, my dear, and abuſe the author—Come away, Harcourt, lead her down. B'ye, brother.

B'ye, driv'ler; well, go thy ways, for the flower of the true town fops, ſuch as ſpend their eſtates before they come to 'em, and are cuckolds before they're married. But let me go look to my free-hold.

Maſter, your worſhip's ſervant—here is the lawyer, counſeller gentleman, with a green bag full of papers, come again, and would be glad to ſpeak to you.

Now, here's ſome other damn'd impediment, which the law has thrown in our way—I ſhall never marry the girl, nor get clear of the ſmoke and wicked⯑neſs of this curſed town; where is he?

He's below in a coach, with three other law⯑yer, counſeller gentlemen.

SCENE changes.

What ails you, Miſs Peggy? you are grown quite melancholy.

Would it not make any one melancholy to ſee your miſtreſs Alithea go every day fluttering about abroad to plays and aſſemblies, and I know not what, whilſt I muſt ſtay at home, like a poor lonely ſullen bird in a cage?

Dear Miſs Peggy, I thought you choſe to be confin'd: I imagin'd that you had been bred ſo young to the cage, that you had no pleaſure in flying about, and hopping in the open air, as other young ladies who go a little wild about this town.

Nay, I confeſs, I was quiet enough, 'till ſomebody told me what pure lives the London ladies lead, with their dancing meetings, and junketings, and dreſs'd every day in their beſt gowns; and I war⯑rant you play at nine-pins every day in the week, ſo they do.

To be ſure, Miſs, you will lead a better life when join'd in holy wedlock with your ſweet temper'd guardian, the chearful Mr. Moody.

I can't lead a worſe, that's one good thing—but I muſt make the beſt of a bad market, for I can't marry nobody elſe.

How ſo, Miſs? that's very ſtrange.

Why we have a contraction to one another—ſo we are as good as married, you know—

I know it! Heav'n forbid, Miſs—

Heigho!

Don't ſigh, Miſs Peggy—if that young gen⯑tleman, who was here juſt now, would take pity on me, I'd throw ſuch a contract as yours behind the fire.

Lord bleſs us, how you talk!

Young Mr. Belville would make you talk otherwiſe, if you knew him.

Mr. Belville!—where is he?—when did you ſee him?—you have undone me, Lucy—where was he? did he ſay any thing?

Say any thing! very little, indeed—he's quite diſtracted, poor young creature. He was talk⯑ing with your guardian juſt now.

The duce he was! but where was it, and when was it?

In this houſe, five minutes ago, when your guardian turn'd you into your chamber, for fear of your being ſeen.

I knew ſomething was the matter, I was in ſuch a ſluſter—but what did he ſay to my Bud?

What do you call him Bud for? Bud means huſband, and he is not your huſband yet—and I hope never will be—and if he was my huſband, I'd bud him, a ſurly unreaſonable beaſt.

I'd call him any names, to keep him in good humour—if he'd let me marry any body elſe (which I can't do) I'd call him huſband as long as he liv'd—But what ſaid Mr. Belville to him?

I don't know what he ſaid to him, but I'll tell you what he ſaid to me, with a ſigh, and his hand upon his breaſt as he went out of the door—If you ever were in love, young gentlewoman, (meaning me) and can pity a moſt faithful lover—tell the dear object of my affections—

Meaning me, Lucy?

Yes, you, to be ſure. Tell the dear object of my affections, I live but upon the hopes that ſhe is not married; and when thoſe hopes leave me—ſhe knows the reſt—then he caſt up his eyes thus—gnaſh'd his teeth—ſtruck his forehead—would have ſpoke again, but could not—fetch'd a deep ſigh, and vaniſh'd.

That is really very fine—I'm ſure it makes my heart ſink within me, and brings tears into my eyes—O he's a charming ſweet—but huſh, huſh, I hear my huſband!

Don't call him huſband. Go into the Park this evening, if you can.

Mum, mum—

Come, what's here to do? you are putting the town pleaſures in her head, and ſetting her a longing.

Yes, after nine-pins: you ſuffer none to give her thoſe longings you mean, but yourſelf.

Come, Mrs. Elippant, good precepts are loſt when bad examples are ſtill before us: the liber⯑ty your miſtreſs takes abroad makes her hanker after it, and out of humour at home: poor wretch! ſhe deſired not to come to London; I would bring her.

O yes, you ſurfeit her with pleaſures.

She has been this fortnight in town, and ne⯑ver deſired, till this afternoon, to go abroad.

Was ſhe not at the play yeſterday.

Yes; but ſhe ne'er aſk'd me: I was myſelf the cauſe of her going.

Then if ſhe aſk you again, you are the cauſe of her aſking, and not my miſtreſs.

Well, next week I ſhall be rid of you all, rid of this town, and my dreadful apprehenſions. Come, be not melancholy, for thou ſhalt go into the country very ſoon, deareſt.

Great comfort!

Piſh, what d'ye tell me of the country for.

How's this! what, piſh at the country?

Let me alone, I am not well.

O, if that be all,—what ails my deareſt?

Truly, I don't know; but I have not been well ſince you told me there was a gallant at the play in love with me.

Ha!

That's my miſtreſs too.

Nay, if you are not well, but are ſo con⯑cern'd, becauſe a raking fellow chanced to lye, and ſay he lik'd you, you'll make me ſick too.

Of what ſickneſs?

O, of that which is worſe than the plague, jealouſy.

Piſh, you jeer: I'm ſure there's no ſuch diſ⯑eaſe in our receipt book at home.

No, thou never met'ſt with it, poor inno⯑cent.

Well, but pray, Bud, let's go to a play to⯑night.

No, no;—no more plays—But why are you ſo eager to ſee a play?

Faith, Dear, not that I care one pin for their talk there; but I like to look upon the player-men, and wou'd ſee, if I could, the gallant you ſay loves me: that's all, dear Bud.

Is that all, dear Bud?

This proceeds from my miſtreſs's example.

Let's go abroad however, dear Bud, if we do't go to the play.

Come, have a little patience, and thou ſhalt go into the country next week.

Therefore I would ſee firſt ſome ſights, to tell my neighbours of: nay, I will go abroad, that's once.

What, you have put this into her head?

Heav'n defend me, what ſuſpicions! ſome⯑body has put more things into your head than you ought to have.

Your tongue runs too glibly, Madam, and you have liv'd too long with a London lady, to be a proper companion for innocence—I am not overfond of you, miſtreſs.

There's no love loſt between us.

You admitted thoſe gentlemen into the houſe, when I ſaid I wou'd not be at home; and there was the young fellow too that behav'd ſo indecently to my wife at the tavern window.

Becauſe you wou'd not let him ſee your hand⯑ſome wife out of your lodgings.

Why, O Lord! did the gentleman come hither to ſee me indeed?

No, no, you are not the cauſe of that damn'd queſtion too.

Come, pray, Bud, let's go abroad before 'tis late; for I will go, that's flat and plain—only into the Park.

So! the obſtinacy already of the town-wife; and I muſt, whilſt ſhe's here, humour her like one.

How ſhall we do, that ſhe may not be ſeen or known?

Muffle her up with a bonnet and handker⯑chief, and I'll go with her to avoid ſuſpicion.

And run into more danger.—No, no, I am obliged to you for your kindneſs, but ſhe ſhan't ſtir without me.

What will you do then?

What, ſhall we go? I am ſick with ſtaying at home: if I don't walk in the Park, I'll do nothing that I am bid for a week—I won't be mop'd.

O, ſhe has a charming ſpirit! I could ſtand your friend now, and would, if you had ever a civil word to give me.

I'll give thee a better thing, I'll give thee a guinea for thy good advice, if I like it; and I can have the beſt of the ollege for the ſame money.

I deſpiſe a bribe—when I am your friend, it ſhall be without fee or reward.

Don't be long then, for I will go out.

The taylor brought home laſt night the clothes you intend for a preſent to your godſon in the country.

You muſt not tell that, Lucy.

But I will, Madam—When you were with your lawyers laſt night, Miſs Peggy, to divert me and herſelf, put 'em on, and they fitted her to a hair.

Thank you, thank you, Lucy—'tis the luckieſt thought! Go this moment, Peggy, into your chamber, and put 'em on again—and you ſhall walk with me into the Park, as my godſon—Well thought of, Lucy—I ſhall love you for ever for this.

And ſo ſhall I too, Lucy, I'll put 'em on di⯑rectly.

Suppoſe, Bud, I muſt keep on my petticoats, for fear of ſhewing my legs?

