[]THE Maid of the Mill.

SCENE I.

Well done, well done, 'tis a ſure ſign work goes on merrily when folks ſing at it. Stop the mill there; and doſt hear, ſon Ralph! hoiſt yon ſacks of [2] flour upon this cart lad, and drive it up to lord Aim⯑worth's; coming from London laſt night with ſtrange company, no doubt there are calls enough for it by this time.

Ay Feyther, whether or not; there's no fear but you'll find enow for a body to do.

What doſt mutter? is't not a ſtrange plague that thou can'ſt never go about any thing with a good will; murrain take it what's come o'er the boy? ſo then thou wilt not ſet a hand to what I have de⯑ſired thee?

Why don't you ſpeak to Suſter Pat to do ſomething then? I thought when ſhe come home to us after my old lady's death, ſhe was to have been of ſome uſe in the houſe; but inſtead of that, ſhe ſits there all day, reading outlandiſh books, dreſſed like a fine madumaſel, and the never a word you ſays to ſhe.

Sirrah don't ſpeak ſo diſreſpectfully of thy ſiſter; thou will't ne'er have the tyth of her deſerts.

Why I'll read and write with her for what ſhe dares; and as for playing on the hapſicols, I thinks her rich good mother might have learn'd her ſomething more properer, ſeeing ſhe did not remember to leave her a legacy at laſt.

That's none of thy buſineſs, Sirrah.

A farmer's wife painting pictures, and playing on the hapſicols; why, I'll be hanged now, for all as old as ſhe is, if ſhe knows any more about milking a cow, than I do of ſewing a petticoat.

Ralph, thou haſt been drinking this morning.

Well, if ſo be as I have, its nothing out of your pocket, nor mines niether.

Who has been giving thee liquor, ſirrah?

Why it was wind—a gentleman guv'd me.

A gentleman!

Yes, a gentleman that's come piping hot from London: he is below at the Cat and Bagpipes; I cod he rides a choice bit of a nag; I dares to ſay ſhe'd fetch as good as forty pound at ever a fair in all England.

A figgs end for what ſhe'd fetch; mind thy buſineſs, or by the lord Harry—

Why I won't do another hands turn to-day now, ſo that's flat.

Thou wilt not—

Why no I won't, ſo what argufies your putting yourſelf in a paſſion, Feyther; I've promis'd to go back to the gentleman; and I don't know but what he's a lord too, and mayhap he may do more for me than you thinks of.

Well ſon Ralph, run thy gait; but remem⯑ber I tell thee, thou wilt repent this untowardneſs.

Why, how ſhall I repent it? Mayhap you'll turn me out of your ſervice; a match; with all hearts —I cod I don't care three braſs pins.

SCENE II.

Dear heart, dear heart! I proteſt this ungra⯑cious boy puts me quite beſide myſelf. Patty my dear, come down into the yard a little, and keep me com⯑pany—and you thieves, vagabonds, gipſies, out here, 'tis you debauch my ſon.

Well Patty, Maſter Goodman my lord's ſteward has been with me juſt now, and I find we are like to have great doings, his lordſhip has brought down ſir Harry Sycamore, and his family; and there is more company expected in a few days.

I know ſir Harry very well, he is by marriage a diſtant relation of my lord's.

Pray what ſort of a young body is the daugh⯑ter there? I think ſhe us'd to be with you at the caſtle, three or four ſummers ago, when my young lord was out upon his travels.

Oh very often, ſhe was a great favourite of my lady's; pray father is ſhe come down?

Why you know the report laſt night, about my lord's going to be married; by what I can learn ſhe is, and there is likely to be a nearer relationſhip be⯑tween [5] the families, e're long. It ſeems, his lordſhip was not over willing for the match, but the friends on both ſides in London preſſed it ſo hard: then there's a ſwinging fortune, maſter Goodman tells me, a matter of twenty or thirty thouſand pounds!

If it was a million, father, it would not be more than my lord Aimworth deſerves; I ſuppoſe the wedding will be celebrated here, at the manſion-houſe?

So it is thought, as ſoon as things can be properly prepared—And now, Patty, if I could but ſee thee a little merry—Come, bleſs thee, pluck up thy ſpirits—To be ſure thou has ſuſtained, in the death of thy lady, a heavy loſs; ſhe was a parent to thee, nay, and better, inaſmuch as ſhe took thee when thou wert but a babe, and gave thee an education which thy na⯑tural parents could not afford to do.

Ah! dear father, don't mention, what per⯑haps, has been my greateſt misfortune.

Nay then, Patty, what's become of all thy ſenſe, that people talk ſo much about? —But I have ſomething to ſay to thee which I would have thee con⯑ſider ſeriouſly.—I believe I need not tell thee, my child, that a young maiden, after ſhe is marriageable, eſpecially if ſhe has any thing about her to draw people's notice, is liable to ill tongues, and a many croſs accidents; ſo that the ſooner ſhe is out of harm's way the better.

Undoubtedly, father, there are people enough who watch every opportunity to gratify their own ma⯑lice; but when a young woman's conduct is un⯑blameable—

Why, Patty, there may be ſomething in that; but you know ſlander will leave ſpots where malice finds none: I ſay, then, a young woman's beſt ſafeguard is a good huſband. Now there is our neigh⯑bour, farmer Giles; he is a ſober, honeſt, induſtrious young fellow, and one of the wealthieſt in theſe parts; he is greatly taken with thee; and it is not the firſt time I have told thee I ſhould be glad to have him for a ſon-in-law.

And I have told you as often, father, I would ſubmit myſelf entirely to your direction; whatever you think proper for me, is ſo.

Why that's ſpoken like a dutiful, ſenſible girl; get thee in, then, and leave me to manage it— Perhaps our neighbour Giles is not a gentleman; but what are the greateſt part of our country gentlemen good for?

Very true, father. The ſentiments, indeed, have frequently little correſpondence with the condi⯑tion; and it is according to them alone we ought to regulate our eſteem.

SCENE III.

Well, maſter Fairfield, you and Miſs Pat have had a long diſcourſe together; did you tell her that I was come down?

No, in truth, friend Giles, I did not even tell her I had ſent for thee, but I mentioned our affair at a diſtance; and I think there is no fear but what it will go as agreeably, of her ſide, as we could wiſh.

That's right—Well, and when ſhall us?— You do know I have told you my mind often and often.

Farmer, give us thy hand; nobody doubts thy good will to me and my girl; and you may take [7] my word I would rather give her to thee than another; for I am main certain thou wilt make her a good huſ⯑band.

Thanks to your kind opinion, maſter Fair⯑field; if ſuch be my hap I hope there will be no cauſe of complaint.

And I promiſe thee my daughter will make thee a choice wife.—But there is one thing to be conſidered.—Thou know'ſt, friend Giles, that I, and all belongs to me, have great obligations to lord Aimworth's family; Patty, in particular, would be one of the moſt ungrateful wretches this day breathing, if ſhe was to do the ſmalleſt thing contrary to their con⯑ſent and approbation.—I need not tell thee what ſhe owes them.

Nay, nay, 'tis well enough known to all the country, ſhe was the old lady's darling.

Well, maſter Giles, I'll aſſure thee ſhe is not one whit leſs obliged to my lord himſelf.—When his mother was taken off ſo ſuddenly, and his affairs called him up to London, if Patty would have re⯑mained at the caſtle, ſhe might have had the command of all; or if ſhe would have gone any where elſe, he would have paid for her fixing, let the coſt be what it would.

Why, for that matter, folks did not ſpare to ſay, that my lord had a kind of a ſneaking kindneſs for her himſelf: and I remember, at one time, it was riſe all about the neighbourhood, that ſhe was actually to be our lady.

Pho, pho! a pack of women's tales.

Nay to be ſure, they'll ſay any thing.

My lord's a man of a better way of thinking, friend Giles.— But this is neither here nor there to our buſineſs.—Have you been at the caſtle yet?

Who I! bleſs your heart, I did not hear a ſyllable of his lordſhip's being come down, till your lad told me.

No! why then I'll tell you what you ſhall do; go up to my lord, let him know you have a mind to [8] make a match with my daughter; hear what he has to ſay to it; and afterwards we will try if we can't ſettle matters.

Go up to my lord! Icod if that be all I'll do it with the biggeſt pleaſure in life.

Suppoſe you were to go this morning.

This minute an you will; never fear me, I warrant I ſhan't be ſham'd faced—but where's Miſs Pat? might not one ax her how ſhe do do?

Never ſpare it, ſhe's within there.

I ſees her—odd rabbit it, this hatch is locked now,—Miſs Pat—Miſs Patty—ſhe makes believe not to hear me.

Well, well, never mind; thou'lt come and eat a morſel of dinner with us.

Nay, but juſt to have a bit of joke with her at preſent.—Miſs Pat I ſay—won't you open the door.

SCENE IV.

Get away and finiſh the buſineſs thou art going about; I warrant we ſhan't diſagree.—So, this now is juſt as I would have it—Patty, child, why woud'ſt not thou open the door for our neighbour Giles?

Really Father I did not know what was the matter.

Well, another time; he'll be here again pre⯑ſently. He's gone up to the caſtle, Patty: thou know'ſt it would not be right for us to do any thing without giving his lordſhip intelligence, ſo I have ſent the farmer to let him know that he is willing, and we are willing; and with his lordſhip's approbation—

Oh dear father—what are you going to ſay?

Nay child, I would not have ſtirr'd a ſtep for fifty pounds, without advertiſing his lordſhip before⯑hand.

But ſurely, ſurely, you have not done this raſh, this precipitate thing.

How raſh, how is it raſh Patty? I don't un⯑derſtand thee.

