SCENE I.

SCENE II.

She is ſomewhere here about, I'm ſure.

And yonder ſhe ſits.

'Slife, and ſo ſhe does, and a charm⯑ing laſs ſhe is—Egad I'll to her.

Hold man, perhaps 'tis a fairy.

If ſhe be, I don't care; I muſt change a word or two, be what ſhe will.

You may if you pleaſe, for I go no further.

She's fleſh and blood I ſee by her ſteps: he that would run away from ſuch a fairy ought never to ſee ſuch another—pray, pretty maid, are you married?—hey! not ſpeak?—hum, I dad, ſhe's ſulky methinks?—what may ſhe want now?—hum, an huſband I warrant; or perhaps ſhe has got one, and wants to be rid of 'm.

That is to ſay, ſhe is either married againſt her will, or 'tis againſt her will ſhe is not married.

Pray, young woman, be'ant you well.

No indeed, yet I ſhould be much better if you would do me one favour.

Aye, that we will, any thing you ſhall ſay.

But you will be ſure, both of you, to keep your words.

Never doubt it, ſweetheart, never doubt it.

Then you cannot do any thing that will pleaſe me more than to take yourſelves a⯑way.

Oh, oh, ſhe can ſpeak you find.

Wounds, ſhe's 'ſtound me.

Why are ye not gone?

Aye, aye, come along; troth if you don't I'll tell Sue.

I don't care for that neither; I muſt break my word for once.

Aye, prithee do, and you'll do well.

Edad then I'll follow, go where you will, my laſs.

You had better go follow the plough.

Nay, nay, now, thou doſt'nt think ſo, I am ſure: come let us be better acquainted.

Prithee, clod, begone; for thou'lt make thyſelf as hateful to me as thou art trou⯑bleſome.

SCENE III.

Who could have thought ſo pretty a creature could have been in ſuch a paſſion.

Aye, ſhe's a trimmer I warrant ye; there's many a fair face with a foul tongue they ſay; you had better ſtick to poor Sue, if ſhe knew you was here ſhe would be breaking her heart I ſuppoſe.

There's no harm, man, in having two [7] ſtrings to one's bow; for when one is too full of her airs I like to have another to fly to.

And yet you are mightily mift too when Sue happens to ſmile at any body but yourſelf.

Hark! the hounds.

I' dad ſo there are,

hoick! hoick! hoick! hoo, hoo, by George I'll be one in the chace.

So you may if you will, but I'll have a chace of my own; I'll after yon pretty fac'd puſs.

An you do, I'll tell Suſan, mark that my lad.

SCENE IV.

Now to ſair Emma, who knows not who I am, but believes me to be a baniſhed man: I have [8] play'd upon her in diſguiſe, and in a pea⯑ſant's garb, made more advancements in her good eſteem than the gayeſt knight, or fopling of the court, with all the glaring outſide of ſuc⯑ceſs, who woo but with their cloaths.

But yonder come ſome gentlemen of the hunt, proclaiming by their ſhouts the pleaſures of a well-ſpent day.

SCENE V.

Joy to ye, gentlemen, the ſport has been ſuc⯑ceſsful.

Thanks to you, Sir.

I think I never ſaw ſo fine a chace; there has been much danger too.

The more the danger greater ſtill the ſport. I ſaw a ruſtic ſcouring yonder cliff, and being eager in purſuit, unluckily he tript, and tumbled headlong down, but fortunately for him he was received by the friendly ſtream be⯑low, which broke his fall, that otherwiſe muſt have broke his neck.

Ha! ha! ha! poor fellow.

If he had happened to have been in love, ſuch a tumble might have cured him.—But come, my appetite is keen, I linger for refreſhment, let's towards home.

Your company will be a pleaſure to us, Sir, if you are diſpoſed this way.

Sir, my diſpoſition is to comply with every kind entreaty; the day is on the decline, and I am far from home; my horſe is at a cot⯑tage near at hand—this is my way, and ſhould have been right glad if chance had made it your's.

Then take good care you meet not with a witch.

A witch!

Aye, but a lovely one, with many charms, and witches deal in charms you know.

I do not underſtand you; enchant⯑ment and witchcraft! what may you mean?

Why, Sir, I'll tell you: as we came along the ſkirts of this wood, a lovely damſel, wrapt in thought, was walking to and fro beneath the ſhade; now and then ſhe'd preſs her hand againſt her breaſt; then, with eyes full of lovelineſs and tears, ſhe'd look around, ſigh as if her gentle heart would break, and of a ſudden, cry, Oh, wretched me!

Of what appearance, pray?

She wore the habit of a ſhepher⯑deſs. We entreated the cauſe of her diſtreſs; but ſhe rebuked us for our pains with ſuch a modeſt grace that we retired.

Poor girl! a love affair perhaps?

I fancy ſo.

I wiſh I had been the happy object: I'd have given my fortune for her love.

Then you might have had it, I dare ſay.

I imagine if we had perſevered, a little patience might have brought her to our purpoſe.

Not if ſhe be really in love; reaſon [11] will argue ineffectually, when love is rooted in the heart.

Then we'll think no more of her: ſo good day to you, Sir; I'll go and make love to a ſirloin and a bowl of punch, and I warrant I make 'em ſubmit.

SCENE VI.

I ſeek, alas, in vain: Oh, my Hen⯑ry, where art thou hid? perhaps he's happy with my rival now: ſure there's no pain like love: What ſhall I do? I've loſt my way, fa⯑tigu'd and faint in a doubtful ſearch: hold, if I my miſtake not, there's a village in my view; I'll even thence and ſeek refreſhment there.

SCENE VII.

You ſee I've overte'en you, ſweet⯑heart; I told you I would follow you.

Was ever maid ſo wretched! I had no ſooner promiſed myſelf a comfort, but I am interrupted by a fool.

What be'ant you well yet?

Good clown leave me.

Clown, forſooth clown!

I, I, I, am not a clown, ſweetheart.

Then you're as ſimple.

If you was a little better acquainted with me you would not ſay ſo.

I am ſure of it already. What would you have? Why do you follow me ſo?

Why I cannot help it, becauſe I love you.

And for that I muſt fall in love with thee too? being the moſt frightful of thy ſex: if that don't rid me of him, I ſhall begin to pity him, leſt he ſhould feel on my account what I for Henry feel.

Ah, I don't mind that tho'; you [13] don't think ſo, I'm ſure: you pretty laſſes like a deal of courting.

As I live 'tis my Emma in diſguiſe: 'Sdeath, but why is this ruſtic with her? Is it for him ſhe came or me? I'll know. She ſhall not ſee me yet, I will firſt turn myſelf to a wizzard; concealed in that I'll ſift the ſecret out.

Pray, good fellow, leave me; if thou doſt love me I'm ſorry for't from my ſoul, ſince my heart is another's, it is not in my power to [14] love; I would be thy friend in any thing elſe; but let me beg of thee never to mention love to me again.

O but I will; I know you can't help loving when you are a little better acquainted with me; for I have often heard my granny ſay that two chumps that had been a good many years together in our houſe, fell in love with one another, and it was a hard matter to part them.

That is to ſay, ſhould I be as great a log as thyſelf, I muſt of courſe fall in love with thee, if there were nobody elſe in the world.

