SCENE I. An agreeable view of the country, with ſome cattle grazing at a diſtance.

Well, Colin to you I am betrothed, and to-morrow is fix'd for our wedding-day, let that thought make you chearful. Away, I prithee, love, your work calls you, remember that the fruit of your toils will ſoon be be⯑ſtowed on me.

Do you bid me leave you then already? It is not in my power, I am ſo happy; will you, my deareſt, grant me one boon before I go?

Name it.

Your hand that I may kiſs it.

There—take it.

Now I am alive again. I'll to my labour ſtraight; and, whilſt I tye up my flax, you ſhall delight me with a ſong.

SCENE II.

Go your ways, for a pair of fond pidgeons. Ah! Damon, it was juſt ſo for all the world when I went a courting to our Cicely, there was ſuch piping, ſing⯑ing, and dancing—ah, theſe were merry days—well, well—but they are all done and paſt.

True, neighbour, true, we have had our day, let the young ones begin now—the very thoughts or their approaching happineſs makes my old nerves ſpring, and I could almoſt caper for joy, hody o'me, I grow young again at the ſight of them.

What ſignify the great folk with their lace and their furbelow?—all is not gold that gliſtens.

Ay, ay, neighbour, many a ſound looking ſheep is rotten at heart—our pleaſures may be as good though not ſo coſtly as theirs.

'Twas but laſt ſummer, Damon, that our ſquire got himſelf a wife, a parleſs fine lady, and a rich one too; yet, a body would believe that they came together only to live aſunder—for madam lies in one bed, ſquire lies in another, and they are now like the two buckets of our town well—when one comes up, to'ther goes down, and if they happen to meet each other, you would think they had never ſeen one another before; adod, they live like—what do you call it there—the fine toy that your pedlers ſell about the country—a weather houſe, I think they call it, when the woman [8] ſteps cut, the man pops in. If this be the matrimony of your town folks, give me the country, I ſay.

I'll warrant it will not be ſo with our young couple, bleſſing light upon them; they think of nothing but the feaſt and the dance, and adod we'll dance at the wedding too.

Ah, ah—don't you remember, come Lammas 'twill be ſix and forty years agone, when I met Cicely at our feaſt.

Ay, it was that very day his worſhip was made juſtice of the peace and coram.

Yes, Damon, I remember, then Cicely and you came together for the firſt time. She was a rich wench, then, her cheeks were as freſh as a roſe, and as red as a camarine pear. There was your dancing, Damon, when ſhe and I were partners and—

Oh, neighbours, neighbours, all our ground is over-run with horſes, hounds and huntſmen—they drive through the corn. Plague on all ſportſmen, they are born to ruin us. Here, Roger, Tummas, quick, make haſte, the gate ſtands open, ſhut it faſt, for if we don't take care, they'll ravage all.

We muſt be patient, Colin, its the Duke's hunt.

A murrain take all hunts, I ſay—here are they hunting about every day and all day, and their fine ſports, forſooth, muſt be our ruin: our labour is all in vain.—They are coming this way, I think, get in lads and laſſes, theſe roaring fellows are keen ſportſmen when they have our wives and daughters in chaſe.

How I am terrified!—what if they ſhould rob me of my Phillis.—'ſhould, the very thought on't ſets me mad with rage.

SCENE III.

A country girl, good Sir; and is this the object of your adoration?

It is, and what is ſtill more extraordinary, her wit charms me as much as her beauty.

A miracle.

She is inded a wonder, and I have been told that an old lady whoſe circumſtances obliged her to dwell in retirement, has been the protectreſs of this ſweet creature, and formed and cultivated her mind by an excellent education, leaving her poſſeſſed of the moſt amiable ſimplicity, a native frankneſs of temper, and an agreeable vivacity.

Does not your highneſs fear ſome imputation?

What ſignifies the blood ſhe ſprings from? A handſome woman is naturally born above her condition.

But the princeſs Emily, Sir, her rank and fortune.

I confeſs them, yet my heart 'ſpite of myſelf, is on the point of proving faithleſs to her; I doat on this little rural innocent, and what is ſtill more extraordi⯑nary, with but little hopes of ſucceſs.

Is ſhe ſo coy then? What! can ſhe reſiſt one of the firſt dukes in all Saxony.

How romantic muſt I appear to you, when I own that I adore her; and, yet, which is perhaps the beſt proof, I have never dared to utter my paſſion.

But how can you hope to gain her heart with⯑out ſolicitation.

For that purpoſe I have at length retained a female ſolicitor, Mademoiſelle, whom I have ſent to exert all her artifice to win her to the court. I have no reliance but upon her ſkill; but here they come.—Let us retire, and watch their converſation.

SCENE IV.

Ah! ma chere, how you be ſo merry, ſo gay dans un etat ſi pauvre; you no live in de vorld.

The obſcurity of my condition is the means of my happineſs; what have I to diſturb my tranquility?

Tranquillite, Oh! miſerable; come, come, me know ſometing vou'd make dat little heart go pit a pat; you demand vat you pleaſe: you be ſatisfaite; der be de caroſſe, de coach, de diamond, de valets for Madame: you pay de viſite, you be carry in de chair up and down, de grand hoop touch your head, and let me ſee, der be von two, tre, Laquais vid a flambeaux, de crie, by your leave, clear the vay there?

