SCENE I.

WHAT a Pleaſure there is in getting Money; cou'd we but forget we were to die, it would be the Zenith of Felicity.

Sir, Mr. Blandford is below, and deſires to ſpeak with you.

Odds ſo; I am very buſy too juſt now: Tell him to call again by-and-by;—no, no, Peſtle, Peſtle, tell him to walk up, do you hear?

I will, Sir.

What the plague does he want here again ſo ſoon? It was but Yeſterday that he was plaguing me to Death about Miſs Danbury, and if I thought he had been come again on the ſame Errand, I would have ſent him Word I was ſick. But here he comes.

Good Morning to you, Doctor.

Mr. Blandford, your very humble Servant; how do you, this dull Morning? I'Gad I was threatening to go to Bed again.

To Bed, Doctor! What before you are well up? Or have your medical Studies kept you from ſleeping all Night?

No—but I have got a naſty ſomething hanging on my Spirits.

You're ſafe enough, you know; a Dog and a Doctor, know how to chooſe their Phyſic.

An excellent Compliment!

As your Kind of Gentry know how to chooſe the beſt Wh—res.

I beg your Pardon, Doctor, there is no beſt in the Caſe; the beſt of the bad, is not worth chooſing; but if you have no more Skill in Medicines, than I have in Filles de Joye, I would not give a Fig for your Practice. Talking of the Fair, puts me in Mind of poor Miſs Dan⯑bury; never was ſo good a Heart ſo much depreſs'd: With blooming Beauty, and a Soul angelic, ſhe drags a Life of Woe, and keeps the Shield of Virtue on her Arm; while her Hand rejects with Scorn, the tempting Bribes of gay Debauchery.

What then, you young Rogue, you've try'd her, I ſuppoſe? But ſhe knew you had nothing to give her but Promiſes, and ſo thought in that Caſe ſhe might as well put on the Prude as not.

Let me tell you, Doctor, that's a damn'd ill-na⯑tured Surmiſe, and did I not think you ſpoke it more out of Raillery, than Sincerity, I ſhould for ever hold the moſt contemptible Opinion of you as a Man.

Why you did not think I was in Earneſt, did you, Ned?

No—If I had!

You'd have been for running me through the Body, I ſuppoſe; but I aſſure you the World ſays ſtrange Things of the Girl.

Aye, it is a ſtrange World, Doctor.

Nay, but from the many pitiful Tricks, that I have detected her in myſelf, I am determined to have no⯑thing to do with her.

You would have had (it is well known) if ſhe would have let you.

There's for you now! that's like her, I did ima⯑gine, indeed, (when I ceas'd to ſupport the ungrateful Huſſy, in her flaunting Expectations) ſhe would raiſe ſome ſcandalous Report or other, to hurt me in my Character and Buſineſs. Oh, the Jade! had it not been for the great Regard I had for the Father, ſhe ſhould have ſhifted for herſelf long ago.

Your Regard for her Father!

Aye, my Regard for her Father.

Why what great Regard could you have for him, when I have often heard you ſay he died five hundred Pounds in your Debt?

Why tho' he was an unfortunate Man, he was an honeſt one, as far as his Circumſtances would go.

That's one of the moſt grateful Confeſſions I ever heard you make of any Man before.

I had ever the moſt favourable Opinion of every Man, and was always more inclined to hide, than expoſe their Misfortunes.

That's well again; ſo ſhall your own Words con⯑vict you.

As how?

Why, if you were inclined to think the moſt fa⯑vourably of Man, you muſt in Reaſon think the ſame of Woman Kind.

And ſo I do.

Good again; and what has poor Miſs Danbury done, that every Thought of her is bad, and your beſt Opinion but a ſordid one?

Aye, but Facts, my dear Ned, are Facts, and the general and perpetual Complaints of the World are Cir⯑cumſtances too glaring to be overlook'd.

What the World ſays in thoſe Caſes, ought never to be regarded; for ſuch Reports generally ariſe from the inventive Goſſips of a Tea table; and there is a Species of Barbarity that reigns predominant in the Breaſts of the low-minded Vulgar. Whenever they perceive an Object of Merit, that was once their Envy, under the leaſt Misfor⯑tune, they are never ſo happy as when doing that Perſon [4] ſome ſecret Injury, or till, by ſome malignant Conſpiracy, they have reduced them to a State of Adverſity.

And can you ſay that this is her Caſe?

