[] A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH, A COMEDY.

SCENE I. the Hall of an Inn.

LORY, pay the poſt-boy, and take the port⯑manteau.

Faith, ſir, we had better let the poſt-boy take the portmanteau and pay himſelf.

Why ſure there's ſomething leſt in it.

Not a rag, upon my honour, ſir—we eat the [2] laſt of your wardrobe at Newmalton—and if we had had twenty miles farther to go, our next meal muſt have been off the cloak-bag.

Why 'ſdeath it appears full.

Yes, ſir—I made bold to ſtuff it with hay, to ſave appearances, and look like baggage.

What the devil ſhall I do!—harkee, boy, what's the chaiſe?

Thirteen ſhillings, pleaſe your honour.

Can you give me change for a guinea?

O yes, ſir.

Soh, what will he do now?—Lord, ſir, you had better let the boy be paid below.

Why, as you ſay, Lory, I believe it will be as well.

Yes, yes; tell them to diſcharge you below, honeſt friend.

Pleaſe your honour, there are the turnpikes too.

Aye, aye; the turnpikes by all means.

And I hope your honour will order me ſome⯑thing for myſelf.

To be ſure, bid them give you a crown.

Yes, yes—my maſter doesn't care what you charge them—ſo get along you—

Your honour promiſed to ſend the hoſtler—

P'ſhaw! damn the hoſtler—would you impoſe upon the gentleman's generoſity?—

—A raſcal, to be ſo curſt ready with his change!

Why faith, Lory, he had near pos'd me.

Well, ſir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea!—I hope you'll own yourſelf a happy man—You have outliv'd all your cares.

How ſo, ſir?

Why you have nothing left to take care of.

Yes, ſirrah, I have myſelf and you to take care of ſtill.

Sir, if you could prevail with ſome-body elſe to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for't—But now, ſir, for my Lord Fopping⯑ton, your elder brother.

Damn my eldeſt brother!

With all my heart; but get him to redeem your annuity however.—Look you, ſir, you muſt wheedle him, or you muſt ſtarve.

Look you, ſir, I will neither wheedle him nor ſtarve.

Why what will you do then?

Cut his throat, or get ſome one to do it for me.

Gad-ſo, ſir, I'm glad to find I was not ſo we I acquainted with the ſtrength of your conſcience as with the weakneſs of your purſe.

Why, art thou ſo impenetrable a blockhead as to believe he'll help me with a farthing?

Not if you treat him de baut en bas as you uſed to do.

Why how would'ſt have me treat him?

Like a trout—tickle him.

I can't flatter.

Can you ſtarve?

Yes.

I can't—Good-bye t'ye, ſir.

Stay—thou'lt diſtract me. But who comes here—my old friend, Colonel Townly?

My dear Colonel, I am rejoiced to meet you here.

Dear Tom, this is an unexpected pleaſure—what, are you come to Scarbro' to be preſent at your brother's wedding?

Ah, ſir, if it had been his funeral, we ſhould have come with pleaſure.

What, honeſt Lory, are you with your maſter ſtill?

Yes, ſir, I have been ſtarving with him ever ſince I ſaw your honour laſt.

Why, Lory is an attach'd rogue; there's no get⯑ting rid of him.

True, ſir, as my maſter ſays, there's no ſedu⯑cing me from his ſervice, 'till he's able to pay me my wages.

Go, go, ſir—and take care of the baggage.

Yes, ſir—the baggage!—O Lord!—I ſup⯑poſe, ſir, I muſt charge the landlord to be very particular where he ſtows this.

Get along, you raſcal.

But, Colonel, are you acquainted with my propo⯑ſed ſiſter-in-law?

Only by character—her father, Sir Tunbelly Clumſey, lives within a quarter of a mile of this place, in a lonely old houſe, which nobody comes [6] near. She never goes abroad, nor ſees company at home; to prevent all misfortunes, ſhe has her breeding within doors; the parſon of the pariſh teaches her to play upon the dulcimer; the clerk to ſing, her nurſe to dreſs, and her father to dance:—in ſhort, nobody has free admiſſion there but our old acquaintance, Mother Coupler, who has procured your brother this match, and is, I believe, a diſtant relation of Sir Tunbelly's.

But is her fortune ſo conſiderable?

Three thouſand a year, and a good ſum of mo⯑ney independent of her father beſide.

'Sdeath! that my old acquaintance, dame Coupler, could not have thought of me as well as my brother for ſuch a prize.

Egad I wouldn't ſwear that you are too late—his Lordſhip, I know, hasn't yet ſeen the la⯑dy, and, I believe, has quarrelled with his pa⯑troneſs.

My dear Colonel, what an idea have you ſtarted?

Purſue it if you can, and I promiſe you you ſhall have my aſſiſtance; for beſides my natural contempt for his Lordſhip, I have at preſent the enmity of a rival towards him.

What, has he been addreſſing your old flame, the ſprightly widow Berinthia?

Faith, Tom, I am at preſent moſt whimſically circumſtanced—I came here near a month ago to meet the lady you mention; but ſhe failing in her promiſe, I, partly from pique, and partly from idleneſs, have been diverting my chagrin by of⯑fering up chaſte incenſe to the beauties of Amanda, our friend Loveleſs's wife.

I have never ſeen her, but have heard her ſpo⯑ken of as a youthful wonder of beauty and pru⯑dence.

She is ſo indeed; and Loveleſs being too care⯑leſs and inſenſible of the treaſure he poſſeſſes—my lodging in the ſame houſe has given me a thou⯑ſand opportunities of making my aſſiduities ac⯑ceptable; ſo that in leſs than a fortnight, I began to bear my diſappointment from the widow, with the moſt Chriſtian reſignation.

And Berinthia has never appear'd?

O there's the perplexity; for juſt as I began not to care whether I ever ſaw her again or not, laſt night ſhe arrived.

And inſtantly reaſſumed her empire.

No faith—we met—but the lady not conde⯑ſcending to giev me any ſerious reaſons for having fool'd me for a month, I left her in a huff.

Well, well, I'll anſwer for't, ſhe'll ſoon reſume her power, eſpecially as friendſhip will prevent [8] your purſuing the other too far—but my coxcomb of a brother is an admirer of Amanda's too, is he?

Yes; and I believe is moſt heartily deſpiſed by her—but come with me, and you ſhall ſee her and your old friend Loveleſs.

I muſt pay my reſpects to his Lordſhip—per⯑haps you can direct me to his lodgings.

Come with me, I ſhall paſs by it.

I wiſh you could pay the viſit for me; or could tell me what I ſhould ſay to him.

Say nothing to him—apply yourſelf to his bag, his ſword, his feather, his ſnuff-box; and when you are well with them, deſire him to lend you a thouſand pounds, and I'll engage you proſ⯑per.

'Sdeath and furies! why was that coxcomb thruſt into the world before me? O Fortune! Fortune! thou art a jilt, by Gad.

SCENE II, a Dreſſing Room.

Well, 'tis an unſpeakable pleaſure to be a man of quality—ſtrike me dumb!—even the boors of [9] this Northern ſpa have learn'd the reſpect due to a title—La Varole!

Mi Lor—

You han't yet been at Muddy-Moat-Hall to announce my arrival, have you?

Not yet, mi Lor.

Then you need not go till Saturday,

as I am in no particular haſte to view my intended Spoſa—I ſhall ſacrifice a day or two more to the purſuit of my friend Loveleſs's wife—Amanda is a charming creature—ſtrike me ugly; and if I have any diſcernment in the world, ſhe thinks no leſs of my Lord Foppington.

Mi Lor, de ſhoemaker, de taylor, de hoſier, de ſempſtreſs, de peru, be all ready, if your lord⯑ſhip pleaſe to dreſs.

'Tis well, admit them.

Hey, Meſſieurs, entrez.

So, gentlemen, I hope you have all taken pains to ſhew yourſelves maſters in your profeſſions.

I think I may preſume to ſay, Sir—

My Lor, you clown you!

My Lord, I aſk your Lordſhip's pardon, my Lord. I hope, my Lord, your Lordſhip will pleaſe to own, I have brought your Lordſhip as accom⯑pliſhed a ſuit of clothes as ever Peer of England wore, my Lord—will your Lordſhip pleaſe to try 'em now?

Ay; but let my people diſpoſe the glaſſes ſo, that I may ſee myſelf before and behind; for I love to ſee myſelf all round.

Hey-day! What the devil have we here?—Sure my gentleman's grown a favourite at court, he has got ſo many people at his levee.

Sir, theſe people come in order to make him a favourite at court—they are to eſtabliſh him with the ladies.

Good Heav'n! to what an ebb of taſte are wo⯑men fallen, that it ſhould be in the power of a laced coat to recommend a gallant to them!

Sir, Taylors and Hair-dreſſers are now become the bawds of the nation—'tis they that debauch all the women.

Thou ſay'ſt true; for there's that fop now has not, by nature, wherewithal to move a cook maid: and by the time theſe fellows have done with him, egad he ſhall melt down a Counteſs—but now for my reception.

Death and eternal tortures! Sir—I ſay the coat is too wide here by a foot.

My Lord, if it had been tighter, 'twould neither have hook'd nor button'd.

Rat the hooks and buttons, Sir, can any thing be worſe than this?—As Gad ſhall jedge me! it hangs on my ſhoulders like a chairman's ſurtout.

'Tis not for me to diſpute your Lordſhip's fan⯑cy.

There, Sir, obſerve what reſpect does.

Reſpect!—D—m him for a coxcomb—but let's accoſt him.—Brother, I'm your humble ſer⯑vant.

O Lard, Tam, I did not expect you in England—Brother, I'm glad to ſee you—but what has brought you to Scarbro' Tam?—Look you, Sir,

I ſhall never be reconciled to this nauſeous wrapping gown; therefore, pray get me another ſuit with all poſſible expedition; for this is my eternal averſion—Well, but Tam, you don't tell me what has driven you to Scarbro'?—Mrs. Callicoe, are not you of my mind?

Directly, my Lord.—I hope your Lordſhip is pleaſed with your ruffles?

In love with them, ſtab my vitals!—Bring my bill, you ſhall be paid to-morrow.

I humbly thank your Lordſhip.

Heark thee, ſhoemaker, theſe ſhoes a'nt ugly, but they don't ſit me.

My Lord, I think they fit you very well.

They hurt me juſt below the inſtep.

No, my Lord, they don't hurt you there.

I tell thee they pinch me execrably.

Why then, my Lord, if thoſe ſhoes pinch you I'll be d—n'd.

Why wilt thou undertake to perſuade me I can⯑not feel!

Your Lordſhip may pleaſe to feel what you think fit, but that ſhoe does not hurt you—I think I underſtand my trade.

Now by all that's good and powerful, thou art an incomprehenſible coxcomb—but thou makeſt good ſhoes, and ſo I'll bear with thee.

My Lord, I have work'd for half the people of quality in this town theſe twenty years, and 'tis very hard I ſhoudn't know when a ſhoe hurts, and when it don't.

Well, prithee be gone about thy buſineſs.

Mr. Mendlegs, a word with you. The calves of theſe ſtockings are thicken'd a little too much; thy make my legs look like a porter's.

My Lord, methinks they look mighty well.

Aye, but you are not ſo good a judge of thoſe things as I am—I have ſtudy'd them all my life—therefore pray let the next be the thickneſs of a crown piece leſs.

Indeed, my Lord, they are the ſame kind I had the honour to furniſh your Lordſhip with in town.

Very poſſibly, Mr. Mendlegs; but that was in the beginning of the winter; and you ſhould al⯑ways remember, Mr. Hoſier, that if you make a Nobleman's ſpring legs as robuſt as his autumnal calves, you commit a manſtrous impropriety, and make no allowance for the fatigues of the winter.

I hope, my Lord, thoſe buckles have had the unſpeakable ſatisfaction of being honoured with your Lordſhip's approbation?

Why they are of a pretty fancy; but don't you think them rather of the ſmalleſt?

