[1] THE NON-JUROR.

ACT. I.
Sir John Woodvil, and the Colonel.

PRAY conſider, Sir,

So I do, Sir, that I a [...]er Father and will diſpoſe of her as I pleaſe.

I don't diſpute your Authority, Sir: but am I am your Son too, I think it my Duty to be concern'd for your Honour: Have not you countenanced his addreſſes to my Siſter! Has not ſhe receiv'd them? How then is it poſſible, That either you or ſhe with Honour can recede?

Why, Sir? Suppoſe I was about buying a Pad-nag for your Siſter, and upon Enquiry ſhould find him not ſound: Pray, Sir, would there be any great Diſ⯑honour in being off o'the Bargain?

With Submiſſion, Sir, I don't take that to be the Caſe. Mr. Heartly's Birth and Fortune are too well known to you; and I dare ſwear he may deſy the World, to lay a Blemiſh upon his Principles.

Why then, Sir, ſince I muſt be catechis'd, I muſt tell you, I don't like his Principles: For I am in⯑form'd he is a Time-ſerver, one that baſely flatters the Government, and has no more Religion than you have.

Sir, we don't either of us think it proper to make boaſt of our Religion; but if you pleaſe to enquire, you will find we go to Church as orderly as the reſt of our Neighbours.

Ay! to what Church!

—St. James's Church—The eſtabliſh'd Church.

Eſtabliſh'd Church!

Sir—

Nay, you need not ſtare, Sir; and before he values himſelf upon going to Church, I would firſt have him be ſure he is a Chriſtian.

A Chriſtian, Sir!

Ay, that's my Queſtion, Whether he is yet chriſtned? I mean, by a Paſtor, that had a Divine, Un⯑interrupted, Succeſſive Right to mark him as a Sheep of the true Fold?

Is it poſſible! are you an Engliſhman, and offer Sir, a Queſtion ſo uncharitable, not only to him, but the whole Nation?

Nay, Sir, you may give your ſelf what Air of Amazement you pleaſe,—I won't argue with you; you are both of you too harden'd to be converted now, but ſince you thing it your Duty, as a Son, to be con⯑cern'd for my Errors, I think it as much mine, as a Fa⯑ther, to be concern'd for yours—I'll only tell you of them, if you think fit to mend them—ſo—if not—take the Conſequence.

O! give me Temper, Heaven! this vile nonjuring Zealot! what poiſonous Principles has he ſwell'd him with!—Well, Sir, ſince you don't think it proper to argue upon this Subject, I'll wave it too. But if I may ask it without Offence, Are theſe your only Reaſons for diſcountenancing Mr. Heartly's Addreſs to my Siſter?

Theſe! are they not flagrant! would you have me marry my Daughter to a Pagan! for ſo he is, and all of you, till you are regularly Chriſtians. In ſhort, Son, expect to inherit no Eſtate of mine, unleſs you reſolve to come into the Pale of the Church, of which I proſeſs my ſelf a Member.

I thought I always was, Sir, and hope I am ſtill, unleſs you have lately been converted to the Romans.

No, Sir, I abhor the Thoughts on't; and Proteſt againſt their Errors as much as you do.

If ſo, Sir, Where's our Difference?

Difference! 'twould make you tremble, Sir, to know it! but ſince 'tis fit you ſhould know it, look there—

read that, and be reform'd.

What's here?

The Caſe of Schiſm, &c. Thank you, Sir, I have ſeen enough of this in the Daily Courant, to be ſorry its in any Hands, but thoſe of the common Hangman.

Prophanation!

And though I always honour'd your Concern for the Church's Welfare, I little thought 'twas for a Church that is eſtabliſh'd no where?

O, Perverſeneſs! but there is no better to be expected from your Courſe of Life: This is all the Effects of your modern Loyalty, your Converſation at Button's. Will you never leave that foul Neſt of Hereſy and Schiſm?

Yes, Sir, when I ſee any Thing like it there; and ſhould think my ſelf oblig'd to retire, where ſuch Principles were ſtarted—I own I uſe the Place, be⯑cauſe I generally meet there inſtructive or diverting Company.

Yes, fine Company indeed, Arians, Party-Po⯑ets, Players and Presbyterians.

That's a very unuſual Mixture, Sir; but if a Man entertains me innocently, am I oblig'd to enquire into his Profeſſion, or Principles? Would not it be ridiculous for a Proteſtant that loves Muſick, to refuſe going to the Opera, becauſe moſt of the Performers are Papiſts? But, Sir, this ſeems foreign to my Buſineſs; Mr. Heartly in⯑tends this Morning to pay his Reſpects to you, in hopes to obtain your final Conſent; and deſired me to be pre⯑ſent, as a Mediator of Articles between you.

I am glad to hear it.

That's kind, indeed, Sir.

May be not, Sir—for I will not be at home when he comes.

Nay, pray, Sir, 'twill be but Civility, at leaſt, to hear him.

And becauſe I won't tell a Lie for the Matter, I'll go out this Moment.

Good Sir.

But becauſe I won't deceive him neither, tell him, I would not have him loſe his Time, in fooling af⯑ter your Siſter—In ſhort, I have another Man in my Head for her.

Another Man! 'twould be worth one's while to know him—Pray Heaven this nonjuring Hypocrite has not got ſome beggerly Traytor in his Eye for her—I muſt rid the Houſe of him at any rate, or all the Set⯑tlement I can hope from my Father is a Caſtle in the Air, nor can indeed his Life be ſafe, while ſuch a Villain makes it an Act of Conſcience to endanger it; If his Eyes are not ſoon open'd againſt him, the Crown's more likely to inherit his Eſtate, than I am; and though the Government has beey very favourable upon thoſe Occa⯑ſions, it is but a melancholly Buſineſs to perition for what might have been one [...]s Birthright. My Siſter may be ru⯑in'd too—here ſhe comes; if there be another Man in the Caſe, ſhe no doubt can let me into the Secret.

Siſter, good Morrow—I want to ſpeak with you.

Nay, but prithee, Brother, don't put on the wiſe politick Face then: Why you look as if the Minority had like to have carried the Queſtion.

Come, come, a Truce with your Raillery; what I have to ask of you is ſerious, and I beg you would be ſo in your Anſwer.

Well then, provided it is not upon the Subject of Love, I will be ſo—but make Haſte too—for I have not had my Tea yet.

Why it is, and it is not upon that Subject.

O! I love a Riddle dearly—come—let's hear it.

Nay, piſh—if you will be ſerious, ſay ſo.

O Laid' Sir, I beg your Pardon—there—there's my whole Form and Features totally diſengag'd and lifeleſs at your Service; now put them in what Po⯑ſture of Attention you think fit.

Was there ever ſuch a giddy Devil!—prithee ſtand up. I have been talking with my Father, and he declares poſitively you ſhall not receive any farther Ad⯑dreſſes from Mr. Heartley

Are you ſerious?

He ſaid it this Minute, and with ſome Warmth too.

I am glad on't with all my Heart.

How! glad!

To a Degree: Do you think a Man has any more Charms for me for my Father's liking him? No, Sir, if Mr. Heartley can make his Way to me now, he is oblig'd to me only: Beſides, now it may have the Face of an Amour indeed: Now one has ſomething to ſtruggle for; there's Difficulty, there's Danger, there's the dear Spirit of Contradiction in it too. O I like it mightily.

I am glad this does not make you think the worſe of Heartley—but however, a Father's Conſent might have clapt a pair of Horſes more to your Coach perhaps, and the want of that, may pinch your Fortune.

Burn Fortune; Am not I a fine Woman? And have not I above 5000 l. in my own Hands?

Yes, Siſter, but with all your Charms, you have had it in your Hands almoſt theſe four Years; pray con⯑ſider that too.

Pſhah! and have not I had the full Swing of my own Airs and Humours theſe four Years? But if I'll hu⯑mour my Father, I'll warrant he'll make it three or four Thouſand more, with ſome unlick'd Lout of a Fellow to drub me into the Bargain: A comfortable Equivalent truly—No, no, let him light his Pipe with his Con⯑ſent if he pleaſes. Willful againſt Wife for a Wager.

Well ſaid; nothing goes to your Heart I find.

No, no, Brother; the Suits of my Lovers ſhall not be ended, like thoſe at Law, by dull Council on both ſides, I'll hear nothing but what the Plaintiff himſelf can ſay to me; 'twould be a pretty Thing indeed to confine my Airs to the Directions of a Sollicitor, to look kind or cruel, only as the Jointure propos'd▪ is, or is not, equal to the Fortune my Father deſigns me: What do you think I'll have my Features put into the Gazette to be diſpos'd of, like a parcel of dirty Acres, by an old Maſter in Chancery to the faireſt Bidder? No, if I muſt have an ill Match, I'll have the Pleaſure of playing my own Game at leaſt.

There ſpoke the Spirit of a free-born Engliſhwoman.—Well, I am glad you are not ſtartled at the firſt Part of my News however; but farther—Pray, Siſter, [6] has my Father ever propos'd any other Man to you?

Another Man! let me know why you ask, and I'll tell you.

Why the laſt Words he ſaid to me, were, That he had another Man in his Head for you.

And who is it? Who is it? tell me, dear Bro⯑ther, quickly.

Why you don't ſo much as ſeem ſurpriz'd at it!

No, but impatient, and that's as well you know.

Why how now, Siſter?

Why ſure, Brother, you know very little of Fe⯑male Happineſs, if you ſuppoſe the Surprize of a new Lover ought to ſhock a Woman of my Temper—don't you know that I am a Coquette?

If you are, you are the firſt that ever was ſincere enough to own her being ſo.

To a Lover I grant you; but I make no more of you than a Siſter, I can ſay any Thing to you.

I ſhould have been better pleas'd if you had not own'd it to me—it's a hateful Character.

Ay, it's no Matter for that, its violently pleaſant, and there's no Law againſt it, that I know of. You had beſt adviſe your Friend Heartley to bring in a Bill to pre⯑vent it: All the diſcarded Toaſts, Prudes, and ſuperan⯑nuated Virgins would give him their Intereſt I dare ſwear. Take my Word, Coquetry has govern'd the World from the Beginning, and will do ſo to the End on't.

Heartly's like to have a hopeful Time on't with you.

Well, but don't you really know who it is my Father intends me?

Not I really, but I imagin'd you might, and there⯑fore thought to adviſe with you about it.

Nay, he has not open'd his Lips to me yet—Are you ſure he's gone out?

You are very impatient to know methinks? What have you to do to concern your ſelf about any Man but Heartly?

O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! don't be ſo wiſe, pri⯑thee Brother: Why if you had an empty Houſe to lett, would you be diſpleas'd to hear there were two People about it? Can any Woman think herſelf happy, that's oblig'd to marry only with a Hobſon's Choice? No, don't think to rob me of ſo innocent a Vanity; for believe me, Brother, there is no Fellow upon Earth, how diſagreeable [7] ſoever, but in the long Run of his Addreſſes will utter ſomething at leaſt, that's worth a poor Woman's hearing. Beſides, to be a little ſerious, Heartly has a Tincture of Jealouſy in his Temper, which nothing but a ſubſtantial Rival can cure him of.

O your Servant, Madam, now you talk Reaſon; I am glad you are concern'd enough for Heartly's Faults, to think them worth your mending—Ha! ha!

Concern'd! Why did I ſay that—look you, I'll deny it all to him—Well, if ever I am ſerious with you again—

Here he comes; be as merry with him as you pleaſe.

Pſhah!

Dear Colonel, your Servant.

I am glad you did not come ſooner, for in the Hu⯑mour my Father left me, 'twould not have been a proper Time to have preſs'd your Affair—I touch'd upon't—but—I'll tell you more preſently; in the mean Time loſe no Ground with my Siſter.

I ſhall always think my ſelf oblig'd to your Friendſhip let my Succeſs be what it will—Madam—your moſt obedient—What have you got there pray?

Pray, Madam, What is it?

Nay, I will ſee—

Have a Care, ſhe has dipt into her own Character, and ſhe'll never forgive you, if you don't let her through with it.

I beg your Pardon, Madam.

That is ſomething like indeed.

You would ſay ſo, if you knew all.

All what? Pray what do you mean?

Have a little Patience, I'll tell you immediately.

Confuſion! ſome Coxcomb now has been flattering her, I'll be curſt elſe, ſhe's ſo full of her dear ſelf upon't.

Is not that natural, Mr. Heartly?

For a Woman to expect it is indeed.

And can you blame her, when 'tis at the ſame Time a Proof of the poor Man's Paſſion, and her Power?

So that you think the greateſt Compliment a Lo⯑ver can make his Miſtreſs, is to give up his Reaſon to her!

Certainly: For what have your lordly Sex to boaſt of but your Underſtanding? And till that's entirely ſurrender'd to her Diſcretion, while the leaſt Sentiment holds out againſt her, a Woman muſt be downright vain to think her Conqueſt compleated.

There we differ, Madam; for in my Opinion, nothing but the moſt exceſſive Vanity, could value or de⯑ſire ſuch a Conqueſt.

O! d'ye hear him, Brother? The Creature rea⯑ſons with me! Nay, has the frontleſs Folly to think me in the wrong too! O Lud! he'd make a horrid Tyrant—poſitively I won't have him.

Well, my Comfort is, no other Man will eaſily know whether you'll have him or not.

Am not I a horrid, vain, ſilly Creature, Mr. Heartly?

A little bordering upon the Baby, I muſt own.

Laud! how can you love one ſo then? But I don't think you love me though—do you?

Yes, Faith I do, and ſo ſhamefully, that I am in Hopes you doubt it.

Poor Man! he'd fain bring me to Reaſon.

I would indeed, nor am aſham'd to own it—nay, were it but poſſible to make you ſerious only when you ſhould be ſo, you would be the moſt perfect Crea⯑ture of your Sex.

O Lud! he's civil—

Come, come, you have good Senſe, uſe me but with that, and make me what you pleaſe.

Laud! I don't deſire to make any thing of you, not I.

Don't look ſo cold upon me, by Heaven I can't bear it.

Well! now you are tolerable.

Come then, be generous, and ſwear at leaſt you'll never be another's.

Ah! Lard! now you have ſpoil'd all again; be⯑ſide, how can I be ſure of that before I have ſeen this t'other Man, my Brother ſpoke to me of?

What Riddle's this?

I told you, you did not know all: To be ſerious▪ my Father went out but now, on purpoſe to avoid you. In ſhort, he abſolutely retracts his Promiſes, ſays he would not have you fool away your Time after my Siſter, and in plain Terms told me, he had another Man in his Head for her.

Another Man! Confuſion! who! what is he? did not he name him?

No, nor has he yet ſpoke of him to my Siſter.

This is unaccountable—What can have given him this ſudden turn?

Some Whim our Conſcientious Doctor has put in his Head I'll lay my Life.

He! He can't be ſuch a Villain, he profeſſes a Friendſhip for me.

So much the worſe: By the way, I am now upon the ſcent of a Secret, that I hope ſhortly will prove him a Rogue to the whole Nation.

You amaze me—But on what Pretence, what Ground, what Reaſon, what Intereſt can he have to oppoſe me?—This Shock is inſupportable.

Are you really as unconcern'd now as you ſeem to be?

Thou art a ſtrange Dunce, Brother, thou knoweſt no more of Love, than I do of a Regiment—You ſhall ſee now how I'll comfort him—

I don't wonder at your good Humour, Madam, when you have ſo ſubſtantial an Opportunity to make me uneaſy for Life.

O lud! how wiſe he is? Well! his Reproaches have, that greatneſs of Soul—the Confuſion they give one is inſupportable—Betty, is the Tea ready?

Yes, Madam.

Mr. Heartly, your Servant.

So, ſo, you have made a fine ſpot of Work on't indeed.

Dear Tom, you'll pardon me, if I ſpeak a little freely, I own the Levity of her Behaviour, at this time, gives me harder Thoughts, than I once believ'd it poſſi⯑ble to have of her.

Indeed, my Friend, you miſtake her.

O pardon me, had ſhe any real Concern for me, the Apprehenſion of a Man's Addreſſes, whom yet ſhe never ſaw, muſt have alarm'd her to be ſomething more than ſerious.

Not at all, for (let this Man be who he will) I take all this Levity, as a Proof of her Reſolution to have nothing to ſay to him.

And pray Sir, may I not as well ſuſpect, that this artful Delay of her good Nature to me now, is meant as a proviſional Defence againſt my Reproaches, in caſe, when ſhe has ſeen this Man, ſhe ſhould think it conve⯑nient to prefer him to Me?

No, no, ſhe's Giddy, but not capable of ſo ſerious a Falſhood.

It's a ſign you don't judge her with a Lover's Eye.

No; but as a ſtander by, I often ſee more of the Game than you do: Don't you know that ſhe is naturally Coquette? And a Coquett's Play with a ſerious Lover, is like a Back game at Tables, all open at firſt; ſhe'll make you twenty Blots—and you—ſpare none, take them All up, to be ſure, while ſhe—gains Points upon you: So that when you eagerly expect to end the Game on your Side, ſlap—as you were, ſhe whips up your Man, ſhe's fortified, and you are in a worſe Condition, than when you begun with her—Upon which, you know of Courſe, you curſe your Fortune, and ſhe laughs at you.

Faith you judge it rightly—I have always found it ſo.

In ſhort, you are in haſt to be up, and ſhe's reſolv'd to make you play out the Game at her leiſure; you play for the fair Stake, and ſhe for Victory.

But ſtill, what could ſhe mean by going away ſo abruptly?

You grew too ſerious for her.

Why who could bear ſuch Trifling?

You ſhould have laught at her.

I can't love at that eaſy rate.

No—If you could, the Uneaſineſs would lie on her Side.