Hey! how's that? You puzzle me there too; I don't know what to make of that ſaying; I never heard of it before in all my born days; Will you ſay it again? I'll gueſs at it better; (I dad ſhe talks better than Sue; ſhe'll be too much for me if I don't take care).

This looby teazes me to death; would to Heaven I could get rid of him; his obſtinacy makes me begin to fear him; I am perplexed when I think what I have done! I dare not go home, and if I ſtay here I ſhall be [15] ruined and ſuſpected: O my Henry, thy Em⯑ma's loſt, a wanderer forlorn.

I dad thou'rt a main good ſinger; if thou ſing'ſt much more in that ſtrain it will be⯑witch me; Sue cannot ſing half ſo well: ſhe can ſing nothing but,

I learnt her to ſing it tho' by the bye; can you ſing it? 'Tis a good merry ſong, if you knew it.

Pray thee go ſing by thyſelf; I am not diſpoſed for mirth juſt now: take thyſelf [16] away, good fellow, and ſome other time I may liſten to thee.

Why that's kind too; but where ſhall I ſee you another time?

Why here perhaps, or hereabout.

But what will you give me for remem⯑brance?

Any thing you ſhall aſk that is in my power.

Done with you, done with you; give me a kiſs—'tis a fair bargain.

What ſhall I do? I believe I muſt hold him my hand to get rid of him. Why if thou wilt promiſe to go away directly thou ſhalt kiſs my hand.

Torture! what do I ſee? Is it poſſi⯑ble?

Heavens! Who is this?

The devil I believe—he's ugly enough—don't be afraid—he ſhan't hurt thee.

Ye gentle pair fly not from me; be [17] happy, I'll retire again rather than diſturb you, for lovers like to be by themſelves.

Why that's true enough, old one; you are right there: I warrant you have been in love in your time.

I have, and feel the pangs of it to this day.

Poor ſoul, poor ſoul.

Fair one I have ſomething to impart to thee in private, and what concerns thee nearly.

No, no, don't hear him, he's a wiz⯑zard; come away, ſweetheart, come away.

Clodpole hold thy peace.

Don't call me clodpole, an you do, I'll give you a clout.

Fair maid will you anſwer me one queſtion?

Alas! I know not what to ſay.

Tell me then, do you not ſeek a ba⯑niſhed man?

Heavens be witneſs, I do indeed!

Would intelligence on that head be welcome to thee?

My heart, my eyes, my ears are open to receive it; ſpeak—ſpeak of him forever.

Plague on's ugly face I ſay; I don't like 'im, he's bewitched the pretty creature already.

As what I'm going to ſay requires ſe⯑crecy, I muſt beg this ſwain to retire a while 'till I have related my ſtory; but if your af⯑fections are ſo ſtrongly rooted that you cannot bear a moment's ſeparation, I will withdraw and let it die with me.

No, rather talk forever, if Henry be thy theme; if thy ſtory be retarded by this fel⯑low's preſence, would to Heaven I had a gi⯑ant's ſtrength that I might ſpurn him from my ſight; for like an hateful inſect has he teazed me, 'till I ſickened with impatience and diſguſt.

Hola! Sue! Sue! here, my laſs, here they are.

More interruptions! perplexing fates!

Hey dey! what Sue?

O the devil take this wizzard I ſay; this is ſome of his doing I ſuppoſe: Sue would never have come I'm ſure if he had not conjured her: ſhe never could have found me if the de⯑vil had not had a hand in it.

So maſter Allan we have found you, in the devil's company too I believe, at laſt.

What do you call him when he's ready?

A wizzard of the woods if you like: I believe in my heart he has bewitched this ſweet creature here.

And here comes one that you have bewitched I'm afraid.

Nay, but Sue, now Sue; don't go to frighten one: who the devil put all this in thy head? Don't be jealous girl, don't be jealous.

Don't you give me cauſe then, you falſe-hearted deceitful cruel creature? Jealous! how would you like to have been ſerv'd ſo? Did not you threaten to hang yourſelf laſt night if I ever let Ralph kiſs me again? And now you have been raking the duce knows where, after the devil knows who all day long.

Well ſaid Sue; give it him, ha, ha, ha, I dad this is the beſt ſport I have ſeen ſome time.

Nay, you ſhould not blame me for being a little waggiſh: Did not you ſay you lov'd a rake to your heart? Why I have done no harm.

I am ſure you can't have been doing any good when you have been in the woods all day with ſuch a wanton looking huſſey as that is; I wiſh ſhe was in the houſe of correction, a ſtraggling rambling minx.

Alas, I am undone!

There, there, ſhe ſays ſhe is undone.

But not by me! I have not done it.

Creature, ceaſe thy infamy, and take thy looby and thyſelf away.

There, do but hear her now; ſhe is cry⯑ing becauſe ſhe thinks ſhe has loſt you. O the hypocrite! 'twill break my heart; I'll never believe but there has been ſomething between you.

Well done Sue.

Why, you're miſtaken now; there has been nothing but—but—but—

But what? Oh mercy upon me! he is afraid to ſay what.

Nothing but words.

Oh if there has been nothing between [22] them but words, they muſt have been very cloſe together indeed, Sue.

I can hear no more of this; if you don't all inſtantly leave this place, I will rivet you in a tree, or turn you all to ſtone; I'll cramp your limbs with my magic power 'till ye ſhall beg to die.

O, the devil take all the wizzards I ſay.

What? ſay you ſo again, and I'll encircle you with toads and adders—away—begone.

Lud have mercy upon us. Pray don't, and I'll away directly. Well done Sue

Come, come Allan, you don't know who you have got in company with.

If I don't acquaint his worſhip I'll be hang'd, mind that Mr. Conjurer.

Now, maiden fair, to my ſtory.

I'm all attention.

Alas, to be further plunged into af⯑fliction; I fear you are in love: if ſo, I am ſorry for you indeed; and if Henry be the ob⯑ject of your affections, I'd have you ceaſe to love, and fix on ſome one more deſerving. He [23] is a reveller, an outlaw, and in my opinion will come to ſome unſeemly end.

Ah me, when ſhall I meet a comfort more!

Never in him I fear: Henry is be⯑trothed to many, but is falſe to all: he makes it his ſtudy to deceive your ſex, and boaſts of it when done.

Still muſt I love him. O my heart! alas, 'tis breaking, Henry! Oh my Henry!

O matchleſs girl! I have kill'd thee I'm afraid! Curſe on my cruelty! I have made too ſevere a trial of her taintleſs love.—Hold, ſhe revives; thanks to the fates, who are kinder to me than I deſerve.—What ſhall I do? If I diſcover myſelf to her now, the ſudden tranſi⯑tion of grief to joy may kill her quite. Sweet maid take comfort.

Where is comfort to be found if my Henry be falſe?

I am his friend, and will be your's. I never failed in my perſuaſions whenever I wanted to work him to my purpoſe; and in⯑deed I have given him a worſe name than he deſerves. Why he is ſo great a changeling he [24] believes all women to be more fickle than him⯑ſelf; this I've often heard him ſay; adding too, that if he could once find out a maid conſtant and ſincere in her affections to a proof, he would take her to his heart forever: I'll to him, and convince him of your ſincere regard and matchleſs love.