Yes, truly; for it is well known that Miſs Dan⯑bury was (ſcarce three Years ago) the Admiration and En⯑vy of the Country for ten Miles round, and now, the ve⯑rieſt Drab that was wont to think herſelf honoured with a Court'ſy from her, will, with a provoking Sneer, tell her to ſhorten her Furbelows; and ſince they have found her whole Dependence is on you, they have injured her, by impoſing on you ſome malicious Falſehood, on the mere Suppoſition of which, I find you are determined to com⯑pleat her Miſery.

Nay, Mr. Blandford, it is not for that entirely, but from the very great Expence ſhe has been to me of late, and as I find that hurts my Circumſtances conſiderably, it is a Duty I owe myſelf not to let her ruin me entirely. I have made her many good Offers; nay I made Intereſt for her to a Gentleman and Lady who were going to South Ca⯑rolina, where they told her ſhe would have the greateſt Op⯑portunity in the World of making her Fortune; all which ſhe ungratefully rejected; and as I am under no Manner of Obligation to her, or hers, I think I have done for her al⯑ready what hundreds would not have done; in Truth therefore ſhe muſt now ſhift for herſelf as well as ſhe can.

Poor Girl! I can't blame her; 'tis ſtrange ſo great a Tenderneſs Mr. Danbury had for her when living, that he did not make ſome Proviſion for her at his Death.

That's the Aſtoniſhment of every one, but what could a Man do that had it not in his Power?

That is ſtill more ſtrange, for every Body thought him a Man of Property.

Ah, Ned, you ſee with what Art ſome People can ſupport a falſe Reputatian, and when their Affairs come once to be laid open to Inſpection, many a worthy Family that has truſted their All in their Hands, from too good an Opinion of their Circumſtances, find too often a broken Back in the Conſequence.

Well, I wiſh the dear Creature was better provi⯑ded for, or that I had it in my Power to make her the hap⯑pieſt Woman in the Univerſe.

How wou'd you do that?

Why, I wou'd endeavour to do it, by marrying her, and ſetting her above the Frowns of the World.

And a promiſing Dame you wou'd get for your Pains.—Ah, Ned. I pity you I muſt confeſs.—But Plague on it, if you are ſo wonderfully ſmitten with the Wench, why don't you marry her.

Becauſe I am not at preſent poſſeſs'd of thoſe Re⯑quiſites, that would be eſſential to our Happineſs.

That is a little Money, I ſuppoſe.

You ſuppoſe right; wou'd the kind Powers be pleas'd to take that dear, pious, mercenary Uncle to them⯑ſelves, I ſhould be glad to fill up his Vacancy here below, without any further Conſideration.

Aye, my dear Boy, but your Uncle takes a deal of Care of his Conſtitution, and is as likely to live thirty Years longer, as yourſelf; you ſhou'd have taken better Care of the laſt five Hundred, Ned.

Why I confeſs if I had been as penurious as you, I probably might have increas'd it to a Thouſand by this Time; and neither have done myſelf nor any body elſe any Good with it.

If you had it now I don't think you wou'd do your⯑ſelf much Good with it by marrying Miſs Danbury.

You are determined, I find, to do her no Good either by Word or Deed; and therefore, Doctor, I beg you wou'd not give me any more of your cool Opinions; ſince you cannot give her a good Word, you ſhall not dare to give her a bad one in my Company without the warmeſt Reſentment.

Well, well, mighty well then; there let it drop— there let it drop; in the Name of Goodneſs may not one talk of Matrimony without having one's brains beat out.— Zounds I wiſh—I could meet with a good wife with all my Heart.

And a ſpecial good Huſband you'd make, if you thought you cou'd kill her with kindneſs.—If I thought you ſerious, now, I would help you to a good one; but what will you give me for my trouble?

Give you?—What do you call a good one tho'?

The Lady is not very handſome to be ſure, nor yet very young; but ſhe is worth a confounded deal of [6] Money I aſſure you, and ſuch a Woman can have nothing bad about her I am perſuaded, at leaſt in your Eyes.

She cannot be bad that is certain, if ſhe is rich; (for Money was never beſtow'd on any but thoſe that were good, and knew how to keep it when they had got it.) But how rich do you think the Lady may be?

Why, I have heard my Uncle ſay, that ſhe is worth Ten Thouſand Pounds at leaſt; but don't take the leaſt notice of it to him; for he wants to get her himſelf; only ſhe thinks him rather too old. — Now ſuch a middle-ag'd Man as you, wou'd be the very Thing. Beſides ſhe was aſking me who was our beſt Inoculator in this Neigh⯑bourhood. I told her I knew a very infallible one, meaning you; and ſhe has been teazing me about you ever ſince.

