[] DR. LAST IN HIS CHARIOT.

ACT I. SCENE I.

WELL, but, Mrs. Prudence, don't be in a paſſion.

Mr. Wag, I will be in a paſſion; and it's enough to put any one in a paſſion to have to do with ſuch indiſcreet people as your maſter. I believe he's out of his ſenſes for my part.

He's in love, Mrs. Prudence, and that's half way.

So often as he has been forbid either to come or ſend after my miſtreſs, to perſiſt, in ſpite of all our cautions and interdictions—

He does not come or ſend, child.

No—what do you do here then, and be hang'd to you?

I only bring a letter.

Very pretty jeſting, truly. I was afraid that ſome of the family wou'd take notice of my[2] talking to you in the hall—But, in truth, here is no place of ſafety in the houſe; for now I've brought you up here, I'm afraid every moment of my maſter's ſurprizing us.

Does the old gentleman always keep the houſe then?

Keep the houſe!—he generally keeps his chamber, and very often his bed. You muſt know he's one of thoſe folks that are always ſick, continually complaining, ever taking phy⯑ſic, and, in reality, never ailing any thing. I'm his nurſe, with a plague to him, and he worries me out of my life.

Wou'd I were ſick upon the ſame con⯑ditions.

Come, come, no fooling.—You ſaid you had a letter from your maſter to my young lady: give it me, and I'll deliver it to her.

There it is, my dear.

But am not I a very naughty wench to be acceſſary, in this manner, to a clandeſtine correſpondence?

The billet is perfectly innocent, I can aſſure you; and ſuch as your lady will read with pleaſure.

Well, now go away.

I won't, without you give me a kiſs.

Poh, you're a fool.

I won't, poz—

Then you may ſtay there all night.

Mrs. Prue—come.

Nay, if it's worth having, it's worth fetching.

Say you ſo, my girl—Thus, then, I approach thoſe charming lips.

Confuſion! away, away, away, begone, as quick as you can, or we're both ruin'd.

Ay! how! what the devil's the matter?

My maſter's bell, my maſter's bell. He rings again! down the back ſtairs, and let your⯑ſelf out at the ſtreet door. I can't ſtay to talk to you any longer now—adieu.

Hey, what a ring⯑ing's here! one wou'd think the houſe was on fire.

SCENE II.

O lord, O lord, here's uſage for a poor helpleſs ſick man! There's nobody in the houſe ſure; there can be nobody; they've all deſerted me, and left me alone to expire without aſſiſt⯑ance. I made ſhift to muſter up ſufficient ſtrength to crawl thus far; and now, I can die here.

Mercy on me, what's the matter with me! I'm ſuddenly ſeiz'd with a ſhivering fit!—And now I burn like a red-hot coal of fire!—And now again—ſhiver, ſhiver, ſhiver, as if my blood was turn'd into ſnow water!—Prudence, Nancy, Mrs. Ailwood, love, wife! they're all deaf! and my bell is not loud enough neither. Prudence,

SCENE III.

Here, Sir, here: what's the matter?

Ah, you jade, you ſlut.

The deuce take your impatience; you hurry people ſo, you have made me break my head againſt the window-ſhutter.

You baggage, you—'tis above an hour—

Dear me, how it ſmarts!

Above an hour that I have been wanting ſomebody.

Oh! oh!

Hold your tongue, huſſey, till I ſcold you.

Very pretty, in troth, after the blow I have got.

You have left me to bawl and call till I'm hoarſe again.

And you have made me get a great bump on my forehead; ſo put one againſt t'other and we're quit.

How, Mrs. Impudence!

If you ſcold, I'll cry.

To deſert me in ſuch a manner!

Oh! oh! oh!

Are you at it again?—Why, you pert, brazen, audacious, provoking, abominable, in⯑ſolent—Shan't I be allowed to have the pleaſure of finding fault with you?

You may have that pleaſure, if you will; and it's as fair that I ſhou'd have the pleaſure of crying, if I like it.

Well, well, have done.—Take away theſe things, and get me my medicine. It's three hours and two minutes ſince I took it; and don't you know the preſcription ſays every three hours? I feel the bad effects of my omiſ⯑ſion already.

Lord, Sir, why will you drench your⯑ſelf with ſuch naſty ſlops? One wou'd think the phyſicians and apothecaries cou'd find ſuf⯑ficient ſtuff for your craving bowels; but you muſt go to the quacks too; and this Doctor Laſt, with his univerſal balſamic reſtorative cor⯑dial, that turns water into aſſes milk.

That's a good girl, go on.

Methinks if one was to take phyſic, one wou'd rather chuſe to go to a regular phyſician than to a quack.

And why ſo, my dainty adviſer?

For the ſame reaſon that, if I wanted a pair of ſhoes, I wou'd rather go to an eſtabliſhed ſhoemaker, than lay out my money at a York⯑ſhire warehouſe.

If I hear any more of your impudence, I'll break your head to ſome purpoſe, it ſhan't be a bump in the forehead will ſerve you.

Eh, you old fanciful, fooliſh—

Go and call my daughter Nancy to me, I have ſomething to ſay to her.

She's here, Sir.

SCENE IV.

Come here, Nancy; I want to ſpeak with you.

What's your pleaſure, Sir?

Stay; before I ſay or do any thing fur⯑ther, I'll go into the next room and take my medicine—I ſhou'd be a great fool to forget that.

Ay, Sir, ſo you wou'd.

I ſhould, indeed, for it does me a prodi⯑gious deal of good; though I muſt take a little cooling phyſick too, in order to correct the juices.

SCENE V.

Prudence.

Madam.

Look on me a little.

Well, I do look on you.

Prudence.

Well, what wou'd you have with Pru⯑dence?

Can't you gueſs?

Some diſcourſe, I ſuppoſe, about our new acquaintance, Mr. Hargrave; for you have done nothing but talk of him for this week paſt.

And can you blame me for the good opinion I have of him?

Who ſays I do?

Or would you have me inſenſible to the tender proteſtations which he makes me?

Heav'n forbid.

Pr'ythee tell me now, Prudence, don't you really think there was ſomething of deſtiny in the odd adventure that brought us acquainted?

Certainly.

Was there not ſomething uncommonly brave and gentleman-like in that action of reſcu⯑ing me without knowing any thing of me?

Very genteel and gentleman-like, indeed.

And was it poſſible for any one to make a more generous uſe of it?

Impoſſible.

Then, Prue, he has a moſt charming perſon.—Don't you think ſo?

Who can think otherwiſe?

Something very noble in his air?

Very noble.

Then he talks like an angel.

Ay, and writes like an angel too, I dare ſwear, ma'am; as this letter will ſhew.

From Mr. Hargrave! You wicked girl, why wou'd you keep it from me ſo long?

Well, ma'am, what does the gentleman ſay?

Every thing, dear Prue; every thing in the world that I cou'd wiſh or deſire. He ſays he can't live happy without me, and that he will, by the means of a common friend, immediately make a formal propoſal for me to my father.

But do you think, ma'am, that your father will liſten?

He can have no objection, Prudence.

No, ma'am. But your mother-in-law may, who governs him, and, I'm ſure, bears[8] you no good will. The beſt joke is, ſhe thinks ſhe has wheedled me into her intereſts—

Huſh! here's my father.

SCENE VI.

Nancy child, I have a piece of news to tell you, that, perhaps, you little expect. Here's a match propos'd to me for you. You ſmile at that! Ah, nature, nature! By what I perceive then, I need not aſk you if you are willing?

I am ready to ſubmit to your commands in every thing, Sir.—Dear Prue, this is beyond my hopes.

Mr. Hargrave has kept his word, ma⯑dam.

What are you whiſpering about?

Nothing, Sir,

Well, child, at any rate I am glad to find you in ſo complying a diſpoſition: for, to tell you the truth, I was reſolved on the thing before I mentioned it to you, and had even given my word to put it as expeditiouſly as poſſible into execution.

I am ſure you are very much in the right of it, Sir; it's the wiſeſt thing you ever did in your life.

I have not ſeen the gentleman yet, but I am told he will be every way to the ſatisfaction of us both.

That, Sir, I am certain of, for I have ſeen him already.

Have you?

Since your conſent, Sir, encourages me to diſcover my inclinations, you muſt know that good fortune has lately brought us acquainted; and, that the propoſal which has been made to you is the effect of that eſteem which, at the firſt interview, we conceived for one another.

That's more than I knew, but no matter; the ſmoother things go on the better I am pleaſed.—He is but a little man I am told.

He's well made, Sir.

Agreeable in his perſon?

Very agreeable.

In his addreſs?

Perfectly elegant.

Really that's much—Very much upon my word, that a man of low birth, and bred up to a mean profeſſion—for, tho' the doctor has now fifteen thouſand pounds in the funds, and gets eight or nine hundred a year, he owes all to his medicinal ſecrets.

Sir!

At leaſt ſo Mr. Traſh, the bookſeller that vends his medicines, tells me; thro' whoſe mediation, indeed, this propoſal is made.

Mr. Traſh! Has Mr. Hargrave any thing to do then—

Hargrave! who the devil's he? I am talking of the perſon you are to marry, Dr. Laſt, whoſe cordial has done me ſo much ſervice. It ſeems he is a widower, and has a mind to get a ſecond wife that may do him ſome credit; ſuch as his worldly circumſtances intitle him to.

Well, but my dear Sir—

Yes, child, I know it's very well—The doctor is to be brought here to-day to be in⯑troduced[10] to me, and I am really concern'd that I appointed Dr. Coffin, Dr. Skeleton, and Dr. Bulruddery, to hold a conſultation upon my caſe this morning; for I have found ſo much benefit from Dr. Laſt's medicine, that I think he will be the propereſt perſon to find out what's the matter with me.

Well but, Sir, give me leave to tell you that Dr. Laſt was very far from my thoughts when we began this converſation. In ſhort, papa, all this while you have been talking of one perſon and I of another.

