[]Love in a Village.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Heigho—Roſſetta!

Well, child, what do you ſay?

'Tis a deviliſh thing to live in a village an hundred miles from the capital, with a prepoſterous gouty father, and a ſuperannuated maiden aunt.—I am heartily ſick of my ſituation.

And with reaſon.—But 'tis in a great mea⯑ſure your own fault: Here is this Mr. Euſtace, a man of character and family; he likes you, you like him; you know one another's minds, and yet you will not reſolve to make yourſelf happy with him.

And this is your advice?

Poſitively.

Here's my hand, poſitively I'll follow it.—I have already ſent to my gentleman, who is now in the country, to let him know he may come hither this [3] day; we will make uſe of the opportunity to ſettle all preliminaries—And then—But take notice, when⯑ever we decamp, you march off along with us.

Oh! madam, your ſervant; I have no incli⯑nation to be left behind, I aſſure you—But you ſay you got acquainted with this ſpark, while you were with your mother during her laſt illneſs at Bath, ſo that your father has never ſeen him.

Never in his life, my dear; and I am confi⯑dent he entertains not the leaſt ſuſpicion of my having any ſuch connection; my aunt, indeed, has her doubts and ſurmiſes; but, beſides that my father will not allow any one to be wiſer than himſelf, it is an eſtabliſhed maxim between theſe affectionate relations, never to agree in any thing.

Except being abſurd; you muſt allow they ſympathize, perfectly, in that—But now we are on the ſubject, I deſire to know what I am to do with this wicked old juſtice of peace? this libidinous father of yours, he follows me about the houſe like a tame goat.

Nay, I'll aſſure you he has been a wag in his time—you muſt have a care of yourſelf.

Wretched me! to fall into ſuch hands, who have been juſt forced to run away from my parents to avoid an odious marriage—you ſmile at that now, and I know you think me whimſical, as you have often told me; but you muſt excuſe my being a little over-delicate in this particular.

Well, but my dear mad girl—

Lucinda, don't talk to me—Was your father to go to London, meet there by accident with an old fellow as wrong headed as himſelf; and in a fit of abſurd friendſhip, agree to marry you to that old fel⯑low's ſon, whom you had never ſeen, without conſult⯑ing your inclinations, or allowing you a negative, in caſe he ſhould not prove agreeable—

Why, I ſhould think it a little hard, I con⯑feſs—yet when I ſee you in the character of a cham⯑bermaid—

It is the only character, my dear, in which I could hope to lie concealed; and I can tell you, I was reduced to the laſt extremity, when, in conſequence of our old boarding-ſchool friendſhip, I applied to you to receive me in this capacity: for we expected the par⯑ties the very next week—

But had not you a meſſage from your in⯑tended ſpouſe, to let you know he was as little inclined to ſuch ill-concerted nuptials as you were?

More than ſo; he wrote to adviſe me by all means, to contrive ſome method of breaking them off, for he had rather return to his dear ſtudies at Oxford; and after that, what hopes could I have of being hap⯑py with him?

Then you are not at all uneaſy at the ſtrange rout you muſt have occaſioned at home? I warrant, during this month that you have been abſent—

Oh! don't mention, it, my dear; I have had ſo many admirers ſince I commenced abigail, that I am quite charmed with my ſituation—But hold, who ſtalks yonder into the yard, that the dogs are ſo glad to ſee?

Daddy Hawthorn as I live! He is come to pay my father a viſit; and never more luckily, for he always forces him abroad. By the way, what will you do with yourſelf while I ſtep into the houſe to ſee after my truſty meſſenger Hodge?

No matter, I'll ſit down in that arbour and liſ⯑ten to the ſinging of the birds: you know I am fond of melancholy amuſements.

So it ſeems indeed: ſure Roſſetta none of your admirers have made a hole in your heart; you are not in love, I hope?

In love! that's pleaſant: who do you ſuppoſe I ſhould be in love with pray?

Why let me ſee—What do you think of Thomas, our gardiner? there he is at the other end of the walk—He's a very pretty young man, and the ſervants ſay he's always writing verſes on you.

Indeed Lucinda you are very ſilly.

Indeed Roſſetta that bluſh makes you look very handſome.

Bluſh! I am ſure I don't bluſh.

Ha, ha, ha!

Pſhaw, Lucinda how can you be ſo ridiculous?

Well don't be angry and I have done—but ſuppoſe you did like him, how could you help yourſelf

SCENE II.

Let me ſee—on the fifteenth of June, at half an hour paſt five in the morning

I left my father's houſe unknown to any one, having made free with a coat and jacket of our gar⯑dener's, which fitted me, by way of a diſguiſe:—ſo ſays my pocket-book; and chance directing me to this village, on the 20th of the ſame month I pro⯑cured a recommendation to the worſhipful juſtice Woodcock, to be the ſuperintendant of his pumpkins and cabbages, becauſe I would let my father ſee I choſe to run any lengths rather than ſubmit to what his obſti⯑nacy would have forced me, a marriage againſt my in⯑clination, [7] with a woman I never ſaw.

Here I have been three weeks, and in that time I am as much altered as if I had changed my nature with my habit. 'Sdeath, to fall in love with a chambermaid! And yet, if I could forget that I am the ſon and heir of ſir William Meadows—But that's impoſſible.

Hah! who was it I had a glimpſe of as I paſt by that arbour? was it not ſhe ſat reading there? the trembling of my heart tells me my eyes were not miſtaken—Here ſhe comes.

SCENE III.

Lucinda was certainly in the right of it, and yet I bluſh to own my weakneſs even to myſelf—Marry, hang the fellow for not being a gentleman.

I am determined I won't ſpeak to her,

Now or never is the time to conquer myſelf: Beſides, I have ſome reaſon to believe the girl has no averſion to me, [8] and as I wiſh not to do her an injury, it would be cruel to fill her head with notions of what can never happen

Pſha; rot theſe roſes, how they prick one's fingers.

He takes no notice of me, but ſo much the better, I'll be as indifferent as he is. I am ſure the poor lad likes me; and if I was to give him any en⯑couragement; I ſuppoſe the next thing he talked of would be buying a ring; and being aſked in church—Oh, dear pride, I thank you for that thought!

Hah, going without a word! a look!—I can't bear that—Mrs Roſſetta, I am ga⯑thering a few roſes here, if you'll pleaſe to take them in with you.

Thank you, Mr. Thomas, but all my lady's flowerpots are full.

Will you accept of them for yourſelf, then,

What's the matter? you look as if you were angry with me.

Pray, let go my hand.

Nay, pr'ythee, why is this? you ſhan't go, I have ſomething to ſay to you.

Well, but I muſt go, I will go; I deſire Mr Thomas!

SCENE IV.

This girl is a riddle—That ſhe loves me I think there is no room to doubt; ſhe takes a thouſand opportunities to let me ſee it, and yet when I ſpeak to her, ſhe will hardly give me an anſwer, and if I attempt the ſmalleſt familiarity is gone in an inſtant—I feel my paſſion for her grow every day more and more violent—Well, would I marry her? would I make a miſtreſs of her if I could? Two things, called prudence and honour, forbid either. What am I purſuing, then? a ſhadow. Sure my evil genius laid this ſnare in my way. However, there is one comfort, it is in my power to fly from it! if ſo, why do I heſitate? I am diſ⯑tracted, unable to determine any thing.

SCENE. V.

Houſe here, houſe; what all gadding, all abroad! houſe I ſay, hilli ho ho!

Here's a noiſe, here's a racket! Wil⯑liam, Robert, Hodge! why does not ſomebody anſwer? Odds my life I believe the fellows have loſt their hearing:

Oh maſter Hawthorn! I gueſſed it was ſome mad cap—Are you there?

Am I here, yes: and if you had been where I was three hours ago, you would find the good effects of it by this time: but you have got the lazy, unwhol⯑ſome London faſhion, of lying a bed in a morning, and there's gout for you—Why Sir I have not been in bed five minutes after ſun-riſe theſe thirty years, am generally up before it; and I never took a doſe of phy⯑ſic but once in my life, and that was in compliment to [11] a couſin of mine an apothecary, that had juſt ſet up buſineſs.

