SCENE I.

A view of a plain intermixed with a number of fruit-trees, and the cottages of peaſants, the men and women employed in different occupations before their doors and in the field.

[2]To you, Colin, I am bethrothed, and to-morrow ſhall be our wedding-day; let that thought make you chearful. Away, I prithee love, your work calls you; remember that the fruit of your toils will ſoon be be⯑ſtowed upon me.

Do you bid me leave you then already? I have no power I am ſo happy. Will you, my deareſt, grant me one boon before I go?

Name it.

Your hand, that I may kiſs it.

There—take it.

Now I'am alive agen. I'll to my labour ſtrait, and whilſt I pluck the fruit, you ſhall delight me with a ſong.

SCENE II.

Go your ways for a pair of fond turtles. — Ah Damon, it was juſt ſo for all the world when I went a courting to our Cicely. There was ſuch pip⯑ing, and ſinging, and dancing — Ah! thoſe were merry days—well, well—but they are all done and paſt

True, neighbour, true, we have had our day: let the young ones begin now—the very thoughts [4] of their approaching happineſs make my old nerves ſpring agen, and I could almoſt caper for joy.

Body o'me, I grow young agen at the ſight of them.

What ſignify the great folk, with their lace, and their furbelows? — all is not gold that gliſtens, neighbour, many a ſound looking ſheep, is rotten at heart—Our pleaſures may be as good though not ſo coſtly as theirs.

'Twas but laſt ſummer, Damon, that our Squire got himſelf a wife, a parlous fine lady, and a rich one too. Lord, it did one good to look upon her, ſhe had ſuch a delicate white and red, for all the world like our Kate's doll; yet a body would believe that they came together only to live aſunder. — For Madam lies in one bed, Squire lies in another, and they are now like the two buckets of our town-well, when one comes up, t'other goes down, and if they happen to meet each other you would think they had never ſeen one another before. If this be the matri⯑mony of your town folks give me the country I ſay.

I'll warrant it will not be ſo with our young couple — bleſſings light upon them, they think of nothing but the feaſt and the dance, and adod we'll dance at the wedding too.

Dance! ah, ah, — don't you remember Damon, come Lammas 'twill be ſix and forty years agone, when I met Cicely at our feaſt.

Ay, it was that very day his worſhip was made juſtice of the peace and coram — then Cicely and I came together for the firſt time.—She was a tight wench then, her cheeks were as freſh as a roſe and as red as a Catherine pear—there was your dancing Damon, when ſhe and I were partners and —

Oh, neighbours, neighbours, all our grounds are over-run with horſes, hounds, and huntſmen,— they force into the vineyard.—Plague on all ſportſ⯑men, [7] they are born to ruin us.—Here Roger, Tummas, quick, make haſte, the gate ſtands open, ſhut it faſt, for if we don't take care they'll ravage all.

We muſt be patient, Colin, it's the prince's hunt.

A murrain take all hunts I ſay.—Here are they hunting about every day and all day, and their fine ſports forſooth muſt be our ruin. Our labour is all in vain.—they are coming this way I think, get in lads and laſſes, theſe roaring fellows are keen ſportſ⯑men when they have our wives and daughters in chace.

SCENE III.

A country girl! Sir, and is this the object of your adoration?

It is, and what is ſtill more extraordinary, her wit charms me as much as her beauty.

A miracle!

She is indeed a wonder, and I have been told that an old lady whoſe circumſtances obliged her to dwell in retirement, has been the protectreſs of this ſweet creature, and formed and cultivated her mind by an excellent education, leaving her poſſeſſed of the moſt amiable ſimplicity, a native frankneſs of temper, and an agreeable vivacity.

Does not your highneſs fear ſome impu⯑tation?

What ſignifies the blood ſhe ſprings from? A handſome woman is naturally born above her con⯑dition.

But the Princeſs Emily Sir! her rank and virtue, —

I confeſs them. Yet my heart, ſpite of myſelf, is on the point of proving faithleſs to her. I doat on this little rural innocent, and what is ſtill more extraordinary, with but little hopes of ſucceſs.

Is ſhe ſo coy then?

My anſwer here muſt be ſtill more roman⯑tick. I adore her, and yet, which perhaps is the beſt proof, I have never dared to utter my paſſion.

But how can you hope to gain her heart without ſolicitation?

For that purpoſe I have at length retained a female ſolicitor, Liſetta, whom I have ſent to exert all her artifice to win her to the court. I have no re⯑liance but upon her ſkill, but here they come —let us retire, and watch their converſation.

SCENE VI.

You muſt have a very merry heart, pretty nymph, to be ſo chearful in ſuch a low and obſcure condi⯑tion.

The obſcurity of my condition is the means of my happineſs: what have I to diſtrub my tranquillity?