No, no, you fool, never mind your legs.

No more I will then, Bud—This is pure.

What a ſimpleton it is! Well, Lucy, I thank you for the thought, and before I leave Lon⯑don, thou ſhalt be convinc'd how much I am obliged to thee.

And before you leave London, Mr. Moody, I hope I ſhall convince you how much you are oblig'd to me.

SCENE the Park.

AND the moment Moody left me, and be⯑fore I left his lodgings, I took an opportu⯑nity of conveying ſome tender ſentiments thro' Lucy to Miſs Peggy, and it was Lucy advis'd me to ſtrole here this evening; and here I am in expectation of ſeeing my country goddeſs.

And ſo to blind Moody, and take him off the ſcent of your paſſion for this girl, and at the ſame time to give me an opportunity with Sparkiſh's miſ⯑treſs, (and of which I have made the moſt) you hinted to him with a grave melancholy face, that you were dying for his ſiſter—gad-a-mercy, nephew! I will back thy modeſty againſt any other in the three king⯑doms—It will do, Dick.

What could I do, uncle?—it was my laſt ſtake, and I play'd for a great deal.

You miſtake me, Dick, I don't ſay you could do better—I only can't account for your modeſty's doing ſo much; you have done ſuch wonders, that I, who am rather bold than ſheepiſh, have not yet ceas'd wondering at you. But do you think that you impos'd upon him?

Faith, I can't ſay—I am rather doubtful, he ſaid very little, grumbled much, ſhook his head, and ſhew'd me the door.—But what ſucceſs have you had with Alithea?

Juſt enough to have a glimmering of hope, without having light enough to ſee an inch before my noſe.—This day will produce ſomething; Alithea is a woman of great honour, and will ſacrifice her happineſs to it, unleſs Sparkiſh's abſurdity ſtand my friend, and does every thing that the fates ought to do for me.

Yonder comes the prince of coxcombs, and if your miſtreſs and mine ſhould, by chance, be trip⯑ping this way, this fellow will ſpoil ſport—let us avoid him—you can't cheat him before his face.

But I can tho', thanks to my wit, and his want of it; a fooliſh rival, and a jealous huſband, aſſiſt their rivals deſigns, for they are ſure to make their women hate them, which is their firſt ſtep to their love for another man.

But you cannot come near his miſtreſs but in his company.

Still the better for me, nephew, for fools are moſt eaſily cheated, when they themſelves are ac⯑ceſſaries, and he is to be bubbled of his miſtreſs, or of his money (the common miſtreſs) by keeping him company.

Who's that is to be bubbled? faith, let me ſnack; I han't met with a bubble ſince Chriſtmas. 'Gad, I think bubbles are like their brother wood⯑cocks, go out with the cold weather.

O pox, he did not hear all, I hope?

Come, you bubbling rogues you, where do we ſup? O Harcourt, my miſtreſs tells me, you have made love, fierce love to her laſt night, all the play long, ha, ha, ha! but I—

I make love to her!

Nay, I forgive thee, and I know her, but I am ſure I know myſelf.

Do you, Sir? Then you are the wiſeſt man in the world, and I honour you as ſuch.

O, your ſervant, Sir, you are at your rail⯑lery, are you?—You can't oblige me more—I'm your man—He'll meet with his match—Ha! Harcourt!—Did not you hear me laugh prodigiouſly at the play laſt night?

Yes, and was very much diſturb'd at it.—You put the actors and audience into confuſion—and all your friends out of countenance.

So much the better—I love confuſion—and to ſee folks out of countenance;—I was in tip top ſpi⯑rits, faith, and ſaid a thouſand good things.

But I thought you had gone to plays to laugh at the poet's good things, and not at your own?

Your ſervant, Sir: no, I thank you. 'Gad I go to a play, as to a country treat: I carry my own wine to one, and my own wit to t'other, or elſe I'm ſure I ſhould not be merry at either: and the reaſon why we are ſo often louder than the players, is, be⯑cauſe we hate authors damnably.

But why ſhould you hate the poor rogues? you have too much wit, and deſpiſe writing, I'm fure.

O yes, I deſpiſe writing. But women! wo⯑men, that make men do all fooliſh things, make 'em write ſongs too. Every body does it: 'Tis e'en as common with lovers, as playing with fans; and you can no more help rhyming to your Phillis, than drink⯑ing to your Phillis.

But the poets damn'd your ſongs, did they?

O yes, damn the poets; they turn'd them into burleſque, as they call it: That burleſque is a hocus pocus trick they have got, which by the virtue of hictius doctius, topſey turvey, they make a clever witty thing abſolute nonſenſe; do you know, Har⯑court, that they ridicul'd my laſt ſong, twang, twang, the beſt I ever wrote?

That may be, and be very eaſily ridicul'd for all that.

Favour me with it, Sir, I never heard it.

What, and have all the Park about us?

Which you'll not diſlike, and ſo prithee be⯑gin.

I never am aſk'd twice—and ſo have at you.

What the deuce did you go away for?

Your miſtreſs is coming.

The devil ſhe is—O hide, hide me from her.

She ſees you.

But I will not ſee her: for I'm engag'd, and at this inſtant.

Pray firſt take me, and reconcile me to her.

Another time: faith, it is to a lady, and one cannot make excuſes to a woman.

You have need of 'em I believe.

Pſhaw, prithee hide me.

Your ſervant, Mr. Moody.

Come along—

Lau!—what a ſweet delightful place this is!

Come along, I ſay—don't ſtare about you ſo—you'll betray yourſelf—

He does not know us—

Or he won't know us—

So much the better—

Who is that pretty youth with him, Spar⯑kiſh?

Some relation of Peggy's, I ſuppoſe, for he is ſomething like her in face and gawkyneſs.

By all my hopes, uncle—Peggy in man's clothes—I am all over agitation.

Be quiet, or you'll ſpoil all. They return—Alithea has ſeen you, Sparkiſh, and will be angry if you don't go to her: beſides, I wou'd fain be recon⯑cil'd to her, which none but you can do, my dear friend.

Well, that's a better reaſon, dear friend: I wou'd not go near her now for her's or my own ſake; but I can deny you nothing: for tho' I have known thee a great while, never go, if I do not love thee as well as a new acquaintance.

I am obliged to you indeed, my dear friend: I wou'd be well with her, only to be well with thee ſtill; for theſe ties to wives uſually diſſolve all ties to friends.

But they ſhan't tho'—come along.

Siſter, if you will not go, we muſt leave you—

The fool her gallant and ſhe will muſter up all the young ſaunterers of this place. what a ſwarm of cuckolds and cuckold-makers are here? I begin to be uneaſy.

Come, let's be gone, Peggy.

Don't you believe that I han't half my belly⯑ful of ſights yet?

Then walk this way.

Lord, what a power of fine folks are here. And Mr. Belville, as I hope to be married.

Come along; what are you a muttering at?

There's the young gentleman there, you were ſo angry about—that's in love with me.

No, no, he's a dangler after your ſiſter—or pretends to be—but they are all bad alike—come along, I ſay.

I'm glad to hear that—perhaps I may fit you tho'.

Come, dear Madam, for my ſake you ſhall be reconciled to him.

For your ſake I hate him.

That's ſomething too cruel, Madam, to hate me, for his ſake.

Ay, indeed, Madam, too, too cruel to me, to hate my friend for my ſake.

I hate him, becauſe he is your enemy; and you ought to hate him too, for making love to me, if you love me.

That's a good one! I hate a man for loving you! If he did love you, 'tis but what he can't help; and 'tis your fault, not his, if he admires you.

Is it for your honour, or mine, to ſuffer a man to make love to me, who am to marry you to⯑morrow?

But, why, deareſt Madam, will you be more concern'd for his honour than he is himſelf? Let his honour alone for my ſake and his. He has no ho⯑nour.

How's that?

But what, my dear friend, can guard him⯑ſelf.

O ho—that's right again.

You aſtoniſh me, Sir, with want of jealouſy.

And you make me giddy, Madam, with your jealouſy and fears, and virtue and honour: 'Gad, I ſee virtue makes a woman as troubleſome as a little reading or learning.

Come, Madam, you ſee you ſtrive in vain to make him jealous of me: my dear friend is the kind⯑eſt creature in the world to me.

Poor fellow.

But his kindneſs only is not enough for me, without your favour, your good opinion, dear Madam: 'tis that muſt perfect my happineſs. Good gentleman, he believes all I ſay: wou'd you wou'd do ſo. Jea⯑lous of me! I wou'd not wrong him nor you for the world.