Well but maſter Hawthorn, let me tell you, you know nothing of the matter, for I ſay ſleep is neceſſary for a man, ay and I'll maintain it.

What when I maintain the contrary!—Look you neighbour Woodcock, you are a rich man, a man of worſhip, a juſtice of peace, and all that; but learn to know the reſpect that is due to the ſound from the infirm; and allow me the ſuperiority a good conſtitution gives me over you—Health is the great⯑eſt of all poſſeſſions, and 'tis a maxim with me, that an hail cobler, is a better man than a ſick king.

Well, well, you are a ſportſman.

And ſo would you too, if you would take my advice. A Sportſman quotha! why there is nothing like it: I would not exchange the ſatisfaction I feel while I am beating the lawns and thickets about my little farm, for all the entertainments and pageantry in Chriſ⯑tendom.

SCENE. VI.

Did your worſhip call Sir?

Call Sir! where have you and the reſt of thoſe raſcals been? but I ſuppoſe I need not aſk—You muſt know there is a ſtatute, a fair for hiring ſer⯑vants, held upon my green to day, we have it uſually at this ſeaſon of the year, and it never fails to put all the folks here-about out of their ſenſes.

Lord your honour look out, and ſee what a nice ſhew they make yonder, they had got pipers, and fidlers, and were dancing as I com'd along for dear life—I never ſaw ſuch a mortal throng in our village in all my born days again.

Why I like this now, this is as it ſhould be.

No no, 'tis a very fooliſh piece of bu⯑ſineſs; good for nothing but to promote idleneſs and the getting of baſtards: but I ſhall take meaſures for preventing it another year, and I doubt whether I am not ſufficiently authorized already: For by an act paſ⯑ſed Anno, undecimo, Caroli primo, which impowers a juſtice of peace, who is lord of the manor.—

Come come, never mind the act, let me tell you this is a very proper, a very uſeful meeting; I want a ſervant or two myſelf, I muſt go ſee what your market affords;—and you ſhall go, and the girls, my little Lucy and the other young rogue, and we'll make a day on't as well as the reſt.

I wiſh maſter Hawthorn, I cou'd teach you to be a little more ſedate: why wont you take pat⯑tern by me, and conſider your dignity—Odds heart I don't wonder you are not a rich man, you laugh too much ever to be rich.

Right neighbour Woodcock! health, good humour, and competence is my motto: and if my exe⯑cutors have a mind, they are welcome to make it my epitaph.

SCENE. VII.

Hiſt, hiſt, Hodge!

Who calls? here am I.

Well, have you been?

Been, ay I ha been far enough, an that be all? you never knew any thing fall out ſo croſsly in your born days.

Why, what's the matter?

Why you know, I dare not take a horſe out of his worſhip's ſtables this morning, for fear it ſhould be miſſed, and breed queſtions; and our old nag at home was ſo cruelly beat i'th hoofs, that poor beaſt, it had not a foot to ſet to ground; ſo I was fain to go to farmer Ploughſhares, at the Grainge, to borrow the loan of his bald filly: and wou'd you think it? after walking all that way,—de'el from me, if the croſs-grain'd tead, did not deny me the favour.

Unlucky!

Well, then I went my ways to the King's head in the village, but all their cattle were at plough: and I was as far to ſeek below at the turnpike: ſo at laſt, for want of a better; I were forced to take up with dame Quickſets blind mare.

Oh, then you have been?

Yes, yes, I ha' been.

Pſha! why did not you ſay ſo at once?

Ay, but I have had a main tireſome jaunt on't for ſhe is but a ſorry jade at beſt—

Well, well did you ſee Mr. Euſtace, and what did he ſay to you—come quick—have you e'er a letter!

Yes, he gave me a letter, if I ha' na' loſt it.

Loſt it man!

Nay, nay, have a bit of patience, adwawns, you are always in ſuch a hurry

I put it ſomewhere in this waiſtcoat pocket. Oh here it is.

So, give it me.

Lord a mercy! how my arm achs with beating that plaguy beaſt, I'll be hang'd if I won'na' rather ha'thraſh'd half a day, than ha' ridden her.

Well Hodge, you have done your buſineſs very well.

Well, have not I now?

Yes, Mr. Euſtace tells me in this letter, that he will be in the green lane at the other end of the vil⯑lage, by twelve o'clock—You know where he came before.

Ay ay.

Well, you muſt go there; and wait 'till he arrives; and watch your opportunity to introduce him acroſs the fields, into the little ſummer-houſe, on the left ſide of the garden.

That's enough.

But take particular care that nobody ſees you.

I warrant you.

Nor for your life drop a word of it to any mortal.

Never fear me.

And Hodge—

SCENE. VIII.

How ſevere is my caſe? here am I obliged to carry on a clandeſtine correſpondence with a man in all reſ⯑pects my equal, becauſe the oddity of my father's tem⯑per is ſuch, that I dare not tell him, I have ever yet ſeen the perſon I ſhould like to marry—But hold—is not the blame his then—when princes are oppreſſive in their government, ſubjects have a right to aſſert their liberty—perhaps my father has quality in his eye, and hopes one day or other, as I am his only child, to match me with an earl or a duke—vain imagination!

SCENE. IX.

What does the wench follow me for? Odds fleſh, folk may well talk, to ſee you dangling after me every where, like a tantony pig; find ſome other road, can't you, and don't keep wherreting me with your non⯑ſenſe.

Nay pray you Hodge ſtay, and let me ſpeak to you a bit.

Well; what fayn you?

Dear heart, how can you be ſo barbarous? and is this the way you ſerve me after all? and wont you keep your word Hodge?

Why no I wont, I tell you; I have chang'd my mind.

Nay but ſurely, ſurely—Conſider Hodge, you are obligated in conſcience, to make me an honeſt woman.

Obligated in conſcience, how am I obligated?

Becauſe you are: and none but the baſeſt of rogues wou'd bring a poor girl to ſhame, and after⯑wards leave her to the wide world.

Bring you to ſhame, don't make me ſpeak Madge, don't make me ſpeak.

Yes do, ſpeak your worſt.

Why then if you go to that, you were fain to leave your own village down in the Weſt, for a baſ⯑tard you had by the clerk of the pariſh, and I'll bring the man ſhall ſay it to your face.

No no Hodge, 'tis no ſuch a thing, 'tis a baſe lie of farmer Ploughſhare's—But I know what makes you falſe hearted to me, that you may keep company with young madam's waiting woman, and I am ſure ſhe's no fit body for a poor man's wife.

How ſhou'd you know what ſhe's fit for, ſhe's fit for as much as you mayhap, don't find fault, with your betters Madge.

Oh! maſter Thomas, I have a word or two to ſay to you; pray did not you go down the village one day laſt week with a baſket of ſomewhat upon your ſhoulder?

Well and what then?

Nay not much, only the Oſtler at the Green⯑man was ſaying as how there was a paſſenger at their houſe as ſee'd you go by: and ſaid he know'd you; and [...] a mort of queſtions—So I thought I'd tell you—

The devil! aſk queſtions about me, I know nobody in this part of the country, there muſt be ſome miſtake in it—Come hither Hodge.

A naſty ungrateful fellow, to uſe me at this rate, after being to him as I have—Well well, I wiſh all poor girls, wou'd take warning by my miſhap, and never have nothing to ſay to none of them.

SCENE X.

This way, your worſhip, this way! Why don't you ſtand aſide there? here's his worſhip a coming.

His worſhip!

Fye, fye; what a crowd's this; odd, I'll put ſome of them in the ſtocks

ſtand out of the way, ſirrah.

For ſhame, neighbour. Well, my lad, are you willing to ſerve the king?

Why can you liſt ma? Serve the king, maſter! no, no, I pay the king, that's enough for me. Ho, ho, ho!

Well ſaid, ſturdy-boots.

Nay, if you talk to them, they'll anſwer you.

I would have them do ſo, I like they ſhould.—Well, madam, is not this a fine ſight? I did not know my neighbour's eſtate had been ſo well peopled.—Are all theſe his own tenants?