Tranquillity! Oh melancholy! tranquillity is the pleaſure of a drone, dull and ſtupid. I love active pleaſures, to go on in a perfect round of de⯑lights, that whirl one about 'till one's almoſt giddy with happineſs, and keep one as buſy as a bee. Indeed [10] my dear creature, you are moſt horribly miſtaken. Your purling ſtreams, ſecret groves, and dying ſwains, are mighty pretty things to read of, but there is nothing ſo abſurd in nature as preferring the gloom of a country life amongſt a parcel of cows, ſheep, and men like brutes, to the brilliancy of a court. — And let me tell you, young maiden, that face was never made to be buried in a cottage. Come, come, I know ſomething that would make your little heart go pit-a-pat for an exchange. You ſhall have nothing to do but to wiſh and be ſatisfied. You ſhall have coaches and horſes, and jewels and ſervants.

Alas a day! who will give me all theſe fine things?

Don't you remember the other day, you ſhewed a gentleman his way out of theſe woods, who comes a hunting here ſometimes?

Oh that's the civil gentleman who calls himſelf the prince's friend. He has promiſed to ſpeak a word for us at court, and to be ſure he'll do us real ſervices, for he profeſſes great regard.

Regard — a fiddleſtick for regard, — ſuch beauty as your's will command love wherever it ap⯑pears. What ſignifies moping in theſe deſerts—only conſider how you will ſhine in a court.

Ah madam, I ſee you laugh at me. I am not deſigned for ſuch fine folks, I ſhould be aſhamed to ſhew my face at court.

Not you indeed. There is no ſuch thing as ſhame at court. — You ſhall flaunt it about in a gilt equipage, with tail handſome footmen behind it, [11] dreſſed in ſilks and ſattins, and gold and ſilver, and fringes, and laces and flounces, with jewels on your fingers and diamonds in your ears, and a watch by your ſide. And then your toilette! oh your toilette!

Toilette! What's that?

What a pretty Nizi 'tis! The ladies trea⯑ſury, from whence in all ages they draw their moſt laſting charms. The throne of art, the armory of cupid, and the altar of the graces; it is there that they triumph over nature, and repair the ruins of age by the delicate touches of the pencil.

This is paſt my comprehenſion,—I don't underſtand it.—Shall I grow handſomer at court?

Aye to be ſure.

I ſhould like it vaſtly, I wiſh I was there. Had I more charms, Colin perhaps might love me better.

Try.

I have a good mind and yet I am afraid, — but ſee yonder comes the gentleman who belongs to the prince.

So, ſo, her vanity begins to work apace. The fiſh nibbles, I'll leave him to hook it.

SCENE V.

Good-morrow fair maiden, what ſtill at your ruſtic employments. Fie, fie, to bury ſuch charms in the country is treaſon againſt beauty.

Indeed Sir, your language is paſt my ſimple underſtanding. — A fine gentlewoman was here but now, and ſhe talked all riddles to me; pray, Sir, can you explain them? She told me that there was a re⯑ceipt at court to make beauty everlaſting, and that ſomebody adores me; for my part I can't find what ſhe means.

Oh Phoebe!

Bleſs me! Sir, you ſigh, is there any thing gives you pain? What is the matter with you?

I love you, Phoebe.

Is that all?—And ſo you love me.

Moſt ſincerely.

I'm glad on't.

Indeed!

Aye. indeed, Sir. Surely Sir you will not deny the requeſt of her you love.

No Phoebe, no, name it and be ſatisfied.

You know Sir, they are continually hunting here from morn to night, if you have any intereſt, good [14] Sir, ſpeak to the prince, that we may be no more troubled with him, for my part I can't find out what has poſſeſſed them to run over our fields in ſuch a man⯑ner; for the pleaſure of killing a little leveret they'll deſtroy you forty acres of corn—only ſee.

Be ſatisfied,—your requeſt is already granted.

I thank you Sir with all my heart, and above all I beg you will never come here, for I don't like to ſee you.

What! how's that Phoebe, I hoped—

Hoped!—pray what Sir.

You do not love me then —

I! not I indeed—I love Colin.

Vexation! who? Colin! who!

A young man in our pariſh who courts me and has promiſed me marriage.

Conſider Phoebe, do not throw away your affections, place them more properly. Let me conjure you.

SCENE VI.

Softly, ſoftly maiſter, you may not touch my Phoebe.

So here's my worthy rival.

I pray Sir, do not hurt him.

Be not alarmed, pretty maiden, I come not here to cauſe unhappineſs. He reſts ſecure for me, if Colin is indeed ſo dear to you, be aſſured I am his friend—

Plague on the friendſhip of the fox, who comes in ſuch a civil leering way to ſteal away the chickens.—If you muſt needs pamper yourſelf with a delicate morſel, e'en look for it elſewhere.

I was in hopes my tenderneſs might have won upon you; the happy Colin, I perceive, intereſts you more; may he be the means of compleating your happineſs, [17] though I am rewarded with affliction. But your will ſhall be my law, adieu, remember, think upon my love, and be aſſured of every ſervice in my power.