Oh you have diſtreſs'd me beyond imagina⯑tion—but why wou'd you not give me notice, ſpeak to me firſt?

Why han't I ſpoken to thee an hundred times? no Patty, 'tis thou that would'ſt diſtreſs me, and thou'lt break my heart.

Dear father!

All I deſire is to ſee thee well ſettled; and now that I am likely to do ſo, thou art not contented; I am ſure the farmer is as ſightly a clever lad as any in the country; and is not he as good as we?

I don't ſay to the contrary father, I know I have no higher pretenſions, and you have a right to diſpoſe of me as you think proper.

Well then, what harm was there in ſending him to his lordſhip, ſeeing one or other of us muſt have gone?

'Tis very true father; I am to blame, pray forgive me.

Forgive thee, lord help thee my child, I am not angry with thee; but quiet thyſelf Patty, and thou'lt ſee all this will turn out for the beſt.

SCENE V.

What will become of me?—my lord will certainly imagine this is done with my conſent. — Well, is he not himſelf going to be married to a lady, ſuitable to him in rank, ſuitable to him in fortune, as this far⯑mer is to me; and under what pretence can I refuſe the huſband my father has found for me? ſhall I ſay that I have dared to raiſe my inclinations above my condition, and preſumed to love, where my duty taught me only gratitude and reſpect? Alas! who could live in the houſe with lord Aimworth, ſee him, converſe with him, and not love him? I have this conſolation how⯑ever, my folly is yet undiſcover'd to any; elſe, how ſhould I be ridiculed and deſpiſed; nay would not my lord himſelf deſpiſe me, eſpecially, if he knew that I have more than once conſtrued his natural affability and politeneſs, into ſentiments as unworthy of him, as mine are bold and extravagant. Unexampled va⯑nity! did I poſſeſs any thing capable of attracting ſuch a notice, to what purpoſe could a man of his diſtinc⯑tion caſt his eyes on a girl, poor, meanly born; and indebted for every thing to the ill-placed bounty of his family.

SCENE VI.

Well but Theodoſia, child, you are quite unreaſonable.

Pardon me papa, it is not I am unreaſonable; when I gave way to my inclinations for Mr. Mervin, he did not ſeem leſs agreeable to you and my mama, than he was acceptable to me. It is therefore you have been unreaſonable; in firſt encouraging his addreſſes, and afterwards forbidding him your houſe, in order to bring me down here, to force me on a gentleman—

Force you Doſſy, what do you mean? by the la! I would not force you on the Czar of Muſcovy.

And yet papa, what elſe can I call it? for though lord Aimworth is extremely attentive, and ob⯑liging, I aſſure you he is by no means one of the moſt ardent of lovers.

Ardent, ah! there it is; you girls never think there is any love, without kiſſing and hug⯑ging; but you ſhou'd conſider child, my lord Aim⯑worth is a polite man; and has been abroad in France and Italy, where theſe things are not the faſhion; I remember when I was on my travels, among the ma⯑dames, and ſignoras, we never ſaluted more than the tip of the ear.

Really papa, you have a very ſtrange opinion of my delicacy; I had no ſuch ſtuff in my thoughts.

Well come, my poor Doſſy, I ſee you are chagrin'd, but you know it is not my fault; on the contrary I aſſure you, I had always a great regard for young Mervin, and ſhould have been very glad—

How then papa, could you join in forcing me to write him that ſtrange letter, never to ſee me more; or how indeed could I comply with your commands? what muſt he think of me?

Ay, but hold Doſſy, your mama convinced me that he was not ſo proper a ſon-in-law for us as lord Aimworth.

Convinced you! ah my dear papa you were not convinced.

What don't I know when I am convinced?

Why no papa, becauſe your good-nature and eaſineſs of temper is ſuch, that you pay more reſpect to the judgment of mama, and leſs to your own, than you ought to do.

Well, but Doſſy, don't you ſee how your mama loves me; if my finger does but ach, ſhe's like a bewitched woman; and if I was to die, I don't be⯑lieve ſhe wou'd outlive the burying of me: nay ſhe has told me as much herſelf.

Her fondneſs indeed is very extraordinary.

Beſides, could you give up the proſpect of being a counteſs, and miſtreſs of this fine place?

Yes truly could I.

SCENE VII.

Sir Harry where are you?

Here my lamb.

I am juſt come from looking over his lord⯑ſhip's family jewels; I proteſt they are prodigiouſly magnificent—Well miſs Sycamore, you are a happy creature, to have diamonds, equipage, title, all the bleſſings of life poured thus upon you at once.

Bleſſings Madam! do you think then that I am ſuch a wretch as to place my felicity in the poſ⯑ſeſſion of any ſuch trumpery.

Upon my word miſs, you have a very diſ⯑dainful manner of expreſſing yourſelf; I believe there are very few young women of faſhion, who wou'd think any ſacrifice they cou'd make, too much for them—did you ever hear the like of her Sir Harry?

Why my dear, I have juſt been talking to her in the ſame ſtrain, but whatever ſhe has got in her head ſhe ſeems to think—

Oh I know very well what ſhe has got in her head, it is Mr. Mervin, her gentleman of Buck⯑lerſbury; fye miſs, marry a cit, where is your pride, your vanity, have you nothing of the perſon of diſ⯑tinction about you?

Well, but my lady, you know I am a piece of a cit myſelf, as I may ſay, for my great grand⯑father was a dry ſalter.

And yet Madam, you condeſcended to marry my papa.

Well, if I did miſs, I had but five thou⯑ſand pounds to my portion, and Sir Harry knows I was paſt eight and thirty, before I would liſten to him.

Nay Doſſy, that's true, your mama own'd eight and thirty, before we were married, but by the [14] la my dear, you were a lovely angel; and by candle⯑light nobody would have taken you for above five and twenty.

Sir Harry, you remember the laſt time I was at my lord duke's.

Yes my love, it was the very day your little bitch Minxey pupt.

Well, and what did the whole family ſay, my lord John, and my lord Thomas, and my lady Ducheſs in particular? couſin ſays her grace to me— for ſhe always calls me couſin.

And me too, her grace is exceedingly kind—ſhe always calls me couſin.

In ſhort they all ſaid, that this match, if my prudence could bring it about, was the moſt de⯑ſireable in the univerſe; and the other abſolutely be⯑low our attention—A fellow that will have an eſtate got by ſelling mundungus and molloſſus—

Well but Madam, be their quality ever ſo great, I can't ſee what right my lord John, and my lord Thomas, have to direct my inclinations; and I muſt tell you there is a much nearer relation of mine, and one who has a better right to rule me, that is my father, who has a great regard for Mr. Mervin, and would conſent to our union with all his heart.

Did you ſay ſo Sir Harry?

Who I love!

Then all my care and prudence are come to nothing.

Well, but ſtay my lady—Doſſy, you are always making miſchief.

Ah! my dear ſweet—

Do Miſs, that's right, coax—

No Madam, I am not capable of any ſuch meanneſs.

'Tis very civil of you to contradict me, however.

Eh! what's that—hands off Doſſy, don't come near me.

SCENE VIII.

Come farmer, you may come in, there are none here but friends; Sir Harry your ſervant.

My lord, I kiſs your lordſhips hands—I hope he did not overhear us ſquabbling.

Well now maſter Giles, what is it you have got to ſay to me? if I can do you any ſervice, this company will give you leave to ſpeak.

I thank your lordſhip, I has not got a great deal to ſay; I do come to your lordſhip about a little buſineſs, if you'll pleaſe to give me the hearing.

Certainly, only let me know what it is.

Why an pleaſe you my lord, being left alone, as I may ſay, feyther dead, and all the buſineſs upon my own hands, I do think of ſettling and tak⯑ing a wife, and I come to ax your honour's conſent.

My conſent farmer! if that be neceſſary, you have it with all my heart—I hope you have taken care to make a prudent choice.

Why I do hope ſo my lord.

Well, and who is the happy fair one? does ſhe live in my houſe?

No my lord, ſhe does not live in your houſe, but ſhe's a parſon of your acquaintance.

Of my acquaintance!

No offence I hope your honour.

None in the leaſt: but how is ſhe an ac⯑quaintance of mine?

Your lordſhip do know Miller Fairfield?

Well—

And Patty Fairfield, his daughter, my lord.

Ay, is it her you think of marrying?

Why if ſo be as your lordſhip has no ob⯑jection; to be ſure we will do nothing without your conſent and approbation.

Upon my word farmer, you have made an excellent choice—It is a god-daughter of my mother's Madam, who was bred up under her care, and I pro⯑teſt I do not know a more amiable young woman— but are you ſure farmer, that Patty herſelf is inclin⯑able to this match?

O yes my lord, I am ſartain of that.

Perhaps then ſhe deſired you to come and aſk my conſent?

Why as far as this here, my lord; to be ſure, the miller did not care to publiſh the banns, without making your lordſhip acquainted — But I hope your honor's not angry with I.

Angry farmer! why ſhould you think ſo? —what intereſt have I in it to be angry?

And ſo honeſt farmer, you are going to be married to little Patty Fairfield—her father's a good warm fellow; I ſuppoſe you take care that ſhe brings ſomething to make the pot boil.

What does that concern you Sir Harry? how often muſt I tell you of meddling in other people's affairs.

My lord, a penny for your thoughts.

I beg your pardon, Sir Harry, upon my word, I did not think where I was.

Well then your honour, I'll make bold to be taking my leave, I may ſay you gave conſent for Miſs Patty and I to go on.

Undoubtedly farmer, if ſhe approves of it; but are not you afraid that her education has rendered her a little unſuitable for a wife for you?

Oh my lord, if the girl's handy.