My Lord, they could not well be larger to keep on your Lordſhip's ſhoe.

My good Sir, you forget that theſe matters are not as they uſed to be: formerly, indeed, the buckle was a ſort of machine, intended to keep on the ſhoe; but the caſe is now quite reverſed, and the ſhoe is of no earthly uſe, but to keep on the buckle.—Now give me my watches, and the buſi⯑neſs of the morning will be pretty well over.

Well, Lory, what doſt think on't?—a very friendly reception from a brother after three years abſence!

Why, Sir, 'tis your own fault—here you have ſtood ever ſince you came in, and have not com⯑mended any one thing that belongs to him.

Nor ever ſhall, while they belong to a coxcomb.—Now your people of buſineſs are gone, brother, I hope I may obtain a quarter of an hour's audi⯑ence of you?

Faith, Tam, I muſt beg you'll excuſe me at this time, for I have an engagement which I would not break for the ſalvation of mankind. Hey!—there!—is my carriage at the door?—You'll ex⯑cuſe me, brother.

Shall you be back to dinner?

As Gad ſhall jedge me, I can't tell, for it is paſ⯑ſible I may dine with ſome friends at Donner's.

Shall I meet you there? for I muſt needs talk with you.

That I'm afraid may'nt be quite ſo praper;—for thoſe I commonly eat with are a people of nice converſation; and you know, Tam, your educa⯑tion has been a little at large—but there are other ordinaries in town—very good beef ordinaries—I ſuppoſe, Tam, you can eat beef?—However, dear Tam, I'm glad to ſee thee in England, ſtap my vitals!

Hell and furies! Is this to be borne?

Faith, Sir, I could almoſt have given him a knock o' the pate myſelf.

'Tis enough; I will now ſhew you the exceſs of my paſſion, by being very calm.—Come, Lory, lay your loggerhead to mine, and, in cold blood, let us contrive his deſtruction.

Here comes a head, Sir, would contrive it better than us both, if ſhe would but join in the confede⯑racy.

By this light, Madam Coupler; ſhe ſeems diſ⯑ſatisfied at ſomething: let us obſerve her.

Soh! I am likely to be well rewarded for my ſervices, truly; my ſuſpicions, I find, were but too [16] juſt—What! refuſe to advance me a paltry ſum, when I am upon the point of making him maſter of a Galloon! But let him look to the conſequen⯑ces, an ungrateful, narrow-minded coxcomb.

So he is, upon my ſoul, old lady: it muſt be my brother you ſpeak of.

Hah!—ſtripling, how came you here? What, haſt ſpent all, hey? And art thou come to dun his Lordſhip for aſſiſtance?

No;—I want ſomebody's aſſiſtance to cut his Lordſhip's throat, without the riſque of being hang'd for him.

Egad, ſirrah, I could help thee to do him al⯑moſt as good a turn without the danger of being burnt in the hand for't.

How—how, old Miſchief?

Why you muſt know I have done you the kindneſs to make up a match for your brother.

I'm very much beholden to you, truly.

You may before the wedding-day yet: the lady is a great heireſs, the match is concluded, the writings are drawn, and his lordſhip is come hi⯑ther to put the finiſhing hand to the buſineſs.

I underſtand as much.

Now you muſt know, ſtripling, your brother's a knave.

Good.

He has given me a bond of a thouſand pounds for helping him to his fortune, and has promiſed me as much more in ready money upon the day of the marriage; which, I underſtand by a friend, he never deſigns to pay me; and his juſt now refuſing to pay me a part, is a proof of it. If, therefore, you will be a generous young rogue and ſecure me five thouſand pounds, I'll help you to the lady.

And how the devil wilt thou do that?

Without the devil's aid, I warrant thee. Thy brother's face not one of the family ever ſaw; the whole buſineſs has been managed by me, and all the letters go thro' my hands. Sir Tunbelly Clumſey, my relation, (for that's the old gentle⯑man's name) is apprized of his lordſhip's being down here, and expects him to-morrow to receive his daughter's hand; but the Peer, I find, means to bait here a few days longer, to recover the fa⯑tigue of his journey, I ſuppoſe. Now you ſhall go to Muddymoat-hall in this place. I'll give you a letter of introduction; and if you don't marry the girl before ſun-ſet, you deſerve to be hang'd before morning.

Agreed, agreed; and for thy reward—

Well, well;—tho' I warrant thou haſt not a farthing of money in thy pocket now—no—one may ſee it in thy face.

Not a ſouſe, by Jupiter.

Muſt I advance then?—well, be at my lodg⯑ings next door this evening, and I'll ſee what may be done—We'll ſign and ſeal, and when I have given thee ſome farther inſtructions, thou ſhalt hoiſt ſail and be gone.

So, Lory; Providence thou ſeeſt at laſt takes care of merit: we are in a fair way to be great people.

Aye, ſir, if the devil don't ſtep between the cup and the lip, as he uſes to do.

Why, faith, he has play'd me many a damn'd trick to ſpoil my fortune; and, egad, I'm almoſt afraid he's at work about it again now; but if I ſhould tell thee how, thou'dſt wonder at me.

Indeed, ſir, I ſhould not.

How doſt know?

Becauſe, ſir, I have wondered at you ſo often, I can wonder at you no more.

No! what wouldſt thou ſay if a qualm of con⯑ſcience ſhould ſpoil my deſign?

I would eat my words, and wonder more than ever!

Why faith, Lory, tho' I am a young Rake⯑hell, [19] and have play'd many a rogueiſh trick, this is ſo full-grown a cheat, I find I muſt take pains to come up to't—I have ſcruples.

They are ſtrong ſymptoms of death. If you find they encreaſe, ſir, pray make your will.

No, my conſcience ſhan't ſtarve me neither, but thus far I'll liſten to it. Before I execute this project, I'll try my brother to the bottom. If he has yet ſo much humanity about him as to aſſiſt me (tho' with a moderate aid) I'll drop my pro⯑ject at his feet, and ſhew him how I can do for him much more than what I'd aſk he'd do for me. This one concluſive trial of him I reſolve to make.—

SCENE I.

HOW do you like theſe lodgings, my dear? For my part, I am ſo well pleas'd with them, I ſhall hardly remove whilſt we ſtay here, if you are ſatisfied.

I am ſatisfied with every thing that pleaſes you, elſe I had not come to Scarbro' at all.

O! a little of the noiſe and folly of this place will ſweeten the pleaſures of our retreat; we ſhall find the charms of our retirement doubled when we return to it.

That pleaſing proſpect will be my chiefeſt en⯑tertainment, whilſt, much againſt my will, I engage in thoſe empty pleaſures which 'tis ſo much the faſhion to be fond of.

I own moſt of them are, indeed, but empty; yet there are delights, of which a private life is deſtitute, which may divert an honeſt man, and be a harmleſs entertainment to a virtuous woman: good muſick is one; and truly, (with ſome ſmall allowance) the plays, I think, may be eſteem⯑ed another.

Plays, I muſt confeſs, have ſome ſmall charms, and would have more, would they reſtrain that looſe encouragement to vice, which ſhocks, if not the virtue of ſome women, at leaſt the modeſty of all.

But, 'till that reformation can be wholly made, 'twould ſurely be a pity to exclude the productions of ſome of our beſt writers for want of a little wholeſome pruning; which might be effected by any one who poſſeſſed modeſty enough to believe that we ſhould preſerve all we can of our deceaſed authors, at leaſt 'till they are outdone by the li⯑ving ones.

What do you think of that you ſaw laſt night?

To ſay truth, I did not mind it much; my at⯑tention was for ſome time taken off to admire the workmanſhip of Nature, in the face of a young lady who ſat ſome diſtance from me, ſhe was ſo exquiſitely handſome!

So exquiſitely handſome!

Why do you repeat my words, my dear?

Becauſe you ſeem'd to ſpeak them with ſuch pleaſure, I thought I might oblige you with their echo.

Then you are alarm'd, Amanda?

It is my duty to be ſo when you are in danger.

You are too quick in apprehending for me. I view'd her with a world of admiration, but not one glance of love.

Take heed of truſting to ſuch nice diſtinctions. But were your eyes the only things that were in⯑quiſitive? Had I been in your place, my tongue, I fancy, had been curious too. I ſhould have aſk'd her, where ſhe liv'd (yet ſtill without deſign) who was ſhe pray?

Indeed, I cannot tell.

You will not tell.

By all that's ſacred then, I did not aſk.

Nor do you know what company was with her?

I do not; but why are you ſo earneſt?

I thought I had cauſe.

But you thought wrong, Amanda; for turn the caſe, and let it be your ſtory; ſhould you come home and tell me you had ſeen a handſome man, ſhould I grow jealous becauſe you had eyes?

But ſhould I tell you he was exquiſitely ſo, and that I had gazed on him with admiration, ſhould you not think 'twere poſſible I might go one ſtep further, and enquire his name?

She has reaſon on her ſide, I have talk'd too much; but I muſt turn off another way.

Will you then make no difference, Amanda, be⯑tween the language of our ſex and yours? There is a modeſty reſtrains your tongues, which makes you ſpeak by halves when you commend, but ro⯑ving flattery gives a looſe to ours, which makes us ſtill ſpeak double what we think. You ſhould not, therefore, in ſo ſtrict a ſenſe, take what I ſaid to her advantage.

Thoſe flights of flattery, ſir, are to our faces only; when women are once out of hear⯑ing, you are as modeſt in your commendations as we are; but I ſhan't put you to the trouble of farther excuſes;—if you pleaſe, this buſi⯑neſs ſhall reſt here, only give me leave to wiſh, both for your peace and mine, that you may never meet this miracle of beauty more.

I am content.

Madam, there is a lady at the door in a chair, deſires to know whether your Ladyſhip ſees com⯑pany? her name is Berinthia.

O dear!—'tis a relation I have not ſeen theſe five years, pray her to walk in.

Here's another beauty for you; ſhe was, when I ſaw her laſt, reckoned extremely handſome.

Don't be jealous now, for I ſhall gaze upon her too.

Ha!—by Heav'ns the very woman!

Dear Amanda, I did not expect to meet with you in Scarbro'.

Sweet couſin, I'm overjoy'd to ſee you.

Mr. Loveleſs, here's a relation and a friend of mine, I deſire you'll be better acquainted with.

If my wife never deſires a harder thing, Ma⯑dam, her requeſt will be eaſily granted.

Sir, my Lord Foppington preſents his humble ſervice to you, and deſires to know how you do. He's at the next door, and if it be not inconve⯑nient to you, he'll come and wait upon you.

Give my compliments to his Lordſhip, and I ſhall be glad to ſee him.

If you are not acquainted with his Lordſhip, Madam, you will be entertained with his character.

Now it moves my pity more than my mirth, to [25] ſee a man whom Nature has made no ſool, be ſo very induſtrious to paſs for an aſs.

No, there you are wrong, Amanda; you ſhould never beſtow your pity upon thoſe who take pains for your contempt; pity thoſe whom Nature abuſes, never thoſe who abuſe Nature.

Dear Loveleſs, I am your moſt humble ſer⯑vant.

My Lord, I'm your's.

Madam, your Ladyſhip's very humble ſlave.

My Lord, this lady is a relation of my wife's.

The beautifulleſt race of people upon earth, rat me. Dear Loveleſs, I am overjoyed that you think of continuing here. I am, ſtap my vitals.

For Gad's ſake, Ma⯑dam, how has your ladyſhip been able to ſubſiſt thus long, under the fatigue of a country life?

My life has been very far from that, my Lord, it has been a very quiet one.

Why that's the fatigue I ſpeak of, Madam; for 'tis impoſſible to be quiet, without think⯑ing; now thinking is to me the greateſt fatigue in the world.

Does not your lordſhip love reading then?

Oh, paſſionately, Madam, but I never think of what I read.

Why, can your lordſhip read without think⯑ing?

O Lard, can your ladyſhip pray without de⯑votion, Madam?