Look you there: hear him, hear him, and not walk away ſo. Come back again.

I love you, Madam, ſo—

How's that! nay—now you begin to go too far indeed.

So much, I confeſs, I ſay, I love you, that I wou'd not have you miſerable, and caſt yourſelf away upon ſo unworthy and inconſiderable a thing, as what you ſee here.

No, faith, I believe thou wou'dſt not; now his meaning is plain; but I knew before thou wou'dſt not wrong me, nor her.

No, no, heav'ns forbid the glory of her ſex ſhou'd fall ſo low, as into the embraces of ſuch a con⯑temptible [37] temptible wretch, the leaſt of mankind—my dear friend here—I injure him.

Very well.

No, no, dear friend, I knew it: Madam, you ſee he will rather wrong himſelf than me in giving himſelf ſuch names.

Do not you underſtand him yet?

Come, come, you ſhall ſtay till he has ſa⯑luted you; that I may be aſſur'd you are friends, af⯑ter his honeſt advice and declaration: come, pray, Madam, be friends with him.

You muſt pardon me, Sir, that I am not yet ſo obedient to you.

What, invite your wife to kiſs men? Mon⯑ſtrous! Are you not aſham'd? I will never forgive you. Let's be gone, ſiſter.

Are you not aſham'd, that I ſhou'd have more confidence in the chaſtity of your family, than you have?—You muſt not teach me, I am a man of ho⯑nour, Sir, tho' I am frank and free; I am frank, Sir—

Very frank, Sir, to ſhare your wife with your friends—You ſeem to be angry and yet won't go.

No impertinence ſhall drive me away.

Becauſe you like it—But you ought to bluſh at expoſing your wife as you do.

What then? It may be I have a pleaſure in't, as I have to ſhew fine clothes at a play-houſe, the firſt day, and count money before poor rogues.

He that ſhews his wife, or money, will be in danger of having them borrowed ſometimes.

I love to be envy'd, and wou'd not marry a wife, that I alone cou'd love. Loving alone is as dull as eating alone; and ſo good night, for I muſt to Whitehall—Madam, I hope, you are now reconcil'd to my friend; and ſo I wiſh you a good night, Ma⯑dam, and ſleep if you can; for to-morrow you know I muſt viſit you early with a canonical gentleman. Good night, dear Harcourt—remember to ſend your brother.

You may depend upon me. Madam, I hope you will not refuſe my viſit to-morrow, if it ſhould be earlier, with a canonical gentleman, than Mr. Spar⯑kiſh.

This gentlewoman is yet under my care, therefore you muſt yet forbear your freedom with her.

Muſt, Sir!

Yes, Sir, ſhe is my ſiſter.

'Tis well ſhe is, Sir—for I muſt be her ſer⯑vant, Sir.—Madam—

Come away, ſiſter, we had been gone if it had not been for you, and ſo avoided theſe lewd rake⯑hells, who ſeem to haunt us.

I ſee a little time in the country makes a man turn wild and unſociable, and only fit to converſe with his horſes, dogs, and his herds.

I have buſineſs, Sir, and muſt mind it: your buſineſs is pleaſure, therefore you and I muſt go diff'rent ways.

Well, you may go on; but this pretty young gentleman

ſhall ſtay with us, for I ſuppoſe his buſineſs is the ſame with ours, pleaſure.

'Sdeath, he knows her, ſhe carries it ſo ſil⯑lily; yet if he does not, I ſhou'd be more ſilly to diſ⯑cover it firſt

Pray let him go, Sir.

Come, come.

Had you not rather ſtay with us?

Prithee who is this pretty young fellow?

One to whom I am a guardian—I wiſh I cou'd keep her out of your hands.

Who is he? I never ſaw any thing ſo pretty in all my life.

Pſhaw, do not look upon him ſo much, he's a poor baſhful youth, you'll put him out of counte⯑nance.

Here, nephew—let me introduce this young gentleman to your acquaintance—You are very like, and of the ſame age, and ſhould know one another—Salute him, Dick, a la Francoiſe.

I hate French faſhions. Men kiſs one ano⯑ther.

I am out of my wits—What do you kiſs me for, I am no woman.

But you are ten times handſomer.

Nay, now you jeer one; and pray don't jeer me.

Kiſs him again, Dick.

No, no, no; come away, come away.

Why, what haſte are you in? Why won't you let me talk with him?

Becauſe you'll debauch him, he's yet young and innocent. How ſhe gazes upon him! The devil!

Come, pray let him go, I cannot ſtay fooling any longer; I tell you my wife ſtays ſupper for us.

Does ſhe? Come then, we'll all go ſup with her.

No, no—now I think on't, having ſtaid ſo long for us, I warrant ſhe's gone to bed—I wiſh ſhe and I were well out of your hands.

Come, I muſt riſe early to-morrow; come—

Well then, if ſhe be gone to bed, I wiſh her and you a good night. But pray, young gentleman, preſent my humble ſervice to her.

Thank you heartily, Sir.

'Sdeath, ſhe will diſcover herſelf yet in ſpite of me.

And mine too, Sir.

That I will, indeed.

Pray give her this kiſs for me.

O heavens! what do I ſuffer?

And this for me.

Thank you, Sir.

O the idiot—now 'tis out—Ten thouſand cankers gnaw away their lips. Come, come, Driv'ler.

Good night, dear little gentleman. Madam, good night—Farewel, Moody—Come, nephew—have not I rais'd his jealous gall finely?

A little too much I fear.

So, they are gone at laſt. Siſter, ſtay with Peggy—'till I find my ſervant—don't let her ſtir an inch, I'll be back directly.

What, not gone yet?—Nephew, ſhew the young gentleman Roſamond's Pond, while I ſpeak another word to this lady.

Shall I have that pleaſure?

With all my heart and ſoul, Sir.

I cannot conſent to it indeed.

Let 'em look upon the place where ſo many deſpairing lovers have been deſtroy'd—You muſt in⯑dulge them—and me too in a few words.

My brother will go diſtracted—tho' he de⯑ſerves to be vex'd a little for his brutality.

My nephew is a very modeſt young man, you may depend upon his prudence.

Modeſt, prudent, and your nephew—I can't believe it, and I muſt follow them.—

Where! How!—what's become of—gone—whither?—

He's only gone with the young gentleman to ſee ſomething.

Something! ſee ſomething! with a plague—where are they?

In the next walk only, brother.

Only, only, where, where?—

What's the matter with him? Why ſo much concerned? But, deareſt Madam—

Pray let me go, Sir; I have ſaid and ſuffered enough already.

Then you will not look upon, nor pity my ſufferings?

To look upon 'em, when I cannot help 'em, were cruelty, not pity; therefore I will never ſee you more.

Gone, gone, not to be found; quite gone; ten thouſand plagues go with 'em; which way went they?

But in t'other walk, brother.

T'other walk—t'other devil! You are ſo full of vanity, and fond of admiration, that you'll ſuffer your own honour and mine to run any riſque, rather than not indulge your inordinate deſire of flat⯑tery.—Where are they, I ſay?

You are too abuſive, brother, and too vio⯑lent about trifles; therefore let your jealouſy ſearch for them, for I know nothing of 'em.

You know where they are, you infamous wretch, eternal ſhame of your family; which you do not diſhonour enough yourſelf, you think, but you muſt help her to it too, thou legion of—

Good brother—

Falſe, falſe ſiſter—

Shew me to my chair, Mr. Harcourt—His ſcurrility has overpower'd me—I will get rid of his tyranny and your importunities, and give my hand to Sparkiſh to-morrow morning.

SCENE changes to another part of the Park.

No diſguiſe could conceal you from my heart; I pretended not to know you, that I might deceive the dragon that continually watches over you—but now he's aſleep, let us fly from miſery to happineſs.

Indeed, Mr. Belville, as well as I like you, I can't think of going away with you ſo—and as much as I hate my guardian, I muſt take leave of him a little handſomely, or he will kill me, ſo he will.

But, dear Miſs Peggy, think of your ſitua⯑tion; [42] if we don't make the beſt uſe of this opportu⯑nity, we never may have another.

Ay, but Mr. Belville—I am as good as married already—my guardian has contracted me, and there wants nothing but church ceremony to make us one—I call him huſband, and he calls me wife already: He made me do ſo;—and we had been married in church long ago, if the writings could have been finiſhed.

That's his deceit, my ſweet creature—He pretends to have married you, for fear of your liking any body elſe—You have a right to chuſe for your⯑ſelf, and there is no law in heaven or earth that binds you before marriage to a man you cannot like.

