SCENE I. A Room in Brainly's Houſe.

A Long with Celon, ſay you? I'm aſtoniſh'd! O ſhe's a forward young Huſſy! but I'll ſtop her Gadding;—Are you ſure of this?

Yes, truly, Sir, for ſhe has been out for this Month paſt, at four and five o'Clock in the Morning; I could not think where ſhe went to, till [48] the other Day when going o'er the green Paſtures; there I ſaw Celon and ſhe, billing and cooing together like two young Pidgeons.

Indeed? odds my Life, I remember now;—ah ſhe's a coaxing young Pag; that's where ſhe gets her Poſies from I ſuppo [...]e, which ſhe comes holding up to my Noſe in a Morning, with a how do you do? my dear Papa,

O the Jade.

I thought it were beſt to tell your Worſhip, leaſt ſome Harm might come of it.

A mighty induſtrious Soul indeed! thou had'ſt better have been minding thy own Buſineſs, I think, than to ſtrive like an ill-natur'd Fool to ſet my Child and her Father at Variance.

Hold your Tongue pray Madam, and let him ſpeak; he ſees her Follies, tho' you can't, and 'tis honeſt in him to tell me of them.

Why ſure Mr. Brainly I may ſpeak in my Turn.

'Tis not your Turn yet Madam.

I'm ſorry my Dear, to ſee you ſo angry,— don't think that I approve of her Proceedings; no, far be it from me; but I can't help taking Notice how ready the Fellow is to tell you of her Faults; for he ſees they work upon you to Exceſs, and you are as eager to hear what gives you ſo much Pain; if he had generouſly told me of it before. I wou'd have put a Stop to it ere now, and you might have eſcap'd all this Uneaſineſs; for if our Children are to bear the Cenſure of our Servants, what Child will eſcape Slander? I don't doubt what he has ſaid to be true, but while he ſees it feeds your Anger, and he finds himſelf liſten'd to, he may turn Surmiſes into Facts, and ſhe may be ſtigmatiz'd where e'er ſhe goes, as being guilt of what ſhe never dreamt of.

Well, well, it does not ſignify holding this Ha⯑rangue about her,—I'm determin'd to have her kept at Home, and then I'm ſure ſhe'll be ſafe, let the World then ſay what they pleaſe;—go fetch her hither Truſty.

Marry I doubt it much e'en then; and whe⯑ther the Creature (that has taken ſo much Pains to tell you her Faults) would not be the firſt in the World that would [49] ſtrive to make her guilty of another; for I know he's very ſweet upon her when our Backs are turn'd.

Poh, Poh, what do you think the Fellow's a Fool?

No, but I think he would make a Fool of you, and I and the whole Family, if he could.

Pſhaw, Pſhaw, I ſee you have ſome Antipathy to the poor Fellow, becauſe he's honeſt, and ſo want me to turn him about his Buſineſs; but here he comes,

well Sirrah, what's the Reaſon you did not bring Eddie along with you?

Why in good Truth I cannot find her.

Not find her! why what the Plague is the Wench ſet out already?

O yes Sir, ſhe's been up and gone theſe three Hours.

Has ſhe indeed? I fancy I ſhall fetch her home again in half that Time, if Cupid has not furniſh'd her with wings.—Come along with me Truſty.—My Dear you may expect us here again preſently.

I wiſh you Succeſs with all my Heart,— poor fooliſh Girl! I pity her; 'tis natural — for the Heart will follow where the Eye is pleas'd.

SCENE II.

'Tis the faireſt Morn I ever ſaw; I warrant they are all aſleep at home, but hardly dream that I am here with you.

O let 'em ſleep until the Sun ſets again, then I ſhall have my Eddie with me all the Day.

If my Father ſhou'd e'er ſuſpect my coming hither I'm affraid he'd never let me come again; wou'd you not pity me?

I ſhou'd pine myſelf to Death, and be like a wan⯑dering Lunatic in Deſpair: for when you are from me but an Hour, I think that every Flower looks drooping, and every Bird ſets mourning for your Return.

Be witneſs for me all ye Hills and Groves, how dear I prize my Celon's Love, not all the wealth my Father boaſts ſhould rob me of that joy.

Wou'd to-morrow were our wedding Day, I long to call thee mine, I've had ſad Dreams of late; but I hope they tend to nothing ill towards us.