Well, I muſt own, I think books the beſt entertainment in the world.

I am ſo much of your ladyſhip's mind, Ma⯑dam, that I have a private gallery in town, where I walk ſometimes, which is furniſhed with nothing but books and looking glaſſes. Madam, I have gilded them, and ranged them ſo prettily, before Gad, it is the moſt entertain⯑ing thing in the world, to walk and look at them.

Nay, I love a neat library too, but 'tis, I think, the inſide of a book ſhould recommend it moſt to us.

That, I muſt confeſs, I am not altogether ſo fand of, far to my mind, the inſide of a book is to entertain one's ſelf with the forced product of another man's brain. Now I think a man of quality and breeding may be much more diverted with the natural ſprauts of his own; but to ſay the truth, Madam, let a [27] man love reading never ſo well, when once he comes to know the tawn, he finds ſo many bet⯑ter ways of paſſing away the four-and-twenty hours, that it were ten thouſand pities he ſhould conſume his time in that. Far example, Ma⯑dam, now my life, my life, Madam, is a per⯑petual ſtream of pleaſure, that glides through with ſuch a variety of entertainments, I believe the wiſeſt of our anceſtors never had the leaſt concep⯑tion of any of 'em. I riſe, Madam, when in town, about twelve o'clock. I don't riſe ſooner, becauſe it is the worſt thing in the world for the complex⯑ion; nat that I pretend to be a beau, but a man muſt endeavour to look decent, leſt he makes ſo odious a figure in the ſide-bax, the ladies ſhould be compelled to turn their eyes upon the play; ſo, at twelve o'clock I ſay I riſe. Naw, if I find it a good day, I reſalve to take the exerciſe of riding, ſo drink my chocolate, and draw on my boots by two. On my return, I dreſs; and after dinner, lounge, perhaps to the Opera.

Your lordſhip, I ſuppoſe, is fond of muſic?

O, paſſionately, on Tueſdays and Saturdays, provided there is good company, and one is not expected to undergo the fatigue of liſtening.

Does your lordſhip think that the caſe at the Opera?

Moſt certainly, Madam; there is my Lady Tattle, my Lady Prate, my Lady Titter, my La⯑dy Sneer, my Lady Giggle, and my Lady Grin,—theſe have boxes in the front, and while any fa⯑vourite [28] air is ſinging, are the prettieſt company in the waurld, ſtap my vitals! May'nt we hope for the honour to ſee you added to our ſociety, Ma⯑dam?

Alas, my Lord, I am the worſt company in the world at a concert, I'm ſo apt to attend to the muſic.

Why, Madam, that is very pardonable in the country, or at church; but a monſtrous inatten⯑tion in a polite aſſembly. But I am afraid I tire the company?

Not at all; pray go on.

Why then, ladies, there only remains to add, that I generally conclude the evening at one or other of the Clubs, nat that I ever play deep; indeed I have been for ſome time tied up from loſing above five thouſand pawnds at a ſitting.

But is'nt your Lordſhip ſometimes obliged to attend the weighty affairs of the nation?

Sir, as to weighty affairs, I leave them to weighty heads; I never intend mine ſhall be a bur⯑then to my body.

Nay, my Lord, but you are a pillar of the ſtate.

An ornamental pillar, Madam; for ſooner than undergo any part of the burthen, rat me, but the whole building ſhould fall to the ground.

But, my Lord, a fine gentleman ſpends a great deal of his time in his intrigues; you have given us no account of them yet.

Soh! She would enquire into my amours, that's jealouſy; poor ſoul! I ſee ſhe's in love with me.

Why, Madam, I ſhould have mentioned my intrigues, but I am really afraid I begin to be troubleſome with the length of my viſit.

Your lordſhip is too entertaining to grow troubleſome any where.

That now was as much as if ſhe had ſaid pray make love to me. I'll let her ſee I'm quick of apprehenſion.

O Lard, Madam, I had like to have forgot a ſecret I muſt needs tell your ladyſhip.

Ned, you muſt not be ſo jealous now as to liſten.

Not I, my Lord, I am too faſhionable a huſ⯑band to pry into the ſecrets of my wife.

I am in love with you to deſperation, ſtrike me ſpeechleſs!

Then thus I re⯑turn your paſſion,—an impudent fool!

Gad's curſe, Madam, I'm a Peer of the Realm.

Hey, what the Devil do you affront my wife, Sir? Nay then—

Ah! What has my folly done?—Help! mur⯑der! help! Part them, for Heaven's ſake.

Ah! quite through the body, ſtap my vitals!

I hope I han't killed the fool, however—bear him up—where's your wound?

Juſt thro' the guts.

Call a ſurgeon, there—unbutton him quickly.

Ay, pray make haſte.

This miſchief you may thank yourſelf for.

I may ſo, love's the Devil, indeed, Ned.

Here's Mr. Probe, ſir, was juſt going by the door.

He's the welcomeſt man alive.

Stand by, ſtand by, ſtand by; pray, Gentlemen, ſtand by; Lord have mercy upon us! did you never ſee a man run through the body before? Pray ſtand by.

Ah! Mr. Probe, I'm a dead man.

A dead man, and I by! I ſhould laugh to ſee that, egad.

Prithee, don't ſtand prating, but look upon his wound.

Why, what if I won't look upon his wound this hour, ſir?

Why then he'll bleed to death, ſir.

Why then I'll fetch him to life again, ſir.

'Slife! he's run thro' the guts, I tell thee.

I wiſh he was run thro' the heart, and I ſhould get the more credit by his cure.—Now I hope you are ſatisfied?—Come, now let me come at him—now let me come at him—

Oons! what a gaſh is here!—Why, ſir, a man may drive a coach and ſix horſes into your body!

Oh!

Why, what the devil have you run the gentle⯑man thro' with a ſcythe?—

A little ſcratch between the ſkin and the ribs, that's all.

Let me ſee his wound.

Then you ſhall dreſs it, Sir—for if any body looks upon it I won't.

Why thou art the verieſt coxcomb I ever ſaw.

Sir, I am not maſter of my trade for nothing.

Surgeon!

Sir?

Are there any hopes?

Hopes! I can't tell—What are you willing to give for a cure?

Five hundred paunds with pleaſure.

Why then perhaps there may be hopes; but we muſt avoid a further delay—here—help the gentleman into a chair, and carry him to my houſe preſently—that's the propereſt place—

to bubble him out of his money.—Come, a chair—a chair quickly—there, in with him.—

Dear Loveleſs, adieu: if I die, I forgive thee; and if I live, I hope thou wilt do as much by me.—I am ſorry you and I ſhould quarrel, but I hope here's an end on't; for if you are ſatisfied, I am.

I ſhall hardly think it worth my proſecuting any farther, ſo you may be at reſt, ſir.

Thou art a generous fellow, ſtrike me dumb!—

but thou haſt an impertinent wife, ſtap my vitals!

So—carry him off—carry him off—we ſhall have him prate himſelf into a fever by and by—carry him off▪

Now on my knees, my dear, let me aſk your pardon for my indiſcretion—my own I never ſhall obtain.

Oh, there's no harm done—you ſerv'd him well.

He did indeed deſerve it; but I tremble to think how dear my indiſcreet reſentment might have coſt you.

O, no matter—never trouble yourſelf about that.

So, ſo, I'm glad to find you all alive—I met a wounded Peer carrying off—for Heav'ns ſake what was the matter?

O, a trifle—he would have made love to my wife before my face, ſo ſhe obliged him with a box o'the ear, and I run him through the body, that was all.

Bagatelle on all ſides—but pray, Madam, how long has this noble Lord been an humble ſervant of your's?

This is the firſt I have heard on't—ſo I ſup⯑poſe 'tis his quality more than his love has brought him into this adventure. He thinks his title an authentic paſſport to every woman's heart, below the degree of a Peereſs.

He's coxcomb enough to think any thing; but I would not have you brought into trouble for him.—I hope there's no danger of his life?

None at all—he's fallen into the hands of a roguiſh ſurgeon, who, I perceive, deſigns to frighten a little money out of him—but I ſaw his wound—'tis nothing—he may go to the ball to⯑night if he pleaſes.

I am glad you have corrected him without far⯑ther miſchief, or you might have deprived me of the pleaſure of executing a plot againſt his Lord⯑ſhip, which I have been contriving with an old acquaintance of yours.

Explain—

His brother, Tom Faſhion, is come down here, and we have it in contemplation to ſave him the trouble of his intended wedding; but we want your aſſiſtance. Tom would have called, but he is preparing for his enterprize, ſo I promiſed to bring you to him—ſo, ſir, if theſe ladies can ſpare you—

I'll go with you with all my heart—

—tho' I could wiſh, methinks, to ſtay and gaze a little [35] longer on that creature—Good Gods! how en⯑gaging ſhe is—but what have I to do with beau⯑ty?—I have already had my portion, and muſt not covet more.—

Come, ſir, when you pleaſe.

Ladies, your ſervant.

Mr. Loveleſs, pray one word with you before you go.

I'll overtake you, Colonel.

What would my dear?

Only a woman's fooliſh queſtion, how do you like my couſin here?

Jealous already, Amanda?

Not at all—I aſk you for another reaſon.

Whate'er her reaſon be, I muſt not tell her true.

Why, I confeſs ſhe's handſome—but you muſt not think I ſlight your kinſwoman, if I own to you, of all the women who may claim that character, ſhe is the laſt would triumph in my heart.

I'm ſatisfied.

Now tell me why you aſk'd?

At night I will—Adieu.—

I'm your's—

I'm glad to find he does not like her, for I have a great mind to perſuade her to come and live with me.

Soh! I find my Colonel continues in his airs; there muſt be ſomething more at the bottom of this than the provocation he pretends from me.

For Heav'ns ſake, Berinthia, tell me what way I ſhall take to perſuade you to come and live with me?

Why one way in the world there is—and but one.

And pray what is that?

It is to aſſure me—I ſhall be very welcome.

If that be all, you ſhall e'en ſleep here to⯑night.

To-night!

Yes, to-night.

Why the people where I lodge will think me mad.

Let 'em think what they pleaſe.

Say you ſo, Amanda?—Why then they ſhall think what they pleaſe—for I'm a young widow, and I care not what any body thinks.—Ah, [37] Amanda, it's a delicious thing to be a young widow.

You'll hardly make me think ſo.

Puh! becauſe you are in love with your huſ⯑band—but that is not every woman's caſe.

I hope 'twas your's at leaſt.

Mine, ſay you?—Now I have a great mind to tell you a lye, but I ſhall do it ſo aukwardly, you'd find me out.

Then e'en ſpeak the truth.

Shall I?—then, after all, I did love him, Amanda, as a Nun does penance.

How did you live together?

Like man and wife—aſunder—he lov'd the country—I the town.—He hawks and hounds—I coaches and equipage.—He eating and drinking—I carding and playing.—He the ſound of a horn—I the ſqueek of a fiddle.—We were dull company at table—worſe a-bed: whenever we met we gave one another the ſpleen, and ne⯑ver agreed but once, which was about lying alone.

But tell me one thing truly and ſincerely—not⯑withſtanding all theſe jars, did not his death at laſt extremely trouble you?

O yes.—I was forced to wear an odious Wi⯑dows' band a twelve-month for't.

Women, I find, have different inclinations:—prithee, Berinthia, inſtruct me a little farther—for I'm ſo great a novice, I'm almoſt aſham'd on't.—Not Heav'n knows that what you call in⯑trigues have any charms for me—the practical part of all unlawful love is—

O 'tis abominable—but for the ſpeculative, that we muſt all confeſs is entertaining enough.

Pray, be ſo juſt then to me, to believe, 'tis with a world of innocence I would enquire whe⯑ther you think thoſe, we call Women of Reputa⯑tion, do really eſcape all other men, as they do thoſe ſhadows of beaus?