I'fack, no more I believe it does; ſiſter Ali⯑thea's maid has told me as much—ſhe's a very ſenſible girl.

You are in the very jaws of perdition, and nothing but running away can avoid it—the law will finiſh your chains to-morrow, and the church will rivet them the day after—Let us ſecure our happineſs by eſcape, and love and fortune will do the reſt for us.

Theſe are fine ſayings, to be ſure, Mr. Bel⯑ville; but how ſhall we get my fortune out of Bud's clutches? We muſt be a little cunning, 'tis worth trying for—We can at any time run away without it.

I ſee by your fears, my dear Peggy, that you live in awe of this brutal guardian; and if he has you once more in his poſſeſſion, both you and your fortune are ſecur'd to him for ever.

Ay, but it ſhan't, tho'—I thank him for that.

If you marry without his conſent, he can but ſeize upon half your fortune—The other half, and a younger brother's fortune, with a treaſure of love, are our own—Take it, my ſweeteſt Peggy, and this moment, or we ſhall be divided for ever.

Ifackins, but we won't—Your fine talk has bewitch'd me.

'Tis you have bewitch'd me—thou dear in⯑chanting ſweet ſimplicity—Let us fly with the wings of love to my houſe there, and we ſhall be ſafe for ever.

And ſo we will then—there ſqueeze me again by the hand; now run away with me, and if my guardy follows us, the devil take the hindmoſt, I ſay.

Boo!—here he is.

Curſt fortune!

O! there's my ſtray'd ſheep, and the wolf again in ſheep's cloathing!—Now I have recover'd her, I ſhall come to my ſenſes again—Where have you been, you puppy?

Been, Bud?—We have been hunting all over the Park to find you.

From one end to the other, Sir.

But not where I was to be found, you young devil you—Why did you ſtart when you ſaw me?

I'm always frighten'd when I ſee you, and if I did not love you ſo well—I ſhould run away from you, ſo I ſhould.

But I'll take care you don't.

This gentleman has a favour to beg of you, Bud.

I am not in the humour to grant favours to young gentlemen, tho' you may.—What have you been doing with this young lady?—Gentleman I would ſay,—bliſters on my tongue!

Fie, Bud, you have told all.

I have been as civil as I could to the young ſtranger; and if you'll permit me, I will take the trou⯑ble off your hands, and ſhew the young ſpark Roſa⯑mond's Pond, for he has not ſeen it yet—Come, pret⯑ty youth, will you go with me?

As my guardian pleaſes.

No, no, it does not pleaſe me—whatever I think he ought to ſee, I ſhall ſhow him myſelf—You may viſit Roſamond's Pond if you will—and the bot⯑tom of it, if you will—And ſo, Sir, your humble ſer⯑vant.

What curſed luck!

to be prevented at the very inſtant of my carrying off the golden fleece!—We have now rais'd his ſuſpicions to ſuch a degree, that he'll lock her up directly—ſign articles this night—marry her in the morning—and away from the church into the country.—What a miſerable ſitu⯑ation am I in!—I have love enough to be a knight⯑errant in the cauſe—I will loſe my life, or reſcue my Dulcinea.—I have hopes in her ſpirit too—for at the worſt ſhe can open her window, throw herſelf into my arms, from thence into a poſt-chaiſe, and away for the Tweed as faſt as love and four poſt-horſes can car⯑ry us.

SCENE Moody's houſe.

WELL, Madam, now I have dreſs'd you, and ſet you out with ſo many ornaments, and ſpent ſo much time upon you, and all this for no other purpoſe but to bury you alive; for I look upon Mr. Sparkiſh's bed to be little better than a grave.

Hold your peace.

Nay, Madam, I will aſk you the reaſon, why you would baniſh poor Mr. Harcourt for ever from your ſight? how cou'd you be ſo hard-hearted?

'Twas becauſe I was not hard-hearted.

No, no; 'twas ſtark love and kindneſs, I warrant?

It was ſo: I would ſee him no more becauſe I love him.

Hey day! a very pretty reaſon.

You do not underſtand me.

I wiſh you may yourſelf.

I was engag'd to marry, you ſee, another man, whom my juſtice will not ſuffer me to deceive or injure.

Can there be a greater cheat or wrong done to a man, than to give him your perſon, without your heart? I ſhould make a conſcience of it.

I'll retrieve it for him, after I am married.

The woman that marries to love better, will be as much miſtaken, as the rake that marries to live better.

What nonſenſe you talk.

'Tis a melancholy truth, Madam—Marrying to increaſe love, is like gaming to become rich—Alas! you only loſe what little ſtock you had before—There are many woeful examples of it in this righteous town!

I find by your rhetorick you have been brib'd to betray me.

Only by his merit, that has brib'd your heart, you ſee, againſt your word and rigid honour.

Come, pray talk no more of honour, nor Mr. Harcourt; I wiſh the other wou'd come to ſe⯑cure my fidelity to him, and his right in me.

You will marry him then?

Certainly; I have given him already my word, and will my hand too, to make it good, when he comes.

Well, I wiſh I may never ſtick a pin more, if he be not an errant natural to t'other fine gentle⯑man.

I own he wants the wit of Harcourt, which I will diſpenſe withal, for another want he has, which is want of jealouſy, which men of wit ſeldom want.

Lord, Madam, what ſhou'd you do with a fool to your huſband? You intend to be honeſt, don't you? Then that huſbandly virtue, credulity, is thrown away upon you.

He only that cou'd ſuſpect my virtue, ſhou'd have cauſe to do it; 'tis Sparkiſh's confidence in my truth, that obliges me to be faithful to him.

What, faithful to a creature who is incapable of loving and eſteeming you as he ought!—To throw away your beauty, wit, accompliſhments, ſweet tem⯑per—

Hold your tongue.

That you know I can't do, Madam; and upon this occaſion, I will talk for ever.—What, give yourſelf away to one, that poor I, your maid, would not accept of?

How, Lucy!

I would not, upon my honour, Madam; 'tis never too late to repent. Take a man, and give up your coxcomb, I ſay.

Mr. Sparkiſh, with company, Madam, at⯑tends you below.

I will wait upon 'em.

My heart begins to fail me, but I muſt go through with it; go with me, Lucy.

Not I, indeed, Madam—If you will leap the precipice, you ſhall fall by yourſelf.—What ex⯑cellent advice have I thrown away!—So I'll e'en take it where it will be more welcome.—Miſs Peggy is bent upon miſchief againſt her guardian, and ſhe can't have a better privy-counſellor than myſelf—I muſt be buſy one way or another.

SCENE a chamber in Moody's houſe.

I ſaw him kiſs your hand, before you ſaw me. This pretence of liking my ſiſter was all a blind—the young abandon'd hypocrite!

Tell me, I ſay, for I know he likes you, and was hurrying you to his houſe—tell me, I ſay—

Lord, han't I told it a hundred times over?

I would try if, in the repetition of the un⯑grateful tale, I cou'd find her altering it in the leaſt circumſtance, for if her ſtory be falſe, ſhe is ſo too.

Come, how was't, baggage?

Lord, what pleaſure you take to hear it, ſure?

No, you take more in telling it, I find; but ſpeak, how was't? no lies—I ſaw him kiſs you—he kiſs'd you before my face.

Nay, you need not be ſo angry with him nei⯑ther, for, to ſay truth, he has the ſweeteſt breath I ever knew.

The Devil!—you were ſatisfy'd with it then, and would do it again?—

Not unleſs he ſhou'd force me.

Force you, changeling.

If I had ſtruggled too much, you know—he wou'd have known I had been a woman; ſo I was quiet, for fear of being found out.

If you had been in petticoats, you wou'd have knock'd him down, wou'd not you?

With what, Bud?—I cou'd not help myſelf—beſides, he did it ſo modeſtly, and bluſh'd ſo—that I almoſt thought him a girl in men's cloaths, and upon his mummery too as well as me—and if ſo, there was no harm done, you know.

This is worſe and worſe—ſo 'tis plain ſhe loves him, yet ſhe has not love enough to make her conceal it from me; but the ſight of him will en⯑creaſe her averſion for me, and love for him; and that love inſtruct her how to deceive me, and ſatisfy him, all idiot as ſhe is: Love, 'twas he gave women firſt their craft, their art of deluding; out of nature's hands they came plain, open, ſilly, and fit for ſlaves, as ſhe and heaven intended 'em, but damn'd Love—well—I muſt ſtrangle that little monſter, whilſt I can deal with him—Go, fetch pen, ink and paper, out of the next room.