Poh, poh, madam, make yourſelf eaſy, my maſter can have no ſuch ridiculous deſign as he has been mentioning to you—Marry a young lady of family and fortune to a ſcoundrel quack!

And what buſineſs have you to be meddling, impudence?

No buſineſs at all, Sir—But, if you are really ſerious in your deſign about this marriage, give me leave to aſk you, what can have put it into your head?

You have nothing to do with that—I have told the girl the party I propoſe for her is rich; but, if you muſt know what moſt in⯑clin'd, and, indeed, determin'd me, as it were, to accept of Dr. Laſt for a ſon-in-law, is the number of invaluable ſecrets he poſſeſſes; and this alliance will intitle me to take his medicines gratis, as my various infirmities may require—a thing that we ought all to conſider, my laſt year's apothecary's bill amounting to two hundred and nineteen pounds, four ſhillings and eleven pence.

A very pretty reaſon for marrying your daughter to a quack indeed!—But, after all, Sir, tell me, upon your honour, now, does any thing ail you?

Eh! how! any thing ail me!

Ay Sir, are you ſick in earneſt; and, if ſo, what's the matter with you?

It's my misfortune not to know—wou'd to Heav'n I did. But, to cut ſhort all theſe im⯑pertinences, look you, daughter, I lay my com⯑mands upon you to prepare yourſelf to receive the huſband I propoſe for you.

And I, madam, on my part, command you to have nothing to do with him.

Why, you impudent ſlut, ſhall a cham⯑bermaid take the liberty—

She ſhan't marry the quack.

Shan't ſhe! we'll ſee that, if I get near enough to lay my cane acroſs your ſhoulders.

Dear Sir—

Oh, don't hinder him, madam; give him leave to come; he's welcome to do his worſt.

If I lay hold of you—

I ſay I won't let you do a fooliſh thing if I can help it.

Come hither, come hither,

Nancy, ſtop her there, don't let her paſs.

I believe no father but yourſelf ever thought of ſuch a thing.

Help me to catch her, daughter, or I'll never give you my bleſſing.

Never mind him, madam.

An audacious, impudent, inſolent—

Ay, ay, you may abuſe me if you pleaſe; but I won't give my conſent to the match for all that.

Cockatrice, jade, ſlut.

Oh, oh, I can ſupport no longer, ſhe has kill'd, ſhe has murder'd me. Falls into his chair.

Your humble ſervant, ſweet Sir—Come away, madam.

Love! Wife! Mrs. Ailwou'd!

SCENE VII.

How now!

Oh, lamb, lamb, come hither if you love me.

What's the matter with my poor dear?

Help me, ſweeteſt.

I will help thee; what's the matter?

Lamb!

Well, my heart?

They have been teazing and fretting me here out of the ſmall portion of life and ſpirit I have left.

No, ſweet, I hope not. Who has anger'd thee?

That jade Prudence—She is grown more ſaucy and impudent than ever.

Don't put yourſelf in a paſſion with her, my ſoul.

I don't believe I ſhall ever recover it.

Yes, yes, compoſe yourſelf.

She has been contradicting me—

Don't mind her.

And has had the impudence to tell me I'm not ſick, when you know, my lamb, how it is with me.

I know, my heart, very well, you are feeble and weak—Heav'n help thee!

That jade will bring me to my grave. She is the cauſe of half the phlegm I breed; and I have deſir'd, a hundred and a hundred times, that you wou'd turn her off.

My child, there are no ſervants but have their faults, and we muſt endure their bad qualities, that we may have the uſe of their good ones. However, I will give Mrs. Prudence a lecture for her impertinence, I aſſure you—Who's there? Prue, Prudence, I ſay.

SCENE VIII.

Did you call me, madam?

Come hither, miſtreſs—What is the meaning that you fret and thwart your maſter, and put him into paſſions?

Who, I, madam! Bleſs my ſoul, I don't know what you mean: I'm ſure, my ſtudy, morning, noon and night, is how to pleaſe and obey him.

Don't believe her, my dear; ſhe's a liar; ſhe neither pleaſes nor obeys me, and has be⯑haved in the moſt inſolent manner.

Well, my ſoul, I'm ſure what you ſay is right; but compoſe yourſelf.—Look you, Prudence, if ever you provoke your maſter again, I'll turn you out of doors.—Here give me his pillows, and help me to ſettle him in his chair—He ſits I know not how—Pull your night-cap over your ears, my dear. There's nothing gives people cold ſo much as letting wind in at their ears.

Ah, my love, I ſhall never be able to repay all the care you take of me.

Raiſe yourſelf a little, that I may put this under you—this behind your back—and this to lean your head upon.

And this to comfort your brains.

You curſed jade, do you want to ſtifle me?

SCENE IX.

Hold, hold, what did ſhe do to you?

Do to me! the ſerpent.—She'll be the death of me if you continue to keep her in the houſe.

Well but, jewel, you are too apt to flurry yourſelf.

My ſweet, you are the only comfort I have; and, in order to requite your tenderneſs, in the beſt manner I am able, I have reſolv'd, as I have told you, to make my will.

Ah, don't talk to me in that man⯑ner, don't, Mr. Ailwou'd, I beſeech you, unleſs you have a mind to break my heart.

Alas, my love, we are all mortal; but don't cry, Biddy, for you'll make me weep too.

Oh! oh! oh!

Nay, deareſt—

You ſaid ſomething of your will, did'n't you?

I deſir'd you wou'd ſpeak to your attor⯑ney about it.

Yes; but I cannot ſpeak to him about any ſuch thing; it wou'd cut me to the heart.

It muſt be done, Biddy.

No, no, no.—However, I have de⯑ſired him to come hither to-day, and you may ſpeak to him about it yourſelf.

I wou'd fain be inform'd in what manner I may cut off my children, and leave all to you.

Alas, my dear, if you ſhou'd be taken away, I'll ſtay no longer in the world.

My only concern, when I die, will be that I never had a child by you; and Dr. Bul⯑ruddery, the Iriſh phyſician, promis'd me I ſhould have twins.

But do you think, my dear, that you will be able to cut off your two daughters and leave me all?

If not my landed eſtate, at any rate I can leave you my ready money; and, by way of precaution, I will make over to you immediate⯑ly, four thouſand pounds which I have in the three per cents, and bonds for near the ſame ſum, which I lent to Sir Timothy Whiſky.

I will have nothing to do with them indeed, Mr. Ailwou'd; you ſhan't put them into my hands I aſſure you; all the riches in the world will be nothing to me if I loſe you.—How much do you ſay you have in the three per cents?

Four thouſand pounds, my love.

To talk to me of money when I am depriv'd of the only perſon with whom I cou'd enjoy it!—And how much more in bonds?

About the ſame ſum, ſweet—but don't take on ſo Biddy, pray now don't, you'll throw yourſelf into ſome illneſs; and to have us both ſick—

SCENE X.

Sir, there are the three doctors below, in the parlour, that were to call upon you this morning.

Ay, they are come to conſult upon my caſe. I'm ſorry I ſpoke to them, but it's too late now.

And there's another gentleman at the door, in a chariot, with Mr. Traſh, the book⯑ſeller, who deſir'd me to tell you he had brought Doctor Laſt.

I hope the gentlemen in the parlour did not ſee him.

No, Sir, no.

Very well, then ſhew the phyſician's up.—Do you, my love, go and entertain Dr. Laſt till I can come to you.—I will diſpatch theſe as ſoon as I can, but one muſt keep up the forms of civility.

SCENE XI.

Mr. Ailwou'd, your ſervant. I have obey'd your commands, you ſee; and am come, with my brothers Skeleton and Bulruddery, to have a conſultation upon your caſe.—How do you find yourſelf this morning?

Pray, gentlemen, beſeated.—Why, really, doctor, I find myſelf but very indifferent.

How do you ſleep, Sir?

Very indifferently, doctor; chiefly broken ſlumbers.

And pray, how is your appetite?

Indifferent, very indifferent, indeed. I made ſhift to get down a couple of diſhes of chocolate this morning in bed; about two hours after I had ſome tea and toaſt with my wife; juſt now I ſwallow'd, with much difficulty, a baſon of ſoup; and I believe I ſhall hardly take any thing more till dinner.

But, Mr. Ailwou'd, what are your chief complaints?

Really, doctor, I am afraid my diſorder is a complication. Sometimes I think it is the gout, ſometimes the rheumatiſm, ſometimes the dropſy, and ſometimes I feel myſelf in a high fever: however, gentlemen, Doctor Coffin here has been long my good friend and phyſician, and, by the help of the intelligence he can give you about my conſtitution, your art and expe⯑rience may perhaps enable you to find out what's[18] the matter with me; ſo I leave you to your con⯑ſultation. Gentlemen your ſervant.

Stay, doctor, I'll take it up for you.

Sir, I thank you;—but, I think, there was another dropt?

No, there was'nt—

Why,—I have but two.

But two!—Oh! hoh!

SCENE XII.

Brother Coffin, ſhall I trouble you for a pinch of your—

Havannah, I ſee.

Brought me from thence by a captain, who aſſiſted in taking the place.

Deviliſh ſtrong.

I have often, Dr. Skeleton, had it in my head to aſk ſome of the faculty, what can be the reaſon that when a man happens to ſneeze all the company bows?

Sneezing, Dr. Bulruddery, was a mor⯑tal ſymptom that attended a peſtilential diſeaſe, which formerly depopulated the republic of Athens; ever ſince, when that convulſion oc⯑curs, a ſhort ejaculation is offered up, that the ſneezing or ſternuting party, may not be afflicted with the ſame diſtemper.

Upon my conſcience, a very learned account! ay, and a very civil inſtitution too. I can't help thinking, doctor, but the gentle⯑men [19] of our profeſſion muſt arrive much better in them there foreign parts, than at home: now, becauſe why, one hears of plagues and peſtilences, and ſuch like kind of diſorders that attack a whole nation at once. Now, here, you know, we are obliged to pick up patients one by one, juſt as a body can get them.