Alack-a-day, who will give me all theſe fine things?

You know, don't you: be a gentilhommes he come ſometimes, pour la chaſe, to hunt.

Oh! that civil gentleman, who calls himſelf the duke's friend, he has promiſed to ſpeak a word for us at court; and, to be ſure, he'll do us real ſervices, for he profeſſes great regard.

Ah! Morbleu! your beauté command de l'amour de love, comme, you will briller at de court.

Ah! madam, I ſee you laugh at me, I am not de⯑ſigned for ſuch fine folks, I ſhould be aſhamed to ſhew my face at court.

Point du tout, der be no ſhame at the court, der be des plaiſir, de balls, de converſation, de letel badinage in de corner; you be dreſs in fine ſilk, de gold, de ſilver, de flounces, de mignonettes, then, ah! madame; your toilette.

Toilette, what's that?

De treaſure of de fine ladies, der they embelliſh their charms nature'lle.

This is paſt my comprehenſion. — I don't underſtand it.—Shall I grow handſomer at court?

Aye, to be ſure.

I ſhould like it vaſtly; I wiſh I was there, had I more charms, Colin, perhaps, might love me better.

Courage, try, Madame.

I have a good mind, and yet I am afraid;—but ſee yonder comes the gentleman who belongs to the Duke.

SCENE V.

Good Morrow, fair maiden; what, ſtill at your ruſtic employments; fie, fie, to bury ſuch charms in the country is treaſon againſt beauty.—

Indeed, ſir, your language is paſt my ſimple underſtanding, a fine outlandiſh gentlewoman was here but now, and ſhe talked of riddles to me; pray, ſir, can you explain them; ſhe told me that there was a receipt at court to make beauty everlaſting, and that ſomebody adores me; for my part I can't find out what ſhe means.

Oh! Phillis.

Bleſs me, ſir, you ſigh, is there any thing gives you pain; what's the matter with you?

I love you, Phillis.

Is that all?—and ſo you love me.

Moſt ſincerely.

I am glad on't.

Indeed!—

Ay, indeed, ſir, ſurely, ſir, you will not deny the requeſt of her you love.

No, Phillis, no, name it and be ſatisfied.

You know, ſir, they are continually hunting here from morning to night, if you have any intereſt, good ſir, ſpeak to the Duke that we may be no more troubled with him, for my part I can't find out what has poſſeſſed them to run over our fields in ſuch a man⯑ner; for the pleaſure of killing a little leverte, they'll deſtroy you forty acres of corn; only ſee.

Be ſatisfied—your requeſt is already granted.

I thank you, ſir, with all my heart, and above all, I beg you will never come here, for I don't like to ſee you.

What! how's that, Phillis? I hoped—

Hoped—pray what, ſir?

You don't love me then.

I! not I, indeed, I love Collin.

Vexation! Who's Collin, who?

A young man in our pariſh who courts me, and has promis'd me marriage.

Conſider, Phillis, do not throw away your affections, place them more properly, let me conjure you.

SCENE VI.

Softly, ſoftly, maſter, you may not touch our Phillis.

So, here is my worthy rival.

I pray, ſir, do not hurt him.

Be not alarmed pretty maiden, I come not here to cauſe unhappineſs, he reſts ſecure for me. If Colin is indeed ſo dear to you, be aſſured I am his friend.—Oh, that I could renounce this weakneſs.

Plague on the friendſhip of the fox, who comes in ſuch a civil leering way to ſteal away the chickens,—if you muſt needs pamper yourſelf with a delicate morſel, e'en look for it elſewhere.

I was in hopes my tenderneſs might have won upon you, the happy Colin, I perceive, intereſts you more: may he be the means of compleating your hap⯑pineſs, tho' I am rewarded with afflictions. But your will ſhall be my law. Adieu, remember, think upon my love, and be aſſured of every ſervice in my power.

SCENE VII.

Thank heaven, the coaſt is clear, and all is calm again.

Indeed, Colin, you treated the gentleman much too roughly.—He is a lord, and he has promiſed to carry me to court.

To court! and will you go?

To be ſure, why not, they ſay it is a charming place, we'll go together, love.

Hear me, Phillis, nothing that's handſome is ſafe at court; his deſign is to betray you, which you don't ſeem to ſuſpect. He talked to you about love, why did you liſten to him, Phillis?

What if he did talk about love, his love is hopeleſs; and your courtiers are too well bred to offend againſt good manners.

Yes, yes, they are ſuch ſort of folks to be ſure— you have found them ſo.

Why do you ſuſpect me, I only give ear to ſuch diſcourſe to laugh at it, to laugh with you, my dear Colin, remain ſecure in that aſſurance.

O, no doubt, that is charming and fine; but don't I ſee him at this very moment lurking about and ſtaring upon you, as if he'd look you through and through; and he is not yet gone about his buſineſs, go home to your own cottage, to-morrow you are to be my wife, go along without any more to do, I tell you it muſt be ſo

I can't.

