SCENE I.

THERE's ſomebody at the door, Fiſh—'tis Lady Mary Magpie—let her in—even her ridiculous vanity is more ſupportable than the reflection on my own.

Lady Mary, ma'am.

Good-morrow, dear Lady Mary.

Nay, ſit ſtill—and, Mrs. Fiſh, do you ſtay.—I have brought ſomething to ſhew your miſtreſs, and you may ſee it too, if ſhe will give you leave.

Certainly.—Fiſh, you may ſtay.

There!

What do you think of that?—A preſent from Mr. Walmſley—a ſhawl, worth at a moderate va⯑luation, no leſs than a hundred and fifty guineas.—He gave it me this minute—it came over but laſt night from India—has been on the ſeas ſeven months—was in that terrible ſtorm of October laſt.—Little did I think, when I heard of thoſe dreadful wrecks, and the many ſouls that periſhed, that I had a ſhawl at ſea: if I had, I ſhould have ſuffered a martyrdom!—Now is not it pretty?—Beautiful?—He aſſures me, his correſpondent writes him word, "There is but one more ſuch in all India."—And I'm to wear it the firſt time on my wedding-day.

It is very beautiful indeed.

An't you well, my dear?—You don't ſeem to underſtand it's value.—What do you ſay to it, Mrs. Fiſh?

Oh madam!—I like it of all things!—

I dare ſay you do.—But come, my dear Miſs Angle, what's the matter with you? Since you firſt came to town, you are the moſt altered creature I ever ſaw!—

Your Ladyſhip does not think my miſtreſs has loſt any of her beauty, I hope?—

As for that, Mrs. Fiſh, I dare ſay your Lady has made obſervation enough to know, that beauty is of little weight here;— [3] of no ſignification at all!—Beauty in London is ſo cheap, and conſequently ſo common to the men of faſhion, (who are prodigiouſly fond of novelty) that they abſolutely begin to fall in love with the ugly women, by way of change.—

And does your Ladyſhip think old women will ever come into faſhion?—

They are in faſhion—they have been in faſhion ſome time.—Girls, and young women, have made themſelves ſo cheap, they are quite out.—

I believe ſo.—

As ſoon as the vulgar lay hold of any thing, the people of ton leave it off.—Such is the caſe with young women.—The vulgar have laid hold of them, and they are quite out.—

Oh dear me!—

But come, my dear Angle, pluck up your ſpirits, againſt you know when—you are to be one of my bridemaids you know—Oh how I long to be away from lodgings, and in a houſe of my own—Mr. Walmſley ſays, he ſhall invite you to ſtay a day or two with us.—He likes you (ſtranger as you are to us both) very much I aſſure you.—He is a great admirer of virtue, in us females; and, notwithſtanding his little oddities, would do any thing for a wo⯑man of character; and your refuſing that vile Lord's odious addreſſes (which I inform'd him of) has intereſted him for you exceedingly. [4] Well, heaven bleſs you—I can't ſtay—he'll be quite impatient.

I may tell him you like the ſhawl I ſuppoſe?

Beautiful, beyond meaſure!

And you, Mrs. Fiſh?

Charming, ma'am.

Did I tell you there was but one more ſuch in all India?

You did.

Only think of it's being in that ſtorm!

Would I had been in the ſtorm, and had fallen it's victim!—

Dear madam!—

Oh Fiſh, that woman's non⯑ſenſe, at which you laugh'd, was graced with ſentiments of the ſtricteſt truth!—Young women are no longer thought of here.—How raſhly did I give credit to our fooliſh country people!—They told me, that, "Tho' only admired by them, in London I ſhou'd be adored—that beau⯑ty here was rare—that virtue"—

Well, madam, and that is rare, every body knows!

But is it valued?—No.—As ſoon as I gave Lord Lighthead proofs of my poſ⯑ſeſſing it, what was the conſequence?—I have neither ſeen nor heard of him ſince.—

That's very odd!—For my part I thought him ſo much in love!—And ſometimes I thought you looked a little.—

That I felt a warmth—a ſome⯑thing like tenderneſs for him, I own; but that it was the effect of love I will not pretend to ſay—It was perhaps the effect of hope—Pride too, had a great ſhare in the agitation of my heart—and gratitude might have confirm'd the whole ſenſation love.—But, in the moment gratitude ſhou'd have been inſpired, reſentment, indignation, took poſſeſſion—and I am now left ſolely to ſhame and diſappointment.