Ay, doctor; and, ſince the great increaſe of this town, the ſick lie ſo ſcattered, that one pair of horſes are ſcarce ſufficient for a phyſician but in moderate practice.

True; why, there was yeſterday, the firſt pulſe I felt belonged to a lad with the meaſles, in Dean's-yard, Weſtminſter: from thence I ſet out between ſeven and eight, my wig freſh powdered, and my horſes in ſpirits; I turned at Charing Croſs for the New Buildings; then run through the Holbourn diviſion, croſſed the Fleet-market, and penetrated into the city as far as Whitechapel; then, made a ſhort trip to the wife of a ſaleſman, who had the gout in her ſtomach, at Wapping; from thence, re⯑turned through Cornhill, Temple-Bar, and the Strand, and finiſhed my laſt preſcription, be⯑tween five and ſix, for a tradeſman in Cock⯑ſpur-ſtreet, who had burſt a vein in hallooing at the Brentford election.

Upon my conſcience, a long tour.

Long! Why, upon the moſt moderate calculation, I could not, before I ſat down to my ſoup, have run up leſs than thirty pair of ſtairs; and my horſes muſt have trotted, taking in croſs-ſtreets and turnings, at leaſt, eighteen miles and three quarters.

Without doubt. But you was talk⯑ing of Brentford.—Don't you look upon a con⯑teſted[20] election as a good thing to the faculty, doctor?

If you mean to us of the college, Dr. Bulruddery, little or nothing: if, indeed, there ſhould happen to be warm work at the huſt⯑ings, the corporation of ſurgeons may pick up ſome practice, tho' I don't look upon any of theſe public tranſactions as of any great uſe to our body, in general. Lord-mayor's day, in⯑deed, has its merit.

Yes; that turns to account.

Dr. Doſeum and I, were making, t'o⯑ther morning, at Batſon's, a ſhort calculation of what value that feſtival might be to the whole phyſical tribe.

Is it a ſecret to what you made it amount?

Why; what with colds caught on the water before dinner, repletion and indigeſtion at dinner, inebriety after dinner, (not to men⯑tion the ball in the evening) we made that day, and its conſequences, for you know, there are fine foundations laid for future diſorders, eſpe⯑cially if it turns out an eaſterly wind.—

Does that make any great difference?

Infinite;—for when they come out of the hall, in a fine perſpiration, from the heat of the room, and exerciſe, ſhould the wind miſs them in croſſing Cateaton-ſtreet, its ſure to lay hold of them in turning the corner into Cheap⯑fide.—

Without doubt.

We eſtimated the whole profit to phy⯑ſicians, ſurgeons, apothecaries, chymiſts, drug⯑giſts, and nurſes, at eleven thouſand ſix hundred ſeventy-three pounds fourteen ſhillings and three-pence three farthings.

SCENE XIII.

Gentlemen, I beg pardon for this inter⯑ruption; but you have been conſulting upon my caſe, and I have ſome particular reaſons for coming thus ſuddenly, to deſire to know what opinion you have yet been able to form?

Come, Sir.

No, Sir; pray do you ſpeak.

Before my ſenior! pray excuſe me.

Doctor—

The devil burn myſelf if I do.

Nay; pray, gentlemen, leave theſe cere⯑monies; and, if you have been able to form any opinion—inſtruct me.

Why, really Sir, to tell you the truth—Brother Skeleton.

We have not yet, with all the obſerva⯑tions we have been able to make upon your caſe and complaints—I ſay, Sir,—and, after the moſt abſtruſe diſquiſitions, we have not as yet been able—to form any opinion at all.

Well, this is all I want to be acquainted with; becauſe, if you have not been able to form any opinion, I have been happy enough to meet with a phyſician that has.—Pray, Sir, do me the favour to walk in here.

SCENE XIV.

This, gentlemen, is Dr. Laſt; and he aſſures me, that my diſorder is a confirmed jaundice.

A jaundice!—ha, ha, ha.

What do you grin at?—I ſays, he has the janders, and I'll uphold it.—I'll lay you fifty pound he has the janders, and the gentle⯑man ſhall hold the ſtakes himſelf.

Well, but, Mr. Ailwou'd, this is altoge⯑ther ridiculous. Did you ever ſee a man of your colour with the jaundice?

Why, that's true;

every one tells me that I have a very florid com⯑plexion; now, the jaundice gives a yellow hue: will you be ſo good as to explain that?

Well, ſo I can, but not for the doc⯑tors.—If I does it, its all intirely to oblige you.

We ſhall hear how the impudent raſcal will bring himſelf off.

There are two ſorts of janders; the yallar, and the grey.

The black, I believe, you mean, ho⯑ney.

No, I don't.

But you muſt, Sir; there is no ſuch thing as the grey jaundice.

Oh! gentlemen, the doctor means the iron-grey, and that's almoſt black, you know.

They only does this to put me out now, becauſe I'm no collegian.

Well, pray, doctor, go on with your ex⯑planation.

Well, I ſays then;

I won't talk with⯑out you minds;—the yallar janders, I ſay, is,—the yallar janders is, as if ſo be—

Why, you were talking of the grey jaundice this moment.

No I was'nt, I did'nt ſay a word of the grey janders.—Did I, Mr. Ailwood?—It's the yallar janders.—I knows well enough what I'm about, if you'll let me alone.

Well, what of the yallar janders?

Why, I won't tell you.—I won't ſay a word more now; if you thinks to profit you're miſtaken; you ſhan't learn nothing from me.

You're a bloody impudent fellow.

I does my cures no purchaſe no pay; and which of you can ſay that?—

Many a one of them comes to ax my ad⯑vice and aſſiſtance, when they don't know what to do themſelves.

Come, come, friend, we know you.

Well, and I knows you.—Pray, Dr. Coffin, did'n't you attend one Mrs. Greaves, a tallow chandler's widow, that lodg'd at the pork ſhop in Fetter-lane; and didn't ſhe ſend for me after you gave her over?

Yes; and ſhe died in two days.

Well,—ſo ſhe did;—but that was no fault of mine, ſhe ſhou'd have ſent for me firſt. What cou'd I do for her, after you had kill'd the poor dear ſoul?

But, Mr. Ailwou'd, we are come here to conſult upon your caſe; and if you permit us, we are willing.

O! nothing I deſire ſo much; and to aſſiſt you, I'll leave this gentleman; he may give you further reaſons for what he advances.

What, Sir, do you think we'll conſult with a quack?

Ay, do you think we'll be after con⯑ſulting with a quack?

I'm no quack.—I have been regu⯑larly ſubmitted, and I'll perſecute you for your words in Weſtminſter-hall.

Mr. Ailwood, we are your humble ſer⯑vants.

Well, but, gentlemen, your fees; you'll return them, I hope.

Return our fees, Sir!—

Return our fees! Arrah, is the man mad?

Sir, it is a thing entirely out of the courſe of practice. We wiſh you a good morning.

SCENE XV.

Why then, gentlemen, your ſervant, and good morning to you. Let them go, I'm glad we have got rid of them at any rate.

Here, you Coffin—

Pray let them alone now.

I would ſend him a challenge, if I was not afraid of being committed.

A challenge! Why, did you ever fight?

Yes; I had like to be killed two or three times, but I never was.

It was very well for me, I'm ſure.

You muſt think they all hates me, becauſe I out-does 'em in curing, and they are oſtentatious in their own way, and won't be larn'd.

And ſo, doctor, you are really of opi⯑nion that I have a diſpoſition to the jaundice?

Yes, you have, and its one of the ſix and twenty diſorders ſpecified in my adver⯑tiſement; and I challenge all England to do the like, to cure ſix and twenty diſorders with one medicine, without confinement, or hinderance of buſineſs, or knowledge of a bedfellow. You underſtand me, for that's in it too, if you have any remains lurking in your blood from bad treatment.

No, no; Heaven be thank'd, I never had any ſuch thing in my life.

So much the better for you; but if you had, I could ſoon ſet you to rights again.—Why, there was three affidavys in the paper as laſt Wedneſday, acknowledging benefits re⯑ceiv'd from me; one from a journeyman taylor, bed-rid with the rheumatiſs; another, from a hackney-coachman, that had been three times tap'd for the dropſey; and one from a child's mother that I cur'd of the dry gripes.

Well, doctor, if you will now come into the next room, I will introduce you to my daughter.

What! In this trim? I would not for fifty guineas—beſides, I'm going to ſee a gentle⯑woman that I've got in hand for an impoſtor;—but I'll tell you what I'll do—I'll dreſs my⯑ſelf, and come to you in the evening.

Well, do ſo then, if it be more conve⯑nient to you;—but ſtay, doctor, your paper of directions orders your medicine to be taken only every three hours; now, as I have ſome ſpare time on my hands, ſuppoſe I was to take in the intervals, a mug or two of the Dog and Duck water, or Iſlington Spa, or Bagnige-wells, by way of diluting.

You muſtn't take nothing by way of diſſolution, but a few broth made with ver⯑min's jelly.

Have you any objection then to my go⯑ing to Chelſea, to be fumigated at Domini⯑cetti's?

Domini Devil's! don't go near him. Is it to be ſweated you wants? If that be all, I can ſweat you myſelf. Do you chuſe to be ſweated?

Why, if I thought it wou'd do me any good.

Well, I'll conſider of it;—but, re⯑member, Mr. Ailwou'd, I have taken you in hand now, and if you go to be purged, or puked, or buy a ſup of phyſic from any one elſe;—but, I ſuppoſe, you knows better what belongs to the charakter of a gentleman?

ACT II. SCENE I.

COME, Sir, follow me, I'll venture to bring you in, ſince you've ven⯑tur'd to knock at the door.

But tell me, my beſt girl, cannot you contrive to make me happy in the ſight of your charming miſtreſs?

No, Mr. Hargrave, I cannot, indeed; you have been told ſo a thouſand times already: I ſent you word ſo by your ſervant this morn⯑ing, but you won't be ſatisfied; and, as if you had not been imprudent enough already, you are now come here in perſon, to put the finiſh⯑ing ſtroke to our ruin.