Odds, ſo, but that is one of the moſt lucky Circum⯑ſtances that cou'd have happen'd, in my Favour. Where does the Lady live, and I'll pay her a viſit to-morrow?

Oh no, not for the World, ſhe has boarded ſome Time in a private Family in this Neighbourhood; but as the major Part of them have not had the Smallpox, it is to be kept a profound Secret.

Sir, there is a Gentleman below, deſires to ſpeak with you.

Tell the Gentleman I'll wait on him immediately.

I'faith Ned if you can bring this matter to bear, I'll make you a Preſent the greateſt Gentleman in the Land wou'd not refuſe.

And that is a Pill, or a Doſe of Phyſic, to take when I am ſick, to make me the more ſo; for I know he has neither the Spirit or Reſolution to do any thing like a Man; the yellow Mammon has caught his Soul, and Ava⯑rice holds his Purſe Strings. I don't know what the Hopes of getting this pretended Wife may do;—but if he ſhou'd put me to the Proof, I don't know where I ſhou'd find one that would chuſe to throw herſelf away upon him. I muſt do ſomething to deceive him, hey? let me ſee, Egad I think I cou'd do very well for an Old Maid myſelf; — An excellent thought! — but what ſhall I do for a Dreſs? — a Plague on't I have Intereſt enough among the fair Sex to get ſuch a Thing as that to be ſure. — The Old Maid and her Money is the Thing yet; Bait for Gudgeons with [7] Worms, and a Miſer with Gold, and you are ſure to catch 'em. I'll e'en go after the Doctor, and tell him I am going to the Lady directly.

SCENE II.

So Ned is gone after the Lady. Ten Thouſand Pounds! a charming Sum,—nay, a Fortune; a very good Fortune of itſelf—let me ſee; Ten Thouſand Pounds; and Five Thouſand of my own, makes juſt Fifteen Thouſand Pounds;— that will certainly enable me to keep a Chariot of my own, the Thing I have been ſtriving for theſe fourteen Years: for what is a Doctor without a Chariot? the Appear⯑ance of a Chariot is the Sign of good Practice; and it is a common Remark, when the World thinks you have much, you ſhall have more; and when but little, you ſhall have leſs.

Pray walk in.

O is it you, Mr. Hierapicra? what News, what News, any more Patients?

We have juſt now loſt one, Sir.

Loſt one! how do you mean?

Dead Sir.

Dead!

I aſſure you, Sir, it it true.

O he muſt certainly have had the Itch or the King's Evil. What Noiſe is that?

Peſtle and Jerry I fancy Sir, I left them in a high Diſpute.

Peſtle and Jerry?

Yes, Sir.

I wiſh you wou'd ſend Jerry to me, I want to ſpeak to him.

I will. Sir.

The Deuce take me but I have walk'd upon Thorns and laid upon Nettle-beds ever ſince I firſt heard of this Fortune, and I am terribly afraid that Old ſly Uncle of Ned's will ſnap her up before me.

Did you want any Thing with me, Sir?

Yes, my little Jerry; your Maſter is not at home I ſuppoſe.

He was not when I came out.

Pray, Jerry, (I hope it is no ſecret) have not you a maiden Lady, of about forty, that often pays your old Maſter a Viſit?

We have, Sir.

Know you where ſhe lives?

A few Miles off.

You do not know the Name of the Place then, do you?

Why, yes I do.

Cou'd not you inform me then?

I ſhould not chooſe to do ſuch a Thing, without my Maſter's Authority.

No!—pray what could be the Conſequence?

A very bad one, Sir, for aught I know, as ſhe is a kind of a Sweet-heart of my old Maſter's, and is worth a Deal of Money; I don't know, if you ſhou'd find out where the Lady lives, but you may endeavour to rival him; the Conſequence wou'd then be very bad on my Side, I believe.

Why he ſhould never know who told me.

That he wou'd.

'Twill be impoſſible man;—he never ſhall from me.

But in the Courſe of his Examination it wou'd come to my Turn, and then I muſt confeſs, or tell him a Lie, which I will not do for you, or any Body elſe, and therefore, Sir, to avoid any Apprehenſions of that Kind, it will be the beſt Way to ſay nothing at all about it.

A ſtubborn ſon of a Gun.