Do you then really think ſhe has any thing in her Heart for me?

Ay, marry Sir—Ah! if you could but get her to own that ſeriouſly now—Lord! how you could love her!

And ſo I could, by Heaven!

Ay, but 'tis not the Nature of the Creature, you muſt take her upon her own Terms; tho' faith I thought ſhe own'd a great deal to you, but now; Did not you obſerve, when you were impatient, with what a con⯑ſcious Vanity ſhe cry'd—Now you are tolerable.

Nay, the Devil can be agreeable when ſhe pleaſes.

Well, well, I'll undertake for her; if my Father don't ſtand in your Way we are well enough, and I don't queſtion, but the Alarm he has given us, like his other Politick Projects, will end all in Fumo.

What ſays my Lady? you don't think ſhe's a⯑gainſt us.

I dare ſwear ſhe is not, ſhe's of ſo ſoft, ſo ſweet a Diſpoſition, that ev'n Provocation can't make her your Enemy.

How came ſo fine a Creature to marry your Fa⯑ther with ſuch a vaſt inequality of Years?

Want of Fortune, Frank. She was Poor and Beau⯑tiful▪ He Rich and Amorous—She made him Happy, and he her—

A Lady.

And a Jointure—Now ſhe's the only one in the Family, that has Power with our preciſe Doctor, and I dare engage ſhe'll uſe it with him, to perſuade my Father [12] from any thing that's againſt your Intereſt; by the way you muſt know, I have ſome ſhrewd Suſpicions that this ſanctify'd Rogue is carnally in love with her.

O the liquoriſh Raſcal!

You ſhall judge by the Symptoms: Firſt, he's jea⯑lous of every Male Thing that comes near her; and un⯑der a friendly Pretence of guarding my Father's Ho⯑nour, has perſuaded him to aboliſh her Aſſemblies: Nay, at the laſt Maſquerade this conſcientious Spy (unknown to her) was eternally at her Elbow in the Habit of a Cardinal. At Dinner he never fails to ſit next her, and will eat nothing but what ſhe helps him; always takes her ſide in Argument, and when he bows after Grace, conſtantly Ogles her; bids my Siſter, if ſhe would look lovely, learn to Dreſs by her; and at the Tea-Table, I have ſeen the impudent Goat moſt luſci⯑ouſly ſip off her leavings. She loſt one of her Slip⯑pers t'other Day, (by the way ſhe has a mighty pretty Foot) and what no you think was become of it?

You puzzel me.

I gad, this love-ſick Monkey had ſtole it for a private Play Thing, and one of the Houſe-maids, when ſhe clean'd his Study, found it there with one of her old Gloves in the middle of it.

A very proper Relique to put him in mind of his Devotions to Venus.

But mum! here he comes.

Charles, Step up into my Study, and bring down half a Dozen more of thoſe Manual Devotions that I com⯑pos'd for the Uſe of our Friends in Priſon: and, doſt thou hear? leave this Writing there, but bring me the Key, and then bid the Butler ring to Prayers—

Mr. Heartly, I am your moſt faithful Servant, I hope you and the good Colonel will ſtay and join in the private Duties of the Family.

With all my Heart, Sir, provided you'll do the Duty of a Subject too, and not leave out the Prayer for the Royal Family.

The good Colonel knows, I never do omit it.

Sometimes, Doctor; but I don't remember, I ever One heard you name them.

That's only to ſhorten the Service, leſt in ſo large a Family, ſome few vain, idle Souls might think it Tedious; and we ought, as it were, to Allure them to what's Good, by the gentleſt, eaſieſt Means we can.

How! how Doctor! Are you ſure that's your only Reaſon for leaving their Names out?

But, pray Sir, why is Naming them ſo abſolute⯑ly neceſſary? when Heaven, without it, knows the true Intention of our Hearts?—Beſide, why ſhould we, when we ſo eaſily may avoid it, give the leaſt colour of Offence to tender Conſciences?

Ay! now you begin to open, Doctor—

Have a care, Sir, the Conſcience that Equivo⯑cates in its Devotions, muſt have the blackeſt Colour Hell can paint it with.

Well ſaid! to him Heartly.

Your Conſcience, I dare ſay, won't be eaſily con⯑vinc'd, while your Scruples turn to ſo good Account in a private Family.

What am I to be baited then—but 'twont be always Holiday—

The Time's now yours, but mine may come.

What do you mean, Sir?

Sir, I ſhall not explain my ſelf, but make your beſt of what I've ſaid. I'm not to be intrap'd by all your ſervile Spies of Power—But Power perhaps may change its Hands, and you e'er long, as little dare to ſpeak your Mind as I do.

Hark you, Sirrah! Dare you menace the Government in my hearing?

Nay, Colonel.

'Tis well!

Traytor! but that our Laws have Chains and Gib⯑bets for ſuch Villains, I'd this Moment crackle all thy Bones to Splinters.

Very well! your Father, Sir, ſhall know my Treatment.

Nay, dear Colonel, let him go.

I ask your Pardon, Frank, I am aſham'd that ſuch a Wretch could move me ſo.

Come, compoſe your ſelf.

No! I'll take no Notice of it—I know he's warm and weak enough to tell this as his own Story to his Father—let him—'tis [14] better ſo—'twill but confirm Sir John in his good Opini⯑on of my Charity, and ſerve to ruin him the faſter.

Was there ever ſo inſolent a Raſcal?

The Dog will one Day provoke me to beat his Brains out.

Who could have believ'd ſuch outragious Arro⯑gance could have lurk'd under ſo Lamb-like an Outſide?

This Fellow has the Spleen and Spirit of ten Beckets in him.

What the Devil is he? whence came he? what's his Original? Is he really a Doctor?

So he pretends, and that he loſt his Living in Ire⯑land upon his refuſing the Oaths to the Government. Now I have made the ſtricteſt Inquiries, and can't find the leaſt Evidence, that ever he was in the Country. But (as I hinted to you) there is now in Priſon a poor unhappy Rebel I went to School with, whoſe Pardon I am ſolliciting, and he aſſures me, he knew him very well in Flanders, and in ſuch Circumſtances, as when it can be ſerviceable to me to know them, he faithfully promiſes to diſcover, but begs till then I will not inſiſt upon it.

I gad this Intelligence may be worth your Che⯑riſhing.

Hah! here's my Siſter again.

You'll find Sir, I will not be us'd thus: Nor ſhall your Credit with my Father protect your Inſolence to me.

What's the Matter?

Nothing, pray be quiet—I don't want you—ſtand out of the way—

What has the Dog done to her?

How durſt you bolt with ſuch Authority in my Chamber without giving me Notice?

Confuſion!

Now, Frank, whoſe turn is it to keep their Temper.

'Tis not mine I'm ſure.

Hold—if my Father won't reſent this, 'tis then time enough for me to do it.

Compoſe your Tranſport, Madam, I came by your Father's Deſire, who being inform'd, that you were Entertaining Mr. Heartly, grew Impatient, and gave his Poſitive Command, that you attend him inſtantly, or he himſelf, he ſays, will fetch you.

So! now the Storm is riſing.

So for what I have done, Madam, I had his Au⯑thority, and ſhall leave him to anſwer you.

'Tis falſe, he gave you no Authority to inſult me; or if he had, did you ſuppoſe I would bear it from you? What is it you preſume upon? your Function! Does that exempt you from the Manners of a Gentleman?

Shall I have any anſwer to your Father, Lady?

I'll ſend him none by you.

I ſhall inform him ſo—

A ſawcy Puppy.

Prithee, Siſter, what has the Fellow done to you?

I beg you tell us, Madam.

Nay, no great Matter—but I was ſitting care⯑leſly in my Dreſſing Room—a—a faſtning my Garter with my Face juſt towards the Door, and this impudent Cur, without the leaſt Notice, comes Bounce in upon me—and my develiſh Hoop hapning to hitch in the Chair, I was an Hour before I could get down my Petticoats.

The Rogue muſt be corrected.

Yet I gad, I can't help laughing at the Accident! What a ridiculous Figure muſt ſhe make! ha! ha!

Hah! you're as Impudent as he I think: Well but had not I beſt go to my Father?

Now, now, dear Tom, ſpeak to her before ſhe goes, this is the very Criſis of my Life—

What does he ſay, Brother?

Why he wants to have me ſpeak to you, and I would have him do it himſelf.

Ay, come, do, Heartly, I am in good Humour now.

O Maria!—my Heart is burſting—

Well, well, out with it.

Your Father, now, I ſee is bent on parting us—Nay, what's yet worſe, perhaps, will give you to ano⯑ther—I cannot ſpeak—Imagine what I want from you—

Well—O lud! one looks ſo ſilly though, when one's ſerious—O Ged—in ſhort I cannot get it out.

I warrant you, try again.

O lud!—well—if one muſt be teiz'd then—why he muſt Hope, I think.

Is't poſſible?—Thus—

Buz—

not a Syllable, ſhe has done very well, I bar all Heroicks; if you preſs it too far, I'll hold Six to Four, ſhe's off again in a Moment.

I am ſilenc'd.

Now am I on Tiptoe to know what odd Fellow my Father has found out for me.

I'd give ſomething to know him.

He's in a terrible Fuſs at your being here I find—I had beſt go to him.

By all means.

O Bleſs us! here he comes piping hot to fetch me! Now we are all in a fine Pickle.

So—Well ſaid Doctor! 'tis he, I'm ſure has blown this Fire. What horrid Hands is this poor Family fallen into? and how the Traytor ſeems to Triumph in his Power? How little is my Father like himſelf? by Nature, Open, Juſt, and Generous, but this vile Hypo⯑crite drives his weak Paſſions like the Wind, and I foreſee at laſt, will daſh him on his Ruin.

Nothing but your ſpeedily detecting him can prevent it.

I have a Thought, and 'tis the only one that can expoſe him to my Father—Come Frank, be cheerful; in ſome unguarded Hour, we yet, perhaps, this lurking Thief,

ACT II.
Charles with a Writing in his Hand.

'TIS ſo—I have long ſuſpected where his Zeal would end, in the making of his private For⯑tune—But then to found it on the Ruin of his Patron's Children, makes me ſhudder at the Villany: What Deſ⯑peration may a Son be driven to, ſo barbarouſly diſin⯑herited!—Beſide his Daughter, fair Maria too is wrong'd; wrong'd in the moſt tender Point: For ſo extravagant is this Settlement, it leaves her not a Shilling, but on her conditionally marrying with the Doctor's Conſent; which ſeems, by what I've heard, intended as an Expedient, to oblige her to accept the Doctor himſelf for her Husband: Now 'twere but an honoſt part to let Maria know this Snare, that's laid for her: This Deed's not ſign'd, and might be yet pervented—It ſhall be ſo—'twere Folly not to try—My Condition can't be worſe—Who knows how far her good Nature may think herſelf oblig'd for the Diſcovery?—Muſt he ruin, as he has done mine, all Families he comes into?

O, Charles, your Maſter wants you to tranſcribe ſome Letters.

Sir, I'll wait on him.

A pretty well bred Fellow that.

Ay, ay; but he has better Qualities than his good Breeding; he is honeſt.

He's always clean too.

I wonder, Daughter, when thou wilt take no⯑tice of a Man's real Merit—Humph! well bred, and clean forſooth—Would not one think now, ſhe were deſ⯑cribing a Coxcomb?

But, dear Papa, do you make no allowance for one's Taſte?

Taſte; hah! and One's Taſte? That Madam One is to me the moſt provoking, impertinent Jade alive; and Taſte is the true Picture of her ſenſeleſs, ſickly Ap- [18] When do you hear my Wife talk at this rate? and yet ſhe is as young, as your fantaſtical Ladyſhip.

W. Maria's of a cheerful Temper, my Dear; but I know you don't think ſhe wants Diſcretion.

I ſhall try that preſently, and you, Sweet-heart, ſhall judge between us: In ſhort, Daughter, your Courſe of Life is but one continual Round of playing the Fool to no purpoſe; and therefore I am reſolv'd to make you think ſeriouſly, and marry.

That I ſhall do before I marry, Sir, you may de⯑pend upon't.

Um—That I am not ſo ſure of—but you may depend upon my having thought ſeriouſly, and that's as well: For the Perſon I intend you, is of all the World the only Man can make you truly happy.

And of all the World, Sir, that's the only Man, I'll poſitively marry.

Thou haſt rare Courage, Maria; If I had ſuch a Game to play, I ſhould be frighted out of my Wits.

Lord, Madam, he'll make nothing on't, depend upon it.

Mind what I ſay to you—This wonderful Man, I ſay—Firſt, as to his Principles both in Church and State, in unqueſtionable.

Sir, I leave all that to you, for I ſhould never ask him a Queſtion about either of them.

You need not, I am fully ſatisfied of both—He is a true, ſtanch Member of the Engliſh Catholick Church.

Methinks though, I would not have him a Roman Catholick, Sir, becauſe you know of Double Taxes.

No, he's no Roman.

Very well, Sir—

Then as to the State, he'll ſhortly be one of the moſt conſiderable Men in the Kingdom; and that too in an Office for Life; which, on whatſoever pretence of Misbehaviour, no Civil Government can deprive him of.

That's fine indeed; I was afraid he had been a Cl [...]rgyman

I have not yet ſaid what his Function is—As for his private Life—he's ſober.

O! I ſhould hate a Sot.

Chaſte..

A hem!

What is't you ſneer at, Madam—You want one of your fine Gentleman-Rakes, I ſuppoſe, that are ſnapping at every Woman they meet with.

No, no, Sir, I am very well ſatisfied—I—I ſhould not care for ſuch a ſort of Man no more than I ſhould for one that every Woman was ready to ſnap at.

No, you'll be ſecure from Jealouſy; he has Experience, Ripeneſs of Years; he is almoſt Forty Nine: Your Sexes Vanities will have no Charm for him.

But all this while, Sir, I don't find that he has any Charm for our Sexes Vanity: How does he look? Is he tall, well made? Does he dreſs, ſing, talk, laugh, and dance well? Has he a good Air, good Teeth, fine Eyes, fine fair Perriwig—Does he keep his Chaiſe, Coach, Chariot, and Berlin with fix flouncing Flanders? Does he wear Blew Vel⯑vet, clean White Stockings, and ſubſcribe to the Opera?

Was there ever ſo profligate a Creature! What will this Age come to?

Nay, Maria, here I muſt be againſt you—Now you are blind indeed, a Woman's Happineſs has little to do with the Pleaſure her Husband takes in his own Perſon.

Right.

'Tis not how he looks, but how he loves is the Point.

Good again!

And a Wife is much more ſecure, that has Charms for her Husband, than when the Husband has on⯑ly Charms for her.

Admirable! Go on my Dear.

Do you think, Child, a Woman of Five and twenty may not be much happier with an honeſt Man of Fifty, than the fineſt Woman of Fifty with a young Fel⯑low of Five and twenty?

Mark that.

Ay, but when two Five and twenties come to⯑gether—Dear Papa, you muſt allow they have a chance to be fifty times as pleaſant and frolickſome.

Frolickſome! why you ſenſual Ideot, What have Frolicks to do with ſolid Happineſs? I am aſham'd of you—Go! you talk worſe than a Girl at a Boarding⯑School—Frolickſome! as if Marriage were only a Licence for two People to play the Fool according to Law? Me⯑thinks, Madam, you have a better Example of Happineſs before your Face—Here's one has ten times your Under⯑ſtanding, and ſhe, you find, has made a different Choice.

Lord, Sir! how you talk? you don't conſider Peo⯑ples Temper: I don't ſay my Lady is not in the right; but then you know, Papa, ſhe's a Prude, and I am a Coquet; ſhe becomes her Character very well, I don't deny it, and I hope you ſee every thing I do is as conſiſtent with mine: Your wiſe Folks may lay down what Rules they pleaſe; but 'tis Conſtitution that governs us all, and you can no more bring me, Sir, to endure a Man of Forty nine, than you can perſuade my Lady to dance in a Church to the Organ.

Why you wicked Wretch, could any thing perſuade you to that?

Lord, Sir! I won't anſwer for any thing I ſhould do when the Whim's in my Head: You know I always lov'd a little Flirtation.

O horrible! My poor Mother has ruin'd her; leaving her a Fortune in her own hands, has turn'd her Brain: In ſhort, your Sentiments of Life are ſhameful, and I am reſolv'd upon your inſtant Reformation; there⯑fore, as an Earneſt of your Obedience, I ſhall firſt infiſt, that you never ſee young Heartly more; for in one word, the good and pious Doctor, Wolf's the Man that I have decreed your Husband.

Ho! ho! ho!

'Tis very well—this Laugh you think becomes you, but I ſhall ſpoil your Mirth—no more—give me a ſerious Anſwer.

I ask your Pardon, Sir, I ſhould not have ſmil'd indeed, could I have ſuppos'd it poſſible that you were ſerious.

You'll find me ſo.

I am ſorry for it; but I have an Objection to the Doctor, Sir, that moſt Fathers think a ſubſtantial one.

Name it.

Why, Sir, you know he is not worth a Groat.

That's more than you know, Madam; I am a⯑ble to give him a better Eſtate than I am afraid you'll de⯑ſerve.

How, Sir?

I have told you what's my Will, and ſhall leave you to think on't.

Sir, if you are at leiſure, the Doctor deſires a private Conference with you, upon Buſineſs of Importance.

Where is he?

In his own Chamber, Sir, juſt taking his leave of the [21] Count and another Gentleman, that came this Morning Expreſs from Avignon: He has ſent you too the Note you ask'd him for.

'Tis well; I'll come to him immediately—

Daughter, I am call'd away, and therefore have only time to tell you, as my laſt Reſolution, that if you ex⯑pect a Shilling from me, the Doctor is your Husband, or I'm no more your Father.