Well!—it's very odd that a man ſhould give himſelf ſo much trouble to come here after you, ſo many times as he did, and then all of a ſudden never to come near you for a whole month.—I ſhould not mind loſing him, neither, if ſome duke or other great man would come inſtead of him; or even that ſtrange young man we met on the road, as we came to town, and that was ſo kind to us when our chaiſe broke down.

Honeſt creature!

Well, as ſure as ever I was in love in my life, that young man and his ſervant were both as deep in love—

With me?

No: the maſter with you, and the man with me.—But we, I thought, were coming to town to make our fortune, and ſo I was above [6] making it on the road.—For notwithſtanding that young man looked ſo countrified, and had hardly a word to ſay for himſelf, he's worth thouſands!—And poor Humphry, his ſervant, perſuaded me to give him our direction; that his maſter and he might come after us to London—And yet, to ſee the fickleneſs of man! we have heard nor ſeen nothing of them.—But, dear ma⯑dam, his Lordſhip runs moſt in my head—Per⯑haps he is ſick?

No—he viſits the drawing⯑room, conſtantly; as we read in the papers.—I wonder what he wou'd ſay if he was accidentally to meet me?—

He'd fall in love with you as much as ever.—Suppoſe, madam, you was to write to him?—

For ſhame!

Dear madam, I know a few lines from you wou'd cheer his heart, and he would be as dying for you as ever!—Oh! when I have giv⯑en him a letter from you, how he has jumped for joy! how he has kiſs'd it! and how he has kiſs'd me!—

Cou'd I write to him with any appearance of prudence—for inſtance; upon any buſineſs—I ſhou'd have no objection: it wou'd at leaſt remind him of me, and bring matters to a deciſion.

Then do, madam, contrive to write to him about ſome buſineſs.

What buſineſs can I pretend?

Dear madam! if you had a handſome piece of ſilk for a gown, or a diamond pin, or ſomething of that kind, you might return it him back again.—

Return it him again! What do you mean?

Why, madam, you might ſend it him back—as if you had received the preſent from a perſon unknown: and concluding that it muſt come from his Lordſhip, you had thought proper to return it—and ſo you might ſend him, with it, a fine long virtuous letter, that "you wou'd not re⯑ceive a preſent from a king, that had evil de⯑ſigns upon you," and ſo on—and ſo on—and ſo on.—This, I am ſure would make him ten times fonder of you than ever—for he would think ſome rival had been ſending you the preſent in that anonymous manner, which had made you think it was him—and I know he wou'd—

I proteſt there is ſomething in that ſcheme which pleaſes me.

Do it, madam—do it.

But how can I?—I have no⯑thing of value—nothing that I cou'd ſuppoſe he wou'd ſend for a preſent, and which I could think of conſequence enough to return.

What's your watch, madam?

An old faſhion'd thing!

Lord! I have thought of ſomething! The fineſt thing!—

What?—

Lady Mary Magpie's ſhawl—You known ma'am, 'tis the fineſt thing in the world—There is but one more ſuch in all the univerſe.

But the ſhawl is not mine!

No ma'am—but I dare ſay I know where her ladyſhip has laid it, and I can get it.

For ſhame!

Dear madam, do you think I'd ſteal it—It cou'd do it no harm to be a few hours at his Lordſhip's—He'd ſend it back directly: you may depend upon that—And then ſuch a fine thing?—It would make him think that ſome great man indeed had taken a fancy to you—and he'd be ſo afraid of loſing you.—

Well!—I proteſt—if I thought—

I can get it, ma'am, with all the eaſe in the world—I dare ſay.

What will become of me?—Where will my folly end?

Yes—yes—ma'am, I can get it—her Ladyſhip has ſpread it on the bed in the blue chamber, and is gone out for the whole even⯑ing; [9] and will ſleep at her couſin's, Lady Beach's—her maid told me ſo in the morning.

But ſuppoſe his Lordſhip ſhould not return it?

Laud ma'am! do you think his Lord⯑ſhip will keep it, when he'll know he did not ſend it you?—His Lordſhip is not a thief, I ſup⯑poſe—You'll have it back, ma'am, I'll anſwer for it in an hour or two, and himſelf with it.—The perſon ſhan't leave it ma'am, if his Lord⯑ſhip is not at home; and then you'll be ſure to have it in an hour or two—I'll go ſteal it—I'll go ſteal it.

Steal it!—

Take it, ma'am—not ſteal it.