O take me with thee too.

That would marr all; leave it to me, I will hazard my life in the ſucceſs.

Lay hold of him, and I'll take care of her: I'll ſee whether your enchantment or my authority be ſtrongeſt.

Good Sir, what do you mean?

O, I'll tell you preſently: you'll turn people into ſtone, and wedge them up in trees will you? If you be a wizzard, as I'm afraid you are, I'll ſee what I can turn you into.

Wounds, how grim he looks!

SCENE I.

I'm bewitch'd with this wench to be ſure; for of all the red and white, the ſoft and ſmooth, I never ſaw her equal; ſhe ran in my [28] head ſo much all night, that I did nothing but dream of her: I muſt feel how her pulſe beat: I would not ſend her to priſon for fear ſomebody elſe might make too free with her, troth. Odds me, here ſhe comes! I intended to have had the pleaſure of waking her myſelf, but ſhe has pre⯑vented me.

SCENE II.

So, ſweetheart, you're up: what, did not you ſleep well?

I have not ſlept at all.

Not ſlept?

Scarce a wink.

Then I'm afraid you have been con⯑triving how to make your eſcape.

That I never can, for I am bound in chains forever.

Bound in chains? How how do you mean, laſs, bound in chains? Why you talk in your ſleep to be ſure: Where the deuce be your chains? I ſee nothing of 'em.

I feel them tho', but would not break 'em for the world.

Good lack-a-day, ſhe is certainly aſleep yet: E'dad I'll wake her tho'; hallo! hallo!

Bleſs me, Sir, what is the matter?

What's the matter child! You walk in your ſleep!

I rather think that you walk in your ſleep, who cannot ſee that I'm awake.

I'dad perhaps I do: hey—no, no, I'm not aſleep: come, huſſy, give me a buſs; and that will wake me, were I dead.

SCENE III.

Yes, I dare ſay it wou'd: you're aſleep are you! You're aſleep, and you muſt come here to be kiſs'd awake: O you vile [30] man! This is what you had her in the houſe for! This is your conſcience, is it! You would not ſend her to priſon forſooth, for fear ſhe might prove innocent; and now you have ſneak'd out of bed, like a falſe-hearted monſter as you are, in your ſleep on purpoſe to have this ſanctify'd hypocrite wake you with her kiſſes.

No, no, my dear, you have convinced me that we were both awake with a vengeance; I wiſh you were aſleep with all my heart.

Yes, I dare ſay you do.

Yes, and the devil take him that wakes you, ſhould you ſleep 'till Doomſday.

O you brute! you ſavage! you ſcandalous good-for-nothing creature you! but this is all your doing, madam Wag-tail, I'll ſoon ſend you a packing!—Huſſy, I've a good mind to tear your eyes out.

You had better tear your tongue out, you jealous pated fool you! What a clack you keep indeed!

Madam hear me.

I won't hear you: don't talk to me: I ſhall go mad I believe.

You're mad enough already I think.

And who may I thank for it but you? but I'll be reveng'd.

Why, look you wife; you are only making a fire for yourſelf all this time: you'll burn yourſelf up with your own fury: I did aſk the young woman to kiſs me indeed, but 'twas only in joke.

In joke! a pretty joke indeed! If I had not come in as I did, I dare ſay you'd have made a ſerious affair of it by this time! In joke forſooth! A very modeſt joke, I dare ſay!

Madam, you may form what opinion you will of your own, becauſe time and ap⯑pearances may have given you ſome authority for your ſuſpicions: nothing but ill manners and a guilty mind can warrant your judging ſo illiberally of a ſtranger.

Bleſſings on her, ſhe prattles like an angel.

Prithee, wench, don't prate ſo pertly to me: do you know who I am?

Yes, madam, I am very ſenſible to whom I'm talking; a ſplenetic—

A what! a lunatic! mind what you ſay girl; remember ſhe is my wife, and there⯑fore claims reſpect.

I've ſaid nothing but the truth, Sir, and I ſhall always pay a greater regard to that than her ungenerous reflections, or your autho⯑rity.

Hey! what do you ſay? Do you mean to affront me for my indulgence? I muſt ſeem to quarrel with her for the ſake of peace and quietneſs, or I ſhall have a dog's life on't elſe.

Aye, aye, I'm glad on't; I'm glad you begin to find her out. Innocent! yes [33] ſhe's very innocent, to be ſure, you may ſee that; but as impudent as you pleaſe: ſend her to priſon, I inſiſt on it—an impudent ſtragling huſſy!

I believe I muſt indeed: ſhe makes but a bad uſe of my civility: come, come, you ſhall go to priſon huſſy; I'll ſee if I can't make room for you there.

No, no, I'll ſave you that trou⯑ble; I'll take care to make room for her myſelf, I warrant you.

Alas! my reſolution totters—arm me with fortitude, ye gracious powers, nor leave me to deſpair.

Come, come, away with you; I've ſomething elſe to do than to hear your whining forſooth.

Aye, aye, to priſon with her. I have a key for that lock too; I'll have a peep at her there.

SCENE IV.

No, no, I won't ſpeak to thee; I won't look at thee; I won't think of thee, I won't, I won't, ſo I won't.

Nay, plague on't Sue, don't be hard hearted: you know I love you, you know I do.

I don't know it, nor I won't know it, you ſhan't love me.

Well ſaid Sue, don't give out, re⯑member the girl in the grove.

Hold thy tongue Robin, and don't be a fool.

A fool! not I indeed, I'm not in love, I'm wiſe enough for that.

Don't keep teazing me ſo; don't think I can forget it, don't.

Ay, but you can forgive it Sue: you had always a pure tender heart of your own.

No, the duce take me if I do.

No, don't Sue, make him repent it all the days of his life.

If thee don't hold thy tongue I'll make thee repent it.

Ha, ha, ha, wilt?

Yes I will.

No, no, thee can't do that, except thee cou'd make me in love with every wench that I meet, like thyſelf, to yelp after this, and to whine after t'other, and—odds nig⯑gars don't mind him Sue, don't mind him, he's in love with a thouſand.

O what a fool have I been!

A fool indeed.

It's as falſe as old nick.

Pſhaw, pſhaw, no more of this non⯑ſenſe: Sue what do you think of me, hey? Come give me a buſs and tell me.

Prithee, Robin, don't play the fool with me.

I play the fool! not I indeed! pri⯑thee don't lay your bargains on me; it is you that have play'd the fool I'm afraid, I'm ſure I'd no hand in't; if you have made a ſlip I can't help it.

You was always a fool.

A fool! ha, ha, ha, give me thy hand o'that—how is't brother?—if I be a fool, I'm ſure I muſt be ſome relation of your's.

Hey! to paſs, what is the matter now?

To ſay I had made a ſlip!

Why, you would not be ſuch a fool, would you?

Yes but I wou'd.

No, no, let her come to herſelf; if ſhe won't bear a joke now and then, I wou'd not give a ruſh for her.

'Swounds, but I ſhall have ne'er a ſweetheart at this rate.

Pſhaw, pſhaw, what a ſimpleton you are indeed! you want ſadly to hurry your neck into the nooſe methinks: come, come, you and I will have a little ſport firſt.