O Madam! I am at my Wits end, not for the little Fortune I may loſe in diſobeying my Father; but it ſtartles me to find what a dangerous Influence this Fellow has o'er all his Actions.

Dear Maria, I am now as much alarm'd as you; for though in Compliance to your Father, I have been always inclin'd to think charitably of this Doctor, yet now I am convinc'd 'tis time to be upon our guard—he's ſtepping into his Eſtate too!

Here's my Brother, Madam, we'll conſult with him.

Madam, your moſt obedient—Well, Siſter, is the Secret out? Who is this pretty Fellow my Father has pickt up for you?

Ev'n our agreeable Doctor.

You are not ſerious.

He's the very Man, I can aſſure you, Sir.

Confuſion! What would the Jewiſh Cormorant de⯑vour the whole Family? Your Ladyſhip knows he is ſe⯑cretly in Love with you too.

Fy! fy! Colonel.

I ask your Pardon, Madam, if I ſpeak too freely; but I am ſure, by what I have ſeen, your Ladyſhip muſt ſuſpect ſomething of it.

I am ſorry any Body elſe has ſeen it; but I muſt own his Civilities of late have been ſomething warmer than I thought became him.

How then are theſe Oppoſites to be reconcil'd; can the Raſcal have the Aſſurance to think both theſe Points are to be carried?—But he does nothing like other People; he's a Contradiction ev'n to his own Character: Moſt of your Non-Jurors now are generally People of a free and open Diſpoſition, mighty Pretenders to a Conſcience of Honour indeed: But you ſeldom ſee them put on the leaſt Shew of Religion: But this formal Hypocrite always has it at his Tongue's end, and there it ſticks, for it never gets into his Heart: I'll anſwer for him.

Ay, but that's the Charm, that firſt got him into Sir John's Heart; who, good Man, is himſelf, I am ſure, ſin⯑cere; however now miſguided, 'twas not ſo much his Principles of Government, as his well painted Piety; his ſeeming Self-denial, Reſignation, Patience, and humble Outſide, that gave him firſt ſo warm a Lodging in his Boſom.

My Lady has judg'd it perfectly right.

I am afraid it's too true: There has been his ſureſt footing! But here we are puzled again—What ſubtle Fe [...]ch can he have in being really in Love with your Ladyſhip, and at the ſame time making ſuch a Buſtle to marry my Siſter?

Truly one would not ſuſpect him to be ſo Ter⯑magant: I fancy the Gentleman might have his Hands full of one of us.

And yet his Zeal pretends to be ſo ſhock'd at all indecent Amours, that in the Country he us'd to make the Maids lock up the Turky-cocks every Saturday Night, for fear they ſhould gallant the Hens on a Sunday.

O! Ridiculous.

Upon my Life, Madam, my Siſter told me ſo:

I tell you ſo: You impudent—

Fy! Maria, he only jeſts with you

How can you be ſuch a Monſter to be playing the fool here, when you have more reaſon to be frighted out of your Wits? You don't know, perhaps, that my Fa⯑ther declares he'll ſettle a Fortune upon this Fellow too.

What do you mean?

'Tis too true; 'tis not three Minutes ſince he ſaid ſo.

Nay, then 'tis time indeed his Eyes were open'd; and give me leave to ſay, Madam, 'tis only in your Power to ſave not only me, but ev'n my Father too from Ruin.

I ſhall eaſily come into any thing of that kind, that's practicable—What is't you propoſe?

Why, if this Fellow (which I am ſure of) is really in love with you, give him a fair Opportunity to declare himſelf, and leave me to make my Advantage of it.

I apprehend you—I am loath to do a wrong thing—

Dear Madam, it's the only way in the World to expoſe him to my Father.

I'll think of it—

When you do, Madam, I am ſure you will come into it.

[23] How now What Paper's this? it's the Doctor's Hand.

I believe my Father dropt it.

What's here?

Well, while they drink it in Newgate much good may it do them.

Was there ever ſuch a Heap of ſtupid, cold ſcented Treaſon? Now, Madam, I hope you ſee the Neceſſity of blowing up this Traitor: Theſe are Lengths I did not think my Father had gone with him: What vile, what low Sedi⯑tion, has he made him ſtoop to?

I tremble at the Precipice he ſtands on!

O bleſs us! I am in a cold Sweat, dear Brother, leave it where you found it—

By all means; if Sir John ſhould know it's in your hands, it may make him deſperate—

You are in the right, Madam.

Let's ſteal into the next Room, and obſerve that no Body elſe takes it up; he'll certainly come back to look for't.

But I muſt leave you, poor Heartly ſtays for me at White's; and he'll ſit upon Thorns, 'till I bring him an Account of his new Rival.

Well, well, get you gone then.

Undone! Ruin'd! where could I drop this Paper?—Hold—let's ſee—

Ah! here it is—What a bleſſed Scape was this? If my hotbrain'd Son had found it, I ſuppoſe by tomorrow, he would have been beg⯑ging my Eſtate for the Diſcovery—

O Doctor! all's well: I have found my Paper.

I am ſincerely glad of it—It might have ruin'd us.

Well, Sir, what ſay our laſt Advices from Avignon?

All goes right—The Council has approv'd our Scheme, and preſs mightily for Diſpatch among our Friends in England.

But pray Doctor—

Hold, Sir,—now we are alone, give me leave to inform you better—Not that I am vain of any worldly Title; but ſince it has pleas'd our Court to dignify me, our Churches Right obliges me to take it.

Pray, Sir, explain.

Our laſt Expreſs has brought me this—

which (far unworthy, as I am) promotes me to the vacant See of Thetford.

Is it poſſible? My Lord, I joy in your Ad⯑vancement.

It is indeed a Spiritual Comfort to find my La⯑bours in the Cauſe are not forgotten; though I muſt own ſome leſs conſpicuous Inſtance of their Favour had better ſuited me: Such high Diſtinctions are invidious; and it would really grieve me, Sir, among my Friends, to meet with Envy where I only hope for Love; not but I ſubmit in any way to ſerve them.

Ah! good Man! this Meekneſs will, I hope, one Day be rewarded—but pray Sir—my Lord!—I beg your Lordſhip's Pardon—pray what other News? how do all our Friends? are they in Heart, and chearful?

To a Man! never in ſuch ſanguine hopes—the Court's extremely throng'd—never was there ſuch a con⯑courſe of Warlike Exiles: though they talk, this ſharp Seaſon, of removing farther into Italy, for the benefit of mil⯑der Air: Well! The Catholicks are the ſincereſt Friends!

Nay, I muſt do them Juſtice, they are truly Zealous in the Cauſe, and it has often griev'd my Heart, that our Churches Differences are ſo utterly Irreconcile⯑able.

O nouriſh ſtill that charitable Thought! there's ſomething truly Great and Humane in it; and really, Sir, if you examine well the Doctrines laid down, by my learned Predeceſſor, in his Caſe of Schiſm, you will find thoſe Differences are not ſo terribly material, as ſome obſtinate Schiſmaticks would paint them: Ah! could we but be brought to Temper, a great many ſeeming Contradictions might be reconcil'd on both finds: But while the Laity will interpret for themſelves, there is indeed no doing it. Now, could we, Sir, like other Nations, but once reſtrain that monſtrous Licence. Ah! Sir, a Union then might ſoon be practicable.

Auh! 'twill never do here: The Engliſh are a ſtubborn heanſtrong People, and have been ſo long indulg'd in the uſe of their own Senſes; that, while they have Eyes in their Heads, you will never be able to perſuade them they can't ſee, there's no making them give up their Hu⯑mane Evidences: and your Credo, quia impoſſible eſt, is an Argument they will always make a Jeſt of. No no, it is not Force will do the Thing, your Preſs'd Men don't al⯑ways make the beſt Soldiers. And truly, my Lord, we ſeem to be wrong too in another Point, to which I have often imputed the ill Succeſs of our Cauſe; and that is, the taking into our Party ſo may looſe Perſons of diſſo⯑lute and abandon'd Morals; Fellows, whom in their dai⯑ly private Courſe of Life, the Pillory and Gallows ſeem to groan for.

'Tis true indeed, and I have often wiſh'd 'twere poſſible to do without them, but in a Multitude all Men won't be all Saints; and then again they are really uſe⯑ful; nay, and in many things, that Sober Men will not ſtoop to—They ſerve, poor Curs, to brak at the Govern⯑ment in the open Streets, and keep up the wholſome [26] Spirit of Clamour in the common People; and, Sir, you cannot conceive the wonderful uſe of Clamour, 'tis ſo teiz⯑ing to a Miniſtry, it makes them winch and fret, and grow uneaſy in their Poſts—Ah! many a comfortable Point has been gain'd by Clamour! 'tis in the Nature of Mankind to yield more to that, than Reaſon—E'en Socrates himſelf could not reſiſt it; for wiſe, as he was, yet you ſee his Wife Xantippe carried all her Points by Clamour. Come, come, Clamour is a uſeful Monſter, and we muſt feed the hungry Mouths of it; it being of the laſt Importance to us, that hope to change the Government to let it have no quiet.

Well, there is indeed no reſiſting meer Neceſſity.

Beſides, if we ſuffer our Spirits to cool here at home, our Friends obroad will ſend us over nothing but Excuſes.

'Tis true, but ſtill I am amaz'd, that France ſo totally ſhould have left us—Mardyke, they ſay, will certainly be demoliſh'd.

No matter, let them go—we have made a good Exchange, our New Ally is yet better, as he is leſs ſuſpec⯑ted—But to give them their due, we have no Spirits among us, like the Women, the Ladies have ſupported our Cauſe with a ſurprizing Conſtancy. O! there's no daunt⯑ing them, ev'en with ill Succeſs! they will ſtarve their very Vanities, their Vices, to feed their Loyalty: I am in⯑form'd that my good Lady Counteſs of Night-and-Day, has never been ſeen in a new Gown, or has once thrown a Die at any of the Aſſemblies, ſince our laſt general Con⯑tribution.

O my good Lord, if our Court abroad but knew what Obligations they have to your indefatigable Endeavours—

Alas! Sir, I can only boaſt an honeſt Heart, my Power is Weak, I only can aſſiſt them with my Prayers and zealous Wiſhes; or if I had been ſerviceable, have not you, Sir▪ overpaid me? Your Daughter, Sir, the ſair Maria, is a Reward no Merit can pretend to.

Nays, good my Lord, this tender Gratitude confounds me—O! this inſenſible Girl—Pray excuſe me—

You ſeem'd concern'd, pray what's amiſs?

That I ſhould be the Father of ſo blind a Child, alas! ſhe ſlights the Bleſſing I propos'd, ſhe ſees you not, my Lord, with my fond Eyes; but lay not, I beſeech you, [27] at my Door, the ungrateful Stubbornneſs of a thoughtleſs Girl.

Nay, good Sir, he not thus concern'd for me, we muſt allow her Female Modeſty a time, your ſtrict Com⯑mands perhaps too ſuddenly ſurpriz'd her; Maids muſt be ſlowly, gently dealt with; and might I, Sir, preſume to adviſe—

Any thing, your Will ſhall govern me and her.

Then, Sir, abate of your Authority, and let the Matter reſt a while: Suppoſe I firſt ſhould beg your good Lady, Sir, to be my Friend to her: Women will hear from their own Sex, what ſometimes, ev'n from the Man they like, would ſtartle them: May I have your Permiſ⯑ſion, Sir, when Dinner is remov'd, to entertain my Lady on this Subject privately?

O! by all means, and troth, it is an excel⯑lent Thought, I'll go this Inſtant, and prepare her to re⯑ceive you, and will myſelf contrive your Opportunity.

You are too good to me, Sir—too bountiful.

Nay, now, my Lord, you drive me from you.

Pray pardon me.

No more I beg you, good my Lord—your Servant

Ha! ha! What noble Harveſts have been reaped from bigotted Credulity, nor ever was a better Inſtance of it. Would it not make one Smile! that it ſhould ever enter into the Brains of this Man (who can in other Points diſtinguiſh like a Man) that a Proteſtant Church can ne⯑ver be ſecure, till it has a Popiſh Prince to defend it.

So Charles, haſt thou finiſh'd thoſe Letters?

I have brought them, Sir.

'Tis very well, let them be ſeal'd without a Direc⯑tion, and give them to Aaron Sham the Jew, when he calls for them—O! and—here ſtep yourſelf this Afternoon to Mr. Deſeazance of Gray's Inn, and give him this Thirty Pound Bill from Sir Harry Foxbound, beg him to ſit up Night and Day till the Writings are finiſh'd: For his Trial certainly comes on this Week, he knows we can't always be ſure of a Jury, and a Moment's Delay may make the Commiſſioners lay hold of his Eſtate.

My Lord, I'll take the utmoſt Care.

Well Charles.

Sir John has told me of the new Duty, I ought to pay when in private.

But take ſpecial heed, that it be only private.

Your Lordſhip need not caution me—My Lord, I hear another Whiſper in the Family; I'm told you'll ſhortly be allied to it; Sir John, they ſay, has ac⯑tually conſented; I hope, my Lord, you'll find the fair Maria too, as yelding.

Such a Propoſal has indeed been ſtarted, but it will end in nothing: Maria is a giddy wanton thing, not form'd to make a wiſe Man happy, her Life's too vain, too ſenſual to elevate a Heart like mine: No, no, I have Views more ſerious.

O my fluttering Joy!

Marriage is a State too turbulent for me.

But with Sir John's Conſent, my Lord, her Fortune may be conſiderable.

Thou know'ſt, Charles, my Thoughts of Happi⯑neſs were never form'd on Fortune.

No! I find that by the Settlement.

Or if they were, they would be there impoſſible; Maria's vain diſtaſte of me, I know's as deeply rooted, as my Contempt of her: And canſt thou think I'd ſtain my Character to be a Wanton's Mokery, to follow through the Wilds of Folly ſhe would lead me, to cringe and doat upon a ſenſeleſs Toy, that every Feather in a Hat can purchaſe?

But mayn't Sir John take it ill, my Lord, to have her ſlighted?

No, no, her ridiculous Averſion will ſecure me from his Reproaches.

Sir, my Maſter deſires to ſpeak with you.

I'll wait on him—Charles, you'll take care of my Directions.

I'll be ſure, Sir.

Kind Heaven, I thank thee! this Bar ſo unexpectly re⯑mov'd gives vigour to my Heart, and is, I hope, an Omen of its Fortune—But I muſt loſe no Time, the Writing may be every Moment called for—this is her Chamber.

He knocks ſoftly—and Betty Enters to him.

Is your Lady buſy?

I think ſhe's only a reading.

Will you do me the Favour to let her know, if ſhe is at leiſure, I beg to ſpeak with her upon ſome earn⯑eſt Buſineſs.

Who's that?

She's here—Mr. Charles, Madam, deſires to ſpeak with you.

O! Your Servant Mr. Charles,—Here take this odious Homer, and lay him up again, he tires me.

How could the blind Wretch make ſuch a horrid fuſs a⯑bout a fine Woman, for ſo many Volumes together, and give us no Account of her Amours? You have read him I ſuppoſe in the Greek, Mr. Charles.

Not lately, Madam.

But do you ſo violently admire him now?

The Criticks ſay he has his Beauties, Madam. But Ovid has been always my Favorite,

Ovid! O! he's raviſhing—

And ſo art thou to Madneſs

Lord! how could one do to learn Greek, was you a great while about it?

It has been half the Buſineſs of my Life, Madam.

That's cruel now! then you think one can't be Miſtreſs of it in a Month ar two.

Not eaſily, Madam.

They tell me it has he ſofteſt Tone for Love of any Language in the World, I fancy I could ſoon learn it—I know two Words of it already.

Pray, Madam, what are they?

Stay let me ſee—O—ay Zoe, kai Pſyehe.

I hope you know the Engliſh of 'em, Madam.

O lud! I hope there's no Harm in it; I am ſure I heard the Doctor ſay it to my Lady—Pray what is it?

You muſt firſt imagine, Madam, a tender Lover gazing on his Miſtreſs, and then indeed they have a ſoft⯑neſs in 'em, as thus—Zoe, kai pſyche! my Life, my Soul?

O the Impudent young Rogue! how his Eyes ſpoke too!

What the duce! can he want with me!—

I have ſtartled her, ſhe muſes.

It always ran in my Head this Fellow had ſome⯑thing in him above his Condition—I'll know preſently.

Well, but your Buſineſs with me Mr. Charles, you have ſomething of Love in your Head now, Ill lay my Life on't.

I never yet durſt own it, Madam.

Why, what's the Matter?

My Story is too Melancholy to entertain a Mind ſo much at Eaſe as yours.

O! I love melancholy Stories of all things—

But mine, Madam, can't be told, unleſs I give my Life into your Power.

O Lud! you have not done any Body a Miſchief, I hope.

I never did a private Injury; if I have done a publick Wrong, I'm ſure it might, in me, at leaſt be called an honeſt Error.

Pray whom did you ſerve before you liv'd with the Doctor?

I was not born to ſerve; and had not an unfor⯑tunate Education ruin'd me, might have now appear'd, like what I am by Birth, a Gentleman.

I am ſurpriz'd! Your Education, ſay you, ruin you? Lord! I am concern'd for you. Pray let me know your Story; and if any Services are in my Power, I am ſure you may command them.

Such ſoft Compaſſion, from ſo fair a Boſom, o'er⯑pays the word than can attend my owning what I am.

O your Servant—but pray let's hear.