You muſt.

I won't.

You ſhall.

Mighty well, Colin, I don't deſerve this, at your hands; let me alone.

SCENE VIII.

Inſolent villain, releaſe her this inſtant.

Let us alone, ſir, I beſeech you, 'tis our own affair, and you have nothing to do with us.

Stand off fellow, it is the Duke.

The Duke; you the Duke!

Yes, I endeavoured to conceal my rank, that your love might be diſintereſted, but to preſerve you I will now uſe my own authority—come hither.

The Duke—the Devil!

Come, Phillis, and adorn my court, there your beauty ſhall ſhine with all its advantages, and partake with the ſovereign the homage of all hearts.

Yes, ſir, I will go with you.

Then Frederick, to you I commit the charge of conducting my fair one to court.

Henceforth you ſhall learn to prize me better.

Was ever ſuch perfidy!

SCENE IX.

A plague take the whole ſex, ſay I, they are as light as chaff and fickle as the wind.

Well, madam, I congratulate you, you'll go with us to court; ſuch charms were never deſigned for a country village.

Oui Madame, you come vid us to court; 'tis pity, en verite, that beauty comme la votre be bury dans groſfierete de la campagne.

I ſcarce know what to reſolve—I feel my heart flutter with eagerneſs, joy and fear.

Fear—what fear—you ſhall be adored, loved and admired by all—oui, madame, the ſovereign of all de lord and de envy des toutes les dames.

I burſt with rage.

Baniſh from your heart every doubt, and pre⯑pare yourſelf for unbounded happineſs and good fortune.

I can hold no longer—I have a mind to break his head.

Allons, madame, courage, you go to pleaſure, fortune, and grandeur.

Stand off there, all of you: let the girl alone, or I'll let you feel the weight of this cudgel.

Hold, hold, are you mad? give me your ſtick.

I won't.

My ſword ſhall anſwer this inſolence.

Part them for heaven's ſake.

The time yet may come,

When I'll pay you home:

With vexation I / rage, I ſhall burſt.

SCENE I. A Toilet, Phillis dreſſing.

[18]You have made a ſtrange figure of me indeed at laſt, theſe things are wonderous aukward to me, pray let's have done.

A leetel more rogue for votre ladyſhip ſilvous plait.

Ladyſhip! don't laugh at me.

Von lettel bit more.

More daubing! have done. I"ll no more on't.

Your diamonds, madam.

O how they ſparkle—but there are ſome flow⯑ers—pho, they have no ſmell—every thing is unnatural here, beauty is but a painted ſign, all is impoſtor even to the very flowers.

Theſe flowers, ma'am, are made to pleaſe the ſight, not the ſmell, and in this inſtance they excell thoſe of nature.

Quelle amiable figure.

How immenſely elegant—horrid creature!

What did you ſay?

You'll be the object of general adoration, all the world will feel the force of your charms.

Charms! are theſe your charms? I hardly know myſelf; and yet after all, a peacock, a jay, or a but⯑terfly is dreſt ten times finer. Here are gold, and ſilver, and jewels, and ribbands of all the colours in the rain⯑bow—a great hoop that hides my real figure, waſhes that take away my natural complexion, ſhoes that will cripple me, and ſtays that make me crooked. I wiſh I was in my own cloaths again.

Pardonne moi, votre ladyſhip ſing mighty vell, pon my vord, but you want de bon ton.

Aye, there it is, your ladyſhip has no Italian ex⯑preſſion, which is the life and ſoul of all muſick, the very eſſence of harmony. Your ſingers of taſte will run up and down the ladder of ſounds from the cellar up to the garret, now rumbling along till they make your ears crack again, and then in the piano they ex⯑pire like a ſwan to their own melody. In our favourite compoſition we are not contented with making the ſound an echo to the ſenſe, but by a happy tumbling of both together, create the moſt agreeable confuſion of harmony in the univerſe.

It may be very fine, but I don't like it; this taſte, as you call it, ſeems to have declared war againſt nature, and turned all her works topſy-turvy; pray ſhall I meet with all theſe fopperies at court?

Court, madam, abounds with curioſities; there you will meet a thouſand objects to entertain you; there are your pretty little creatures with high heels to their ſhoes, and ſolitaires round their necks, that look ſo la⯑dy-like you would think they were women with ſwords by their ſides: then there are your preciſe puppets trot⯑ting along with formal bands under their chins, and plaſtered wigs upon their head, whiſpering ſtrange no⯑things in your ear, and exhibiting at one view the moſt whimſical combination of pride and ſervility.

Come, then, I long to be there, let us to court.

I'ave de honour to preſent milady vid her fan.

Dear me, what uſe can I make of this?

This is a wonderful inſtrument, its exerciſe is various and elegant.

I vill tell you, I vil ſhew you de uſe, madame.

SCENE II.

Yes, Frederick, I do obſerve, nay, pity her though from her delicacy ſhe has not hitherto up⯑braided me, I perceive the princeſs entertains ſtrong ſuſpicions, which you know are but too well grounded.

Yet thoſe, my lord, are eaſily removed.