Thank heaven the coaſt is clear, and all is calm agen.

Indeed, Colin, you treated the gentleman much too roughly.—He is a lord, and he has promiſed to carry me to court.

To court! and will you go?

To be ſure, why not? they ſay it is a charming place, — we'll go together, love!

Hear me, Phoebe, nothing that's handſome is ſafe at court, his deſign is to betray you, which you don't ſeem to ſuſpect,—he talked to you about love, why did you liſten to him, Phoebe?

What if he did talk about love, his love is hopeleſs, and your courtiers are too well bred to offend againſt good manners.

Yes, yes, they are ſuch ſort of folks to be ſure—you have found them ſo.

Why do you ſuſpect me? I only give ear to ſuch diſcourſe to laugh at it, to laugh with you my dear Colin, remain ſecure in that aſſurance.

O no doubt that is charming and fine, but don't I ſee him at this very moment lurking about, and ſtaring upon you as if he'd look you through and through? as he is not yet gone about his buſineſs, go home to your own cottage, to-morrow you are to be my wiſe, go along without any more to do. I tell you it muſt be ſo.—

I can't—

You muſt—

I won't—

You ſhall—

Mighty well, Colin, I don't deſerve this at your hands, let me alone!

SCENE VII.

Inſolent villian! releaſe her this inſtant!

Let us alone Sir, I beſeech you, 'tis our own affair, and you have nothing to do with us.

Stand off, fellow, 'tis the prince.

The prince; you! the prince.

Yes, I endeavoured to conceal my rank, that your love might be diſintereſted. But to preſerve you, I will now uſe my own authority. —come [...]—

The prince!—the devil

Come, Phoebe, and adorn my court, there your beauty ſhall ſhine with all it's advantages, and partake with the ſovereign of the homage of all hearts.

Yes Sir, I will go with you.

Henceforth you ſhall learn to prize me better.

Was ever ſuch perfidy?

A plague take the whole ſex, ſay I, they are as light as chaff, and fickle as the wind.

SCENE I. A Toilette. PHOEBE dreſſing.

A LITTLE more rouge, if your ladyſhip pleaſes.

Ladyſhip! don't laugh at me.

One ſlight touch more.

More daubing! have done, I'll no more on't.

You have made a ſtrange figure of me indeed at laſt. Theſe things are wondrous awkward to me, pray let's have done.

Your diamonds madam.

O how they ſparkle.—but there are ſome flowers—Poh, they have no ſmell!—every thing is unnatural here. Beauty is but a painted ſign. All is impoſture even to the very flowers.

Theſe flowers ma'am, are made to pleaſe the ſight, not the ſmell, and in this inſtance they ex⯑cel thoſe of nature.

A fan for your ladyſhip.

Dear me! what uſe can I make of this?

This is a wonderful inſtrument. It's exer⯑ciſe is various and elegant. You ſhall hear it ma'am.

Ah ma'am, you'll ſoon underſtand the power of this art. I am raviſh'd with it already. What an amiable figure!

What a genteel air!

How immenſely elegant!—horrid creature?

What did you ſay?

Quite in nature,—you'll be the object of general adoration.

All the world will feel the force of your charms.

Charms! are theſe your charms? I hardly know myſelf, and yet after all, a peacock, a jay, or a butterfly is dreſt ten times finer; here are gold and ſilver, and jewels, and ribbands of all the colours in the rain-bow. —A great hoop that hides my real figure, waſhes that take away my natural complexion, ſhoes that will cripple me, and ſtays that make me crooked. I wiſh I was in my own cloaths again.

Your ladyſhip will excuſe me, but upon my word, your notions are quite antiquated, and have not the leaſt reliſh of the Bon Ton.

Bon Ton! what's that!

Every thing in the world, ma'am, in the polite world at leaſt. It is impoſſible to look, or walk, or talk without it ma'am.

What will you perſuade me out of my ſenſes! d'ye think to make me believe that I have not [26] the uſe of my eyes, my tongue, or my feet? Don't I ſpeak plainly? Don't you underſtand me? Don't you call this ſpeaking?

Not quite according to the bon ton, madam; there is no occaſion for your ſpeaking plainly, it is the worſt thing you can do, nor for my underſtanding you, nay indeed, that's ſtill worſe than t'other, you ſhould never ſpeak to be underſtood. As to your manner, d-r-a-w-l out your words in a faint weak voice as if you did not know how to get them off your tongue. Your ladyſhip, entre nous, ſpeaks too much in the country tone. You ſeem all health and ſpirits. Put a little ſickly delicacy into your accents, languiſh with your eyes; and totter in your gait, and then you'll be quite in the bon ton ma'am.

How ſtrange and ridiculous! ſurely this place is the region of abſurdities.