My Father's elder Brother, Madam, was a Gen⯑tleman of an antient Family in the North, who having then no Child himſelf, begg'd me from my Nurſe's Arms, to be adopted as his own, with an Aſſurance too of making me his Heir; to which my Father (then alas! in the In⯑fancy of his Fortune) eaſily conſented. This Uncle being himſelf ſecretly diſaffected to the Government, gave me of courſe, in my Education, the ſame unhappy Prejudices, which ſince have ended in the Ruin of us both.

Then you were bred a Roman-Catholick.

No, Madam; but I own in Principles of very little difference, which I imbib'd chiefly from this Doctor; he having been five Years my Governor. As I grew up, my Father'sMerit had rais'd his Fortune under the preſent Go⯑vernment; and fearing I might be too far fix'd in Principles againſt it, deſired me from my Uncle Home again: But I, as I then thought my ſelf bound in Gratitude, excus'd my going in Terms of Duty to my Father; whom ſince alas! I too juſtly have provok'd ever to hope a Reconciliation. I ſaw too late my Folly, and had no Defence againſt his [31] Anger, but by artfully confirming him in a Belief, that I had periſh'd with my Uncle in the late Rebellion.

Bleſs us! what do you mean? you were not actul⯑ly in it, I hope!

I can't diſown the Guilt—but ſince the Royal Mercy has been refus'd to none that frankly have confeſs'd with Penitence their Crime (which from my Heart I moſt ſincerely do) in that is all my Hope—My Youth and Education's all th' Excuſe I plead; if they deſerve no Pity, I am determin'd to throw off my Diſguiſe, and bow me to the Hand of Juſtice.

Poor Creature! Lord! I can't bear it.

But then unknown, and friendleſs as I am; to whom, alas! can I apply for Succour!

O Lord! I'll ſerve you, depend upon it: My Brother ſhall have no reſt 'till he gets your Pardon.

Your kind Compaſſion, Madam, has prevented, what, if I durſt, I ſhould have mention'd, I hope too, I ſhall perſonally deſerve his Favour; if not, your gene⯑rous Inclination to have ſav'd me, even in my laſt Deſpair of Life, will give my Heart a Joy.

Lord! the poor unfortunate Boy loves me too? what ſhall I do with him? But, Mr. Charles, pray once more to your Story—what was it that really drew you into the Rebellion?

This Doctor, Madam, who, as he is now your Father's, was then my Uncle's Boſom-Counſellor: 'Twas his infidious Tongue that painted it to us as an incumbent Duty, on which the Welfare of our Souls depended; he warm'd us too into ſuch a weak Belief of vile Reports, as Infamy ſhould bluſh to mention—we were aſſur'd, that half the Churches here in Town were lying all in ſacri⯑legious Ruines; which ſince, I found, maliciouſly was meant, even of thoſe that are magnificently riſing from their new Foundation!

But, pray—while you were in Arms how did the Doctor diſpoſe of himſelf?

He!—went with us, Madam, none ſo active in the Front of Reſolution, till Danger came to face him; then indeed a friendly Fever ſeiz'd him, which on the firſt Alarm of the King's Forces marching towards Preſton, gave him a cold Pretence to leave the Town; in the Defence [32] of which my Uncle loſt his Life, and I my only Friend, with all my long fed Hopes of Fortune.

Poor Wretch but how came you to avoid being Priſoner?

Upon our Surrender of the Place, I brib'd a Townſman to employ me, as his Servant, in a backward Working-houſe, where, from my Youth, and Change of Habit, I paſs'd without Suſpicion till the whole Affair was over—But then, alas! whither to turn I knew not: My Life grew now no more my Care—Periſh, I ſaw, I muſt, whether as a Criminal, or a Beggar, was my only Choice.

O Lord! tell me quickly how you came hither.

In this Deſpair I wander'd up to London, where I ſcarce knew one Mortal, but ſome few Friends in Priſon. What could I do? I ventur'd even hither for my Safety; where 'twas my Fortune firſt to ſee your Father, Madam, diſtributing Relief to ſeveral: He knew my Uncle well; and being inform'd of my Condition, he charitably took me Home; and here has ever ſince conceal'd me as a me⯑nial Servant to the Doctor. The Deteſtation of whoſe vile, diſhoneſt Practices at laſt have waked me to a Senſe of all my blinded Errors; of which this Writing is his leaſt of ſordid Inſtances.

You frighten me; pray what are the P [...]rpoſes of it▪ 'Tis neither ſign'd nor ſeal'd.

No, Madam, therefore to prevent it by this timely Notice, was my Buſineſs here with you: Your Father gave it the Doctor firſt to ſhew his Council, who having ſince approv'd it, I underſtand this Evening 'twill be executed.

But what is it?

It grants to Doctor Wolf in preſent four hundred Pounds per Annum, of which this very Houſe is Part; and at your Father's D [...]ath inveſts him in the whole Remain⯑der of his Free Eſtat [...]. For you indeed there is a Charge of four thouſand Pound upon it; provided you marry only with th [...] Doctor's Conſent; if not, 'tis added to my Lady's Jointure. But your Brother, Madam, is without Conditions utt [...]rly diſinherited.

I am confounded—what will become of us! my Father now I find was ſerious—O this inſinuating Hypocrit [...] ▪ let me ſa [...]—ay—I will go this Minute—Sir, dare you truſt this in my Hands for an Hour only?

Any thing to ſerve you—my Life's already in your Hands.

And I dare ſecure it with my own—Hark! they ring to Dinner; pray, Sir, ſtep in, ſay I am oblig'd to dine Abroad, and whiſper one of the Footmen to get an Hackney Coach immediately; then do you take a proper Occaſion to ſlip out after me to Mr. Double's Chambers in the Temple, there I ſhall have Time to talk farther with you You'll excuſe my Hurry—Here Betty, my Scarf, and a Mask.

What does my Fortune mean me? She'll there talk farther with me! Of what! What will ſhe talk of? O my Heart! methought ſhe look'd at parting too, as kindly conſcious of ſome Obligation to me: And then how ſoft, how amiable tender was her pity of my For⯑tune. But O! I rave! keep down my vain aſpiring Thoughts, and to my loſt Condition level all my Hopes.

ACT. III.
Maria, and Betty taking off her Scarf, &c.

HAS any one been to ſpeak with me, Betty?

Only Mr. Heartly, Madam, he ſaid he would call again, and bid his Servant ſtay below to give him Notice when you came Home.

You don't know what he wanted?

No, Madam, he ſeem'd very uneaſy at your being Abroad.

Well—go, and lay up thoſe Things—

Ten to One, but his wiſe Head now has found out ſome⯑thing to be jealous of; if he lets me ſee it, I ſhall be ſure to make him infinitely eaſy—Here he comes.

Your humble Servant, Madam,

Your Servant, Sir,

You have been Abroad, I hear.

Yes, and now, I am come Home, you ſee.

You ſeem to turn upon my Words, Madam, is there any Thing particular in them?

As much, as there is in my being Abrord, I believe.

Might not I ſay you had been Abrord, without giving Offence?

And might not I as well ſay, I was come Home, without your being ſo grave upon't?

Do you know any Thing ſhould make me grave;

I know, if you are ſo, I am the worſt Perſon in the World you could poſſibly ſhew it to.

Nay, I don't ſuppoſe you do any thing, you won't juſtify.

O! then I find I have done ſomething you think I can't juſtify.

I don't ſay that neither, perhaps I am in the wrong in what I have ſaid; but I have been ſo often us'd to ask Pardon for your being in the wrong, that I am reſolv'd henceforth never to relie on the inſolent Evidence of my own Senſes.

You don't know now, perhaps, that I think this pritty ſmart Speech of yours is very Dull; but ſince that's a Fault you can't help, I will not take it ill. Come now, be as ſincere on your Side, and tell me ſeriouſly—Is not what real Buſineſs I had Abroad, the very Thing you want to be made eaſy in?

If I thought you would make me eaſy, I would own it.

Now we come to the Point—To morrow Mor⯑ing then, I give you my Word to let you know it all, till when there is a Neceſſity for its being a Secret, and I in⯑ſiſt upon your believing it.

But pray, Madam, what am I to do with my pri⯑vate Imagination in the mean Time, that is not in my Power to confine: And ſure you won't be offended, if to avoid the Tortures That may give me, I beg you'll truſt me with the Secret now.

Don't preſs me, for poſitively I will not.

Cannot, had been a kinder Term—is my Diſ⯑quiet of ſo little Moment to you;

Of none, while your Diſquiet dares not truſt the Aſſurances I have given you; if you expect I ſhould con⯑fide in you for Life, don't let me ſee you dare not take my Word for a Day; and if you are wiſe, you'll think ſo fair a Trial of your Faith a Favour.

If you intend it ſuch—it is a Favour, if not 'tis ſomething—ſo—come let's wave the Subject.

With all my Heart: Have you ſeen my Brother lately?

Yes, Madam, and he tells me, it ſeems, the Do⯑ctor is the Man your Father has reſolv'd upon.

'Tis ſo; nay and what will more ſurprize you, he leaves me only to the Choice of him, or of no Fortune.

And may I, without Offence, beg leave to know, what Reſolutions, Madam, you have taken upon it?

I have not taken any, I do not know what to do; what would you adviſe me to?

I adviſe you to? Nay, you are in the right to make it a Queſtion.

He ſays he'll ſettle all his Eſtate upon him too.

O take it, take it, to be ſure, it's the fitteſt Match in the World, you cant't do a wiſer Thing certainly.

'Twill be as wiſe at leaſt, as the Ways you take to prevent it.

I find, Madam, I am not to know what you intend to do; and I ſuppoſe I am to be eaſy at that too.

When I intend to marry him, I ſhall not care whether you are eaſy, or no.

If your Indifference to me, were a Proof of your Inclination to him, the Gentleman need not deſpair.

Very well, Sir, I'll endeavour to take your Ad⯑vice, I promiſe you.

O! that won't coſt you much Trouble, I dare ſay, Madam.

About as much, I ſuppoſe, as it coſt you to give it me.

Upon my Word, Madam, I gave it purely to oblige you.

Then to return your Civility, the leaſt I can do is to take it.

Is't poſſible? How can you torture me with this Indifference?

Why do you inſult me with ſuch a bare-fac'd Jealouſy?

Is it a Crime to be concern'd for what becomes of you? Has not your Father openly declar'd againſt me, in Favour of my Rival? How is it poſſible, at ſuch a Time, not to have a thouſand Fears? What though they all are falſe and groundleſs, are they not ſtill the Effect of Love alarm'd, and anxious to be ſatisfied? I have an open, artleſs Heart, that cannot bear Diſguiſes, but when 'tis griev'd, in ſpite of me, 'twill ſhew it—Pray pardon me—But when I am told you went out in the utmoſt Hurry with ſome Writings to a Lawyer, and took the Doctor's own Servant with you, ev'n in the very Hour your Father had propos'd him, as your Husband!—Good Heaven! what am I to think? Can I, muſt I ſuppoſe my Senſes fail me? If I have Eyes, have Ears, and have a Heart, muſt it be ſtill a Crime to think I ſee, and hear—Yet by my Torments feel I love.

Well! I own it looks ill-natur'd now, now, to ſhew him ſome Concern—but then this Jealouſy—I muſt, and will get th [...] better of.

Speak Maria, is ſtill my Jealouſy a Crime?

If you ſ [...]ll inſiſt on it, as a Proof of Love, then I muſt tell you, Sir, 'tis of that kind, that only ſlighted Hearts are pleas'd with; when I am ſo reduc'd, then I pre⯑haps may bear it—The Fact you charge me with I grant is true, I have been Abroad, as you ſay: But ſtill let Appearance [37] look ne'er ſo pointing, while there is a Poſſibility in Nature, that what I have done may be innocent, I won't bear a Look, that tells me to my Face you dare ſu⯑ſpect me: If you have Doubts, why don't you ſatisfy them before you ſee me? Can you ſuppoſe, that I'm to ſtand confounded, as a Criminal before you? How deſpicable a Figure muſt a Woman make, to bear but ſuch a Mo⯑ment? Come, come, there's nothing ſhews ſo low a Mind, as theſe grave, and inſolent Jealouſies. The Man, that's capable of ever ſeeing a Woman, after he believes her falſe, is capable on her Submiſſion, and a little Flattery, were ſhe really falſe, poorly to forgive and bear it.

You won't find me, Madam, of ſo low a Spirit; but ſince I ſee your Tyranny ariſes from your mean Opini⯑on of me, 'tis Time to be my ſelf, and diſavow your Power, you uſe it now beyond my bearing; not only impoſe on me to disbelieve my Senſes, but do it with ſuch an impe⯑rious Air, as if my Honeſt, manly Reaſon were your Slave, and this poor groveling Frame that follows you, durſt ſhew no Signs of Life, but what you deign to give it.

Oh! you are in the right—go on—ſuſpect me ſtill, believe the worſt you can—'tis all true—I don't juſtify my ſelf—Why do you trouble me with your Com⯑plaints? If you are Maſter of that manly Reaſon you have boaſted, give me a manly Proof of it, at once reſume your Liberty, deſpiſe me, go, go off in Triumph now, and let me ſee you ſcorn the Woman, whoſe vile, o'er-bearing Falſhood, would inſult your Senſes.

O Heaven! is this the End of all? Are then thoſe tender Proreſtations you have made me (for ſuch I thought them) when with the ſofteſt [...]ind Reluctance your riſing Bluſhes gave me ſomething more, than Hope—What all—O Maria! All but come to this?

O Lud! I am growing ſilly, if I hear on, I ſhall tell him every thing; 'tis but another ſtruggle, and I ſhall conquer it—So ſo you ar [...] not gone, I ſee.

Do you then wiſh me gone, Madam?

Your manly Reaſon will direct you.

This is too much—my Heart can bear no more. O!—what? am I rooted here! 'Tis but a Pang, and I am free for ever.

At laſt I am reliev'd! Well, Mr. Charles, is it done?

I did not ſtir from his Desk, Madam, till it was intirely finiſh'd.

Where's the Original?

This is it, Madam.

Very well, that, you know you muſt keep, but come, we muſt loſe no Time, we will examine this in the next Room. Now I feel for him.

O Rage! Rage! this is not to be born—ſhe's gone, ſhe's loſt, ſordidly has ſold her ſelf to Fortune, and I muſt now forget her—Hold, if poſſible, let me cool a Moment—Intereſt! No, that could not tempt her—She knows I'm Maſter of a larger Fortune, than there her utmoſt Hopes can give her, that on her own Conditions ſhe may be mine:—But what's this ſecret Treaty then within! what's doing there! who can reſolve that Riddle?—And yet perhaps, like other Riddles, when 'tis ex⯑plain'd, nothing may ſeem ſo eaſy: But why again, might ſhe not truſt me too with the Secret! That! that entangles all a-freſh, and ſets me on the Rack of Jealouſy.

How now, Frank! what in a Rapture?

Prithee, pardon me, I am unfit to talk with you.

What is Maria in her Airs again?

I know not what ſhe is.

Do you know where ſhe is?

Retir'd this Moment to her Chamber, with the Doctor's Servant.

Why thou art not jealous of the Doctor, I hope?

Perhaps ſhe'll be leſs reſerv'd to you, and tell you wherein I have miſtaken her.

Poor Frank, thou art a perfect Sir Martin in thy Amours, every Plot I lay upon my Siſter's Inclination for thee, thou art ſure to ruin by thy own unfortunate Con⯑duct.

I own I have too little Temper, and too much real Paſſion for a modiſh Lover.

Come, come, prithee be eaſy once more, I'll un⯑dertake for you, if you'll fetch a cool Turn in the Park upon Conſtitution Hill, in leſs than half an Hour, I'll come to you.

Dear Tom, thou art a Friend indeed! O I have a Thouſand Things—but you ſhall find me there.

Poor Frank! now has he been taking ſome honeſt Pains to make himſelf miſerable.

How now, Siſter, what have you done to Heartly? The poor Fellow looks, as if he had kill'd your Parrot.

Pſhah! you know him well enough, I have only been ſetting him a Love-Leſſon, it a little puzzles him to get through it at firſt, but he'll know it all by to morrow; you will be ſure to be in the way, Mr. Charles?

Madam, you may depend upon me, I have my full Inſtructions.

O ho! There's the Buſineſs then, and it ſeems Heartly was not to be truſted with it; ha! ha! and prithee what is this mighty Secret, that's tranſacting between Charles and you?

That's what he would have known indeed, but you muſt know, I don't think it proper to let you tell him neither, for all your ſly manner of asking.

O! pray take your own Time, dear Madam, I am not in haſte to know, I can aſſure you, I came about ano⯑ther Affair, our Deſign upon the Doctor: Now while my Father takes his Nap after Dinner, would be the propereſt Time to put it in Execution: prithee go to my Lady, and perſwade her to it this Moment.

Why won't you go with me?

No, I'll place my ſelf unknown to her in this Paſ⯑ſage; for, ſho [...]ld I tell her I deſign to over-hear him, ſhe might be ſcrupulous.

That's true—but hold, on ſecond Thoughts, you ſhall know part of this Affair between Charles and me; nay, I give you leave to tell it Heartly too, on ſome Condi⯑tions, 'tis true, I did deſign to have ſurpriz'd you, but now—my Mind's alter'd, that's enough.

Ay, for any Mortal's Satisfaction—but here comes my Lady.

Away then to your Poſt—but let me ſee you, when this Affair is over.

I'll be with you.

Well, Madam, has your Ladyſhip conſider'd my Brother's Propoſal about the Doctor?

I have Child, and am convinc'd it ought not to be delay'd a Moment: I have juſt ſent to ſpeak with him here—Sir John too preſſes me to give him a Hearing upon your Account: but muſt I play a treacherous Part now, [40] and inſtead of perſuading you to the Doctor, ev'n per⯑ſuade the Doctor againſt you.