O no, Amanda—there are a ſort of men make dreadful work amongſt 'em—men that may be called the Beaus Antipathy—for they agree in nothing but walking upon two legs. Theſe have brains—the beau has none.—Theſe are in love with their miſtreſs—the beau with himſelf.—They take care of their reputation—he's induſtri⯑ous to deſtroy it—They are decent—he's a fop. They are men—he's an aſs.

If this be their character, I fancy we had here e'en now a pattern of 'em both.

His Lordſhip and Colonel Townly?

The ſame.

As for the Lord, he's eminently ſo; and for the other, I can aſſure you there's not a man in town who has a better intereſt with the women, that are worth having an intereſt with.

He anſwers then the opinion I had ever of him—Heav'ns! what a difference there is between a man like him, and that vain nauſeous fop, Lord Foppington—

I muſt acquaint you with a ſecret, couſin—'tis not that fool alone has talked to me of love.—Townly has been tampering too.

So, ſo!—here the myſtery comes out!—Colonel Townly!—impoſſible, my dear!

'Tis true, indeed!—tho' he has done it in vain; nor do I think that all the merit of mankind com⯑bined, could ſhake the tender love I bear my huſ⯑band; yet I will own to you, Berinthia, I did not ſtart at his addreſſes, as when they came from one whom I contemned.

O this is better and better—well ſaid innocence!—and you really think, my dear, that nothing could abate your conſtancy and attach⯑ment to your huſband?

Nothing, I am convinced.

What if you found he lov'd another woman better?

Well!

Well!—why were I that thing they call a ſligh⯑ted wife; ſomebody ſhould run the riſk of being that thing they call—a huſband.

O fie, Berinthia, no revenge ſhould ever be taken againſt a huſband—but to wrong his bed is a vengeance, which of all vengeance—

Is the ſweeteſt!—ha! ha! ha I—don't I talk madly?

Madly indeed!

Yet I'm very innocent.

That I dare ſwear you are.—I know how to make allowances for your humour—but you re⯑ſolve then never to marry again?

O no!—I reſolve I will.

How ſo?

That I never may.

You banter me.

Indeed I don't—but I conſider I'm a woman, and form my reſolutions accordingly.

Well, my opinion is, form what reſolution you will, matrimony will be the end on't.

I doubt it—but A Heav'ns!—I have buſineſs at home, and am half an hour too late.

As you are to return with me, I'll juſt give ſome orders, and walk with you.

Well, make haſte, and we'll finiſh this ſubject as we go.

Ah! poor Amanda, you have led a country life! Well, this diſcovery is lucky!—baſe Townly!—at once falſe to me, and treacherous to his friend! and my innocent, demure, couſin, too!—I have it in my power to be revenged on her, however. Her huſband, if I have any ſkill in countenance, would be as happy in my ſmiles, as Townly can hope to be in her's.—I'll make the experiment, come what will on't.—The woman who can for⯑give the being robb'd of a favour'd lover, muſt be either an ideot or a wanton.

SCENE I.

HEY, fellow—let my vis-a-vis come to the door.

Will your lordſhip venture ſo ſoon to expoſe yourſelf to the weather?

Sir, I will venture as ſoon as I can to expoſe myſelf to the ladies.

I wiſh your lordſhip would pleaſe to keep houſe a little longer; I'm affraid your honour does not well conſider your wound.

My wound!—I would not be in eclipſe another day, tho' I had as many wounds in my body as I have had in my heart. So mind, Varole, let theſe cards be left as directed. For this evening I ſhall wait on my father-in-law, Sir Tunbelly, and I mean to commence my devoirs to the lady, by giving an entertainment at her father's expence; and heark thee, tell Mr. Loveleſs I requeſt he and his company will honour me with their preſence, or I ſhall think we are not friends.

I will be ſure.

Brother, your ſervant, how do you find your⯑ſelf to day?

So well, that I have ardered my coach to the door;—ſo there's no danger of death this baut, Tam.

I'm very glad of it.

That I believe's a lye.—Prithee, Tam, tell me one thing—did not your heart cut a caper up to your mauth, when you heard I was ran thro' the bady?

Why do you think it ſhould?

Becauſe I remember mine did ſo when I heard my uncle was ſhot thro' the head.

It then did very ill.

Prithee, why ſo?

Becauſe he uſed you very well.

Well!—Naw, ſtrike me dumb, he ſtarv'd me—he has let me want a thauſand women, for want of a thauſand pound.

Then he hinder'd you from making a great ma⯑ny ill bargains—for I think no woman worth mo⯑ney that will take money.

If I was a younger brother, I ſhould think ſo too.

Then you are ſeldom much in love?

Never, ſtap my vitals.

Why then did you make all this buſtle about Amanda?

Becauſe ſhe was a woman of an inſolent vir⯑tue—and I thought myſelf piqu'd in honour to debauch her.

Very well. Here's a rare fellow for you, to [...]ave the ſpending of five thouſand pounds a year. But now for my buſineſs with him.—Brother, tho' I know to talk of buſineſs (eſpecially of mo⯑ney) is a theme not quite ſo entertaining to you as that of the ladies, my neceſſities are ſuch, I hope you'll have patience to hear me.

The greatneſs of your neceſſities, Tam, is the worſt argument in the warld for your being pati⯑ently heard. I do believe you are going to make a very good ſpeech, but ſtrike me dumb, it has the worſt beginning of any ſpeech I have heard this twelvemonth.

I'm ſorry you think ſo.

I do believe thou art—but come, let's know the affair quickly.

Why then, my caſe in a word is this.—The neceſſary expences of my travels have ſo much exceeded the wretched income of my annuity, that I have been forced to mortgage it for five hundred pounds, which is ſpent. So unleſs you are ſo kind as to aſſiſt me in redeeming it, I know no remedy but to take a purſe.

Why, faith, Tam, to give you my ſenſe of the thing, I do think taking a purſe the beſt re⯑medy in the warld—for if you ſucceed you are relieved that way, if you are taken—you are re⯑lieved t'other.

I'm glad to ſee you are in ſo pleaſant a humour; I hope I ſhall find the effects on't.

Why, do you then really think it a reaſon⯑able thing that I ſhould give you five hundred pawnds?

I do not aſk it as a due, brother, I am willing to receive it as a favour.

Then thou art willing to receive it any how, ſtrike me ſpeechleſs.—But theſe are d—n'd times to give money in; taxes are ſo great, repairs ſo exorbitant, tenants ſuch rogues, and bouquets ſo dear, that the Devil take me, I am reduced to to that extremity in my caſh, I have been forced to retrench in that one article of ſweet pawder, [46] till I have brought it dawn to five guineas a maunth—now judge, Tam, whether I can ſpare you five hundred pawnds?

If you can't I muſt ſtarve, that's all.

Damn him.

All I can ſay is, you ſhould have been a better huſband.

Ouns!—If you can't live upon ten thouſand a year, how do you think I ſhould do't upon two hundred?

Don't be in a paſſion, Tam, for paſſion is the moſt unbecoming thing in the warld—to the face. Look you, I don't love to ſay any thing to you to make you melancholy, but upon this occaſion I muſt take leave to put you in mind, that a run⯑ning-horſe does require more attendance than a coach-horſe.—Nature has made ſome difference 'twixt you and me.

Yes.—She has made you older.

Plague take her.

That is not all, Tam.

Why, what is there elſe?

Aſk the ladies.

Why, thou Eſſence-bottle, thou Muſk Cat,—doſt [47] thou then think thou haſt any advantage over me but what fortune has given thee?

I do, ſtap my vitals.

Now, by all that's great and powerful thou art the Prince of Coxcombs.

Sir, I am proud at being at the head of ſo pre⯑vailing a party.

Will nothing then provoke thee?—Draw, Cow⯑ard.

Look you, Tam, you know I have always ta⯑ken you for a mighty dull fellow, and here is one of the fooliſheſt plats broke out, that I have ſeen a lang time. Your poverty makes life ſo burthen-ſome to you, you would provoke me to a quarrel, in hopes either to ſlip through my lungs into my eſtate, or to get yourſelf run thro' the guts, to put an end to your pain, but I will diſappoint you in both your deſigns; far with the temper of a Philaſapher, and the diſcretion of a ſtateſman—I ſhall leave the room with my ſword in the ſcab⯑bard.

So! farewell brother; and now conſcience I de⯑fy thee.—Lory!

Sir?

Here's rare news, Lory, his Lordſhip has gi⯑ven me a pill has purged off all my ſcruples.

Then my heart's at eaſe again. For I have been in a lamentable fright, ſir, ever ſince your conſcience had the impudence to intrude into your company.

Be at peace; it will come there no more, my brother has given it a wring by the noſe, and I have kick'd it down ſtairs. So run away to the inn, get the chaiſe ready quickly, and bring it to dame Coupler's without a moment's delay.

Then, ſir, you are going ſtriaght about the for⯑tune?

I am.—Away—fly, Lory.

The happieſt day I ever ſaw. I'm upon the wing already.

SCENE, A GARDEN.

Is my wife within?

No, ſir, ſhe has been gone out this half hour.

Well, leave me.

How ſtrangely does my mind run on this widow—never [49] was my heart ſo ſuddenly ſeiz'd on before—that my wife ſhould pick out her, of all woman-kind, to be her playfellow.—But what fate does, let fate anſwer for—I ſought it not—ſoh!—by heav'ns!—here ſhe comes.

What makes you look ſo thoughtful, Sir? I hope you are not ill.

I was debating, madam, whether I was ſo or not, and that was it which made me look ſo thoughtful.

Is it then ſo hard a matter to decide?—I thought all people were acquainted with their own bodies, tho' few people know their own minds.

What if the diſtemper I ſuſpect be in the mind?

Why then I'll undertake to preſcribe you a cure.

Alas! you undertake you know not what.

So far at leaſt then you allow me to be a Phy⯑ſician.

Nay, I'll allow you to be ſo yet farther, for I have reaſon to believe, ſhould I put myſelf into your hands, you would increaſe my diſtemper.

How?

Oh, you might betray my complaints to my wife.

And ſo loſe all my practice.

Will you then keep my ſecret?

I will.

I'm ſatisfied. Now hear my ſymptoms, and give me your advice. The firſt were theſe when I ſaw you at the play; a random glance you threw, at firſt alarm'd me. I could not turn my eyes from whence the danger came—I gaz'd upon you till my heart began to pant—nay, even now on your approaching me, my illneſs is ſo increas'd, that if you do not help me I ſhall, whilſt you look on, conſume to Aſhes.

O Lord let me go, 'tis the plague, and we ſhall be infected.

Then we'll die together, my charming angel.

O Gad! the devil's in you. Lord, let me go—here's ſomebody coming.

Sir, my lady's come home, and deſires to ſpeak with you.

Tell her I'm coming.

But before I go, one glaſs of nectar to drink her health.

Stand off, or I ſhall hate you, by heavens.

In matters of love, a woman's oath is no more to be minded than a man's.

Um!

Soh! what's here—Berinthia and Loveleſs—and in ſuch cloſe converſation!—I cannot now wonder at her indifference in excuſing herſelf to me!—O rare woman,—well then, let Loveleſs look to his wife, 'twill be but the retort courte⯑ous on both ſides.—

Your ſervant, Madam, I need not aſk you how you do, you have got ſo good a colour.

No better than I uſed to have, I ſuppoſe.

A little more blood in your cheeks.

I have been walking!

Is that all? Pray was it Mr. Loveleſs went from here juſt now?

O yes—he has been walking with me.

He has!

Upon my word I think he is a very agreeable man!—and there is certainly ſomething particu⯑larly inſinuating in his addreſs!

So! ſo! ſhe has n't even the modeſty to diſ⯑ſemble! Pray, madam, may I, without imperti⯑nence, trouble you with a few ſerious queſtions?

As many as you pleaſe; but pray let them be as little ſerious as poſſible.

Is it not near two years ſince I have preſumed to addreſs you?

I don't know exactly—but it has been a tedi⯑ous long time.

Have I not, during that period, had every reaſon to believe that my aſſiduities were far from being unacceptable?