Yes, I will, Bud, what's the matter now?

This young fellow loves her, and ſhe loves him—the reſt is all hypocriſy—how the young modeſt villain endeavoured to deceive me! But I'll cruſh this miſchief in the ſhell—Why, ſhould women have more invention in love than men? It can only be, becauſe they have more deſire, more ſoliciting paſſions, more of the Devil.

Come, Minks, ſit down and write.

Ay, dear, dear Bud, but I can't do't very well.

I wiſh you cou'd not at all.

But what ſhould I write for?

I'll have you write a letter to this young man.

O Lord, to the young gentleman a letter!

Yes, to the young gentleman.

Lord, you do but jeer; ſure you jeſt.

I am not ſo merry; come, ſit down, and write as I bid you.

What, do you think I am a fool?

She's afraid I wou'd not dictate any love to him, therefore ſhe's unwilling; but you had beſt begin.

Indeed, and indeed, but I won't, ſo I won't.

Why?

Becauſe he's in town; you may ſend for him here, if you will.

Very well, you wou'd have him brought to you? is it come to this? I ſay take the pen ink and write, or you'll provoke me.

Lord, what d'ye make a fool of me for? Don't I know that letters are never writ, but from the country to London, and from London into the coun⯑try? now he's in town, and I am in town too; there⯑fore I can't write to him, you know.

So, I am glad it is no worſe; ſhe is inno⯑cent enough yet.

Yes you may, when your huſband bids, write letters to people that are in town.

O may I ſo! then I am ſatisfied.

Come begin—Sir—

Shan't I ſay, Dear Sir? you know one ſays always ſomething more than bare Sir.

Write as I bid you, or I will write ſome⯑thing with this penknife in your face.

Nay, good, Bud—Sir—

Though I ſuffer'd laſt night your nauſeous loath'd kiſſes and embraces—write!

Nay, why ſhou'd I ſay ſo? you know I told you he had a ſweet breath.

Write!

Let me put out loath'd.

Write, I ſay.

Well then.

Let me ſee what have you writ.

Tho' I ſuffer'd laſt night your kiſſes and embraces—

Thou impudent creature, where is nauſeous and loath'd?

I can't abide to write ſuch filthy words.

Once more write as I'd have you, and queſ⯑tion it not, or I will ſpoil your writing with this; I [50] will ſtab out thoſe eyes that cauſe my miſchief.

O Lord, I will.

So—ſo—let's ſee now! tho' I ſuffered laſt night your nauſeous loath'd kiſſes and embraces; go on—yet I would not have you preſume that you ſhall ever repeat them—ſo.

I have writ it.

O then—I then conceal'd myſelf from your knowledge, to avoid your inſolencies—

To avoid—

Your inſolencies—

Your inſolencies.

The ſame reaſon, now I am out of your hands—

So—

Makes me own to you my unfortunate—tho' innocent frolick of being in man's clothes.

So—

That you may for evermore.

Evermore?

Evermore ceaſe to purſue her, who hates and deteſts you.

So—h.

What do you ſigh for?—deteſts you—as much as ſhe loves her huſband and her honour—

I vow, huſband, he'll ne'er believe I ſhou'd write ſuch a letter.

What, he'd expect a kinder from you? Come, now your name only.

What, ſhan't I ſay your moſt faithful humble ſervant till death?

No, tormenting fiend—Her ſtile I find wou'd be very ſoft.

Come, wrap it up now whilſt I go fetch wax and a candle, and write on the outſide, For Mr. Belville.

For Mr. Belville—ſo—I am glad he is gone—Hark! I here a noiſe

ifeck there's folks with him—that's pure—now I may think a little—Why ſhould I ſend dear Mr. Bellville ſuch a letter?—Can one have no ſhift? ah! a London woman wou'd have had a hundred preſently.—Stay—what if I ſhould write a letter and wrap it up like this, and [51] write upon't too?—Ay, but then my guardian wou'd ſee't—I don't know what to do—But yet y'vads I'll try, ſo I will—for I will not ſend this letter to poor Mr. Belville, come what will on't.

Dear, ſweet, Mr. Belville—ſo—My guardian wou'd have me ſend you a baſe, rude letter, but I won't—ſo—and wou'd have me ſay, I hate you—but I won't—there—for I'm ſure if you and I were in the country at cards together—ſo—I cou'd not help treading on your toe under the table—ſo pray keep at home, for I ſhall be with you as ſoon as I can—ſo no more at preſent from me who am, dear, dear, poor, dear Mr. Belville, your loving friend till death, Margaret Thrift.

So—now wrap it up juſt like t'other—ſo—now write, For Mr. Belville—But oh! what ſhall I do with it? for here comes my guardian.

I have been [...]ined by a ſparkiſh cox⯑comb, who pretended a viſit to me, but I fear 'twas to my wife.

What have you done?

Ay, ay, Bud, juſt now.

Let's ſee't; what d'ye tremble for?—

So I had been ſerv'd, if I had given him this.

Come, where's the wax and ſeal?

Lord, what ſhall I do now? Nay, then I have it—pray let me ſee't. Lord, you think me ſo errand a fool, I cannot ſeal a letter; I will do't, ſo I will.

Nay, I believe you will learn that and other things too, which I wou'd not have you.

So, han't I done it curiouſly? I think I have—there's my letter going to Mr. Belville, ſince he'll needs have me ſend letters to folks.

'Tis very well, but I warrant, you wou'd not have it go now?

Yes, indeed, but I wou'd, Bud, now.

Well, you are a good girl then. Come, let me lock you up in your chamber, till I come back; and be ſure you come not within three ſtrides of the window, when I am gone; for I have a ſpy in the ſtreet.

At leaſt 'tis fit ſhe thinks ſo; if we do not cheat women, they'll cheat us, and fraud may be juſtly uſed with ſecret enemies, of which a wife is the moſt dangerous; and he that has a handſome one to keep, and a frontier town, muſt pro⯑vide againſt treachery rather than open force—Now I have ſecured all within, I'll deal with the foe with⯑out, with falſe intelligence. This will daſh all his im⯑pudent hopes

at once, and I ſhall ſleep now ſecurely in my garriſon without fear of ſur⯑prize—But no time is to be loſt—I'll ſteal a march upon him.

SCENE changes to Belville's lodgings.

I run great riſques to be ſure to ſerve the young lady, and you, Sir—but I know you are a gentleman of honour, and wou'd ſcorn to betray a friend who means you well, and is above being mer⯑cenary.

As you are not mercenary, Mrs. Lucy, I ought to be the more generous—give me leave to pre⯑ſent you with this trifle,

not as a re⯑ward for ſervices, but as a ſmall token of friendſhip.

Tho' I ſcorn to be brib'd in any cauſe, yet I am proud to accept it, as a mark of your regard, and as ſuch ſhall keep it for your ſake—and now to buſi⯑neſs.

You flatter me then, that Miſs Peggy has the moſt rooted averſion for her guardian, and ſome preju⯑dices in my favour.

She has intruſted me with her very thoughts—and I have rais'd her diſobedience to ſuch a pitch, [53] that ſhe would have open'd her whole heart to you in a letter, had we not been interrupted by her brutal guardian.

She told me in the Park, that you had con⯑vinced her ſhe was not married to him.

There was not much difficulty in that; but if any thing could have frighten'd her into that belief, her filthy guardian had done it—He made her almoſt believe, that the ſaving her ſoul depended upon mar⯑rying him—Did you ever hear of ſuch a reprobate?

How I adore her bewitching ſimplicity!

Simplicity, Sir! ſhe's able to make a fool of any of us—if I had half her wit, I would not conti⯑nue long in ſervice, as well as I love my miſtreſs.

But, dear Lucy, what can Miſs Peggy pro⯑poſe?

To run away from her guardian, and marry you.

She might have done both, and loſt the op⯑portunity.

She will do both, and make an opportunity, if it does not come of itſelf. The thought of running away, or of being married, when taken ſeparately, will put any maiden of us into great confuſion; but when they come both together, are too much for the boldeſt of us—Miſs Peggy was overpower'd with your pro⯑poſal, and no wonder ſhe could not determine for the beſt; I ſhould have been a little frighten'd myſelf.

But has the dear creature reſolv'd?

Has ſhe—why, ſhe will run away and mar⯑ry you, in ſpite of your teeth, the firſt moment ſhe can break priſon—ſo you, in your turn, muſt take care not to have your qualms—I have known ſeveral bold gentlemen not able to draw their ſwords, when a chal⯑lenge has come too quick upon 'em.