Dear Madam, don't be ſo nice, if Wives were never to diſſemble, what wou'd become of many wilful Husband's Happineſs?

Nay, that's true too.

I'd give the World now methinks, to ſee this ſolemn Interview; ſure there can't be a more ridiculous Image, than unlawful Love peeping his ſly Head out from under the Cloak of Sanctity! O! that I were in your Ladyſhip's Place, I would lead that dancing Blood of his ſuch a pro⯑fane Courant—your wiſe Fellows make the rareſt Fools too: But your Ladyſhip will make a Rogue of him, and that will do our Buſineſs at preſent.

If he makes himſelf one, 'tis his own Fault.

Dear Madam, one Moment's Truce with the Prude, I beg you, don't ſtart at his firſt Declarations, but let him go on till he ſhews the very bottom of his ugly Heart.

I'll warrant you, I'll give a good Account of him—here he comes.

Then I hope, Madam, you will give me Leave to be Commode, and ſteal off.

Very well.

I am told, Madam, you deſign me the Happineſs of your Commands; I am proud you think me worthy of them in any ſort.

Pleaſe to ſit, Sir.

Did not Sir John inform you too, that I had de⯑ſir'd a private Conference with your Ladyſhip?

He did, Sir.

'Tis then by his Permiſſion we are thus happily alone.

True, and 'tis on that Account, I wanted to adviſe with you.

Well, but, dear Lady, ah! [ſighing] you can't conceive the Joyouſneſs I feel, in this ſo unexpected Inter⯑view, ah! ah! I have a Thouſand friendly Things to ſay to you—Ah! ah! and how ſtands your precious Health? Is your naughty Cold abated yet? I have ſcarce cloſed my Eyes theſe two Nights, with my Concern for you, and every watchful Interval has ſent a Thouſand Sighs and Prayers to Heaven for your Recovery.

Your Charity was too far concern'd for me.

Ah! don't ſay ſo, don't ſay ſo—you merit more, than mortal Man can do for you.

Indeed, you over-rate me.

I ſpeak it from my Soul! indeed! indeed! indeed! do.

O dear! you hurt my Hand, Sir.

Impute it to my Zeal, and want of Words to ex⯑preſs my Heart; ah! I would not harm you for the World, no, bright Creature, 'tis the whole Buſineſs of my Soul to—

But to our Affair, Sir.

Ah! thou heavenly Woman!

Your Hand need not be there, Sir.

Ah! I was admiring the Softneſs of this Silk, Madam.

Ay, but I am tickliſh.

They are indeed come to a prodigious Perfection in this Manufacture—How wonderful is Humane Art!—Here it diſputes the Prize with Nature—that all this ſoft, and gaudy Luſtre, ſhould be wrought from the poor La⯑bours of a Worm?

But our Buſineſs, Sir, is upon another Subject: Sir John informs me, that he thinks himſelf under no Ob⯑ligation to Mr. Heartly, and therefore reſolves to give you Maria: Now pray be ſincere, and let me know what your real Intentions are?

Is it poſſible! Can you, Divine Perfection, be ſtill a Stranger to my real Thoughts? Has not one Action of my Life inform'd you better? Since I muſt plainly ſpeak them then, Maria's but a Feint, a Blind to ſcreen my real Thoughts from ſhrewd Suſpicion's Eye, and ſhield your ſpotleſs Fame from worldly Cenſure. Could you then think 'twas for Maria's ſake, your Balls, Aſſemblies, and your Toilet Viſits have been reſtrain'd? Would I have urged Sir John to make that Fence to incloſe a Butterfly? No, ſoft, and ſerious Excellence, your Virtues only were the Object of my Care, I could not bear to ſee the Gay, the Young, and the Inconſtant daily basking in your dif⯑fuſive Beams of Beauty, without a ſecret Grudg, I might ſay, Envy ev'n of ſuch Inſects Happineſs.

Well, Sir, I take all this, as I ſuppoſe you in⯑tended it, for my Good, my ſpiritual Welfare.

Indeed I meant you ſerious, cordial Service.

I dare ſay you did, you are above the low and momentary Views of this World.

Ah! I ſhould be ſo—and yet, alas! I find this mortal Cloathing of my Soul is made like other Mens, of ſenſual Fleſh and Blood, and has its Frailties.

We all have thoſe, but yours I know, are well corrected by your divine, and virtuous Contemplations.

And yet our Knowledge of Eternal Beauties, do not reſtrain us wholly from the love of all that's mortal—Beauty here, 'tis true muſt die, but while it lives, 'twas gi⯑ven us to admire, to wake the ſluggiſh Heart, and charm the ſenſible: At the firſt Sight of you, I felt unuſual Tranſ⯑ports in my Soul, and trembled at the Guilt that might enſue; but on Reflection found my Flame receiv'd a San⯑ction from your Goodneſs, and might be reconcil'd with Virtue; on this I chaced my ſlandrous Fears, let in the harmleſs Paſſion at my Eyes, and gave up all my Heart to Love.

Indeed! ſo warm Sir Roger, but I ſhall cool your Paſſion with a Witneſs.

Theſe gay Profeſſions, Sir, ſhew more the Courtier than the Zealot; nor could I think a Mind ſo fortify as yours, could have been open to ſuch vain Temp⯑tation.

What Boſom can be Proof 'gainſt ſuch Artillery of Love? I may reſiſt, call all my Prayers, my Faſtings, Tears and Penance to my Aid, but yet, alas! theſe have not made an Angel of me: I am ſtill but Man, Virtue may ſtrive, but Nature will be uppermoſt: Permit me then on this fair Shrine to pay my Vows, and offer up a Heart—

Hold, Sir, you've ſaid enough to put you in my Power, ſuppoſe I now ſhould let my Husband, Sir, your Benefactor, know the Favour you deſign'd him.

You cannot be ſo cruel?

Nor will, on one Condition.

Name it.

That inſtantly you renounce all Claim and Ti⯑tle to Maria and uſe your utmoſt Intereſt with Sir John to give her with her full Fortune to Mr. Heartly: If you are wiſe, conſider on't

Ha! the Colonel ther [...]! his Father with him too! [...] may have been ſome Treachery, what's to be done?

Now, Sir, let your Eyes convince you.

They do, that yours, Sir, have deceiv'd you, all this I knew of.

How, Sir!

Obſerve, and be convinc'd.

I have it.

Methinks this Buſineſs needs not Sir, ſo long a Pauſe.

Madam, I cannot eaſily give up ſuch honeſt Hopes.

Honeſt!

Perhaps my Years are thought unequal to my Flame, but, Lady, thoſe were found no ſtrong Objection 'twixt Sir John and you; and can you blame me then for following ſo ſure a Guide in the ſame youthful Path to Happineſs.

Is this your Reſolution then?

Will you let him go on, Sir?

Yes, Sir, to confound your Slander.

Monſtrous

Can you ſuppoſe my Heart leſs capable of Love than his? Is it for me to puſh the Bleſſing from me too; For tho' my Flame has been of long Duration, my conſci⯑ous want of Merit kept it ſtill conceal'd, till his good Nature brought it to this bleſt Occaſion; and can you then, ſo authoriz'd, refuſe your friendly Pity to my Sufferings? One Word from you compleats my Joy; in you, Madam, is my only Hope, my Fear, my Eaſe, my Pain, my Tor⯑ment, or my Happineſs; Maria! O! Maria!

Confuſion!

Now, vile Detractor of all Virtue, is your outragious Malice yet con⯑founded? Did I not tell you too, he only made an Inte⯑reſt here to gain your Siſter?

His Devil has outreacht me.

Is this your rank Detection of his Treachery?

John, I did not ſee you, Sir, I doubt you are come too ſoon, I have not yet prevail'd with her.

Ah! good Man, be not concern'd your Trouble ſhall be ſhort [...]r for't, I'll force her to Complyance.

What have you done—your Impatience has ruin'd all.

I ſ [...] it now too late.

Now, Sir! will your baſ [...] Pr [...]judice of Party never b [...] at reſt? Am I to be [...] thought partial, blind, and obſtinate to favour ſo much injur'd Virtue; if thou art [44] a Man not loſt to Conſcience, or to Honour, then like a Man repair this Wrong, confeſs the Rancour of thy vile Suſpicion, and throw thee at his Feet for Pardon.

What mean you, Sir?

While he is in this Temper, he will not eaſily be undeceiv'd—I've yet an After game to play, till when, 'tis beſt to leave him in his Error.

What! mute! defenceleſs! hardned in thy Malice?

I ſcorn the Imputation, Sir, and with the ſame re⯑peated Honeſty avow (howe'er his Cunning may have chang'd Appearances) that you are ſtill deceiv'd, that all I told you, Sir, was true, theſe Eyes theſe Ears were Wit⯑neſſes of his audacious Love, without the mention of my Siſter's Name, directly, plainly, groſly tending to abuſe the Honour of your Bed.

Audacious Monſter! were not your own Senſes Evidence againſt your frontleſs Accuſation? I ſee your Aim; Wife, Children, Servants, all are bent againſt him, and think to weary me by groundleſs Clamours to diſcard him, but all ſhall not do, your Malice on your own vile Heads; to me, it but the more endears him; either ſubmit, and ask his Pardon for this Wrong—

Good Sir!

Or this Inſtant leave my Sight, my Houſe, my Family for ever.

What means this Raſhneſs, Sir! on my Account it muſt not be, what would the World report of it? I grant it poſſible he loves me not, but you muſt grant it too as poſſi⯑ble he might miſtake me! it muſt be ſo—He is too much your Son to do his Enemy a wilful Injury: If he, I ſay, ſuppos'd my Converſe with your Lady Criminal, to ac⯑cuſe me then, was but the Error of his Virtue, not his Baſe⯑neſs, you ought to love him, thank him for ſuch watch⯑ful Care: Was it for him to ſe [...], as he believ'd, your Ho⯑nour in ſo ſoul a danger, and ſtand concernleſs by? The Law of Heaven, of Nature, and of Filial Duty, all oblig'd him to allarm your Vengeance, and detect the Villany.

O Miracle of Charity!

Come, come, ſuch Breaches muſt not be, betwixt ſo good a Son, and Father▪ forget, forgive, embrace him, cheriſh him, and let me bleſs the Hour I was the Occaſion of ſo ſw [...]t a Reconcilement.

I cannot bear ſuch Goodneſs! O ſink me not into the Earth with Shame—Hear this, perverſe and [45] Reprobate! O! couldſt thou wrong ſuch more than mor⯑tal Virtue!

Wrong him! the hardned Impudence of this painted Charity—

Peace, Monſter—

Is of a blacker, deeper Dye, than the great Devil himſelfin all his Triumphs over Innocence ever wore.

O graceleſs Infidel!

No, Sir, though I would hazard Life to ſave you from the Ruine he miſleads you to; could die to reconcile my Duty to your Favour; yet on the Terms that Villain offers, 'tis Merit to refuſe it; I glory in the Diſgrace your Errors give me—But, Sir, I'll trouble you no more: To Day is his—to Morrow may be mine.

I did not think he had had ſo hard a Nature.

O, my good Lord, your charitable Heart diſ⯑covers not the Rancour that's in his: but what better can be hoped for, from a Wretch ſo ſwell'd with Spleen, and Rage of Party.

No, no, Sir, I am the Thorn that galls him; 'tis me, 'tis me he hates; he thinks I ſtand before him in your Favour; and 'tis not fit indeed I ſhould do ſo; for fallen, as he is, he's ſtill your Son, and I alas! an Alien, an In⯑truder here, and ought in Conſcience to retire, and heal theſe hapleſs Breaches in your Family.

What means your Lordſhip?

But I'll remove this Eye-ſore—Here Charles!—

For Goodneſs ſake.

Bring me that Writing I gave you to lay up this Morning.

Now Fortune favour us,

Exit Charles.

Make haſte, good Charles, it ſhall be ſign'd this Moment.

Not for the World; 'twas not to that End I ſent for it, but to refuſe your kind Intentions; for with your Chrildren's Curſes, Sir, I dare not, muſt not take it.

Nay good, my Lord, you carry it now too far; my Daughter is not wrong'd by it, but if not obſtinate may ſtill be happy; and for my wicked Son, ſhall he then Heir my Lands, to propagate more miſerable Schiſmaticks; No, let him depend on you, whom he has wrong'd; per⯑haps in Time, he may refl [...]ct upon his Father's Juſtice; be reconcil'd to your rewarded Virtues, and r [...]form his [...] Errors.

That would be indeed a Bleſſing.

If Heaven ſhould at laſt reclaim him, the Pow⯑er to right him ſtill is yours; in you I know he yet would find a fond forgiving Father.

The Imagination of ſo bleſt an Hour, ſoftens me to a Tenderneſs I can't ſupport.

O the dear, good Man' come! come, let's in to execute this Deed.

Will you then force me to accept this Truſt? For, call it what you will, with me, it ſhall never be more than ſuch,

Let that depend upon the Conduct of my Son.

Well. Sir, ſince yet it may prevent his Ruine, I conſent.

ACT IV.

YOU were a Witneſs then?

I ſaw it ſign'd, ſeal'd, and deliver'd, Madam.

And all paſs'd without the leaſt Suſpicion?

Sir John ſign'd it with ſuch Earneſtneſs, and the Doctor receiv'd it with ſuch a ſeeming Reluctance, that neither had the Curioſity to examine a Line of it.

Well, Mr. Charles, whether it ſucceeds to our Ends, or not, we have ſtill the ſame Obligations to you: You ſaw with what a friendly Warmth my Brother heard your Story, and I don't in the leaſt doubt his Succeſs in your Affair at Court.

What I have done, my Duty bound me to: But pray, Madam, give me leave, without Offence, to ask you one innocent Queſtion.

Freely, Sir.

Have you never ſuſpected then, that in all this Affair I have had ſome ſecret, ſtronger Motive to it, than barely Duty?

Yes—but have you been in no Apprehenſions I ſhould diſcover that Motive?

Pray, pardon me, I ſee already, I have gone too far.

Not at all, it loſes you no Merit with me, nor is it in my Nature to uſe any one ill, that loves me, unleſs I lov'd that one again, then indeed, there might be Danger—Come, don't look grave, my Inclinations to another, ſhall not hinder me paying every One, what's due to their Merit, I ſhall therefore always think my ſelf oblig'd to treat your Misfortunes and your Modeſty with the utmoſt Tenderneſs.

By the dear, ſoft Eaſe you have given my Heart, I never hoped for more.

Then I'll give you a great deal more, and to ſhew my particular good Opinion of you, I'll do you a Favour, Mr. Charles, I never did any Man ſince I was born—I'll be ſincere with you.

Is it then poſſible you can have lov'd another, to whom you never were ſincere?

Alas! you are but a Novice in the Paſſion—Sin⯑cerity is a dangerous Virtue, and often ſurfeits what it ought to nouriſh; therefore I take more Pains to make the Man I love believe I ſlight him, than (if poſſible) I would to convince you of my Eſteem and Friendſhip.

Be but ſincere in that, Madam, and I can't complain.

Nay, I'll give you a Proof of it, I'll ſhew you all the Good-nature you can deſire; you ſhall make what Love to me you pleaſe now; but then I'll tell you the Conſequence, I ſhall certainly be pleas'd with it, and that will flatter you, till I do you a Miſchief. Now do you think me ſincere?

I ſcarce conſider that, but I'm ſure you are a⯑greeable.

Why look you there now! do you conſider, that a Woman had as live be thought agreeable, as handſome? And how can you ſuppoſe, from one of your Senſe, that I am not pleas'd with being told ſo?

Was ever Temper ſo enchanting?

Or Vanity more venial! I'm pleas'd with you.

Diſtracting! ſure never was Deſpair adminiſtred with a Hand ſo gentle.

So! now you have convinc'd me, I have a good Underſtanding too—Why I ſhall certainly have the better Opinion of yours, for finding it out now.

Your good Opinion's what I aim at.

Ay, but the more I give it you, the better you'll think of me ſtill; and then I muſt think the better of you again, and then you the better of me upon that too; and ſo at laſt I ſhall think ſeriouſly, and you'll begin to think ill of me. But I hope, Mr. Charles, your good Senſe will prevent all this.

I ſee my Folly now, and bluſh at my Preſump⯑tion: but yet to cure my weaning Heart, and reconcile me to my Doom, be yet ſincere, and ſatisfy one ſickly Longing of my Soul.

To my Power, command me.

O! tell me then the Requiſites I want, and what's the ſecret Charm that has preferr'd my Rival to your Heart.

Come then, be chearful, and I'll anſwer like a Friend. The Gentleneſs, and Modeſty of your Temper, would make with mine but an unequal Mixture: with [49] you I ſhou'd be ungovernable, not know my ſelf; your Compliance would undo me. I am by Nature Vain, Thoughtleſs, Wild, and Wilful; therefore ask a higher Spi⯑rit to controul and lead me. For whatever outward Airs I give my ſelf, I am within convinc'd, a Woman makes a very wrong Figure in Happineſs, that does not think Supe⯑riority beſt becomes her Huſband—But what's yet more tho' I confeſs you have Qualities uncommon in your Sex, and ſuch as ought to warm a Heart to love; yet here you come too late; Compaſſion's all within my Power: And I know you cannot but have ſeen, I am under Obligations, I need not explain to you.

I am ſatisfied—You treat me with ſo kind and gentle a Concern, that I muſt ſubmit to it.

Well when all's done, he's a pretty Fel⯑low; and the firſt ſure, that ever heard Reaſon againſt himſelf with ſo good an Underſtanding.

Sir, the Colonel order'd me to give this into your own Hands.

From my Brother?—Where is he?

I left him, Madam, at the Secretary's-Office with one Sir Charles Trueman, and Mr. Heartly.