SCENE V.

'Tis high time now to make enquiry after my love; I've had a reſtleſs night on't; this is a trial I never dreamt of; if ſhe bears this with fortitude, ſhe will be indeed the won⯑der of her ſex, and worthy the richeſt diadem on earth: that I love her, my heart and ſoul can witneſs: if after this ſhe talks of love and Hen⯑ry, I ſhall be convinced that women can be conſtant, and every doubt muſt fade; but who comes here? a ſtranger; and a priſoner I ſup⯑poſe; perhaps he can inform me where my Em⯑ma is diſpoſed.

SCENE VI.

Your pardon, Sir, I've interceded with the jailor for admittance, and ſhou'd be glad of your conſent to exchange a word or two: report has made me curious, but if it has made me too impertinent, I will retire, and not of⯑fend you.

Sir, you do me honour; I am glad to ſee you: 'ſdeath, who can this be? his face is moſt familiar to me

Sir, you are welcome.

I thank you Sir.

Ah, me!

You ſeem diſturbed Sir.

A thought came acroſs the ſunſhine of my hopes; but now—but now 'tis fair again.

There is ſomething more than com⯑mon about this man, and a ſenſible affability that pleaſes me much.

You ſeem to muſe Sir; I hope you've no deſign?

As your ſuſpicions are but natural, they do not much ſurpriſe me; but on my faith I've no deſign: I am a priſoner as yourſelf, and ſhould have been glad, had it been your incli⯑nation too, to have paſs'd an heavy hour now and then together, and been friends, that is all.

You ſpeak, Sir, like a gentleman, and are moſt welcome I aſſure you; and as you have offered me your friendſhip, you ſhall find me grateful and ſincere: I'm grieved to find a man with ſuch a heart, in ſuch a ſituation; but come, let us be chearful.

I have not had ſo agreeable an in⯑terview theſe twelvemonths.

Theſe twelvemonths! I hope you've not been here ſo long.

Much longer Sir.

I'm ſorry for it; your crime ſurely muſt be great indeed, to incur ſo long a puniſh⯑ment.

I think I may venture to ſay it is more an accident than a crime.

Priſons were not made for the unfor⯑tunate, but the wicked and abandon'd: may I preſume to enquire the cauſe? perhaps I may have it in my power to be your friend.

Alas, I am afraid not in ſuch a caſe: my father's death was all the cauſe.

Impriſon'd for your father's death! Shall I intreat your name? perhaps I am too bold.

My name, Sir, is Edwin: I was born at Philodale.

At Philodale! as I live my old ſchool⯑fellow, and my ſiſter's lover; how fortunate!

but I cannot underſtand, Sir, how your father's death could be the cauſe of your im⯑priſonment.

When he died he left a perſon in this neighbourhood his executor (Sightleſs) who [43] you muſt have ſeen; but, tho' he bears the name of Juſtice, he is, I am afraid, as great a ſtranger to her rules, as he is to pity. He ever pretended that my father died involved; and, as I could not contradict it, was forc'd to think ſo too: this was a ſad ſhock, tho' the leaſt of my affliction; for I was betroth'd to the lovlieſt maid, whoſe fortune was almoſt equal to her beauty; but, alas, becoming deſtitute and poor, cou'd never think of ſeeing her again, and wrote her word I meant to paſs the ſeas, never to return.

O moſt diſtreſſing tale! but pray go on.

Before my father died, having an occaſion for a certain ſum, previous to his know⯑ledge, which I had ſcarcely hinted to his wor⯑ſhip, but he begged he might oblige me; I thought it kindneſs, and gladly embraced the opportunity; I gave my note with promiſe of a double intereſt; but ere the beſt of fathers had cloſed his eyes, and my time for the payment of the debt unfortunately expir'd, he hurry'd me to priſon, where I have been a ſad and me⯑lancholy being ever ſince: I wou'd have wrote to certain friends, but he has cruelly deprived me [44] of that advantage by giving the jailor the ſtricteſt charge never to place a pen and ink within my reach, or let one letter paſs the door, which action has often made me think he's play'd me foul.

No doubt Sir: O the villain! come my worthy friend, do not diſpair: I have a charm about me that ſhall extricate us both: if you dare venture to aſſiſt, I'll prove your friend: I have a ſtratagem on foot, by which you'll find I ll make a fair example of his worſhip, and you ſhall be reveng'd; and if they refuſe us li⯑berty, here is a key that will unlock the ſtrongeſt bolt.

Then you may command me, and depend on my integrity; I ſhall not dread the conſequence or danger, ſince if we fail they cannot make us greater priſoners than we are; if they take my life 'twill be a charity.

If I don't preſerve both life and li⯑berty, I'll reſign my own; I want to be your friend.

And I want liberty; propoſe your plan, I long to be in action.

Then to the point: you have heard no doubt on what ſuſpicion I was committed; the ſuperſtition of the ruſticks, has poſſeſt 'em meerly from my appearance, that I deal in witchcraft.

'Twas that report that firſt excited me to viſit you.

When I found they firſt ſuſpected it, I endeavoured to make 'em believe that I really did, by threat'ning them in the moſt romantic phraſes.—But I may depend on your integrity you ſay.

You may, Sir, on the forfeit of my life.

Then, that you may not be deceived, I am not what I ſeem.

Indeed I did ſuſpect it.

No more on that head at preſent; but why I bear this character you ſhall know hereafter; be ſatisfied, you ſhall not remain a priſoner here another day; were I to declare myſelf they wou'd gladly give me liberty; yet as I have a reaſon for this ſtrange project, I will go thro' it.

You tranſport me with pleaſure and aſtoniſhment.

What moſt concerns me is, there was a fair one in my company, whom they have im⯑priſon'd too, without the ſmalleſt circumſtance of guilt, only that ſhe was with me.

There was the moſt lovely maid I ever ſaw brought this morning to the priſon.

This morning!

Scarce an hour ſince.

That's ſtrange! has ſhe not been here all night?

I can aſſure you, no: Sightleſs and his wife brought her this morning; and when his worſhip left the priſon, he gave the ſtricteſt orders to the jailor, that none ſhou'd ſee her but himſelf, which made me pity her indeed.

You amaze me! 'Sdeath, but this [47] diſturbs me: could not one ſpeak with the jai⯑lor?

Moſt certainly: I'll call him hither if you pleaſe.

Sir, you'll much oblige me if you wou'd.

Don't you think he might be prevail⯑ed upon to let us ſee her?

I doubt it much: ſuch men as him are generally ſtrangers to humanity, and ſeldom will be moved to a good action by any thing but a bribe.

That he ſhall have with all my heart.

Here he comes.

SCENE VII.

'Swounds, maſter Edwin, you call with as much authority as his worſhip: What the plague is the matter with you? I thought [48] you had been hanging yourſelf, and was calling me to cut you down.

That is very probable to be ſure.

Why I wou'd have done it for you to be ſure for my own ſake.

How for your own ſake? what in⯑tereſt cou'd you have in that?

What! why your carcaſe and your cloaths: the one I ſhou'd have got a trifle for from the ſurgeons, and the others I wou'd have ſold to the rag-ſhop.