And how?

Your highneſſe's orders have already done it, for what you promiſed Phillis will be a proof, by which Emily cannot ſuſpect that this amour has any thing real in it. When this ſame Colin, whom the young madam doats on, comes to court, his love will be a blind for your's.

True, I have ſent for him, but what then?— pray explain.

The aukward ſimplicity of country lovers, muſt make an agreeable contraſt with the elegance of court manners, an amuſement only fit for laughter, as ſuch only you deſigned it, for that purpoſe you brought them hither for entertainment and obſervation, the princeſs cannot ſuſpect your deſigns upon Phillis when her own Collin is permitted to be with her, and you will eaſily find means to compaſs your intentions when all ſuſpicions are quieted.

But ſee, the princeſs comes—I would avoid her.

SCENE III.

He ſhuns me, Clara, alas! 'tis now beyond all doubt.

Do not torment yourſelf, and create imaginary affliction.

With the generality of women, I confeſs, the heart is not ſo much affected as their vanity is hurt by the fickleneſs of their lovers. Self-love is too often the link which unites their ſouls, but the only intereſt which ſways my boſom is the pureſt and tendered af⯑fection.

Believe me, madam, the Duke is no ſtranger to your tenderneſs—he will return it.

You would comfort me, I ſee—perhaps I am alarm'd, from too ſlight a cauſe, however, watch their ſteps if you regard your miſtreſs.

But who is this the Duke brings with him—oh, 'tis the village nymph, he ſo much doats on. I muſt obſerve them.

SCENE IV.

Well, what think you of the court, does it delight you, Phillis?

It is the ſeat of wonders: every thing changes character here; the men are quite different; I met one who is the lord of the manor in our neighbourhood, a very proud gentleman amongſt us, he carries his head ſo high and ſo fierce, and threatens folks with his cane in the country if they do but look upon him; here he was bowing and ſcraping and cringing like a ſpaniel. Why are they ſo complaiſant here, theſe great folks who terrify and domineer over us in the country? Does the court make them ſo much better? No, I believe, if they do any good here, 'tis only to get a right to do ſomething bad elſewhere.

I hear you with pleaſure; did not the brilliancy and politeneſs of the court ſurprize you.

Oh! they were extravagantly polite, indeed, they paid their compliments with wonderful civility and ran over my perſon and features in a loud whiſper with the moſt minute obſervation—upon my word ſhe's a mighty pretty right thing, quite an angel for the country, what a poor little innocent it is, what an air ſhe has, what a walk, what a voice.—

Oh that is meer pleaſantry—they'll be more careful by and by, and ſhew you infinitely more reſpect, they will be eager [...]o invent new diverſions for you, the will read your wiſhes in your eyes, and I my dear will ſerve them as a model.

SCENE V.

So, madam, you have made a noble con⯑queſt. Suffer me I beſeech you to pay my homage where the Duke pays his.

Nay, but Emily, you miſunderſtand—

Your ſuperior charms—

Pray, madam, do not mock me.

Don't diſturb yourſelf, my lord, my preſence in⯑terrupts, I ſee. I will retire.

Stay, ſtay, we have no ſecret to talk of. The Duke and I—

I underſtand you, madam, it were wonderful, indeed, if charms like yours had not moſt terrible effects:

So, then, the Duke is her lover, yes, yes, I plainly perceive it. Upon my word, this place abounds with very odd cuſtoms

can you divide your heart to two at a time

the Duke loves me too, madam, he has ſworn it.

Meer pleaſantry, that's all.

Nay, but I aſſure you.

You need not be under any apprehenſions on my account, for my part I love Colin.

Yes, yes, Colin is her love, and Colin ſhall come. I told you ſo

don't give any credit.

I believe nothing.

'Twas but a whim that cauſed all this; for I imagined the ruſtic ſimplicity of theſe peaſants, might [24] make an agreeable contraſt with the refined manners of our courtiers.

A very ridiculous project, truly. Oh! we ſhall be charmingly amuſed, come, let us hear ſome of her prattle.—Well, my dear, and how do you like the court!

May I ſpeak, my lord?

Oh, what you pleaſe.

Then, if I muſt fairly confeſs the truth, I am heartily tired of this horrid place; where every object I perceive ſeems a contradiction to common ſenſe; their whole deſign is to reverſe nature; where people are for ever buſy in doing nothing; where they eat without appetite, and lie down without reſt, where their mirth is all grimace, and their pleaſure nothing but perpetual noiſe.

Her obſervation, madam, to me ſeems perfectly juſt; groves and retirements are your only places for innocence and ſimplicity.

And, pray, when is ſhe to return to her village again, is ſhe to go to-morrow?

No, ſir, to night, to night, I beſeech you, the ſooner the better.

Come, come, then, let us leave her to prepare for her journey, and indulge her meditation on her be⯑loved Colin; your ſervant my dear.

Adieu, Phillis, don't be uneaſy, your Colin will ſoon be here.

Your ſervant, my dear, a mighty pretty ſubject to laugh at, truly; e'en keep your Duke to yourſelf, I want none of him, I am ſure, I did not come here to look for him.