I aſſure you, Mrs. Lucy, that I am no bully in love, and Miſs Peggy will meet with her match, come when ſhe will.

Ay, ſo you all ſay, but talking does no buſi⯑neſs—ſtay at home till you hear from us.

Bleſſings on thee, Lucy, for the thought.

But I muſt and will ſee him, let him have what company he will.

As I hope to be marry'd, Mr. Belville, I hear Mr. Moody's voice—where ſhall I hide myſelf?—if he ſees me—we are all undone.

This is our curſed luck again—what the devil can he want here?—I have loſt my ſenſes—get into this cloſet till he's gone.

This viſit means ſomething; I am quite confounded—Don't you ſtir, Lucy—I muſt put the beſt face upon the matter—Now for it—.

You will excuſe me, Sir, for breaking thro' forms, and your ſervant's intreaties, to have the honour—but you are alone, Sir—your fellow told me below that you were with company.

Yes, Sir, the beſt company.

When I converſe with my betters, I chuſe to have 'em alone.

And I choſe to interrupt your converſati⯑on; the buſineſs of my errand muſt plead my excuſe.

You ſhall be always welcome to me—but you ſeem ruffled, Sir; what brings you hither, and ſo ſeemingly out of humour?

Your impertinency—I beg pardon—your modeſty, I mean.

My impertinency.

Your impertinency.

Sir, from the peculiarity of your character, and your intimacy with my uncle, I ſhall allow you great privileges: but you muſt conſider, youth has its privileges too; and as I have not the honour of your acquaintance, I am not oblig'd to bear with your ill humours, or your ill manners.

They who wrong me, young man, muſt bear with both; and if you had not made too free with me, I ſhould have taken no liberties with you.

I don't underſtand you, Sir; but, you gen⯑tlemen, who have handſome wives, think you have a privilege of ſaying any thing to us young fellows, and are as brutiſh as if you were our creditors.

I ſhan't truſt you any way.

But why ſo diffident, Sir? you don't know me.

I am not diffident, young man, but cer⯑tain, becauſe I think I do know you.

I could have wiſh'd, Sir, to have found you a little more civil, the firſt time I have the ho⯑nour of a viſit from you.

If that is all you want, young gentleman, you will find me very civil indeed! There, Sir,—read that, and let your modeſty declare whether I want either kindneſs or civility—Look you there, Sir.

What is't?

Only a love letter, Sir;—and from my wife.

How, is it from your wife;—hum and hum.

Even from my wife, Sir; am not I won⯑d'rous kind and civil to you now too? But you'll not think her ſo.

Ha, is this a trick of his or her's?

The gentleman's ſurpriz'd, I find; what, you expected a kinder letter?

No, faith, not I, how could I?

Yes, yes, I'm ſure you did; a man ſo young, and well made as you are, muſt needs be diſ⯑appointed, if the women declare not their paſſion at the firſt ſight, or opportunity.

But what ſhou'd this mean? It ſeems, he knows not what the letter contains!

Come, ne'er wonder at it ſo much.

Faith, I can't help it.

Now, I think, I have deſerv'd your infinite friendſhip and kindneſs, and have ſhew'd myſelf ſuf⯑ficiently an obliging kind friend and huſband—am I not ſo, to bring a letter from my wife to her gallant.

Ay, indeed you are the moſt obliging kind [56] friend and huſband in the world; ha, ha, ha! Pray, however, preſent my humble ſervice to her, and tell her, I will obey her letter to a tittle, and fulfil her deſires, be what they will, or with what difficulty ſoever I do't; and you ſhall be no more jealous of me, I warrant her, and you.

Well then, fare you well, and play with any man's honour but mine, kiſs any man's wife but mine, and welcome—ſo, Mr. Modeſty, your ſer⯑vant.

So, brother-in-law, that was to have been, I have follow'd you from home to Belville's: I have ſtrange news for you.

What, are you wiſer than you were this morning.

Faith I don't know but I am, for I have loſt your ſiſter, and I ſhan't eat half an ounce the leſs at dinner for it; there's philoſophy for you.

Inſenſibility, you mean—I hope you don't mean to uſe my ſiſter ill, Sir?

No, Sir, ſhe has uſed me ill; ſhe's in her tantrums—I have had a narrow eſcape, Sir.

If thou art endow'd with the ſmalleſt por⯑tion of underſtanding, explain this riddle.

Ay, ay, prithee, Sparkiſh—condeſcend to be intelligible.

Why, you muſt know—we had ſettled to be married—it is the ſame thing to me, whether I am married or not—I have no particular fancy one way or another, and ſo I told your ſiſter; off or on, 'tis the ſame thing to me; but the thing was fix'd, you know—You and my Aunt brought it about—I had no hand in it, and, to ſhew you, that I was as wil⯑ling to marry your ſiſter as any other woman, I ſuffer⯑ed the law to tye me up to hard terms, and the church would have finiſh'd me ſtill to harder—but ſhe was taken with her tantrums!

Damn your tantrums—come to the point.

Your ſiſter took an averſion to the parſon, Frank Harcourt's brother—abus'd him like a pick⯑pocket, and ſwore 'twas Harcourt himſelf.

And ſo it was, for I ſaw him.

Here's fine work!—why, you are as mad as your ſiſter—I tell you it was Ned, Frank's twin brother.

What, Frank told you ſo?

Ay, and Ned too—they were both in a ſtory.

What an incorrigible fellow!—Come, come, I muſt be gone.

Nay, nay, you ſhall hear my ſtory out.—She walk'd up within piſtol-ſhot of the church—then twirl'd round upon her heel—call'd me every name ſhe could think of; and when ſhe had exauſted her imagination, and tir'd her tongue—no eaſy mat⯑ter, let me tell you—ſhe call'd her chair, ſent her footman to buy a monkey before my face, then bid me good morrow with a ſneer, and left us with our mouths open in the middle of a hundred people, who were all laughing at us! If theſe are not tantrums, I don't know what are.

Ha, ha, ha! I thank thee, Sparkiſh, from my ſoul; 'tis a moſt exquiſite ſtory; I have not had ſuch a laugh for this half year—Thou art a moſt ri⯑diculous puppy, and I am infinitely oblig'd to thee; ha, ha, ha!

Did you ever hear the like, Belville?

O yes; how is it poſſible to hear ſuch a fooliſh ſtory, and ſee thy fooliſh face, and not laugh at 'em; ha, ha, ha!

Hey-day! what's that? what have you rais'd a devil in the cloſet, to make up a laughing chorus at me? I muſt take a peep—

Indeed but you muſt not.

'Twas a woman's voice.

So much the better for me.

Prithee introduce me.

Though you take a pleaſure in expoſing your ladies, I chuſe to conceal mine. So, my dear Spark⯑iſh, leſt the lady ſhould be ſick by too long a confine⯑ment, [58] and laughing heartily at you—I muſt intreat you to withdraw—Prithee excuſe me, I muſt laugh—ha, ha, ha!

Do you know that I begin to be angry, Belville?

I can't help that; ha, ha, ha!

My character's at ſtake—I ſhall be thought a damn'd ſilly fellow—I will call Alithea to an account directly.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha! O dear Sir, let me have my laugh out, or I ſhall burſt—What an adventure!

My ſweet Peggy has ſent me the kindeſt letter—and by the dragon himſelf—There's a ſpirit for you!

There's ſimplicity for you! Shew me a town⯑bred girl with half the genius—Send you a love⯑letter, and by a jealous guardian too! ha, ha, ha! 'Tis too much—too much—

She begs me to ſtay at home—for ſhe in⯑tends to run away with me, the firſt opportunity.

And, to complete the whole, my miſtreſs is delivered from her fool too—Ha, ha, ha! I ſhall die; ha! ha! ha!—Dear Mr. Belville, laugh, laugh, I beſeech you laugh.

I do, I do, my dear Lucy, and I hope we never ſhall have cauſe to be leſs merry as long as we live—ha, ha, ha!

O never, never—I ſhall certainly die—Well, Mr. Belville—the world goes as it ſhould do—my miſtreſs will exchange her fool for a wit, Miſs Peggy her brute for a pretty young fellow; I ſhall dance at two weddings—be well rewarded by both parties—get a huſband myſelf, and be as happy as the beſt of you—and ſo your humble ſervant.

Succeſs attend you, Lucy—

SCENE Moody's houſe.