What a ſavage! Faith, my friend, you ſeem to have a good notion.

Aye, han't I maſter?

Nobody a better—Methinks you and I ſhall agree very well.

I don't know that tho'.

I dare ſay we ſhall: could you let me change a word or two with the young woman you had brought into priſon this morning?

No.—You ſpeak with her hey? What ſhould ſuch an old codger as you want with a young woman? no, no, it won't do; it won't do.

Will this do?

Hey? why as you ſay—I don't know [49] but it may; they are pretty looking fellows enough ſeemingly.

Are they not? I thought you and I ſhou'd agree; I'm an excellent phyſician you ſee; I know the ſtrength of your conſtitution better than yourſelf you find.

Why aye, you carry a pleaſant kind of phyſic about you; few make a wry face at it, I fancy.

Don't I? Well, what do you ſay; ſhall we agree?

I don't know what to ſay to it; i'faith I'm almoſt afraid.

Pſhaw man, what ſhou'd you fear?

Faith, dad, I like your notion; you ſeem to be a good hearty cock; give me your hand: you'll not blow me I hope? you under⯑ſtand me.

No, upon my honour.

Why then 'tis agreed.

Then take your reward, and ſhew us the way: come my worthy friend, you muſt bear me company.

You don't take him with you I hope.

Yes, by all means.

Nay with all my heart; tho' by the bye, take care his worſhip don't pop in upon you; I expect him here anon, he ſeems to have caſt a longing eye upon her himſelf.

That will be lucky again, I ſhall be there to protect her:

O never fear us, we'll take care of ourſelves.

Jailor! jailor!

Coming, coming: here take the key; ſhe is in the beſt room: you know the way maſ⯑ter Edwin; and ſo good luck to you.

We thank you.

Blame me but this is a good doſe; [51] 'Egad I ſhould like to take ſuch phyſic every day.

SCENE VII.

Surely the fates do mean to counteract all my hopes: how perplexing! I was enrap⯑tured with the higheſt expectation of ſeeing my Henry ere this, and now he is loſt forever: wou'd I cou'd ſee the honeſt ſtranger once again; perhaps he might inform me where to ſend to him; for did he but know the pe⯑rilous ſituation I am in, he would ſurely think of ſome way to releaſe me. Alas! ſhould the tidings reach my father's ears, I am undone.

SCENE VIII.

You underſtand me?

Perfectly—behold the fair one.

O my delight! but thou ſhalt grieve no more: I am convinced.

Bleſs me! the ſtranger's here: ſurely he o'erheard my prayers.

Pardon me, thou lovely fair one, for intruding on you thus, for I am more concerned for your misfortune than my own: I could not reſt 'till I had ſeen you once again.

Nay you are welcome, for you talk'd of Henry.

As we broke off ſo abruptly in our converſation relating to that youth, I have taken this opportunity, with your permiſſion, to renew it.

O you are kind indeed!—Is this a friend of Henry's too?

He is.

Then he is moſt welcome.

And is it poſſible amidſt your preſent perils and calamity, you can think ſo much of Henry.

I think of nothing elſe.

Then ſhall he know how much thy truth outrates his higheſt expectations; for tho' I ſpoke unkindly of his worth, I but diſſembled, he loves with equal warmth, and ſeldom ſpeaks but you he makes his theme: he will be tranſ⯑ported with your virtue, and ſhall know it.

Know it! alas, which way?

I have a ſtratagem on foot for your eſcape, if you will aſſiſt me in it, I will inſtant⯑ly convey you to your baniſhed man.

I'll riſk my life on ſuch a promiſe.

His worſhip will be here to viſit you anon: leave this gentleman and me to manage him, and doubt not of ſucceſs.

May heaven proſper your endeavours.

And hark, he comes! we'll retire from his ſight a while 'till we ſeize our oppor⯑tunity.

Alas! I tremble at the taſk.

SCENE IX.

Well, my little rogue, how do you find yourſelf by this time?

Not very well you may ſuppoſe, Sir, in my preſent ſituation.

I fear not; I fear not indeed: but you ſhou'd not have been here if I cou'd have help'd it: my wife, you ſee is a terrible woman; ſhe will be obey'd.

And your compliance, Sir, was a proof of your humility and juſtice.

Well ſaid, ſweetee, well ſaid; and ſo it was: I wiſh ſhe was dead tho' by the bye; I'd make thee the happier for it: nay, I'll make thee happy now, if thou'lt love me.

That I never can.

Ah, but you muſt, and you ſhall; 'ſdeath, if you don't I'll make you.

Inded, Sir, I never can.

But you muſt, and you ſhall: I have it in my power, and I'll make thee huſſy; or I'll—come, come, I won't be angry; give me [55] a bufs, and I'll forgive thee.

Heavens! how will this end! I dread the conſequence!

Now, now, my fair one, if you'll take your liberty you ſhall have it; in this diſ⯑guiſe I can command your diſcharge.

I'll embrace the opportunity, tho' I dread it.

You, my good and faithful friend, may expect your liberty without delay: I'll re⯑turn and make example of his worſhip preſently.

SCENE X.

Hallow! what the devil is the mat⯑ter with you old boy? What do you make ſuch a damn'd noiſe for? Did not I tell you to take care of his worſhip? You a conjurer! you a de⯑vil! by the bye, now he is blindfolded with his hands tied, I've a good mind to pick his pockets:

Hey! let me look again—by the lord 'tis his worſhip himſelf: the old one has play'd him a trick:—ſhall I releaſe him or no?

Coming, your worſhip: blame me I muſt releaſe.

Oh the damn'd villains! where are they gone? I'll have 'em all hang'd: go bring 'em to me directly.

And pleaſe worſhip, I'm afraid they're off.

Off! who's off?

Why, and pleaſe your worſhip, the young woman and Mr. Wizzard, as they call him.

What, have you let 'em out?

Blame me if I did not take him for your worſhip, having your worſhip's cloaths on.

And you have let them out then?

O yes, your worſhip, they are off in⯑deed!

Then if you don't find 'em again you ſhall be hang'd in their ſtead, mark that; but where's the reſt? there were half a dozen of 'em I believe.

I fancy not, and pleaſe your worſhip? I don't believe there was any body in company with him but maſter Edwin and the girl.

Edwin! what have you let him out too?

No, your worſhip.

That's lucky, that's lucky; he ſhall be hang'd for the reſt, that's ſome comfort: after the others, you dog!

SCENE I.

NOW we are ſafe I hope; and as I have pro⯑miſed, you ſhall find I'll keep my word: ſee you yond grove? thither go, and as ſure as truth thy Henry ſhall meet thee there: I'll bring him with me ere you well arrive yourſelf.

May Heaven bleſs you if you do.—My Henry! ſhall I ſee my baniſhed Henry!

And he ſhall meet the too, thou match⯑leſs fair one, with a heart as warm as ever glow'd with love.

SCENE III.

Aye, aye, this muſt be the way.

'Sniggins, if we ſhou'd take 'em it wou'd be rare ſport.

Edad, an we don't it will be bad ſport for me tho', if his worſhip keeps his word.

Hallow! hallow! who be you when you're ready?

Fetter me but 'tis his worſhip him⯑ſelf.