More than are good of them, Mr. Haw⯑thorn. I don't like to ſee ſuch a parcel of young huſſeys fleering with the fellows.

There's a laſs

come hither my pretty maid. What brings you here? [21]

Do you come to look for a ſervice.

Yes, an't pleaſe you.

Well, and what place are you for?

All work, an't pleaſe you.

Ay, ay, I don't doubt it; any work you'll put her to.

She looks like a brazen one.—Go huſſey.

Here's another

What health, what bloom!—This is nature's work; no art, no daubing. Don't be aſhamed, child; thoſe cheeks of thine are enough to put a whole drawing-room out of countenance.

SCENE XI.

Now your honour, now the ſport will come. The gut ſcrapers are here, and ſome among them are going to ſing and dance. Why there's not the likes of our ſtatute, mun, in five counties; others are but fools to it.

Come good people, make a ring, and ſtand out, fellow-ſervants, as many of you as are wil⯑ling, and able to bear a bob: we'll let my maſters and miſtreſſes ſee we can do ſomething, at leaſt; if they won't hire us it ſhan't be our fault. Strike up the Ser⯑vants Medley.

ACT II. SCENE I.

WELL, am not I a bold adventurer, to bring you into my father's houſe at noon⯑day? though, to ſay the truth, we are ſafer here than in the garden; for there is not a human creature under the roof beſide ourſelves.

Then why not put our ſcheme into execution this moment? I have a poſt-chaiſe ready—

Fie! how can you talk ſo lightly? I proteſt I am afraid to have any thing to do with you; your paſſion ſeems too much founded on appetite; and my aunt Deborah ſays—

What! by all the rapture my heart now feels—

Oh to be ſure, promiſe and vow; it ſounds prettily, and never fails to impoſe upon a fond female.

Well, I ſee you have a mind to divert yourſelf with me; but I wiſh I could prevail on you to be a little ſerious.

Seriouſly then, what would you deſire me to ſay? I have promiſed to run away with you; which is as great a conceſſion, as any reaſonable lover can ex⯑pect from his miſtreſs.

Yes, but you dear provoking angel, you have not told me, when you will run away with me.

Why, that I confeſs requires ſome conſidera⯑tion.

Yet remember, while you are deliberating, the ſeaſon, now ſo favourable to us, may elapſe, never to return.

SCENE. II.

Why, here is nothing in the world in this houſe but catter-wawling from morning till night, nothing but catter-wawling. Hoity toity! who have we here?

My father and my aunt!

The Devil, what ſhall we do?

Take no notice of them, only obſerve me,

upon my word ſir, I don't know what to ſay to it, unleſs the juſtice was at home; he is juſt ſtepped into the village with ſome company, but if you will ſit down a moment, I dare ſware he will re⯑turn,

Oh! ſir, here is my papa!

Here is your papa huſſey! who's this you have got with you? hark you ſirrah, who are you, ye dog? and what's your buſineſs here?

Sir, this a language I am not uſed to.

Don't anſwer me you raſcal—I am a juſtice of peace, and if I hear a word out of your mouth, I'll ſend you to jail, for all your laced hat.

Send him to jail brother, that's right.

And how do you know it's right? how ſhould you know any thing's right? Siſter Deborah you are never in the right.

Brother this is the man I have been tell⯑ing you about ſo long.

What man, goody wiſeacre?

Why, the man your daughter has an in⯑trigue with, but I hope you will not believe it now, though you ſee it with your own eyes.—Come huſſey confeſs, and don't let your father make a fool of himſelf any longer.

Confeſs what aunt? this gentleman is a muſic maſter, he goes about the country teaching ladies to play and ſing; and has been recommended to inſtruct me; I could not turn him out when he came to offer his ſervice, and did not know what anſwer to give him 'till I ſaw my papa.

A muſic maſter?

Yes Sir, that's my profeſſion.

It's a lye young man, it's a lye; brother, he is no more a muſic maſter, than I am a muſic maſter.

What then you know better than the fellow himſelf, do you? and you will be wiſer than all the world?

Brother, he does not look like a muſic maſter.

He does not look ha, ha, ha, was ever ſuch a poor ſtupe, well, and what does he look like then? but I ſuppoſe you mean, he is not dreſſed like a muſic maſter, becauſe of his ruffles, and this bit of gar⯑niſhing about his coat, which ſeems to be copper too; why you ſilly wretch, theſe whipperſnappers ſet up for gentlemen now a-days, and give themſelves as many airs, as if they were people of quality.—Hark you friend, I ſuppoſe you don't come within the vagrant act, you have ſome ſettled habitation;—Where do you live?

It's an eaſy matter for him to tell you a wrong place.

Siſter Deborah don't provoke me.

I wiſh brother you would let me examine him a little.

You ſhan't ſay a word to him, you ſhan't ſay a word to him.

She ſays he was recommended here bro⯑ther, aſk him by whom?

No I won't now, becauſe you deſire it.

If my papa did aſk the queſtion aunt, it would be very eaſily reſolved—

Who bid you ſpeak Mrs. Nimble Chops, I ſuppoſe the man has a tongue in his head to anſwer for himſelf.

Will no body ſtop that prating old woman's mouth for me, get out of the room.

Well, ſo I can brother, I don't want to ſtay, but remember I tell you; you will make yourſelf ridiculous in this affair, for through your own obſtinacy, you will have your daughter run away with before your face.

My daughter! who will run away with my daughter?

That fellow will.

Go, go, you are a wicked cenſorious woman.

Why, ſure madam you muſt think me very coming indeed.

Ay, ſhe judges of others by herſelf; I remember when ſhe was a girl, her mother dare not truſt her the length of her apron ſtring, ſhe was clam⯑bering upon every fellows back.

I was not.

You were.

Well, but why ſo violent.

You are an impudent ſlut.

SCENE III.

Well done Lucy, ſend her about her buſineſs, a troubleſome fooliſh creature; does ſhe think I want to be directed by her;—Come hither my lad, you look tolerably honeſt—

I hope ſir, I ſhall never give you cauſe to alter your opinion

No, no, I am not eaſily deceived, I am generally pretty right in my conjectures;—You muſt know, I had once a little notion of muſic myſelf, and learned upon the fiddle; I could play the trumpet minuet and buttered peaſe, and two or three tunes. I [32] remember when I was in London, about thirty years ago, there was a ſong, a great favourite at our club at Nando's coffee-houſe; Jack Pickle uſed to ſing it for us: a droll fiſh! but 'tis an old thing, I dare ſwear you have heard it often.

Very well ſir, upon my word.

No no, I forget all thoſe things now, but I could do a little at them once;—Well ſtay and eat your dinner, and we'll talk about your teaching the girl:—Lucy, take your maſter to your ſpinnet, and ſhew him what you can do—I muſt go and give ſome orders; "then hoity, toity, &c.

SCENE. IV.

My ſweet, pretty papa, your moſt obedient humble ſervant, hah, hah, hah! was ever ſo whimſical an accident! well ſir, what do you think of this?

Think of it! I am in a maze.

O your aukwardneſs! I was frightened out of my wits, leſt you ſhould not take the hint! and if I had not turned matters ſo cleverly, we ſhould have been utterly undone.

'Sdeath! why would you bring me into the houſe? we could expect nothing elſe: beſides, ſince they did ſurprize us, it would have been better to have diſ⯑covered the truth.

Yes, and never have ſeen one another after⯑wards. I know my father better than you do; he has taken it into his head, I have no inclination for a huſband, and let me tell you, that is our beſt ſecurity; for if once he has ſaid a thing, he will not be eaſily per⯑ſuaded to the contrary.

And pray, what am I to do now?

Why, as I think all danger is pretty well over, ſince he has invited you to dinner with him, ſtay, only be cautious of your behaviour; and in the mean time, I will conſider what is next to be done.

Had not I better go to your father?

Do ſo, while I endeavour to recover myſelf a little, out of the flurry this affair has put me in.

Well, but what ſort of a parting is this, with⯑out ſo much as your ſervant, or good by to you; [34] No ceremony at all? can you afford me no token to keep up my ſpirits 'till I ſee you again.

Ah childiſh!

My angel!

SCENE. VI.