Handy, why ſaving reſpect, there's nothing comes amiſs to her; ſhe's cute at every varſal kind of thing.

SCENE IX.

By dad this is a good merry fellow, is not he love, with his pitty patty — And ſo my lord you have given your conſent that he ſhall marry your mo⯑ther's old houſekeeper. Ah, well, I can ſee—

Nobody doubts Sir Harry, that you are very clear ſighted.

Yes, yes, let me alone, I know what's what: I was a young fellow once myſelf, and I ſhould have been glad of a tenant, to take a pretty girl off my hands now and then, as well as another.

I proteſt my dear friend, I don't under⯑ſtand you.

Nor nobody elſe — Sir Harry you are going at ſome beaſtlineſs now.

Who I, my lady? not I, as I hope to live and breath; 'tis nothing to us you know, what my lord does before he's married; when I was a batchelor, I was a devil among the wenches, myſelf; and yet I vow to George my lord, ſince I knew my lady Sycamore, and we ſhall be man and wife eigh⯑teen years, if we live till next Candlemas day; I never had to do—

Sir Harry, come out of the room I deſire.

Why what's the matter, my lady, I did not ſay any harm?

I ſee what you are driving at, you want to make me faint.

I want to make you faint, my lady?

Yes you do—and if you don't come out this inſtant I ſhall fall down in the chamber—I beg my lord you won't ſpeak to him—will you come out, Sir Harry?

Nay but my lady!

No, I will have you out.

SCENE X.

This worthy baronet, and his lady, are certainly a very whimſical couple, however, their daughter is perfectly amiable in every reſpect; and yet I am ſorry I have brought her down here; for can I in honour marry her, while my affections are engaged to ano⯑ther? To what does the pride of condition and the cen⯑ſure of the world force me! Muſt I then renounce the only perſon that can make me happy; becauſe, be⯑cauſe what? becauſe ſhe's a miller's daughter. Vain pride and unjuſt cenſure: has ſhe not all the graces that education can give her ſex, improved by a genius ſeldom found among the higheſt? Has ſhe not modeſty, ſweetneſs of temper, and beauty of perſon, capable of adorning a rank the moſt exalted? But it is too late to think of theſe things now; my hand is promiſed, my honour engaged; and if it was not ſo, ſhe has engaged herſelf, the farmer is a perſon to her mind, and I have authoriſed their union by my approbation.

SCENE XI.

Ah, pray your honour, try if you have not ſomething to ſpare for poor Fanny the gypſey—

I tell you Fan, the gentleman has no change about him, why the plague will you be ſo trouble⯑ſome?

Lord what is it to you, if his honor has a mind to give me a trifle? do pray gentleman, put your hand in your pocket.

I am almoſt diſtracted! ungrateful Theo⯑doſia! to change ſo ſuddenly; and write me ſuch a letter; however, I am reſolved to have my diſmiſſion face to face; this letter may be forced from her by her mother, who I know was never cordially my friend: I could not get a ſight of her in London, but here they will be leſs on their guard; and ſee her I will, by one means or other.

Then your honour will not extend your charity?

SCENE XII.

Now I'll go and take that money from her, and I have a good mind to lick her, ſo I have.

Pho, prithee ſtay where you are.

Nay, but I hate to ſee a toad ſo deviliſh greedy.

Well come, ſhe has not got a great deal, and I have thought how ſhe may do me a favour in her turn.

Ay, but you may put that out of your head, for I can tell you ſhe won't.

How ſo?

How ſo, why ſhe's as cunning as the Devil.

Oh ſhe is—I fancy I underſtand you. Well, in that caſe friend Ralph—Your name's Ralph, I think.

Yes Sir, at your ſervice, for want of a better.

I ſay then friend Ralph, in that caſe, we will remit the favour you think of, 'till the lady is in a more complying humour, and try if ſhe cannot ſerve me at preſent in ſome other capacity—there are a good many gypſies hereabout, are there not?

Softly—I have a whole gang of them here in our barn; I have kept them about the place theſe three months, and all on account of ſhe.

Really.

Yes—but for your life don't ſay a word of it to any Chriſtian—I am in love with her.

Indeed.

Feyther is as mad with me about it, as Old Scratch; and I gets the plague and all of anger; but I don't mind that.

Well friend Ralph, if you are in love, no doubt you have ſome influence over your miſtreſs; don't you think now you could prevail upon her, and her compa⯑nions, [22] to ſupply me with one of their habits, and let me go up with them to-day to my lord Aimworth's.

Why do you want to go a mumming? we never do that here but in the Chriſtmas holidays.

No matter: manage this for me, and manage it with ſecrecy; and I promiſe you ſhall not go unre⯑warded.

Oh! as for that ſir, I don't look for any thing; I can eaſily get you a bundle of their rags; but I don't know whether you'll prevail on them to go up to my lord's, becauſe they're afraid of a big dog that's in the yard; but I'll tell you what I can do, I can go up be⯑fore you and have the dog faſtened, for I know his ken⯑nel.

That will do very well—by means of this diſguiſe I ſhall probably get a ſight of her; and I leave the reſt to love and fortune.

SCENE XIII.

So, his lordſhip was as willing as the flowers in May—and as I was coming along who ſhou'd I meet but your father—and he bid me run in all haſte and tell you—for we were ſure you wou'd be deadly glad.

I know not what buſineſs you had to go to my lord's at all farmer.

Nay I only did as I was deſired—Maſter Fairfield bid me tell you moreover, as how he wou'd have you go up to my lord out of hand, and thank him.

So ſhe ought, and take off thoſe cloaths, and put on what's more becoming her ſtation; you know my father ſpoke to you of that this morning too.

Brother, I ſhall obey my father.

SCENE I.

IN how contemptible a light would the ſituation I am now in, ſhew me to moſt of the fine men of the preſent age? in love with a country girl, rivaled by a poor fellow, one of my meaneſt tenants, and uneaſy at it; if I had a mind to her, I know they would tell me, I ought to have taken care to make myſelf eaſy long ago, when I had her in my power. But I have the teſtimony of my own heart in my favour; and I think was it to do again, I ſhould act as I have done. Let's ſee what have we here? perhaps a book may com⯑poſe my thoughts;

it's to no purpoſe, I can't read, I can't think, I can't do any thing.

SCENE II.

Now comes the trial; no, my ſentence is al⯑ready pronounc'd, and I will meet my fate with pru⯑dence and reſolution.

Who's there?

My lord!

Patty Fairfield!

I humbly beg pardon my lord, for preſſing ſo abruptly into your preſence; but I was told I might walk this way; and I am come by my father's commands, to thank your lordſhip for all your favours.

Favours Patty! what favours? I have done you none; but why this metamorphoſis? I proteſt if you had not ſpoke, I ſhould not have known you; I never ſaw you wear ſuch cloaths as theſe in my mother's life time.

No my lord, it was her ladyſhip's pleaſure I ſhould wear better, and therefore I obey'd; but it is now my duty to dreſs in a manner more ſuitable to my ſtation, and future proſpects in life.

I am afraid Patty you are too humble— come ſit down—nay I will have it ſo—what is it I have been told to day Patty, it ſeems you are going to be married.

Yes my lord.

Well, and don't you think you could have made a better choice than farmer Giles? I ſhould ima⯑gine your perſon, your accompliſhments, might have intitled you to look higher.

Your lordſhip is pleaſed to over-rate my little merit; the education I received in your family, does not intitle me to forget my origin; and the farmer is my equal.

In what reſpect? the degrees of rank and fortune, my dear Patty, are arbitrary diſtinctions, unwor⯑thy the regard of thoſe who conſider juſtly; the true [27] ſtandard of equality is ſeated in the mind; thoſe who think nobly are noble.

The farmer my lord, is a very honeſt man.

So he may, I don't ſuppoſe he would break into a houſe, or commit a robbery on the highway; what do you tell me of his honeſty for?

I did not mean to offend your lordſhip.

Offend! I am not offended Patty, not at all offended—but is there any great merit in a man's being honeſt?

I don't ſay there is, my lord.

The farmer is an ill bred illiterate booby, and what happineſs can you propoſe to yourſelf in ſuch a ſociety. Then as to his perſon I am ſure—But perhaps Patty you like him, and if ſo I am doing a wrong thing.

Upon my word, my lord—

Nay I ſee you do, he has had the good for⯑tune to pleaſe you, and in that caſe you are certainly in the right to follow your inclinations—I muſt tell you one thing Patty, however—I hope you won't think it unfriendly of me—But I am determined farmer Giles ſhall not ſtay a moment on my eſtate, after next quarter day.

I hope my lord, he has not incurred your diſpleaſure—

That's of no ſignification—Could I find as many good qualities in him as you do, perhaps—but 'tis enough, he's a fellow I don't like; and as you have a regard for him, I would have you adviſe him to provide himſelf.

My lord I am very unfortunate.

She loves him 'tis plain—Come Patty, don't cry, I would not willingly do any thing to make you uneaſy—Have you ſeen Miſs Sycamore yet? I ſuppoſe you know ſhe and I are going to be married.

So I hear my lord; Heaven make you both happy.

Thank you Patty, I hope we ſhall be happy.

Upon my knees, upon my knees I pray it; may every earthly bliſs attend you; may your days prove an uninterrupted courſe of delightful tran⯑quility: and your mutual friendſhip, confidence and love, end but with your lives.

Riſe Patty, riſe; ſay no more—I ſup⯑poſe you'll wait upon Miſs Sycamore before you go away—at preſent I have a little buſineſs—as I ſaid, Patty, don't afflict yourſelf, I have been ſome⯑what haſty with regard to the farmer, but ſince I ſee how deeply you are intereſted in his affairs, I may, poſſibly, alter my deſigns with regard to him—You know—you know Patty, your marriage with him is no concern of mine—I only ſpeak—

SCENE III.