Why there again! in your ſinging now! Your ladyſhip has a fine pipe, but not a note accord⯑ing to the bon ton. No Italian expreſſion, which is the life and ſoul of all muſic, the very eſſence of har⯑mony; your ſingers of taſte will run up and down the ladder of ſounds from the cellar up to the garret, now rumbling along in the grand Spirituoſo till they make [27] your ears crack again, and then in the Piano they ex⯑pire like a ſwan to their own melody. In our fa⯑vourite compoſitions we are not contented with making the ſound an echo to the ſenſe, but by a happy jumb⯑ling of both together create the moſt exquiſite confu⯑ſion of harmony in the univerſe. Pleaſe your lady⯑ſhip, I'll give you a ſpecimen; and then, if you pleaſe, I'll attend you to court.

SCENE II. Another apartment in the Palace.

Yes Fabian, I do obſerve, nay pity her un⯑eaſineſs. The ſenſibility of the princeſs alarms me; I know her virtues, and am convinced of her affection for me. Though from her delicacy ſhe has not hitherto upbraided me, I perceive ſhe entertains ſtrong ſuſpicions, which you know are but too well grounded.

Yet thoſe my lord, are eaſily removed.

And how?

Your highneſs' orders have already done it, for what you promiſed Phoebe, will be a proof, which Emily cannot ſuſpect, that this amour has nothing real in it. When this ſame Colin whom the young madam doats on comes to court, his love will be a blind for your's.

True I have ſent for him, but what then? — pray explain.

The awkward ſimplicity of country lovers muſt make an agreeable contraſt with the elegance of court manners, an amuſement only fit for laughter. As ſuch only you deſigned it, for that purpoſe you brought them hither, for entertainment and obſerva⯑tion. The princeſs cannot ſuſpect your deſigns upon Phoebe, when her own Colin is permitted to be with her, and you will eaſily find means to compaſs your intentions when all ſuſpicions are quieted.

But ſee the princeſs comes—I would avoid her —

SCENE III.

He ſhuns me Clara, alas 'tis now beyond a doubt.

Do not torment yourſelf, and create imagi⯑nary affliction.

With the generality of women I confeſs the heart is not ſo much affected as their vanity is hurt by the fickleneſs of their lovers. Self love is too often the link which unites their ſouls, but the only intereſt which ſways my boſom is the pureſt and tendereſt affection.

Believe me, madam, the prince is no ſtranger to your tenderneſs—he will return it.

You would comfort me I ſee—perhaps I am alarmed from too ſlight a cauſe. However, watch their ſteps if you regard your miſtreſs.

But who is this the prince brings with him? —Oh 'tis the village nymph he ſo much doats on. I muſt obſerve them.

SCENE IV.

Well, what think you of the court, does it delight you, Phoebe?

It is the ſeat of wonders. Every thing changes character here, the men are quite different. I met one who is the lord of the manor in our neigbour⯑hood, a very proud gentleman amongſt us, he carries his head ſo high and looks ſo fierce, and threatens folks with his cane in the country if they do but look [31] upon him, here he was bowing and ſcraping and cringing. Why are they ſo complaiſant here, theſe great folks who terrify and domineer over us in the country? Does the court make them ſo much better? No, I believe if they do any good here 'tis only to get a right to do ſomething bad elſewhere.

I hear you with pleaſure. Did not the brilliancy and the politeneſs of court ſurprize —

Oh they were extravagantly polite indeed. They paid their compliments with wonderful civility, and ran over my perſon and features in a loud whiſper with the moſt minute obſervation, — upon my word ſhe's a mighty pretty tight thing, quite an angel for the country, what a poor little innocent it is, what an air ſhe has, what a walk, what a voice!—

Oh, that is mere pleaſantry— they'll be more careful by and by, and ſhew you infinitely more reſpect. They will be eager to invent new diverſions for you, they will read your wiſhes in your eyes, and I my dear will ſerve them as a model.

SCENE V.

So madam, you have made a noble conqueſt. Suffer me, I beſeech you, to pay my homage where the prince pays his.

Nay, but Emily, you miſunderſtand.

Your ſuperior charms.

Pray madam do not mock me.

Don't diſturb yourſelf my lord my preſence interrupts I ſee, I will retire.

Stay, ſtay, we have no ſecrets to talk of The prince and I—

I underſtand you madam. It were wonder⯑ful indeed if charms like your's had not moſt terrible effects.

So then, the prince is her lover. Yes, yes, I plainly perceive it. Upon my word, this place abounds with very odd cuſtoms.

Can you divide your heart to two at a time.

The prince loves me too, madam, he has ſworn it.

Meer pleaſantry; that's all.

Nay, but I aſſure you.

You need not be under any ap⯑prehenſions on my account. For my part I love Colin.

Yes, yes, Colin is her love, and Colin ſhall come, I told you ſo—

Don't give any credit.

