[] THE FIRST FLOOR.

SCENE I. An Inn in London.

WELCOME to town, your ho⯑nour!—a long while ſince I ſaw your honour—was ſaying but this very morning that it was many months ſince I ſaw my worthy maſter, Squire Monford.

Say ſo ſtill, Landlord—for I am come to town incog, and wiſh to conceal my arrival here.

Ah! a pair of fine eyes in the caſe! you have ſprung all the game about the country, and now you are coming to poach on ſome poor fellow's manor in London.

No faith, there is no poaching in the caſe; I mean to take out a licence for ſporting on a certain manor, call'd Matrimony.

Matrimony! Lord, Sir, 'tis well enough for your dog-trots—we muſt, to be ſure, have cattle for the high road buſineſs of life; but who the devil wou'd think of running a race⯑horſe in a poſt-chaiſe?—'tis time enough to put him in harneſs when he is no longer able to win a ſweepſtakes.

Why look'e, Landlord, I don't think that twenty years of diſſipation will qualify me the better for a huſband: I look on marriage as a ſort of partnerſhip, in which I mean to en⯑gage whilſt I can bring youth, good ſpirits, and a good conſtitution, as my ſhare of the ſtock in trade: but when a pretty girl finds herſelf in⯑trapp'd into a connection with a bankrupt trader, can he be angry with her for taking meaſures to diſſolve the partnerſhip?"

Well, your honour—and this intended fair partner of yours—

She is coming to town with her father, and will be in this houſe in the courſe of an hour or two.

The old ſtory, I ſuppoſe—the father averſe to the match.

Yes, unfortunately for me—but my charmer has conſented to a private marriage; I am now going in ſearch of lodgings for us, and ſhall be with you again preſently.

Ah! there he goes—as pretty a fellow, aye, and as good a cuſtomer, as an inn-keeper wou'd wiſh to live by—never knew him look at [3] the items of a bill in my life—always paid it the moment he ſaw the ſum total, and ſubmitted to be cheated like a gentleman.

Landlord! how are you, my boy? Come, let's have a glaſs

you are a jolly fellow.

And i'faith you ſeem to be the ſame—I think it is now three days ſince you came to town on the Bury-fly, during which time you have ſcarcely been ſober three hours.

Pſha! pſha! 'tis only my not being us'd to ride on the roof of the coach that made me giddy—a ſudden exaltation may turn better heads than mine.

And pray have you no buſineſs in town?

None of my own.

But you have ſome of your maſter's?"

Yes, I have a letter from my maſter to his ſon, which I was order'd to deliver directly, but faith I forgot it; "and it don't much ſignify: I hate to be a meſſenger of ill news.

You know the contents then?

Yes, yes; my old maſter is coming to town to viſit his ſon:" aye, here is the letter.—To Mr. John Whimſey, Junior, at Mrs. Pattypan's, Paſtry-cook, in Piccadilly.

Hey-day! why you are not going to open your maſter's letter?

Certainly I will; my maſter wou'd make [4] no ceremony in opening a letter of mine—

Dear John, I ſend you this by my man Si⯑mon, who will deliver it to you immediately on his ar⯑rival in London—

And you have been here three days al⯑ready.

Come, Landlord, you don't drink—here's t'ye—

I am coming to town to compleat the purchaſe of my neighbour Squander's eſtate, and ſhall take up my quarters at your lodgings for two or three days; I ſhall bring your ſiſter with me, as I hear there is a rakiſh young dog, of the name of Monford, has taken it in his head to fall in love with her, and I don't chuſe to truſt her out of my ſight.

Zounds! why did not you tell me at firſt who was your maſter.—

If I had but known it before Monford left the houſe!

Why, between you and me, I am half⯑aſham'd to own my maſter—he is as ſuſpicious of every body about him, as if he had been bred a rogue himſelf—"a ſervant has not much credit in the place, I aſſure you."

Hey-day! here's a poſt-chaiſe come to the door.

With my maſter and his daughter in it, as I live.

Mind the portmanteau, ſirrah, d'ye hear, and take care none of the bundles are ſtolen.

Aye, there, his ſuſpicions are beginning already—if he has loſt but a button from his coat, he'll put the poſtillion to his oath, and have the very horſes taken before a magiſtrate.

Well, I muſt run, and prepare to re⯑ceive him.

Yes, ſo muſt I; and with the ſame kind of reception—a good lye, and a ſmiling countenance."

This way, Madam—this way, Sir—I hope your honour has had a good journey.

No, I have not had a good journey; I have had lame horſes, and drunken drivers—duſt from the road—extortion from the inn-keepers, and bad halfpence from the turnpikes.—A blight upon honeſty and good manners blows from this city of London, to every point of the compaſs.—It is a mere ocean of knavery, with a continual ſpring⯑tide, which infects all the ſtreams of freſh-water round the country, and makes them brackiſh up to their very ſource.

'Tis very true, your honour, travelling is very dear now.

Dear, with a vengeance!—I remember the time when a man cou'd be choak'd upon a duſty road for ſeven pence a mile; but now one muſt pay a ſhilling a mile for the pleaſure of being ſmother'd, becauſe it is one of the luxuries of life.—

You have not loſt your watch, have you?

Oh, no, Sir, all is ſafe about me—

except my heart.

My pockets were all ſafe when I got out of the chaiſe; I ſuppoſe I have hardly loſt any thing ſince I came into the houſe.

Lord, Sir, what do you mean?—In my houſe!

Egad, I don't know, friend; but there are much finer houſes than yours in this town, where a man may go in with full pockets, and come out with empty ones.—But where is my raſcal?

Here am I, Sir.

Well, ſirrah, I ſuppoſe my ſon and you have been laying your heads together to cheat the old fellow, when he came to town—what did he ſay when he read my letter?

He preſents his dutiful reſpects, and anxiouſly expects the pleaſure of ſeeing you—

Go to be buried, I dare ſay he does—but I'm reſolv'd to live temperately, out of ſpite to him.—Landlord, ſee if the coach is come

And you

go and ſee all the luggage put ſafely into it—

Come, Charlotte, uncloud your countenance— [7] don't tell me of having loſt your heart—a young girl's heart is like a tame pigeon, let her throw it away ten times in a month, it will be ſure to come back again.

The coach is ready, Sir.

Very well, be ſure then and take the number; and, d'ye hear, if there is any cordage from the trunks left, ſave it, Simon—though it be ever ſo little, it may ſerve to tie up ſomething or other.

Certainly, Sir, if it is but a yard of rope—I think I ſhould know how to apply it properly.

SCENE Mrs. PATTYPAN's Shop.

Upon my word, Mr. Whimſey, your behaviour is beyond all bearing—It is a diſgrace to any ſober family to have ſuch a rake for a lodger.

Come, come, my dear Mrs. Pattypan—thou peerleſs princeſs of all paſtry-cooks—let us talk over the matter coolly.

