[]NECK OR NOTHING, A FARCE.

SCENE, a ſtreet.

I am ſick as a dog of being a valet!—running after other people's buſineſs and neglecting my own—this low life is the devil!—I've had a taſte of the gentleman, and ſhall never loſe it. 'Tis thy own fault, my little Mar⯑tin.—Thou wou'd'ſt always play ſmall games; when, had you but had the face to put yourſelf for⯑ward a little, ſome well jointur'd widow had taken you into her poſt-chariot, and made your fortune at once. A fellow of my wit and ſpirit, ſhou'd have broke twice, and ſet up again by this time.

Hey! is not that, that raſcal, Martin, yon⯑der?

Can that be my modeſt friend, Slip?

The ſame, i'faith!

'Tis he, as I live!

My friend, happily met.—

My dear, I embrace you!—Not ſeeing you among the beau-monde, I was afraid there had been ſome freſh miſunderſtanding between you and the law.

Faith, my dear, I have had a narrow eſcape ſince I ſaw you. I had like to have been preferr'd in ſome of our ſettlements abroad—but I found there was no doing the buſineſs by deputy—ſo—

Did not accept of the place, ha!—why, what little miſchief had'ſt thou been at?

Why, I don't know—meeting one night with a certain Portugueſe Jew-merchant, in one of the back ſtreets here by the Exchange—(I was a little in liquor I believe—piping hot from a turtle-feaſt) it came into my giddy head to ſtop him, out of mere curioſity to aſk what news from Germany—nothing more—and the fellow, not underſtanding good Eng⯑liſh, wou'd needs have it that I aſk'd him for ſome⯑thing elſe.—He bawl'd out, up came the watch, down was I laid in the kennel, and then carried be⯑fore a magiſtrate.—He clapp'd me on a ſtone doublet, that I cou'd not get off my back for two months.

Two months, ſay you?

And there I might have rotted, if I had not had great friends; a certain lady of quality's woman's couſin that was kept by Mr. Quirk, of Thavies-Inn, you muſt know, was in love with me, and ſhe—

Brought you in, Not Guilty, I warrant. Oh! great friends is a great matter.

This affair really gave me ſome ſerious re⯑flections.—

No doubt, it ſpoil'd you for a news-monger: no more intelligence from foreign countries, ha!

Well but, Martin, what's thy hiſtory ſince I ſaw thee?

Um!—a novel only, Sir: why, I am aſham'd to ſay it; I am but an honorary raſcal, as well as yourſelf.—I did try my luck indeed at Ep⯑ſom, [3] and Newmarket—but the knowing ones were taken in, and I was oblig'd to return to ſervice again.—But a maſter without money, implies a ſervant without wages; I am not in love with my condition, I promiſe you.

I am with mine, I aſſure you: I am retir'd from the great world,—that's my taſte now—and live in the country, with one Mr Harlowe—piping hot from his travels—'Tis a charming young fellow! Drinking, hunting, and wenching, my boy!—a man of univerſal knowledge. Then I am his privy counſellor, and we always play the devil toge⯑ther.—That amuſes one, you know, and keeps one out of miſchief.—

Yes, pretty lambs! But what makes you at London now? whither are you bound?

To yonder great houſe.

What, Mr. Stockwell's?

The ſame. You muſt know his daughter is engaged to my maſter.

Miſs Stockwell, to your maſter?

'Tis not above ſix weeks ago, that my maſ⯑ter's father, Sir Harry Harlowe, was here upon a vi⯑ſit to his old friend, and then the matter was ſettled between 'em,—quite a-la-mode, I aſſure you.

How do you mean?

The old folk ſtruck the bargain, without the conſent of the young ones, or even their ſeeing one another.

Tip top, I aſſure you; and ev'ry thing's agreed?

Sign'd and ſeal'd by the two fathers; the lady, and her fortune both ready to be deliver'd.—Twenty thouſand, you rogue!—ready rhino down! and only wait for young maſter to write a receipt.

Whew!—Then my young maſter may e'en make a leg to his fortune, and ſet up his ſtaff ſomewhere elſe.—

Thy maſter!