Pray tell me what they were, and I'll be your In⯑terpreter.

Not now my Love, they'll prey upon thy gentle Spirits, and daſh our promis'd joys. Let us go to yonder Valley now, and pick the ſweeteſt Flowers there, Blue bells and Violets, that I may weave a Crownet for my Queen.

E'en where you pleaſe, nor will I e'er complain ſo I go with you;—here,

I've brought thee another Book this Morning, 'tis the prettieſt I could find; and thou ſhalt read it to me.

You're ever kind — But I fear my Love you'll get ſome Anger from your Father, if he ſhould chance to miſs it — What is it you have brought me now?

The Nut-brown Maid.

My Fa⯑ther ne'er will miſs it, he minds nothing but his Horſes and his Dogs; ſo pray thee ſet down and read it to me.

Nay, but you muſt excuſe me now; I can read when you are gone; now it will be killing too much pre⯑cious Time.

Very well, Celon.

Nay be not angry, I own I'm much oblig'd to you for theſe Indulgencies; and but from the Inſtruction of thoſe Volumes you have brought me, I ſhould have been a poor Companion for my Eddie; they have, in ſome Mea⯑ſure, taught me how to pleaſe; to know my humble Situa⯑tion; bleſt when you are with me, and more ſerenely to bear the Pain when you are gone.

Liſten! liſten! methought I heard the voice of ſome one near; and now I ſee 'em too. O, 'tis Truſty and my Father.

They have beheld us, and 'twill be in vain to fly. Alas! what ſhall we do! — how cou'd this happen?

I ſee you, you Jade. I'll ſtop your Strol⯑ling, I will Huſſy:

And as for thee, thou Sheep⯑biting Dog, I'll have thee ſent into another Country,

I matter not where you ſend me, or where I go, ſince you have taken her away

The Boy's certainly in Love; I'Gad it grieves me to ſee them look ſo pitiful at each other; I cou'd find in my Heart to leave 'em together again.

Aye truly 'tis pity, Sir, but conſider the Conſe⯑quence, it will be the Talk of the whole Country, that 'Squire Brainly's Daughter is courted by a Shepherd.

Ods-bud and ſo it will; come, Huſſy, come; —thou may'ſt ſtay behind and whine a little,

Dear Father permit me to take a parting Kiſs.

A parting Kiſs! what before my Face! why they've bewitch'd one another I believe! No, no, no, no more kiſſing here? come along; and if you can't live without kiſſing, there's your great Doll at home, you may kiſs and hug that all Day if you pleaſe, come away I ſay.

O can you forget yourſelf, or did you never love; ſurely, if you did, you would not practice ſo hard a Tryal for ſo ſmall a Crime.

Come along I ſay, or I'll break thy Neck.

O do not hurt her, for indeed ſhe's done no Harm.

If thou haſt done her none, I ſhall be ſatisfied, and I'll take Care thou ſhalt do her none hereafter.

This is the ſoreſt Wound I ever felt; would ſhe had been born as poorly as myſelf, or that I had been a 'Squire's Son.

[53]

SCENE III.

Here Mrs. Brainly we've brought your Daughter home, and I deſire you'll make it your Buſineſs to keep her there ſo long as ſhe lives,—what piping again, what the Devil ails thee now?

Have I not Cauſe to weep, to hear myſelf doom'd a Priſoner for Life, and by my Father too?

You'd better be a Pris'ner here Huſſy, with a good Houſe over your Head, and Victuals in your Belly, than ſtrolling the Mountains, and ſtarving under a Hedge, along with that Booby you'd got along with this Morn⯑ing.

What cou'd induce thee, Child, to make ſo ſtrange a Choice?

His gentle Nature, beſides he loves me dearly as himſelf.

No doubt but he loves himſelf well enough; but what do'ſt think he loves thee for, hey, Fool?

For loving him, which I will do for ever.

So, ſo, ſo, ſo, there's for you now! take her out of my Sight, or I ſhall certainly do her a Miſchief; — O you wanton young Jade; go take her up Stairs, and lock her in her Bed-chamber directly.

SCENE V.

I'll reſt me here a little; nothing that I ſee or hear will give me Comfort now.

I tell thee the Girl has made her Eſcape from the Help of a Tree, that hung againſt her Window, for ſome⯑body has told her that Celon was fled into another Country, and I am ſorely afraid I ſhall find it too true.