I have nothing to reproach myſelf with, only let them ſuffer me to go, and I ſhall [25] be happy. Is it my fault, what have I to do with it? If Colin was to treat me ſo, inſtead of making myſelf ſo pleaſant with other folks; I ſhould die for grief.

Votre ſervante, I have de meſſage from the Duke pour vous maame.

Meſſage to me! What does his highneſs com⯑mand?

You know Colin, he be arrive at de court, le prince bid you and I to try vid our charms to engager his heart to make an impreſſion.

I underſtand it, to detach him from Phillis, and breed a quarrel between them; well, for my part, I ſhall enter into the ſcheme very ſincerely; I know Colin, he is a ſmart lad, and I can never ſee any objection to a little amuſement with a handſome young fellow— but ſure, I ſee him yonder, coming this way—let us firſt ſtand aſide, and obſerve him.—

SCENE VI.

Here have they dragged me out of the country to make a fool and laughing ſtock of me; a parcel of ſer⯑vants, I think they called them, though I took them for lords, they were all ſo be-laced and be-ruffled, have put me into this dreſs farſooth, in ſpite of my teeth, and [26] what have I to do with theſe tawdry trappings; I want nothing in this world but mine own ſweet-heart, Phil⯑lis; they came truly to fetch me hither, and yet I can't find her; a plague upon 'em, every thing diſtracts me: I know not whether I ſtand on my head or my legs.

I'll e'en go and accoſt him—ſir, ſir.

Lud, lud, what can this fine lady want with me, how ſhe ſurveys me; I believe ſhe'll look me through and through.

Pray, ſir, what occaſion can have brought you to court?

Me, I only come to look for our Phillis.

Who, ſir, Phillis!

Yes, a tight laſs of our pariſh, who has promiſed to be my wife, but ſhe has left me in the lurch.

You amaze me! That is ſcarce poſſible.

Aye, forſooth, but it's true.

But after all, ſir, why ſhould that give you any manner of uneaſineſs: a perſon of your figure, I am ſure, has it always in his power to make a better choice: you were never made to be treated with diſdain. I tell you ſo, ſir, as a friend.

A friend to me madam: Lord I never ſaw you before in my life.

Upon my word, ſir, I wiſh you well.

E moi auſfi, ah Monſieur you be charmant, my heart vill not refuſe to love you.

You too madam! and without knowing me. Oh this is the fine French lady.

I have de ſeetle ſecret intention pour my ſelf.) Oh, menſieur les gens de your condition be very vell known.

You have a certain air in your countenance, an appearance in your dreſs.—

Oh madam, upon my word.—

Which ſufficiently explain themſelves to my eyes.

O, as to that, your ladyſhip.—

Ah der be gran de politeſſe, you be ſo polite, morbleu.

Politeneſs! I polite! indeed, madam, I don't pre⯑tend to know any thing of the matter. To be ſure I [27] was always counted a civil body, and I know how to keep my diſtance, and doff my hat, for I know that's good manners for certain, when one talks to a great lady.

But you be un gentil homme.

A gentleman, I a gentleman! O lud, O lud.

But you be too modeſte; dat be of no ſervice at court.

Yes, yes, forſooth I am a country gentleman.

And that, ſir, is all in all, that is a ſufficient re⯑commendation, and a peculiar protection.

Ods bud, but I believe theſe ladies ſure have taken a fancy to me, they had good reaſon indeed who told me, one need but ſhew ones face at court to make ones fortune.

Bleſs me, what a charming figure, what eaſe, what elegance; Oh, ſir, if you come hither to make your fortune, you cannot fail of ſucceſs; come, come, you ſhall be my ſervant.

Non, non, don't mind vat ſhe ſay, Monſieur, if you vill marry me, I have de l'argent, I vill give you de money, de lace coat, de coach.

Why, to be ſure, madam, to a poor fellow like me.—

O heavens! what ails me, I am ſo dizzy I can hardly ſtand, lord how my heart flutters.

O madam, madam, ſhall I aſſiſt you.

No ſir, I thank you, not at all; I begin to reco⯑ver, I feel myſelf grow better apace.

Indeed, madam, you frighten me, what would you have me do, pray ſpake, madam.

You muſt—O, ſir, ſpare my bluſhes, lord how I tremble—you muſt—love me a little—can you, will you.

This can be no trick. It grieves me to ſee her in ſuch a taking, I'll e'en pretend to fall in love with her.

Stay, ſir, come vid me, I vill make your fortune.

Adad, I muſt have ſomething about me, more than I dreamt of, to make ſuch quick impreſſions on ladies of ſuch high faſhion. I don't know what to reſolve—I have a great mind to.—

O heavens what do I ſee.

Will you agree to my propoſal.

Vill you give me your hand; do you doubt, am I ſo diſagreeable.

Am I ſo frightful?

Why, ladies, ſure you make a jeſt of a country lad here—Is it poſſible—can I believe my ſenſes.

Grant me patience!

I proteſt ſur mon honour.

I ſware.—

Why then—I never was hard hearted in my days.

Oh, villain, have I caught you—now look upon me, is it thus you reward your Phillis?