Ha! my Father! O! Heaven, 'tis his Hand too! Now I tremble!

Come, Sir, take heart; I dare ſay there's good News in't, and I ſhould be glad to hear it—But no Ce⯑remony; pray read to your ſelf firſt.

Since you command me, Madam.

Lord! how one may live and learn! I could not have believ'd, that Modeſty in a young Fellow could have been ſo amiable a Virtue: and though, I own, there is I know not what of dear Delight in indulging one's Vanity with them; yet, upon ſerious Reflection. we muſt confeſs, that Truth and Sincerity have a Thouſand Charms beyond it. And I now find more Pleaſure in my ſelf-denying Endeavours to make this poor Creature eaſy, than ever I took in humbling the Airs and Aſſurance of a Man of Qua⯑lity—I believe I had as good confeſs all this to Heartly, and ev'n make up the Buſtle with him too—But then he will ſo teaze one for Inſtances of real Inclination—O God—I can't bear the Thought on't—And yet we muſt come together too—Well! Nature knows the way to be ſure, and ſo I'll ev'n truſt to her ſor't—Bleſs me! What's the Matter? you ſeem concern'd, Sir.

I am indeed, but 'tis with Joy! O! Madam! my Father's reconcil'd to me: This Letter is from him.

Pray let's hear.

I an overjoy'd at your good Fortune.

You, Madam, are the Scource of all—but I am now unfit to thank you.

You owe me nothing, Sir; Succeſs was all I hoped for.

Pray excuſe me—It would be Rudeneſs to trou⯑ble you with the tender Thoughts this muſt give a Heart oblig'd like mine.

Poor Creature how full his honeſt Heart is? What early Viciſſitudes of Fortune has he run through? Well! this was handſomely done of Heartly, conſidering what he had felt upon his Account, to be ſo concern'd for his Pardon.

Dear Maria, what will become of us? The Tyran⯑ny of this ſubtle Prieſt is inſupportable: He has ſo fortified himſelf in Sir John's Opinion by this laſt Miſconduct of your Brother, that I begin to loſe my uſual Power with him.

Pray explain, Madam.

In ſpight of all I cou'd urge, he is this Minute bringing the Doctor to make his Addreſſes to you.

I am glad on't: for the Beſt muſt come like a Bear to the Stake, I'm ſure: He knows I ſhall bait him.

No, no, he preſſes it, to keep Sir John ſtill blind to his wicked Deſign upon me—Therefore I came to give you notice, that you might be prepar'd to receive him.

I am oblig'd to your Ladyſhip: Our Meeting will be a tender Scene, no doubt on't.

You have heard, I ſuppoſe, what an extrava⯑gant Settlement your Father has ſign'd to.

Yes, Madam; but I am glad your Ladyſhip's like to be a Gainer by it, however: For when I marry, it will be without the Doctor's Conſent, depend upon't.

No, Child, I did not come into Sir John's Fa⯑mily with a Deſign to injure it, or make any one of it my Enemy: Whenever that Four Thouſand Pound falls into my Hands, you'll find it as firmly yours, as if it had been given you, without that odious Condition.

Madam, I think my ſelf as much oblig'd by this kind Intention, as the Performance: But if your Ladyſhip could yet find a way to prove this Hypocrite a private Vil⯑lain to my Father, I am not without Hopes the Publick will ſoon have enough againſt him, to give a Turn to the Settlement.

But ſuppoſe that fails, what will become of your poor Brother?

But, dear Madam, I cannot ſuppoſe this Fellow muſt not be hang'd at laſt; and then, you know, the ſame honeſt Hand that ties him up, releaſes the Settlement.

Not abſolutely, neither; for this very Houſe is given him in preſent, which, tho' that were to be the End of him, would then be ſorfeited.

Why, then my Brother muſt ev'n petition the Go⯑vernment. There have been Preſidents of the ſame Fa⯑vour, Madam. If not, he muſt pay for his Blundering, and lay his next Plot deeper, I think.

I am glad you are ſo chearful upon it, however; it looks as if you had ſomething in Petto to depend upon. But here comes the Doctor.

Daughter, ſince you have the Happineſs to be thought Amiable in the Eye of this Good Man, I expect you [52] give him an inſtant Opportunity to improve it into an Amity for Life.

I hope, Sir, I ſhall give him no Occaſion to alter his Opinion of me.

Why, that's well ſaid; come, Sweet-heart, we'll uſe no Ceremony.

Pleaſe to ſit, Sir.—What can the ugly Cur ſay to me? He ſeems a little puzzled. This puts me in mind of the tender Interview between Lady Charlotte, and Lord Hardy in the Funeral.

Look you, fair Lady, not to make many Words, I am convinc'd, notwithſtanding your good Father's Favour, I am not the Perſon you deſire to be alone with, upon this Occaſion.

Your Modeſty—is pleas'd to be in the right, Sir.

Humh! if I don't flatter my ſelf, you have always had a very ill Opinion of me.

A worſe, Sir, of no Mortal breathing,

Humh! and it is likely, it may he immoveable,

No Rock ſo firm.

Humh! from theſe Premiſes then, I may reaſona⯑bly conclude—you hate me heartily.

Moſt ſincerely, Sir.

Well there is, however, ſome Merit in ſpeaking Truth; therefore to be as juſt on my ſide, I ought in Conſcience to let you know, that I have as cordial a Con⯑tempt for you too.

O! fy! you flatter me.

Indeed I don't; you wrong your own Imperfecti⯑ons to think ſo.

Theſe Words from any Tongue but yours, might ſhock me; but coming from the only Man I hate—they charm me.

Admirable! there ſeems good Senſe in this: Have you never obſerv'd, Madam, that ſometimes the greateſt Diſcords raiſe the moſt agreeable Harmony?

Yes. But what do you infer from thence?

That while we ſtill preſerve this Temper in our Hate, a mutual Benefit may riſe from it.

O! never fear me, Sir; I ſhall not fly out; being convinc'd, that nothing gives ſo ſharp a Point to one's A verſion, as good Breeding; as, on the contrary, ill Man⯑ners often hide a ſecret Inclination

Moſt accurately diſtinguiſh'd—Well, Madam, is there no Project you can think of now, to turn this mu⯑tual A verſion, as I ſaid, into a mutual Benefit?

None, that I know of, unleſs we were to marry for our mutual Mortification.

What would you give then, to avoid marrying me?

My Life, with Joy, if Death alone cou'd ſhun you.

When you marry any other Perſon—my Con⯑ſent is neceſſary.

So I hear indeed—But pray, Doctor, tell me, how could your Modeſty receive ſo inſolent a Power, without putting my poor Father out of Countenance with your Bluſhes?

You over-rate my Prudence: I ſought it not, but he would crowd it in among other Obligations: He is good-natur'd, and I could not ſhock him by a Refuſal. Wou'd you have had me plainly told him, what a deſ⯑picable Opinion I had of his Daughter?

Or rather, what a favourable one you had of his Wife, Sir?

Humh! you ſeem to loſe your Temper.

Why do you ſuppoſe, the whole Family does not ſee it except my Father?

If you will keep your Temper, I have ſomething to propoſe to you.

Your Reproof is juſt; but I only rais'd my Voice, to let you know, I know you.

You might have ſpar'd your Pains, it being of no Conſequence to my Propoſal, what you think of me.

Not unlikely Come, Sir, I am ready to receive it.

In one Word then—I take it for granted, that you would marry Mr. Heartly—Am I right?

Once in your Life, you are.

Nay, no Compliments; let us be plain—Would you marry him?

You are mighty nice, methinks—Well—I would.

Then I won't conſent to it—Now, if you have any Propoſal to make me—ſo—if not, our Amour's at an end; and we part as Civil Enemies, as if he had been married this Twelvemonth—Think of it.

O the mercenary Villain, he wants to have a Fellow feeling, I find—What ſhall I do with him—bite him—pretend to comply, and make my Advantage of it—Well, Sir, I underſtand every thing but the Sum—if we agree upon that, it's a Bargain.

Half.

What, Two Thouſand Pound for your Conſent only?

Why, is not Two Thouſand Pound worth Two Thouſand Pound? Don't you actually get ſo much by it? Is not the half better than nothing? Come, come, ſay, I have us'd you like a Friend.

Nay, I think it's the only civil Thing you have done, ſince you came into the Family.

Do you then make your Advantage of it.

Why, as you ſay Doctor, 'tis better than nothing. But how is my Father to be brought into this?

Leave that to my Management.

What Security tho' do you expect for this Money?

O! when I deliver my Conſent in Writing, Heart⯑ly ſhall lay it me down in Bank-Bills.

Well! on one Proviſo, I'll undertake that too.

Name it.

Upon your immediately owning to my Father, that you are willing to give up your Intereſt to Mr. Heartly.

Humh! ſtay—I agree to it—you ſhall have Proof of it this Evening—But in the mean time, let me warm you too; Don't expect, after I have hinted what you deſire to your Father, to make your Advantages now by betraying me to him. You know my Power there; if you do, I can eaſily give it a Counter-Turn: So diſcover what you pleaſe, I ſhall only pity you.

O! I ſhall not ſtand in my own Light; I know your Power, and your Conſcience too well, dear Doctor.

Nay, I dare depend upon your being true to your own Intereſt. Here comes your Father, I will break it to him immediately. You'll prepare Mr. Heartly in the mean time.

Without fail.

I am ſatisfied.

Well, Sir, is my Daughter prudent? Has ſhe at laſt, a true and virtuous Senſe of Happineſs?

She underſtands me better than I hoped, Sir.

Well ſaid Equivocation.

If you pleaſe, Sir John, we'll take a Turn in the Garden, I have ſomething there to offer to you.

With all my Heart, Sir,—Maria.—There's a Toy for thee—Now thou art again my Daughter

Come, Sir, I wait on you.

What this Fellow's Original was, I know not; but by his Conſcience and Cunning, he would make an admi⯑rable Jeſuit—Here comes my Brother, and I hope with a good Account of him—Well! Brother, What Succeſs?

All that my honeſt Heart could wiſh for—Sub⯑ſtantial Affidavits! that will puzzle him to Anſwer; I have planted a Meſſenger at the next Door, who has a War⯑rant in his Pocket, when I give the Word, to take him.

Why ſhould not you do it immediately, he's now in the Garden with my Father.

No; our ſeizing him now for Treaſon, I am afraid won't convince my Father of his Villany: My Deſign is not only to get my Father out of his Hands, but to drive the pernicious Principles he has inſtill'd, out of my Fa⯑ther too.

That I doubt will be difficult.

Not at all, if we can firſt prove him a private Vil⯑lain to him. My Father's Honeſty will ſoon reflect, and may receive as ſudden a Turn as his Credulity.

That's true again; and I hope I am furniſh'd with a new Occaſion to begin the Alarm to him.

Pray what is't?

Not to trouble you with Particulars; but in ſhort, I have agreed with the Doctor, that Heartly ſhall give him Two Thouſand Pounds for his Conſent with⯑out which, you know, by my Father's late Settlement, Heartly and I can never come together.

And does the Monſter really inſiſt upon't?

Not only that, but ev'n defies me to make an Advantage of the Diſcovery.

One would think the Villain ſuſpects his Footing in the Family is but ſhort-liv'd, he is in ſuch Haſte to have his Pennyworths out on't. But prithee, Siſter, What Secret's this, that you have yet behind in thoſe Writings that Charles brought to you?

O! that's what I can't yet tell you.

Why, pray?

Becauſe, when you have done all you can, I am reſolv'd to reſerve ſome Merit againſt him to my ſelf.

But why do you ſuppoſe I would not aſſiſt in it?

You can't, it's now too late.

Pſhah! this is raſh, and ridiculous.

Ay, may be ſo; I ſuppoſe Heartly will be of that Opinion too: But if he is, you had better adviſe him to keep it to himſelf.

You will have your obſtinate Way, I find.

It can't be worſe than yours, I'm ſure; remember how you came off in your laſt Project; I know you meant well, but you are diſinherited for all that.

That's no Surprize to me; but I am aſham'd how⯑ever.

By the way; What have you done with Heart⯑ly? why is he not here?

He has been here, but you muſt excuſe him; he was obliged to call in Haſte for Charles, whom he took home with him in his own Coach, where his Father waited to receive him.

The poor Boy by this Time then has ſeen him. Sure their meeting muſt have been a moving Sight; I would give the World methinks for a true Account of it.

You'll have it from Heartly by and by; 'tis at his Houſe they meet: The Father, Sir Charles Trueman, hapned to be Heartly's intimate Acquaintance.

Well! I own Heartly has gained upon me by this.

I am glad to hear that at leaſt. But I muſt let my Lady know what Progreſs we have made in the Doctor's Buſineſs, and beg her Aſſiſtance to finiſh him.

Madam, Mr. Heartly.

Deſire him to walk in.

To find you thus alone, Madam, was an Happi⯑neſs I did not expect from the Temper of our laſt parting,

I ſhould have been as well pleas'd now to have been thank'd as reproach'd for my good Nature; but you will be in the Right, I find.

Indeed you took me wrong; I literally meant that I was afraid you would not ſo ſoon think I had de⯑ſerv'd this Favour.

Well, then, one of us has been in the Wrong at leaſt.

'Twas I, I own it—More is not in my Power; all the Amends that have been, I have made you: My very Joy of ſeeing you, has waited, till what you had at Heart unask'd, was perfected; my own Pardon was poſt⯑pon'd, till I had ſecur'd one ev'n for a Rival's Life, whom you ſo juſtly had compaſſionated.

Pooh! but why would you ſay unask'd now? Don't you conſider your doing it ſo, is half the Merit of the Action?—Lord you have no Art; you ſhould have left me to have taken Notice of that; only imagine now, how kind, and handſome an Acknowledgment you have robb'd me of?

And yet how artfully you have paid it? With what a wanton, charming Eaſe you play upon my Ten⯑derneſs?

Well, but was not you ſilly now?

Come—You ſhall not be ſeri⯑ous—You can't be more agreeable.

O! but I am ſerious.

Then I'll be ſo—Do you forgive me all?

What.

Are we Friends, Maria?

O Lord! but you have told me nothing of poor Charles; Pray how did his Father receive him?

Muſt you needs know that, before you anſwer me?

Lord! you are never well till you have talk'd one out of Countenance.

Come, I won't be too particular, you ſhall an⯑ſwer nothing—Give me but your Hand only.

Pſhah! I won't pull off my Glove, not I.

I'll take it as it is then.

Lord! there, there, eat it, eat it.

And ſo I could by Heav'n.

O my Glove! my Glove! my Glove!—Pooh! you are in a perfect Storm! Lord! if you make ſuch a Rout with ones Hand only, What would you do if you had ones Heart?

That's impoſſible to tell—But you were ask⯑ing me of Charles, Madam.

O! ay, that's true! Well, now you are good a⯑gain—Come tell me all that Affair, and then you ſhall ſee—how I will like you.

O! that I could thus play with Inclination!

Pſhah! but you don't tell me now.

There is not much to tell—Where two ſuch tender Paſſions met, Words had but faintly ſpoke them. The Son conducted to the Door, with ſudden Fear ſtopt ſhort, and burſting into Sights, o'er chang'd with Shame, and Joy, had almoſt fainted in my Arms: The Father, touch'd with his Concern, mov'd forward with a kindly Smile to meet him. At this he took new Life, and ſpringing from his Hold, fell proteſtate at his Feet; where mute, and trembling, for a while he lay: At length with ſtreaming Eyes, and faultring Tongue, he begg'd his Bleſſing, and his Pardon. The tender Father caught him in his Arms, and dropping his fond Head upon his Cheek, kiſs'd him, and ſigh'd out, Heaven protect thee! then gave into his hand the Royal Pardon; and turning back his Face to dry his Manly Eyes, he cry'd, Deſerve this Royal Mercy, Charles, and I am ſtill thy Father. The grateful Youth. raiſing his Heart-ſwollen Voice, reply'd, May Heaven preſerve the Royal Life that gave it. But here, their Paſſions grew too ſtrong for farther Speech: Silent Embraces, alter⯑nate Sighs, and mingling Tears, were all their Language now. The moving Scene became too tender for my Eyes, and call'd methought, for Privacy; there unperceiv'd I left them, to recover into breathing Senſe, and utterable Joy.

Well! of all the inmoſt Tranſports of the Soul, there's none that dance into the Heart, like Friendly Re⯑concilements.

Thoſe Tranſports might be ours, Maria, would you bu [...] try your Power to pardon.

Which of thoſe Two now do you think was hap⯑pieſt at that Meeting?

O! the Father, doubtleſs; Great Souls feel a kind of honeſt Glory in Forgiving, that far exce [...]ds the Tranſ⯑port of receiving Pardon.

Now I think to bend the ſtubborn Mind to ask it, is an equal Conqueſt; and the Joy ſuperior to receive, where the Heart wiſhes to be under Obligations.

Put me into the happy Boy's Condition, and I may then, perhaps, reſolve you better.

You ſhall poſitively bring him into Acquaintance.

Upon my Word I will.

And ſhew him to all the Women of Taſte; and I'll have you call him my pretty Fellow too.

I will indeed: But hear me—

I'm poſitive, if he had White Stockings he would cut down all the Danglers at Court in a Fortnight!

O! no doubt on't; but—

You can't conceive how prettily he makes Love now.

Not ſo well, as you make your Defence, Maria.

O Lord! I had forgot—he's to teach me Greek too.

O, the trifling Tyrant! How long, Maria, do you think you can find out new Evaſions for what I ſay unto you?

Lord, you are horrid ſilly! But ſince 'tis Love that makes you ſuch a Dunce—poor Heartly,—I forgive you.