True thou'lt find it indeed, if Eddie is gone, I'll ſearch ev'ry Country round but I will find her.

Marry Luck forbid, Couſin, for I lov'd him as if he had been a Child of my own, and did intend to leave him all I have when I die.

Ha, thou art very kind; for though I ſay it, he had as much to ſay for himſelf as the Parſon o' the Pariſh; if I could but ſet eyes on him again, I ſhould be eaſy; I han't ſeen him ſince four o'Clock in the Morning, and if I don't find him before night, I ſhall break my Heart.

I'fecks I think I ſee him yonder, running acroſs the meadow.

Where, where.

Yonder loo'thee 't'other Side that large Tree.

Odds Heart and ſo it is; pray thee Couſin, for thou canſt run faſter than me, go thou before and I'll after and halloo luſtily behind.

Come along, come along, and be hang'd to you, what a yawning you make, indeed, why now becauſe you've got your Bellies full, I ſuppoſe you have not a Heart to go to work again.

'Swound what a Din thou makeſt indeed, thy Bawling beats my Yawning I'm ſure; one would think thou hadſt not had thy Belly-full this Month paſt; I'fecks I'm afraid thou art one of thoſe I heard our old Dame talking of t'other Day, more Noiſe than Work.

No, no, I ſuppoſe he only wants to get his Work done before he begins, that he may go a ſweet⯑hearting; for as ſoon as he gets home he begins to make ſuch a waſhing and a combing of himſelf, with his Rib⯑bands at his Knees, and his Buckles at his Sho'en, that he [56] ne'er gives himſelf Time to eat or drink, but out he goes to roſey fac'd Sue, down by the Mill.

Aye, Aye, I ſuppoſe he gets his Belly-full there. I believe in my Heart Folks are bewitch'd, now-a-days, there's the Dickens to pay, about Celon and the Squire's Daughter; this Love's as bad as a Plague I think, its catching.

Take Care it does not catch thee then; 't'as many a Time catch'd a wiſer Man.

I'fecks if it does I know how to cure myſelf.

I don't doubt but thou haſt a good Opinion of thyſelf.

Marry if one don't like me, I'll ſeek out for another.

And love ne'er a one above an Hour.

Heigh, ho! this Love is a ſtrange Thing I think.

No, no, there's nothing ſo common. I heard our Parſon ſay the World was grown fooliſh, and this is a ſure Sign he ſometimes ſpeaks the Truth.

Why ſo I think indeed, Celon muſt be a Fool now to think of marrying the 'Squire's Daughter, I war⯑rant the 'Squire wou'd ſee him hang'd firſt.

And muſt not ſhe be a Fool to think of marry⯑ing Celon; why this makes good the Text; the World's grown fooliſh and they're two of the greateſt; I think in my Heart they're even worſe than this Fool here.

Fool! who doſt thou call Fool? if it were not now for loſing ſo much Time, I'd ſhew thee who was the greateſt Fool.

'Swounds what a Paſſion he's in, I've heard ſay theſe Lovers grow mad ſometimes, if you ſhou'd teaze him too much, perhaps he'll grow mad too, and then I ſuppoſe he'll be for biting.

Aye, aye, let him alone, let him alone, he may kiſs and court all the Guts out of his Belly for what I care.

Come let's to work again, or we ſhall have the Sun down ere we begin.

Troth and ſo it will, and it won't get up at thy bidding again, but that ſhan't give me any uneaſineſs:

That was my Mind once, but I cou'd not help changing it.

That's a ſure ſign you kind of Creatures never know your own Minds.

Why that's true enough; Celon us'd to ſwear and proteſt he'd never marry, and now you ſee how well he keeps his Word.

And he may'nt be the happier for all he's ſo great with the 'Squire's Daughter; for they ſay there's no⯑thing but ſnarling and biting among the Gentry Folkes.

[58]

Hold, hold, who are theſe coming acroſs the Barly Field.

Odds life I'll be hang'd, if it be'ont, our Maſ⯑ter and his Couſin.

Let us ſneak off then as faſt as we can.

No, no, they ſee us now, and we'd better ſtay and know the worſt on't.

The Dickens take your ſweet-hearting I ſay, I ſuppoſe there'll be the Duce to pay.

What a Pack of Fools we look like now.