Why, to do you juſtice, you have been ex⯑tremely troubleſome—and I confeſs I have been more civil to you than you deſerved.

Did I not come to this place at your expreſs de⯑ſire? and for no purpoſe but the honour of meet⯑ing you?—and after waſting a month in diſap⯑pointment, have you condeſcended to explain, or in the ſlighteſt way apologize, for your con⯑duct?

O heav'ns! apologize for my conduct!—apo⯑logiſe to you!—O you barbarian!—But pray now, my good ſerious Colonel, have you any thing more to add?

Nothing, madam, but that after ſuch behavi⯑our I am leſs ſurpris'd at what I ſaw juſt now; it is not very wonderful that the woman who can trifle with the delicate addreſſes of an honourable lover, ſhould be found coquetting with the huſ⯑band of her friend.

Very true—no more wonderful than it was for this honourable lover to divert himſelf in the ab⯑ſence of this coquet, with endeavouring to ſe⯑duce his friend's wife! O Colonel, Colonel, don't talk of honor or your friend, for heav'ns ſake.

S'death! how came ſhe to ſuſpect this.—Really madam, I don't underſtand you.

Nay—nay—you ſaw I did not pretend to miſ⯑underſtand you.—But here comes the Lady—per⯑haps you would be glad to be left with her for an explanation.

O madam, this recrimination is a poor reſource, and to convince you how much you are miſtaken, I beg leave to decline the happineſs you propoſe me.—Madam, your ſervant.

He carries it off well however—upon my word—very well!—how tenderly they part!—So, couſin—I hope you have not been chiding your admirer for being with me—I aſſure you we have been talking of you.

Fie, Berinthia!—my admirer—will you never learn to talk in earneſt of any thing?

Why this ſhall be in earneſt, if you pleaſe; for my part I only tell you matter of fact.

I'm ſure there's ſo much jeſt and earneſt in what you ſay to me on this ſubject, I ſcarce know how to take it.—I have juſt parted with Mr. Love⯑leſs—perhaps it is my fancy, but I think there is an alteration in his manner, which alarms me.

And ſo you are jealous? is that all?

That all!—is jealouſy then nothing?

It ſhould be nothing, if I were in your caſe.

Why what would you do?

I'd cure myſelf.

How?

Care as little for my huſband as he did for me. [55] Look you, Amanda, you may build caſtles in the air, and fume, and fret, and grow thin, and lean, and pale, and ugly, if you pleaſe, but I tell you, no man worth having is true to his wife, or ever was, or ever will be ſo.

Do you then really think he's falſe to me? for I did not ſuſpect him.

Think ſo!—I am ſure of it.

You are ſure on't?

Poſitively—he fell in love at the play.

Right—the very ſame—but who could have told you this?

Um—O—Townly!—I ſuppoſe your huſ⯑band has made him his confidant.

O baſe Loveleſs!—and what did Townly ſay on't?

So, ſo—why ſhould ſhe aſk that?—

—ſay!—why he abuſed Loveleſs extremely, and ſaid all the tender things of you in the world.

Did he?—Oh! my heart!—I'm very ill—I muſt go to the chamber—dear Berinthia, don't leave me a moment.

No—don't fear.—So—there is certainly ſome affection on her ſide at leaſt, towards Townly. [56] If it prove ſo, and her agreeable huſband perſe⯑veres—Heav'n ſend me reſolution!—well—how this buſineſs will end I know not—but I ſeem to be in as fair a way to loſe my gallant Colonel, as a boy is to be a rogue, when he's put clerk to an at⯑torney.

SCENE, a Country Houſe.

So—here's our inheritance, Lory, if we can but get into poſſeſſion—but methinks the ſeat of our family looks like Noah's ark, as if the chief part on't were deſigned for the fowls of the air, and the beaſts of the field.

Pray, ſir, don't let your head run upon the or⯑ders of building here—get but the heireſs, let the devil take the houſe.

Get but the houſe! let the devil take the hei⯑reſs, I ſay—but come, we have no time to ſquan⯑der, knock at the door—

What the devil have they got no ears in this houſe?—knock harder.

I'gad, ſir, this will prove ſome inchanted caſ⯑tle—we ſhall have the giant come out by and by with his club, and beat our brains out.

Huſh—they come—

who is there?

Open the door and ſee—is that your country breeding?—

Ay, but two words to that bargain—Tummas, is the blunderbuſs prim'd?

Ouns! give 'em good words Lory—or we ſhall be ſhot here a fortune catching.

Egad ſir, I think you're in the right on't—ho!—Mr. what d'ye callum—will you pleaſe to let us in? or are we to be left to grow like willows by your moat ſide?

Weel naw, what's ya're buſineſs?

Nothing, ſir, but to wait upon Sir Tunbelly, with your leave.

To weat upon Sir Tunbelly?—why you'll find that's juſt as Sir Tunbelly pleaſes.

But will you do me the favour, ſir, to know whether Sir Tunbelly pleaſes or not?

Why look you d'ye ſee, with good words much may be done.—Ralph, go thy waes, and aſk Sir Tunbelly if he pleaſes to be waited upon—and doſt hear? call to nurſe that ſhe may lock up Miſs Hoyden before the geats open.

D'ye hear that Lory?

O

O Lord, O Lord, Lord, we are both dead men.

Take heed fool, thy fear will ruin us.

My fear, ſir, 'ſdeath, ſir, I fear nothing—

would I were well up to the chin in a horſe pond.

Who is it here has any buſineſs with me?

Sir, 'tis I, if your name be Sir Tunbelly Clum⯑ſey?

Sir, my name is Sir Tunbelly Clumſy, whether you have any buſineſs with me or not—ſo you ſee I am not aſham'd of my name, nor my face ei⯑ther.

Sir, you have no cauſe that I know of.

Sir, if you have no cauſe either, I deſire to know who you are; for 'till I know your name, I ſhan't aſk you to come into my houſe: and when I do know your name, 'tis ſix to four I don't aſk you then.

Sir, I hope you'll find this letter an authentic paſſport.

Cod's my life, from Mrs. Coupler.—I aſk your Lordſhip's pardon ten thouſand times—

—Here, run in a doors quickly; get a Scotch [59] coal fire in the great parlour—ſet all the Turkey work chairs in their places; get the braſs candle⯑ſticks out, and be ſure ſtick the ſocket full of lau⯑rel, run—

My Lord, I aſk your Lordſhip's pardon—

and do you hear, run away to nurſe, bid her let Miſs Hoyden looſe again.

I hope your honour will excuſe the diſorder of my family—we are not uſed to re⯑ceive men of your Lordſhip's great quality every day—pray where are your coaches and ſervants, my Lord?

Sir, that I might give you and your daughter a proof how impatient I am to be nearer akin to you, I left my equipage to follow me, and came away poſt with only one ſervant.

Your Lordſhip does me too much honour—It was expoſing your perſon to too much fatigue and danger, I proteſt it was—but my daughter ſhall endeavour to make you what amends ſhe can—and tho' I ſay it, that ſhould not ſay it, Hoyden has charms.

Sir, I am not a ſtranger to them, tho' I am to her: common fame has done her juſtice.

My Lord, I am common Fame's very grate⯑ful humble ſervant.—My Lord, my girl's young—Hoyden is young, my Lord; but this I muſt ſay for her, what ſhe wants in art, ſhe has by na⯑ture—what ſhe wants in experience, ſhe has in breeding—and what's wanting in her age, is made good in her conſtitution—ſo pray, my Lord, walk in; pray, my Lord, walk in.

Sir, I wait upon you.

Sure, nobody was ever uſed as I am. I know well enough what other girls do, for all they think to make a fool of me. It's well I have a huſ⯑band [...] coming, or I'cod I'd marry the baker, I would ſo.—Nobody can knock at the gate, but preſently I muſt be lock'd up—and here's the young greyhound can run looſe about the houſe all the day long, ſo ſhe can.—'Tis very well—

Miſs Hoyden, Miſs, Miſs, Miſs, Miſs Hoy⯑den!

Well, what do you make ſuch a noiſe for, ha?—what do you din a body's ears for?—can't one be at quiet for you?

What do I din your ears for?—here's one come will din your ears for you.

What care I who's come?—I care not a fig who comes, nor who goes, as long as I muſt be lock'd up like the ale cellar.

That, Miſs, is for fear you ſhould be drank be⯑fore you are ripe.

O don't you trouble your head about that, I'm as ripe as you, though not ſo mellow.

Very well—now I have a good mind to lock you up again, and not let you ſee my Lord to-night.

My Lord! why is my huſband come?

Yes, marry is he, and a goodly perſon too.

O my dear nurſe, forgive me this once, and I'll never miſuſe you again; no, if I do, you ſhall give me three thumps on the back, and a great pinch by the cheek.

Ah! the poor thing, ſee how it melts, its as full of good nature as an egg's full of meat.

But my dear Nurſe, don't lie now, is he come by your troth?

Yes, by my truly is he.

O Lord! I'll go and put on my laced tucker, tho' I'm lock'd up a month for't.

SCENE I.

WELL, Miſs, how do you like your huſband that is to be?

O Lord, Nurſe, I'm ſo overjoy'd, I can ſcarce contain myſelf.

O but you muſt have a care of being too fond, for men now-a-days, hate a woman that loves 'em.

Love him! Why do you think I love him, Nurſe? I'cod, I would not ca [...]e if he was hang'd, ſo I were but once married to him.—No, that which pleaſes me, is to think what work I'll make when I get to London; for when I am a wife and a Lady both, I'cod I'll flaunt it with the beſt of 'em. Aye, and I ſhall have money enough to do ſo too, Nurſe.

Ah! there's no knowing that Miſs, for though theſe Lords have a power of wealth, indeed, yet, as I have heard ſay, they give it all to their ſluts and their trulls, who joggle it about in their [63] coaches, with a murrain to 'em, whilſt poor Ma⯑dam ſits ſighing and wiſhing, and has not a ſpare half crown to buy her a Practice of Piety.

O, but for that, don't deceive yourſelf, Nurſe, for this I muſt ſay of my Lord, he's as free as an open houſe at Chriſtmas. For this very morning he told me, I ſhould have ſix hundred a year to buy pins. Now, Nurſe, if he gives me ſix hun⯑dred a year to buy pins, what do you think he'll give me to buy fine petticoats?

Ah, my deareſt, he deceives thee fouly, and he's no better than a rogue for his pains. Theſe Londoners have got a gibberage with 'em, would confound a gipſey. That which they call pin⯑money, is to buy their wives every thing in the verſal world, down to their very ſhoe-knots.—Nay, I have heard folks ſay, that ſome ladies, if they will have gallants, as they call 'em, are forced to find them out of their pin-money too. But, look, look, if his Honor be not coming to you.—Now, if I were ſure you would behave yourſelf handſomely, and not diſgrace me that have brought you up, I'd leave you alone toge⯑ther.

That's my beſt Nurſe, do as you'd be done by—truſt us together this once, and if I don't ſhew my breeding, may I never be married but die an old maid.

Well, this once I'll venture you.—But if you diſparage me—

Never fear.

Your ſervant, Madam, I'm glad to find you alone, for I have ſomething of importance to ſpeak to you about.

Sir, (my Lord, I meant) you may ſpeak to me about what you pleaſe, I ſhall give you a civil anſwer.

You give me ſo obliging a one, it encourages me to tell you in a few words, what I think both for your intereſt and mine. Your father, I ſup⯑poſe you know, has reſolved to make me happy in being your huſband, and I hope I may depend on your conſent to perform what he deſires.

Sir, I never diſobey my father in any thing but eating green gooſeberries.

So good a daughter muſt needs be an admirable wife.—I am therefore impatient till you are mine, and hope you will ſo far conſider the violence of my love, that you won't have the cruelty to defer my happineſs ſo long as your father deſigns it.

Pray, my Lord, how long is that?

Madam—a thouſand years—a whole week.