If ever poor creature was in a pitiable condition, ſurely I am. The devil take this fellow, I cannot get him out of my head, and yet I would fain perſuade myſelf I don't care for him: well, but ſurely I am not in love, let me examine my heart a little: I ſaw him kiſſing one of the maids the other day; I could have boxed his ears for it, and have done nothing but find fault and quarrel with the girl ever ſince. Why was I [35] uneaſy at his toying with another woman? what was it to me? Then I dream of him almoſt every night—but that may proceed from his being generally uppermoſt in my thoughts all day;—Oh! worſe and worſe!—Well, he is certainly a pretty lad, he has ſomething uncom⯑mon about him, conſidering his rank: and now let me only put the caſe, if he was not a ſervant, would I, or would I not, prefer him to all the men I ever ſaw? Why, to be ſure, if he was not a ſervant.—In ſhort, I'll aſk myſelf no more queſtions, for, the farther I examine, the leſs reaſon, I ſhall have to be ſatisfied.

SCENE VII.

Do you come into the garden, Mrs. Roſſetta, to put my lilies and roſes out of countenance; or to ſave me the trouble of watering my flowers, by reviving them? The ſun ſeems to have hid himſelf a lit⯑tle, to give you an opportunity of ſupplying his place.

Where could he get that now? he never read it in the academy of compliments.

Come don't affect to treat me with contempt; I can ſuffer any thing better than that: in ſhort I love you; there is no more to be ſaid; I am an⯑gry with myſelf for it, and ſtrive all I can againſt it; but in ſpite of myſelf I love you.

Really Mr. Thomas, this is very improper lan⯑guage, it is what I don't underſtand; I can't ſuffer it, and in ſhort, I don't like it.

Perhaps you don't like me.

Well, perhaps I don't.

Nay, but 'tis not ſo: come, confeſs you love me.

Confeſs! indeed I ſhall confeſs no ſuch thing; beſides, to what purpoſe ſhould I confeſs it.

Why as you ſay I don't know to what purpoſe, only it would be a ſatisfaction to me to hear you ſay ſo; that's all.

Why if I did love you, I can aſſure you, you wou'd never be the better for it—Women are apt enough to be weak, we cannot always an⯑ſwer for our inclinations but it is in our power not to give way to them; and if I was ſo ſilly; I ſay, if I [37] was ſo indiſcreet, which I hope I am not, as to enter⯑tain an improper regard, when people's circumſtances are quite unſuitable, and there are obſtacles in the way that cannot be ſurmounted—

Oh! to be ſure, Mrs. Roſſetta, to be ſure, you are entirely in the right of it—I—know very well, you and I can never come together.

Well then, ſince that is the caſe, as I aſſure you it is, I think we had better behave accordingly.

Suppoſe we make a bargain then, never to ſpeak to one another any more?

With all my heart.

Nor look at, nor, if poſſible, think of one another.

I am very willing.

And as long as we ſtay in the houſe together, after this day, never to take any notice.

It is the beſt way.

Why, I believe it is—Well, Mrs. Roſsetta.

Well, now I think I am ſomewhat eaſier; I am glad I have come to this explanation with him, be⯑cauſe it puts an end to things at once.

Hold Mrs Roſſetta, pray ſtay a mo⯑ment—the airs this girl gives herſelf are intolerable: I find now the cauſe of her behaviour, ſhe deſpiſes the meanneſs of my condition, thinking a gardener, below the notice of a lady's waiting woman: Sdeath! I have a good mind to diſcover myſelf to her.

He ſeems in a brown ſtudy, poor wretch! I believe he is heartily mortified, but I muſt not pity him.

It ſhall be ſo, I will diſcover myſelf to her, and leave the houſe directly—Mrs. Roſſetta.

—Pox on it, yonder's the juſtice come into the garden—

Oh lord he will walk round this way, pray go about your buſineſs, I would not for the world he ſhou'd ſee us together.

The devil take him, he's gone acroſs the parterre, and can't hobble here this half-hour, I muſt and will have a little converſation with you.

Some other time.

This evening, in the green-houſe at the lower end of the canal, I have ſome thing to communi⯑cate to you of importance. Will, you meet me there.

Meet you!

Ay, I have a ſecret to tell you, and I ſwear from that moment, there ſhall be an end of every thing betwixt us.

Well, well, pray leave me now.

You'll come then.

I don't know, perhaps I may,

Nay but promiſe.

What ſignifies promiſing, I may break my pro⯑miſe,—but I tell you I will.

Enough—Yet before I leave you, let me deſire you to believe I love you more than ever man loved woman, and that when I relinquiſh you, I give up all that can make my life ſupportable.

SCENE VIII.

What can this be that he wants to tell me, I have a ſtrange curioſity to hear it me thinks—well—

Hem: hem: Roſsetta!

So, I thought the devil would throw him in my way, now for a courtſhip of a different kind, but I'll give him a ſurfeit—did you call me Sir?

Ay, where are you running ſo faſt?

I was only going into the houſe Sir.

Well but come here; come here I ſay

how do you do Roſſetta?

Thank you Sir, pretty well.

Why, you look as freſh and bloomy to day—Adad you little ſlut I believe you are painted.

Oh! Sir, you are pleaſed to compliment.

Adad I believe you are—let me try—

Lord Sir!

What brings you into this garden ſo often Roſſetta? I hope you don't get eating green fruit and traſh; or have you a hankering after ſome lover in dowlas, who ſpoils my trees by engraving truelovers knots on them, with your horn, and buck-handled knives? I ſee your name written upon the cieling of the ſervants hall, with the ſmoak of a candle; and I ſuſpect—

Not me I hope Sir—No Sir, I am of ano⯑ther gueſs mind I aſſure you; for I have heard ſay, men are ſo falſe and fickle—

Ay, that's your flanting idle young fel⯑lows; ſo they are; and they are ſo damm'd impudent, I wonder a woman will have any thing to ſay to them; beſides, all that they want, is ſomething to brag of, and tell again.

Why, I own Sir, if ever I was to make a ſlip, it ſhould be with an elderly gentleman—about ſeventy or ſeventy-five years of age.

No, child, that's out of reaſon; tho' I have known many a man turned of threeſcore with a hale conſtitution—

Then, ſir, he ſhould be troubled with the gout, have a good ſtrong, ſubſtantial winter cough—and I ſhould not like him the worſe—if he had a ſmall of the rheumatiſm.

Pho, pho, Roſſetta, this is jeſting.

No, ſir, every body has their taſte, and I have mine.

Well, but Roſſetta, have you thought of what I was ſaying to you?

What was it, ſir?

Ah! you know, you know, well enough, huſſey.

Dear ſir, conſider my ſoul, would you have me endanger my ſoul?

No, no—Repent.

Beſides, ſir, conſider, what has a poor ſervant to depend on but her character? And I have heard you gentlemen will talk one thing before, and another after.

I tell you again, theſe are the idle, flaſhy young dogs; but when you have to do with a ſtaid, ſober man—

And a magiſtrate! ſir.

Right, it's quite a different thing.—Well, ſhall we Roſſeta, ſhall we?

Really, ſir, I don't know what to ſay to it.

Why you ſilly girl, I won't do you any harm.

Won't you, ſir?

Not I.

But won't you, indeed, ſir?

Why I tell you I won't.

Ha, ha, ha.

Huſſey, huſſey.

Ha, ha, ha!—Your ſervant, ſir, your ſervant.

Why you impudent, audacious—

SCENE. IX.

So, ſo, juſtice, at odds with gravity! his worſhip playing a game at romps!—Your ſervant, ſir.

Hah: friend Hawthorn!

I hope I don't ſpoil ſport, neighbour: I thought I had the glympſe of a petticoat as I came in here.

Oh! the maid. Ay, ſhe has been ga⯑thering a ſallad.—But come hither, maſter Hawthorn, and I'll ſhew you ſome alterations I intend to make in my garden; how do you like my haha, have not I brought the country finely in?

Pho, pho, I am no judge of it:—beſides, I want to talk to you a little more about this—Tell me, ſir juſtice, were you helping your maid to gather a ſallad here, or conſulting her taſte in your improve⯑ments, eh?—Ha, ha, ha!—Let me ſee; all among the roſes! egad, I like your notion: but you look a little blank upon it: you are aſhamed of the buſineſs, then, are you?