Talk, indeed! I'm tir'd of talking Mr. Whimſey.

I'm glad of it—I never expected you would have been tir'd of that.

What ſignifies reaſoning with you? you are ſo thoughtleſs, ſo diſſipated—keep ſuch company, and ſuch hours—you'll ſhorten your days.

But then, as the old ſaying is, I lengthen my nights, Mrs. Pattypan, and ſo it comes pretty nearly to the ſame end.

How often muſt I beg of you to quit the premiſes? I've given you warning every day for this month paſt, and you won't take it.

'Tis a common complaint againſt young people, that they won't take warning.

I have put up a bill in the ſhop window already—A Firſt Floor to be let furniſhed—it will not long remain empty, I dare ſay—nay, a gentleman was here juſt now to view the apart⯑ments.

You take equal care of your lodgings as of your heart, I perceive, Mrs. Pattypan—you let nothing of yours remain long unoccupied—I think your late huſband has been dead about two months, and you are now preparing for the recep⯑tion of a ſecond.—

Who do you mean, Sir?

I mean your apprentice, Tim Tart⯑lett; and a very good choice too, let me tell you, Mrs. Pattypan, he has ſerv'd his time to his maſ⯑ter's buſineſs—and, I dare ſay, you will find him a very uſeful partner—But I ſee him coming, and I won't interrupt a love converſation.

I underſtand your ſneers, Sir. But [9] I hope, before you quit the houſe, you mean to diſcharge your debts—you are pretty much in my books.

That is owing to my great reſpect for you—I hope I ſhall never be out of your books—Adieu, my dear old girl! If I can't get a bed elſewhere—perhaps I may pop in here—ſo you'll let your maid Nancy ſit up for me.

Impudent fellow!

Oh, your ſervant, Sir; ready dreſt, I ſee, for going abroad; you are always gadding, Tim Tartlett.

Lord, Miſtreſs! why, you are always ſcold⯑ing one for taking a little harmleſs recreation—you know I loves to ſee life—becauſe vy, 'tis ſo agreeable.

Well, Sir, and is there nothing due to me for my attention to you? What do you think made me take you from your father's poor hovel in the country, and place you in my own family?

I'm ſure I can't tell, Miſtreſs; you muſt know beſt.

Hav'n't I put money in your pocket, and made a gentleman of you?—have not I taught you breeding?

Very true.

Have not I at length reſolv'd to [10] make you maſter of my ſhop, my fortune, and myſelf?

But then you won't let me be my own maſter.

Your own maſter, indeed!—then you wou'd be ruin'd preſently.

Vell, and if ſo be I vas, what then? Vy there's ſome of the great folks, that paſs in their ſtrip'd coaches and pheatons, and look as fine as a king on a twelfth-cake—our Nancy ſays they have been ruin'd for ſome years—and yet, i'cod, they ſeem as gameſome and airy as if no⯑thing had happen'd.

Our Nancy, indeed!—there is an⯑other of your follies; always laughing and hal⯑looing with that trapes in the ſhop, as if you were mad.

Vy, I can't help toying with her a little now and then, ſhe is ſuch a merry humourſome ſoul.

The trollop ſhall not ſtay within my doors—Oh, Tim, Tim! I wiſh you had pride enough to keep ſuch wretches at a diſtance.

Vy, ſo I have ſometimes—I can be as proud as Old Scratch to our journeymen and the ſhop-boy—but when I looks at a pretty girl, Lord, miſtreſs, all my pride melts away, like our ice⯑cream in the ſunſhine.

Don't provoke me, Timothy—I de⯑clare—

The card in your ſhop-window inform⯑ed me, Madam, that you have a Firſt Floor to let ready furniſh'd.

Yes, Sir; and as pretty a floor, tho' I ſay it—will you pleaſe to look at the rooms?

I have ſeen them already.

Oh! you are the gentleman who call'd juſt now, while I was out.

I only wiſh to know, whether I can take poſſeſſion of the lodgings this afternoon?

This hour, Sir, if you pleaſe.

I expect my ſiſter from the-country this evening; and as I cannot accommodate her at my chambers, am oblig'd, at this ſhort notice, to take lodgings.

Very well, Sir.

I am now going to the place where ſhe will arrive, to leave a card of your ſhop, and ſhall be back time enough to receive her.

Short and ſweet, indeed!

I wonder vether his ſiſter is a comely girl?

What is that to you, Sir?—Do, be ſo good as to ſend your favourite Nancy to me immediately—we muſt get every thing in order for the lady.

If ſhe has but black eyes!—I likes black eyes monſtrouſly.

Never to aſk the price of the lodg⯑ings!—I declare I can't tell what to make of him.

I'cod you'll make a pretty penny of him before you have done with him, I warrant.

SCENE a Room in Mrs. Pattypan's Houſe.

Bleſs me, what a litter this room is in!—I ſhall be aſham'd for the young lady to ſee it.

Ma'am, here is one of the oddeſt old gentlemen below; all we can get out of him is, that theſe are his ſon's lodgings, and he will come up ſtairs.

His ſon's lodgings!

There is a young lady with him, Ma'am.

Oh! the ſiſter of my new lodger, undoubtedly—ſhew them up immediately.

They are ſhewing themſelves up, Ma'am—here they are.

Ma'am, your moſt obedient—I find my ſon has taken lodgings here—I preſume you are Mrs. Pattypan.

At your ſervice, Sir.

Then we are all right—and ſo you are welcome to your brother's lodgings, Charlotte—

That you are, Madam, I'll be ſworn—Your brother ſeem'd very anxious for your arrival, he will be home ſoon.

There, Sirrah, put the portmanteau in the corner—one ſhou'd always have an eye to one's property.

Well, Mrs. Pattypan, what do you think of my ſon—how d'ye like him for a lodger?"

"Indeed, Sir, he ſeems to be a mighty civil, agreeable young gentleman—quite the reverſe of my late lodger—a diſſipated good-for-nothing—but" give me leave to ſhew you the apartments, Ma'am.

Mrs. Pattypan, let us have tea as ſoon as you can—I am rather fatigued with my journey.

I'faith, I like Jack's lodgings mightily—here are all the pictures I gave him, and the library of books—he has taken great care of them, I ſee—all look as good as new; and not a volume diſplac'd—he is a careful reader, I dare ſay—I ſhall fancy myſelf quite at home among my old acquaintance.

But who have we here?

Let me know the moment the lady comes.

Some friend of my ſon's, I [14] ſuppoſe—

Sir, your moſt obedient—very pretty apartments, Sir.

Yes, Sir—I don't diſlike them.

I beg, Sir, you will be ſeated.

Sir, I, I—

I ſee you don't wait for the ſame invitation.

What d'ye think of thoſe pictures, Sir?—they are reckon'd pretty good.

They ſeem to be very fine, indeed, Sir.

Very glad you like 'em—I bought 'em—Indeed I partly furniſh'd this room.—

Furniſh'd the room!—

Some up⯑holſterer, egad!