No, my good Prue, I was aware of that, and am not come here in my own charac⯑ter, but as a friend of your young lady's Italian maſter, who has given me leave to ſay he has ſent me in his place.

That's more forecaſt than I thought you capable of—But, why have you been ſo negli⯑gent; did not you tell my miſtreſs, that you wou'd make a formal propoſal to her father?

True—Nor is it my fault that it has not been done; I ſpoke to Mr. Friendly, Mr. Ail⯑wou'd's brother-in-law, who aſſur'd me he wou'd make it his buſineſs to come here this day for that purpoſe.

Ay; but this day is too late, it ſhou'd have been done yeſterday: for now her father[28] is going to marry her to another perſon—A raſcal quack—Tho', I think, if we cou'd ſet my maſter againſt him, which wou'd be no very hard matter—

As how?

I don't know any method ſo ſure, as by the help of another quack; for he falls in love with every new medicine he hears of.

Say you ſo? Gad, I have a good co⯑mical fellow for my ſervant, and there is a thought come into my head—

Huſh! here's my maſter; ſtep into the next room a little, while I prepare him for your reception.

SCENE II.

Dr. Laſt directed me, during the opera⯑tion of his medicine, to take ten or twelve turns about the room; but I forgot to aſk him whe⯑ther it wou'd be moſt efficacious, the long way, or the broad—I wiſh I had aſk'd him that.

Sir, here is a—

Speak low huſſey; you are enough to ſhock my brains—You don't conſider, that it is not fit to bawl in the ears of ſick people.

I was going to tell you, Sir—

Speak low, I ſay.

Sir.

Eh!

I was going to tell you—

What is it you ſay?

I ſay, here's a man without wants to ſpeak with you.

Well, you devil, let him come in.

Come in, Sir.

Oh, my head, my head!

SCENE III.

Mr. Ailwou'd—

Don't ſpeak ſo loud, for fear of ſhocking my maſter's brains.

I am very glad to find you out of bed, and to ſee that you grow better.

What do you mean by growing better?—it's falſe, my maſter's always very ill.

I don't know how that may be—but I was told he was better; and I think he looks pretty well.

Poh, you're blind, he look's as bad as poſſible; and they are impertinent people, that ſay he mends: he grows worſe and worſe.

She's in the right of it.

He walks, eats, and drinks like other men; but, that's no reaſon why he ſhou'd not be in a bad ſtate of health.

'Tis very true.

I can only ſay then, Sir, that I am ex⯑tremely ſorry for your indiſpoſition; and hope you will ſoon get the better of it.

And, now compliments are paſt, Sir—Pray may I take the liberty to deſire to know who you are?

Sir, I come here on the part of Miſs Ailwou'd's Italian maſter; who is gone for ſome time into the country, and ſends me, being his[30] intimate friend, to continue her leſſons, leſt, by interrupting them, ſhe ſhou'd forget what ſhe has already learn'd.

Very well; call Nancy.

I believe, Sir, it will be better to take the gentleman into her chamber.

No, let her come here.

He can't give her her leſſon ſo well, if he is not alone with her.

I warrant you.

Beſides, it will only diſturb you in the condition you are in, to have people talking in the room.

Leave that to me—Here is my daughter.—Rot you, get out of my ſight, and let me know when Dr. Laſt comes.

SCENE IV.

Nancy my dear, your Italian maſter is gone into the country, and has ſent a gentleman to teach you in his room.

Oh, heaven's!—

What's the matter? Why this aſtoniſh⯑ment?

Becauſe, papa—

Becauſe, what?

Lord, Sir, the moſt ſurprizing thing happens here!

So it ſeems, indeed.

I dream't laſt night, papa, that I was in a crowd coming out of a play-houſe, where a rude fellow attempted to lay hold of me; when [31] a gentleman, exactly like this, came to my aſ⯑ſiſtance, and reſcu'd me from the ruffian's hands; and I am ſo ſurpriz'd, papa, to ſee before me the very ſame perſon I fancy'd in my dream—

Did you ever hear ſuch an idiot as it is?

I count myſelf extremely fortunate, madam, to have employ'd your thoughts either ſleeping or waking; and ſhou'd eſteem myſelf particularly happy, to relieve you from any di⯑ſtreſs which accident might throw you into: for, I aſſure you, madam—

Why, now, Sir, you are rather more fooliſh than ſhe—But, pray have done with your nonſenſe, both the one and other; and you, Sir, if you pleaſe, give the girl her leſſon.

You know, ma'am, a great man for⯑merly ſaid, that if he ſpoke to the Gods, he wou'd ſpeak Spaniſh; to men, French; but to women, Italian, as the propereſt language for love.

A ſtrange round-a-bout way of beginning.

If he was to ſpeak to his horſe, indeed, he ſaid he wou'd ſpeak in High Dutch; as for example, Das dick der donder ſchalq.

So, you won't have done fooling.

Pray, Sir, give me leave; every maſter has his method—No doubt, madam, you have been inform'd, that the adjective muſt agree with the ſubſtantive, as thus—Nanetta bella, beau⯑tiful Nancy,

that is you my charmer—Amante fidele, Faithful lover

That's me my charmer, who doat upon you more than life.

Now theſe, ma'am, muſt agree in gender, number, and caſe.

Ay, that's right enough; I remember that when I was learning grammar myſelf.

Come, madam, we'll take a verb active, and begin if you pleaſe, with Amo, to love—Have you any objection to that?

By no means, Sir.

Then pray give a little attention, and conjugate after me, that you may catch the accent—Io amo, I love.

Io amo, I love.

O fy! that's not a proper tone.—You'll pardon me for reprimanding miſs before you.—you muſt pronounce the words with more tenderneſs, ma'am: take notice of me—Io amo, I love.

Io amo, I love.

I won't have her pronounce it any more; I don't know what words you'll have the impu⯑dence to teach her preſently.

SCENE V.

Sir.

What now?

Might I ſpeak with you, Sir?

Speak with me!

If it won't diſturb you, Sir.

A curſe light on you, what is it you want?

To tell you ſomething, Sir, if you won't ſly in a paſſion.

Well, tell it.

Lord, Sir, one does not know how to take you, you really frighten me out of my wits.

She won't ſpeak now.

Yes, Sir, I—will ſpeak

there's doctor Laſt below as fine as a mounta-bank.

Daughter go into your chamber; and I muſt beg of you, Sir, to take your leave; and pray let your friend know, that neither he, nor his ſubſtitue, need continue their viſits for the future.

Well, my good old gentleman, you ſhall hear from me again ſooner than you imagine; for, ſince the way has been pointed out to me, I will make a bold puſh to drive this quack out of the houſe.

SCENE VI.

An impudent raſcal has thrown a dead cat into my chariot, and hit me ſuch a douſe on the noſe, beſides ſplaſhing me!—

Doctor Laſt—

Mr. Ailwou'd—Sir, I pay you my compliments—Pompey bring the carriage for me at ſix o'clock—and, d'ye hear, call at Coven-Garden market for the yerbs, and put them into the boot.

Upon my word!

Lord, Lord, what an advantage dreſs is!

To tell you the truth, I got this ſuit of cloaths a bargain: they belong'd to a gentleman as died under my hands.

Prudence, go and deſire your young miſtreſs to come hither.

Dr. Laſt—Sir, your moſt obedient.

You impudent, ſaucy—

SCENE VII.

Never mind her; Lord, ſhe meant no harm—I'm too good natur'd to take notice of every trifle—I'm one of the beſt naturd'ſt little fellows, I believe, that ever was born—Why I'm like a dog in my own houſe; I never troubles myſelf about nothing; all I deſire is to ſee things handſome, and they give me what⯑ever they pleaſe.

Well, I think my daughter will, in that reſpect, match you to a tittle, for ſhe's as good natur'd a girl as lives.

I'll tell you a thing you'll be glad to hear—I believe I ſhall come out with a new medicine in a day or two.

I'll take it—What is it?

Eſſence of cucumber.

Of cucumber!

Ay, for the heartburn.

I'm very often troubl'd with that diſorder; but will it be good for nothing elſe?

Yes, it will be good for the cramp.

I've had an odd pain in the ball of my foot all day, I don't know what it may turn to.

I wiſh miſs Nancy wou'd come, for I think we ſhou'd prove agreeable, and we'd fix[35] things directly; I'll ſettle whatever you pleaſe upon her, for I've neither chick nor child but my old mother.

Here ſhe is.

SCENE VIII.

Nancy, this is Dr. Laſt.

No offence miſs, I hope

I thinks, Mr. Ailwou'd, ſhe's very much like you, only ſhe wants a ſcrap of colour, but I'll give her a bottle of ſtuff when we're married, that in three doſes will make her cheeks as red as a roſe.

Why don't you ſpeak to the Dr. Nancy?

I don't know what to ſay, Sir.

Let her alone, let her alone; we'll talk faſt enough when we're better acquainted—I fancy, Mr. Ailwou'd, we ſhall have very fine children; I had three as beautiful babes, by my laſt ſpouſe, as ever a woman brought into the world.

I hope they're dead doctor.

Yes, yes, I told you ſo a bit a gone. Sweet pretty little angels, they all lies in Pan⯑cridge church-yard, with their poor dear mam⯑my.

In Pancras church-yard!

Yes, there's tomb-ſtones over every one of them.

Tomb-ſtones!

Ay.

Is there tho'?

Yes; what's the matter with you?

Heigh ho.

Have you got the cholic?

No.

Has any ſudden illneſs ſeiz'd you, Sir?

No, only low ſpirits. I think, ſome-how, I ſhall be buried in Pancras church-yard myſelf.

Lord, Sir, how can you take ſuch things into your head?

I wiſh there had been no talk about tomb⯑ſtones

Here's my lady.

SCENE IX.

Mrs. Ailwou'd, this is Dr. Laſt.

I have ſeen the doctor before, my dear; but what's the matter with you, eh?