WELL, 'tis e'en ſo, I have got the Lon⯑don diſeaſe they call love; I am ſick of my guardian, and dying for Mr. Belville! I have heard this diſtemper call'd a fever, but methinks it is liker an ague; for, when I think of my guardian, I tremble, and am in a cold ſweat; but when I think of my gallant, dear Mr. Belville, my hot fit comes, and I am all in a fever indeed: my own chamber is tedious to me, and I would fain be remov'd to his, and then methinks I ſhou'd be very well. Ah! poor Mr. Belville! Well, I cannot, will not ſtay here; therefore I'll make an end of my letter to him, which ſhall be a finer letter than my laſt, becauſe I have ſtudied it like any thing. Oh! ſick, ſick!

What, writing more letters?

O Lord! Bud, why d'ye fright me ſo?

How's this! nay, you ſhall not ſtir, Ma⯑dam. Dear, dear, dear Mr. Belville,—very well, I have taught you to write letters to good purpoſe—but let's ſee't.—

—Firſt, I am to beg your pardon for my boldneſs in writing to you, which I'd have you to know I would not have done, had you not ſaid firſt you lov'd me ſo extremely; which, if you do, you will never ſuffer me to be another man's, who I loath, nauſiate, and deteſt: (now you can write theſe filthy words.) But what follows?—therefore I hope you will ſpeedily find ſome way to free me from this un⯑fortunate match, which was never, I aſſure you, of [60] my choice, but I'm afraid 'tis already too far gone; however, if you love me, as I do you, you will try what you can do; you muſt help me away before to-morrow, or elſe, alas! I ſhall be for ever out of your reach, for I can defer no longer our—our—(what is to follow our—ſpeak what) our journey into the country, I ſuppoſe.—Oh, woman, damn'd woman! and Love, damn'd Love! their old tempter; for this is one of his miracles: in a moment he can make thoſe blind that cou'd ſee, and thoſe ſee that were blind; thoſe dumb that could ſpeak, and thoſe prattle who were dumb be⯑fore; nay, what is more than all, make thoſe dough⯑bak'd, ſenſeleſs, indocile animals, women, too hard for us, their politick lords and rulers, in a moment. But make an end of your letter, and then I'll make an end of you thus, and all my plaguestogether.

O Lord! O Lord! you are ſuch a paſſionate man, Bud!

Come, take the pen, and make an end of the letter, juſt as you intended; if you are falſe in a tit⯑tle, I ſhall ſoon perceive it, and puniſh you with this, as you deſerve.

Write what was to follow—let's ſee—(You muſt make baſte and help me away before to-morrow, or elſe I ſhall be for ever out of your reach, for I can defer no longer our) what follows our?—

Muſt all out then, Bud?—Look you there, then.

Let's ſee—(for I can defer no longer our wedding—Your ſlighted Alithea.) What's the mean⯑ing of this, my ſiſter's name to't? ſpeak, unriddle.

Yes, indeed, Bud.

But why her name to't? ſpeak—ſpeak, I ſay.

Ay, but you'll tell her again: if you wou'd not tell her again—

I will not; I am ſtunn'd, my head turns round. Speak.

Won't you tell her indeed, and indeed?

No; ſpeak, I ſay.

She'll be angry with me; but I had rather ſhe ſhould be angry with me than you, Bud. And to tell you the truth, 'twas ſhe made me write the letter, and taught me what I ſhould write.

Ha—I thought the ſtyle was ſomewhat better than her own.

Cou'd ſhe come to you to teach you, ſince I had lock'd you up alone?

Oh, thro' the key-hole, Bud.

But why ſhou'd ſhe make you write a let⯑ter for her to him, ſince ſhe can write herſelf?

Why, ſhe ſaid becauſe—for I was unwilling to do it.

Becauſe, what—becauſe—

Becauſe, leſt Mr. Belville, as he was ſo young, ſhou'd be inconſtant and refuſe her, or be vain after⯑wards, and ſhew the letter, ſhe might diſown it, the hand not being hers.

Belville again!—Am I to be deceiv;d again with that young hypocrite?

You have deceiv'd yourſelf, Bud, you have indeed—I have kept the ſecret, for my ſiſter's ſake, as long as I could—but you muſt know it—and ſhall know it too.

Dry your eyes.

You always thought he was hankering after me—Good law! he's dying for Alithea, and Alithea for him—they have had private meetings—and he was making love to her before yeſterday, from the ta⯑vern window, when you thought it was to me—I would have diſcover'd all—but ſhe made me ſwear to deceive you, and ſo I have finely—have not I, Bud?

Why did you write that fooliſh letter to him then, and make me more fooliſh to carry it?

To carry on the joke, Bud—to oblige them.

And will nothing ſerve her but that taper jackanapes, that great baby?—he's too young for her to marry.

Why do you marry me then? 'tis the ſame thing, Bud.

No, no, 'tis quite different—How inno⯑cent ſhe is!—This changeling cou'd not invent this [62] lye; but if ſhe cou'd, why ſhou'd ſhe? ſhe might think I ſhould ſoon diſcover it.

—But hark you, Madam, your ſiſter went out in the morning, and I have not ſeen her within ſince.

Alack-a-day, ſhe has been crying all day above, it ſeems, in a corner.

Where is ſhe? let me ſpeak with her.

O Lord! then ſhe'll diſcover all—

Pray hold, Bud; what d'ye mean to diſcover me? ſhe'll know I have told you then. Pray, Bud, let me talk with her firſt.

I muſt ſpeak with her, to know whether Belville ever made her any promiſe, and whether ſhe will be marry'd to Sparkiſh, or no.

Pray, dear Bud, don't, till I have ſpoke with her, and told her that I have told you all; for ſhe'll kill me elſe.

Go then, and bid her come to me.

Yes, yes, Bud.

Let me ſee—

I have juſt got time to know of Lucy, who firſt ſet me on work, what lye I ſhall tell next; for I am e'en at my wits end.

Well, I reſolve it, Belville ſhall have her: I'd rather give him my ſiſter, than lend him my wife; and ſuch an alliance will prevent his pretenſions to my wife, ſure—I'll make him of kin to her, and then he won't care for her.

O Lord, Bud, I told you what anger you wou'd make me with my ſiſter.

Won't ſhe come hither?

No, no, ſhe's a ſham'd to look you in the face; ſhe'll go directly to Mr. Belville, ſhe ſays—She muſt ſpeak with him, before ſhe diſcovers all to you—or even ſees you—She ſays too, that you ſhall know the reaſon by-and-by—Pray let her have her way, Bud—ſhe won't be pacify'd if you don't—and will never for⯑give me—For my part, Bud, I believe, but don't tell any body, they have broken a piece of ſilver between 'em—or have contracted one another, as we have [63] done, you know, which is the next thing to being mar⯑ry'd.

Pooh! you fool—ſhe aſham'd of talking with me about Belville, becauſe I made the match for her with Sparkiſh! But Sparkiſh [...] and I have no objection to Belville's family or fortune—tell [...].

I will, Bud.

Stay, ſtay, Peggy—let her have her own way—ſhe ſhall go to Belville herſelf, and I'll follow her—that will be beſt—let her have her whim.

You're in the right, Bud—for they have certainly had a quarrel, by her crying and hanging her head ſo—I'll be hang'd if her eyes an't ſwell'd out of her head, ſhe's in ſuch a piteous taking.

Belville ſhan't uſe her ill, I'll take care of that—if he has made her a promiſe, he ſhall keep to it—but ſhe had better go firſt—a word or two by themſelves will clear matters for my appearance—I will follow her at a diſtance, that ſhe may have no in terruption; and I will wait in the Park before I ſee them, that they may come to a reconciliation before I come upon 'em.

Law, Bud, how wiſe you are! I wiſh I had half your wiſdom; you ſee every thing at once—Stand a one ſide then—and I'll tell her you are gone to your room, and when ſhe paſſes by, you may follow her.

And ſo I will—ſhe ſhan't ſee me till I break in upon her at Belville's.

Now for it.

My caſe is ſomething better—for ſuppoſe the worſt—ſhould Belville uſe her ill—I had rather fight him for not marrying my ſiſter, than for debauch⯑ing my wife, for I will make her mine abſolutely tomorrow; and of the two, I had rather find my ſiſter too forward than my wife: I expected no other from her free education, as ſhe calls it, and her paſſion for the town—Well, wife and ſiſter are names which make us expect love and duty, pleaſure and comfort but we find 'em plagues and torments, and are equally, tho' differently, troubleſome to their keeper. But here ſhe comes.

Heigho!

There the poor devil goes, ſighing and ſobbing; a woeful example of the fatal conſequences of a town education—but I am bound in duty, as well as inclination, to do my utmoſt to ſave her—but firſt I'll ſecure my own property.