Let me have a pair of ſlippers, my lad, directly—I long to be out of my boots

Nothing ſo pleaſant as to be perfectly at one's eaſe—that's my opinion—

So I perceive, Sir!—

I expect my ſon preſently—You'll ſtay to tea, Sir?—

Ha! ha! ha! I believe I ſhall, Sir.—

A moſt impudent old fellow this ſeems to be.

Believe I ſhall—he might as well have ſaid, thank ye.

A curious acquaintance my maſ⯑ter ſeems to have pick'd up—

Sir, I ſhould be exceedingly ſorry to be guilty of any rudeneſs to you—but I apprehend [15] you are not apprized who has taken theſe lodg⯑ings.

Oh yes, I am, Sir.

In ſhort, I expect my ſiſter from the country every moment; and perhaps the preſence of a third perſon might not be quite agreeable to her.

Oh, as to that, I expect my daughter every moment too, and we may all drink tea to⯑gether.

—

Do tell my daughter to make haſte.

—

There can be no harm to invite him, as he is a friend of Jack's.—May I aſk your name, Sir?

Monford, Sir.

Monford!—the very fellow who wants to run away with Charlotte!

Miſs Whimſey is now in the houſe, Sir.

In the houſe!—Here, Frank, kick this damn'd portmanteau down ſtairs

You muſt really pardon me, Sir—any other time I ſhall be glad to ſee you.

Zounds, Sir! What d'ye mean by that?

My Charlotte! am I indeed ſo bleſt as [16] to hold you in my arms again!—

Give me leave, Sir, to introduce you to my ſiſter.

Good heavens! what an adven⯑ture!

A fine girl, Mr. Monford—Pray are you both by the ſame father?

Sir!

I am ſure, till this moment, I did not know I could boaſt of ſuch a hopeful offspring as you.

Hear me, my dear father.

His daughter!—a curſe on my unlucky ſtars!

Don't be diſappointed, young man—you have had a deviliſh lucky eſcape in miſſing my daughter, I aſſure you—for not a ſhilling wou'd I have given her, had ſhe thrown herſelf away on you.

What the devil ſhall I ſay?

I ſuppoſe you are muttering curſes againſt the old fellow, becauſe he won't ſuffer you to hum him—come, uſe no ceremony—let me hear what I am.

I have it—You are, Sir, indeed a friend.

For depriving you of your wife—that is indeed the part of a modern friend.

I thank you for your candour—you have diſcover'd to me my miſtake.

You expected then that the old cod⯑ger wou'd have whimper'd a little, join'd your [17] hands, and have given you half his fortune, for making a fool of him."

"I own it—but I ſee I was in an er⯑ror." Miſs Charlotte, I thought you were a woman of fortune—your father has convinc'd me that you will no longer be ſuch, if you marry me; I ſhou'd therefore be guilty of the greateſt injuſtice in wiſhing to ſacrifice your happineſs to the gratification of my paſſion.

Sir—you—you are perfectly in the right—I feel the delicacy of your conduct—and—you may be ſure I approve it.

Give me your hand, Monford—Egad, I begin to think you are a deviliſh ſenſible fel⯑low.

Between you and I, Mr. Whimſey, it won't do for younger brothers, like me, to fall in love.

Certainly not. It may well be call'd falling in love. 'Tis in truth a falſe ſtep, and many a man, who has once met with the accident, has found the ill effects of it ever afterwards.

Right, Sir, ſuppoſe now you were to re⯑commend me to a wife—a rich widow, for in⯑ſtance.

Eh! why what ſay you to the lady of this manſion, Mrs. Pattypan?—My ſon Jack tells me, in his letters, ſhe is worth a round ſum.

A good thought, Sir; with your per⯑miſſion, I'll ſtep to Miſs Whimſey, and tell her my reſolution of courting the old lady directly.

Don't trouble yourſelf—I'll ſtep to Miſs Whimſey myſelf; and return immediately, to have a little more talk with you on the ſubject. Od'ſo! but while I am looking after my daughter, I may loſe my portmanteau.

So, Sir, you are in a fine hobble here; this old man is the father of your miſtreſs.

Even ſo, Frank—luckily a thought occurred to me, which I flatter myſelf has put him off his guard—I have pretended to give up his daughter, and pay my addreſſes to the old paſtry-cook below ſtairs.

Lord, Sir, this ſcheme is too abſurd to paſs on any man, however credulous he may be."

"To be ſure—but" if I can make him believe this abſurdity but for a few hours, all may yet be well—I think I can eaſily find means to convey my dear girl out of the reach of her fa⯑ther's power this evening.—Go inſtantly, Frank, and order a chaiſe to be at the corner of the ſtreet exactly at twelve o'clock.

Sir, your moſt obedient humble ſer⯑vant.—I did not underſtand that you expected your father in town.

Nor I neither, Madam.—

So I muſt paſs for the old fellow's ſon, I find.

I hope, Sir, you like the lodgings, and don't think them dear at three guineas a week.

Certainly not.

Aye; I knew we ſhould agree, Sir, Ha! ha! ha!

Egad, he has put the queſtion to her.—

Monford, I perceive you have begun the attack.

And have conquer'd too—only don't in⯑terrupt me in my victory.

Not I—you may ſay what you will before me.

Aye; but the lady won't care to ſpeak before you. Pray now, Sir, leave us to our⯑ſelves."

Your ſervant, Sir, we had come to terms before you came in.

Oh, you had.

Yes; we were proceeding to ſet⯑tle every thing."

Then I am ſure I wont interrupt you; and ſo good bye.—

I'll take the liberty of liſtening to their converſation, however—nothing but the evidence of my own ears can remove my ſuſpicions.

Don't mind my father, Mrs. Pattypan, old folks have their peculiarities.

True, Sir—I dare ſay it will be the ſame with you and I, when we grow old.—

But, how⯑ever, to return to buſineſs—right reckoning makes long friends, as I us'd to tell my firſt huſband—

Aye, I dare ſay we ſhall be very happy together.

Happy together!

I preſume, Sir, you generally dine out.

Conſtantly.

Zounds, that's odd enough! not to dine at home, during the honey-moon at leaſt.

And you keep good hours, I hope, Sir.

Oh, yes, you'll always find me in bed by twelve o'clock.

That's a material article.

I think you have no family, Mrs. Patty⯑pan?

No, Sir, I never had any yet—but as I think of altering my ſituation, it may happen that—

I underſtand you—but that will make no ſort of difference to me.

Indeed! I am very happy to hear it—for you know, Sir, ſome gentlemen have an objection to children.

Egad there can be no deceit in all this—it will be a match, I ſee that—

I wiſh you both joy with all my ſoul—don't be confus'd, Mrs. Pattypan—you know this is n't the firſt bargain of the ſort you have ſtruck.

Oh dear, no, Sir; nor I hope it will not be the laſt.