A week!—Why I ſhall be an old woman by that time.

And I an old man.

Why I thought it was to be to-morrow morn⯑ing, as ſoon as I was up. I'm ſure nurſe told me ſo.

And it ſhall be to-morrow morning, if you'll conſent?

If I'll conſent! Why I thought I was to obey you as my huſband?

That's when we are married. Till then I'm to obey you.

Why then if we are to take it by turns, it's the ſame thing. I'll obey you now, and when we are married you ſhall obey me.

With all my heart. But I doubt we muſt get Nurſe on our ſide, or we ſhall hardly prevail with the Chaplain.

No more we ſhan't indeed, for he loves her bet⯑ter than he loves his pulpit, and would always be a-preaching to her by his good will.

Why then, my dear, if you'll call her hither, we'll try to perſuade her preſently.

O Lord, I can tell you a way how to perſwade her to any thing.

How's that?

Why tell her ſhe's a handſome, comely wo⯑man, and give her half-a-crown.

Nay, if that will do, ſhe ſhall have half a ſcore of them.

O Gemini, for half that ſhe'd marry you her⯑ſelf.—I'll run and call her.

Soh, matters go ſwimmingly. This is a rare girl I'faith. I ſhall have a fine time on't with her at London. But no matter—ſhe brings me an eſtate will afford me a ſeparate maintenance.

So, Lory, what's the matter?

Here, Sir; an intercepted packet from the ene⯑my—your brother's poſtillion brought it—I knew the livery; pretended to be a ſervant of Sir Tun⯑belly's, and ſo got poſſeſſion of the letter.

Ouns!—He tells Sir Tunbelly here, that he will be with him this evening, with a large party [67] to ſupper,—'egad! I muſt marry the girl di⯑rectly.

O Zounds, Sir, directly to be ſure! Here ſhe comes.

And the old Jeſabel with her. She has a thorough procuring countenance, however.

How do you do, Mrs. Nurſe?—I deſired your young lady would give me leave to ſee you, that I might thank you for your extraordinary care and conduct in her education; pray accept of this ſmall acknowledgement for it at preſent, and de⯑pend upon my farther kindneſs when I ſhall be that happy thing her husband.

Gold by Maakins!—Your Honour's goodneſs is too great. Alas! all I can boaſt of is, I gave her pure good milk, and ſo your Honour would have ſaid, an you had ſeen how-the poor thing thrived—and how it would look up in my face—and crow and laugh it would!

Pray one word with you. Prithee, Nurſe, don't ſtand ripping up old ſtories, to make one aſhamed before one's love; do you think ſuch a fine, proper gentleman as he is, cares for a fid⯑dle-come tale of a child? If you have a mind to make him have a good opinion of a woman, don't tell him what one did then, tell him what one can do now.

I hope your Honour will [68] excuſe my miſ-manners, to whiſper before you, it was only to give ſome orders about the family.

O every thing, Madam, is to give way to bu⯑ſineſs; beſides, good houſewiſery is a very com⯑mendable quality in a young lady.

Pary, Sir, are young ladies good houſewives at London town? Do they darn their own lin⯑nen.

O no;—they ſtudy how to ſpend money, not to ſave.

I'cod, I don't know but that may be better ſport, ha, Nurſe!

Well, you ſhall have your choice when you come there.

Shall I?—then by my troth I'll get there as faſt as I can.

His Honour deſires you'll be ſo kind, as to let us be married to-morrow.

To-morrow, my dear Madam?

Aye faith, Nurſe, you may well be ſurpriſed at Miſs's wanting to put it off ſo long—to-morrow! no, no,—'tis now, this very hour, I would have the ceremony perform'd.

I'cod with all my heart.

O mercy, worſe and worſe.

Yes, ſweet Nurſe, now, and privately. For all things being ſigned and ſealed, why ſhould Sir Tunbelly make us ſtay a week for a wedding dinner?

But if you ſhould be married now, what will you do when Sir Tunbelly calls for you to be wedded?

Why then we will be married again.

What twice, my child!

I'cod, I don't care how often I'm married, not I.

Well—I'm ſuch a tender hearted fool, I find I can refuſe you nothing. So you ſhall e'en follow your own inventions.

Shall I?—

O Lord I could leap over the Moon.

Dear Nurſe, this goodneſs of your's ſhan't go unrewarded. But now you muſt employ your power with the Chaplain, that he may do his friendly office too, and then we ſhall be all happy. Do you think you can prevail with him?

Prevail with him!—Or he ſhall never prevail with me, I can tell him that.

I'm glad to hear it; however, to ſtrengthen [70] your intereſt with him, you may let him know, I have ſeveral fat livings in my gift, and that the firſt that ſalls ſhall be in your diſpoſal.

Nay then, I'll make him marry more folks than one, I'll promiſe him.

Faith do, Nurſe, make him marry you too, I'm ſure he'll do't for a fat living.

Well, Nurſe, while you go and ſettle matters with him, your lady and I will go and take a walk in the garden.

Come, Madam, dare you venture yourſelf alone with me?

O dear, yes, Sir, I don't think you'll do any thing to me I need be afraid on.

SCENE II.

If you pleaſe, Madam, only to ſay whether you'll have me buy them or not?

Yes—no—go—Teazer!—I care not what you do—prithee leave me.

What, in the name of Jove's the matter with you?

The matter, Berinthia? I'm almoſt mad; I'm plagued to death.

Who is it that plagues you?

Who do you think ſhould plague a wife, but her husband?

O ho! is it come to that?—we ſhall have you wiſh yourſelf a widow, by and bye.

Would I were any thing but what I am!—a baſe, ungrateful man, to uſe me thus!

What, has he given you freſh reaſon to ſuſpect his wandering?

Every hour gives me reaſon.

And yet, Amanda, you perhaps at this moment cauſe in another's breaſt the ſame tormenting doubts and jealouſies which you feel ſo ſenſibly yourſelf.

Heaven knows I would not!

Why, you can't tell but there may be ſome one as tenderly attached to Townly, whom you [72] boaſt of as your conqueſt, as you can be to your husband.

I'm ſure I never encouraged his pretenſions.

Pſhaw! Pſhaw!—No ſenſible man ever per⯑ſeveres to love, without encouragement. Why have you not treated him as you have Lord Fop⯑pington?

Becauſe he has not preſum'd ſo far. But let us drop the ſubject. Men, not women, are rid⯑dles. Mr. Loveleſs now follows ſome flirt for variety, whom I'm ſure he does not like ſo well as he does me.

That's more than you know, Madam.

Why, do you know the ugly thing?

I think I can gueſs at the perſon—but ſhe's no ſuch ugly thing neither.

Is ſhe very handſome?

Truly I think ſo.

Whate'er ſhe be, I'm ſure he does not like her well enough to beſtow any thing more than a little outward gallantry upon her.

Outward gallantry.—I can't bear this.—Come, come, don't you be too ſecure, Amanda; while you ſuffer Townly to imagine that you do not de⯑teſt him for his deſigns on you, you have no right [73] to complain that your husband is engaged elſe⯑where. But here comes the perſon we were ſpeak⯑ing of.

Ladies, as I come uninvited, I beg, if I intrude you will uſe the ſame freedom in turning me out again.

I believe, ſir, it is near the time Mr. Loveleſs ſaid he would be at home. He talked of accept⯑ing of Lord Foppington's invitation to ſup at Sir Tunbelly Clumſey's.

His Lordſhip has done me the honor to invite me alſo. If you'll let me eſcort you, I'll let you into a myſtery as me go, in which you muſt play a part when we arrive.

But we have two hours yet to ſpare—the car⯑riages are not ordered 'till eight—and it is not a five minutes drive. So, Couſin, let us keep the Colonel to play piquet with us, till Mr. Loveleſs comes home.

As you pleaſe, Madam, but you know I have a letter to write.

Madam, you know you may command me, tho' I'm a very wretched gameſter.

O, you play well enough to loſe your money, and that's all the ladies require—and [74] ſo without any more ceremony, let us go into the next room and call for cards and candles.

SCENE III. BERINTHIA's Dreſſing-Room.

So—thus far all's well—I have got into her dreſſing-room, and it being dusk, I think nobody has perceived me ſteal into the houſe. I heard Be⯑rinthia tell my wife ſhe had ſome particular letters to write this evening, before we went to Sir Tun⯑belly's, and here are the implements for corre⯑ſpondence—how ſhall I muſter up aſſurance to ſhew myſelf when ſhe comes?—I think ſhe has given me encouragement—and to do my impu⯑dence juſtice, I have made the moſt of it.—I hear a door open and ſome one coming; if it ſhould be my wife, what the Devil ſhould I ſay?—I be⯑lieve ſhe miſtruſts me, and by my life I don't de⯑ſerve her tenderneſs; however I am determined to reform, tho' not yet. Hah!—Berinthia—ſo I'll ſtep in here till I ſee what ſort of humour ſhe is in.

Was ever ſo provoking a ſituation!—To think [75] I ſhould ſit and hear him compliment Amanda to my face!—I have loſt all patience with them both. I would not for ſomething have Loveleſs know what temper of mind they have piqued me into, yet I can't bear to leave them together. No—I'll put my papers away, and return, to diſappoint them.

O Lord! a ghoſt! a ghoſt! a ghoſt!

Peace, my Angel—it's no ghoſt—but one worth a hundred ſpirits.

How, ſir, have you had the inſolence to pre⯑ſume to—run in again—here's ſomebody co⯑ming.

O Lord, Ma'am, what's the matter?

O Heav'ns I'm almoſt frightened out of my wits!—I thought verily I had ſeen a ghoſt, and 'twas nothing but a black hood pin'd againſt the wall.—You may go again, I am the fearfuleſt fool!

Is the coaſt clear?

The coaſt clear!—Upon my word I wonder at your aſſurance!

Why then you wonder before I have given you a proof of it. But where's my wife?

At cards.

With whom?

With Townly.

Then we are ſafe enough.

You are ſo!—Some huſbands would be of ano⯑ther mind were he at cards with their wives.

And they'd be in the right on't too—but I dare truſt mine.

Indeed!—And ſhe, I doubt not, has the ſame confidence in you. Yet do you think ſhe'd be content to come and find you here?

'Egad, as you ſay, that's true—then for fear ſhe ſhould come, hadn't we better go into the next room out of her way?

What—in the dark?

Aye—or with a light, which you pleaſe.

You are certainly very impudent.

Nay then—let me conduct you, my Angel.

Hold, hold, you are miſtaken in your Angel, I aſſure you.

I hope not, for by this hand I ſwear.

Come, come, let go my hand, or I ſhall hate you, I'll cry out as I live.

Impoſſible!—you cannot be ſo cruel.

Ha!—here's ſome one coming—be gone in⯑ſtantly.

Will you promiſe to return if I remain here?

Never truſt myſelf in a room with you again while I live.

But I have ſomething particular to communi⯑cate to you.

Well, well, before we go to Sir Tunbelly's I'll walk upon the lawn. If you are fond of a Moon-light evening, you will find me there.

E'faith, they're coming here now.—I take you at your word.

'Tis Amanda, as I live.—I hope ſhe has not [] hheard s voice. Tho' I mean ſhe ſhould have er ſhare of jealouſy in turn.

Berinthia, why did you leave me?

I thought I only ſpoil'd your party.

Since you have been gone, Townly has attempted to renew his importunities.—I muſt break with him—for I cannot venture to acquaint Mr. Loveleſs with his conduct.

O no—Mr. Loveleſs muſtnt know of it by any means.

O not for the world.—I wiſh, Berinthia, you would undertake to ſpeak to Townly on the ſubject.

Upon my word it would be a very pleaſant ſubject for me to talk to him on.—But come—let us go back,—and you may depend on't I'll not leave you together again, if I can help it.

Soh—ſo!—a pretty piece of buſineſs I have over-heard—Townly makes love to my wife—and I'm not to know it for the world—I muſt [79] enquire into this—and, by Heav'n, if I find that Amanda has in the ſmalleſt degree—Yet what have I been at here?—O s'death! that's no rule.