I believe nothing.

'Twas but a whim that cauſed all this, for I imagined the ruſtic ſimplicity of theſe peaſants might make an agreeable contraſt with the refined manners of our courtiers.

A very ridiculous project truly! Oh we ſhall be charmingly amuſed. Come let us hear ſome of her prattle.—Well my dear, and how do you like the court?

May I ſpeak, my lord?

Oh, what you pleaſe.

Then if I muſt fairly confeſs the truth, I am heartily tired of this horrid place, where every object I perceive ſeems a contradiction to common ſenſe. Their whole deſign is to reverſe nature; where people are for ever buſy in doing nothing, where they eat without appetite, and lie down without reſt, where [34] their mirth is all grimace, and their pleaſure nothing but perpetual noiſe.

Her obſervation, madam, to me ſeems per⯑fectly juſt; groves and retirement are your only places for innocence and ſimplicity.

And pray when is ſhe to return to her village again? is ſhe to go to-morrow?

No Sir, to night, to night, I beſeech you, the ſooner the better.

Come, come then, let us leave her to pre⯑pare for her journey, and indulge her meditation on her beloved Colin. Your ſervant, my dear.

Adieu, Phoebe, don't be uneaſy, your Colin will ſoon be here.

Your ſervant my dear; a mighty pretty ſub⯑ject to laugh at truly. E'en keep your prince to [35] yourſelf, I want none of him. I am ſure, I did not come here to look for him.

I have nothing to reproach myſelf with, only let them ſuffer me to go and I ſhall be happy. Is it my fault? what have I to do with it? If Colin was to treat me ſo, inſtead of making myſelf ſo pleaſant with other folks, I ſhould die for grief.—But what is this I hear,— ah 'tis Colin, how engaging he'll find me, let me ſee if he will re⯑collect me in this dreſs.

Here have they dragged me out of the country to make a fool and laughing ſtock of me. A parcel of ſervants I think they called them, though I took [36] them for lords, they were all ſo belac'd and beruffled, have put me into this dreſs forſooth in ſpite of my teeth; and what have I to do with theſe taudry trap⯑pings. I want nothing in this world but mine own ſweet-heart Phoebe. They came truly to fetch me hither, and yet I can't find her; a plague upon 'em, every thing diſtracts me; I know not whether I ſtand on my head or my legs.

I'll e'en go and accoſt him—Sir! Sir.

Lud lud, what can this fine lady want with me?

This is the luckieſt accident in the world; he can never find me out through this diſguiſe.

How ſhe ſurveys me, I believe ſhe'll look me through and through.

I'll e'en try his conſtancy, — and pray Sir what occaſion can have brought you to court?

Me? I only come to look for our Phoebe.

Who Sir, Phoebe?

Yes, a tight laſs of our pariſh, who has pro⯑mis'd to be my wife, but ſhe has left me in the lurch.

You amaze me, that's ſcarce poſſible.

Aye forſooth but it's true.

But after all, Sir, why ſhould that give you any manner of uneaſineſs, a perſon of your figure I am ſure has it always in his power to make a better choice; you was never made to be treated with diſdain. I tell you ſo, Sir, as a friend.

Friend! a friend to me, madam. Lord! I never ſaw you before in my life.

Upon my word, Sir, I wiſh you well.

What? without knowing me?

Oh Sir, people of your ſort are eaſily known; you have a certain air in your countenance, an appearance in your dreſs.—

Oh madam, upon my word—

Which ſufficiently explain themſelves to my eyes.

O, as to that, your ladyſhip—

And then what is ſtill more diſtinguiſhing, your exceſſive politeneſs.

Politeneſs! I polite! indeed, madam, I don't pretend to know any thing of that matter. To be ſure I was always counted a civil body, and I know how to keep my diſtance and doff my hat, for I know that's good manners for certain when one talks to a great lady.

But you Sir are a gentleman.

A gentleman! I a gentleman! O lud, O lud.

I ſee it plainly, but you are infinitely too modeſt, you are indeed.—

Yes, yes, forſooth, I am a country gentle⯑man.

And that Sir, is all in all, that is a ſuffi⯑cient recommendation, and demands a peculiar pro⯑tection.

Odſbud, but I believe this lady has taken a fancy to me. They had good reaſon indeed, who told me one need but ſhew one's face at court to make one's fortune.

Bleſs me, what a charming figure; what eaſe, what elegance, Oh Sir, if you come hither to make your fortune you cannot fail of ſucceſs. Come, come, you ſhall be my ſervant. — O heavens what ails me! I am ſo dizzy I can hardly ſtand; lord how my heart flutters!

O madam, madam, ſhall I aſſiſt you.

No Sir, I thank you, by no means. I be⯑gin to recover, I feel myſelf grow better apace. Oh the ſweet, ſweet gentleman!