D—d good encouragement for a man to venture on her. I ſuppoſe ſhe ex⯑pects to bury two or three huſbands yet.

Well, Sir, what do you ſay to all this?

Why—why—why—you are a bold man, that's all—

Come, as it is a bargain, take hands on it—take hands—nay, ſalute her—come, kiſs her, my boy.

My boy!—the old gentle⯑man ſeems mighty fond of his ſon.

Egad I wiſh this ceremony were well over, I ſhall never be able to carry on the farce.

May you live long together, and may no domeſtic quarrels ob⯑trude on your happineſs!—May you, Mrs. Patty⯑pan, be ſurrounded by a numerous and lovely offspring!

A numerous offspring!

Pray, my dear Sir, drop the ſubject—you ſee it diſtreſſes her; and you know one muſt conſult a woman's feelings on ſome occaſions.

Certainly! certainly!

I am ſure I ſhou'd be ſorry to hurt Mrs. Pattypan's delicacy.

So ſhou'd I—when a woman has but juſt enough left for her immediate uſe, it wou'd be cruel indeed to damage that—I'll change the ſubject, Monford, depend upon it.

Sir, it is an impoſſibi⯑lity for you to procure an interview with Miſs Charlotte.

Impoſſible, Frank!

Abſolutely ſo—ſhe is ſo cloſely watch⯑ed—but I've engag'd one in your intereſt, who will take any meſſage to her for you. No leſs a perſon than Mr. Timothy Tartlett.

But how can he aſſiſt me?

By communicating to your miſtreſs any meſſage you wiſh; he will never be ſuſ⯑pected."

Not a bad thought, i'faith.

He is waiting to ſpeak to you below ſtairs—ſlip away from the old gentlemen directly.

Now, what the devil can they be whiſ⯑pering about?—I always ſuſpect a man to be a rogue when I ſee him whiſper.

Eh! why you have not chang'd your mind as to matrimony, have you?

Not in the leaſt, I promiſe you, Sir—I am now going on ſome buſineſs which, I flatter myſelf, will haſten the match, and a few hours will, I hope, cure all your ſuſpicions.

Egad, tho', I'll aſk the old woman ſome queſtions about him; there can be no harm in that.—Pray, Mrs. Pattypan, if I don't hurt your delicacy by the queſtion, how long may you have been acquainted with this young man whom you are going to marry?

Young man whom I am go⯑ing to marry! how the deuce cou'd he hear of my intending to marry Tim Tartlett?

You'll excuſe my curioſity—but pray is not he rather wild?

Yes, yes—he means Tim.—

Why, Sir, I fear he is rather flighty—he has his little gallantries.

Look ye, Mrs. Pattypan—as to his lit⯑tle gallantries, as you call them, perhaps I know more of the matter than you do.

Dear Sir, you awaken my cu⯑rioſity.

But, really, when I conſider how diſa⯑greeable a taſk it is to interfere between man and wife—for ſuch I conſider you to be—

'Tis very true, Sir—in all the quarrels that I had with my poor dear ſoul that's dead and gone (and many they were) we never admitted any body to interfere, but fought them out by ourſelves.

However, on this occaſion, my friend⯑ſhip for you overcomes every other conſidera⯑tion."—In a word, your intended huſband has made love to my daughter.

What do I hear! I ſhall certainly faint.

For Heaven's ſake don't faint yet, for I can't ſupport you, upon my ſoul.

An ungrateful fellow!—who owes all he has in the world to me!

Then, of courſe, all he has in the world ought to be at your diſpoſal: but he did n't own to me that he was even acquainted with you.

I have been a mother to him.

Perhaps he thought you fitter to be his mother than his wife.

Oh, Sir, it is not to be repeated what I have done for that young man.

If it is not to be repeated, I'm ſure I don't wiſh to hear it, Mrs. Pattypan.—But, be⯑tween you and me—I ſuſpect the girl is fond of him.

Fond of him!

Indeed I don't wonder at it—he is a handſome dog."

He is, to be ſure, a likely young fellow—not that I conſider his perſon—the mind is my choice—what are fine eyes—flowing locks—brilliant complexions?—

Mighty pretty things to look at, Mrs. Pattypan—

Tho' you never found them in your glaſs.

But what are they, compared to the beauties of the mind?

Faith, I don't know—Compariſons are odious, and therefore I ſhan't attempt them.

Beauty is but ſkin deep—

Then i'faith your ſkin conceals it more effectually than any ſkin I ever ſaw in my life.

But pray, Sir, how did you firſt diſ⯑cover this affair?—tell me all the particulars—

I would, if I had thought of it a little ſooner—but for aught I know, at this moment your ſcape-grace may be explaining to my daugh⯑ter ſome particulars of which I ſhou'd wiſh her at preſent to remain ignorant—ſo it behoves me to look about me.

—Why, here they come!—yes, to be ſure!—Madam ogles, and ſimpers; how ugly ſhe looks when ſhe ſmiles!—

And what time is the chaiſe to be ready?

At twelve o'clock, Miſs—that was the time Squire Monford fix'd. Ah! how he'll be in the fidgets!—I know what it is to be a true lovier myſelf, as our Nancy can vitneſs.

Oh! Mr. Timothy, I own to you my courage fails me, now I come to the point.

I think your Ladyſhip ſeems to have a pretty good ſhare of courage, to come to the point ſo ſoon.

As to the matter of that, Miſs, as I told you before, I am as much in love as you are—

A mutual declaration of love!

Never mind—by this time to-morrow you'll be out of your father's reach.

Gracious me! he is going to elope with her!

How the old gentleman vill ſtorm!

You know, as people grow in years, their ſentiments of love affairs naturally change.

E'cod tho'—that is not the caſe with old Miſtreſs.

Old Miſtreſs, indeed!

By all accounts ſhe is juſt as loving now as ſhe was thirty years ago.

His ears ſhall pay for this.

If the old girl was to hear me, now—what wou'd ſhe ſay to it! Ha! ha! ha!—Well, Miſs, I'll take my leave of you till twelve o'clock. I'm juſt a going to make merry with a few friends for an hour or two—I'll take care that you ſhall have an excellent chaiſe, and as good a pair of horſes as ever paſs'd Hyde-Park Corner.

Many thanks to you, kind Mr. Timo⯑thy.

Courage, Miſs—true love endures to the end, as the ſong ſays. And ſo a fig for your fa⯑ther and old Mother Pattypan.

Old Mother Pat⯑typan! Old!—I ſhall run mad! What a plot!—'Tis lucky, however, I have diſcover'd it—I'll take care there ſhall be no elopement.—Old, indeed!—and too loving!—I don't know what the deuce the fellows wou'd have; when we are young, we are not half loving enough, forſooth!—and when a few years have taught us how to remedy the de⯑fect, they treat our improvement with contempt!

SCENE, a room in Mrs. PATTYPAN's houſe, with two windows in the back ſcene.

AH! my dear little Nancy—how lucky I am, to meet with you alone.