What in the Name of old Nick do ye all here, has any of you ſeen Celon lately?

No not we Maſter, we han'not ſeen him this two Days.

Why go ſeek him then, and he that finds him firſt ſhall have a hollyday for a Week.

Shall he Maſter, I'fecks then I give a good Look out, and bring him home an I can.

Away with you then.

Come Couſin, thee and I'll go and get us a Horſe a piece and we'll ſet out too; wayſt heart I've run myſelf almoſt out of Breath already, and I don't know how ſoon I may want a little.

SCENE I.

YOu've often told me, I ſhou'd ſee the Place where I was born, and where my Mother died: be⯑lieve me Sir, I ſhould like it much; I think I've ſeen it an hundred Times in Dreams already, and if indeed it be ſo pleaſing in Reality as in Dreams, I'm ſure it muſt far excel this ſad dwelling.

I'm afraid indeed thou'll think it ſo, therefore it is, I fear to let thee go.

Why fear? do you think I wou'd not come again.

I hope ſo, but there's a thouſand little Play-fel⯑lows wou'd rival me, and thou wou'dſt want to ſtay thee there.

Indeed they ſhou'd not, I'd rather ſtay here all my Days than you ſhou'd be in Fear.

Thou'rt my Cherub again for that; and e'er a Month I'll let thee go.

O well-a-day, do but turn about, and ſee what's paſſing 'croſs the Cave.

A Woman, or a Fairy, I'll ſpeak to her how⯑ever.

Believe me Sir, but ſhe ſeems in Sorrow.

Peace with thee fair one, if thou wilt deign to tell, whither doſt thou ſojourn?

Alas! I cannot; firſt tell me Stranger, who e'er thou art (for thou beareſt the Face of Friendſhip) didſt thou not ſee a lovely Shepherd, ſad as myſelf, paſs this Way.

In truth fair Maid no human Form ſave this of thine has paſs'd this Cave theſe many Years.

Alas! I'm ſore diſtreſs'd.

If thou dar'ft truſt me with thy Story, I'll promiſe thee all the Aid that I can give.

I thank thee; nor do I think that I ſhou'd fear to truſt thee, for thou bear'ſt as kind a Face as e'er I ſaw, ſave his I look for; for O he is the gentleſt Swain that ever ſmil'd on Maid, I firſt beheld him tending on his Father's Sheep upon a Mountain's Brow; he humbly bow'd and with a gentle Look he ſtole my willing Heart, and I as willing gave my Hand; he knelt and kiſs'd it; and, with more than Shepherd's Grace, told me how much he lov'd; I believ'd him becauſe he wept, then figh'd and took my Leave; but ev'ry Morning e'er the Sun beams kiſs'd the dimpl'd Brook, I ſtole to him again, ſo happy we like two fair Veſſels on a calm Sea borne long ſail'd together; till my Father's angry Hand like a rude tempeſtuous Wave daſh'd us both aſunder.

Alas I pity you, what was your Lover's Name?

Celon.

What is it Child that makes thee weep?

The Story that ſhe told you.

I love thee for thy Mother's Spirit, juſt ſo wou'd ſhe o'erflow when e'er ſhe heard of ſuff'ring Virtue.

I love him too for his friendly Tears, come and let me kiſs thee; my Heart is full of Gratitude, but I've no means of Recompence, ſave Tear for Tear, Alas! I muſt yet go on, for while I live, I will purſue my Love, if ever I return, I'll make you ſome Amends.

Pray don't go, my Father will be very kind.

Let me intreat you to ſtay a little, this little Boy is my only Child, the only Comfort I have on Earth, he [61] ſhall attend you; there is a Mountain, by whoſe lefty Head o'er looks the country round for many a Mile, thi⯑ther ſhall he go, and with his young diſcerning Eyes try if he can't ſee which way your Celon wanders; I prithee Crito go this Inſtant and if thou ſhou'dſt any one chance to ſee, wind thou thy Horn and becken them to ſtay,

mean while I wou'd adviſe that you retire into yond Harbour and reſt yourſelf, till I go and ſeek for ſomething that may comfort you.

Indeed you are too kind, I have not deſerv'd theſe Indulgencies from you, but ſince you have promis'd me to be my Friend, I do not know a Time that I ever ſtood ſo much in need of one.