You ſeem to have a great Regard for your Word, Jerry, and I applaud you for it;—though I ſhould be glad to know one Thing how⯑ever, which can't be of much Conſequence to you, or Dan⯑ger to any Body—and that is, whether the Lady keeps much Company, or no?

Very little, I believe.

Hum—ah—ſhe has a pretty good Stomach, I ſuppoſe—

Sir?

A good Stomach I ſay.

A very moderate one, and as worthy a Lady as ever was born.—What a miſerable Wretch!

Is ſhe indeed; ſhe often gives you Money then I ſuppoſe?

Sometimes, Sir—what a ſcurvy Scoundrel!

Ha!

Sir, Mr. Blandford deſires to ſpeak with you.

Odds ſo, I'm glad of that—well Jerry, your Ser⯑vant, I am glad to ſee you.

Sir, your Servant — I am glad my young Maſter is come to releaſe me, for I have been tir'd of my Compa⯑ny ſome Time. I hope he will play his Part well, and work the phyſical Jeſuit out of a few Hundreds.

Oh! here comes Ned.

Welcome, welcome, my dear Boy, welcome, what News, what News?

What News Doctor? why ſuch News I believe, as will make you compleatly happy.

Then you have ſeen the Lady.

Yes that I have, and to ſome Purpoſe; why ſhe will call upon you Tomorrow herſelf, Man.

Happy News indeed!—

But the Merrythought take me, now I think on't, if I did not forget to tell her your Name, and where you liv'd.

O lack-a-day, lack-a-day now, was there ever any Thing ſo provoking in this World?

Nay, upon ſecond Conſideration, though, I'm glad on't.

How ſo, how ſo, pray? that is ſtrange indeed!

Why, becauſe I look upon it, that were ſhe to viſit you, the Buſineſs would be half done.

So much the better, ſo much the better, Man.

And pray what am I to have for my Trouble?

Plague on't, have not I told you I would make you a handſome Preſent?

Yes. But what Surety have I for that but your own bare Word, which I would not take for a Shilling, where Money is concern'd. I muſt have your Note, Doc⯑tor, I muſt have your Note.

And ſo you ſhall: I will give you a Note of five Pounds on Demand, from the very Moment ſhe conſents to marry me.

A Note of five Pounds; ſcandalous and pitiful! —Wretch, Devil! why thou art a very Skinflint;—five Pounds for ten Thouſand' Oh, horrible, horrible! the very Summit of Meanneſs!—A Gentleman who knew what Influence I had over the Lady, but this very Day, offered me two hundred Pounds, only to be introduced to her—Five Pounds for ten Thouſand! Doctor, your Ser⯑vant.

Nay, but Mr. Blandford, hear me, hear me,

Was there ever ſuch a hot-headed Raſcal; 'Sdeath if I ſhould loſe her now. He talks of an Offer of two hundred Pounds. A great Sum! A very great Sum! But ten Thouſand!—I muſt outbid the Gen⯑tleman I believe; for if I ſhould read of Miſs Such-a-one, a maiden Lady of ten thouſand Pounds being married to— oh, I ſhall go diſtracted; the very Thought of loſing ſuch a Prize is worſe than being the next to the 10,000l. Lot⯑tery Ticket—But he is gone—Where's Peſtle

Peſtle! Peſtle!—From Fears and Apprehenſions I cannot keep a Bone of me ſtill. Peſtle! I ſay; the Devil pound the Fellow, he can't hear—Peſ—t—le—

Who calls?

Peſtle!

I, I, I'm a coming, Sir.

Come along, then, you deaf-headed Booby.

Yes, Sir.

Yes, Sir—what a Plague is come to the Fellow? Run after Mr. Blandford, and tell him that I beg he would come back—run, run.

O, yes, Sir it has been done ſome Time.

Done! what's done, you Puppy, you? what are you talking of?

Sir—

I ſhall go diſtracted,—go to Mr. Blandford,—no, no, no, go to the Devil you hammer-headed Raſcal, and I'll go myſelf.

Poor Maſter is in a Paſſion, I doubt, and talks of going to the Devil, but mortar me if I follow him.

SCENE I.

I'M glad my fair one approves of my intended Stratagem, however; but her Father's Letter aſtoniſhes me; it is ſtrange ſhe never ſhew'd it me before; he informs her, (but three Hours before his Death) that he had provided for her very handſomely; inſtead of that we find her deſti⯑tute and forlorn; and, by what I underſtand, Pittem was the only perſon that attended him in his lateſt Hours. 'Sdeath, there muſt have been foul Play. Pittem is either an errant Knave, or her Father muſt have deceived her; but when I compare the two Characters, the firſt Surmiſe carries with it many glaring Circumſtances, and the latter ſeems improbable; I will not reſt till I am ſatisfied.