Phillis, what do I ſee, Phillis.

You falſe man, it is Phillis, I have found you now.

You pouting creature never mind.

If ſhe upbraids you I'll be kind.

Thoſe wanton curls, thoſe meaning eyes,

That graceful ſhape, that roguiſh air!

SCENE I. A Street.

AYE, aye, neighbour, your fine folk, for all their vapouring and bouncing, are no honeſter than they ſhould be. Who would have thought that our Phillis would have been ſent for to court!

Sent for, quoth a; no Damon, trapanned, drawn in by artifice.—Lord! what a parcel of nonſenſe of teeth, and lips, and ivory, and coals and diamonds did ſome of theſe puppets pour out before the wenches in our village, till the maids grew ſo fantaſtic that they did not know their heads from their tails.

Fair words cover foul dealings; give me plain ſpeech▪ and plain manners, I ſay.

By my troth, Gaffer, I never could abide theſe leg making gentry, who bow, and ſcrape, and palaver, with their hats ſtuck like gizzards, under their arms; and all the while they mean no more by their civility than to cukold the huſband, or debauch the daughter.

Thank heaven, Hobbinol, we have none of thoſe vices; we are not ſo polite, and in good truth, I envy none of thoſe ſort of folk.

But ſure they cannot mean miſchief to our young couple, ſince my boy Colin has been ſent for to court with all haſte, and to meet your Phillis, they ſaid. Body o'me, how their eyes will ſparkle when they meet each other! I'll warrant you now ſhe is as melancholy as a turtle that has loſt its mate.

But for my part, Hobbinol, I cannot abide the thoughts of her being at court; why the place is for all the world like a fair, full of nonſenſe, noiſe and ſhew.

Aye, neigbour, they keep fair here all the year round, and a plentiful market too, only the goods now and then are a little ſtale.

A plague take their town manners, I ſay, though I doff my hat never ſo low, and beſpeak them never ſo civilly, they do but laugh in my face; adod, I think we have been as proper folks as the beſt of them in our time. They mun keep their flaunts and fleers to themſelves. It is a wonderment to me, neighbour, how we found our way hither.

Or how we eſcaped whole from ſo many dan⯑gers. I thought I ſhould have had my body ſqueezed to death by one of thoſe fidgetting fellows, with poles in his hands, and a chair at his backſide, who thruſt me into the kennel almoſt under the wheel of a coach, and then ſurlily cried out—"by your leave"—Had I known that had been the way of aſking, civil queſtion, ecod! but I would have had my crutch ready to have given him an anſwer.

Well, well, theſe diſaſters are at an end now.

True, Gaffer, true, we mun not bide here, we muſt try what we can to recover our children; and for my part, I do think Colin will be perfect mad if he miſſes his dear Phillis.

SCENE II. An Antichamber in the Palace.

I am ſorry Colin's inconſtancy ſhould give you ſo much diſtreſs; accidents of that ſort, are ſo com⯑mon here, nobody regards them; a little farther ac⯑quaintance with court, will convince you the failing is too general to deſerve much blame.

Faithleſs, faithleſs Colin! and pray Madamoiſelle, does Colin know the duke deſigns to viſit me?

Oui, oui, he be informed long ſince, poor ſoul.

The news of it has affected him, no doubt.

Certainement madame, pour a little quarter of an hour or ſo.

I beheld him run up and down, ſtamping and tearing, and raving and rending like a madman, then he'd ſtop ſhort of a ſudden, and folding his arms like a lover deſpairing beſide a clear ſtream, heave a deſperate ſigh, with the moſt rueful length of face mortal ever beheld.

Vraiment it was pitoyable caſe.

But like the reſt of his ſex, ſorrow took no faſt hold of him, 'twas but an April ſhower, and all was fair again.

Indeed, were it not for his treachery, I could almoſt find in my heart to pity him—But I find myſelf ſtrangely fatigued; your pleaſures here pall the mind, without entertaining it, my ſpirits are quite overpowered.

I am glad of it, now, now you begin to have the bon ton—I was ſure your ladyſhip could not be ſo long amongſt the polite world without catching the manners of it. 'Tis nothing but nerves, and faſhion⯑able vapours. A thing of courſe.

Vapours and weak nerves, why can it be a faſhion to be ſick!

O lord! its downright ungenteel to be other⯑wiſe, your ruddy complexion, and active limbs, may do very well for a dairy maid in the country; but here they are perfectly unneceſſary, nay, abſolutely improper. Lord ma'm it is as unfaſhionable for a fine lady to be without a complaint, as to be out of debt.

The more I obſerve your manners here, the more they ſurpriſe me.—But there is a ſcheme come into my head: were it not poſſible Mademoiſelle that Colin might be conceal'd ſomewhere hereabouts, that he may overhear our intercourſe?

Sans doubte, madame, but pourquoi for what purpoſe?

The deareſt in the world, revenge,

Ah, dat be the moſt delicious morſel.

And the injuſtice he has done you by his ſuſ⯑picions, deſerves the worſt of mortifications from your hands.