Be chearful, and doubt not, but ere long we ſhall hear ſome tidings of your Celon.

Then you will be a Friend indeed.

SCENE II.

We're certainly on the right Road my Lads; but hold, who have we here, a fellow Traveller? perhaps he may give us ſome Intelligence; I'll enquire however.

Save thee Friend, whither be'ſt going

To the firſt Cottage I can find; for I have had a long Day's Journey of it, and have not ſeen a Dwelling where I cou'd get me any Refreſhment.

Nor didſt not meet with any body on the Road?

Yes wayſtheart a lovely Youth almoſt in Deſ⯑pair.

And didſt thou not ſpeak with him then?

Yes, that I did, and wiſh I cou'd have been his Friend.

Why? what was his Complaint then?

Alas-a-day, he told me he had loſt the ſweeteſt Maid on Earth, and came this Way in Search of her.

Did he ſo? 'Slife that muſt be Celon, here I'll give thee this Purſe, if thou'lt tell me where he's gone,

Alas, I cannot tell thee, for when I could give him no Intelligence of his Love, he left me; I ſtood awhile and watch'd him, and when he got to yonder Oak that dipps his Brim into the Brook, he ſat down and drank of the cold ſtream, then roſe again and made his Way to the top of yonder Hill; and turning round ſeem'd to ſearch with his Eyes all the Vales below. Anon (as if he had ſome one ſeen) he hurry'd off again; but deſcending on the other Side I loſt Sight of him.

We'll after him directly; as for thee my Friend thou wilt find a Cottage hard by, take this and get thee ſome Refreſhment.

Good Luck attend thee for thy Kindneſs.

Come along Lads we're upon the right Scent, and if we ſhou'd ſtart this Puſs we'll run her down and take her home alive.

SCENE III.

Lo! here comes Crito, I hope he brings ſome News.

I doubt there's none of Celon.

Doubt not,

welcome my Darling; well what haſt ſeen.

A Man, who is making towards the Cave; I ſaw him ſtraying near the mighty Cliff; and then, as you de⯑ſir'd, did wind my Horn; I wav'd my Hand, he anſwer'd thus, and then ſet off with Speed this Way.

Now what think you Fair-one?

It certainly is my Celon, and yet I think it moſt impoſſible, but if it ſhould ſome other prove, I fain would not be ſeen.

Therefore leaſt it ſhould, I would adviſe that you retire again into the Cave, 'till I have made ſome ſure Proof it is your Celon.

I will,—but pray if it ſhould prove my Love in⯑deed, let it not be a Moment ere you call me forth again.

You may be aſſur'd of that; haſte, haſte, me⯑thinks I hear his Foot-ſteps near already.

I'm gone—Alas I tremble ſo my Legs will ſcarce⯑ly bear me.

See Father, he's entering the Cave.

He bears the Form that ſhe deſcribes.

Welcome Youth, moſt welcome, I invite thee for my Gueſt; thou ſeem'ſt aweary; I ſhall be glad to be thy Comforter.

I thank you—weary I am indeed, in Search of what I fear I ne'er ſhall ſee again.

Never deſpair, nothing is ever loſt beyond our Hopes but Reputation. Is it for the Living that you ſeek?

Living ſhe was laſt Night, and well.

It is a Woman then; what is the fair-one's Name?

Fair as the criſtal Stream.

You'd know her then, no Doubt, were you to ſee her?

Why do you aſk me that? Is it poſſible I could not know the Thing I ſaw but Yeſterday?

Say, do you know that Fair-one?

Know her! O ye miraculous Powers, 'tis my Ed⯑die!

Celon! O I ſcarcely can believe that I'm awake.

I bear Witneſs you're not in a Dream, and am glad that I have partly been the Means of all this Happi⯑neſs.

O may you be bleſt with every Thing that's good, What ſhall we do to make you amends?

I am amply ſatisfied in ſeeing you ſo happy.

He ſhall be our Father and we will ſtay here all our Days, and Crito too ſhall be my Brother.

Say, Crito, wouldſt thou not like to have a Siſter?

Yes, and I ſhould like to have a Brother too:

'Tis well reply'd; but now it grieves me that I've no Diſh, but homely Fare, that you might eat with me.

We are in no Need; this is Feaſt enough for me, I have no Room for any Thing but Love.

I feel no Pain, nor Hunger, but my Sighs have made me thirſty.