I wiſh then, Sir, you would leave me alone as you found me: upon my word, Mr. Whimſey, I'll tell my miſtreſs how rude you be⯑have.

Pray don't, my dear—ſhe will want to try my rudeneſs herſelf.—By the bye, where is the old woman?

At a neighbour's over the way—you know ſhe is as jealous as Old Scratch of poor Mr. Timothy, and ſo ſhe means to watch his coming home.

Oh! ho! then ſhe is out

ſo much the better.—

Nancy I want to give you a little good advice—ſtep into my room with me, and—

Into your room! you have no room in this houſe, Mr. Whimſey; we have let the lodg⯑ings.

Let the lodgings! with all my fur⯑niture in them!—

Pay what you owe, and you may have your furniture.

Death, and—but I can't ſtay to be in a paſſion—and ſo the lodgings are let?

Aye—there is an old gentleman, and one of the ſweeteſt young ladies—

A young lady!—Egad I muſt ſee her.

And give her a little good advice too, eh?

To be ſure—nobody better qualify'd than myſelf to give good advice—I have receiv'd a great deal more than I make uſe of; and, as I ſcorn to be a miſer, am ready to give it away to any one who will take it.

Bleſs me, here comes Mr. Furniſh, the upholſterer, who has been ſo often after you with his bill, and our neighbour, Mr. Snap, the bailiff, with him, I vow.

Furniſh! that is the man to whom you have denied me ſo often—What ſhall I do—he never ſaw me, I believe?

Never.

Then I fear nothing. However, a little diſguiſe of my dreſs may not be amiſs—here is an old lac'd hat, and a morning-gown, which I gueſs, from its antique appearance, be⯑longs to your old lodger.

Yes; his ſervant has juſt been unpack⯑ing his portmanteau.

Then on they go—in caſes of ne⯑ceſſity one cannot ſtand upon punctilio.

Your ſervant, Mr. Furniſh; I ſuppoſe you want Mr. Whimſey?

Yes, my dear, I own a part of my buſineſs is with him.

I'll go and ſee if he's at home.

You may ſave yourſelf that trouble, my dear: I am pretty ſure he is within.

I think, Sir, Mr. Whimſey is in⯑debted to you for the furniture of a houſe, taken by a very fine girl, who referr'd you to him for payment—I have read many of your letters to him.

Yes, Sir—a number of letters paſs'd be⯑tween us.—I ſuppoſe I have received a quire of paper from him at different times; and egad that is all I ever receiv'd from him.—You are his friend, I preſume, Sir?

I am partial to him, I own; tho' I confeſs he has been duped by women.

That I can pardon, Sir. Gallantry has always been a part of my buſineſs.

Rather a ſmall part of your buſineſs at preſent, I ſhou'd think, Mr. Furniſh.

But you were ſpeaking of Mr. Whimſey, Sir;—I fear the poor gentleman is much diſ⯑treſs'd.—Ah, Sir, there is no putting an old head on young ſhoulders.

And, really, if that cou'd be done, I don't think it wou'd be any great addition to a man's appearance.

I dare ſay you wou'd take pleaſure in affording him relief.

That I wou'd, I aſſure you.

Mine is not a large bill

and I believe I cou'd afford to make a ſmall abatement in it—a trifling ſum will ſave an un⯑happy youth from diſgrace.—Conſider the exqui⯑ſite luxury of a feeling mind in relieving diſtreſs—conſider that generoſity is part of the buſineſs of man.—Conſider compaſſion—

You won't pay the bill—then come in Mr. Snap, and do your duty—follow me, and arreſt him directly.

Hey-day! what's become of the ex⯑quiſite luxury of a feeling mind in relieving diſ⯑treſs?

It may do very well for people of for⯑tune; but a tradeſmen ſhou'd never indulge in luxury.

Conſider, generoſity is part of the buſineſs of man.

And a d—d loſing trade it is—therefore it ſhan't be a part of my buſineſs.

Ha! ha! ha! egad, Furniſh, you are very right not to engage in a buſineſs where you have no ſtock in trade to begin with.

Lud, Mr. Whimſey, here is the old gentleman our lodger coming this way in a confounded huff about ſomething.

I'm very glad of it; I'll have a little ſport with the old boy—and engage him with Furniſh whilſt I get a peep at the young laſs.—

My dear Furniſh I've been jeſting with you hitherto I aſſure you.—So far from meaning to be young Whimſey's advo⯑cate, I wou'd adviſe you to arreſt him by all means.

What can he mean now?

Let your friend, Mr. Snap, retire for a minute, and I'll explain myſelf.—

Between you and me, he is now here in diſguiſe.

Here! where?

You will ſee the old fellow preſently—Nancy tells me he is coming this way—

Ha! ha! ha! I wiſh I dar'd laugh out.

Old fellow! Why I thought he was not above two-and-twenty.

Very true; but in his preſent diſ⯑guiſe he appears thrice that age.

His preſent diſguiſe!

To deceive his creditors is, as you [33] call it, a part of his buſineſs. He wears as many different ſorts of wigs in a month as a barber's block; and all Monmouth-ſtreet can ſcarcely ſup⯑ply him with a ſufficient change of wardrobe.

Egad, he muſt be a comical dog!—I ſhall be ready to laugh in his face.

Here he comes, I vow.

Aye, here he is—

Eh!—what the devil—my father, by all that's whimſical!

What's the matter, Sir?—You are not going?

No, no, Sir;—only if Mr. Whimſey ſhou'd diſcover that I have told you this—a diſa⯑greeable altercation might enſue.

What an extravagant dog is this ſon of mine!

His ſon!—ſo he pre⯑tends to have a ſon:—that's a deviliſh good thought, i'faith.

Egad it is lucky I broke open his letters and diſcovered his tricks. But I'll make him pay for all this when he comes home.—

Ah! my little bloſſom of beauty, are you there?—

To ſpend two hundred pounds upon a painted doll in three months!—

Why, you look mighty pretty to-night, child! but what the devil are you tittering about?

Dear, Sir, I don't know—I'm in a merry humour, that's all.

Ah! you dear little—Egad I'm in a merry humour too.—No,—I lye, I'm not merry—

That ſcoundrel Jack—I'll diſinherit him.—

Well, my little dear, and how d'ye do? the ſlut fires me—but then again that dog Jack fires me—ſo that I'm in a manner between two fires.

You ſeem in a fluſter, Sir.

Yes, my love, I am in a fluſter—

That ſpendthrift!—What eyes ſhe has!—He muſt have his wench, forſooth!—the dog has no excuſe for his fault!—There is no reſiſt⯑ing that girl, i'faith.

Well ſaid, Philoſophy at threeſcore.

Aye! aye! his young blood be⯑gins to boil—Mr. Whimſey, I kiſs your hand.—

A lucky releaſe.

Sir, your humble ſervant—You really have the advantage of me in knowing me.