Well, then, ſir, to you and Mademoiſelle I leave the management of this affair. The Duke will be de⯑lighted with it. Adieu, I ſhall attend his highneſs's pleaſure.

If Colin blames me now, 'tis not without reaſon, but I will ſtill ſurpriſe him more, he ſhall be ſatisfied as to the interview between the Duke and me, and if my contrivance ſucceeds, the princeſs too ſhall be ſerved— Alas! why came I hither? Is it the air I breathe which poiſons all my peace? At home my only thought was mirth; there all was tranquillity, pleaſure and happineſs▪

SCENE III.

So, Clara, I ſtill find her here, you ſee. The ſo much boaſted charms of the country, will I fear loſe all their reliſh after the ſplendour of a court.

Love, madam, is undoubtedly very intoxicating, and it is no wonder if the addreſſes of a duke turn the brain of an ignorant village laſs.

So, then, you will not leave us yet. The court has ſtronger attractions than you were aware of Phillis.

Alas! madam, did it depend upon my choice, I would be far off. The pleaſures of this place are loſt upon me, they are too artificial for us ſimple folks, who are the ſervants of nature.

Quit then, as faſt as you can, a place ſo contrary to your matters: I would not delay a moment. Alas! why cannot I ſhake off this troubleſome pomp and pa⯑geantry of courts?

Upon my word, ladies, you reaſon excellently well in your turn. I perceive the advice of every body flows from ſelf-intereſted motives. You would moſt ob⯑ligingly inform me that my preſence diſpleaſes you, ma⯑dam; I heartily believe it—But, now I think on it, I can't go yet, 'tis abſolutely impoſſible. I have a particu⯑lar engagemement with the Duke.

With the Duke!

Yes, with the Duke; oh, you will laugh ex⯑ceedingly.—

Laugh! I laugh! how?

The Duke you know is in love with you.

And what then?

Then! why he deſires an interview with me.

Which you have granted, I ſuppoſe.

Oh, doubtleſs. It is not for folks in ſuch an humble ſituation as mine to refuſe ſo great an honour, and, indeed, after ſo many inſtances of friendſhip and protection, it were a ſin to deny ſo ſmall a requeſt. But, I ſee, Madam, you are diſcompos'd.

Who I! not I, not in the leaſt.

I can't abide to be thought ungrateful.

So then, Phillis, after all this parade of honour, and virtue, and love, you can make an aſſignation.

Come, come, don't be ſuſpicious; where you dread a rival, you may find a friend. I pity your unea⯑ſineſs, madam, nor will I ever be the cauſe of adding to it. Come, then with me, and, if poſſible, endeavour to forget your jealous reſentment. I warrant you all will be well yet.

SCENE IV. An apartment with a couch and table.

I am ruined, undone. They have bewitch'd her they have given her ſomething to ſteal away her heart, and yet I can ſcarce believe it—It is impoſſible—What Phillis meet the Duke alone! alas! it is but too true,—here be⯑hold me in the very chamber—can I yet doubt? Ah! that couch, that tell-tale couch ſuggeſts enough to make me ſhudder;—what an object for a faithful ſweet heart, ſuch [35] as I am! What alarms! what violent emotions it raiſes! —My folly has aggravated her to an entire neglect of me—Well, heaven be thank'd, I am not quite friendleſs yet.—The good natur'd gentlewoman who was ſo civil to me before, has ſent me hither whether I may over-hear all;—let me ſee, I'll conceal myſelf under this table, and from thence obſerve what paſſes, and if I find my ſuſ⯑picions true, I know how to be reveng'd for the trick ſhe has play'd me. Yes, thou cruel hard-hearted Phillis, I'll ſuddenly break out and ſhame you—in midſt of your joys I'll tell you to your face that you are a falſe un⯑grateful huſſey, and then—I'll go hang myſelf, and then —you ſhall never ſee me more—

SCENE V.

Well, my lord, you find me your obedient ſer⯑vant down to the ground; what would your highneſs have with me?

Can that be a queſtion now—ah, Phillis, does not the tenor of my whole behaviour explain itſelf to you? Come, come, you know I love you.

I can ſcarce contain.

Alas! my lord, I was born to humbler hopes, and your highneſs can never be at a loſs for a more wor⯑thy ſubject.

More worthy—ſurely, Phillis, you take a pleaſure in creating my miſery.

No, I would rather wiſh to make you happy.

(Very well!)

Alas! I have wiſh'd, I have ſigh'd a long time for a heart without guile, a heart that was ſimple and ingenious, a happineſs not to be met with at court.

Oh, my lord, that happineſs you have always in your own power.

(Oh! he'll take the hint I'll warrant).

My power; do you approve my paſſion then? am I ſo bleſt.

Indeed I will not heſitate one moment to make you ſo.

(Oh! ſhe will not heſitate.)

Why then my charmer, ſhould we linger? My ſpirits are all in arms, and my heart flutters with expec⯑tation.

(So things are in a very tickliſh way I perceive.)

Pray, my lord—make allowances for a young country maid, I am ſo aſham'd, ſo confounded at ſeeing myſelf alone with you, I can never ſtand it;—you muſt permit me to ſnuff the candles out.