Ay, he's dying for the—twenty thouſand—that's all;—but ſince your maſter—

Oh! there you're ſafe enough, my maſter will never marry Miſs Stockwell: there happens to be a ſmall rub in the way.

What rub?

Only married already.

How!

Why, his father wou'd marry him here in town, it ſeems, and he—choſe to be married in the country—that's all. The truth is, our young gentleman manag'd matters with the young lady ſo ill—or ſo well—that upon his father's return there was hot conſulting among the relations; and the lady being of a good family, and having a ſmart, fighting fellow of a brother in the army—why, my matter, who hates quarrelling, ſpoke to the old gentleman, and the affair's huſh'd up by a mar⯑riage, that's all.

Um! an entire new face of affairs!

My maſter's wedding-cloaths, and mine, are all order'd for the country, and I am to follow them, as ſoon as I have ſeen the family here, and redeem'd my old maſter's promiſe, that lies in pawn.

Old maſter's promiſe!—let me think—

'Twas what brought me to town, or I had not ſhook my honeſt friend by the fiſt.—Martin, good morrow!—what, in the dumps?—we ſhall meet again man.

Let me alone—I have a thought—hark you, my dear; is thy maſter known to old Stockwell?

Never ſaw him in his life.

That's brave, my boy!

Art thou ſtill a cock of the game, Slip? and ſhall we?—No: I doubt—I doubt that damn'd Jew-merchant ſticks in thy ſtomach, and you are turn'd dunghill, you dog!

Try me. A good ſailor won't die a dry death [] at land for one hurricane. Speak out!—yo [...] wou'd paſs your maſter upon the family for min [...] and marry him to the lady? is not that the trick?

That!—I have a trick worth two on' [...] I know Miſs Nancy is a girl of taſte, and I have [...] prettier fellow in my eye for her.

Ay, who's he?

Myſelf, you puppy.

That's brave, my boy!

I'm in love with her to—

To the value of twenty thouſand pounds.— [...] approve your flame.

I will take the name and ſhape of you [...] maſter.—

Very well!

Marry Miſs Stockwell.—

Agreed.

Touch the twenty thouſand.—

Um!—Well, well!

And diſappear, before matters come to a [...] ecclairciſſement.

Um!—That article wants a little explana⯑tion, my honeſt friend.

How ſo?

You talk of diſappearing with the lady's for⯑tune, and never mention Slip in the treaty.

Oh! we ſhall diſappear together, to b [...] ſure.—I have more honour than to go withou [...] you.

Well, on that condition, I am content to pla [...] your back hand.—But hold, hold!—how wi [...] you paſs yourſelf for my maſter, in a family wher [...] you are ſo well known?

Hold your fool's tongue—this is my fir [...] viſit to 'em. I return'd but yeſterday to my maſte [...]—You muſt know, I aſk'd his leave to be ab⯑ſent a week, and I made free with a month: 'twa [...] a party of pleaſure, ſo I made bold. During my ab⯑ſence, he ſaw this lady, lik'd her perſon—ador' [...] [] [...]er fortune, and now, by my help, hopes to be in [...]oſſeſſion of both in a few days.

And you'll do the lady the honour to help her [...]o a better match.

She'll think ſo, I believe.

Well ſaid, Conceit!—But what ſort of [...]eople are your father and mother-in-law?

I am told he is a mere citizen—who [...]inking himſelf very wiſe, is often outwitted; and [...]is lady has as much vanity in her way; will never [...]e old, though turn'd of sixty; and as irreſolute and [...]apricious as a girl of fifteen. And Miſs, I ſuppoſe, [...]like all other miſfes, wants to be her own miſtreſs, [...]nd her huſband's; and in the mean time is governed [...]y her chambermaid, who will be too hard for us [...]oth, if we don't look about us.

A fig for dangers! I am prepar'd for 'em.

But hearkee!—what ſhall we do with the [...]ld gentleman's letter that I'm to deliver? This will [...]ock us all up!

Write another.

That's eaſier ſaid than done;—but I'll [...]o my beſt, as you can't write.

Do you ſee after my wedding-cloaths, that [...]ey do not ſet out for the country.—We have [...]o time to loſe.

My maſter's will fit you to a hair.