Yes, Sir, I really deem it an advantage, and hope to avail myſelf of it—My name, Sir, is Furniſh.—

Who the deuce would think he is but two-and-twenty years old!—I hope you have had your health lately, Sir?

Very well, I thank ye; I have not been better for th [...]ſe forty years paſt.

Forty years paſt!—And then his coat—a deviliſh ſmart coat, to come from Mon⯑mouth-ſtreet.

Why, you ſeem to be mighty well ac⯑quainted with me, Mr. Furniſh.

Ha, ha, ha! I know you, Sir, by name, to be ſure; and I believe I can form a nearer gueſs at your age than any one would do merely from your appearance.

Eh! well, Sir, and how old do you ſuppoſe I am, then?—Damme, d'ye take me for threeſcore, you blockhead.

Not I, upon my ſoul, Sir.

Then I ſuppoſe you think me near fifty.

Nothing like it, I aſſure you.

Perhaps then, my good friend, you imagine me to be about forty."

Indeed I do not, Mr. Whimſey.

Nay, nay, my dear fellow, 'tis impoſſible you can ſuppoſe me to be much under fifty, ha, ha, ha!

Egad but I do tho', ha! ha! ha!—

How well he counterfeits the laugh of an old man!

Upon my ſoul, Furniſh, you are a mighty pleaſant fellow.

I believe I am—I make it a part of my buſineſs to be pleaſant—but there is another part of my buſineſs which I muſt not forget—I have a ſmall bit of paper here—a little ſlip, which I [36] muſt trouble you to look over

Certainly—I am always ready to look over the little ſlips of my friends, Mr. Furniſh—let me put on my ſpectacles.

Spectacles, too! he carries on the joke rarely.

John Whimſey, Eſquire, Debtor, for furniſhing Miſs Fanny Flighty's houſe in New⯑man-ſtreet!—Why what the devil's all this? I know nothing of Miſs Flighty's houſe in New⯑man-ſtreet.

I believe you have paſs'd many a night there.

I paſs the night at Miſs Fanny Flighty's!

Don't think to deceive me, young gen⯑tleman—don't I know that you have not paid for the three laſt gigs you had?—that you have as many tricks as a juggler to chouſe your creditors?—that you keep women in every corner of the town, and change them as often as your horſes?

I can't tell what you may know—but curſe me if I know a word of the matter.

This I know, that I will have my money.

So you may—but d—n me if you ſhall have any of mine.

Why, you brazen young dog!—you'll break your poor parent's heart.

I'll break your head firſt, however.

Mr. Snap, there's your priſoner.

I ax your pardon, Maſter Furniſh—he ſhall be no priſoner of mine—Why I find you have miſtaken the father for the ſon—'Tis lucky the buſineſs ſtopt here—Falſe impriſonment is a dan⯑gerous miſtake in this land of liberty.

Falſe impriſonment! Bleſs me—why I met a fellow here, who told me a cock and a bull ſtory about you—and yet as gentleman-like a man, with a red morning-gown and a gold-lac'd hat.

Eh! i'faith there is ſome trick in all this—My hat and gown have not been bor⯑rowed for nothing—

but what a curſed fool muſt you be, to truſt to appearances!

If I had truſted to your appearance, I ſhould not have miſtaken a gouty old rake of threeſcore for a young rake of two-and-twenty.

Why, you abuſive dirty plebeian—you raſcally vamper of crazy moveables—out of the houſe directly!

With all my heart—I'm ſure I've no rea⯑ſon to like my company—only don't threaten me—if you dare to lay one of your rheumatic old bones upon my perſon—I'll knock you down, I will, egad—Remember, I'm an auctioneer—and to knock down a lot of old lumber is often a part of my buſineſs.

Oh! I am glad you are come—you muſt ſet off for home to-night.

To-night, Sir!—

Aye, Ma'am—to-night—I have been plunder'd, abus'd, laugh'd at, and nearly arreſt⯑ed, all in the courſe of half an hour—"I have loſt my morning-gown and my beſt hat—but I'll find my property, if it is in the houſe.

Dear Sir, what can they mean by a trick of that ſort?

Mean! why, to be witty, to be ſure—I ſuppoſe there is ſome clever creature in the houſe, who, having no room for wit in his ſcull, has learnt to jeſt with his fingers"—I am always treated thus whenever I viſit this curſed town—Thank Heaven, however, I ſhall be off in an hour.—Let all the things be pack'd up again—I'll juſt ſtay to recover my hat and gown—leave a letter to tell Jack he is diſinherited, and then trundle into the country, where the people are not ſufficiently well bred to laugh at the follies of their betters.

To-night, did my father ſay, we were to ſet off?—"Perhaps he may order the chaiſe even before the hour I've appointed to elope with Monford"—Surely this is about the time Mon⯑ford was to meet me here—but this unlucky ac⯑cident!

Ah! Madam, I think there is nothing but unlucky accidents in this houſe—I know you're in love, Ma'am, as well as me—Tim told me all—we are ſuch true lovers, that we never hide any thing from each other.

Am I then betray'd?

I hope not, Ma'am—I'm ſure your ſweetheart muſt be a vile fellow to betray ſuch a pretty lady; and yet there is no anſwering for youth, when they get into company.

What d'ye mean, child?

Young men will be young men—but I didn't think Tim wou'd have ſerv'd me ſo, when he knew the conſequences.

Serve her ſo, when he knew the conſequences!

Oh, Ma'am, if you did but know my ſituation.—I tremble to think what a noiſe old miſtreſs will make—I am ſure the whole ſtory will come out. Tim has got—got—got—

What?—poor girl, I pity her diſ⯑treſs

But, perhaps, Ma'am, your gentleman has ſometimes ſerv'd you juſt the ſame—I beg pardon.—

My dear, you really—confuſe me—ſo—what has he got?

He has got—tipſey, Ma'am—and when [40] he is tipſey he does not care what he does—"I know old miſtreſs will find out that he and I are fallen in love together"—and here he comes, I vow.

How unlucky!—But he won't ſtay in this room, will he?

Indeed, Ma'am, I can't anſwer for him.

To ſay the truth, my dear girl—I en⯑gag'd to meet my lover, as you call him, in this very room, preſently—Pray, contrive that I may not be diſappointed.

I will, indeed, Ma'am, if I poſſibly can—but Tim ſometimes is ſo boiſterous, I'm oblig'd to let him do as he pleaſes—

Bleſs me—when this love gets into one's head!—I ſhall be ſcolded for not putting this room to rights—

Oh, Nancy! my dear—ſweet—pretty lit⯑tle Nancy! tol de rol

Oh, Tim, how can you be ſo merry in ſuch a ſituation?

Vy every body is merry; and all is mer⯑ry round me—The very tables and chairs dance—and you know the old ſaying, ven one is at Rome, one muſt do as Rome does.

Pray ſit down.

I will, as you ax me ſo civilly—

Oh, Nancy! how I do love you.