Miſs Pat—Odd rabit it, I thought his honour was here; and I wiſh I may die if my heart did not jump into my mouth,—come, come down in all haſte, there's ſuch rig below, as you never knew in your born days.

Rig?

Ay and fun—there's as good as forty of the tenants, men, and maidens, have got upon the lawn before the caſtle, with pipers and garlands; juſt for all the world as thof it was May day; and the quality's looking at them out of the windows—'Tis as true as any thing; on account of my lord's coming home with his new lady—look here, I have brought a ſtring of their flowers along with me.

Well, and what then?

Why I was thinking, if ſo be as you would come down, as we might take a dance together; little Sal, farmer Harrow's daughter of the Green, would fain have had me for a partner, but I ſaid as how I'd go for one I liked better, one that I'd make a partner for life.

Did you ſay ſo?

Yes, and ſhe was ſtruck all of a heap—ſhe had not a word to throw to a dog—for Sal and I kept company once for a little bit.

Farmer, I am going to ſay ſomething to you, and I deſire you will liſten to it attentively—it ſeems you think of our being married together.

Think, why I think of nothing elſe; it's all over the place mun, as how you are to be my ſpouſe, and you wou'd not believe what game folks make of me.

Shall I talk to you like a friend, farmer— you and I were never deſign'd for one another; and I am morally certain we ſhould not be happy.

Oh! as for that matter, I never has no words with no body.

Shall I ſpeak plainer to to you then—I don't like you.

No!

On the contrary, you are diſagreeable to me—

Am I?

Yes, of all things, I deal with you ſincerely.

Why, I thought Miſs Pat, the affair between you and I was all fix'd and ſettled.

Well, let this undeceive you—Be aſſured we ſhall never be man and wife. No offer ſhall perſuade, no command, force me—you know my mind, make your advantage of it.

SCENE IV.

Here's a turn, I don't know what to make of it, ſhe's gone mad, that's for ſartin; wit and learning have crakt her brain—poor ſoul, poor ſoul—It is often the caſe of thoſe that have too much of them. —Lord, Lord, how ſorry I be—but hold, ſhe ſays I baint to her mind—mayn't all this be the effect of modiſh coyneſs, to do like the gentlewomen, becauſe ſhe was bred among them? and I have heard ſay, they will be upon their vixen tricks, 'till they go into the very church with a man; Icod there's nothing more likelier, for 'tis the cry of one and all, that ſhe's the moral of a lady in every thing: and our farmers daughters, for the matter of that, tho'f they have no⯑thing to boaſt of, but a ſcrap of red ribbon about their hats, will have as many turnings and windings as a hare, before one can lay a faſt hold of them. There can no harm come, of ſpeaking with maſter Fairfield, how⯑ſoever: odd rabbit it, how plaguy tart ſhe was—I am half vext with my myſelf now that I let her go off ſo.

SCENE V.

Well then my dear Patty, you will run away from us; but why in ſuch a hurry, I have a thouſand things to ſay to you.

I ſhall do myſelf the honour to pay my duty to you ſome other time, Madam, at preſent I really find myſelf a little indiſpoſed.

Nay, I would by no means lay you under any reſtraint. But methinks the entertainment we have juſt been taking part of, ſhould have put you into better ſpirits: I am not in an over-merry mood myſelf, yet I ſwear I could not look on the diverſion of thoſe honeſt folks, without feeling a certain gaietie de coeur.

Why indeed Madam, it had one circumſtance attending it, which is often wanting to more polite amuſements, that of ſeeming to give undiſſembled ſa⯑tisfaction to thoſe who were engaged in it.

Oh infinite, infinite! to ſee the chearful healthy looking creatures, toil with ſuch a good will, to me there were more genuine charms, in their awk⯑ward ſtumping and jumping about; their rude mea⯑ſures, and homeſpun finery; than in all the dreſs, ſplendor, and ſtudied graces, of a birth-night ball⯑room.

'Tis a very uncommon declaration to be made by a fine lady, Madam; but certainly, however the artful delicacies of high life may dazzle and ſurpriſe, nature has particular attractions, even in a cottage, her moſt [33] unadorned ſtate; which ſeldom fails to affect us, tho' we can ſcarce give a reaſon for it.

But you know, Patty, I was always a diſtracted admirer of the country; no damſel in romance was ever fonder of groves and purling ſtreams: had I been born in the days of Arcadia, with my preſent propen⯑ſity, inſtead of being a fine lady, as you call me, I ſhould certainly have kept a flock of ſheep.

Well, madam, you have the ſages, poets, and philoſophers, of all ages, to countenance your way of thinking.

And you, my little philoſophical friend; don't you think me in the right too?

Yes indeed, madam, perfectly.

SCENE VI.

How unjuſt is fortune in the diſtribution of her gifts! This girl certainly merits to ſhine in a higher ſphere; and how many that paſs for fine ladies might fill the place ſhe now occupies without the leaſt violence to their characters.

Yonder ſhe is ſeated, and, to my wiſh, moſt fortunately alone. Accoſt her as I deſired.

Heigh!

I could be very melancholly now; but that indeed is no wonder in my preſent ſitua⯑tion.

Heaven bleſs you, my ſweet lady—bleſs your honour's beautiful viſage, and ſend you a good huſband and a great many of them.

A very comfortable wiſh upon my word; who are you, child?

A poor gipſey, an' pleaſe you, that goes about begging from charitable gentlemen and ladies—If you have ere a coal or bit of whiting in your pocket, I'll write you the firſt letter of your ſweetheart's name; how many huſbands you will have, and how many chil⯑dren, my lady; or, if you will let me look at your line of life, I'll tell you whether it will be long or ſhort, happy or miſerable.

Oh! as for that, I know it already—my life will be miſerable moſt certainly; and, as you cannot tell me any good fortune, I'll hear none. Go about your buſineſs.

Stay, madam, ſtay

you have dropt ſomething. Fan, call the young gentlewoman back.

Lady, you have loſt—

Pho, pho, I have loſt nothing.

Yes, that paper, lady; you dropt it as you got up from the chair: we are poor but honeſt. Fan, give it to her honour.

A letter with my addreſs!

‘"Dear Theodoſia! Though the ſight of me was ſo diſagreeable to you, that you charged me never to approach you more, I hope my hand⯑writing can have nothing to frighten or diſguſt you. I am not far off, and the perſon who delivers you this, can give you intelligence."’ —Come hither, child; Do you know any thing of the gentleman that wrote this?

My lady—

Make haſte, run this moment, bring me to him, bring him to me; ſay I wait with impatience; tell him I will go, fly any where—

My life, my charmer!

Oh, Heavens!—Mr. Mervin!

SCENE VII.

Sir Harry don't walk ſo faſt, we are not running for a wager.

Hough, hough, hough.

Hey day, you have got a cough; I ſhall have you laid up upon my hands preſently.

No no, my lady, 'tis only the old affair.

Come here, and let me tye this handker⯑chief about your neck; you have put yourſelf into a muck-ſweat already

Have you taken your Bardana this morning? I war⯑rant you no now, though you have been complaining of twitches two or three times; and you know the gouty ſeaſon is coming on. Why will you be ſo neglectful of your health, Sir Harry? I proteſt I am forced to watch you like an infant.

My lovey takes care of me, and I am obliged to her.

Well, but you ought to mind me then, ſince you are ſatisfied I never ſpeak but for your good. I thought, Miſs Sycamore, you were to have fol⯑lowed your papa and me into the garden.—How far did you go with that wench?

They are gypſies, madam, they ſay. Indeed I don't know what they are.

I wiſh, miſs, you would learn to give a ra⯑tional anſwer—

Eh! What's that? Gipſies! Have we gip⯑ſies here? Vagrants, that pretend to a knowledge of future events; diviners; fortune-tellers?

Yes, your worſhip; we'll tell your fortune, or her ladyſhip's, for a crum of bread, or a little broken victuals, what you throw to your dogs, an pleaſe you.

Broken victuals, huſſy! How do you think we ſhould have broken victuals? If we were at home, indeed, perhaps you might get ſome ſuch thing from the cook; but here we are only on a viſit to a friend's houſe, and have nothing to do with the kitchen at all.

And do you think, Sir Harry, it is neceſ⯑ſary to give the creature an account.

No, love, no; but what can you ſay to ob⯑ſtinate people?—Get you gone, bold face—I once knew a merchant's wife in the City, my Lady, who had her fortune told by ſome of thoſe gipſies. They ſaid ſhe ſhould die at ſuch a time; and I warrant, as ſure as the day came, the poor gentlewoman actually died with the conceit—Come, Doſſy, your mama and I are going to take a walk—My Lady, will you have hold of my arm?

No, Sir Harry, I chooſe to go by myſelf.

Now, love, aſſiſt me

Follow, and take all your cues from me.—Nay, but good lady and gentleman, you wont go without re⯑membering the poor gipſies.

Hey! here is all the gang after us.

Pray, your noble honour.

Come back into the garden, we ſhall be co⯑vered with vermin.

Out of the bowels of your commiſſeration.

They preſs upon us more and more; yet that girl has no mind to leave them; I ſhall ſound away.

Don't be frighten'd, my lady; let me ad⯑vance.

SCENE VIII.

Oh! mercy, dear,—The gentleman is ſo bold, 'tis well if he does not bring us into trouble. Who knows but this may be a juſtice of peace; and ſee, he's following them into the garden.

Well, 'tis all your ſeeking, Fan.