This ſcheme will at leaſt renew our acquaintance—and that is all I want—for if, on the renewal, he appears cold, I will leave Lon⯑don inſtantly—if, on the contrary, he is as much in love as ever—

I have got it—I have got it—here it is.—Now, madam, come into your bed cham⯑ber and write a very affecting letter, while I do it up, and ſend for a porter.

I proteſt I am frighten'd—tho' we take it but to return again.

Dear madam! I am ſure it is not in half the danger as when it was in the great ſtorm!

SCENE II.

What!—his Lordſhip is gone to ſee Lady Loveall, thus early, I ſuppoſe? or ra⯑ther has ſtaid with her thus late!

You are juſt like her Ladyſhip, ma'am, for ſhe is ever accuſing my Lord of be⯑ing with you—But I aſſure you, ma'am, his Lordſhip ſlept at home—

There he is, madam.

Yes—I have heard of her Ladyſhip's jealouſy—and that ſhe ſometimes ſearches this whole houſe to find me.

Dear madam, I hear Mr. Walmſley's voice—my Lord's uncle, madam!—they are coming here—what ſhall we do, ma⯑dam? My maſter will murder me if his uncle ſhould ſee you!—a croſs old man, madam—knocks every body down that he does not like—and he has a great diſlike to a fine lady—and, if he ſhould ſee you here, ſuch a life my Lord will have of it!

Oh! you need tell me no more.—I know Mr. Walmſley's character well.—Where can I go? I would ſooner jump out [11] of the window than meet him—a cruel, un⯑feeling—piece of ice!

Here, madam, ſtep into my Lord's bed-chamber.

His bed-chamber! Well, the creature won't ſtay long?

Not above ten minutes, I dare ſay, ma'am.

Don't tell me, my Lord—you are a bad man—a very bad man—you ſay in excuſe for your vices, they are faſhionable—but I, being out of the faſhion, can call 'em only wicked.

What vices, Sir?

Why, you are a fellow that falls in love with every face you ſee; and yet admire your own more than any one of them.—You are a man whoſe purſe is open to every gambler and courtezan, and is never ſhut, but to objects of real diſtreſs.

But how are you informed of this?

Hear it!—told of it by every body!—Do you think any thing but conviction would have forced me to the raſh ſtep I have taken?—Wou'd any thing but a certainty that you were unworthy to be my heir, have forced [12] me to the deſperate reſolution of marrying, notwithſtanding my natural averſion to oppoſi⯑tion?

I hope, Sir, when you marry—

Hope! Pſhaw!—I know well enough what marriage is—'Tis a poeſy of thorns—nobody knows where to lay hold of it—'Tis a ſtormy ſea, where nothing is to be expected but ſqualls, tempeſts and ſhipwrecks!—One cries, "Help"—another, "Lord have mercy upon us"—a third, "'Tis all over with us"—and ſouſe they all go into the ocean of calamity.

Then, for heaven's ſake, Sir, if this is your opinion, decline your intention of marrying.

I can't—'tis too late—my word is paſs'd—Your indiſcretions put me in a paſ⯑ſion, and I took a raſh ſtep!—a ſtep I never intended to take.—I offered a lady to marry her, in the heat of anger, and ſhe took me at my word, before I had time to grow cool and re⯑cant.

How unfortunate!

I was not aware ſhe would be ſo ſudden!—but I was in ſuch a violent paſſion;—all againſt you for your follies—I was de⯑viliſh hot! I don't remember that I was ever in ſuch a heat in my life! I ſtrutted—and fretted—and walk'd—and talk'd—all in anger againſt [13] you; which ſhe took for love to her, and ſo was overcome in leſs than ten minutes.

Dear Sir, had I been preſent—

Why, then, I ſhould have broken every bone in your ſkin!—But as it was—I vented my rage—in kiſſing the lady; and won her heart without farther trouble.—It's impoſſi⯑ble I could have won her ſo ſoon, but by my being in that violent rage; for ſhe's a particular, prudent, diſcreet, reſerv'd, middle-aged wo⯑man; and nothing but my great violence cou'd have had that effect upon her.

But, Sir, is it poſſible that you ſhould pay attention to a raſh promiſe in a moment of anger?

My word!—My word is as dear to me as my honor—It is my honor—and I can⯑not keep one without keeping both.

But now you are cool, Sir.

Yes, I am cool—but now the lady is in a paſſion—and I muſt keep my word with her, tho' I am afraid ſhe'll never find me warm on the ſubject again.