In troth and ſo it is—well the more the merrier I ſay: God bleſs his worſhip, he's a good natured gentleman, I ſay he is.

You ſay he is, that's a ſign you know [61] much of the matter to be ſure; I'm afraid we ſhall ſee little of his good nature 'till we have taken the wizzard and his wench again; but mum—here he comes.

Well, my brave lads, what news?

An't pleaſe your worſhip, we met an old fellow juſt now, who told us he ſaw 'em on this road together.

Away with you then, away with you; don't ſtand here, but after 'em, or they'll be gone to the devil elſe.

Your worſhip will follow I hope?

Aye, Aye, I'll follow, I'll follow; away with you, away!

SCENE III.

I'm diſtreſs'd 'tween hope and fear, in doubt if Henry will meet me here or not, and in fear the ſtranger may deceive me.

SCENE IV.

My Henry!

Come to his heart, thou trueſt maid!

Bleſt be the hand that pointed me the way: bleſt be the tongue that told me where to come.

Rather bleſt be ſhe that followed ſuch a guide with ſuch unequall'd faith.

Wou'd I cou'd ſee the worthy friend again, that I might think of ſome reward.

Nay, in truth thou ow'ſt him none; for thou haſt over paid him for his pains.

Alas, I've paid him nothing!

Indeed, indeed thou haſt! I was thy guide, thy lover, and thy friend!

Is it poſſible?

It is, and true.

Ah me! we're ta'en again; for ſee the hateful crew has trac'd us hither.

So much the better; 'tis juſt as I wou'd wiſh.

So much the better?

Fear not my love, there is no danger; they will be glad to let us go again: I beg, my love, that you will not ſhew one ſign of fear; [64] for as ſure as you are fair, ſo ſure you'll find no danger: Shall I ſwear?

No, no, I have no further doubt; I will not fear: if Henry ſays it, Emma muſt be⯑lieve.

Generous maid! that we may not be overcome, I've previouſly ſent for certain friends of mine to meet me there.

Friends! alas, what friends?

Anon you ſhall know all: the Juſtice is a knave, and I'll expoſe him to the world; but here come his brainleſs inſtruments: I'll di⯑vert myſelf with their ſtupidity; and ſeem to make reſiſtance: pray be chearful, and all will be well.

SCENE V.

Oh! by the king of good luck here's ma'am! with a new acquaintance faith; but where's the old one? tho' by the bye I fancy ſhe'll be the moſt welcome prize to his worſhip, and therefore I'll ſecure her firſt: come, miſs, [65] if you pleaſe, you ſhall go back again to his worſhip with me.

Go back to his worſhip! for what?

For what! O his worſhip will tell you preſently: he will be here in a trice.

His worſhip is a knave, and you're a fool: tell him I ſay ſo.

Why, you dog, if you ſay ſo again I'll take you to jail along with her.

I'll ſay it and prove it.

You will?

I will.

And ſo you ſhall, my lad; if you don't you ſhall ſee I'll prove you a fool pre⯑ſently—lay hold of him.

His worſhip's a knave, is he! and you'll prove it! a pretty fellow indeed!

If he does I'll be hang'd.

You ſhall all be hang'd if I don't.

Aye, aye, who'll hang me, pray?

I will.

I'll give you leave to do that, my boy, when you pleaſe; but I fancy the gal⯑lows is groaning for you already.

Hands off I ſay!

SCENE VI.

What have ye got 'em again?

Aye part of 'em; and an impudent fellow here, who calls his worſhip a knave and an aſs.

His worſhip an aſs! 'ſwounds he'll be hang'd?

I'll take care of that.

You'd better take care of yourſelf.

Ne'er plague your head about that. What have you done with his worſhip?

He was tired to death, and went back again with ſome gentry we met, who [67] came from the lord knows where, to have a look at the wizzard.

They're come a day after the fair then: I wiſh we had got the old dog; it wou'd be a few pence in my pocket.

That's very good;

Come, why don't you lead us to priſon? Why do you keep us both here?

You're in a hurry methinks: you're the ſtrangeſt hand I ever met with; but I'll oblige you for once; ſo come, come along. Conſtable you'd better hike after the old one, and take one or two along with you; then if you take him the prize will be your own you know.

SCENE VII.

Lud, what a dangerous thing it is to meddle with other folk's matters! mocking is catching, that ſaying is true enough: Sue and [68] I, forſooth, were only trying to make Allan a little jealous or ſo; but her kiſſes have ſtuck ſo cloſe to my lips, and her good natured looks, I am afraid have bewitched me. Now, as one may ſay, I find myſelf over head and ears in love: ratt'un, I don't know what to make on't; I wiſh I had not meddled with her: and yet ſomehow, I don't wiſh ſo neither: 'edad, an I thought ſhe cou'd love me, I ſhou'd be mainly pleas'd: I'll have a trial for her; I'm a little uneaſy about her too; and yet I'm ſtrangely pleas'd methinks—I'm moſt certainly in love, that's flat.—Sue has ſomething more than her⯑ſelf to give away too; old Quickſet, her father, has got a few good pounds by him I warrant me; and that is all Allan is in love with, in my opinion.

[69]'Odds niggins, here they come together; I'll ſlip behind this buſh, and hear what they ſay.

SCENE VIII.

Why ſurely Sue, you cannot love Ro⯑bin; if you do you are ſtrangely bit: he never lov'd a girl in his life, and always laugh'd at every body elſe that did: I'm ſure you only do it to plague me now.

Nor you don't love Dolly Hedger to be ſure: don't think to deceive me Allan; ſhe has told me of all your tricks; you have juſt ſerved her as you have me; but you ſhall never deceive me again: love Robin indeed! if he was here I'd give him my hand before thy face.

I dad that's bravely ſaid; I'll take it, and thank thee to boot: I'm always ready to receive a good bargain, you ſee.

Prithee make free with thy own, man.

Why ſo I do; ſhe ſaid ſhe'd be mine; [70] beſides, ſhe's none of your's, you never deſerved her.

Don't I?

No you don't; you've got twenty and deceive 'em all; and that girl is a fool that believes you, ſay what you will.

He ſeems to be in earneſt!

But ſay what you will, they will be⯑lieve me.

You're a conceited fool now for your pains; you ſhall find yourſelf miſtaken in me however, if there was not another man in the world.

Eſpecially when there is another at hand that loves you ſo well.

Now who wou'd deceive her?

Why you if ſhe wou'd let you.

You love her, hey?

Yes, I love her.

Nay, Robin, now, I am ſure you de⯑ceive me.

Murrins take me if I do.

Nay now, you make me laugh: I never heard you talk of loving before.

I ſhou'd like mainly to know what kind of love it wou'd be.

Shou'd you? why I'd marry her di⯑rectly, and make her a good huſband when I'd done; that is more than you can do in my opi⯑nion.

Nay, Robin, don't joke too far.

Why look you Sue, I never lov'd a girl in my life before, I confeſs, and ſhou'd not have lov'd you now, in my opinion, had I not ſeen you ſo often made a fool of by another; and always knowing thee to be an honeſt, mo⯑deſt, good-natur'd laſs, I cou'd not help loving thee, ſomehow.