But ſtay, ſtay, I muſt ſee my maſter firſt.— [...] he ſhould appear and ſurpriſe us, we're in a fine [...]ickle. I muſt make him keep houſe for a few days— [...]ll think of a lie as I go—'Egad I have it al⯑ [...]ady—I'll to him, and meet you afterwards at [...]e tavern, there, take a glaſs, caſt this coarſe ſkin, [...]hip on the gentleman, and ſhame the firſt men [...]f faſhion in the kingdom.

SCENE, an apartment in Mr. Stockwell's houſe.

You know, Jenny, that Belford has got into my heart, and if I conſent to marry this man, 'twill be the death of me.—Adviſe me then, and don't be ſo teizing.

Lud! what advice can I give you? I have but two in the world; one is, to forget your lover, and t'other to diſobey your father.—You have too much love to take the one, and I too much conſci⯑ence to give t'other;—ſo we are juſt where we were, madam.

Don't torment me, Jenny.

Why, I fancy, we might find a way to reconcile your love and my conſcience.

How, how! my dear girl?

Suppoſe we were to open the affair to your mama?

Nay, now your jeſting is cruel.

I never was more in earneſt, madam.—She loves flattery dearly; and ſhe loves her daughter dearly; I'll warrant, with a ſigh, and a tear, and a handkerchief, ſhe makes her huſband break his word with young Harlowe in a quarter of an hour after his arrival.

Not unlikely, but if—

What at your ifs?—no doubts, I beg, where I am concern'd.

But you know my poor mother is ſo unſet⯑tled a creature.

Why, that's true enough, the laſt ſpeaker is her oracle, ſo let us loſe no time to bring her over to—Hark!—Here ſhe comes—do you retire, till I have prepar'd her for you.

Well, of all the women in London, ſure there never was ſuch a temper, as my lady's.

What can have ſet this girl againſt me?

Such good humour, and good ſenſe toge⯑ther, ſeldom meet—then ſuch a perpetual ſmile upon her features. Well, her's is a ſort of face, that can never grow old; what wou'd I give for ſuch a laſting face as ſhe has.

Huſſey, huſſey! you're a flatterer.

Ah!—Madam, is it you? I vow you made me ſtart. Miſs Nancy and I had juſt been talking of you, and we agreed you were one of the beſt of women, the moſt reaſonable friend, the tendereſt mother, and the—the—the—

Nay, that's too much—I have my failings, and my virtues too, Jenny—in one thing in⯑deed I am very unlike other women; I always hearken to reaſon.

That's what I ſaid, madam.—

I am neither headſtrong nor fantaſtical,—neither—

No, ſweet lady, the ſmalleſt twine may lead you. Miſs, ſays I, hear reaſon, like your mama; will ſo good a mother, do you think, force her daugh⯑ter to marry againſt her inclinations?

I force my child's inclinations!—No, I make the caſe my own. But tell me, (there's a good girl) has my daughter an averſion to young Harelowe?

I don't ſay that, madam—that is—averſion—to be sure—but I believe ſhe hates him like the devil.

Poor thing! poor thing!—and perhaps her little heart is beating for another?

Oh, that's a certain rule!—when a young [9] woman hates her huſband, 'tis taken for granted ſhe loves another man. For example, you yourſelf, as you have often told me, hated the ſight of Mr. Stock⯑well, when firſt he was propos'd for your huſband—Why? only becauſe you were in love, poor lady, with captain—you know who—that was kill'd at the ſiege—you know where.

Why will you name him, Jenny?

Tender lady!

Why, indeed, had that fine young creature ſurviv'd his wounds, I ſhould never have married Mr. Stockwell—that I will ſay.

Then you know how to pity your daugh⯑ter. Her heart ſuffers now, what yours did—before that ſiege, madam.

Say you ſo?—poor girl!—and who is it has found the way to her heart?

No other than the young gentleman that has been ſo conſtant at cards with you lately.

Who, Belford?

The ſame, and a fine ſpirited young fellow it is.

Pardon my folly, my misfortunes, dear madam, if I cannot conform in all my ſentiments with your's, and my father's—

It will happen, child, ſometimes, that a daughter's heart may not be diſpos'd to comply ex⯑actly with the views and ſchemes of a parent—but then, a parent ſhou'd act with tenderneſs.—My dear, I pity your diſtreſs: Belford has my approbation, I aſſure you.