—Peggy! Peggy!—my dear!—I will return as ſoon as poſſible, do you hear me? Why don't you anſwer? You may read in the book I bought you till I come back—As the Jew ſays in the play, faſt bind, faſt find.

This is the beſt, and only ſecurity for female affections.

Scene the Park before Belville's door.

If I can but meet with her, or any body that belongs to her, they will find me a match for 'em—When a man has wit, and a great deal of it—Champagne gives it a double edge, and nothing can with ſtand it—'tis a lighted match to gunpowder—the mine is ſprung, and the poor devils are toſs'd heels uppermoſt in an inſtant. I was right to conſult my friends, and they all agree with Moody, that I make a damn'd ridiculous figure, as matters ſtand at preſent. I'll conſult Belville—this is his houſe, he's my friend too—and no fool—It ſhall be ſo—damn it, I muſt not be ridiculous.

Hold! hold! if the Cham⯑pagne does not hurt my eye-ſight, while it ſharpens my wit, the enemy is marching up this way—Come on, Madam Alithea; now for a ſmart fire, and then let's ſee who will be ridiculous.

Dear me, I begin to tremble—there is Mr. Sparkiſh, and I can't get to Mr. Belville's houſe with⯑out [65] paſſing by him—he ſees me—and will diſcover me—he ſeems in liquor too!—bleſs me.

Oho! ſhe ſtands at bay a little—ſhe don't much reliſh the engagement—The firſt blow is half the battle—I'll be a little figurative with her.

I find, Madam, you like a ſolo better than a duet. You need not have been walking alone this evening, if you had been wiſer yeſterday—What, nothing to ſay for yourſelf?—Repentance, I ſuppoſe, makes you as aukward and as fooliſh, as the poor country girl your brother has lock'd up in Pall Mall.

I'm frighten'd out of my wits.

Not a ſtep farther ſhall you go, 'till you give me an account of your behaviour, and make me reparation for being ridiculous. What, dumb ſtill!—then if you won't by fair means, I muſt ſqueeze you to a confeſſion.

Not quite ſo faſt, if you pleaſe—Come, come—let me ſee your modeſt face, and hear your ſoft tongue—or I ſhall be tempted to uſe you ill.

Hands off, you ruffian—how dare you uſe a lady, and my ſiſter, in this manner?

She's my property, Sir—transfer'd to me by you—and tho' I would give her up to any body for a dirty ſword-knot, yet I won't be bullied out of my right, tho' it is not worth that—

There's a fellow to be a huſband—you are juſtify'd in deſpiſing him, and flying from him—I'll de⯑fend you with my purſe and my ſword—knock at that door, and let me ſpeak to Belville.—

—Is your maſter at home, friend?

Yes, Sir.

Tell him then, that I have reſcu'd that lady from this gentleman, and that by her deſire, and my conſent, ſhe flies to him for protection; if he can get [66] a parſon, let him marry her this minute; tell him ſo, and ſhut the door.

And that he will, I'll anſwer for him.

The maa's mad, ſtark mad!

And now, Sir, if your wine has given you courage, you had better ſhew it upon this occaſion, for you are ſtill damn'd ridiculous.

Did you ever hear the like—Look ye, Mr. Moody, we are in the Park, and to draw a ſword is an offence to the court—ſo you may vapour as long as you pleaſe. A woman of ſo little taſte, is not worth fighting for—ſhe's not worth my ſword; but if you'll fight me to morrow morning for diverſion, I am your man.

Relinquiſh your title in the lady to Belville peaceably, and you may ſleep in a whole ſkin.

Belville! he would not have your ſiſter, with the fortune of a nabob; no, no, his mouth wa⯑ters at your country tid-bit at home—much good may do him.

And you think ſo, puppy—ha, ha, ha!

Yes, I do, maſtiff—ha, ha, ha!

Then thy folly is complete—ha, ha, ha!

Thine will be ſo, when thou haſt married thy country innocence—ha, ha, ha!

Who have we here?

What, my boy Harcourt!

What brings you here, Sir?

I follow'd you to Belville's, to preſent a near relation of yours, and a nearer one of mine, to you.

What's the matter now?

Give me leave, gen⯑tlemen, without offence to either, to preſent Mrs. Harcourt to you!

Alithea! your wife!—Mr. Moody, are you in the clouds too?

If I am not in a dream—I am the moſt mi⯑ſerable waking dog, that ever run mad with his misfor⯑tunes and aſtoniſhment!

Why ſo, Jack—can you object to my hap⯑pineſs, when this gentleman was unworthy of it?

Nothing but his total indifference to me, and the higheſt opinion of himſelf, could poſſibly have fore'd me to fly here for protection.

This is very fine, very fine, indeed—where's your ſtory about Belville now, 'ſquire Moody? Prithee don't chaſe and ſtare, and ſtride, and beat thy head like a mad tragedy poet—but out with thy tropes and figures.

Zounds! I can't bear it.

Dear brother, what's the matter?

The devil's the matter! the devil and wo⯑man together.

I'll break the door down, if they won't anſwer.

What would your honour pleaſe to have?

Your maſter, raſcal!

He is obeying your commands, Sir, and the moment he has finiſh'd, he will do himſelf the pleaſure to wait on you.

You ſneering villain you—if your maſter does not produce that ſhe-devil, who is now with him, and who, with a face of innocence, has cheated and undone me, I'll ſet fire to his houſe.

Gad ſo! now I begin to ſmoke the buſineſs. Well ſaid, ſimplicity, rural ſimplicity! egad! if thou haſt trick'd Cerberus here, I ſhall be ſo raviſh'd, that I will give this couple a wedding dinner. Pray, Mr. Moody, who's damn'd ridiculous now?

Look ye, Sir—don't grin, for if you dare to ſhew your teeth at my miſ⯑fortunes—I'll daſh 'em down your impudent throat, you jackanapes.

Very fine, faith—but I have no weapons to but with a mad bull, ſo you may toſs and roar by yourſelf, if you pleaſe.

What does my good friend want with me.

Are you a villain, or are you not?

I have obey'd your commands, Sir.

What have you done with the girl, Sir?

Made her my wife, as you deſired.

Very true, I am your witneſs—'tis plea⯑ſant, faith, ha, ha, ha!

She's my Wife, and I demand her.

No, but I an't—what's the matter, Bud, are you angry with me?

How dare you look me in the face, cock⯑atrice?

How dare you look me in the face, Bud? Have you not given me to another, when you ought to have married me yourſelf? Have not you pretended to be married to me, when you knew in your conſci⯑ence you was not?—And have not you been ſhilly ſhally for a long time? So that if I had not married dear Mr. Belville, I ſhould not have married at all—ſo I ſhould not.

Extremely pleaſant, faith; ha, ha, ha!

I'm ſtupify'd with ſhame, rage, and aſto⯑niſhment—my fate has o'ercome me—I can ſtruggle no more with it.

What is left me?—I cannot bear to look, or be look'd upon—I will hur⯑ry down to my old houſe; take a twelvemonth's pro⯑viſion into it—cut down my draw-bridge, run wild about my garden, which ſhall grow as wild as myſelf—then will I curſe the world, and every indivi⯑dual in it—and when my rage and ſpirits fail me, I will be found dead among the nettles and thiſtles; a woeful example of the baſeneſs and treachery of one ſex, and of the falſehood, lying perjury, deceit, im⯑pudence and—damnation of the other.

Verry droll, and extravagantly comic, I muſt confeſs; ha, ha, ha.

Look ye, Belville, I wiſh you joy with all my heart—you have got the prize, and perhaps have caught a tartar—that's no buſineſs of mine—If you want evidence for Mr. Moody's giving his con⯑ſent to your marriage, I ſhall be ready. I bear no ill will to that pair, I wiſh you happy—

—tho' I'm ſure they'll be miſerable—and ſo your humble ſervant.

I hope you forgive me, Alithea, for playing your brother this trick; indeed I ſhould have only made him and myſelf miſerable, had we married together.

Then 'tis much better as it is—But I am yet in the dark, how this matter has been brought about. How your innocence, my dear, has outwit⯑ted his worldly wiſdom.

If you will walk in, Madam, for a moment, we will tell you our adventure, and conſult with you and Mr. Harcourt, the moſt likely means to reconcile your brother to us—we will be guided by you in every ſtep we take.

And we ſhall be ready and happy to effect ſo deſirable an end.

I am ſure I'll do any thing to pleaſe my Bud, but marry him.