Nothing, madam, nothing; he has only got a little fit of the horrors; let him alone, he'll come to himſelf again by and bye.

I hope, daughter-in-law, you are ſenſible of the goodneſs of this gentleman, in taking you without a portion.

Yes, yes, and I hope my parſon proves agreeable to her. Have you ſeen my picture, miſs, that's in the expedition room at Spring Gardens?—every one ſays it's monſtrous like me. Take her to ſee it, do, it will coſt but a ſhilling; you'll eaſily know it; it's o'the ſame ſide with the image there—Venus the methodiſt, I thinks, they calls it.

Well, but, doctor, give me leave to aſk you, and don't be offended at my being a little particular, on account of my girl; I know you have realiz'd ſomething conſiderable; but, how have you laid out your money? Have you ever a ſcrap of land?

Why, as far as this here, there's my place by Hounſlow, I bought it out and out, the whole concern coſtis me upwards of fifteen hundred pounds, with my pond and my pigeon houſe, and—

Have you any fiſh in your pond, doctor?

No, my dear, it's not deep enough; beſides, it's in the road, and I'm afraid they'd be ſtole; but, I have pigs, and pigeons, and next ſummer I ſhall make a new reproach to my houſe, with a fiſtula that will give us a view of all the gibbets upon the heath; then there's a large running ditch that I'll make into a turpen⯑tine river.

Come, Nancy, let me have the ſatisfac⯑tion of ſeeing you give your hand to Dr. Laſt.

Sir—

Nay, nay, no coying.

Dear Sir, let me beg of you not to be ſo precipitate, but allow the gentleman and me ſufficient time to know one another, and try if our inclinations are mutual.

My inclinations are mutual, Miſs, and not to be chang'd; for the fire of love, as I may ſay, is ſhot from your beautiful eyes into my heart; and, I cou'd ſay more—if it was not out of reſpect to the company.

Perhaps, my dear, Miſs Nancy has fix'd her inclinations ſomewhere elſe, and, like a dutiful daughter, made a choice for herſelf.

If I had, madam, it wou'd be ſuch a one as neither reaſon or honour wou'd make me aſham'd of.

But, if I was in your papa's place, Miſs, I wou'd make you take the perſon I thought proper for your huſband, or I know what I'd do.

O, ma'am, nobody doubts your affec⯑tion; but, perhaps, you may be baulk'd in the favour you deſign me.

Well, but, ſtay; methinks, I make but a whimſical ſort of a figure between you both.

The duty of a daughter, madam, is not unlimitted; and there are certain caſes to which neither law nor reaſon can make it extend.

That is to ſay, you are very will⯑ing to be married, but you are not willing your father ſhou'd have any hand in the matter.

Dr. Laſt, I beg your pardon for all this.

Let them go on, I likes to hear them.

Your inſolence is inſufferable child.

I am very ſenſible, madam, you wou'd be glad to provoke me to make you ſome im⯑pertinent anſwer; but, I tell you before hand, I ſhall be careful not to give you that advantage over me.

You don't know, my dear, that you are very ſilly.

'Tis labour loſt, madam; I ſhall make no anſwer.

You have a ridiculous pride about you, a vain ſelf-ſufficiency, which makes you ſhocking to every body.

I tell you, madam, once more, it won't do; I will preſerve my temper in ſpite of you; and, to deprive you of all hopes of ſucceeding [39] againſt me, I'll take myſelf out of your ſight immediately.

Heark'e, Nancy, no more words; re⯑ſolve to marry this gentleman within three days, or I'll turn you out to ſtarve in the ſtreets.

SCENE X.

A little impudent ſaucy minx.

She has a purdigious deal of tongue for ſuch a young crater.

My lamb, don't make yourſelf uneaſy about the baggage; I'll bring her to her ſenſes, I'll warrant you.

Indeed, my dear, you don't know how I'm ſhock'd at her behaviour.

Are you ſhock'd, love?

Yes, that I am to the ſoul: I thought ſhe wanted to inſinuate that I did not love you, my dear; and any thing of that kind is worſe to me than ten thouſand daggers.

She's going to faint.

Let me feel her pulſe.

A glaſs of water here.

No, no, give her a glaſs of cherry brandy; I'm no friend to drenching Chriſtians bowels with water, as if they were the tripes of a brute beaſt.

Mr. Ailwou'd, permit me to go into my own room a little, to recover myſelf.

Do ſo, my love.

And, do you hear, madam, take a dram as I bids you, a little rum and ſugar, if[40] you have any in the houſe; that's what I gene⯑rally ſwallows, and I always finds the good ef⯑fects of it.

SCENE XI.

How now?

Sir, a gentleman, that ſays he comes from your brother, Mr. Friendly, deſires to ſee you.

Who is he? What wou'd he have?

I don't know—He cuts a droll figure—Here he is, Sir.

Get out of the room.

SCENE XII.

Sir, I'm your moſt obedient.

Your ſervant, Sir.

By what I perceive, Sir, I have not the honour to be known to you—My name is Scower, Sir; and I come recommended by your brother, Mr. Friendly, and ſtudy the practice of phyſic.

Sir, your ſervant.

I obſerve you look very earneſtly at me, Sir; what age do you think I am of?

Hold, let me tell him;—What age are you of—You are about four and twenty, or thereaways.

By the Lord, I'm above fourſcore.

That's a damn'd lie, I'm ſure.

Hold doctor, perhaps he has liv'd all his life upon tincture of ſage.

Sage! a fiddle! I have ſecrets myſelf that will keep me alive theſe hundred years.

I ſuſpect this is the ſoldier that lives in the Old Bailey. You'll ſee how I'll make him expoſe himſelf. You ſay you're a doctor; who made you ſo?

Sir, I am a travelling doctor, and, at preſent, have the honour of being phyſician in ordinary to one emperor, four kings, three elec⯑tors, and I don't know how many prince palan⯑tines, margraves, biſhops, and vulgar high⯑neſſes; paſſing from town to town, from king⯑dom to kingdom, to find out patients worthy of my practice, and fit to exerciſe the great and noble ſecrets of my art. I ſcorn to amuſe my⯑ſelf with the little fry of common diſtempers, the trifles of rheumatiſms, ſcurvies, and me⯑grims; give me your diſeaſes of importance, good purple fevers, good pleuriſies, with inflammati⯑ons of the lungs: theſe are what pleaſe me; theſe are what I triumph over.

Ax him, can he bleed and draw teeth?—I dare to ſay, he knows nothing of chi⯑rurgery.

Have you never heard of my black powder that is taken like ſnuff, and purges by the ſmell, provided that, at the ſame time, you ſwallow three large glaſſes of laxative tiſan?

Then, its the tiſan that does it! Mark that. O! he's quite a cheat.

Let me feel your pulſe.—Come, beat as you ſhould do.—

Why, Sir, one wou'd think you were playing upon the ſpinnet.

Even ſo, Sir; for I do not, like other phyſicians, with a watch in my hand, determine the ſtate of the pulſe by that fallible meaſurer of time.

How then?

By a tune, which, I believe, you will allow to be a diſcovery new, and entirely my own: if the pulſe moves in concert with the minuet in Ariadne, I am ſure that the pa⯑tient is well.—Let me ſee, Sir—Tol, lol, de-rol—There we dropp'd a crotchet, tol, lol, de-rol—there we mounted a minum, tol, lol, lol—and there a ſemi-demi quaver is miſſing.

A ſemi-demi quaver!

Stay!—Let me conſider—two bars and a half—Who is your phyſician?

Dr. Laſt.

What! that little fellow?

Little fellow! What do you mean by that?

Nay, gentlemen—

Come, come, let us mind our buſineſs. What does he ſay is the matter with you?

Why, Sir, he tells me I've got the jaun⯑dice.

He's an aſs.

Am I ſo!

Mr. Ailwou'd look in my face.

How do you find yourſef?

Why, I don't know; I find myſelf ſome way odd.

Juſt as I ſuſpected: you have got the dropſy.

Eh! the dropſy!

Why, don't you ſee what a ſwell'd belly you have, and your eyes ſtarting out of your head?

Really, doctor, I always thought you had miſtaken my diſorder.

He has no dropſy—he has not a ſup of water in him. Let him be tapp'd to try; I'll ſtand to his tapping.

You are an ignoramus—Let us hear a little what are your complaints?

I have every now and then a pain in my head.

Dropſy.

Sometimes a miſt before my eyes.

Dropſy.

Sometimes a violent palpitation at my heart.

Dropſy.

At other times, I am taken with a vio⯑lent pain in my belly, as if it was the cholic.

Dropſy again.—You have a good appe⯑tite to what you eat.

Yes, Sir.

Dropſy.—You love to drink a glaſs of wine.

Yes.

That's the dropſy—You take a com⯑fortable nap after dinner?

True, Sir.

Dropſy! dropſy! dropſy!—All dropſy.

Well, if it be, can you cure him?

A quack like you would ſay, ay; but I ſincerely tell the gentleman at once, he's a dead man.

Then, the Lord have mercy on me!

That is, I mean he wou'd be dead in twenty-four hours, if I was not to help him; but I have the only remedy in the world for it.

Don't believe him; he's a cheat.

Give it to me, I'll take it, let it be what it will.

Then, obſerve, I don't deſire a braſs farthing without you're cur'd.

Look you there, doctor.

Well, don't I do the ſame?

But, if you are cur'd, you muſt give me a hundred guineas.

You ſhall have the money.

Its too much; I'll do it for five.

I have been at a great deal of pains and trouble, and made many experiments, in order to find a radical cure for this diſeaſe, that ſhould be at once ſafe, cheap, and eaſy: my firſt in⯑vention was a pump; by means of which, fix'd in the belly of the patient, I meant to pump out the dropſical humour, as you wou'd water out of the hold of a ſhip; threeſcore and eleven people died under the operation.

Well; what is the loſs of a few indivi⯑duals, for the general good of mankind? You brought it to perfection at laſt?

No; at laſt, I found it was impracti⯑cable; yet, I wou'd have gone on in hopes, but people grew chicken-hearted, and wou'd not let me try.