I profeſs, maſter Hawthorn, this is all Indian, all Cherokee language to me; I don't under⯑ſtand a word of it.

No, may be not: well, ſir, will you read this letter, and try whether you can underſtand that: it is juſt brought by a ſervant, who ſtays for an anſwer.

A letter, and to me!

Yes, it is to me; and yet I am ſure it comes from no correſpondent. Where are my ſpectacles? not but I can ſee very well without them, maſter Hawthorn; but this ſeems to be a ſort of a crabbed hand

Tom,—oh, this is Thomas, our gardener; I always thought that he was a better man's child than he appeared to be, though I never mentioned it.

Well, well, ſir; pray let's hear the reſt of the letter.

Stay, where is the place?

(whoever this perſon is, he underſtands good manners).

I'll aſſure you, a very well worded, civil letter. Do you know any thing of the perſon who writes it, neigh⯑bour?

Let me conſider—Meadows—By dad I be⯑lieve it is ſir William Meadows, of Northamptonſhire; and, now I remember, I heard, ſome time ago, that the heir of that family had abſconded, on account of a marriage that was diſagreeable to him. It is a good many years ſince I have ſeen ſir William, but we were once well acquainted; and, if you pleaſe, ſir, I will go and conduct him up to the houſe.

Do ſo, maſter Hawthorn, do ſo.—But, pray what ſort of a man is this ſir William Mea⯑dows, is he a wiſe man?

There is no occaſion for a man that has five thouſand pounds a year to be a conjurer; but I ſuppoſe you aſk that queſtion becauſe of this ſtory about his ſon; taking it for granted, that wiſe parents make wiſe chil⯑dren?

No doubt of it, maſter Hawthorn, no doubt of it.—I warrant we ſhall find, now, that this young raſcal has fallen in love with ſome minx, againſt his father's conſent.—Why, ſir, if I had as many children as king Priam had, that we read of at ſchool in the deſtruction of Troy, not one of them would ſerve me ſo.

Well, well, neighbour, perhaps not; but we ſhould remember when we were young ourſelves; and I was as likely to play an old don ſuch a trick in my day, as e'er a ſpark in the hundred; nay, between you and me, I had done it once, had the wench been as willing as I.

Ah, you were always a ſcape-grace, rattle-cap.

Odds heart, neighbour Woodcock, don't tell me, young fellows will be young fellows, though we preach 'till we're hoarſe again; and ſo there's an end on't.

SCENE X.

Mercy on us.—I wiſh I may be hanged if I had not like to drop down with the fright, when I ſaw the gentleman in the parlour with my maſter: I thought all the fat was in the fire, and I ſhould have loſt my place, that's for certain.

Well, but Hodge, things have fallen out more luckily; and my papa is very well reconciled to the gentleman, but does not ſuſpect who he is; ſo take care you don't blab it.

Blab it, did I ever?—

I don't accuſe you—And, as I have often put confidence in you before, I am now going to give you a freſh inſtance of my dependance on your fidelity.—I have juſt come to a reſolution to leave the houſe, with Mr. Euſtace, this night.

What! and his worſhip know nothing of the matter?

Not a ſyllable; nor would I have him, till we are out of his reach, which we ſhall be by to-morrow morning, for the world.

Why, then you are going to run away, miſs!

I dare ſwear I ſhall return ſoon again, Hodge.—When my father finds that we are married, and what's done cannot be undone, you know.—

Nay, ecod, you'll be of the ſure ſide of the hedge, then; but have you any thing for me to do?

That you ſhall be told, if you come into my chamber after dinner; Mr. Euſtace will be there—And, in the mean time, as a reward for the ſervices you have done us already, there's ſomewhat

Five guineas!—Mayhap you think it's for the value of this, now—Why I'd go through fire and water for you, by day or by night, without ever a penny—But if his worſhip ſhould come to know that I have meddled or made—

Depend upon it, Hodge, I will inſure you from all damages.—But where ſhall I find Roſſetta, to tell her of this?—Well, I am going to do a ſtrange bold thing, but I hope we ſhall be happy.

SCENE. XI.

So miſtreſs, who let you in?

Why, I let myſelf in.

Indeed! Marry come up! why, then pray let yourſelf out again. Times are come to a pretty paſs; I think you might have had the manners to knock at the door firſt.—What does the wench ſtand for?

I want to know if his worſhip's at home.

Well, what's your buſineſs with his worſhip!

Perhaps you will hear that.—Look ye, Hodge, it does not ſignify talking, I am come, once for all, to know what you intends to do; for I won't be made a fool of any longer.

You won't!

No, that's what I won't, by the beſt man that ever wore a head; I am the make-game of the whole village upon your account; and I'll try whether your maſter gives you toleration in your doings.

You will?

Yes, that's what I will, his worſhip ſhall be acquainted with all your pranks, and ſee how you will like to be ſent for a ſoldier.

There's the door, take a friend's advice and go about your buſineſs.

My buſineſs is with his worſhip.

Look you Madge, if you make any of your orations here, never ſtir if I don't ſet the dogs at you:—Will you be gone?

I won't.

Here towzer,

whu, whu, whu.

SCENE. XII.

Sure I heard the voice of diſcord here,—as I live an admirer of mine, and if I miſtake not, a rival—I'll have ſome ſport with them—how now fellow ſervant what's the matter?

Nothing Mrs. Roſſetta, only this young woman wants to ſpeak with his worſhip;—Madge follow me.

No Hodge, this is your fine madam! but I am as good fleſh and blood as ſhe, and have as clean a ſkin too, tho'f I mayn't go ſo gay; and now ſhe's here I'll tell her a piece of my mind.

Hold your tongue will you.

No, I'll ſpeak if I dye for it.

What is the matter I ſay.

Why nothing I tell you;—Madge—

Yes, but it is ſomething, it's all along of ſhe, and ſhe may be aſhamed of herſelf.

Bleſs me child, do you direct your diſcourſe to me?

Yes, I do, and to nobody elſe; there was not a kinder ſoul breathing than he was 'till of late; I had never a croſs word from him till he kept you company; but all the girls about ſay, there's no ſuch thing as keep⯑ing a ſweetheart for you.

Do you hear this, friend Hodge?

Why, you don't mind ſhe I hope; but if that vexes her, I do like you, I do; my mind runs upon nothing elſe; and if ſo be as you was agreeable to it, I would marry you to night, before to morrow.

Oh you baſe rogue, you deceitful fellow, you are parjur'd, you know you are, and you deſerve to have your eyes tore out.

Let me come at her,—I'll teach you to call names, and abuſe folk.

Do, ſtrike me; you a man!

Hold, hold,—we ſhall have a battle, here pre⯑ſently, and I may chance to get my cap tore off.—Never exaſperate a jealous woman, 'tis taking a mad bull by the horns;—Leave me to manage her.

You manage her! I'll kick her.

No, no, it will be more for my credit, to get the better of her by fair means;—I warrant I'll bring her to reaſon.

Well, do ſo then;—But may I depend upon you? when ſhall I ſpeak to the Parſon?

We'll talk of that another time;—Go.

Madge, good by.

The brutality of this fellow ſhocks me!—Oh man, man,—you are all alike.—A bumkin here, bred at the barn-door! had he been brought up in a court, could he have been more faſhionably vicious? ſhew me the lord, 'ſquire, colonel, or captain of them all, that can out-do him.

SCENE XIII.

I am ready to burſt, I can't ſtay in the place any longer.

Hold child, come hither.

Don't ſpeak to me, don't you.

Well, but I have ſomething to ſay to you of conſequence, and that will be for your good; I ſuppoſe this fellow promiſed you marriage.

Ay, or he ſhould never have prevail'd upon me.

Well, now you ſee the ill conſequence of truſt⯑ing to ſuch promiſes: when once a man hath cheated a [52] of her virtue, ſhe has no longer hold of him; he deſpiſes her for wanting that which he hath robb'd her of; and like a lawleſs conqueror, triumphs in the ruin he hath occaſioned.