Go, Crito, to the Spring, and haſte back again,

Pardon my offering you ſo cool a Cordial, it is the beſt this World affords me.

It will be receiv'd as kindly as the moſt coſtly one; and on Condition I might ſtay me here with Celon, I could content me with it all my Days.

I'm glad they've drove us hither now, for here we can love in their Deſpite, nor fear their parting us again.

I fear the Trial will prove worſe than the Idea; the hard Means of Life you will be oblig'd to ſubmit to here, will, I fear, daſh your future Hopes; but believe me you are welcome as the Morning.

We are aſſur'd of that, and free from Danger, they'll hardly find us here — therefore we'll riſque whatever elſe may happen.

Returning home from the Well I ſaw four Travel⯑lers coming on this Way; and, ſeeing me, they ey'd me to the Cave.

More Miracles? 'tis very ſtrange, I now begin to fear ſome ſad Event.

Some Travellers I ſuppoſe that have loſt their Way and follow'd Crito for Intelligence.

Some Ignis Fatuus ſure has drawn the World this way.

Let us retire.

Be not afraid my Love, we've no Enemies here.

Here they are my Lads, here they are; make Haſte or they'll give us the Slip again.

hey day, who have we here!

The Devil and one of his Imps, I believe, only they've hid their cloven Feet.

Odds heart my Child is dying, help ſome of you help, to hold her up.—O thou damn'd Dog, I wiſh thou hadſt been hang'd a Twelvemonth ago, thou'ſt kill'd my Child, thou haſt thou Dog,

my Dear, my Eddie,

poor Creature! how ſhe pants! ſoftly, ſoftly, ſhe's coming to herſelf again

how is it with thee? thy Father is not angry with thee Child, come, come, don't be frighten'd, thou ſhan't be hurt.

My Father! O well-a-day—where is my Celon, you wont kill him I hope.

Kill him? no not I! tho' I don't care how ſoon he were hang'd.

Alas, alas, you ſaid you was not angry, and now you've forgot your Saying,

No, not with you Child, I came to fetch you home; but we'll leave him to find his Way himſelf.

Nay pray let him go with me too.

No, no, not I indeed, I'm not ſo fond of his Com⯑pany.

Nor wont you let me ſee him when at home?

Not if I can help it, we'll have no more viſiting of Witches and Wizards here; nay he may be the Devil for ought I know.

Did not you ſay juſt now you wou'd be kind?

So I think, I am for taking you away and car⯑rying you to a good home again.

If that is Kindneſs, I'd rather you wou'd be un⯑kind, and let me ſtay here all my Life.

So I ſuppoſe; no, no, I did not come all this Way for nothing, ſo come along, ſince you don't know when you're doing wrong, I ſhall make hold to tell you when you don't do right.

Farewell my deareſt Celon, farewell, I ſhall —

Come, come, no whining, a ſhort Parting's al⯑ways beſt, ſo help me ſome of you to force her away.

Farewell moſt lovely Maid, my Heart ſhall follow thee where'er thou goeſt,—O moſt unnatural Father!

Alas I pity you from my Heart, and wiſh I cou'd adminiſter ſome Comfort to your Sorrow, let us retire into the Cave and compoſe yourſelf a while.

No I will follow her, whatever fate befall me.

Whither wilt thou go? Night will o'ertake thee e'er thou canſt reach thy Father's Dwelling.

Aye and ſo it will if I ſtay here; I thank thee for thy Care, but I can no where reſt if Eddie be not near, I thank thee for all thy Friendſhip, think me not ungrateful, thus to leave thee, but when the Heart is from the Body torn, the Spirit ſoon muſt die; therefore I muſt follow, a kind Farewell to both, my Heart is now ſo full of Grief, that I can nothing ſay; but once more Farewell.

Farewell kind Youth, and may'ſt thou never meet ſo hard a Trial more; O wretched World, I have felt thee ſharp as the keen Air, and now methinks, I ſee myſelf in this ſad Youth, a goodly Heart overwhelm'd in Grief; come, Crito, we'll in and reſt, thou ſee'ſt what it is to mix with Man; how hard they deal with one another.

SCENE I.

HERE reſts my Eddie, wou'd ſhe knew that I were here, it wou'd not be long e'er I beheld her.