So they well might—You ſhou'd not pump me in that manner for five thouſand pound.

Well, Sir, my next experiment was call'd the ſoaking operation; which was con⯑triv'd thus: I made the patient ſwallow a piece of ſpunge, faſten'd to a ſtring, which going down his throat into his ſtomach, I let lye there, till it had abſorb'd or ſoak'd up the watery hu⯑mours;[45] and then, drew it up again, with all it contents; repeating the operation, till I had lef the body as dry as an empty decanter.

Well, Sir, and what ſucceſs?

Why, I had a great deal better ſucceſs with this than the former; for, I think, it kill'd but four and twenty.

Well, take my advice, Mr. Ailwou'd neither be pump'd nor ſoak'd.

The gentleman has nothing to fear; what I ſhall make uſe of upon this occaſion is, my great dryer, or eſſence infernalis.—You ſee this little phial.

Let me ſee it—and I'll make bold to taſte it too.—Don't touch it, Mr. Ailwou'd; don't touch it; its corroding ſupplement, and will throw you into a ſalvation.

Not a grain of mercury in it, upon my honour; nothing but ſimples!

Pray give the phial to me; I think I can diſtinguiſh; for I have taken a great many of theſe things.—I vow to man, it taſtes to me like ſtrong beer or porter!

By the Lord, he has gueſs'd it.—Obſerve me, Sir, it is a tincture drawn from rat's-bane, arſenic, laudanum, verdigreaſe, cop⯑peras, with a convenient mixture of the juice of hemlock. You ſee, Sir, I deſpiſe quackery; I tell you fairly what my medicines are.

Medicines, do you call 'em?

Give it cat, dog, mouſe, rat; or, in ſhort, any creature, bypede or quadrupede, of the brute creation, they are immediately thrown into the moſt intolerable torments, ſwell like a tun, and burſt before your eyes.

A fine medicine, indeed!

Well, I will let you take the contents of this whole bottle; and, if it does you any more harm than ſo much new-milk, I'll give you leave to knock me down.

Knock you down!

Nay, more; if you had infirmities from head to foot, the firſt doſe will cure you of every one of them.

Yes, indeed, I believe it wou'd.

Tell me, Mr. Ailwou'd, what do you do with this arm?

My arm!

Take my advice, cut off this arm im⯑mediately.

The deuce! Cut off my arm!

It is the new method of practice that I mean to introduce. Don't we prune trees of their branches, to make them more healthy? And, don't you ſee that this arm draws all the nouriſhment to itſelf, and hinders the other from thriving?

Ay, but I have occaſion for my arm.

Here's an eye too, which I would have inſtantly pluck'd out, were I in your place.

Pluck out my eye!

Don't you ſee it injures the other, and occaſions theſe miſts you complain'd of but now. Be guided by me, and have it taken away di⯑rectly; you'll ſee the better with your left.

I tell you, Mr. Ailwou'd, this is ſome cheat.

I begin to ſuſpect ſo.—Hark'e, ſirrah, who ſent you here? Are you come to murder me?

Oh! Sir, if you're in a paſſion, your ſervant.

Ay, but you ſhan't get off ſo.—Stop thief!

Nay, then, I muſt take to my heels.

Did you ever ſee ſuch an impudent ſcoundrel?

Do you keep the wig, we can ſwear to the wig, while I follow, and find out who he is—I'm almoſt ſure he's the ſoldier in the Old Bailey, for he has a ſpite againſt me, and em⯑ploys old women to tear down my advertiſe⯑ments.

SCENE XIII.

Ah!—I'm quite overcome, I can't ſup⯑port myſelf any longer.

Your brother, Mr. Friendly, Sir.

How now! What's the matter?

O! Mr. Friendly, your ſervant—but I wonder you are not aſham'd to ſee my face: did you think my ſickly habit wou'd not put me out of the world ſoon enough, but you muſt join with wretches to drive me hence?

I don't underſtand you.

How could you ſend me that wicked monſter, who, under the name of a doctor, wanted to give me poiſon; to cut off my arms, thruſt out my eyes, and ſo make me blind and lame?

I never ſent you any phyſician.

No:—he pretended he came by your re⯑commendation.

He's ſome impoſtor—and, indeed, my dear brother, you lay yourſelf too open to the practice of ſuch fellows, who are acquainted with your weakneſs, and take advantage of it.

My weakneſs is great, indeed, as you may ſee.

How do you find yourſelf to-day then?

Extremely ill, indeed.

How, extremely!

In a condition ſo faint and feeble, that I am not able to ſtir.

Indeed!

I have ſcarce ſtrength enough to ſpeak to you.

I'm heartily ſorry for it, brother, be⯑cauſe I came to talk to you upon a matter of conſequence; no leſs than to propoſe a match for my niece.

Brother, don't talk to me of that huſſey; ſhe's an impudent ungrateful jade; I deteſt, I renounce her, and will own no body for my friend that ſpeaks a word in her favour.

However, brother, I'm glad to find that your ſtrength returns a little, and that you have ſtill got ſpirits enough to exert yourſelf: my viſit has done you ſo much good, at leaſt; and, to do you ſtill more, I inſiſt upon your coming with me into the garden immediately.

Into the garden!

Ay; a walk there will do you good.

I have not been in the open air theſe two months.

So much the worſe for you.

So it is, Mr. Friendly. Do, Sir, be prevailed on by your brother.

I know I ſhall catch my death of cold.

I warrant you.

Well, come then. Prudence, give me my furr'd gown.

What! to go into the garden in the middle of July?

Ay, ay, I'll take care of myſelf, in ſpite of you all.

Get him out at any rate.—Here's your gown, Sir.

So—Let me wrap it cloſe about me—Where are my flannel gloves?

Here, Sir.

Now, pull down my night-cap, and put on my hat.

Why, brother, you're wrapt up like a Ruſſian courier, for a winter-journey into Si⯑beria.

You may ſay what you pleaſe.—Here, Prudence, tie a handkerchief about my neck.

Is that neceſſary too?

Come, now, brother, I'll go with you, tho' I'm ſure it will be the death of me.

Well; but, Sir—

What's the matter?

You forget, Sir, that you can't walk without your cane.

That's true; give it me.

ACT III. SCENE I.

WHERE art thou going abroad my life?

To the Temple, my dear; to Mr. Juggle, the lawyer, to deſire him to come here and make your will, ſince you will have it ſo.

That's right, lamb, that's right—

But an accident has happen'd, dear⯑eſt, which I thought it my duty to inform you of before I went.—As I paſſed by your daughter Nancy's chamber, I ſaw a young fellow there, in earneſt conference with her.

How! with my daughter!

Yes, and I'm ſure I ſaw the ſame young fellow, a little before, talking with your brother in the parlour.

And cou'd you overhear what ſhe and the young fellow were ſaying together?

No, ſweeteſt; but your little daugh⯑ter Polly was with them.

The child!

Aye, the child, my dear—forward enough, of her age, I aſſure you; ſhe knows as much at five, as I did at fifteen—But I dare ſwear you may get every thing out of her.

Go, pr'ythee, and ſend the little ſlut to me this inſtant.

My dear, I will—Polly! your papa wants you.

Bye, Biddy—

SCENE II.

Do you want me, papa?—My mamma ſays you want me.

Yes, huſſey; come here;—nearer.—What do you turn away for?—Look me in the face.

Well, papa.

So—

What, papa?

Have you nothing to tell me?

What ſhou'd I tell you?

You know well enough, huſſey.

Not I, indeed, and upon my word.

Is this the way you do what you're bid?

What?

Did not I order you to come and tell me immediately whatever you ſaw?

Yes, papa.

And have you done ſo?

Yes; I'm come to tell you every thing I've ſeen.

Very well.—What have you ſeen to-day?

I ſaw my Lord Mayor go by in his coach.

And nothing elſe?

No; indeed, indeed.

I ſhall make you alter your tone a little, I fancy, if I fetch a rod.

Oh! dear papa.

You baggage, you, why don't you tell me, you ſaw a man in your ſiſter's chamber?

Why, my ſiſter bid me not, papa; but I'll tell you every thing.

Take care then, for I've a way of know⯑ing all; and if you tell me a lie—

But pray, papa, don't you go and tell my ſiſter that I told you.

Never fear.

Well then, papa, there came a man into my ſiſter's chamber as I was there; I aſk'd him what he wanted, and he told me he was her Italian maſter.

Oh! the matter's out then?

My ſiſter came in afterwards.

Well, and what did your ſiſter ſay?

Why, firſt the man kiſs'd her.

Did he ſo?

Yes, two or three times, but ſhe was not willing; and then ſhe ſaid to him, Go away; go away;—and ſhe ſaid, ſhe was frighten'd out of her wits—and ſhe ſaid, ſhe was afraid you wou'd come and catch her.

Well, and what then?

Why, he wou'dn't go away.

And—What did he ſay to her?

Say?—He ſaid, I don't know how many things to her.

Ay; but what?

Why, he ſaid this and that, and t'other;—he ſaid, he lov'd her mightily, and that ſhe was the prettieſt creature in the world.

Well; and after that?

Why, after that, he took her by the hand.

And after that?

After that, he kiſs'd her again.

And after that?

After that.—Stay;—O! after that, my mamma came, and he ran away.

And you ſaw no more?

No; indeed, and indeed, papa.

There's ſomething, however, whiſpers in my ear that you have not told me all.—This little finger—

O that little finger's a ſtory-teller.

Have a care.

Don't believe it, papa, it fibs indeed.

Well, get you gone then, and remem⯑ber what I have ſaid to you.

Yes, papa, yes, I'll remember.—I'm glad he didn't whip me; I was afraid he would have whip'd me.

SCENE III.

Come, now, brother, I muſt inſiſt up⯑on it, that you will not put yourſelf in a paſſion; but ſit down here, and let me reſume the con⯑verſation which we juſt now broke off.

Well, come, let it be ſo.

You are to be cool now, remember.