Indeed, madam, you frighten me, what would you have me do, pray ſpeak, madam.

You muſt—O Sir ſpare my bluſhes, lord how I tremble!—You muſt love me a little—can you? will you? if you do your fortune is made.

This can be no trick. It grieves me to ſee her in ſuch a taking. I'll e'en pretend to fall in love with her. Adad, I muſt have more about me than I dreamt of to make ſuch quick impreſſions on ladies of ſuch high faſhion.

So ſo, he begins to waver. Let me ſee how far he will carry it—well Sir, and will you agree to my propaſal?—give me your hand.

Oh madam, I—I dare not.—

Am I ſo frightful then?—come, come.

There then—I never was hard-hearted in all my days.

Oh traitor, have I caught you—this is no more than I expected; now look upon me. Is it thus you reward your Phoebe?

Phoebe! who! Phoebe!

Yes, it is Phoebe. I have found you now.

A plague upon it, who would have dreamt of this?

SCENE I. A Street.

AYE, aye, neighbour, your fine folk, for all their vapouring and bouncing, are no honeſter than they ſhould be. Who would have thought that our Phoebe would have been ſent for to court!

Sent for quoth a, no Damon, trepanned, drawn in by artifice.—Lord! what a parcel of nonſenſe of teeth, and lips, and ivory, and coral, and diamonds, did ſome of thoſe ſcented puppets pour out before the wenches in our village, till the maids grew ſo fan⯑taſtic that they did not know their heads from their tails.

Fair words cover foul dealings; give me plain ſpeech, and plain manners I ſay.

By my troth, Gaffer, I never could abide theſe leg-making gentry, who, bow and ſcrape, and palaver, with their hats ſtuck, like gizards, under their arms; and all the while they mean no more by their [41] civility than to cuckold the huſband, or debauch the daughter.

Thank Heav'n Hobbinol, we have none of thoſe vices, we are not ſo polite.

In good truth, neighbour, I envy none of thoſe ſort of folk.

But ſure they cannot mean miſchief to our young couple, ſince my boy Colin has been ſent for to court with all haſte, and to meet your Phoebe they ſaid. — Body O me, how their eyes will ſparkle when they meet each other! I'll warrant you now ſhe is as me⯑lancholly as a turtle that has loſt it's mate.

But for my part, Hobbinol, I cannot abide the thoughts of her being at court; why the place is for all the world like a fair, full of nonſenſe, noiſe and ſhew.

Aye neighbour, they keep fair here all the year round, and a plentiful market too, only the goods now and then are a little ſtale.

A plague take their town manners I ſay. Though I doſt my hat never ſo low, and beſpeak them never ſo civilly, they do but laugh in my face. Adod, I think we been as proper folks as the beſt of them in our time. They mun keep their flaunts and fleers to themſelves. It is a wonderment to me, neigh⯑bour, how we found our way hither.

Or how we eſcaped whole from ſo many dangers. I thought I ſhould have had my body ſqueezed to death by one of thoſe Iggetting fellows, with poles in his hand and a chair at his backſide, who thruſt me into the kennel almoſt under the wheel of a coach, and then ſurlily cry'd out, "by your leave." —Had I known that had been the way of aſking a civil queſtion, ecod! but I would have had my crutch ready to have given him an anſwer.

Well, well, theſe diſaſters are at an end now.

True Gaffer, true, we mun not bide here, we muſt try what we can to recover our children, and for my part I do think Colin will be perfect mad if he miſſes his dear Phoebe.

SCENE II. A dreſſing room in the Palace.

Faithleſs, faithleſs Colin! And pray, madam, does Colin know the prince deſigns this viſit to me?

O yes, he is informed of it—long ſince, poor ſoul.

The news of it has affected him no doubt—

Oh yes, madam, for a quarter of an hour, or ſo. Now he'd run up and down ſtamping and tearing, and raving and rending like a madman; then he'd ſtop ſhort of a ſudden, and folding his arms like a lover deſpairing beſide a clear ſtream, heave a deſperate ſigh, with the moſt rueful length of face mortal ever beheld. The Knight of the woeful coun⯑tenance was a cherub in compariſon.

But, like the reſt of his ſex, ſorrow took no faſt hold of him, 'twas but an April ſhower, and all was fair again.

Indeed Liſetta, were it not for his treachery I could almoſt find in my heart to pity him. But, dear Liſetta, I find myſelf ſtrangely fatigued; your pleaſures here pall the mind without entertaining it; my ſpirits are quite overpower'd.

I'm glad of it; now, now you begin to have the bon ton.—I was ſure your ladyſhip could not be ſo long amongſt the polite world without catching the manners of it. 'Tis nothing but nerves, weak nerves, and faſhionable vapours, things of courſe.

Vapours, and weak nerves, why can it be a faſhion to be ſick?