We ſhall have warrants to take us up, I'll be hang'd elſe. We had better run away, the ſervants will come out with ſticks to lick us.

Curſed ill fortune—

She's gone, and, perhaps, I ſhall not have ano⯑ther opportunity—And you, ye blundering block⯑heads, I won't give you a halfpenny—Why did you not clap too the garden-door, when I called to you, before the young lady got in? The key was on the out-ſide, which would have given me ſome time for an explanation.

An pleaſe your honour I was dubus.

Dubus! plague choak ye—However, it is ſome ſatisfaction that I have been able to let her ſee me, and know where I am—

Go, get you gone, all of you, about your buſi⯑neſs.

Diſappeared, fled!—

Oh, how unlucky this is! Could he not have patience to wait a moment.

I know not what to reſolve on.

Hem!

I'll go back to the garden-door.

Mr. Mervin!

What do I ſee! 'Tis ſhe, 'tis ſhe herſelf! Oh, Theodoſia!—Shall I climb the wall and come up to you?

No; ſpeak ſoftly, Sir Harry and my Lady ſit below at the end of the walk. How much am I obliged to you for taking this trouble.

When their happineſs is at ſtake, what is it men will not attempt? Say but you love me.

What proof would you have me give you? I know but of one: if you pleaſe, I am willing to go off with you.

Are you? Would to Heaven I had brought a carriage!

How did you come? Have you not horſes?

No, there's another misfortune; to avoid ſuſ⯑picion, there being but one little public-houſe in the village, I diſpatched my ſervant with them, about an hour ago, to wait for me at a town twelve miles diſtant, whither I pretended to go alſo; but alighting a mile off, I equipt myſelf, and came back as you ſee; nei⯑ther can we, nearer than this town, get a poſt-chaiſe.

You ſay you have made a confidant of the mil⯑ler's ſon: return to your place of rendezvous; my fa⯑ther has been aſked this moment, by Lord Aimworth, who is in the garden, to take a walk with him down to the mill: they will go before dinner, and it ſhall be hard if I cannot contrive to be one of the company.

And what then?

Why, in the mean time, you may deviſe ſome method to carry me from hence; and I'll take care you ſhall have an opportunity of communicating it to me.

Well, but dear Theodoſia—

SCENE IX.

Pleaſe your honour, you were ſo kind as to ſay, you would remember my fellow-travellers for their trouble, and they think I have gotten the money.

Oh, here! give them this

And for you, my dear little pilot, you have brought me ſo cleverly through my buſineſs, that I muſt—

Oh, Lord! your honour—

Pray don't—kiſs me again.

Again, and again—There's a thought come into my head. Theodoſia will certainly have no ob⯑jection to putting on a dreſs of the ſiſter of mine. So, and ſo only, we may eſcape to Night. This girl, for a little money, will provide us with neceſſaries—

Dear, gracious! I warrant you now I am as red as my petticoat. Why would you royſter and towzel one ſo?—If Ralph was to ſee you, he'd be as jealous as the vengeance.

Hang Ralph! Never mind him. There's a guinea for thee.

What, a golden guinea?

Yes; and, if thou art a good girl, and do as I deſire thee, thou ſhalt have twenty.

Ay, but not all gold.

As good as that is.

Shall I though, if I does as you bids me?

You ſhall.

Precious heart! He's a ſweet gentleman! Ecod I have a great mind —

What art thou thinking about?

Thinking, your honour? Ha, ha, ha!

Indeed, ſo merry.

I don't know what I am thinking about, not I —Ha, ha, ha!—Twenty guineas!

I tell thee thou ſhalt have them.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

By Heaven I am ſerious.

Ha, ha, ha▪ Why then I'll do whatever your honour pleaſes.

Stay here a little, to ſee that all keeps quiet. You'll find me preſently at the mill, where we'll talk farther.

SCENE X.

What a dear kind ſoul he is—here comes Ralph—I can tell him, unleſs he makes me his lawful wiſe, as he has often ſaid he would, the devil a word more ſhall he ſpeak to me.

So Fan, where's the gentleman?

Why how ſhould I know where he is, what do you aſk me for?

There's no harm in putting a civil queſtion, be there? why you look as croſs and ill natured—

Well, mayhap I do—and mayhap I may have wherewithal for it.

Why has the gentleman offered any thing un⯑civil? ecod I'd try a bout as ſoon as look at him.

He offer—no—he's a gentleman every inch of him; but you are ſenſible Ralph, you have been promiſing me a great while, this, and that, and t'other, and when all comes to all, I don't ſee but you are like the reſt of them.

Why what is it I have promiſed?

To marry me in the church, you have a hun⯑dred times.

Well, and mayhap I will; if you'll have patience.

Patience me no patience, you may do it now if you pleaſe.

Well, but ſuppoſe I don't pleaſe; I tell you Fan you're a fool, and want to quarrel with your bread and butter; I have had anger enow from feyther already, upon you're account, and you want me to come by more; as I ſaid, if you have patience, may⯑hap things may fall out, and mayhap not.

With all my heart then; and now I know your mind, you may go hang yourſelf.

Ay, ay.

Yes, you may—who cares for you?

Well, and who cares for you, an you go to that?

A menial feller—go mind your mill and your drudgery, I don't think you worthy to wipe my ſhoes, —feller.

Nay but Fan, keep a civil tongue in your head, odds fleſh! I would fain know what fly bites all of a ſudden now.

Marry come up, the beſt gentlemen's ſons in the county have made me proffers, and if one is a Miſs, be a Miſs to a gentleman I ſay, that will give one fine cloathes, and take one to ſee the ſhow, and put money in one's pocket.

Whu, whu

what's that for?

What do you whiſtle for then! Do you think I am a dog?

Never from me Fan, if I have not a mind to give you with this ſwitch in my hand here, as good a lacing—

Touch me if you dare, touch me; and I'll ſwear my life againſt you.

A murrain! with her damn'd little fiſt, as hard as ſhe could draw.

Well, its good enough for you; I'm not ne⯑ceſiated to take up with the impurence of ſuch a low⯑liv'd monkey as you are—A gentleman's my friend, and I can have twenty guineas in my hand, all as good gold as that is.

Belike from this Londoner, eh?

Yes from him—ſo you may take your pro⯑miſe of marriage, I don't value it that

and if you ſpeak to me, I'll ſlap your chops again.

SCENE XI.

Indeed! now I'll be judg'd by any ſoul living in the world, if ever there was a viler piece of treachery than this here; there is no ſuch a thing as a true friend upon the face of the globe, and ſo I have ſaid a hun⯑dred times! a couple of baſe deceitful—after all my love and kindneſs ſhewn. Well, I'll be revenged, ſee an I ben't—Maſter Marvint, that's his name, an he do not ſham it; he has come here and diſguiſed un⯑ſelf; whereof 'tis contrary to law ſo to do; beſides, I do partly know why he did it; and I'll fiſh out the whole conjuration, and go up to the caſtle and tell every ſylable; a ſhan't carry a wench from me, were he twenty times the mon he is; and twenty times to that again; and moreover than ſo, the firſt time I meet un, I'll knock un down, tho'f'twas before my lord him ſelf; and he may capias me for it afterwards, an he wull—

SCENE XII.

In ſhort, farmer, I don't know what to ſay to thee. I have ſpoken to her all I can; but I think chil⯑dren were born to pull the grey hairs of their parents to the grave with ſorrow.

Nay maſter Fairfield don't take on about it; belike Miſs Pat has another love, and if ſo, in Heaven's name be't: what's one man's meat as the ſaying is is another man's poiſon. And thof, ſome might find me well enough to their fancy, ſet in caſe I don't ſuit her's, why there's no harm done.

Well but neighbour, I have put that to her; and the ſtory is, ſhe has no inclination to marry any one; all ſhe deſires, is, to ſtay at home and take care of me.

Maſter Fairfield—here's towards your good health.

Thank thee friend Giles—and here's towards thine—I promiſe thee had things gone as we pro⯑poſed, thou ſhould'ſt have had one half of what I was worth, to the uttermoſt farthing.

Why to be ſure Maſter Fairfield, I am not the leſs obligated to your good-will; but as to that matter, had I married, it ſhould not have been for the lucre of gain; but if I do like a girl, do you ſee, I do like her; ay, and I'll take her, ſaving reſpect, if ſhe had not a ſecond petticoat.

Well ſaid—where love is, with a little in⯑duſtry, what have a young couple to be afraid of? and by the lord Harry, for all that's paſt, I cannot help thinking we ſhall bring our matters to bear yet—Young women you know friend Giles!

Why that's what I have been thinking with myſelf, maſter Fairfield.

Come then, mend thy draught—duce take me, if I let it drop ſo. But in any caſe don't you go to make yourſelf uneaſy.

Uneaſy maſter Fairfield, what good would that do.—For ſarten, ſeeing how things were, I ſhould have been very glad they had gone accordingly; but if they change, 'tis no fault of mine, you know.

SCENE XIII.

O the goodneſs, his lordſhip's honour—you are come into a litter'd place, my noble ſir — the arm chair here—will it pleaſe your honour to repoſe you, on this till a better—

Thank you Miller, there's no occaſion for either—I only want to ſpeak a few words to you, and have company waiting for me without.

Without—won't their honours favour my poor hovel ſo far—

No Miller, let them ſtay where they are— I find you are about marrying your daughter—I know the great regard my mother had for her, and am ſatis⯑fied that nothing but her ſudden death, could have pre⯑vented her leaving her a handſome proviſion.

Dear my lord, your noble mother, you, and all your family, have heap'd favours on favours, on my poor child.

Whatever has been done for her ſhe has fully merited—

Why to be ſure, my lord, ſhe is a very good girl.