—Nan!

However, I hope the experience you have got, though ſomewhat dearly purchaſed, will be of uſe to you for the future; and as to any deſigns I have upon the heart of your lover, you may make yourſelf eaſy, for I aſſure you, I ſhall be no dangerous rival, ſo go your ways and be a good girl.

Yes,—I don't very well underſtand her talk, but I ſuppoſe that's as much as to ſay ſhe'll keep him herſelf; well let her, who cares, I don't fear getting better nor he is any day of the year, for the matter of that; and I have a thought come into my head that may be will be more to my advantage.

SCENE XIV.

Ha! ha! ha! Oh admirable, moſt delectibly rediculous. And ſo your father is content he ſhould be a muſic maſter, and will have him ſuch, in ſpite of all your aunt can ſay to the contrary?

My father and he child, are the beſt com⯑panions you ever ſaw: they have been ſinging together the moſt hideous duets! bobbing joan, and old ſir ſimon the king; heaven knows where Euſtace could pick them up; but he has gone through half the contents of pills to purge melancholy with him.

And have you reſolved to take wing to-night?

This very night, my dear; my ſwain will go from hence this evening, but no farther than the inn, where he has left his horſes; and at twelve preciſely, he will be with a poſt-chaiſe at the little gate that opens from the lawn, into the road, where I have promiſed to meet him.

Then depend upon it, I'll bear you company.

We ſhall eaſily ſlip out when the family is a ſleep, and I have prepared Hodge already.

Nay, for that matter, you need not have a more expert pilot than myſelf upon ſuch an expedition, but hark you—

SCENE XV.

Lucy, where are you.

Your pleaſure, Sir.

Mr. Hawthorn, your ſervant.

What my little water wagtail, the very cou⯑ple I wiſhed to meet, come hither both of you.

Now Sir, what would you ſay to both of us.

Why let me look at you a little—have you got on your beſt gowns, and your beſt faces? If not, go and trick yourſelves out directly, for I'll tell you a ſecret—there will be a young batchelor in the houſe within theſe three hours, that may fall to the ſhare of one of you, if you look ſharp,—but whether miſtreſs or maid—

Ay, marry this is ſomething, but how do you know, whether either miſtreſs or maid, will think him worth acceptance.

Follow me, follow me, I warrant you.

I can aſſure you, Mr. Hawthorn, I am very difficult to pleaſe.

And ſo am I Sir.

Indeed!

ACT III. SCENE I.

WELL this is excellent, this is mighty good, this is mighty merry faith, ha, ha, ha; was ever the like heard of? that my boy Tom ſhould run away from me, for fear of being forced to marry a girl he never ſaw; that ſhe ſhould ſcamper from her father, for fear of being forced to marry him; and that they ſhould run into one another's arms this way in diſguiſe; by mere aocident; againſt their con⯑ſents, and without knowing it as a body may ſay: may I never do an ill turn maſter Hawthorn, if it is not one of the oddeſt adventures partly—

Why Sir William it is romance, a novel, a pleaſanter hiſtory by half, than the loves of Doraſtus and Faunia; we ſhall have ballads made of it within theſe two months, ſetting forth, how a young 'ſquire became a ſerving man of low degree: and it will be ſtuck up with Margret's ghoſt, and the Spaniſh lady, againſt the walls of every cottage in the country.

But what pleaſes me beſt of all maſter Hawthorn, is the ingenuity of the girl. May I never do an ill turn, when I was called out of the room, and the ſervant ſaid ſhe wanted to ſpeak to me, if I knew what [57] to make on't: but when the little gypſey took me aſide, and told me her name, and how matters ſtood, I was quite aſtoniſh'd as a body may ſay; and could not believe it partly; till her young friend, that ſhe is with here, aſſu⯑red me of the truth on't. Indeed at laſt I began to recol⯑lect her face, though I have not ſet eyes on her before, ſince ſhe was the height of a full grown greyhound.

Well Sir William, your ſon as yet knows no⯑thing of what has happen'd, nor of your being come hi⯑ther; and if you'll follow my council, we'll have ſome ſport with him—He and his miſtreſs were to meet in the garden this evening by appointment, ſhe's gone to dreſs herſelf in all her airs; will you let me direct your proceedings in this affair.

With all my heart maſter Hawthorn, with all my heart, do what you will with me, ſay what you pleaſe for me; I am ſo overjoy'd and ſo happy—And may I never do an ill turn, but I am very glad to ſee you too, ay, and partly as much pleaſed at that as any thing elſe, for we have been merry together before now, when we were ſome years younger: Well and how has the world gone with you maſter Hawthorn ſince we ſaw one another laſt.

Why, pretty well Sir William, I have no reaſon to complain; every one has a mixture of four with his ſweets; but in the main I believe I have done in a degree as tollerably as my neighbours.

SCENE. II.

Sir William I beg pardon for detaining you, but I have had ſo much difficulty in adjuſting my bor⯑rowed plumes.—

May I never do an ill turn but they fit you to a T, and you look very well ſo you do; cockbones how your father will chuckle when he comes to hear this—Her father maſter Hawthorn is as worthy a man as lives by bread, and has been almoſt out of his ſenſes for the loſs of her—But tell me huſſey, has not this been all a ſcheme, a piece of conjuration between you and my ſon; faith I am half perſuaded it has, it looks ſo like hocus pocus as a body may ſay.

Upon my honour Sir William what has happen⯑ed has been the mere effect of chance; I came hither unknown to your ſon, and he unknown to me: I ne⯑ver in the leaſt ſuſpected that Thomas the gardener was other than his appearance ſpoke him, and leaſt of all, that he was a perſon with whom I had ſo cloſe a connec⯑tion. [59] Mr. Hawthorn can teſtify the aſtoniſhment I was in when he firſt informed me of it: but I thought it was my duty to come to an immediate explanation with you.

Is not ſhe a neat wench maſter Hawthorn? May I never do an ill turn but ſhe is—But you little plaguy devil, how came this love affair between you?

I have told you the whole truth very ingenuouſly Sir; ſince your ſon and I have been fellow ſervants, as I may call it, in this houſe, I have had more than reaſon to ſuſpect he had taken a liking to me; and I will own with equal frankneſs, had I not look'd upon him as a perſon ſo much below me, I ſhould have had no objec⯑tion to receiving his courtſhip.

Well ſaid by the lord Harry, all above board, fair and open.

Perhaps I may be cenſured by ſome for this can⯑did declaration; but I love to ſpeak my ſentiments, and I aſſure you Sir William, in my own opinion, I ſhould prefer a gardener, with your ſon's good qualities, to a knight of the ſhire without them.

Well, but Sir, we loſe time—is not this about the hour you appointed to meet in the garden?

Pretty near it.

Oons then, what do we ſtay for? come my old friend come along, and by the way we will conſult how to manage your interview.

Ay, but I muſt ſpeak a word or two to my man about the horſes firſt.

SCENE III.

Well,—What's the buſineſs?

Madam,—Mercy on us, I crave pardon!

Why Hodge, don't you know me?

Mrs. Roſſetta!

Ay.

Know you, ecod I don't know whether I do or not: never ſtir, if I did not think it was ſome lady belonging to the ſtrange gentlefolks: why you ben't dizen'd this way, to go to the ſtatute dance preſently, be you?

Have patience and you'll ſee:—But is there any thing amiſs, that you came in ſo abrutly?

Amiſs! why there's ruination.

How, where?

Why with miſs Lucinda: her aunt has catch'd, ſhe, and the gentleman above ſtairs, and over-heard all their love diſcourſe.

You don't ſay ſo.

Ecod, I had like to have pop'd in among them this inſtant, but by good luck, I heard Mrs. Debo⯑rah's voice, and ran down again, as faſt as ever my legs could carry me.

Is your maſter in the houſe?

What his worſhip? no, no, he is gone into the fields to talk with the reapers and people.

Poor Lucinda, I wiſh I could go up to her, but I am ſo engaged with my own affairs—

Mrs. Roſſetta.

Well.

Odds bobs, I muſt have one ſmack of your ſweet lips.

Oh ſtand off, you know I never allow liberties.