That's kind, however—But to compleat my Joy, be kinder yet—and—

O! I can't, I can't—Lord! did you never ride a Horſe-Match?

Was ever ſo wild a Queſtion?

Becauſe if you have, it runs in my Head, you certainly gallop'd a Mile beyond the Winning Poſt, to make ſure on't.

Now I underſtand you: But ſince you will have me touch every Thing ſo very tenderly, Maria, How ſhall I find proper Words to ask you the Lover's laſt neceſſary Queſtion?

O! there's a Thouſand Points to be adjuſted, before that's anſwer'd.

Name them this Moment then, for poſitively this is the laſt Time of ask⯑ing.

Pſhah! Who ſent for you?

I only came to teach you to ſpeak plain Engliſh, my Dear.

Lord! mind your own Buſineſs, can't you?

So I will; for I will make you do more of yours in Two Minutes, than you would have done without me in a Twelvemonth. Why, how now! What! do you think the Man's to dangle after your ridiculous Airs for ever?

This is mighty pretty.

You'll ſay ſo on Thurſday Sevenight, (for let Affairs take what Turn they will in the Family); that's poſi⯑tively your Wedding Day—Nay, you ſhan't ſtir.

Was ever ſuch Aſſurance?

Upon my Life, Madam, I am out of Countenance: I don't know how to behave my ſelf to him.

No, no, let him go on, only—This is beyond whatever was known, ſure!

Admirable! I hope it will come to ſomething.

Ha! ha! If I were to leave you to yourſelves now, what a Couple of pretty out of Countenance Figures you would make; Humming and Hawing upon the vulgar [...] of Jointure, and Pin Money—Come, come! I know what's proper o'both Sides, you ſhall leave it to me,

I had rather Maria would name her own Terms to me▪

Have you a Mind to any Thing particular?

Why ſure! What! Do you think I'm only to be fill'd out here as you pleaſe, and ſweetned, and ſupp'd up like a Diſh of [...]

Why, pray Madam, when your Tea's ready, what have you to do but to drink it? But you, I ſuppoſe, expect a Lover's Heart, like your Lamp, ſhould be always flam⯑ing at your Elbow, and when it's ready to go out, you indolently ſupply it with the Spirit of Contraction.

And ſo you ſuppoſe, that your Aſſurance has made an End of this Matter?

Not till you have given him your Hand upon it.

That then would compleat it?

Perfectly.

Why then take it, Heartly.

O ſoft Surprize! Exſtatick Joy.

Now I preſume you are in high Triumph, Sir.

No, Siſter, now you are conſiſtent with that good Senſe I always thought you Miſtreſs of.

I'm afraid, Mr. Heartly, we are both oblig'd to him.

If you think ſo, Maria, my Heart—Is under double Obligations laid.

—If it cements our Friendſhip, I am overpaid.

ACT. V.
Heartly, and Maria.

WELL, now, Heartly, you have nothing to do but to look forward, and, if poſſible, to forget what I have been to you: Though 'tis a horrid Reſtraint you lay upon our Sex: You firſt make it the Buſineſs of your Lives to blow up our Vanity, and then prepoſterouſly expect we ſhould be prudent and humble: That is, you invite us to a Feaſt, where 'tis criminal to taſte, or have an Appetite; You put a Sword into a Child's Hand, and then are angry if it does Miſchief.

You give up too much, Maria; I never treated you ſo: What might have been Flattery to moſt Women, was but honeſt Truth to you.

Why look there now! Is not that enough to turn any poor Woman into a Changeling?

No, becauſe 'tis true; charge me with a Falſhood and I ſubmit.

Nay then, did you not once tell me, that all my Airs and Follies were merely put on in Compliance to the World, and that good Senſe was only natural to me; that ev'n my Affectation (I have not forgot your Words) carried more Sincerity, than the ſerious Vows of other Women.

By all my Happineſs I think ſo ſtill.

What, ſeriouſly?

Upon my Soul I do.

Lord! that's delightful! Do you really love me then, Heartly? Do, tell me, for now I begin to believe every Thing you ſay to me. But don't neither—I am vain ſtill—'Twas my Vanity that made me ask you.

Now I don't take it ſo.

There was ſome in't I am ſure, tho' it begins to dwindle, I can tell you.

No matter, I love you as you are, I would not have you loſe your Pleaſantry, Maria.

Well, do, let me be ſilly ſometimes.

O! I can play with you, for that Matter.

Pſhah! you'll laugh at me.

Not while you are good in Eſſentials.

Indeed I'll be very good.

O fy! that will be the way to make me ſo.

Lord! What ſignifies Senſe, where there is ſo much Pleaſure in Folly?

No perfect Paſſion ever was without it; the Plea⯑ſure would ſubſide were we always to be wiſe in it.

For my Part I think ſo: But will you really ſtand to the Agreement tho', that I have made with the Doctor?

Why not? You ſhall not break your Word upon my Account, tho' he might be a Villain you gave it to.

Well, I take it as a Compliment; not but I have ſome Hopes of getting over it, and juſtly too; but don't let me tell you now. I love to ſurprize—Tho' you ſhall know all, if you deſire it.

No, Maria, I don't want the Secret; I am ſatis⯑fied in your Inclination to truſt me.

Well then, I'll keep the Secret, only to ſhew you, that you upon Occaſion may truſt me with one.

After that, Maria, it would be wronging you to ask it: But pray, Madam, has the Doctor yet given you any Proof ofhis having declin'd his Intereſt to your Father?

Yes, he told me juſt now, he had brought him to pauſe upon it, and does not queſtion in Two Days to compleat it; but deſires in the mean Time you will be ready and punctual with the Proemium.

Suppoſe I ſhould talk with Sir John my ſelf; 'tis true he has ſlighted me of late, but however, I ought at leaſt to ask his Conſent, though I have but little Hopes of it.

By all Means, do ſo—Here he comes—This may open another Scene of Action too, that we are pre⯑paring for.

Mr. Heartly, I am glad I have met with you here.

I have endeavour'd twice to Day, Sir, to pay my Reſpects to you.

Sir, I'll be plain with you—I went out to a⯑void you; but where the Welfare of a Child is concern'd [63] you muſt not take it ill, if we don't ſtand upon Ceremony.—However, ſince I have Reaſon now to be more in Tem⯑per, than perhaps I was, at that Time, I ſhould be glad to talk with you.

I take it as a Favour, Sir.

Sir,—Doctor Wolf informs me, that he is well aſſured you were horn the Year before the Revoluti⯑on: Now Sir, I ſhould be glad to be well ſatisfied in that Points a greater Conſequence depending on it, perhaps, than you imagine.

Sir, I have been always told that was my Age; but for your farther Satisfaction I appeal to the Regiſter.

Sir, I dare believe you, and am glad to hear it,

But pray, Sir, may I beg leave to aſk, why you are ſo concerned to know this?

Becauſe, Sir, if this be true, I am ſatisfied you may be a regular Chriſtian; the Doubt of which, may have, perhaps, done you ſome Diſſervice in my private Opinion.

Sir, if that can reconcile me to it, I ſhall be thank⯑ful for the Benefit, without conſidering why I that way came to deſerve it.

That Argument might hold us now too long.—But, Sir,—here's the Caſe—your Principles and mine have the Misfortune to differ: Yours being (as I take it) entirely on the Revolution Side.

If I am not miſinform'd, Sir, you your ſelf com⯑manded a Regiment in Defence of it.

I did ſo, and thought it juſt.—'Twould be fruitleſs, perhaps, to offer you the Reaſons, that ſince have alter'd my Opinion: But now, Sir, even ſuppoſing that I err in Principle, you muſt ſtill allow, that Conſcience is the Rule that every honeſt Man ought to walk by.

'Tis granted, Sir.

Then give me leave to tell you, Sir, that giving you my Daughter, would be to act againſt that Conſcience I pretend to, and conſequently the ſame Ties oblige me to beſtow her, where the ſame Principles with mine, I think deſerve her.—Now, Sir, conſult your own Honour, and tell me, how you can ſtill purſue my Daughter, with⯑out doing Violence to mine?

But, Sir, to ſhorten this Diſpute, ſuppoſe the Doctor (whom I preſume you deſign her for) actually con⯑ſents to give me up his Intereſt; might not that ſoften your Objections to me?

But why do you ſuppoſe, Sir, he would give up his Intereſt?

I only judge from what your Daughter tells me, Sir.

My Daughter!

I appeal to her.

And I appeal ev'n to your ſelf, Sir—Has not the Doctor juſt now in the Garden ſpoke in Favour of Mr. Heartly to you? Nay, pray, Sir, be plain, becauſe more depends on that, than you can eaſily imagine or believe.

What ſenſeleſs Inſinuation have you got in your Head now?

Be ſo kind, Sir, firſt to anſwer me, that I may be better able to inform you.

Well, I own he has declined his Intereſt, in Favour of Mr. Heartly. But I muſt tell you, Madam, he did it in ſo modeſt, ſo friendly, ſo good-natur'd, ſo con⯑ſcientious a Manner, that I now think my ſelf more than ever bound in Honour to eſpouſe him.

But now, Sir, (only for Arguments Sake) ſuppoſe I could prove, that all this ſeeming Virtue was utterly Ar⯑tificial; that his Regard to Mr. Heartly was neither found⯑ed upon Modeſty, Friendſhip, Good-Nature, nor Con⯑ſcience; or in ſhort, that he has baſely betray'd and ſold the Truſt you made him; like a Villain barter'd, bargain'd to give me to Mr. Heartly, for half the Four Thouſand Pound you have valued his Conſent at. I ſay, ſuppoſe this were the Caſe, where would be his Virtue then, Sir?

And I ſay 'tis impious to ſuppoſe it.

Under Favour, Sir, how is it poſſible your Daugh⯑ter could know the Doctor had ſpoke to you upon this Head, if he himſelf had not told her ſo, in Conſequence of his Agreement?

Sir, I don't admit your Conſequence: Her knowing it from him is no Proof, that he might not ſtill reſign her from a Principle of Modeſty or Good Nature.

Then, Sir, from what Principle muſt you ſuppoſe that I accuſe him?

From an obſtinate Prejudice to all that's Good and Virtuous.

That's too hard, Sir, What Blot has ſtain'd my Life, that you can think ſo of me▪ But, Sir, the worſt your Opinion can provoke me to, is to marry Mr. Heartly, without either his Conſent or yours.

What, do you brave me Madam?

No Sir, but I Scarn a Lye, and will ſo far vindicate my Integrity, as to inſiſt on your believing me▪ if not, as a Child whom you abandon, I have a right to throw my ſelf into other Arms for Protection.

O Maria! how thy Spirit Charms me!

I am Confounded! thoſe Tears cannot be Counterfeit, nor can this be True.

Indeed my Dear, I fear it is, it would be Cruel to her Concern to think it wholly falſe, can you ſuppoſe ſhe'd urge ſo groſs an Accuſation only to expoſe her ſelf to the Juſtice of your Reſentment?

What are you againſt him too? then he has no Friend but me, and I cannot, at ſo ſhort a warning, give him up to Infamy, and Baſeneſs.

Good Sir, be Compos'd, and ask your Heart one farther Queſtion:

What would you ſay to me?

In all our mutual Courſe of Happineſs, have I ever yet deceiv'd you with a falſhood?

Never, I grant it, nor has my Honeſt Heart yet Wrong'd thy Goodneſs with a Jealous Thought of it.

Would you then believe me, ſhould I accuſe him too? even of Crimes, that Vertue Bluſhes but no mention.

To what Extravagance would you drive me?

I would before have undeceiv'd you, when his late Artifice turn'd the Honeſt Duty of your Son, into his own Reproach, and Ruine: But knowing then your Temper was inacceſſible, I durſt not offer it. But now, in better Hope of being believ'd, I here avow the Truth of all he was accus'd of then.

Will you Diſtract me? my Senſes could not be deceiv'd.

Indeed, they were, he ſaw you liſtning, and at the Inſtant turn'd his Impious Barefac'd Leve to me, into Equivocal Interceſſions pretending to Maria.

You Starrle me.

Could you otherwiſe ſuppoſe, your Son would have brought you to be Witneſs of his own Weak Malice in Accuſing him?

I'm all Aſtoniſhment!

Come, Sir, Suſpend your Wonder, Reſpite your Belief ev'n of this, till groſſer Evidence convinces you: Sup⯑poſe I here, before your Face, ſhould let you ſee his Villany, make him repeat his Odious Love to me, at once throw [66] off his Mask, and ſhew the Barefac'd Traitor.

Is it poſſible? Make me but Witneſs of that Fact, and I ſhall ſoon Accuſe my ſelf, and own my Folly equal to his Baſeneſs: But Pardon me, as I in ſuch a Caſe would not believe, ev'n him Accuſing you, ſo am I bound in equal Charity to think, you yet may be deceiv'd, in what you Charge on him.

'Tis Juſt—let it be ſo—we'll yet ſuppoſe him Innocent, till you your ſelf pronounce him Guilty: and ſince I have ſtak'd my Faith upon the Truth of what I urge, 'tis fit we bring him to immediate Tryal: But then Sir, I muſt beg you to deſcend ev'n to the poorShifts we are reduc'd to.

All, to any thing to eaſe me of my Doubts, propoſe them.

They that would ſet Toils for Beaſts of Prey, muſt lurk in humble Caves to watch their Haunts.

Place me where you pleaſe.

Under this Table is your only Stand, the Car⯑pet will conceal you.

Be it ſo, I'll take my Poſt, what more?

Mr. Heartly, ſhall we beg your Leave, and you Maria, take the leaſt ſuſpected way to ſend the Doctor to me immediately

I have a Thought will do it, Madam,—come Sir,

Here Sir, take this Cuſhion, you will be Eaſier, Sir John goes under the Table.] Now Sir, you muſt conſider how deſperate a Diſeaſe I have undertaken to Cure, there⯑fore you muſt not winch nor ſtir too ſoon, at any freedom you Obſerve me take with him; be ſure lie Cloſe and Still, and when the Proof is full, appear at your Diſcretion.

Fear not, I'll be Patient.

Huſh! he comes.

Your Woman told me, Madam, you were here alone, and deſir'd to ſpeak with me.

I did Sir, but that we may be ſure we are alone, pray ſhut the Outward Door, and ſee that Paſſage too be clear, another Surprize might Ruine us—is all ſafe?

I have taken care Madam.

I am afraid I interrupt your Meditations.

Say rather you improve them: You, Madam, were the ſubject of my ſolitary Thoughts, I take in all the little aids I can to Guard my Frailty, and truly I have receiv'd [67] great Conſolation from an Unfortunate Example here be⯑fore me.

Pray of what kind Sir?

I had juſt dipt into poor Eloiſas Paſſion for Abelard; It is indeed a piteous Conflict! How Terrible! How pe⯑nitent a Senſe ſhe ſhews of Guilty Pleaſures paſt, and fruitleſs Pains to ſhut them from her Memory.

I have read her Story, Sir.

Is it not pitiful?

A Heart of Stone might feel for her.

O! think then, what I endure for you, ſuch are my Pains; but ſuch is my Sincerity, tho' I fear my being reduc'd to feign a Paſſion for Maria, in my late Surprize, has done diſhonour to the Vows I then preferr'd to You.

'Twas on that Point, I wanted now to talk with you, not knowing then, how fat you might miſtake my Silence: Now had I clos'd with the Colonel in Accuſing You, it would have been plain I was your Enemy; as had I joyn'd in your Defence againſt him, it had been as groſsly evident I was his; but ſince I have Uſes for his Friend⯑ſhip, and, as I ſaw your Credit with Sir John needed no ſupport, I hope you'll think betwixt the two Extremes I have acted but a prudent Part.

Let me preſume to hope then, what I did, you Judge was Self-Defence, and pure Neceſſity.

'Twas wonderful! Surprizing to perfection! The Wit of it—but I won't tell you, what effect it had upon me.

Why, Madam? let me beſeech you.

No, 'twas nothing—beſide—what need you ask me?

Why do you thus decoy my fooliſh Heart, and feed it, with ſuch Hybla drops of Flattery? You cannot ſure think Kindly of me.

O well feign'd Fear! You too, I ſind can flat⯑ter in your Turn: You know how well the ſubtle force of Modeſty prevails. O Men! Men! Men!

'Twere Arrogance to think I have deſerv'd this Goodneſs: but treat me as you pleaſe, I'll be at leaſt ſin⯑cere to you, and frankly own, I ſtill ſuſpect, that all this ſoſrning Favour is but Artifice.

Well! well! I'd have you think ſo.

What Tranſport would it give, to be aſſur'd I wrong you! but O! I fear this Shaddow of Compliance [68] is only meant to lure me from Maria, and then as fond Ixions were of old, to fill my Arms with Air.

Methinks this Doubt of me, ſeems rather founded on your ſecond Thoughts of not reſigning Her; 'tis ſhe, I find is your ſubſtantial Happineſs.

O that you could but fear I thought ſo! how eaſy 'twere to prove my Coldneſs, or my Love.

O Sir, you have convinc'd me Now of Both.

Can all this pretty Anger then be real? take heed, fair, Creature, it flatters more, than Kindneſs.

I can aſſure you Sir, I ſhould have ſpar'd you this trouble, had I known how deeply you were engag'd to her.

Nay then I muſt believe you; but indeed you wrong me, to prove my Innocence, 'tis not an Hour ſince I preſs'd Sir John to give Maria to Young Heartly.

O! all Artifice! you knew that modeſt reſig⯑nation, would make Sir John but warmer in your Intereſt.

Since you will ripe the ſecret from my Heart—know then, I actually have Sold her, like a Bawble, to her Childiſh Lover, for two thouſand times her Value.

Are you ſerious?