SCENE I. A Garden—Moon-Light.

NOW, does ſhe mean to make a fool of me, or not?—I ſhan't wait much longer, for my wife will ſoon be enquiring for me to ſet out on our ſupping party.—Suſpence is at all times the devil—but of all modes of ſuſpence, the watching for a loitering miſtreſs is the worſt—but let me accuſe her no longer—ſhe approaches with one ſmile to o'erpay the anxiety of a year.

O Berinthia, what a world of kindneſs are you in my debt!—had you ſtaid five minutes longer—

You would have been gone, I ſuppoſe.

Egad ſhe's right enough.

And I aſſure you 'twas ten to one that I came at all. In ſhort, I begin to think you are too dan⯑gerous a Being to trifle with; and as I ſhall pro⯑bably only make a fool of you at laſt, I believe we had better let matters reſt as they are.

You cannot mean it ſure?

No!—why do you think you are really ſo irre⯑ſiſtable, and maſter of ſo much addreſs, as to de⯑prive a woman of her ſenſes in a few days acquain⯑tance?

O, no, Madam; 'tis only by your preſerving your ſenſes that I can hope to be admitted into your favour—your taſte, judgment, and diſcern⯑ment, are what I build my hopes on.

Very modeſt upon my word—and it certainly follows, that the greateſt proof I can give of my poſſeſſing thoſe qualities, would be my admiring Mr. Loveleſs!

O that were ſo cold a proof—

What ſhall I do more?—eſteem you?

O, no—worſe and worſe.—Can you behold a man, whoſe every faculty your attractions have en⯑groſſed—whoſe whole ſoul, as by enchantment, you have ſeiz'd on—can you ſee him tremble at your feet, and talk of ſo poor a return as your eſteem!

What more would you have me give to a mar⯑ried man?

How doubly cruel to remind me of misfor⯑tunes!

A misfortune to be married to ſo charming a woman as Amanda!

I grant all her merit, but—'ſdeath, now ſee what you have done by talking of her—ſhe's here by all that's unlucky.

O Ged, we had both better get out of the way, for I ſhould feel as aukward to meet her as you.

Aye—but if I miſtake not, I ſee Townly com⯑ing this way alſo—I muſt ſee a little into this mat⯑ter.

O, if that's your intention—I am no woman if ſuffer myſelf to be outdone in curioſity.

Mr. Loveleſs come home and walking on the awn!—I will not ſuffer him to walk ſo late, tho' perhaps it is to ſhew his neglect of me—Mr. Loveleſs—ha!—Townly again!—how I am per⯑ſecuted!

Madam, you ſeem diſturbed!

Sir, I have reaſon.

Whatever be the cauſe, I would to Heaven it were in my power to bear the pain, or to remove the malady.

Your interference can only add to my diſtreſs.

Ah! Madam, if it be the ſting of unrequited love you ſuffer from, ſeek for your remedy in re⯑venge—weigh well the ſtrength and beauty of your charms, and rouſe up that ſpirit a woman ought to bear—diſdain the falſe embraces of a huſband—ſee at your feet a real lover—his zeal may give him title to your pity, altho' his merit cannot claim your love!

So, ſo, very fine, e'faith!

Why do you preſume to talk to me thus?—is this your friendſhip to Mr. Loveleſs?—I perceive you will compel me at laſt to acquaint him with your treachery.

He could not upbraid me if you were—he de⯑ſerves it from me—for he has not been more falſe to you, than faithleſs to me.

To you!

Yes, Madam; the lady for whom he now de⯑ſerts thoſe charms which he was never worthy of, was mine by right; and I imagined too, by incli⯑nation—Yes, Madam, Berinthia, who now—

Berinthia!—impoſſible!—

'Tis true, or may I never merit your attention.—She is the deceitful ſorcereſs who now holds your huſband's heart in bondage.

I will not believe it.

By the faith of a true lover, I ſpeak from con⯑viction.—This very day I ſaw them together, and overheard—

Peace, Sir, I will not even liſten to ſuch ſlan⯑der—this is a poor device to work on my reſent⯑ment, to liſten to your inſidious addreſſes. No, Sir; though Mr. Loveleſs may be capable of er⯑ror, I am convinced I cannot be deceived ſo groſs⯑ly in him, as to believe what you now report; and for Berinthia, you ſhould have fixed on ſome more probable perſon for my rival, than ſhe who is my relation, and my friend: for while I am myſelf free from guilt, I will never believe that love can beget injury, or confidence create ingra⯑titude.

If I do not prove this to you—

You never ſhall have an opportunity—from the artful manner in which you firſt ſhew'd your⯑ſelf to me, I might have been led, as far as virtue permitted, to have thought you leſs criminal than unhappy—but this laſt unmanly artifice merits at once my reſentment and contempt.

Sure there's divinity about her; and ſhe has diſpenſed ſome portion of honor's light to me: [85] yet can I bear to loſe Berinthia without revenge or compenſation?—Perhaps ſhe is not ſo culpable as I thought her. I was miſtaken when I began to think lightly of Amanda's virtue, and may be in my cenſure of my Berinthia.—Surely I love her ſtill; for I feel I ſhould be happy to find myſelf in the wrong.

Your ſervant, Mr. Loveleſs.

Your ſervant, Madam.

Pray, what do you think of this?

Truly, I don't know what to ſay.

Don't you think we ſteal forth two contempti⯑ble creatures?

Why tolerable—ſo I muſt confeſs.

And do you conceive it poſſible for you ever to give Amanda the leaſt uneaſineſs again?

No, I think we never ſhould, indeed.

We!—why, monſter, you don't pretend that I ever entertain'd a thought.

Why then, ſincerely, and honeſtly, Berinthia, there is ſomething in my wife's conduct which ſtrikes me ſo forcibly, that if it were not for ſhame, [86] and the fear of hurting you in her opinion, I ſwear I would follow her, confeſs my error, and truſt to her generoſity for forgiveneſs.

Nay, prithee don't let your reſpect for me pre⯑vent you; for as my object in trifling with you was nothing more than to pique Townly; and as I perceive he has been actuated by a ſimilar mo⯑tive, you may depend on't I ſhall make no myſte⯑ry of the matter to him.

By no means inform him—for tho' I may chuſe to paſs by his conduct without reſentment, how will he preſume to look me in the face again!

How will you preſume to look him in the face again?

He—who has dared to attempt the honour of my wife!

You—who have dared to attempt the honour of his miſtreſs!—Come, come, be ruled by me who affect more levity than I have, and don't think of anger in this cauſe. A Readineſs to reſent injuries, is a virtue only in thoſe who are ſlow to injure.

Then I will be ruled by you—and when you ſhall think proper to undeceive Townly, may your good qualities make as ſincere a convert of him, as Amanda's have of me. When truth's extended from us, then we own the robe of vir⯑tue is a ſecret habit.

SCENE, Sir TUNBELLY'S HOUSE.

This quick diſpatch of the chaplain's I take ſo kindly, it ſhall give him claim to my favour as long as I live, I aſſure you.

And to mine too, I promiſe you.

I moſt humbly thank your honors; and may your children ſwarm about you, like bees about a honey-comb.

I'cod with all my heart—the more the merrier, I ſay—ha Nurſe?

One word with you, for Heav'ns ſake.

What the Devil's the matter?

Sir, your fortune's ruin'd, if you are not mar⯑ried—yonder's your brother, arrived with two coaches and ſix horſes, twenty footmen, and a coat [88] worth fourſcore pounds—ſo judge what will be⯑come of your Lady's heart.

Is he in the houſe yet?

No—they are capitulating with him at the gate—Sir Tunbelly luckily takes him for an impoſtor, and I have told him that we had heard of this plot before.

That's right:

my dear, here's a trou⯑bleſome buſineſs my man tells me of, but don't be frighten'd, we ſhall be too hard for the rogue.—Here's an impudent fellow at the gate (not knowing I was come hither incognito) has taken my name upon him, in hopes to run away with you.

O the brazen-faced varlet, it's well we are mar⯑ried, or may be we might never have been ſo.

Egad like enough.—Prithee, Nurſe, run to Sir Tunbelly, and ſtop him from going to the gate before I ſpeak with him.

An't pleaſe your honour, my Lady and I had beſt lock ourſelves up till the danger be over.

Do ſo, if you pleaſe.

Not ſo faſt—I won't be lock'd up any more, now I'm married.

Yes, pray, my dear do, till we have ſeiz'd this raſcal.

Nay, if you'll pray me, I'll do any thing.

Hark you, ſirrah, things are better than you imagine. The wedding's over.

The Devil it is, Sir!

Not a word—all's ſafe—but Sir Tunbelly don't know it, nor muſt not, yet. So I am reſol⯑ved to brazen the buſineſs out, and have the plea⯑ſure of turning the impoſtor upon his Lordſhip, which I believe may eaſily be done.

Did you ever hear, Sir, of ſo impudent an un⯑dertaking?

Never, by the Maſs—but we'll tickle him, I'll warrant you.

They tell me, Sir, he has a great many people with him, diſguiſed like ſervants.

Ay, ay, rogues enow—but we have maſter'd them.—We only fired a few ſhot over their heads, and the regiment ſcower'd in an inſtant.—Here, Tommas, bring in your priſoner.

If you pleaſe, Sir Tunbelly, it will be beſt for [90] me not to confront the fellow yet, till you have heard how far his impudence will carry him.

'Egad, your Lordſhip is an ingenious perſon. Your Lordſhip then will pleaſe to ſtep aſide.

'Fore Heaven I applaud my maſter's modeſty.

Come—bring him along, bring him along.

What the pax do you mean, gentlemen, is it fair time that you are all drunk before ſupper?

Drunk, ſirrah!—here's an impudent rogue for you. Drunk, or ſober, bully, I'm a Juſtice of the Peace, and know how to deal with ſtrollers.

Strollers!

Aye, ſtrollers.—Come, give an account of yourſelf.—What's your name? Where do you live? Do you pay ſcot and lot? Come, are you a freeholder or a copyholder?

And why doſt thou aſk me ſo many impertinent queſtions?

Becauſe I'll make you anſwer 'em before I have done with you, you raſcal, you.

Before Gad, all the anſwers I can make to 'em, is, that you are a very extraordinary old fellow, ſtap my vitals!

Nay, if thou are for joking with Deputy Lieu⯑tenants, we know how to deal with you—Here, draw a warrant for him immediately.

A warrant!—What the Devil is't thou would'ſt be at, old gentleman?

I would be at you, ſiriah, (if my hands were not tied as a Magiſtrate) and with theſe two dou⯑ble fiſts beat your teeth down your throat you dog you.

And why would'ſt thou ſpoil my face at that rate?

For your deſign to rob me of my daughter, villain.

Rab thee of your daughter! Now do I begin to believe I am in bed and aſleep, and that all this is but a dream. Prithee, old father, wilt thou give me leave to aſk thee one queſtion?

I can't tell whether I will or not, till I know what it is.

Why then it is, whether thou didſt not write to my Lord Foppington to come down and marry thy daughter?

Yes, marry did I, and my Lord Foppington is come down, and ſhall marry my daughter be⯑fore ſhe's a day older.

Now give me thy hand, old dad, I thought we ſhould underſtand one another at laſt.

This fellow's mad—here, bind him hand and foot.

Nay, prithee Knight, leave fooling, thy jeſt be⯑gins to grow dull.

Bind him, I ſay—he's mad—bread and water, a dark room, and a whip, may bring him to his ſenſes again.

Prithee, Sir Tunbelly, why ſhould you take ſuch an averſion to the freedom of my addreſs, as to ſuffer the raſcals thus to ſkewer down my arms like a rabbit? 'Egad, if I don't waken quickly, by all that I can ſee, this is like to prove one of the moſt impertinent dreams that ever I dreamt in my life.

Is this he that would have run away with me? Fough! how he ſtinks of ſweets!—Pray, father, let him be dragged thro' the horſe-pond.