Sir, my Maſter deſired I would give this Letter into your own Hands.

Very well—is he at home?

Yes, Sir.

[12]Ho! ho! have I touch'd you my little Skin-flint?—This is an excellent Stratagem I find; but there muſt be no Time loſt in this Affair; 'tis the beſt Time to catch a Fox when he is hungry; and ſo I'll be with you, my litle Doc⯑tor, in a Crack.

SCENE II.

So Peſtle, you ſaw Mr. Blandford?

Yes, Sir.

And what did he ſay to you?

Mortar me, Sir, if I heard him ſay any Thing at all; I ſaw him open his Mouth and nod his Head, as much as to ſay it was very well;—

But did not he ſeem pleas'd?

I did not ſtay to ſee, Sir, 'cauſe I thought it would be ill Manners.

Poh, Pox, you Blockhead you!

What do you ſay, Sir, has he got the Small Pox? —poor Soul he had better have been inoculated.

Go and ſee who is at the Door, make haſte,

What a blunder-headed Puppy 'tis;—his Deafneſs is of little Inconveniency to me, however;—for as Secrets are generally whiſper'd, there is but little Danger of his hearing any, and leſs of his telling 'em; and this Coun⯑try is the very Mart for Scandal.

Sir, Mr. Blandford deſires to ſpeak with you.

Tell him to walk up.

Plague on it what a flutter I'm in, were I going to receive a Challenge I could not be worſe. But here he comes.

Mr. Blandford, I'm ſorry I made —

Pray Doctor make no Ceremony, there is no Oc⯑caſion for it.

I'm glad on't; I was afraid I ſhould have found you as I left you, full of Gun-powder.

No, no, Doctor, your Letter ſtopt all Fear of Ex⯑ploſion.

To tell you the Truth, I was under great Appre⯑henſions of your accepting of the Gentleman's Propoſal that you told me of.

No, Doctor, though I received a letter from the Gentleman (ſince I ſaw you laſt) importuning me in the moſt preſſing Manner, to introduce him; yet, from the Regard I bear you, I was determined to give you the Pre⯑ference, and intended to have waited a Day or two till you had better conſider'd the Matter.

That was acting the Friend indeed! but to the Purpoſe my dear Boy; you read my Letter I preſume?

I did.

And have you any Objection to a couple of Hun⯑dreds?

Not the leaſt.

Then I think I have nothing to fear; no Doubt of Succeſs.

None in the World.

Flea me, but I ſhall think every Hour an Age till I ſee her.

So I ſuppoſe.

Had I not better go give her an Invitation my⯑ſelf; as I am an utter Stranger to the Lady, ſhe'll undoubt⯑edly expect that Compliment?

I beg you would not think of ſuch a Thing, but bleſs your Stars that ſhe has conſented to viſit you; for as I have been acquainted with her from my Infancy, I think myſelf a tolerable Judge of her Diſpoſition.

Well, I ſhall be adviſed by you.

If you hope to ſucceed, I beg you would; one material Thing I ſhould adviſe you to, that is, not to make above twelve Hours Courtſhip on't, for I have often heard her ſay ſhe could never bear to be courted above a Day. And this Reſolution ſhe has taken (I am informed) from being croſt in her firſt Love.

That is an excellent Notion, I aſſure her;—for I ſhould hate one of your plaguy long Courtſhips myſelf; to have an hundred Fallings-out, and Fallings-in, in a Week; flying like Cats at one-another To-day, and breaking [14] Heart to make it up again To-morrow. 'Sdeath I long to ſee her.

I'll cure you of your Longing To-morrow.

To-morrow?

Aye, To-morrow.

O brave? it will be neceſſary to know what Time To-morrow, that I may be the better prepar'd for her Re⯑ception?

About Six, I fancy.

What, in the Morning?

No hardly, Doctor; ha, ha, ha, ſurely you'll be able to ſurvive your Impatience till the Afternoon.

You'll come with her then, won't you?

Not I, indeed; you'll court beſt by yourſelves— Well, Doctor, your Servant, I've got a little Buſineſs to do for my Uncle, and muſt be gone; I ſhall hardly ſee you a⯑gain, till you have ſeen the Lady.

Bye, bye, well Succeſs attend thee.