Will you believe him Sue? ha, ha, ha.

I don't know what to ſay to it—I've a a good mind.

She'll be a fool if ſhe believes thee any more however.

You ſeem to be in earneſt methinks.

An I be'ant I'll be hang'd: if you think you can love me, give me your hand, and you ſhan't doubt me any longer.

Why, what wilt do man?

Do! What I ought, to be ſure.

What is that pray?

What's that! why I'll tell you again and again: I'd take her to church directly, and not ſtand ſniv'ling and playing for a twelve⯑month, and deceive her when I've done.—If ſhe'll give me her hand, you ſhall ſee if I don't.

Then take it and welcome.

Bleſſings on thee! that's kindly ſaid.

Why, Sue, thou art not in earneſt ſure?

Indeed but I am.

Pſhaw, pſhaw, don't make a fool of one.

You've made one of me long enough.

But you won't marry him Sue?

Aye, but ſhe will tho'.

Odds heart what ſhall I do! who cou'd have thought it! I'm almoſt ready to hang my⯑ſelf.—If he marries her I'll make a cuckold of him, as ſure as he's born.

SCENE IX.

Sure fate has doom'd me to inevita⯑ble deſtruction: every effort that I've made to [74] reſtore my liberty has unfortunately proved the means of making me ſtill more a priſoner: the ſtranger, my fair-ſpoken ally, is not yet re⯑turn'd, and night is near at hand: Sightleſs, who never wanted ſpur to prick him on to cruelty, now will aggravate each circumſtance, which he thinks will reach my life.—Well, if my friend ſhou'd ne'er return again, I'm likely to be releas'd by death.

SCENE X.

Here, fair lady, is my houſe, ſuch as it is: will you do me the honour to walk in and give me your good company? My wife is a lit⯑tle jealous, or ſo; but you need not mind that: pray walk in; it won't be long, I dare ſay, be⯑fore we have our conjuring gentleman again.

I thank you, Sir, there's a pleaſant air abroad which is very agreeable; with your leave, I had much rather reſt me here a little.

By the by, I'm not ſorry for that nei⯑ther: it may ſave me a ſupper perhaps.

Why, as you ſay, Madam, it is very pleaſant to be ſure: this is a favourite tree of mine; I often make it my bench of authority, and try my cri⯑minals here.

Beneath this tree!

Aye, marry do I: this tree was ſet by a grandfather of mine, and has had many a re⯑bel hung upon it ſince he died; and if I ſhou'd once more meet with this wizard again, he ſhall have the honour of hanging upon it him⯑ſelf, and you ſhall have the pleaſure of ſeeing him, if you pleaſe: I am ſure you never ſaw a greater rogue hang'd in your life; and I've got another in priſon at preſent ſhall keep him com⯑pany.

Sure you'll not hang him, Sir?

Not burn him you mean! hang him! O yes, you may depend upon that.

What call you theſe, Sir?

Some fool has got himſelf married I ſuppoſe; if he has got him as good a wife as mine, he had better ſtaid a little longer, and have been hang'd with Mr. Wizard and Co.

Away with ye, away with ye; you had need be merry forſooth: I hate to ſee ſuch a parcel of fools.

I muſt confeſs it gives me infinite plea⯑ſure to ſee them ſo happy.

Aye, but how will they look by and by? that's the joke.

That we cannot tell; a good heart ever makes a pleaſant eye.

If that be true, your ladyſhip's a good heart of your own, for you have a main plea⯑ſant eye, I can tell you that.

You've a pleaſant tongue of your own to tell me ſo; how true I will not ſay; nor will I thank you for the compliment, becauſe that wou'd be accepting of what I don't deſerve.

Troth but you do deſerve it; and [78] therefore muſt accept on't, and as a rarity too; for I ſeldom give my compliments away with⯑out return.

Then you ſell 'em, I preſume.

No, no, lack a day, not I; when I compliment a lady, I mean to get a kiſs if I can, when a man—

His money I ſuppoſe?

Hum, ah, why ſometimes, as one may ſay, on ſome occaſions or ſo: faith ſhe's a ſweet one! and as wiſe as a judge; ſhe'll be too much for me if I don't take care:—what a chance had I here now were I not married!—O plague on that bitter old jade at home I ſay, ſhe's a tough one, or the devil wou'd have had her ere now.

I wonder we have not ſeen my brother yet.

It is very ſtrange!

O here they come! here they come! now you ſhall ſee the very devil himſelf.

I ſhall beg to be excuſed the ſight.

Don't fear, madam, don't fear; I've too much power over his devilſhip, than to let him do ſo ſweet a lady any harm.

I ſhall not fear that devil much that is afraid of you.

SCENE XI.

So, madam Gad-about, you have found your way back again! but where is the ſon of old Beelzebub, the wizard?

And pleaſe your worſhip we have not ta'en him yet; maſter Conſtable and two or three more are after him: I ſuppoſe they will bring him anon: I thought it beſt to bring young madam back firſt, leſt ſhe might give us the ſlip again.

Right, lad, right: but who have you here?

One of the wizard's acquaintance, I find: my lady and he were together.

What is he? and where does he come from?

I don't know, and pleaſe your wor⯑ſhip; they were together, as I ſaid; and when [80] I talk'd of taking her away, he began to abuſe me, and call'd your worſhip a fool and an aſs.

An aſs! an impudent raſcal! I'll aſs you ſirrah! I'll aſs you, ye villain, I will! you ſhall prove me an aſs or I'll prove you a gooſe.

That your worſhip's an aſs needs no proof, or a goat rather.

Sirrah! ſirrah! how dare you talk to me in this manner? doſt know who thou art talking to?

Perfectly well.

Tie him neck and heels, an impudent ſcoundrel! and to priſon with him.

Nay, give me leave to ſtrip firſt.

Now, Sir, I'm at your ſervice: I was the wizard.

My brother! aſtoniſhment!

Lord Henry!

My Henry a lord!

Mercy upon me! what will become of me?

Why don't you put your threats in practice Juſtice? where are your ropes and your gibbets? methinks your worſhip cools upon it: [81] what, not a word? ſhame on thee! well may'ſt thou ſtiffen with thy guilt! I cou'd forgive thy impriſonment and inſolence to me; but when I think on thy ungenerous and execrable beha⯑viour to this lady, my temper catches fire at the deed, and whets me to revenge.

Ah, your lordſhip! mercy! mercy! we are all frail.

But not all villains too I hope, like thee: nay, be ever dumb: can there be excuſe for thee! old and full of ſin.—What would have been thy guilt, if fortune had not thrown me in the way to avert thy deſign, when like a monſter as thou art, thou threatenedſt to force this fair one to compliance: is it poſſible thou canſt form an excuſe for ſuch a crime? no, no, tho' her beauty's ſo divine, that ſaints beholding her might break off their prayers, and beg to taſte the perfume of her lips.—Come! come to my heart! thou matchleſs piece of fortitude and love!

with heaven's will and thine, we'll part no more.

Nay, then let danger threaten as it liſts.

I'm all aſtoniſhment and wonder!