O lord! as I told you before, it's downright ungenteel to be otherwiſe. Your ruddy complexions, and active limbs, may do very well for a dairy maid [45] in the country; but here they are perfectly unneceſ⯑ſary, nay, abſolutely improper. Lard, ma'm, it is as unfaſhionable for a fine lady to be without a com⯑plaint, as 'tis to be out of debt.

The more I obſerve your manners here, the more they ſurprize me.—But were it not poſſible, madam, that Colin might be concealed ſome where here-abouts, that he may over-hear our intercourſe?

Undoubtedly, madam; but for what purpoſe does your ladyſhip intend —

The deareſt in the world, revenge.

That is indeed a moſt delicious morſel, and the injuſtice he has done you by his ſuſpicions, deſerves the worſt of mortifications from your hands.

Well, Liſetta, I leave that management to you. The prince will be delighted with it. Adieu, I ſhall attend his highneſs's pleaſure.

If Colin blames me now 'tis not without reaſon, but I will ſtill ſurprize him more. Alas! why did I come hither! Is it the air I breathe which poiſons all my peace? at home, my only thought was mirth, for there all was tranquillity, pleaſure and happineſs.

So, Clara, I ſtill find her here you ſee. The ſo much boaſted charms of the country will I fear loſe all their reliſh after the ſplendour of a court.

Love, madam, is undoubtedly very intoxicat⯑ing, and it is no wonder if the addreſſes of a prince turn the brain of an ignorant village laſs.

So then, you will not leave us yet. The court has ſtronger attractions than you were aware of, Phoebe.

Alas! madam, did it depend upon my choice I would be far off. The pleaſures of this place are loſt upon me, they are too artificial for us ſimple folks who are the ſervants of nature.

Quit then, as faſt as you can, a place ſo con⯑trary to your manners. I would not delay a moment. Alas! why cannot I ſhake off this troubleſome pomp and pageantry of courts?

O lard! madam, how pretty muſt it be to wander along by the flowery banks of murmuring rivers, and to breath the delightful fragrance of the meadows! Oh 'tis a paradiſe on earth.

Upon my word, ladies, you reaſon excellent⯑ly well in your turn. I perceive the advice of every body flows from ſelf-intereſted motives. You would moſt obligingly inform me that my preſence diſpleaſes you, madam; I heartily believe it.—But, now I [49] think on it, I can't go yet, 'tis abſolutely impoſſible. I have a particular engagement with the prince.

With the prince!

Yes, with the prince; Oh you will laugh exceedingly.—

Laugh! I laugh! how!

The prince you know is in love with you.

And what then?

Then!—why he deſires an interview with me.

Which you have granted, I ſuppoſe.

Oh, doubtleſs. It is not for folks in ſuch an humble ſituation as mine to refuſe ſo great an honour, and indeed, after ſo many inſtances of friend⯑ſhip and protection, it were a ſin to deny ſo ſmall a re⯑queſt. But I ſee, madam, you are diſcompoſed.

Who I! not I, not in the leaſt.

I can't abide to be thought ungrateful.

So then, Phoebe, after all this parade of honour, and virtue, and love, you can make an aſſig⯑nation?—

Come, come, don't be ſuſpicious; where you dread a rival, you may find a friend. I pity your uneaſineſs madam, nor will I ever be the cauſe of adding to it. Come then with me, and, if poſſible, en⯑deavour to forget your jealous reſentment. I warrant you all will be well yet.

SCENE IV. An Anti-chamber.

I'm ruined, dead, undone. They have bewitched her, they have poiſoned her, they have given her ſomething to ſteal away her heart; and yet I ſcarce can credit it.—It is impoſſible — what Phoebe meet the prince alone! alas! it is but too true. My folly has aggravated her to an entire neglect of me. Well, Heaven be thanked I am not quite friendleſs yet. The good-natured gentlewoman who brought me hither has promiſed to place me where I may over-hear all, and if I find my ſuſpicions true, I know how to be revenged for the trick ſhe has played me. Yes, I will give vent to my anger, yes, thou cruel, hard-hearted Phoebe, I'll tell you to your face that you are a falſe, ungrateful [51] huſſey, and then—I'll go and hang myſelf; and then —you ſhall never ſee me more.—But yonder's the fine lady my friend and guide.—Lord! Lord! how my heart beats! how I dread the event!

SCENE V. An apartment in the Palace.

So then—hitherto all things are rightly diſpoſed, Colin now may be ſatisfied of our interview; how ſtrangely am I ſituated! at once the object of the prince's love, which I never was ambitious of; of the princeſs's jealouſy, whom I wiſh to ſerve; and my own Colin's hard ſuſpicions, which are moſt unjuſt; but here comes the prince.

Well, my Lord, you find me an obedient ſervant; what would your highneſs have with me?

Can that be a queſtion now Phoebe, does not the tenor of my whole behaviour explain itſelf to you? Come, come, you know I love you.