But Doctor, Doctor; there is one ma⯑terial Matter to ſettle before I go;—the Note, Doctor, the Note.

O lack a day! right, very right as you ſay.—I was in Hopes he had forgot that.

And another Thing I have to hint to you, which will prove more to your Advantage than mine.

I'm all Attention.

You muſt know I owe the Sum of 200£. to Mrs. Buzby —

Buzby!

That is the Lady's Name;—now I ſhall give the Note to her, and pay off my Debt; and if ſhe ſhould deſire you to make it into Money To-morrow, to ſhew her what a Principle you bear, you may pay it her, which will be only paying to receive again you know, Doctor.

With all my Heart; follow me into the next Room and I'll give you the Note directly.

SCENE III.

Lie thou there

I'll e'en reſt me a little—Mercy upon me, what a Parcel of Things have I got! a Gown from one, a Petti⯑coat from another, Ruffles and Caps, and the Plague knows what from another.—Odds my Life, but here comes Peſtle.

Ah, Maſter Jerry; what is your Load too much for you; or are you (like the Man in the Story Book) praying to Jacob to carry it for you?

To Jacob? a pretty Story indeed—to Jove, you Fool you.

To Job?

To Jove, I ſay.

To Jove! ha, ha, ha; to Jove indeed, where will you find ſuch a word in the Bible?

In the Bible?—I'm wrong too I believe, I ſhould have ſaid Harclus.

Aye, in the Bible.

What do you make a Story Book of the Bible?— Pray let us have no more of your Nonſenſe; what do you think of your Maſter's being marry'd To-morrow;—how do you like that Story?

Why very well if it ſhould prove a true one, and I believe there is ſomething in it too! if he ſhould get him a Wife, I hope ſhe will teach him to keep a better Houſe than he does at preſent;—our Bellies and Diſhes are gene⯑rally empty.

I hate ſuch mean ſpirited Chaps; I'd ſooner take a Voyage to the Indies than ſerve ſuch a miſerable Devil.

Why I have ſome Thought of leaving him to tell you the Truth, and ſet up for myſelf.

Set up for what?

Why a Noculator, a Doctor.

You! a Doctor? ha, ha, ha, you might ſpread the Infection, I believe, but you could never cure it, I am ſure.

You are miſtaken, Jerry, you are miſtaken, I have got the Secret.

The Secret! what of poiſoning People? that's a common Secret enough, any body knows that.

I wiſh I had the poiſoning of you for your ill Opinion. Pray why may not I hope for Succeſs as well as my Maſter? once upon a Time he knew no more than myſelf.

Nay, as for that Matter, I don't think he knows much more now.

Why, as you ſay, I know a great deal; I had as good Learning as ever he had; I learnt Multiplica⯑tion, Extraction—Mortar me, but here he comes.

Mortar me but here I go then, if that's the Caſe

and ſo Mr. Peſtle, your Servant.

Where have you been, you Blockhead, all this Time? I have wanted you to go of a hundred Errands for me.

Sir, I was here.

You was here, pray what Buſineſs had you here?

I—I—I—only—Sir, you've got a Hole in your Stocking.

And what's that to you?

No, Sir, no, it's nothing new.

You impudent Scoundrel you, I'll break your Head —what do you mean by that?

Nothing, Sir.

Nothing, Sir?—I believe you've more Meaning than you ſeem to have

but ſince you've put me in Mind on't, you may as well go and buy me a new Pair;— Here's two Shillings, let 'em be good ones, do you hear,— Stay, here's Sixpence more. I may as well have the beſt Pair at once, now I am about it, eſpecially as I ſhall have Company Tomorrow.

I ſuppoſe, thinks I'll be a mighty great Friend to him now, for this Recommendation—No, no, the Devil a Bit, I've no Notion of hurting myſelf by too much Good Nature. But if my Wife ſhould cuckold me, I ſhall get [17] myſelf finely laugh'd at: — Never mind that, I ſhall have a Salve for that Sore,

SCENE I. A Room in Brainly's Houſe.

ALong 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 Pug; that's where ſhe gets her Poſies from I ſuppoſe, 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 guilty 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 ſa [...] 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 [...]ountry, that 'Squ [...]re [...]rainly's Daughter is cour [...]d 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.

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 I ife, 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 uneaſiſneſs:

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.

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'ſt 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 ſigh'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 lofty 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.

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?

Eddie. 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 ore; 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 aſſurd 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 bold to tell you when you don't do right.

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.

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 London.

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.