Nay, but why ſo coy, there's reaſon in roaſt⯑ing of eggs; I would not deny you ſuch a thing.

That's kind, ha, ha, ha!—but what will be⯑come of Lucinda? Sir William waits for me, I muſt be gone.—Friendſhip a moment by your leave, yet as our ſufferings have been mutual, ſo ſhall our joys; I already loſe the remembrance of all former pains and anxieties.

SCENE. IV.

Hiſt, ſtay! don't I hear a noiſe?

Well, but dear, dear aunt.

You need not ſpeak to me, for it does not ſignify.

Adwawns they are coming here, ecod I'll get out of the way;—Murrain take it this door is bolted now—So ſo.

Get along, get along;

you are a ſcandal to the name of Woodcock! but I was reſolved to find you out, for I have ſuſpect⯑ed you a great while, though your father ſilly man, will have you ſuch a poor innocent.

What ſhall I do.

I was determined to diſcover what you, and your pretended muſic matter were about; and lay in wait on purpoſe: I believe he thought to eſcape me, by ſlipping into the cloſet when I knocked at the door; but I was even with him, for now I have him under lock and key, and pleaſe the fates, there he ſhall remain till your father comes in: I will convince him of his error, whether he will or not.

You won't be ſo cruel, I am ſure you won't; I thought I had made you my friend, by telling you the truth.

Telling me the truth quotha? did I not over⯑hear your ſcheme of running away to night, through the partition; did not I find the very bundles packed up in the room with you ready for going off? No brazen⯑face, I found out the truth by my own ſagacity, though [63] your father ſays, I am a fool; but now we'll be judged who is the greateſt.—And you Mr. raſcal, my bro⯑ther ſhall know what an honeſt ſervant he has got.

Madam!

You were to have been aiding and aſſiſting them in their eſcape, and have been the go be⯑tween it ſeems, the letter carrier!

Who me madam!

Yes, you ſirrah!

Miſs Lucinda, did I ever carry a letter for you? I'll make my affidavy before his worſhip—

Go, go, you are a villain, hold your tongue.

I own aunt I have been very faulty in this affair; I don't pretend to excuſe myſelf; but we are all ſubject to frailties, conſider that, and judge of me by yourſelf, who were once young, and inexperienced as I am.

This is mighty pretty romantick ſtuff! but you learn it out of your play books, and novels. Girls in my time, had other employments, we work'd at our needles, and kept ourſelves from idle thoughts: before I was your age, I had finiſhed with my own fingers, a compleat ſet of chairs, and a fire ſcreen in tent ſtitch; four counterpanes, in Marſailles quilting; and the creed, and the ten commandments, in the hair of our family: it was framed, and glazed, and hung over the parlour chimney piece, and your grandfather was prouder of it, than of e'er a picture in his houſe. I never looked into a book, but when I ſaid my prayers, except it was the compleat houſewife, or the great family receipt book: whereas you are always at your ſtudies: Ah! I never knew a woman come to good, that was fond of reading.

Well, pray madam, let me prevail on you to give me the key to let Mr. Euſtace out, and I promiſe, I never will proceed a ſtep farther in this buſineſs, with⯑out your advice and approbation.

Have not I told you already my reſolution?—Where are my clogs and my bonnet? I'll go out to my brother in the fields; I'm a fool you know child, now let's ſee what the wits will think of themſelves,—Don't hold me—

I'm not going;—I have thought of a way to be even with you, ſo you may do as you pleaſe.

SCENE V.

Well, I thought it would come to this, I'll be ſhot if I didn't;—So here's a fine jobb—But what can they do to me;—They can't ſend me to jail for carrying a letter, ſeeing there was no treaſon in it; and how was I obligated to know my maſter did not allow of their meetings:—The worſt they can do, is to turn me off, and I am ſure the place is no ſuch great pur⯑chaſe;—indeed, I ſhall be ſorry to leave Mrs. Roſſetta, ſeeing as how matters are ſo near being brought to an end, betwixt us; but ſhe and I may keep company all as one: and I finds Madge has been ſpeaking with gaffer Broadwheels, the waggoner, about her carriage up to London; ſo that I have got rid of ſhe, and I am ſure I have reaſon to be main glad of it, for ſhe led me a wearyſome life;—But that's the way of them all.

SCENE VI.

I am glad I had the precaution to bring this ſuit of cloaths in my bundle, though I hardly know myſelf in them again, they appear ſo ſtrange, and feel ſo unwieldy. However, my gardener's jacket goes on no more.—I wonder this girl does not come

perhaps ſhe won't come—Why, then I'll go into the village, take a poſt- chaiſe, and depart with⯑out any farther ceremony.

Hark! ſhe comes.

SCENE VII.

Confuſion! my father! What can this mean?

Tom, are not you a ſad boy, Tom, to bring me a hundred and forty miles, here.—May I never [67] do an ill turn, but you deſerve to have your head broke; and I have a good mind, partly.—What, ſirrah, don't you think it worth your while to ſpeak to me?

Forgive me, ſir, I own I have been in a fault.

In a fault! to run away from me becauſe I was going to do you good.—May I never do an ill turn, maſter Hawthorn, if I did not pick out as fine a girl for him, partly, as any in England; and the raſcal run away from me, and came here and turn'd gardener.—And pray what did you propoſe to yourſelf, Tom? I know you were always fond of Bottany, as they call it; did you intend to keep the trade going, and advertiſe fruit-trees and flowering-ſhrubs, to be had at Meadows's nurſery?

No, ſir William, I apprehend the young gentleman deſigned to lay by the profeſſion; for he has quitted the habit already.

I am ſo aſtoniſhed to ſee you here, ſir, that I don't know what to ſay; but, I aſſure you, if you had not come, I ſhould have returned home to you directly. Pray, ſir, how did you find me out?

No matter, Tom, no matter; it was partly by accident, as a body may ſay; but what does that ſig⯑nify—tell me, boy, how ſtands your ſtomach towards matrimony? Do you think you could digeſt a wife now?

Pray, ſir, don't mention it; I ſhall always behave myſelf as a dutiful ſon ought: I will never marry without your conſent, and I hope you won't force me to do it againſt my own.

Is not this mighty provoking, maſter Haw⯑thorn? Why, ſirrah, did you ever ſee the lady I de⯑ſigned for you?

Sir, I don't doubt the lady's merit; but, at preſent, I am not diſpoſed.

Nay, but young gentleman, fair and ſoftly, you ſhould pay ſome reſpect to your father in this matter.

Reſpect, maſter Hawthorn! may I never do an ill turn, but he ſhall marry her, or I'll diſinherit him! there's once. Look you, Tom, not to make any more words of the matter, I have brought the lady here with me, and I'll ſee you contracted before we part; or you ſhall delve and plant cucumbers as long as you live.

Have you brought the lady here, ſir? I am ſorry for it.

Why ſorry? what, then you won't marry her? we'll ſee that; pray, maſter Hawthorn, conduct the fair one in.—Ay, ſir, you may fret, and dance about, trot at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, if you pleaſe; but may I never do an ill turn, but I am reſolved.

SCENE VIII.

Here is the lady, ſir William.

Come in, madam, but turn your face from him—he would not marry you becauſe he had not ſeen you; but I'll let him know my choice ſhall be his, and he ſhall conſent to marry you before he ſees you, or not an acre of eſtate.—Pray, ſir, walk this way.

Sir, I cannot help thinking your con⯑duct a little extraordinary; but, ſince you urge me ſo cloſely, I muſt tell you my affections are engaged.

How, Tom! how!

I was determined, ſir, to have got the better of my inclination, and never have done a thing which I knew would be diſagreeable to you.—

And pray, ſir, who are your affections en⯑gaged to? let me know that.

To a perſon, ſir, whoſe rank and for⯑tune may be no recommendations to her; but whoſe charms and accompliſhments entitle her to a monarch. I am ſorry, ſir, it's impoſſible for me to comply with your commands, and I hope you will not be offended if I quit your preſence.

Not I, not in the leaſt; go about your buſineſs.

Sir, I obey.

Now is your time, madam.

Well, Tom, will you go away from me now?