(Oh, very modeſt indeed.)

So, ſo, my country girl is not altogether unexperienced.—Well, my love,—whither are you going?

Only to be ſatisfied that the doors are faſten'd, I ſo dread the princeſs, ſhe is continually on the watch.

How my heart beats,—I ſhall never have courage to approach him.—

Come, my charmer, ſhare the tranſports of my paſſion.

(Hark.—What are they about?—I am terrified—all ſilence—nay then my rival triumphs.)

Pray my lord—

what a ſituation am I brought into?—

Oh!

(A ſigh, monſtrous! I can hold no longer.)

Wretch begone, from anger fly,

Your threats I ſcorn, your rage defy.

Hopes and fears my ſoul involve,

Which way turn? on what reſolve?

Well here's ſome plot,

Sure ſome miſtake.

I hardly breathe.

I ſcarce can ſpeak.

How will this end!

What can it mean?

Here's ſomething ſtrange,

Now, Sir, you are maſter of that trea⯑ſure you ſo long deſired; be happy in the poſſeſſion of it.—And now, Colin, what is become of your jea⯑louſy? Take care how you harbour again a fiend which deſtroys all peace.

I begin to revive again.

Aſſured as I am of your inconſtancy, I might per⯑haps break out into reproaches, but your conduct af⯑flicts me more than it offends, and makes me happy without being violent. I ſee, Sir, I have loſt your heart.

Stay, ſtay, my princeſs, our hearts were not deſign'd for ſuch ſeparation; Phillis, it is true, by thus enlightening my bewildered ſenſes, has [38] humbled me ſufficiently; and I ſhould bluſh indeed, if I did not endeavour to imitate her; her example ſhall ex⯑cite me, and if my revived affections are worthy of a return, Hymen ſhall unite us on this day.

Love ſurely may excuſe its own frailties—oh! Phillis, let me embrace thee, how much do I owe to your friendship!—how ſhall I reward you?

Leave that to Colin, madam, for from him alone I expect it. Come, Colin endeavour to mend your errors; here take my hand, now you know all my ven⯑geance.

Nor ſhall thou be deceived—let us away with haſte. We will be married ſtraight, this is true joy indeed; what need of ſo much myſtery to be happy; but how⯑ever, Sir, I pray you leave off your hunting on our grounds. Peace and quietneſs are better than all the ho⯑nours in the world.

May heaven protect you both, live long in peace and happineſs, and ſhare my bounties as you pleaſe.

Here are two old men come after Colin, and Phil⯑lis, they make ſuch a buſtle and clamour one would think they were ſtark ſtaring mad.

Oh! Bring them in. The happineſs will now be general, indeed.

what uneaſineſs has my fol⯑ly produced! But—

I tell you, I will have my daughter.

Give me my ſon, I ſay, body o' me, you ſmock fac'd chitterling. Oh, that I was but three ſcore for your ſake.

Don't talk to me, my own's my own, and I will come in.

Good heaven! my father.

So, ſo, we have found you now—Adod, but we have not. They do nothing but make fools of us, I think.

For my part, I believe, it is the land of lies; I did not want ſuch fine folks, our ſearch is after a couple of ſtray'd children, and they told us they were here

I pray you, ſir, can you tell me any tidings?

Ods my life, its my own boy Colin; I am tranſported, I am overjoyed,—and why did not you anſwer your father, you dog?—only ſee, Damon, how they have bedizen'd him, a—looks for all the world like the king in the puppet-ſhew.

And here, too, is your Phillis, ſir, it is no wonder you ſhould not diſcover me through this diſguiſe.

Have I recovered thee at laſt, my child! my neighbour, and I have had a weariſome purſuit after thee.

All is well that ends well, father; we ſhall now be as happy as the day is long, thanks to the duke there; in truth we are much obliged to him.

Oblig'd! quoth-a; yes, yes, I ſuppoſe you are oblig'd.

Be not ſo diſtruſtful, old friend; I have ſeen my error, and repent it. The temporary uneaſineſs you have found, in the loſs of your children, will be amply compenſated in the happineſs of to day. Here

my affections are ſettled. Phillis me⯑rits no ſuſpicions; and, if mutual love happily rewarded, can enſure a bleſſing upon earth, her union to day with Colin ſhall effect it. Come, come, we ſhall all be happy.

You may be perfectly ſatisfied, ſir, your fears are all groundleſs. It is from the conviction of her innocence, and by her interpoſition, that all parties are reconciled. Surely you ought to be ſatisfied on this point, when you ſee, I am.

Say you ſo? why then, come hither, children, heaven bleſs you—body o'me, but I cry for joy.

Let me join my bleſſing too. And now, adod, I'm as gay as a lark, and as light as a cork.

From this hour my bliſs commences. How ſweet it is to gain the affection of a heart which owes all its charms to innocence and ſimplicity! but to find one without guile in the midſt of courts, whoſe honeſty of na⯑ture is not corrupted, though it is cultivated by art, makes up my peculiar felicity.

For thee my love ſhall burn.

My love ſhall yield return.

My love ſhall yield return.

Oh, this is perfect joy.