As this is true, or falſe, may I in you be Bleſt, or Miſerable.

But how can you ſuppoſe Sir John will ever hear of it.

Alas! poor Man! he knows not his own Weak⯑neſs, he's molded into any ſhape, if you but gently ſtroke his Humour: I dare depend on his Conſent—beſide, I intend to Morrow to perſwade him 'tis for the Intereſt of our Cauſe it ſhould be ſo, and then I have him ſure.

Fy! how is that poſſible? he can't be ſo im⯑plicitly Credulous, You don't take him ſure for a Roman Catholick.

Um—not abſolutely—But, poor Soul! he little thinks how near he is one. 'Tis true, name to him but Rome, or Popery, he Startles, as at a Monſter: But Gild its groſſeſt Doctrines with the Stile of Engliſh Catho⯑lick, he ſwallows down the Poiſon, like a Cordial.

Nay, if he's ſo far within your Power, it can⯑not fail, He muſt conſent: well Sir, now I give you leave to gueſs the Reaſon, why I too, at our laſt meeting, ſo warmly preſt you to reſign Maria.

Is it poſſible? was I then ſo early your Concern?

You cannot blame me ſure, for having there oppos'd your Happineſs.

I dye upon the Tranſport.

Be ſure you are ſecret now: your leaſt Impru⯑dence makes theſe, like Fair favours vaniſh in a Moment.

How can you form ſo vain a Fear?

Call it not vain, for let our Converſe end in what it may, you ſtill ſhall find, my Fame is Dear to me, as Life.

Where can it find ſo ſure a guard? the grave Auſte⯑rity of my Life will ſtrike Suſpicion Dumb, and yours may mock the Malice of Detraction: I am no Giddy, Looſe⯑Liv'd Courtier, whoſe falſe profeſſion end only his Boaſt of Favours: No, fair ſpotleſs Miracle, the Myſterie of Love are only fit for Hearts Recluſe, and Elevate as mine my Happineſs, like yours, depending on my Secrecy.

'Tis you muſt anſwer for this Folly.

I take it whole upon my ſelf, the guilt be only mine, but be our Tranſports Mutual—come lovely Creature, let us withdraw to privacy, where murmuring love ſhall huſh thy Fears, and loſe them in the Burning Joy.

Traytor!

Ah!

Is this thy Sanctity? this thy Doctrine! theſe thy Meditations! If ſtung with my Abuſes I now ſhould Stab thee to the Heart, what Devil durſt murmur 'twere not an Act of Juſtice? But ſince thy Vile Hypocriſy un⯑mask'd, muſt make Mankind Abhor thee, be thy own ſhame, thy living with Puniſhment.

Do! Triumph Sir—your Artifice has well ſuc⯑ceeded—I ſee your Ends! you needed not ſo deep a Plot to part with me.

Suppreſs thy weak evaſions—Ungrateful Wretch! Have I for this redeem'd thee from the Jaws of gaping Poverty, Fed, Cloath'd, Loved, Preferr'd thee to my Boſom, to my Family, and Fortune? Wife, Children, Friends, Servants, all that were not Friends to thee, ac⯑counted as my Enemies; nay more to Crown my Faith in thee, I have relied on they Integrity ev'n for my Fu⯑ture Happineſs: And how haſt thou, in one ſhort Day re⯑quited me? Taking the Advantage of my Blinded Paſſion, thou haſt turn'd the Duty of my Son to his Undoing; Sordidly haſt Sold the Truſt I made thee of my Daughter, [70] Attempted, like a Felonious Traytor, to ſeduce my Wife, and haſt I fear, with Poiſonous Doctrines too enſnar'd my Soul.

Now Heav'n be prais'd his Heart ſeems Con⯑ſcious of his Error.

But why do I reproach thee? had I not been the weakeſt of Mankind, thou never couldſt have prov'd ſo great a Villain—whether Heaven intends all this to Puniſh, or to Save me, yet I know not; my Senſes ſtaggar at the view, and my Reflexion's loſt in Wild Aſtoniſhment.

This ſnare was worthy of you, Madam, 'tis you have made this Villain of me.

You would have made me worſe, but I have only ſhewn him what you were before.

I thank you.

Thank your own Ingratitude, and Wickedneſs: but I muſt now purſue my Victory.

No It ends not here. He was not brought to liſten to this proof alone! There's ſomething deeper yet deſign'd againſt me—I muſt be ſpeedy—ſuppoſe I talk with Charles, allarm him with our Common Danger, Point out his Ruine as our only means of Safety, and like Panther in the Toil provok'd, turn ſhort with Vengeance on my Hunters!

What! ſtill within my Sight! of all my Follys, which is it tells thee, that I now ſhall keep my Temper.

Whom do you menace, me Sir. Reflect upon your own condition firſt, and where you are.

What would the Villain drive at! I prithee leave me, I cannot look on thee! thy overbearing Inſo⯑lence confounds me: But ſince thy Wickedneſs has turn'd my Eyes upon my ſelf, and to thy crimes detected, I hope to owe my future Innocence, as the ſore Wound the Viper gives, the Viper beſt can Cure: For that one good may Heaven like me forgive thee: But ſeek thy Biding in ſome other place—out of my Houſe, this inſtant, Hence! be gon! and ſee my ſhameful Face no more.

Nay then, 'tis time to be my ſelf, and let you know, that I am Maſter here, Turn you out Sir, this Houſe is Mine; and now Sir, at your Peril dear to Inſult me.

O! Heaven! 'tis true, thou haſt diſarm'd my Juſtice, and turn'd its Sword into my own weal Boſom—I had forgot my Folly, 'tis fit it ſhould be ſo, and Heaven is [71] Juſt, at once to let me ſee my Crime, and Puniſhment—O my poor Injur'd Son!—Whither ſhall I fly to hide me from the World?

Whither are you going Sir?

I know not—but here it ſeems I am a Treſ⯑paſſer—the Maſter of this Houſe has warn'd me hence, and ſince the Right is now in him, 'tis Juſt I ſhould reſign it.

You ſhall not ſtir: he dares not Act with ſuch abandon'd Inſolence, No Sir, Poſſeſſion ſtill is yours, if he pretends a Right, let him by open Courſe of Law maintain it.

Are theſe the ſhifts you are reduc'd to? no Madam, I ſhall not wait ſo ſlow a Vengeance, you'll find I have a ſhorter way to Rout you.—here! Charles!

Nay then there is an end of all—I have provok'd a Serpent—my Life, I ſee, muſt Pay the Forfeit of my Folly!

Come Sir, take Heart! your Life, in ſpite of him, is Free, and I hope your Actions too: However, tell me freely, have you raſhly done any thing, for which the Law may Queſtion you?

I think, not ſtrictly, 'tis true I have lately truſted him with Summs of Money, which he pretended, if accounted for, might Endanger both of us.

O! the Subtle Villain! thoſe Summs are Inno⯑cent, I dare anſwer for them: But is there nothing more?

Not, that I can call to Mind, more Criminal.

Pray tell the worſt, that we may Arm againſt him.

Sometimes with my own Hand, I have reliev'd the wants of Wretched Priſoners to the State.

We have no Laws, that Frown on Acts of Cha⯑rity, if that were Criminal, the Government it ſelf is guilty

How far our private converſe may affect me—That I know not. If Charles Betrays me not, I think his Malice cannot reach me,

Then Sir, be eaſy, for he has loſt his Influence there: Charles has long ſince perceiv'd his Villany, and grew from thence a ſecret Convert to the Cauſe of Truth, and Loyalty: of which he has given ſuch Meritorious Proof, that Mr. Heartly, and your Son this very Day, Sir, have obtain'd his Pardon.

You tell me Wonders! Pardon'd! and a Convert [72] ſay you! how ſtrongly are our Hearts perſuaded by Example! what Darkneſs have I Wander'd in▪ How Ai⯑miable is ſuch Royal Mercy! yet with what hardned Ma⯑lice, has that Slave traduced it?

O Sir! I am frighted out of my Senſes! for Hea⯑vens ſake be gon! Fly, this Moment, this Wicked Fellow has Deſigns upon your Life.

How.

What doſt thou mean? explain.

As I was paſſing by the Hall, I heard him Earneſt in Diſcourſe with Charles, and upon their Naming you, I ſtopt a while to liſten, where, I heard the Doctor Urge to him, that you were Falſe at Heart, that from your late Fri⯑volous pretence to break with him, he was convinc'd your Malice now would ſtop at nothing to undo him, that Charles himſelf was equally in Danger, and that to ſave your own Life, you certainly deſign'd to Sacrifice theirs to the Govern⯑ment, which there was no Poſſibility of preventing, but by their immediate joining in a Charge of Treaſon againſt You.

O the Villain! 'tis well we are ſecure in Charles.

If we are not, why be it, as it may—I will not ſtir—I'll ſtand upon my Innocence, or if that's Be⯑tray'd, will throw me on the Mercy of that Royal Breaſt, whoſe Vertues my Credulity has Injur'd.

Ah!

What means, that Piſtol?

Don't ſtir, I beg you Sir.

What Terrors has this Monſter brought into our Family?

What will it end in?

How Wretched has my Folly made me?

How now! what's the Matter?

O Dear Madam! I ſhall faint away, there's Mur⯑ther doing.

Who! where, what is it!

The Doctor Sir, and Mr. Charles, were at high Wordsjuſt now in the Hall, and upon a ſudden there was a Piſtol Fir'd between them: Oh! I am afraid poor Mr. Charles is Kill'd.

How!

Oh! here he comes himſelf Sir, he will tell you more.

Heartly, Charles, and the Doctor held by Servants.

Here bring in this Ruffian, this is Villany be⯑yond Example.

What means this Outrage?

I Tremble.

Don't be alarm'd, Madam, there's no Miſchief done, what was intended, the Doctor here can beſt inform you.

You Sir ſhall anſwer for this Inſult? What am I held for? who's here, that dares aſſume a Right to Queſtion me?

Keep your Temper, Sir, we'll Releaſe you pre⯑ſently, but Sir John muſt firſt know the Bottom of his Obligations to you.

Mr. Heartly, I am aſham'd to look on you.

What Sir! ſhall my own Servant abuſe me, brave me, lift his Hand againſt me, and I not dare to puniſh him.

Your Servant Sir! we know him better.

Then Sir, I demand my Liberty, that the Go⯑vernment too may know him.

Yes, and let it too be known, you firſt ſeduc'd me to Rebel, and now would have me Expiate my Offence with Perjury.

How Sir?

Yes, Perjury! for ſuch it muſt have been, ſhould I have charg'd, as you'd have had me, this Gentleman with Treaſon: What Facts have I been privy to, that reach that Name? The Worſt I know of him, is, that all the Factious Falſhoods you have rais'd againſt the beſt of Princes, he, blinded with your Hypocriſy, believ'd.

'Tis well Sir, you are protected now.

This, Sir, in ſhort has been our Cauſe of Quarrel: The Doctor finding I receiv'd with Coldneſs his vile deſigns againſt your Life, began to offer menaces on mine, if I comply'd not; at which I ſmiling told him, the Diſappointments of his Love had made him Deſperate: This ſtung him into Rage, and faſtning at my Throat, he anſwer'd Villain! you'll be Humbler, when you groan in Chains for this: Here indeed all Temper left me, when diſengaging from his hold, with One Home Blow I fell'd him reeling to the Pavement; at this grown Deſp erate, he ran with Fury to ſome Piſtols that hung above the Chimney, to Revenge him, I in the Inſtant as he reach'd one, ſeiz'd upon his Wriſt, and as we grappled Sir, the Piſtol firing to the Cieling, alarm'd the Family, when Mr. Heartly, and your Servants ruſht in to part us.

Inſatiate Villain! O my Shame!

Well Sir! now you have heard this Mighty Charge! what have you more againſt me?

More Sir, I hope is needleſs, but if Sir John is yet unſatisfied—

O! I have ſeen too much! every new inſtance of his Wickedneſs but adds afreſh to my Confuſion.

Now Sir is your Time

I go this Minute, Madam.

I Value not your whiſper'd menaces, for know to your Confuſion, my Vengeance is not yet Defeated: You'll find Sir, that to Rebel, or to Conceal a Rebel, are in the Eye of Law both Equal Acts of Treaſon: That Fact I'm ſure is evident againſt you; There! there ſtands in Proof the [...]riling Traytor you have Shelter'd! this Sir, your whole Family can Charge you with, and Swear it home they ſhall, or Load their Souls with Perjury: but then to daſh your few remaining Days with Bitterneſs of Miſery, Remember I, Sir, whom Mortally you hate, ſuc⯑ceed the Inſtant Heir to your Poſſeſſions: Now farewell, and let Diſgrace, and Beggary be your Childrens Portion.

Hold, Sir, not ſo faſt, you cannot paſs.

Who, Sir, ſhall dare to ſtop me?

Within there! March!

Is your Name Wolf Sir?

What if it be Sir!

Then Sir I have a Warrant againſt you for High Treaſon

Me Sir?

Do you know one Collonel Perth Sir?

Ha! then I am Betray'd indeed.

This Perth, it ſeems, Sir, has m [...]nag'd his Corre⯑ſpondence at Avignon, from whence he came laſt Night Expreſs; but the Government having Immediate Notice of his Arrival, he was this Morning ſeiz'd, and Examin'd before the Council, where, among other Facts, he has confeſt he knew the Doctor actually in Arms at the firſt Rebellious riſing in Northumberland, which has been ſince by other Witneſſes confirm'd.

And, Sir, to Convince you, that ev'n the Doctrine he has Broach'd could never flow from the pure Fountain of our Eſtabliſht Faith: Here are Affidavits in my Hand that prove him under his Diſguiſe a lurking Emiſſary [75] of Rome that he is actually a Prieſt in Popiſh Orders, and has ſeveral times been ſeen, as ſuch, to Officiate Publick Maſs in the Church of Noſter Dame at Antwerp.

How!

I ſtart with Horror, ev'en at the Danger I am freed from.

And now, Sir, had not your Inſatiate Villanys to this Family fac'd me to this cloſe Inquiry into your Private Life, Perhaps you might have paſs'd unqueſtion'd, among the Rout of Enemies, whom our Government Deſpiſes.

Well Sir! now then you know your worſt of me: But know, what you call Criminal, may yet before your Triumph is ſecure, not only find its Pardon but Reward: I yet may Live, Sir, to retort your Inſult, ot leaſt the Days that are alotted me, will want for no ſupports of Life, while this Conveyance calls me Maſter.

There! there indeed he ſtings me to the Heart! For that raſh act reproach, and endleſs Shame will haunt me.

No Sir—be Comforted! for ev'n there too his abandon'd hope muſt leave him.

Why doſt thou totrure me! did I not Sign that Deed!

Yes, Sir, but in that Deed you'll find, my Bro⯑ther, Not that Traytor is your Heir: For know the fatal Deed, which you intended, Sir, to Sign is here ev'n yet unſeal'd and Innocent.

Ha!

What means ſhe?

I mean Sir, that this Deed, by accident falling in⯑to this Gentlemans Hands, his generous Concern for our Family diſcover'd it to me; when I reduc'd to this Ex⯑tremity, inſtantly procur'd that other to be drawn exact⯑ly like it, which in your Impatience, Sir, to execute, paſs'd unſuſpected for the Original: their only difference is, that, wherever here you read the Doctors Name, there you'll find my Brothers only, throughout, and wholly, Sir, in every Article inveſting him in all that Right, and Title, which you intended for your Mortal Enemy.

Diſtraction! Outwitted by a Brainleſs Girl.

All the Servants having attended to the Diſcovery, break out into Huzzahs of Joy, &c. while Sir John, the Col. Charles and Maria ſeverally embrace, Heartily, and Lady Wood⯑vil ſilently join in their Congratulations.

I cannot bear their irkſome Joy—come Sir, lead me where you pleaſe—a Dungeon would releive me now.

Secure your Priſoner.

Huzzah! a Traytor! a Traytor!

Now Heartly, I hope I have made attonement for your Jealouſy.

You have Baniſht it for ever: This was beyond your ſelf ſurprizing.

Siſter—

Come no ſet Speeches, If I deſerve your Thanks, re⯑turn them in a Friendſhip here.

The Buſineſs of my Life ſhall be to merit it.

And mine to ſpeak my Senſe of Obligations.

O my Child! for this Deliverance, I only can reward thee here.

For thee my Son, whoſe filial Virtues I have Injur'd; this Honeſt Deed in every Article ſhall be ratified: I ſee your Eyes are all upon me, expecting from that vile Traytors Parctices, ſome Voluntary Inſtance of my Hearts Conver⯑ſion: I muſt be Blind indeed, were I not now convinc'd He muſt in all things have alike deceiv'd me, as the Di⯑al that miſs-tels one Hour, of Conſequence is falſe through the whole round of Day. Let it ſuffice. I ſee my Errors with a Conſcious Shame; but hope, when I am juſtly Weigh'd, you'll find thoſe Errors roſe but from a Ductile Heart, not Diſinclin'd to Truth, but fatally miſled by falſe Appearances:

Whoever knows your Private Life, muſt think you, Sir, in this Sincere:

And Now Sir, ſince I am ſure, it will no more Offend you, give me leave to Obſerve, that of all the Arts our Enemies make uſe on to Embroil us, none ſeem ſo Audaciouſly Prepoſterous, as their Inſiſting, that a Nations beſt Security is the Word of a Prince, whoſe Religion In⯑dulges him to give it, and at the ſame time Obliges him to break it: And tho' perhaps in leſſer Points our Politick Diſputes won't ſuddenly be ended, methinks there's one Principle, that all Partys might eaſily come into, that no Change of Government can give us a Bleſſing equal to our Liberty.