Ay, ay, I'll be cool.

And to anſwer me without prevarica⯑tion.

Good Lord; yes, here's a terrible pre⯑amble ſure.

How comes it then, brother, give me leave to aſk you once more, that, being in the circumſtances you are, and having no other children but two daughters, you can entertain the ſtrange deſign of marrying your eldeſt in the manner you are going to diſpoſe of her?

Pray, brother, how comes it that I am maſter of my own family, and diſpoſe of my children as I like?

Your wife, no doubt, is glad to get rid of her at any rate.

Oh! ay, now it comes—and the poor wife is to be dragg'd in; 'tis ſhe does all the miſchief, to be ſure, and all the world will have it ſo.

No, no, brother, we'll leave her out of the queſtion; ſhe's a good woman, that has the beſt intentions in the world for your family, is free from all manner of ſelf-intereſt, has a marvellous tenderneſs for you, and ſhews an in⯑conceivable affection to your children, that's certain.—We'll ſay no more, therefore, of her, but return to your daughter; but, pray, let me aſk you with what view wou'd you marry her to this Dr. Laſt?

With a view of having ſo ſkillful a phy⯑ſician as Dr. Laſt related to me.

Heav'ns! Brother, how can you talk ſo?—Skillful!—I never ſaw the man; but I'm told, that, of all the quacks in town, numerous as they are, he is the moſt ignorant, as well as the moſt impudent: but, it is really ſhocking to humanity, to conſider to what a head theſe dangerous cheats are arriv'd in this great city; and, it is not leſs amazing, that people ſhou'd confide their health, their moſt valuable poſſeſ⯑ſion,[55] to wretches they wou'd not truſt with any thing elſe: in ſhort, I know no way of putting a ſtop to their progreſs, but by an unlimited act againſt the vending of poiſons, which, I think, would very fairly comprehend them.

Ha!—You have made a very fine ſpeech now.—Do you think, if the cures they per⯑form were not wonderful, people wou'd take their medicines ſo kindly?—What has eſſence of water-dock done for the ſcurvy?—What balſam of honey, in colds and conſumptions?—The ſtomach pills for cholicky complaints?—Then, you ſenſeleſs idiot you, d'ye think his majeſty wou'd give his royal letters patent for pills, eſſences, electuaries, cordials, tinctures, quinteſſences, to poiſon his ſubjects?—But, to ſtrike you dumb at once, is not that bleſſed medicine baume de vie, in itſelf, a remedy for all diſorders under heaven?

All.

Look at the liſt of cures—then the rea⯑ſoning's good—All diſorders ſpring from the ſtomach—Baume de vie is a ſovereign remedy for the ſtomach—and therefore cures all diſor⯑ders.

If ſo, why don't you take it, and get rid of yours?

Why! why!—There's no general rule without an exception.

Come, come, brother, the truth of it is, there's nothing the matter with you at all; and I deſire no better proof of the excellency of your conſtitution than, that all the ſlops you have been taking theſe ten years have not burſt, or otherwiſe deſtroy'd you.

Here's Dr. Laſt: he is ſo good as to come on purpoſe, to adminiſter his medicine to me himſelf. Pray now, brother, behave yourſelf properly.

SCENE IV.

Come, Mr. Ailwou'd—

Brother, with your leave.

What are you going to do now?

To take ſome of Dr. Laſt's cordial; and, let me prevail upon you to take a glaſs too.

Do, Sir, one doſe; it's as natural to a man's conſtitution as breaſt-milk; and, if you will take it for a continency, once you are a little manured to it, it will work the moſt ſur⯑priſingeſt difference—

Pray, Sir, what is it?

Sir, I wou'd not tell you if you were my father; no, nor king George; but I'll ſhew you—You ſee this glaſs of New River water—it's as tranſparent as rock cryſtial.—Now, I puts twelve drops of my cordial into it—and there—its as fine aſſes-milk as ever was taſted—I vow to the Lord, there's worſe ſold for a ſhilling a pint that comes from the beaſtis themſelves.

Well; I believe that's very true.

I preſume, by your wig, Sir, that you belong to the law; and, if you'll put your⯑ſelf under my care, I'll give you ſomething, for which you'll be oblig'd to me; and yet, its no⯑thing[57] but the juice of a ſimple yerb; but I've tried it upon ſeveral gentlemen in your way, who, from being ſheep, as it were, have become as bold as lions.

Attend to this, brother, for its worth liſtening to.

Then its one of the beautifulleſt things upon yearth for the memory—There was a little boy, ſeven years of age, did not know one of his letters—His papa was angry, his mam⯑ma was uneaſy—They bought him the pretty books for children, letters in ſweetmeats, gin⯑gerbread, ivory, all manner of play-things to make him take to his larning, but it wou'd not do: hearing of my ſecret, they apply'd to me; I gave the child a doſe, and, will you believe it, upon the word of an honeſt man—he cou'd ſay his criſs-croſs-row in a fortnight.

Now, that's very amazing! I'll make uſe of it myſelf, and begin to read immediately; for I never remember a word after the book is ſhut; and that's vexatious you know.

And would you believe that this fine remedy was invented by my old mother?

Your mother!

Why, ſhe knows as much of phyſic as I do; its a gift in our family; and ſhe has invented things to take ſpots out of cloaths, and iron-molds out of linen.

I long to be acquainted with her.

Well, will you ſwallow this now?

Ay, come, give it to me.

You jeſt, ſure—Can't you be a mo⯑ment without ſome naſty ſlop or another: put it off to a more convenient time, and give na⯑ture a little reſpite.

Well then, this evening, Dr. Laſt, or to-morrow morning.

Pray, Sir, may I be ſo bold as to ax if your name aint Groggins?

No, Sir, my name's Friendly.

Then, Sir, I deſire to know, Sir, what buſineſs you have to hinder me in my occupation?—I ſay, the gentleman ſhall take it now, and I warrant it will do him good.

Pr'ythee, man, what d'ye mean?

I means what I ſays.—Mr. Ailwou'd, will you take it?—If you don't take it, I'll go away directly.

Well, do go away, Sir, we deſire it.

O! with all my heart.

SCENE V.

Brother, you'll be the cauſe of ſome miſ⯑chief here.

What miſchief?—No, no, brother, I ſhall be the cauſe of no miſchief, but a great deal of good; and, I wiſh I cou'd drive away all the phyſic-mongers that come after you with their curſed drugs in the ſame manner, you'd live the longer for it.

Some dreadful miſchief will come of it, indeed—I muſt call him back—Dr. Laſt, Dr. Laſt.

Brother, for ſhame.

Don't talk to me, you want to ſend me to my grave—Dr. Laſt, pray come back.

SCENE VI.

Did you call me, Sir?

No, doctor, but Mr. Ailwou'd did.

Mr. Ailwou'd, I'm not us'd politely here at all.

Indeed, Sir, it was not—

I have given that there thing to la⯑dies; nay, to children that have been troubled with the worms, who never made a wry face, but lick'd their lips after it, as pleaſantly, as if it had been ſo much treacle, or ſugar-candy.

It was not I—

And when I took the trouble of com⯑ing myſelf—

'Twas he—

In my own chariot—

He was the cauſe—

Without demanding nothing extra⯑ordinary for my trouble—I have a good mind not to marry your daughter—

I tell you it was all my brother, it was, upon my word and credit—But, give me the cordial; and, to make you amends, I'll take double the quantity.

Are you mad?

No, he's not—I inſiſt upon his taking it for the honour of my medicine—And if you don't take a glaſs too, you ſhall hear further from me.

Very well, doctor, I fear your ſword leſs than your poiſon.

O, ay, poiſon, poiſon, we ſhall ſee whether it's poiſon.

Give it to me, doctor.

Here, Mr. Ailwou'd.

Pray now, brother, let me prevail upon you, in compliment to the doctor—

Nay, good brother, don't be abſurd.

Now, I'm ſatisfied; and, I'll call upon you again in an hour.

SCENE VII.

Prudence.

Sir?

Get me my arm'd chair here—It's incon⯑ceivable what a warmth this med'cine diffuſes all over my body.

Well, but brother, did not you hear Dr Laſt ſay juſt now that he was in doubt whether he wou'd marry your daughter or not; and, after ſo ſlighting an expreſſion, ſurely, you will not perſiſt in your deſign; but, let me talk to you of this gentleman who wiſhes to have my niece.

No, brother, if Dr. Laſt won't have her I'll ſend her to France, and put her in a con⯑vent; I'm ſure ſhe has an amorous inclination for ſomebody; and, to let you know, I have diſ⯑cover'd ſecret interviews in my houſe, which ſome people don't think I've diſcover'd.

I dare ſwear, brother, my niece has no attachment but to th [...] gentleman I have men⯑tioned to you; in which caſe, you have nothing to be angry with, all tending to the honourable purpoſe of marriage.

I don't care for what you ſay, I'll ſend her over to France, I'm determined on it.

There's ſomebody you want to pleaſe, brother, by that, I doubt.

I know your meaning, Sir; you're always harping upon the ſame ſtrain.—My wife is a ſtrange hobgoblin in your eyes, brother.

Yes, brother, ſince 'tis neceſſary to be plain with you, 'tis your wife that I mean; and I can no more bear your ridiculous fondneſs for her, than that you have for phyſic; nor endure to ſee you run hand over-head into all the ſnares ſhe lays for you.

O dear Sir, don't ſpeak ſo of my lady; ſhe's a woman that nobody can ſay any thing againſt; a woman without the leaſt grain of arti⯑fice or deſign, and loves my maſter—There's no ſaying how much ſhe loves him.

Ay, only aſk her how exceſſive fond ſhe is of me.

Moſt exceſſive!

How much concern my illneſs gives her.

Yes.

And the care and pains ſhe takes about me.

—Right.—Shall we convince you now, Mr. Friendly, and ſhew you directly what a ſur⯑priſing affection my lady has for my maſter?—Permit me, Sir, to undeceive him, and let him ſee his miſtake.

As how, Prudence?