Perhaps, ſir William, your ſon does not like the lady; and, if ſo, pray don't put a force upon his inclination.

You need not have taken this method, ſir, to let me ſee you were acquainted with my folly, whatever my inclinations are—.

Well, but Tom, ſuppoſe I give my conſent to your marrying this young woman?

Your conſent, ſir!

Come, ſir William, we have carried the jeſt far enough; I ſee your ſon is in a kind of embarraſſment, and I don't wonder at it; but this letter, which I re⯑ceived from him a few days before I left my father's houſe, will, I apprehend, expound the riddle.—He cannot be ſurprized that I ran away from a gentleman who expreſſed ſo much diſlike to me; and what has happened ſince chance brought us together in maſque⯑rade, there is no occaſion for me to inform him of.

What is all this? pray don't make a jeſt of me.

May I never do an ill turn, Tom, if it is not truth; this is my friend's daughter.

Sir!

Even ſo; 'tis very true indeed. In ſhort, you have not been a more whimſical gentleman, than I have a gentlewoman; but you ſee we were deſigned for one another, 'tis plain.

I know not, madam, what I either hear or ſee, a thouſand things are crowding on my imagina⯑tion; while, like one juſt wakened from a dream, I doubt which is reality, which deluſion.

Well then, Tom, come into the air a bit, and recover yourſelf.

Nay, dear ſir, have a little patience; do yon give her to me?

Give her to you! ay, that I do, and my bleſſing into the bargain.

Then, ſir, I am the happieſt man in the world. I enquire no farther; here I fix the utmoſt limits of my hopes and happineſs.

Give you joy, ſir; and you fair lady.—And, under favour, I'll ſalute you, too, if there's no fear of jealouſy.

But may I believe this?—Pr'ythee tell me, dear Roſſetta.

Step into the houſe and I'll tell you every thing.—I muſt intreat the good offices of Sir William, and Mr. Hawthorn, immediately; for I am in the utmoſt uneaſineſs about my poor friend Lucinda.

Why, what's the matter?

I don't know, but I have reaſon to fear, I left her juſt now in very diſagreeable circumſtances, how⯑ever, I hope, if there is any miſchief fallen out between her father and her lover—

The muſic maſter, I thought ſo.

What is there a lover in the caſe, may I never do an ill turn, but I am glad, ſo I am; for we'll make a double wedding; and, by way of celebrating it, take a trip to London, to ſhew the brides ſome of the [72] pleaſures of the town. And, maſter Hawthorn, you ſhall be of the party.—Come, children, go before us.

Thank you, ſir William, I'll go into the houſe with you, and to church, to ſee the young folks married; but, as to London, I beg to be excuſed.

SCENE IX.

Why, brother, do you think I can hear or ſee, or make uſe of my ſenſes? I tell you, I left that fellow locked up in her cloſet; and, while I have been with you, they have broke open the door, and got him out again.

Well, you hear what they ſay.

I care not what they ſay; it's you encou⯑rage them in their impudence.—Hark'e, huſſey, will you face me down that I did not lock the fellow up?

Really, aunt, I don't know what you mean; when you talk intelligibly, I'll anſwer you.

Seriouſly madam, this is carrying the jeſt a little too far.

What then, I did not catch you together in her chamber, nor over-hear your deſign of going off to night, nor find the bundles packt up—

Ha, ha, ha!

Why aunt you rave.

Brother, as I am a chriſtian woman, ſhe confeſſed the whole affair to me from firſt to laſt: and in this very place was down upon her marrow-bones, for half an hour together, to beg I would conceal it from you.

Oh Lord! Oh Lord!

What ſirrah, would you brazen me too, take that

I wiſh you would keep your hands to your⯑ſelf, you ſtrike me, becauſe you have been telling his worſhip ſtories.

Why ſiſter you are tipſey!

I tipſey brother!—I—that never touch a drop of any thing ſtrong from year's end to year's end; but now and then a little Annyſeed water, when I have got the cholic.

Well, aunt, you have been complaining of the ſtomach-ach all day; and may have taken too powerful a doze of your cordial.

Come, come, I ſee well enough how it is, this is a lye of her own invention, to make herſelf appear wiſe: but you ſimpleton, did not you know I muſt find you out?

SCENE. X.

Bleſs me Sir! look who is yonder.

Cockſbones, Jack, honeſt Jack, are you there.

Plague on't, this rencounter is unlucky—Sir William your ſervant.

Your ſervant again, and again, heartily your ſervant; may I never do an ill turn, but I am glad to meet you.

Pray Sir William, are you acquainted with this perſon?

What, with Jack Euſtace? why he's my kinſman; his mother and I are couſin-germans once removed, and Jack's a very worthy young fellow; may I never do an ill turn if I tell you a word of a lye.

Well, but Sir William, let me tell you, you know nothing of the matter; this man is a muſic maſter; a thrummer of wire, and ſcraper of cat-gut, and teaches my daughter to ſing.

What Jack Euſtace a muſic maſter! no, no, I know him better.

S'death, why ſhould I attempt to carry on this abſurd farce any longer?—What that gentleman tells you is very true, Sir; I am [...] muſic maſter indeed.

You are not, you own it then?

Nay, more Sir, I am as this lady has repreſented me,

your daughter's lover; whom with her own conſent, I did intend to have carri⯑ed off this night; but now that Sir William Meadows is [75] here, to tell you who, and what I am; I throw my⯑ſelf upon your generoſity, from which I expect greater advantages, than I could reap from any impoſition on your unſuſpicious nature.

Well brother, what have you to ſay for yourſelf now? you have made a precious day's work of it! had my advice been taken: Oh I am aſhamed of you, but you are a weak man and it can't be helpt; however you ſhould let wiſer heads direct you.

Dear papa, pardon me.

Ay, do Sir forgive her; my couſin Jack, will make her a good huſband, I'll anſwer for it.

Stand out of the way, and let me ſpeak two or three words to his worſhip;—Come my dear Sir, though you refuſe all the world, I am ſure you can deny me nothing: love is a venial fault—You know what I mean.—Be reconciled to your daughter, I conjure you, by the memory of our paſt affections—What not a word!

Come turn out of the houſe; and be thankful my brother does not hang you, for he could [76] do it, he's a juſtice of peace;—turn out of the houſe I ſay:—

Who gave you authority to turn him out of the houſe—he ſhall ſtay where he is,

He ſhan't marry my niece.

Shan't he? but I'll ſhew you the diffe⯑rence now, I ſay he ſhall marry her, and what will you do about it.

And you will give him your eſtate too, will you?

Yes I will.

Why I am ſure he's a vagabond.

I like him the better, I would have him a vagabond.

Brother brother!

Come, come, madam all's very well, and I ſee my neighbour is what I always thought him, a man of ſenſe and prudence.

May I never do an ill turn, but I ſay ſo too.

Here young fellow, take my daughter; and bleſs you both together; but hark you, no money till I dye; obſerve that.

Sir in giving me your daughter, you beſtow upon me more than the whole world would be without her.

Dear Lucinda, if words could convey the tranſ⯑ports of my heart upon this occaſion—

Words are the tools of hypocrites, the preten⯑ders to friendſhip; only let us reſolve to preſerve our eſteem for each other.

Dear Jack, I little thought we ſhould ever meet in ſuch odd circumſtances—but here has been the ſtrangeſt buſineſs between this lady and me—

What then Mrs. Roſsetta, are you turned falſe-hearted after all; will you marry Thomas the gar⯑dener, and did I forſake Madge for this?

Oh lord Hodge! I beg your pardon; I proteſt I forgot; but I muſt reconcile you and Madge I think; and give you a wedding dinner to make you amends.

N—ah.

Adds me Sir, here are ſome of your neigh⯑bours [78] come to viſit you, and I ſuppoſe, to make up the company of your ſtatute ball; yonder's muſic too I ſee, ſhall we enjoy ourſelves; if ſo give me your hand—

Why here's my hand, and we will en⯑joy ourſelves, heaven bleſs you both children I ſay,—ſiſter Deborah, you are a fool.

You are a fool brother, and mark my words—But I'll give myſelf no more trouble about you.

Fidlers ſtrike up.