Alas, I am betray'd, and yet they're Strangers all to me; I fear ſome ill Intent, they're breaking open the Door; I muſt interpoſe leaſt my Eddie ſhou'd be in Dan⯑ger.

hold you there, what mean you, by entering the Houſe in this Manner, and at this Time o' the Night?

Knock him down! Knock him down! ſi⯑lence him or we ſhall miſcarry.

You proceed,—I'll manage him I warrant me.

Bring 'em along Lads, bring 'em along.

We've ſecur'd the Villains, hold up the Lan⯑thorn and let us ſee who we have got; 'Sdeath and Heart, why this is Celon! Run Wife directly and ſee to the Girl, ſhe may have been in the Plot, and made her Eſcape for what I know.

Ho, ho, young Gen⯑tleman have we caught you; what, becauſe I wou'd not let thee ruin my Daughter, thou and thy pretty Comrades came to cut my Throat; but I'll ſtop your Courſe I aſ⯑ſure you now;—what break into my Houſe at Midnight! O you Villain, you damn'd Dog; this is your Love too the Devil take all love Affairs I ſay.

You ſay ſo now, Sir, becauſe you're paſt 'em.

And ſo ſhalt thou be ſoon; if I don't have thee hang'd, I'll give any body leave to hang me;—go one of you and get a Halter and tye 'em all three together, lock 'em in the Barn or the Stable till by and by, and I'll ſettle Accounts with 'em all.

As I hope for Mercy—

Mercy! O yes, a deal of Mercy, thou ſhalt be hang'd, and that will prevent thy doing any more Miſchief. Come bring 'em away.

SCENE II.

To Priſon, did you ſay Mamma?

They're all confin'd in the Barn or Stable together, and that's much the ſame, your Father's de⯑termin'd to have 'em all hang'd

And Celon too?

Why does not he deſerve it Child?

I hope not, I am ſure he ne'er mean't Harm.

Here comes thy Father and Hylas, there'll be a ſtrange too do I ſuppoſe!

I fear ſo too.

So Miſs Thrifty thou'rt up I ſee;—'tis a wonder thou'ſt not been out a Wooing e'er now; but I ſuppoſe thou waits for thy Deary's coming to thee this Morning; and therefore I'll ſend the Gentleman an Invitation my⯑ſelf.—Truſty, go take ſomebody along with thee and fetch thoſe Hang-dogs to me

I hope your Worſhip will have Mercy on my poor Boy!

Yes if he deſerves it, not elſe I aſſure you.

Ah, but conſider.

I do conſider, and pity thee with all my Heart; I wou'd not have ſuch a Son for the World; and I think the ſooner you get rid of him the better.—He muſt be dealt with according to Law; and that, I fancy, will hang him.

O Law! that ever I ſhou'd have any thing to do with thee? O my poor Boy who ever thought thou wert born to be hang'd!

Hang'd! my Celon hang'd!

Hang'd, aye and thee too, for aught I know, for being his Confederate.

O ſpare his precious Life!

Get out of my Sight.

How can you plead ſo Child, for one that came to take away your Father's Life?

Her Father's Life!—no, not he poor Soul.

Oh here he comes,—now let him plead for him⯑ſelf,

a pretty ſet of Fellows truly.

Wayſt-heart how he looks; O my poor Boy

what has bewitch'd thee to bring theſe Troubles on thy poor Father's Head?

Celon!

Get away Miſs Fitchet; keep Silence till I exa⯑mine 'em one by one.—You Fellow in the black Coat, do you hear; Hem, hem.—I admit thee King's Evidence,— ſtand forth, and ſpeak like a Man, ſay what were your In⯑tentions for breaking into my Houſe ſo abruptly; but [72] mind you ſpeak the Truth, the whole Truth, and nothing but the Truth.

I will and pleaſe your Worſhip.

Well mind you do.—Proceed.

Our Intentions were, and pleaſe your Worſhip, to have plunder'd the Houſe, forc'd away your Daughter and to have murder'd all thoſe that interpos'd.

There's pretty Fellows for you, there's pretty Fellows.—Now Neighbour Hylas what do you think of your innocent Son? theſe are all his Contrivances.

Good lack, good lack-a-day, I know not what to think, I'm almoſt beſide myſelf.