This muſt be my wife, by her natural incli⯑nation to her huſband.

Pray, father, what do you intend to do with him—hang him?

That, at leaſt, child.

Aye, and it's e'en too good for him too.

Madame la Governante, I preſume; hitherto this appears to me to be one of the moſt extraor⯑dinary families that ever man of quality match'd into.

What's become of my Lord, daughter?

He's juſt coming, Sir.

My Lord!—What does he mean by that, now?

Stap my vitals, Tam, now the dream's out.

Is this the fellow, Sir, that deſign'd to trick me of your daughter?

This is he, my Lord; how do you like him? is not he a pretty fellow to get a fortune?

I find by his dreſs, he thought your daughter might be taken with a beau.

O gemini! Is this a beau? Let me ſee him a⯑gain. [] Ha! I find a beau is no ſuch ugly thing, neither.

'Egad, ſhe'll be in love with him preſently.—I'll e'en have him ſent away to gaol.

Sir, tho' your undertaking ſhews you a perſon of no extraordinary modeſty, I ſup⯑poſe you ha'n't confidence enough to expect much favour from me.

Strike me dumb, Tam, thou art a very impu⯑dent fellow.

Look; if the varlot has not the frontery to call his Lordſhip, plain Thomas.

Come, is the warrant writ?

Yes, Sir.

Hold, one moment.—Pray gentlemen—my Lord Foppington, ſhall I beg one word with your Lordſhip?

O, ho, it's my Lord, with him now; ſee how afflictions will humble folks.

Pray, my Lord, don't let him whiſper too cloſe, leſt he bite your ear off.

I am not altogether ſo hungry as your Ladyſhip is pleaſed to imagine.

Look you, Tam, I am ſenſible I have not been ſo kind to you as I ought, but I hope you'll forgive what's paſt, and except of the five thouſand pounds I [95] offer. Thou may'ſt live in extreme ſplendor with it, ſtap my vitals!

It's a much eaſier matter to prevent a diſeaſe, than to cure it. A quarter of that ſum would have ſecured your miſtreſs, twice as much won't redeem her.

Well, what ſays he?

Only the raſcal offered me a bribe to let him go.

Aye, he ſhall go, with a halter to him—lead on, Conſtable.

Sir, here is Muſter Loveleſs, and Muſter Co⯑lonel Townly, and ſome ladies, to wait on you.

So, Sir, What will you do now?

Be quiet—they are in the plot.

Only a few friends, Sir Tunbelly, whom I wiſh'd to introduce to you.

Thou art the moſt impudent fellow, Tam, that ever Nature yet brought into the world. Sir Tunbelly, ſtrike me ſpeechleſs, but theſe are my friends and my gueſts, and they will ſoon inform thee, whether I am the true Lord Foppington or not.

So, gentlemen, this is friendly; I rejoice to ſee you.

My Lord, we are fortunate to be the witneſſes of your Lordſhip's happineſs.

But your Lordſhip will do us the honour to introduce us to Sir Tunbelly Clumſey?

And us to your Lady.

Ged take me, but they are all in a ſtory.

Gentlemen, you do me great honour; my Lord Foppington's friends will ever be welcome to me and mine.

My love, let me introduce you to theſe la⯑dies.

By goles, they look ſo fine and ſo ſtiff, I am almoſt aſham'd to come nigh 'em.

A moſt engaging lady, indeed!

Thank ye, Ma'am!

And I doubt not will ſoon diſtinguiſh herſelf in the Beau Monde.

Where is that?

You'll ſoon learn, my dear.

But, Lord Foppington—

Sir!

Sir! I was not addreſſing myſelf to you, Sir; pray who is this gentleman? He ſeems rather in a ſingular predicament.

Ha, ha, ha!—So, theſe are your friends and your gueſts, ha, my adventurer?

I am ſtruck dumb with their impudence, and cannot poſitively ſay whether I ſhall ever ſpeak a⯑gain or not.

Why, Sir, this modeſt gentleman wanted to paſs himſelf upon me for Lord Foppington, and carry off my daughter.

A likely plot to ſucceed, truly, ha, ha!

As Gad ſhall judge me, Loveleſs, I did not ex⯑pect this from thee; come, prithee confeſs the joke; tell Sir Tunbelly that I am the real Lord Foppington, who yeſterday made love to thy wife; was honour'd by her with a ſlap on the face, and afterward pink'd thro' the body by thee.

A likely ſtory, truly, that a Peer wou'd behave thus!

A curious fellow indeed! that wou'd ſcanda⯑lize the character he wants to aſſume; but what will you do with him, Sir Tunbelly?

Commit him certainly, unleſs the bride and bridegroom chuſe to pardon him.

Bride and bridegroom! For Gad's ſake, Sir Tunbelly, 'tis tarture to me to hear you call 'em ſo.

Why, you ugly thing, what would you have him call us? dog and cat!

By no means, Miſs; for that ſounds ten times more like man and wife, than t'other.

A precious rogue this, to come a wooing!

There are ſome more gentlefolks below, to wait upon Lord Foppington.

S'death, Tom, what will you do now?

Now, Sir Tunbelly, here are witneſſes, who I believe are not corrupted.

Peace, fellow!—Wou'd your Lordſhip chuſe to have your gueſts ſhewn here, or ſhall they wait till we come to 'em?

I believe, Sir Tunbelly, we had better not have theſe viſitors here yet; 'egad, all muſt out!

Confeſs, confeſs, we'll ſtand by you.

Nay, Sir Tunbelly, I inſiſt on your calling evidence on both ſides, and if I do not prove that fellow an impoſtor—

Brother, I will ſave you the trouble, by now confeſſing, that I am not what I have paſſed my⯑ſelf for;—Sir Tunbelly, I am a gentleman, and I flatter myſelf a man of character; but 'tis with great pride I aſſure, I am not Lord Foppington.

Oun's!—what's this!—an impoſtor!—a cheat!—fire and faggots, Sir!—if you are not Lord Foppington, who the Devil are you?

Sir, the beſt of my condition is, I am your ſon in-law, and the worſt of it is, I am brother to that noble Peer.

Impudent to the laſt!

My ſon-in-law! Not yet, I hope?

Pardon me, Sir, thanks to the goodneſs of your Chaplain, and the kind offices of this old gen⯑tle woman.

'Tis true, indeed, Sir; I gave your daughter away, and Mrs. Nurſe, here, was clerk.

Knock that raſcal down!—But ſpeak, Jezabel, how's this?

Alas, your honour, forgive me!—I have been overreach'd in this buſineſs as well as you; your Worſhip knows, if the wedding dinner had been ready, you would have given her away with your own hands.

But how durſt you do this without acquainting me!

Alas, if your Worſhip had ſeen how the poor thing begg'd and pray'd, and clung and twin'd about me like ivy round an old wall, you wou'd ſay I who had nurs'd it and rear'd it, muſt have had a heart of ſtone to refuſe it.

Ouns! I ſhall go mad! Unlooſe my Lord there, you ſcoundrels!

Why, when theſe gentlemen are at leiſure, I ſhou'd be glad to congratulate you on your ſon-in-law, with a little more freedom of addreſs.

'Egad, tho'—I don't ſee which is to be my husband, after all.

Come, come, Sir Tunbelly, a man of your un⯑derſtanding muſt perceive, that an affair of this kind is not to be mended by anger and re⯑proaches.

Take my word for it, Sir Tunbelly, you are [101] only tricked into a ſon-in-law you may be proud of; my friend, Tom Faſhion, is as honeſt a fellow as ever breath'd.

That he is, depend on't, and will hunt or drink with you moſt affectionately; be generous, old boy, and forgive them.

Never—the huſſey:—when I had ſet my heart on getting her a title!

Now, Sir Tunbelly, that I am untruſs'd, give me leave to thank thee for the very extraordinary reception I have met with in thy damn'd, execra⯑ble manſion, and at the ſame time to aſſure you, that of all the bumpkins and blockheads I have had the misfortune to meet with, thou art the moſt obſtinate and egregious, ſtrike me ugly!

What's this!—Ouns! I believe you are both rogues alike!

No, Sir Tunbelly, thou wilt find to thy un⯑ſpeakable mortification, that I am the real Lord Foppington, who was to have diſgraced myſelf by an alliance with a clod; and that thou haſt match'd thy girl to a beggarly younger brother of mine, whoſe title deeds might be contain'd in thy tobacco-box.

Puppy, puppy!—I might prevent their being beggars if I choſe it;—for I cou'd give 'em as good a rent-roll as your Lordſhip.

Well ſaid, Sir Tunbelly.

Aye, old fellow, but you will not do it; for that would be acting like a Chriſtian, and thou art a thorough barbarian, ſtap my vitals.

Udzookers! Now ſix ſuch words more, and I'll forgive them directly.

'Slife, Sir Tunbelly, you ſhou'd do it, and bleſs yourſelf; ladies what ſay you?

Good Sir Tunbelly, you muſt conſent.

Come, you have been young yourſelf, Sir Tun⯑belly.

Well, then, if I muſt, I muſt;—but turn that ſneering Lord out, however; and let me be re⯑venged on ſomebody; but firſt, look whether I am a barbarian, or not; there, children, I join your hands, and when I'm in a better humour, I'll give you my bleſſing.

Nobly done, Sir Tunbelly; and we ſhall ſee you dance at a grandſon's wedding, yet.

By goles tho', I don't underſtand this; what, an't I to be a lady after all? only plain Mrs.—What's my huſband's name, Nurſe?

'Squire Faſhion.

'Squire, is he?—Well, that's better than no⯑thing.

Now will I put on a Philoſophic air, and ſhew theſe people, that it is not poſſible to put a man of my quality out of countenance. Dear, Tam, ſince things are thus fallen out, prythee give me leave to wiſh thee joy; I do it de bon coeur, ſtrike me dumb! You have married into a family of great politeneſs and uncommon elegance of man⯑ners; and your bride appears to be a lady beauti⯑ful in perſon, modeſt in her deportment, refined in her ſentiments, and of nice morality, ſplit my windpipe!

By goles, huſband, break his bones, if he calls me names.

Your Lordſhip may keep up your ſpirits with your grimace, if you pleaſe, I ſhall ſupport mine by Sir Tunbelly's favour, with this lady, and three thouſand pounds a year.

Well, adieu, Tam; ladies, I kiſs your hands; Sir Tunbelly, I ſhall now quit thy den, but while I retain my arms, I ſhall remember thou art a ſa⯑vage, ſtap my vitals!

By the maſs, 'tis well he's gone, for I ſhou'd ha' been provok'd by and by, to ha' dun'un a miſ⯑chief;—Well, if this is a Lord, I think Hoyden has luck o' her ſide, in troth!

She has, indeed, Sir Tunbelly, but I hear the fiddles; his Lordſhip, I know, had provi⯑ded 'em.

O, a dance, and a bottle, Sir Tunbelly, by all means.

I had forgot the company below; well, what—we muſt be merry then, ha?—and dance and drink, ha?—Well, 'fore George, you ſhan't ſay I do things by halves; ſon-in-law there looks like a hearty rogue, ſo we'll have a night of it; and which of theſe gay ladies will be the old man's partner, ha?—Ecod, I don't know how I came to be in ſo good a humour.

Well, Sir Tunbelly, my friend and I both will endeavour to keep you ſo; you have done a gene⯑rous action, and are entitled to our attention; and if you ſhou'd be at a loſs to divert your new gueſts, we will aſſiſt you to relate to them the plot of your daughter's marriage, and his Lordſhip's deſerved mortification, a ſubject which, perhaps, may afford no bad evening's entertainment.

'Ecod, with all my heart; tho' I am a main bungler at a long ſtory.

Never fear, we will aſſiſt you, if the tale is judged worth being repeated; but of this you may be aſſured, that while the intention is evi⯑dently to pleaſe, Britiſh auditors will ever be in⯑dulgent to the errors of the performance.