O ſiſter! take this jewel to thy breaſt; [82] for ſhe's a paragon of conſtancy: I've tried her truth, and, like the pureſt gold, have found her ſpeckleſs: ſhe has gone a pilgrimage for me by day and night, thro' all the perils of the dreary wild, and never faulter'd in a word or thought. Here, take her, Aethelia, for ſhe is one you long have wiſh'd to ſee:—behold the matchleſs Nut-brown Maid!

Indeed! then you could not have pre⯑ſented me with a maid more welcome.

So kind a ſaying from ſo fair a friend, delights me much.

Tho' my expectations were other than I've met, I'm far more pleas'd in the diſap⯑pointment.

That's kindly ſaid; ſo generous an acknowledgment deſerves a good return; nor ſhall you find me backward to be grateful; I'll endeavour to repay, tho' what I give may prove unwelcome.

Where is the need? why wou'd you leſſen my regard, by thinking I have an intereſt in my love?

Miſtake me not, I only wiſh you happy as myſelf.

That you know can never be, ſince you are in poſſeſſion of the deareſt object of your heart, and mine is loſt forever.

Alas! I pity you from my ſoul!

Never deſpair: with his worſhip's leave I'll take the liberty to ſend for a gentle⯑man, a friend of mine, and a moſt intimate ac⯑quaintance of the man you love; who, I am perſuaded, can give you ſome account; nay, will convince you he ſtill ſurvives and loves you.

Heavens! what do I hear!

What ſays your worſhip? will you condeſcend to oblige me?

In any thing your lordſhip ſhall pleaſe to aſk: 'ſheart, I'm glad he's ſo pleaſant, 'faith.

Then ſend this inſtant for that injured youth, whoſe tale I fain wou'd hear again, that you may be a weeping auditor like me.

Who may your lordſhip mean?

The gentleman that help'd me to eſcape.

What means my Henry?

You make me tremble with conjecture: pray unfold the myſtery, and eaſe me of ſuſpenſe.

The priſoner ſhall unriddle all; have [84] patience but a little while, and you'll be paid for it.—Your worſhip ſeems to heſitate: I've not been us'd to aſk a favour twice, and there⯑fore muſt demand him now: ſend for him, I ſay, or take his place yourſelf for the refuſal.

Oh, I'll ſend for him to be ſure, my lord.—Poor ſoul!—Jailor go fetch him hither directly.

I hope your lordſhip did not doubt my ſending for him.—Oh that I had hang'd him a twelvemonth ago, and then he wou'd not have ſtood in judgment againſt me now!

How fares my Emma? ſhe ſeems im⯑patient.—O let no thought but joy intrude upon the beſt of minds.—Siſter, be chearful; I'll make you ſmile before we part: you came to ſee a wizard, you'll allow; and that you may not be diſappointed quite, I'll prove my⯑ſelf a conjurer at leaſt.

If one who deals in myſteries be ſuch, you are a conjurer indeed.—O this provoking curioſity! but I'm ſure it bodes no ill ſince my Henry is concerned.

Alas, what can it mean! my heart ſeems conſcious of ſome ſtrange event; I'm all ſurmiſe and fear.

And here comes one will tell you what it means.

Ah, poor ſoul! here he comes!

SCENE XII.

Edwin!

Aethelia! lord Henry!

From oblivion or the grave return'd!

From oblivion, if you pleaſe Aethe⯑lia; but as great a ſtranger to the grave as you.

Is the gentleman an acquaintance of your ſiſter's then?

He is, my love, the moſt intimate one in the world; and yet you ſee they hardly ſpeak to one another.

Alas, I pity their confuſion.

Edwin, thy hand—there is Aethelia, ſhe is moſt glad to ſee thee, tho' aſham'd to own it yet, becauſe her paſſion is a ſecret one: thou art inclin'd to ſpeak I know, but thy mis⯑fortunes, and appearance, I perceive, make thee ſet too light a value on thyſelf: excuſe me Ed⯑win, I am as much thy friend as ever, and am overjoy'd to ſee thee; my ſiſter there is ſome⯑thing more than friend, and ſhe of courſe is glad to ſee thee too; I have preſum'd to ſpeak your inclinations, and flatter myſelf was pretty near the mark.

For me, my lord, you have ſpoken as if ſome friendly genius had whiſper'd in my ear the dictates of my heart: but can Aethelia think on one ſo poor, ſo ſad as I? tho' I muſt [87] confeſs the loſs of her has been the greateſt ſor⯑row that I've felt, when barr'd from liberty and light.

Nay then, my every doubt is huſh'd: nor will I bluſh to own, when 'midſt the gayeſt pageantry of life, I felt a ſorrow for my Ed⯑win's loſs I never cou'd overcome.

What do I hear! Oh, I cou'd live upon the ſound forever! love in ſpite of for⯑tune and her frowns, now makes me bold, and in Aethelia's name, I feaſt on bliſs eternal.

Now, ſiſter, I hope you'll own I've a good knack at wizardizing?

Is it poſſible you cou'd aſſume that character ſo well?

As ſure as you are here, thro' my en⯑chantment.

What cou'd have been your motive firſt?

Your beauty was the motive, and your matchleſs conſtancy has prov'd the great reward, and confuted my every doubt of wo⯑man's love.—O 'tis ſuch extaſy of bliſs to find the maid I love, the faireſt of her ſex, ſo true, ſo faithful, and ſo kind.

SCENE XIII.

Where is ſhe? a jade! an impu⯑dent huſſy!

'Swounds, are you mad! don't you ſee who's before you!

Pray Sir let her go on: let us hear what the good lady has to ſay.

Nothing.

Nothing is a good anſwer; 'tis the ſooneſt ſaid you know my lord.

I wiſh I had no more to ſay to you; but in juſtice to this injured gentleman, I muſt have a further hearing on his account; 'till when I ſhall beg you'll accept his lodgings for yourſelf, a night or two, which you have ſo generouſly beſtow'd on him this twelvemonth paſt.

This is all your own doings.— [89] I thought what it wou'd come to, I'll be hang'd if I did'nt.—O mercy on me!

My lord! your lordſhip!—for hea⯑ven's ſake! for my wife's ſake!

I have no time to hear you now; therefore, Mr. Jailor, I beg you'd take care of his worſhip: give him this gentleman's apart⯑ments; keep the locks faſt upon him, and on the peril of your own life, that you give him liberty, 'till you hear from me: here is ſome⯑thing for encouragement; I know you love a bribe.

God bleſs your honour my lord: I hope your honour, my lord, will not let me be brought into a ſcrape for it.

Take care of his worſhip, I ſay; and you've nothing to fear.

Enough ſaid my lord: I'll take care of him, I warrant you.—Upon my ſoul, your worſhip, I'm ſorry for it; but I can't help it you ſee, therefore your worſhip had better be budging to crib and make the beſt on't.

O what diſtraction is this!

Away with 'em jailor; I'm ſick of their company.

Your worſhip had better take heart.

O what a pickle I'm in!

Now naught but pleaſure and delight ſhall crown the coming hours.

And lo! the villagers appear, with pipe and tabor; ſee they come this way.

They ſhall be welcome all: come, my Edwin, the ſound of joy ſhall drive each dull and languid vapour hence; whilſt Emma, the deareſt treaſure of my heart, and mind, ſhall be the burden of each ruſtic's ſong.