Hark! my lady is juſt return'd—Do you ſtep into the next room there—ſtretch your⯑ſelf out, and feign yourſelf dead: he may ſlip into the cloſet: I'll ſet the doors open, and you'll ſee what violent grief ſhe'll be in when I tell her the news.

Hey—hum!—I profeſs, I have a mind to take her advice—but, no; I can never bear to hear the ſhrieks and lamentations ſhe'll make over me; and yet, 'twill be a comfort to me to hear them too, to feel her virtuous tears bedew my face, and her ſweet lips kiſſing my cheeks a thouſand times, to bring me back again to life: and her—ah, verily, I'll do it; verily, I'll do it; and then, Sir, what will become of your fine ſur⯑miſes?—But, Prudence, art thou not afraid that her very thinking me dead will break her heart?

To be ſure, Sir, if you ſhou'd keep her in her fright too long.

O, let me alone for that; I'll make the experiment this very minute; this very minute.—But is there no danger in feigning one's ſelf dead?

No, no; what danger ſhou'd there be? 'Tis only ſhutting your eyes, and ſtretching yourſelf out.

Now, Sir, we ſhall ſhew you your error, and convince yow how much you have injur'd the beſt of wives.

'Twill be pleaſant enough afterwards, to ſee how blank he will look—Here's my lady; quick, quick, both of you away.

SCENE VIII.

Oh! Heav'ns! Oh! fatal misfortune! what a ſtrange accident is this!

What's the matter, Prudence!

Ah! madam.

What is it? What do you mean by blubbering, pr'ythee?

My maſter's dead, madam.

Dead!

Ye-ye-yes.

Are you ſure of it?

Too ſure, alas! No body yet knows any thing of this accident: there was not a ſoul but myſelf to help him; he ſunk down in my arms, and went off like a child—See there, madam, he lies ſtretch'd out in the next room.

Now, Heav'n be prais'd.—What a ſimpleton art thou to cry?

Cry, ma'am; why, I thought we were to cry?

And for what, pray?—I know of no loſs he is—Was he of any uſe upon earth?—A man troubleſome to all the world; odious in his perſon; diſguſting in his manners; never without ſome filthy medicine in his mouth, or his ſtomach; continually coughing, hawking, and ſpitting; a tireſome, peeviſh, diſagreeable monſter.

An excellent funeral ſermon, truly.

Prudence, you muſt aſſiſt me in the execution of my deſign; and you may depend upon it, I will amply reward your ſervices: ſince, by good fortune, no one is yet appris'd of this accident beſides ourſelves, let us keep his death a ſecret a few days, till I have been able to ſettle my affairs on a ſure foundation: there are papers and money, of which I wou'd poſſeſs myſelf—Nor, indeed, is it juſt, that all I have ſuffer'd with him living, ſhou'd not be rewarded by ſome advantage at his death.

To be ſure, madam.

In the mean time, I'll go and ſecure his keys, for I know he has a conſiderable ſum of money in his ſcrutore, which he receiv'd yeſterday.

SCENE IX.

Ah! ah! ah!—

O! devil of a help-mate, have I found you out?

Your ſervant, madam.

Lord! my dear, I'm ſo diſappointed—ſo pleas'd, I mean, and ſo frighten'd—This wicked girl told me you were dead.

Yes, and a fine oration you pronounc'd over me.

Nay, but my dear, this is the moſt unreaſonable thing;

ſome ſlight converſation that I have had with my maid here, which Mr. Ailwou'd takes in a wrong ſenſe; but, I dare ſwear, when he has conſider'd the matter a little, he will think differently.

Get out of my ſight, get out of my ſight.

Well, but lovey, let me explain the matter to you.

I'll never hear a word from you again as as long as I live.

Nay, Sir, if you bear yourſelf ſo haughtily, you'll find me a match for you. It is not to-day, my dear I am to learn, that your brain is full of maggots; however, you ſhall call me more than once, before I come back to you, I aſſure you.

SCENE X.

Did you ever hear ſuch an impudent crea⯑ture?—Od's my life, with what an air ſhe carried it!—But do'ſt think ſhe was in earneſt, Pru⯑dence?

Troth do I, Sir.

Come, brother, to tell you the plain truth, Prudence devis'd this method, in order to open your eyes to your wife's perfidy—She has long deceiv'd you with a ſhew of falſe ten⯑derneſs; but now, you ſee her in her genuine colours.

I profeſs my eyes are dazzled, and all my ſenſes confus'd; I know not what I either hear or ſee; but, in the firſt place, I renounce phyſic—

Lord! Sir, here's Miſs Nancy and Mr. Hargrave!

Dear papa, what's the matter?

The matter, child! I don't know, child.

What brings you here, Sir?

This, brother, is the young gentle⯑man I propoſe as a match for your daughter; and after what I have ſaid, and what has hap⯑pen'd, I hope, you will no longer refuſe to liſten to his prentions.

Why, really, Sir, my chief objection to you, is your total ignorance of the medicinal art; if you can think of any method to re⯑move that—

I muſt own, Sir, I'm afraid I am rather too far advanc'd in life to make any progreſs in ſo deep and abſtracted a ſtudy.

Why, with regard to the more capital branches, I grant you; but in the ſubaltern of⯑fices, I'm of a contrary opinion; ſuppoſe now you were to bind yourſelf apprentice for a year or two to ſome ſkilful apothecary; ſurely, in that time you might learn to decypher a pre⯑ſcription, and make up a medicine with very few blunders.

D'ye think ſo, Sir?

You might, indeed, now and then give a doſe of arſenick for ſalts; but that's an acci⯑dent might happen to the oldeſt practitioner.

Ah, brother, brother, what's this I hear! It was but this moment you were deter⯑min'd to renounce phyſic, and here you are talk⯑ing as warmly and abſurdly about it as ever.

Eh!—It's very true, indeed, brother.—However, let it ſuffice, I give the young man my daughter without any conditions at all; and now, I'll go and get effectually rid of that other plague my wife; for I ſhall not be eaſy while we areunder the ſame roof.

SCENE XI.

If we can't cure him of his love for drugs, we have done nothing.

I doubt, Sir, that will be impoſſible.

Hiſt, here comes Dr. Laſt—I'll take the opportunity of your father's abſence to have[67] ſome ſport with him; put on melancholly coun⯑tenances, and take your cues from me.

I know what you'd be at, Sir, and I'll ſecond you.

SCENE XII.

Mr. Ailwou'd, where are you? I have brought you ſome of my eſſence of cucum⯑ber, by way of a taſte.

O, Dr. Laſt, you're come; you're ſer⯑vant Sir, I'm glad to ſee you.

Sir, I'm oblyg'd to you—Where is Mr. Ailwou'd?

Where is he, Sir?—

Ay; becauſe I wants to ſpeak to him.

He's dead, Sir.

Oh! oh! oh!

What's the matter, Mrs. Prudence? I warrant your maſter is only in a ſound, and I've a bottle of ſtuff in my pocket that will fetch him in a whiff.

Hold, Sir, no more of your ſtuff.

Well then, let me go and feel his pulſe.

Nor that neither; you ſhan't go near him; but, we inſiſt upon your telling us what you gave him out of your vial juſt now?

How! tell you my ſecret—A book⯑ſeller offer'd me a thouſand pounds for it.

A bookſeller offer'd you a thouſand pound! That may be, Sir, but Mr. Ailwou'd[68] died a few minutes after you adminiſter'd it; we, therefore, take it for granted, that it has poiſon'd him; and, unleſs you prove very clearly to the contrary, we ſhall conſider you as his murderer, and treat you accordingly.

O, don't think to humbug me ſo.

What are they doing here?

Dear Sir, have patience—Stop where you are a little, and let them go on.

Within there; ſeize this fellow.

Liberty—I'm a free-born Briton, in my native city—If any one lays a finger upon me, I'll put him into the Crown-office.

Ay, but we'll put you in Newgate firſt—Carry him before a juſtice, I'll go and be witneſs.

Ay, and ſo will I.

Well, but ſtay; let me go a-bit—What will you be witneſs of?

That you poiſon'd my maſter.

It can't be.

We'll prove it.

It's a fictious report; for to let you ſee the difference now—what I gave him was nothing in the world but a little chalk and vine⯑gar; and if it cou'd do him no good, it cou'd do him no harm.

And ſo, ſirrah, this is the way you take people in; your famous cordial then is, chalk and vinegar?

What! Mr. Ailwou'd, aren't you dead?

No, ſirrah; but no thanks to you for that; ſo get you out of my houſe, or I'll chalk[69] and vinegar you with a vengeance, you pretend⯑ing, quacking, cheating—

Don't ſtrike me.

I'll break every bone in your ſkin if you don't get out of my houſe.

Nay, brother—

My own chariot's below.

A cart, a wheelbarrow, for ſuch ſcoun⯑drels.

Don't call me out of my name.

I can't, ſirrah.

You did, you did, and I'll make you pay for it.

Get out of my houſe.

That's all I want—He has puſh'd me—I call you every one to witneſs—I'll ſwear to the aſſault—

Take him away.

I'll ſwear to the aſſault—and, if I don't get redem⯑nification—

SCENE LAST.

Papa! papa!

What's the matter, my dear?

My mamma's gone abroad, and ſays ſhe'll never come home no more; ſo ſhe won't.

A good riddance; a good riddance.

Lau, papa! if that isn't the man I ſaw juſt now kiſſing my ſiſter.

Ah! you little tell-tale.

Indeed, Prudence, but I'm no tell-tale, ſo I an't; for he kiſs'd me too, and I never ſaid a word of it.

Well, my dear, he's to be marry'd to your ſiſter now.

Is he?—And won't you get ſomebody to marry me, papa? You've been promiſing me a huſband a great while, and I'm tired of old John the butler.

Ay, my dear, I dare ſwear you'll loſe no time—But, come, brother, let us now go in.—I have got rid of my wife; I have forſworn quacks and phyſic—and, I hope, I ſhall have the ſatisfaction to ſee our friends contented.