Dear Sir? And all this to re⯑venge yourſelf on me? A man whoſe greateſt faults ariſe merely from the report of malicious enemies.

Enemies!—Pſhaw!—That's always your excuſe!—But have not I enemies [14] as well as you? And yet, I dare ſay, you never heard of my being caught gallanting my neigh⯑bour's wife?—Or walking arm-in-arm with a a milliner? Or following fine ladies home to their lodgings?—Nor did you ever hear me ac⯑cuſed of deſtroying a beautiful young woman's peace of mind—Did you?

I can't ſay I ever did, Sir.

Then don't pretend to deny the reports I have heard of you.—Don't I know that you were caught with Lady Love⯑all and—

I own, Sir, I have been very unfortunate as to Appearances—Appearances, and thoſe alone, have been the ruin of my re⯑putation;—accidents ſo ſtrange, that no human wiſdom cou'd prevent or avoid them—I have been found, for inſtance, with a female, whom I never had the ſmalleſt familiarity with, in the moſt ſuſpicious ſituations; and only by mere accident.—

And pray was that an accident when I caught you kiſſing my houſe-keeper's daughter, as if you'd devour her?

Yes, upon my word, Sir, that was an accident—entirely an accident—My ſervant had juſt loſt me a favorite ſpaniel, and, had the raſcal been in the way, I ſhou'd have broken every bone in his ſkin; but, hap⯑pening to meet with this poor girl, I vented my rage on her.

Then, I have only to ſay, you have loſt my eſtate by your accidents.

Lady Loveall, Sir, is in the parlour.

Is that an accident?

Blundering—

I did not ſee Mr. Walmſley, Sir!—A fine life I ſhall have for this!

This is another accident!—How dares that imprudent woman viſit you?—My blood runs cold at the thought of her—for ſhe was the cauſe of this raſh ſtep I have taken!—It was hearing of your intrigue with her that hurried me to the raſh ſtep of marrying.—Let me get out of the houſe—ſhe's poiſon to me; and ſhe knows it too, and ſpeaks to me, wherever I meet her, on purpoſe to inſult me.—Let me get away.—

Zounds ſhe's coming here!—I won't ſee her!—I ſhall be in one of my paſſion's if I do!—Where ſhall I go?—Put me ſomewhere.

Here, Sir,—ſtep into my bed-chamber—I'll take her Ladyſhip to another room immediately—and you may avoid her.

Oh, damn your accidents!—But, thank heaven, you are no heir of mine—you are out of my will.—

And therefore may now of⯑fend you without fear.

Where's Mr. Walmſley, Sir?

In my bed-chamber.—What did you want with him?

Oh, dear Sir! Oh dear!—Miſs Suſan Audley is there, Sir!—I cramm'd her in, when I heard your Lordſhip and Mr. Walmſley on the ſtairs, for fear he ſhould ſee her.—

Zounds!—but no matter!—I'm ſtruck out of his will, and may defy him.—But I don't hear him—

he can't have ſeen her?

Perhaps, Sir, ſhe's crept under the bed?

Very likely—for I know ſhe would rather meet a tyger. What's become of Lady Loveall?

William is trying to prevent her coming up, Sir:—for ſhe ſays, it is not your uncle that you have with you, but a lady; and ſhe will ſee her.

So, my Lord.—What's the reaſon I am not to be admitted?—You've no company, neither!—Oh, you have been hiding, I percieve!

This way—come this way—I'll tell you who it is. Don't ſpeak ſo loud.

None of your arts, my Lord. I will ſee who you have hid in your bed-chamber.

I aſſure you 'tis my Uncle.—Huſh!—Come this way.

My Lord, you'll pardon me—but I can't.—

Huſh! Huſh!

SCENE III.

Now I'll ſteal out—No—ſhe's coming again.

I will ſee who you have in your bed-chamber—my curioſity ſhall be ſatisfied.

Shall it!—Then there muſt be neither cloſet nor cupboard in the room.—

The devil take it, it's lock'd.

I will ſee who you have here.

You won't.—I'll get under the bed firſt.—Hold, I can't ſtoop—no matter—I'll hide myſelf under the counterpane—and madam ſhall be diſappointed.—

Now find me if you can!—I believe you'll be bit.

Why here's no one here!

Now, I hope you are ſatis⯑fied.—Where the devil is my Uncle?

Did not you tell me your Uncle was here?

Yes—but you expected to find ſomebody elſe.