Love me, alas my lord, I was born to humbler hopes, and your highneſs can never be at a loſs for more worthy objects.

Worthier—Surely Phoebe, you take a plea⯑ſure in creating my miſery.

No, I would rather wiſh to make you happy.

Alas! I have wiſh'd, I have ſighed a long time for a heart without guile, a heart that was ſimple and ingenuous; a happineſs not to be met with at court.

Oh, my lord, that is a happineſs you have always in your own power.

My power! do you approve my paſſion then? am I ſo bleſt?

Indeed I will not heſitate one moment to make you ſo. Wait but my return and I will con⯑vince you.

What can this mean? I am aſtoniſhed, my ſpirits are all in arms, and my heart flutters with expectation.

There my lord,

that hap⯑pineſs is now your own; and I feel a ſatisfaction in being the means of it.

Now Sir you are maſter of that treaſure you ſo long deſired; be happy in the poſſeſſion of it. —And now, Colin, what is become of your jealouſy? take care how you harbour again a fiend which deſtroys all peace.

I begin to revive again.

Aſſured as I am of your incon⯑ſtancy, I might perhaps break out into reproaches, but your conduct afflicts me more than it offends, and makes me unhappy without being violent. I ſee, Sir, I have loſt your heart.

Stay, ſtay my princeſs, our hearts were not deſigned for ſuch ſeparation, Phoebe, it is true, by thus enlightning my bewildered ſenſes has [54] humbled me ſufficiently, and I ſhould bluſh indeed, if I did not endeavour to imitate her. Her example ſhall excite me, and if my revived affections are worthy of a return, Hymen ſhall unite us on this day.

Love ſurely may excuſe its own frailties. — Oh Phoebe, let me embrace thee, how much do I owe to your friendſhip!—how ſhall I reward you?

Leave that to Colin, madam, for from him alone I expect it. Come Colin, endeavour to amend your errors; here, take my hand, now you know all my vengeance.

Nor ſhalt thou be deceived—let us away with haſte. We will be married ſtrait, this is true joy indeed; what need of ſo much myſtery to be happy? —but however, Sir, I pray you leave off your hunt⯑ing on our grounds. Peace and quietneſs are better than all the honours in the world.

May heav'n protect you both, live long in peace and happineſs, and ſhare my bounties as you pleaſe.

Here are two old men come after Colin, and Phoebe, they make ſuch a buſtle and clamour one would think they were ſtark ſtaring mad.

Oh bring them in, the happineſs will now be general indeed.

what uneaſineſs has my folly produced! But—

I tell you, I will have my daughter.

Give me my ſon, I ſay, body o'me, you ſmock fac'd chitterling; Oh, that I was but threeſcore for your ſake.

Don't talk to me, my own's my own, and I will come in.

Good heavens! my father.

So, ſo, we have found you now—Adod, but we have not. They do nothing but make fools of us, I think.

For my part I believe it is the land of lies; I did not want ſuch fine folks, our ſearch is after a couple of ſtray'd children, and they told us they were here.

I pray you, Sir, can you tell me any tidings?

Ods my life, its my own boy Colin; I am tranſported, I am overjoyed,— and why did not you anſwer your father, you dog?— Only ſee, Damon, how they have bedizened him, a looks for all the world like a king in the puppet-ſhew.

And here too is your Phoebe, Sir, It is no wonder you ſhould not diſcover me through this diſguiſe, ſince even the quick ſighted eyes of a lover have been deceived before now.

Have I recovered thee at laſt, my child! My neighbour and I have had a weariſome purſuit after thee.

All is well that ends well, father; we ſhall now be as happy as the day is long, thanks to the prince there. In truth we are much obliged to him.

Oblig'd! quoth a, yes, yes, I ſuppoſe he has been very obliging.

Be not ſo diſtruſtful, old friend. I have ſeen my error, and repent it. The temporary uneaſi⯑neſs you have found in the loſs of your children, will be amply compenſated in the happineſs of to-day. Here

my affections are ſettled. Phoebe merits no ſuſpicions, and if mutual love hap⯑pily rewarded can enſure a bleſſing upon earth, her union to-day with Colin ſhall effect it. Come, come, we ſhall all be happy.

You may be perfectly ſatisfied, Sir, your fears are all groundleſs. It is from the conviction of her innocence, and by her interpoſition, that all parties are reconciled. Surely you ought to be ſatisfied on this point, when you ſee I am.

Say you ſo? why then, come hither children, Heav'n bleſs you.—Body o'me, but I cry for joy.

Let me join my bleſſing too. And now, adod, I'm as gay as a lark, and as light as a cork.

From this hour my bliſs commences. How ſweet it is to gain the affections of a heart which owes all its charms to innocence and ſimplicity! but to find one without guile in the midſt of courts, whoſe honeſty of nature is not corrupted, though it is cul⯑tivated by art, makes up my peculiar felicity.