Poor old man—but thoſe are tears of ſatis⯑faction—here maſter Fairfield, to bring matters to a ſhort concluſion, here is a bill of a thouſand pounds.— Portion your daughter with what you think convenient of it.

A thouſand pound my lord! pray excuſe me; excuſe me worthy ſir, too much has been done already, and we have no pretenſions.

I inſiſt upon your taking it—Put it up and ſay no more.

Well my lord, if it muſt be ſo; but indeed, indeed —

In this I only fullfil what I am ſatisfied would pleaſe my mother. As to myſelf, I ſhall take [47] upon me all the expences of Patty's wedding, and have already given orders about it.

Alas Sir, you are too good, too generous; but I fear we ſhall not be able to profit of your kind intentions, unleſs you will condeſcend to ſpeak a little to Patty.

How ſpeak!

Why my lord, I thought we had pretty well ordered all things concerning this marriage, but all on a ſudden, the girl has taken it into her head, not to have the farmer, and declares ſhe will never marry at all—but I know my lord, ſhe'll pay great reſpect to any thing you ſay; and if you'll but lay your com⯑mands on her to marry him, I am ſure ſhe'll do it.

Who, I lay my commands on her?

Yes, pray my lord do; I'll ſend her into you.

Maſter Fairfield!

What can be the meaning of this? refuſe to marry the farmer! How, why? My heart is thrown in an agitation, while every ſtep I take ſerves but to lead me into new perplexities.

She's coming, my lord, I ſaid you were here; and I humbly beg you will tell her, you inſiſt upon the match going forward; tell her you inſiſt upon it my lord, and ſpeak a little angrily to her.

SCENE XIV.

Yet another conflict! well, 'tis the laſt, and I muſt go through it.

I came hither, Patty, in conſequence of our converſation this morning, to render your change of ſtate as agreeable and happy as I could; but your father tells me, you have fallen out with the farmer; has any thing happened ſince I ſaw you laſt, to alter your good opinion of him?

No my lord, I am in the ſame opinion with regard to the farmer now, that I always was.

I thought, Patty, you loved him, you told me?

My lord!

Well, no matter—It ſeems I have been miſ⯑taken in that particular—Poſſibly your affections are engaged elſewhere; let me but know the man that can make you happy, and I ſwear—

Indeed, my lord, you take too much trouble upon my account.

Perhaps Patty, you love ſomebody ſo much beneath you, you are aſhamed to own it; but your eſteem confers a value whereſoever it is placed—I was too harſh with you this morning; our inclinations are not in our own power; they maſter the wiſeſt of us.

Pray, pray my lord, talk not to me in this ſtile; conſider me as one deſtined by birth and fortune to the meaneſt condition and offices; who has unhap⯑pily been too apt to imbibe ſentiments contrary to them; let me conquer a heart where pride and vanity have uſurped an improper rule, and learn to know my⯑ſelf, of whom I have been too long ignorant.

Perhaps, Patty, you love ſome one ſo much above you, you are afraid to own it.—If ſo, be his rank what it will, he is to be envied; for the love of a woman of virtue, beauty, and ſentiment, does [49] honour to a monarch — What means that downcaſt look, thoſe tears, thoſe bluſhes? Dare you not confide in me—Do you think Patty, you have a friend in the world would ſympathize with you more ſincerely than I.

What ſhall I anſwer? No my lord, you have ever treated me with a kindneſs, a generoſity of which none but minds like your's are capable; you have been my inſtructor, my adviſer; my protector: but, my lord, you have been too good; when our ſuperiors for⯑get the diſtance between us, we are ſometimes led to forget it too; had you been leſs condeſcending, per⯑haps I had been happier.

And have I, Patty, have I made you un⯑happy; I, who would ſacrifice my own felicity to ſecure yours?

I beg my lord, you will ſuffer me to be gone; only believe me ſenſible of all your favours, tho' un⯑worthy of the ſmalleſt.

How unworthy! you merit every thing, my reſpect, my eſteem, my friendſhip, and my love! yes I repeat, I avow it; your beauty, your modeſty, your underſtanding, has made a conqueſt of my heart; but what a world do we live in? that while I own this, while I own a paſſion for you, founded on the juſteſt, the nobleſt baſis; I muſt at the ſame time con⯑feſs, the fear of that world, its taunts, its reproaches—

Ah Sir, think better of the creature you have raiſed, than to ſuppoſe I ever entertained a hope tending to your diſhonour: would that be a return for the favours I have received? would that be a grateful reverence for the memory of her—pity and pardon the diſturbance of a mind that fears to enquire too minutely into its own ſenſations—I am unfor⯑tunate my lord, but not criminal.

Patty, we are both unfortunate; for my own part, I know not what to ſay to you, or what to propoſe to myſelf.

Then my lord, 'tis mine to act as I ought: yet while I am honoured with a place in your eſteem, [50] imagine me not inſenſible of ſo high a diſtinction, or capable of lightly turning my thoughts towards ano⯑ther.

How cruel is my ſituation! I am here Patty, to command you to marry the man who has given us ſo much uneaſineſs.

My lord, I am convinced it is for your credit and my ſafety, it ſhould be ſo; I hope I have not ſo ill profited by the leſſons of your noble mother, but I ſhall be able to do my duty wherever I am call'd to it; this will be my firſt ſupport, time and reflection will compleat the work.

SCENE XV.

No juſtice of peace, no bailiffs, no head⯑borough! Why gypſies are as great a nuſance in this country, as rats were in the iſland where Wittington went to.

What's the matter, Sir Harry?

The matter my lord, while I was examin⯑ing the conſtruction of the mill without, for I have ſome ſmall notion of mechanics, Miſs Sycamore had like to have been run away with by a gypſey man.

Dear papa, how can you talk ſo? did not I tell you it was at my own deſire, the poor fellow went to ſhew me the canal.

Hold your tongue, Miſs Sycamore, I un⯑derſtand what I am ſaying. I don't know any buſi⯑neſs you had to let him come near you at all: we have ſtayed ſo long too, your Mama gave us but half an hour, and ſhe'll be frightened out of her wits— ſhe'll think ſome accident has happened to me.

I'll wait upon you when you pleaſe.

O but my lord, here's a poor fellow tells us a diſmal ſtory—it ſeems his miſtreſs has conceived ſome diſguſt againſt him; pray has her father ſpoke to you to interpoſe your authority in his behalf?

If his lordſhip's honour would be ſo kind, I would acknowledge the favour as far as in me lay.

Hold your tongue, let me ſpeak; did not the miller tell you he had given you a thouſand pounds portion

a word or two in your lordſhip's ear.

Well, I do like this gypſey ſcheme prodigiouſly, if we can but put it into execution as happily as we have contrived it

ſo my dear Patty, you ſee I am come to return your viſit very ſoon; but this is only a call en paſſant—will you be at home after dinner?

Certainly Madam, whenever you condeſcend to honour me ſo far; but it is what I cannot expect.

O fye, why not—Well Patty, I will poſi⯑tively ſee you in the evening.

Then undoubtedly Madam, I ſhall take care not to be out of the way.

Your ſervant, Miſs Patty.

Farmer, your ſervant.

Here you goodman delver, I have done your buſineſs for you; my lord has ſpoke, and your fortune's made; a thouſand pounds at preſent, and better things to come; his lordſhip ſays he will be your friend.

I do hope then, Miſs Pat. will make all up.

Miſs Pat. make up, ſtand out of the way, I'll make it up.

SCENE I.

A Wretch, a vile inconſiderate wretch, com⯑ing of ſuch a race as mine, and having an example like me before her.

I beg madam you will not diſquiet yourſelf; you are told here, that a gentleman lately arrived from London, has been about the place to-day; that he has diſguis'd himſelf like a gipſey, came hither, and had ſome converſation with your daughter; you are even told, that there is a deſign formed for their going off to⯑ther; but poſſibly there may be ſome miſtake in all this.

Ay; but my lord the lad tells us the gen⯑tleman's name; we have ſeen the gipſies and we know ſhe has had a hankering—

Sir Harry my dear, why will you put in your word, when you hear others ſpeaking—I proteſt my lord I'm in ſuch confuſion, I know not what to ſay, I can hardly ſupport myſelf.

This gentleman it ſeems is at a little inn at the bottom of the hill.

I wiſh it was poſſible to have a file of muſ⯑queteers my lord; I could head them myſelf, being in the militia, and we would go and ſeize him directly.

Softly my dear ſir; let us proceed with a little leſs violence in this matter, I beſeech you. We [54] ſhould firſt ſee the young lady—Where is Miſs Sy⯑camore, madam?

Really my lord I don't know; I ſaw her go into the garden about a quarter of an hour ago, from our chamber window.

Into the garden! perhaps ſhe has got an inkling of our being informed of this affair; and is gone to throw herſelf into the pond. Deſpair, my lord, makes girls do terrible things. 'Twas but the Wed⯑neſday before we left London, that I ſaw, taken out of Roſamond's pond in Saint James's Park, as likely a young woman as ever you would deſire to ſet your eyes on; in a new calamancoe petticoat, and a pair of ſilver buckles in her ſhoes.

I hope there is no danger of any ſuch fatal accident happening at preſent: but will you oblige me, ſir Harry?

Surely my lord—

Will you commit the whole direction of this affair to my prudence?

My dear, you hear what his lordſhip ſays.

Indeed my lord I am ſo much aſham'd, I don't know what to anſwer; the fault of my daugh⯑ter—

Don't mention it, madam; the fault has been mine; who have been innocently the occaſion of a young lady's tranſgreſſing a point of duty and deco⯑rum, which, otherwiſe, ſhe would never have violated. But if you, and ſir Harry, will walk in and repoſe yourſelves, I hope to ſettle every thing to the general ſatisfaction—

Come in ſir Harry?