And there is ſomebody elſe—

A Lady! Oh you deceitful!—

—Ah! Ah! Ah!

I ſhall never recover the ſhock.

Why!—Why!—What is all this!—What a ſtrange accident!—

I ſay accident, indeed!—

Accident! Uncle!

The ſevere, putitanical Mr. Walmſley!

Upon my word, Uncle, ſuch a thing in my houſe—

Oh! Oh! Oh!

Oh! Oh! Oh!—Deuce take your Oh's.—My Lord, you uſed to have faith in ac⯑cidents.—

But you convinced me there were no ſuch things.—And indeed, Uncle, tho' you may think lightly of this affair, I am very much concerned at it.—My reputation, as well as yours, is at ſtake—Such a thing to happen in my houſe.—Rat me, if I would have had it hap⯑pened for the world!—

What has happened?—No⯑thing has happened!

Oh heavens!—My Lord, I aſk your pardon for all my former ſuſpicions of you and this Lady.

I muſt cry for vexation—for 'tis in vain to attempt to clear myſelf.

See the Lady in tears, Mr. Walmſley!—Oh! what a treat to teize him.

I beg that every means may be taken to put a ſtop to this affair getting abroad.—For my part, I declare never to breathe the circumſtance to a mortal—and I dare ſay we may ſo far prevail on Lady Loveall.—

No, indeed—I am bound to no ſecrecy.—Mr. Walmſley has never been ſparing of my reputation, nor will I of his—the world ſhall know it.

Why then, Nephew, upon my ſoul!—I wiſh I may die!—I wiſh I may never ſpeak again!—I wiſh—

Wiſh!—you uſed to pre⯑tend you had no wiſhes.

I don't ſpeak to you—

Pray, madam, be ſo good as to tell me how you came into that bed?

'Tis in vain to ſay—nobody will credit me.

Well, Mr. Walmſley, I'll bid you good morning—and, though I know you to be no friend of mine, yet permit a poor weak woman to give you this counſel—that now you are about to enter into the married ſtate, you will not ſuffer theſe depraved inclinations, (even in youth a reproach) to ruffle that tranquillity which ought ever to attend on the honourable marriage bed.

Zounds! I have not patience!—Honourable marriage bed! Why her calling it honourable, would alone, have made me ſhudder at it, if I had not before.—That woman is the worſt of all human—

Dear Sir!—

Why you know, my Lord, if it had not been for her, you wou'd have own'd that—that gipſey was put there to meet you—but this woman is my bane wherever I go—or whatever I do.—Oh! that I could but once be reveng'd of her.—But I dare ſay I ſhall!

No more on this ſubject, Sir—I hope the Lady you are going to marry, may [21] prove of a more amiable diſpoſition—and that you will like her.

Why ſince I found I muſt have her, I've been trying night and day to like her—but I can't ſay I make much progreſs.—How⯑ever, I'm tolerably civil, and give her a vaſt number of preſents, as a cover for my want of affection.—She's expecting me now to go a ſhop⯑ping with her; ſo good morning—you'll come to the wedding?

Certainly!—when is the hap⯑py day, Sir?

How dare you call it the "happy day?"—You juſt heard me ſay it was the moſt wretched, miſerable affair I ever had to do with in all my life, and now you are calling [...]t the "happy day."—

The day then, Sir—when is the day?

Thurſday

—the day [...]fter to-morrow—the 21ſt of December.

Oh! damme, the ſhorteſt day [...]nd the longeſt night.

Sir, this parcel was left about half an [...]our ago, to be deliver'd into your Lordſhip's own hands, as ſoon as you were at leiſure.

What is it?—Is that the [...]ill?

This is a letter, Sir.

A letter!—

—"My Lord, altho' your Lordſhip has had the delicacy not to avow yourſelf the preſenter of this valu⯑able gift, yet, ſomething whiſpers me, it can be none but your Lordſhip to whom I am in⯑debted for ſo generous an intention.—But, my Lord, the intention only—permit me to remain obliged to you for.—The gift itſelf—honour, delicacy, and a thouſand ſtruggling ſenſations force me to return—and to add, that my reſi⯑dence in London has not yet ſo entirely eradi⯑cated thoſe principles imbibed in the country, as to render a gaudy bait, even an allurement; except in its being a proof, that your Lordſhip ſometimes honours with a thought, the humble, but contented, LOUISA ANGLE."