Conſider, Tim.—

I can't conſider—I can do nothing but be in love—and one can do that without conſidering at all.

I wiſh you wou'd go to-bed, my dear Tim—Do, take my advice.

I will, Nancy, my dear—I will take your advice.

Come, then.

I am going—I am going.

But you don't ſtir—Hark! I hear ſome⯑body on the ſtairs—make haſte.

I will—I tell you I am going.

Lord! if the old woman ſhould catch me here—I am ſo frighten'd—here ſomebody comes, I vow—What ſhall I do?—I muſt e'en leave him to himſelf.—

Don't be in a hurry, my love—you ſee I am going—going—going—

I can't conceive where Charlotte can be—ſhe ought to have been punctual at this time, when the criſis of our fate approaches—when—

Hey-day! what have we here? my friend Timothy ſtopt ſhort on his journey to bed, and fallen aſleep by the way—Huſh! I hear a noiſe on the ſtairs—let me liſten.

Egad, I have had a hard chace of it—the old gentleman cou'd not have been warm⯑er in the purſuit, if he had been hunting a petti⯑coat—What the deuce is this? old Mother Patty⯑pan's huſband elect!—My father's voice again!—I ſhould like to ſee the end of the joke—but where can I hide myſelf?—i'faith this window curtain wou'd keep me out of ſight, and at the ſame time give me an opportunity of hearing what paſſes; and, leſt Mr. Timothy ſhould catch cold, I'll lend him my ſpoils to cover him, as I have no further uſe for them—

But the ſound ſeems to re⯑tire, I'll follow it.

There are voices on the ſtairs, ſure enough—I muſt n't be ſeen here—and yet, if I quit the ſpot, I ſhall miſs the opportunity of ſee⯑ing Charlotte—but hold, a buſtle again!—if a convenient cloſet cou'd be found now—not one in the room, by all that's unlucky!—however, here is a curtain will do juſt as well—

And now, having ſet all my puppets in motion, I retire behind the curtain, like a cunning ſtateſman, from the ſtorm I have rais'd.

Zounds! who is this?

Really, Sir, this is an extraordinary—a moſt unexpected viſit.

I muſt own, Sir, it was not in⯑tended for you.

I am at preſent peculiarly circum⯑ſtanc'd.

Exactly my caſe.

I muſt beg you will quit theſe ap⯑partments immediately; you'll pardon my ab⯑ruptneſs.

Oh, dear Sir, make no apologies; it is not the firſt time I have been deſired to quit theſe appartments—but conſtancy is my foible—I never could bear to leave my lodg⯑ings till I was turn'd out of them.

A ſtrange fellow!—

I expect a perſon here preſently, from whom I muſt be conceal'd.

So do I.

And I have choſen this place for my re⯑treat.

There we agree, my dear Sir; "and here's a curtain for each of us."

Zounds! this impertinence.—

Piano, my dear, Sir, piano!—If you muſt ſwear, let it be in a whiſper—conſider, you will diſcover yourſelf.—

Egad, that's very true.

I'll warrant you I'll ferret the dog out at laſt.

There, Sir—you have no time to loſe—we muſt purſue the old Engliſh policy—forget our private diſputes, when the common enemy is at the door—and ſo, Sir, in we go.

Where can this thief be hid! I am ſure I have ſearch'd the houſe from the cellar to the garret, as narrowly as if I had been bred an ex⯑ciſeman—

Oh! here is the facetious gentleman—aſleep too; ha, ha!—"perhaps it is the perfection of humour to commit a robbery, and pretend to fall aſleep with the ſtolen goods upon him." Come, my lad, you may as well open your eyes—it don't ſignify your ſitting there, and ſnoring like a damag'd organ-pipe—Halloo!

Nancy, my dear Nancy—I am going.

Indeed you are not going—What are you, ſirrah?

A little tipſey, your honour.

How did you come by this hat and morning-gown?

I came by 'em! You ſhould rather aſk, how they came by me.

What made you ſit down here?

Becauſe I cou'd not ſtand.

Quite intoxicated!—a thorough-bred rogue, I'll warrant him—How have you manag'd ſo long to eſcape hanging, ſirrah?

Your honour ſeems to have liv'd many years longer than me in the vorld, without an ac⯑cident; and why ſhou'd not I have as good luck as my neighbours?

Why you ſcurrilous—but your being tipſey is ſome excuſe for your impertinence.

Then if your honour was to get tipſey, you wou'd have ſome excuſe for yours."

Ha, ha!—he has a budget of jokes too—all ſecond-hand, I ſuppoſe—ſtick to that, my boy—you'll find it much ſafer to ſteal jokes than gold-lac'd hats.

Well, your honour, I ſuppoſe you have no commands for me.

No; I won't trouble you with any, as you won't obey them.—

As you have nothing further to ſay to me," I'll e'en finiſh my nap.

By all means, my lad—and when you are ſober, I wou'd have you exchange your wit, for a little honeſty, if you can find any at market—good by t'ye.

One of them is gone.

Eh! what's that?

Which of them is it?

Another voice!—There is more miſchief going forward in this houſe.—I'll liſten. [46] —

The old gentleman is off—I don't hear his tongue—

It is my plague!—it is Jack, a I live.

Yes, yes, here lies Tim, taking a ſecond nap: "all dullneſs and finery, like an eaſtern prince at a maſquerade."—I perceive you are ſurpriz'd at his appearance—you muſt know I was his dreſſer.

You!

In imitation of dame Fortune, I have depriv'd one man of what he really wanted, to la⯑viſh it on another, who had no uſe for it.

Well, Sir; as the circumſtances under which we met prove that each of us have ſome reaſons for wiſhing to be conceal'd at preſent—

I'll e'en take my leave;—but before I go, upon my ſoul I long to have one knock at that raſcal, who lies ſleeping there—You muſt know, he has had the impudence to be my rival, with a deviliſh pretty little black-ey'd wench who twirls a mop in this houſe.

Zounds! I believe the dog has diſcover'd me.

Do, let me fetch a horſe-whip.

A horſe-whip!

Oh!

Conſider, what a diſturbance it will raiſe.

The rogue is ſo tipſey, he won't be able to tell who did it.

Conſider the alarm."

Do, let me fetch a horſe-whip—I aſk but for three cuts at him—only three cuts—Zounds! here come Mrs. Pattypan—Then I'm off—and Tim may ſleep on in whole bones.

Ah! Mrs. Pattypan—I ſuppoſe you are in ſearch of your apprentice—there he ſits, in a kind of double diſguiſe, both of dreſs and liquor.

Yes, yes, Sir, I have heard of it all; and ſhall give him a lecture on the ſubject.

The devil!—it will be a fine joke againſt me to be diſcover'd in this ſituation—I'll e'en feign to be aſleep.