I am ſure my good friend, had I known that I was doing a violence to Miſs Sycamore's inclinations, in the happineſs I propoſed to myſelf—

My lord 'tis all a caſe.—My grandfather by the mother's ſide, was a very ſenſible man—he was elected knight of the ſhire, in five ſucceſſive parliaments; and died high ſheriff of his county—a man of fine parts, fine talents, and the curioeſt docker of horſes in all [55] England, but that he did only now and then, for his amuſement) And he uſed to ſay, my lord, that the female ſex were good for nothing but to bring forth children, and breed diſturbance.

The ladies were very little oblig'd to your anceſtor, ſir Harry; but for my part, I have a more favourable opinion—

You are in the wrong, my lord; with ſub⯑miſſion, you are really in the wrong.

SCENE II.

Dear goodneſs, my lord, I doubts I have done ſome wrong here; I hope your honour will forgive me; to be ſartin if I had known—

You have done nothing but what's very right, my lad; don't make yourſelf uneaſy. How now, maſter Fairfield, what brings you here?

I am come my lord to thank you for your bounty, to me and my daughter, this morning; and, moſt humbly to intreat your lordſhip, to receive it at our hands again.

Ay—why what's the matter?

I don't know my lord; it ſeems your gene⯑roſity to my poor girl, has been noiſed about the neigh⯑bourhood; and ſome evil minded people have put it into the young man's head, that was to marry her, that you would never have made her a preſent ſo much above her deſerts, and expectations, if it had not been upon ſome naughty account: now my lord, I am a poor man, 'tis true, and a mean one; but I and my father, and my father's father, have liv'd tenants upon your lord⯑ſhip's eſtate, where we have always been known for honeſt men; and it ſhall never be ſaid, that Fairfield, the miller, became rich in his old days, by the wages of his child's ſhame.

What then, maſter Fairfield, do you be⯑lieve—

No my lord, no, Heaven forbid; but when I conſider the ſum, it is too much for us; it is indeed my lord, and enough to make bad folks talk: beſides, my poor girl is greatly alter'd; ſhe us'd to be the life of every place ſhe came into; but ſince her being at home, I have ſeen nothing from her, but ſadneſs and watry eyes.

The farmer then refuſes to marry Patty, notwithſtanding their late reconciliation?

Yes my lord, he does indeed; and has made a wicked noiſe, and uſed us in a very baſe manner: I did not think farmer Giles would have been ſo ready to believe ſuch a thing of us.

Well maſter Fairfield, I will not preſs on you a donation, the rejection of which does you ſo much credit; you may take my word, however, that your fears upon this occaſion are entirely groundleſs; but this is not enough, as I have been the means of loſing your daughter one huſband, it is but juſt I ſhould get her another; and, ſince the farmer is ſo ſcrupulous, there is a young man in the houſe here, whom I have ſome influence over, and I dare ſay, he will be leſs ſqueamiſh.

To be ſure my lord, you have in all honeſt ways, a right to diſpoſe of me and mine, as you think proper.

Go then, immediately, and bring Patty hither; I ſhall not be eaſy till I have given you entire ſatisfaction. But, ſtay and take a letter, which I am ſtepping into my ſtudy to write; I'll order a chaiſe to be got ready, that you may go back and forward with greater expedition.

SCENE III.

Ralph, Ralph!

What do you want with me, eh?

Lord, I never knowed ſuch a man as you are, ſince I com'd into the world; a body can't ſpeak to you, but you falls ſtraightways into a paſſion; I fol⯑low'd you up from the houſe, only you run ſo, there was no ſuch a thing as overtaking you, and I have been waiting there at the back door ever ſo long.

Well, and now you may go and wait at the fore door, if you like it; but I forewarn you and your gang, not to keep lurking about our mill any longer, for if you do, I'll ſend the conſtable after you, and have you every mother's ſkin clapt in the county gaol; you are ſuch a pack of thieves, one can't hang ſo much as a rag to dry for you; it was but the other day that a couple of them came into our kitchen to beg a handful of dirty flour to make them cakes, and before the wench could turn about, they had whipped off three braſs candleſticks and a potlid.

Well, ſure it was not I.

Then you know that old raſcal, that you call father; the laſt time I catched him laying ſnares for the hares, I told him I'd inform the game-keeper, and I'll expoſe all—

Ah dear Ralph, don't be angry with me.

Yes I will be angry with you—what do you come nigh me for?—you ſhan't touch me — there's the ſkirt of my coat, and if you do but lay a finger on it, my lord's bailiff is here in the court, and I'll call him and give you to him.

If you'll forgive me, I go down on my knees.

I tell you I won't—no, no, follow your gen⯑tleman, or go live upon your old ſare, crows and pole cats, and ſheep that die of the rot; pick the dead [59] fowl off of dunghills, and ſquench your thirſt at the next ditch, 'tis the fitteſt liquor to waſh down ſuch dainties —ſkulking about from barn to barn; and lying upon wet ſtraw, on commons, and in green-lanes—go and be whipt from pariſh to pariſh as you uſed to be.

How can you talk ſo unkind?

And ſee whether you will get what will keep you as I did; by telling of fortunes, and coming with pillows under your apron, among the young farmers wives, to make believe you are a breeding, "with the Lord Almighty bleſs you ſweet miſtreſs, you can⯑not tell how ſoon it may be your own caſe." You know I am acquainted with all your tricks—and how you turn up the whites of your eyes, pretending you were ſtruck blind by thunder and lightning.

Pray don't be angry Ralph.

Yes but I will tho'; ſpread your cobwebs to catch flies, I am an old waſp, and don't value them a button.

SCENE IV.

I wiſh I had a draught of water—I don't know what's come over me, I have no more ſtrength than a babe, a ſtraw would fling me down—he has a heart as hard as any pariſh officer; I don't doubt now, but he would ſtand by and ſee me whipt himſelf; and we ſhall all be whipt, and all through my means — The devil run away with the gentleman, and his twenty guineas too, for leading me aſtray; if I had known Ralph would have taken it ſo, I would have hanged myſelf before I would have ſaid a word—but I thought he had no more gaul than a pidgeon.

SCENE V.

Why, what the plague's the matter with you? What do you ſcold at me for? I am ſure I did not ſay an uncivil word as I do know of; I'll be judged by the young lady if I did.

'Tis very well farmer, all I deſire is, that you will leave the houſe; you ſee my father is not at home at preſent; when he is, if you have any thing to ſay, you know where to come.

Enough ſaid, I don't want to ſtay in the houſe not I; and I don't much care if I had never come into it.

For ſhame, farmer, down on your knees and beg Miſs Fairfield's pardon, for the outrage you have been guilty of.

Beg pardon Miſs, for what?—icod that's well enough; why I am my own maſter, ben't I? If I have no mind to marry, there's no harm in that I hope; 'tis only changing hands—This morning ſhe would not have me, and now I won't have ſhe.

Have you! Heav'ns and earth; do you think then 'tis the miſſing of you that gives me concern? no; I would prefer a ſtate of beggary a thouſand times, beyond any thing I could enjoy with you; and be aſſured, if ever I was ſeemingly conſenting to ſuch a ſacrifice, nothing ſhould have compelled me to it, but the cruelty of my ſituation.

O, as for that, I believes you, but you ſee the gudgeon would not bite; as I told you a bit agone you know, we farmers never love to reap what we don't ſow.

You brutiſh fellow how dare you talk—

So now ſhe's in her tantarums again, and all for no manner of yearthly thing.

But be aſſured, my lord will puniſh you ſe⯑verely for daring to make free with his name.

Who made free with it, did ever I mention my lord? 'tis a curſed lie.

Bleſs me! farmer?

Why it is Miſs—and I'll make her prove her words — then what does ſhe mean by being puniſhed? I am not afraid of nobody, nor beholding to nobody, that I know of; while I pays my rent, my money I believe, is as good as another's; egad if it goes there, I think there be thoſe deſerve to be puniſh⯑ed more nor I.

Was ever unfortunate creature purſued as I am, by diſtreſſes and vexations.

My dear Patty—See farmer, you have thrown her into tears—pray be comforted.

SCENE VI.

You are a pretty gentleman, are not you, to ſuffer a lady to be at a rendezvous before you?

Difficulties my dear, and dangers—None of the company had two ſuits of apparel, ſo I was obliged to purchaſe a rag of one, and a tatter from another; at the expence of ten times the ſum they would fetch at the paper mill.

Well, where are they?

Here in this bundle—and tho' I ſay it, a very decent habiliment, if you have art enough to ſtick the parts together: I've been watching till the coaſt was clear, to bring them to you.

Let me ſee—I'll ſlip into this cloſet and equip myſelf—all here is in ſuch confuſion there will no notice be taken.

Do ſo, I'll take care nobody ſhall interrupt you in the progreſs of your metamorphoſis

and if you are not tedious, we may walk off without being ſeen by any one.

Ha! ha! ha! what a concourſe of atoms are here; tho' as I live, they are a great deal better than I expected.

Well, pray make haſte, and don't imagine yourſelf at your toilette now, where mode preſcribes two hours, for what reaſon would ſcarce allow three minutes.

Have patience, the outward garment is on already, and I'll aſſure you a very good ſtuff, only a little the worſe for the mending.

Imagine it embroidery, and conſider it is your wedding ſuit.—come, how far are you got?

Stay, you don't conſider there's ſome contriv⯑ance neceſſary—Here goes the apron flounced and [64] furbelow'd, with a witneſs; alas! alas! it has no ſtrings; what ſhall I do? come, no matter, a couple of pins will ſerve—And now the cap—oh mercy! here's a hole in the crown of it large enough to thruſt my head through.