Angle! Angle!—Which is that? The girl at St. James's, or the girl at Weſtminſter?—Oh! the girl at St. James's!—I don't remember ſending her a preſent!—but I ſuppoſe I did, while I was mad for her—and now I have recovered my ſenſes, I have forgot it.—What is it?

Zounds! but it is very handſome! and the very thing to pre⯑ſent to Lady Loveall.—It will reconcile her to me immediately—for I am afraid ſhe ſuſ⯑pects me, notwithſtanding her behaviour before my Uncle.—How came I to be ſuch an extra⯑vagant puppy, as to ſend that little gipſey ſuch a preſent, and ſhe to return it, now ſhe finds I have given over my purſuit?— [23] Faith, I'm very glad ſhe did.—Richard—

Bring me pen, ink, and paper.

I certainly ordered ſome of my people to ſend this thing, but it has ſlipt my memory.—

Here—do up that parcel, and take it, with this letter, to Lady Loveall, di⯑rectly.

Yes, Sir.

Egad, it came back at a very lucky time!—Her Ladyſhip doats upon a pre⯑ſent! and ſuch a preſent as that!—Such a ſhawl!—Oh yes—the ſhawl will make her friends with me at once.

SCENE IV.

What a journey have I and poor Humphry taken! and all perhaps for nothing! for if he ſhould even find her, ſhe may not be glad to ſee me.—

Why, Hum⯑phry, I thought you were loſt?

Ay, maſter, and you may think yourſelf well off I was not.

Well—but have you found where Miſs Angle lives?

Yes—I have found her out—but ſuch a time I was about it!—Why, Sir, ſhe [24] lives up by St, James's, or St. Giles's, I forget which!—but 'tis all the ſame.—And ſuch a thing happen'd to me as I went along!—

What?

Why juſt as I got to what they call the P. H'es, (a pretty place)—juſt as I got un⯑der cover, three or four, or five or ſix, (or egad, there might be a dozen) fine ladies met me; and one of them did give me ſuch a ſlap in the face; the water came into my eyes again.—

What did ſhe do that for?

I can't tell for the life of me!—For I pull'd off my hat, and made them a civil bow—but faith, as ſoon as I felt the blow, I for⯑got my manners, for after madam I ran, and gave her ſuch a ſhake—

You did not?

But I did—and that was not the worſt of it neither.—I made a ſad miſtake—for when I came to look, the lady had got a blue gown on, and ſhe that gave me the blow was in red!

How cou'd you make ſuch a blunder?

Why, tho' their gowns were dif⯑ferent, their faces were exactly the ſame colour.

But about Miſs Angle—have you ſeen her, or her maid?

Yes—I have ſeen Mrs. Fiſh; and ſhe ſays, that her Lady has done nothing but [25] talk of you ever ſince you left her on the road—and ſhe deſires you will go and ſee her Lady di⯑rectly.—And ſhe ſays too, that ſhe'll get us a lodging in the ſame houſe before night; but that is to be kept a ſecret from her miſtreſs.

I am very much obliged to Mrs. Fiſh for her contrivance; and I ſhall give her a very handſome preſent to ſatisfy her.

Lord, Sir, there is no occaſion for that—I ſhall kiſs her now and then, and I dare ſay that will be quite ſatisfaction enough. But come, Sir, we muſt go directly.

Do you know, Humphry, that my heart miſgives me.

What! now you are ſo near ſeeing the Lady! Come, come, maſter, be merry.

Ah! Humphry; if I had conti⯑nued poor—if I had never been your maſter, I might have been merry.

"Never been my maſter"—How can you talk ſo? Why, there are people in the world would give any money to be my maſter.—Why now, there's my wife—ſhe'd give every far⯑thing ſhe has to be my maſter; but I tell her, No—No Jane, ſays I, you ſhall never be my maſter.

Oh, if I thought I ſhould get Miſs Angle—

I'll forfeit my head if you don't.—Have you not every thing to get her with?— [26] Fine clothes, in your box there, and plenty of money.—I never heard of a woman that cou'd not be got with fine clothes and plenty of money; nay, often, without either money or clothes.

But, I tell you, that won't do with her—there is ſomething more required.—I can't talk to her—I am at a loſs for words.—

You can't be at a loſs for words, while you are courting!—Women will always give you two for your one.—I know my wife did—and egad, tho' we have left off courting, ſo ſhe does now.

Come—I'll ſet off.—Call a coach.

Ay, Sir, and I'll ride behind it, for fear I ſhould get ſtruck again.—'Tis very odd that any lady ſhould wiſh to ſtrike me.