Oh, Tim Tartlett! I did mean to ſcold you—but your preſence ſoftens all my re⯑ſentment.—"That old fool, our new lodger's fa⯑ther, has been turning the houſe out at the window in ſearch of his hat and morning-gown—which I ſee you had taken in a joke.—My dear Tim, you don't anſwer me."—Come, you muſt not be too baſhful—you have to be ſure taken a liberty, by your conduct this evening—but when a woman loves a man—ſhe can pardon little liberties in him.

Upon my word, ma'am, this intru⯑ſion—

Is a very agreeable intruſion, Mrs. Patty⯑pan—I really began to be afraid of you.

Afraid of me—but I won't be out of temper.

I declare, I thought it was Mr. Timothy.

Oh you did! yes, yes, they are going off to-night; but I'll watch them."—Yes, ma'am, I thought it was Mr. Ti⯑mothy too.—The old gentleman cou'd never ſuppoſe I meant to make love to him—ha! ha! ha!

Faith I don't know, Mrs. Pattypan—the love of ſome ladies is a kind of univerſal philan⯑thropy—it extends to all mankind—

And pray, Sir, did you think it was Mr. Timothy too?—In ſhort, Monford, we have all paſſed a mighty agreeable evening, and it is now time to go to bed.—One word at parting—if you marry Mrs. Pattyman—you had better continue to keep a ſharp look out after Mr. Timothy.—"De⯑pend upon it, you'll often meet with him where you don't expect to find him."—So good-night t' ye.

SCENE changes, and diſcovers the doors of four Rooms.

A pretty ſcrape you have led me into by your inattention, in not bringing me my father's letter—you blundering blockhead!

Indeed, your honour"—

Rot your excuſes—Let me ſee—you ſay the gentleman who took ſhelter with me be⯑hind the window-curtain, is Mr. Monford, my ſiſter Charlotte's lover.

Yes, ſir, and he is going to run away with her this evening.

How did you learn that?

Why he ſent me to order a chaiſe at the Red Lion. When I came there, who ſhou'd I meet but Squire Monford's ſervant, who was come on the very ſame errand?—I gueſs'd what the chaiſe was wanted for—but I ſaid never a word"—I know where they order'd the chaiſe.

Then run back inſtantly to the inn, and countermand Mr. Monford's chaiſe in his name—I'll take the conſequences—when the other comes, tell the poſtboy to let me know—I'll ſtep into the room which I find was intended for my father—the old gentleman will hardly go into it, as he does not mean to ſleep there—be quick—don't loſe a moment.

Oh! Monford—my father has order'd me to meet him in his room directly—the moment your chaiſe is ready come to me in my chamber—Remember that fartheſt door is mine, and don't ven⯑ture to ſpeak above a whiſper.

My charmer—my Charlotte!

Huſh! this is not a time for fine ſpeeches—I'm ſure I hear my father's footſteps—I muſt be gone.

Ha! ha! ha! Well done, old Whim⯑ſey—who will pretend to deny that I am an excel⯑lent politician!—to ſet off at a moment's notice—without giving Monford the moſt diſtant inkling of my intentions!—Egad, I ſhall jockey them all; and leave Jack to pay for the lodgings as well as he can—and now I'll e'en retire to my own room, and wait for Charlotte.

My young madam's door open!—That's the ſignal I ſuppoſe for Mr. Timothy to wait on her—but ſhe is miſtaken—at theſe years I think I know the value of a lover too well to loſe him ſo eaſily—but I hear ſomebody coming, and I muſt not be ſeen here—I'll e'en ſtep into my new lodger's room for a minute, till they are gone.

That muſt be Charlotte, by her tiptoe tread, and the ruſtling of her gown—but then why retire into my room inſtead of her own—I'll fol⯑low her however—the devil take the people, will they never be in bed in this houſe?

What ſhall I do!—I fear I am not quite ſober yet; that plaguy old woman haunts me like a ghoſt—By jingo, I believe here ſhe comes—Where ſhall I hide myſelf?—Here is a door open, i'faith—any port in a ſtorm, they ſay.

I think the whole houſe is now at reſt, except our faithful Nancy.—My father is undoubt⯑edly in his own chamber—My door is ſhut; ſo Monford is certainly gone into my room—Lud, I'm ſo frighten'd—I wiſh I were ſafe out of the houſe.

I'll bring you to my maſter, my lad—he'll give you his orders here.

I ſuppoſe his honor pays handſomely— [] travels with a ſilver ſpur, eh!—I've all my paces—from eighteen pence to five ſhillings a ſtage—But where is the gentleman?

I'faith that's more than I can tell—per⯑haps he is in his bed-chamber—but which it is of thoſe rooms I'm ſure I don't know—Stay here a moment, while I ſtep down ſtairs and enquire.

And ſo I'm to kick my heels here while he is looking for his maſter, and my horſes ſtand⯑ing in the ſtreet all the while.—I'll e'en try all the doors—I ſhall find the right one at laſt

Nobody anſwers—rot me, if I don't believe the people are all aſleep—Halloo! gentlefolks!—the chaiſe is ready—

Come along, Charlotte—come along—Hey-day!—how did you come here, you dog?

and you?—and you?—

Heavens! we are diſcover'd!

Bleſs me! Mr. Timothy!

Yes, Ma'am—you are diſcover'd, indeed.

Mr. Whimſey!—I'm really all con⯑fuſion!

Yes, faith—ſo the reſt of the company ſeem to be.—Here we are—fat and lean—old and young—pair'd as badly as the city train-bands at [53] a Lord Mayor's ſhow—But how the devil we came here in couples, ſeems as yet to remain a ſecret.

I can explain it—Your ſhameleſs daughter ſeduced the affections of my intended huſband; and has attempted to tear him from my arms.

Tear him from your arms!—Egad, I ſhou'd think that no eaſy matter, Mrs. Pattypan, if you were reſolved to hold him faſt.

I believe, Sir, my confeſſion will explain every thing to you.—I own I did intend to elope with Miſs Charlotte this evening.

Very obliging of you, indeed—to make a confeſſion, when your ſcheme is diſcover'd—I have ſeen a highwayman do as much juſt before his execution.

Then, Sir, as execution follows con⯑feſſion—let them be tied up directly—with Benefit of Clergy.

Suppoſe you and I follow the example, Miſtreſs!—I believe my hour is come; and ſo the ſooner I am out of my pain, the better.

Then Tim is conſtant, after all.

Ah! Miſtreſs, that I am—

My dear father will not let me petition in vain.

Nay—Nancy will join her entreaties; and then, Sir, you will a ſecond time be between two fires.

Ah! rot your two fires!—the dog has me faſt—I dare not refuſe my conſent; and ſo, Mon⯑ford, take my daughter; but curſe me, if I in⯑tended you ſhou'd have had her.—As for you, Mrs. Pattypan—may you find marriage like one of your own tarts, with no more acid in in, than is juſt enough to render the ſweets more poignant.—To crown your ſatisfaction, may your lodgings never remain empty; and may every friend who takes a peep at the Firſt Floor, honour it with their approbation.