That you'll hide with your ſtraw hat, or if you ſhould not—What, not ready yet?

Only one minute more — Yes, now the work's accompliſh'd.

SCENE VII.

Plague, here's ſomebody coming.

As to the paſt, farmer, 'tis paſt; I bear no malice for any thing thou haſt ſaid; perchance thou might'ſt think thou wert in the right.

Why, maſter Fairfield, you do know I had a great regard for Miſs Patty; but when I come to con⯑ſider all in all, I finds as how, it is not adviſeable to change my condition yet a while.

Friend Giles, thou art in the right; marriage is a ſerious point, and can't be conſidered too warily— ha, who have we here! ſhall I never keep my houſe clear of theſe vermin?—look to the goods there, and give me a horſewhip—by the lord Harry, I'll make an example — come here lady Light-fingers, let me ſee what thou haſt ſtolen; for I am ſure thou never com'ſt in here with a deſign of going out empty handed.

Hold miller, hold!

O gracious goodneſs, ſure I know this face— Miſs—young madam Sycamore.—Mercy heart, here's a diſguiſe!

Diſcover'd!

Miller, let me ſpeak with you.

What ill fortune is this!

Ill fortune—Meſs! I think there be nothing but croſſes, and misfortunes of one kind or other.

Money to me ſir! not for the world; you want no friends but what you have already—Lack a day, lack a day—ſee how luckily I came in: by what I heard above at the caſtle, I believe you are the gen⯑tleman I was deſired to look for; and I'm charged to give you this, on the part of my lord Aimworth; look ſir, if the direction is not for you?

"To Mr. Mervin,"—it is.

And my young lady; they are ſeeking for her, I warrant, high and low.—Bleſs you dear miſs, go up to his lordſhip's, you'll find friends there enow, and every thing fixed as you would have it—There is a chaiſe waiting at the door to carry you—I and my daughter will take another way.

SCENE VIII.

Pry'thee read this letter, and tell me what you think of it?

Heavens, 'tis a letter from my lord Aimworth; we are betray'd.

By what means I know not.

I am ſo frighted and flurried, that I have ſcarce ſtrength enough to read it.

Well!

Well!

What do you think of it?

Nay, what do you think of it?

Egad, I can't very well tell—however, on the whole, I believe it would be wrong of us to proceed any further in our deſign of running away, even if the thing was practicable.

I am entirely of your opinion; I ſwear this lord Aimworth is a charming man. I fancy, 'tis lucky for you I had not been long enough acquainted with him, to find out all his good qualities.—But how the duce came he to hear? —

No matter; after this there can be nothing to apprehend—what ſay you, ſhall we go up to the caſtle?

By all means; and in this very trim; to ſhew what we were capable of doing, if my father and mo⯑ther had not come to reaſon—but, perhaps, the diffi⯑culties being remov'd, may leſſen your penchant: You men, are ſuch unaccountable mortals.—Do you love me well enough to marry me, without making a frolick of it?

Do I love you!

Ay, and to what degree?

Why do you aſk me?

SCENE IX.

So, there goes a couple! ecod, I believe Old Nick has got among the people in theſe parts. This is as queer a thing as ever I heard of.—Maſter Fairfield, and Miſs Patty, it ſeems, are gone to the caſtle too; where, by what I larns from Ralph in the mill, my lord has promiſed to get her a huſband among the ſervants: now ſet in caſe the wind ſets in that corner, I have been thinking with myſelf who the plague it can be; there are no unmarried men in the family, that I do know of, excepting little Bob, the poſtilion, and maſter Jo⯑nathan, the butler; and he's a matter of ſixty or ſeventy years old. I'll be ſhot if it bean't little Bob. —Icod, I'll take the way to the caſtle, as well as the reſt; for I'd fain ſee how the nail do drive. It is well I had wit enough to diſcern things, and a friend to adviſe with, or elſe ſhe would have fallen to my lot —but I have got a ſurfeit of going a courting, and burn me, if I won't live a batchelor; for, when all comes to all, I ſee nothing but ill blood and quarrels, among folk, when they be married.

SCENE X.

Thus, maſter Fairfield, I hope I have fully ſatisfied you, with regard to the falſity of the impu⯑tation thrown upon your daughter and me; if there yet remains a doubt, you are at liberty to ſpeak it.

My lord, I am very well content; pray do not give yourſelf the trouble of ſaying any more.

No my lord, you need not ſay any more to us, we are very well content.

Hold your tongue, ſirrah.

I am ſorry Patty, you have had this morti⯑fication.

I am ſorry, my lord, you have been troubled about it; but really it was againſt my conſent, my fa⯑ther would—

Well, come children, we will not take up his honour's time any longer; let us be going towards home.—Heav'n proſper your lordſhip; the pray'rs of me, and my family ſhall always attend you.

Miller, come back.—Patty, ſtay—

Has your lordſhip any thing further to com⯑mand us?

Why yes, maſter Fairfield, I have a word or two ſtill to ſay to you.—In ſhort, though you are ſatisfied in this affair, I am not; and you ſeem to forget the promiſe I made you, that, ſince I had been the means of loſing your daughter one huſband, I would find her another.

Your honour is to do as you pleaſe.

What ſay you Patty, will you accept of a huſband of my chuſing?

My lord, I have no determination; you are the beſt judge how I ought to act; whatever you command, I ſhall obey.

Then Patty, there is but one perſon I can offer you—and I wiſh, for your ſake, he was more deſerving—take me—

Sir!

From this moment our intereſts are one as our hearts; and no earthly power ſhall ever divide us.

O the gracious! Patty! my lord! did I hear right? you, ſir, you, marry a child of mine!

Yes, my honeſt old man, in me you behold the huſband deſign'd for your daughter; and I am happy, that by ſtanding in the place of fortune, who has alone been wanting to her, I ſhall be able to ſet her merit in a light, where its luſtre will be render'd conſpicuous.

But good noble ſir, pray conſider; don't go to put upon a ſilly old man; my daughter is unworthy —Patty child, why don't you ſpeak?

What can I ſay, father? what anſwer? to ſuch unlook'd for, ſuch unmerited, ſuch unbounded gene⯑roſity!

Down on your knees, and fall a crying.

Yet ſir, as my father ſays, conſider—your noble friends, your relations—it muſt not, cannot be—

It muſt, and ſhall. Friends! relations! from henceforth I have none that will not acknowledge you; and I am ſure, when they become acquainted with your perfections, thoſe, whoſe ſuffrage I moſt eſteem, will rather admire the juſtice of my choice, than won⯑der at its ſingularity.

SCENE XI.

Well, we have followed your lordſhip's counſel, and made the beſt of a bad market—So my lord, pleaſe to know our ſon-in-law, that is to be.

You do me a great deal of honour, I wiſh you joy Sir with all my heart—And now Sir Harry, give me leave to introduce to you a new relation of mine —This Sir, is ſhortly to be my wife.

My lord!

Your lordſhip's wife!

Yes, Madam.

And why ſo my lord?

Why faith Ma'am, becauſe I can't live happy without her —And I think ſhe has too many amiable, too many eſtimable qualities to meet with a worſe fate.

Well, but you are a peer of the realm, you will have all the fleerers—

I know very well the ridicule that may be thrown on a lord's marrying a miller's daughter; and I own with bluſhes, it has for ſome time had too great weight with me; but we ſhould marry to pleaſe our⯑ſelves, not other people: and on mature conſideration, I can ſee no reproach juſtly merited, by raiſing a deſerv⯑ing woman to a ſtation ſhe is capable of adorning, let her birth be what it will.

Why 'tis very true my lord: I once knew a gentleman that married his cook maid; he was a relation of my own—you remember fat Margery, my lady! She was a very good ſort of a woman, in⯑deed ſhe was, and made the beſt ſuet dumplings that ever I taſted.

Will you never learn, Sir Harry, to guard your expreſſions—Well, but give me leave my lord to ſay a word to you—there are other ill conſequences attending ſuch an alliance.

One of them I ſuppoſe is, that I, a peer, ſhould be obliged to call this good old miller, father-in-law; but where's the ſhame in that? he is as good as any lord, in being a man; and if we dare ſuppoſe a lord that is not an honeſt man, he is, in my opinion, the more reſpectable character. Come maſter Fairfield, give me your hand, from henceforth you have done with working; we will pull down your mill, and build you a houſe in the place of it; and the money I in⯑tended for the portion of your daughter, ſhall now be laid out in purchaſing a commiſſion for your ſon.

What, my lord, will you make me a cap⯑tain?

Ay, a colonel, if you deſerve it.

Then I'll keep Fan.

SCENE XII.

Odds bobs, where am I running—I beg par⯑don for my audacity.

Hip farmer, come back man, come back— Sure my lord's going to marry ſiſter himſelf; fey⯑ther's to have a fine houſe, and I'm to be a captain.

Ho, maſter Giles, pray walk in; here is a lady who, I dare ſwear, will be glad to ſee you, and give orders that you ſhall always be made welcome.

Yes, farmer, you'll always be welcome in the kitchen.

What have you nothing to ſay to your old acquaintance—Come, pray let the farmer ſalute you—nay a kiſs, I inſiſt upon it.

Ha, ha, ha!

Fye, maſter Giles, don't look ſo ſheepiſh; you and I were rivals, but not leſs friends at preſent You have acted in this affair like an honeſt Engliſh⯑man, who ſcorn'd even the ſhadow of diſhonour, and thou ſhalt ſit rent free for a twelvemonth.

Come, ſhan't we all ſalute—With your leave my lord, I'll —

Sir Harry!