If your Worſhip will pleaſe—

Hold your Tongue, Sirrah, till it comes to your Turn, if you interrupt me again, I'll ſend you back with⯑out any further Examination. Well but again;—ſay who was the Contriver of this dreadful Plot.

No one here, and pleaſe your Worſhip.

No one here?—take care, if I find thee deviate from the Truth, I'll have thee hang'd up directly—who was it then, and where is he?

He can tell you beſt

we left him and the other ſcuffling at the Door together when we two enter'd the Houſe.

Who do you mean, Celon?

I don't know his Name; I know I felt the weight of his Fury;—'twas he that gave me this Cut o' the Head.

Odds Heart how is this! was not he in the Plot?

No and pleaſe your Worſhip (if I muſt ſpeak the Truth) had it not been for him we ſhould have carry'd our Point.

Huzza! huzza! what think you of my Son now? what think you of my Son now?

I don't know what to think, this is a Point wou'd puzzle a Lord Chief Juſtice;—ſtay, ſtay, I've ſome⯑thing yet to ſtart, what Buſineſs in the Name of old Nick, cou'd he have there at that Time o' the Night?

Waiting in hopes to ſee Eddie again.

Was that all?

Yes as I hope for Mercy; — I had ſcarce been there a Moment, ere theſe Ruffians came, accompany'd with an⯑other; who (while theſe two enter'd the Houſe) they left [73] to encounter me; but I proving Conqueror, left him on the Ground; and in purſuing theſe was taken Priſoner as an Accomplice.

Is all this really true, you Sir?

Yes in good Faith, every Word.

Why then he deſerves her, were ſhe a Princeſs; here take her Boy, and a thouſand Bleſſings go with you both.

Ten thouſand Bleſſings, and Thanks in Return.

Let me give my Bleſſing too,—may you be as hap⯑py, as the King and the Queen,—odds Heart I ſhall jump out of my old Skin again.

Take this Fellow to Priſon, the other I ſet at Liberty.

I have a Demand on your Worſhip before I go; —will your Worſhip ſtand to your own Words.

Thou ſaucy Raſcal, doſt thou think a Man of Character, a Juſtice of the Corum dare break his Word? If thou ever find me breaking my Word, I'll give thee Leave to ſend me to Priſon in thy ſtead.

Then you muſt either hang Celon, or give me Leave to hang your Worſhip.

What does the Raſcal mean?

Your Worſhip promis'd when we were firſt taken, that if you did not hang him, you'd give any body Leave to hang you; now, if your Worſhip will forgive me my Sins, I'll pardon you.

'Sheart I believe he has me, and for thy Remem⯑brance I'll forgive thee, ſo get thee gone about thy Buſi⯑neſs.

I plainly ſee if a man was to be ac⯑countable for all he ſays in a Paſſion he might be hang'd preſently. Come this has been a ſtrange Day; but now we'll have nothing but Dancing and Feaſting for a Week.

Odds bud Lad thou'rt made for ever.—Madam Brainly I muſt have a Buſs and wiſh you Joy of a Son.

I'm overjoy'd too, to find that we are all deceiv'd.

And I'm overjoy'd after all my Fears to find that I am not deceiv'd, for I've got in Reality all I ever wiſh'd for.

[74]

Ah you young Rogue, you've chang'd your Tune —friend Hylas give me thy Hand, I'll make thy Son a 'Squire.

A 'Squire! hear'ſt thou that Lad? wounds and Wherrykins thou'lt be as great as a Lord by-and-by.

I'm as great already in my Opinion, at leaſt I'm as happy I'm ſure.

And I'm much happier.

Heaven bleſs you both, you've fought hard for one another; we'll have a merry Wedding on't.

Here comes Couſin Cymon; here Couſin, here Cou⯑ſin, here's Celon as great as the Lord Mayor of Lendon.

I heard of it all as I came, and ſo came hobbling hither to ſee the young Couple, and give 'em my Bleſſing too—may you live to be as old as Mathuſalem, I ſay.

Thank you, Uncle; though e'er that Time I fancy we ſhall be as weary of the World as you ſometimes ap⯑pear to be.

We're to have ſuch doings! ah the young Dog how he ſniggers;—'Sdeath I munnot call him Dog neither, that's a little too free now he's a 'Squire, didſt hear that Couſin!

This is more than you dream't I believe Couſin.

I'm glad that I'm awake to ſee it.

So am I, for I feel it in Reality.