You are too good, madam!

Your approbation is not enough, madam; will you anſwer for maſter's too? (He's a ſtubborn bit of ſtuff, you know) he will not always hearken to reaſon.

But he ſhall, Jenny; ſtubborn as he is, I'll ſoften him. I'll take Belford under my protec⯑tion—Here comes my huſband—I have taken my reſolutions, and you ſhall ſee how I'll bring him about preſently.

My dear, you're come in the very nick of time, I have juſt chang'd my mind.

You are always changing it, I think.

I always hearken to reaſon, Mr. Stock⯑well.

Well, and which way does the wind ſ [...] now?

Why, I have taken a reſolution not to marry my daughter to young Harlowe.

Hey! that's chopping about, indeed!

Nay, but my dear, hear me, and let us reaſon a little; here's a better offer for Nancy—Belford has aſk'd her of me.

Belford a better?

Nay, but don't be obſtinate, child! he is not indeed ſo rich as the other; but what are riches to content, Mr. Stockwell?

And what is content without riches, Mrs. Stockwell?

But he's a gentleman, my dear, and out of regard to his family, we may very well excuſe his fortune.

Well ſaid, madam! this will do.

Ha, ha, ha! that's becauſe you were a gentlewoman—but I, being a downright cit, think juſt the reverſe; and out of regard to his fortune, if he had one, might excuſe his family—I have no great objection to the man; but is not our word and honour engag'd to another?

Eh! that's true, indeed; but—

Has my old friend, Sir Harry Har⯑lowe, done any thing to—

I don't accuſe him, my dear.

Or has his ſon refus'd to comply?

Not in the leaſt, that I know of.

Never flinch, madam.

Never fear, Jenny.—

But I have never ſeen him, papa.

No, Mr. Stockwell, ſhe has never ſeen him—

So much the better, Mrs. Stockwell, he'll be a greater novelty, and pleaſe her the better, and the longer for it.

There is ſome reaſon in that, Jenny.

Is there, madam? then I have not a bit about me.

But to marry without inclination, Sir, think of that.

Ay, think of that, Mr. Stockwell.

I never thought of it for myſelf, nor you neither, my dear; and why ſhou'd our daughter think herſelf wiſer than her parents.

Ay, why, indeed?—there's no anſwer⯑ing that, Jenny.

I ſee there is not—What a woman!

It wou'd be ſuch an affront, as never cou'd be forgiven. Conſider, dame, the inſtruments are ſign'd, preparations made, and the bridegroom expected every minute; 'tis too far gone to be re⯑call'd with any honour.

Good lack a day! very true, very true!

Well ſaid, weather-cock, about and about we go; this woman betrays the whole ſex—She won't contradict her own huſband.

You are witneſs, Jenny, I did all I cou'd for poor Belford.

To be ſure; you took him under your pro⯑tection—a noble patroneſs, truly!

Hey! whom have we got here?—I'll be hang'd if this is not my ſon-in-law's ſervant—Now, girl, we ſhall hear.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am come—let me recover my breath—I come—Oh! I come with mine, and my maſter's compliments to your honour, and my lady, our beſt love and ſervices to pretty Miſs, and—madam, I'm your obedient Black a-moor.

Um! the fellow has humour, I pro⯑miſe you.—Well, Sirrah; where's your maſter?

My maſter, and your ſon, is on his way to throw himſelf at the feet of this angelic creature—His impatience, madam, can equal nothing but your beauty.

Well, but where is he, where is he?

He's but juſt arriv'd from the country; he treads upon my heels and I had only the ſtart of him to tell you, that he will but whip on clean linen, and wait on you in the ſnapping of a finger.

O, fie upon him, what need all this ceremony between us; why did not he come hither directly? He knows he may make my houſe his own.

Oh, Sir, he deſigns it; but the firſt time—pardon me, Sir—He knows the world better than to treat you ſo cavalierly as that—No, no, he's not that man, I can aſſure you; though I'm his valet, yet I'd give the devil his due.

Is he ſo extremely well bred? Daugh⯑ter, you'll be infinitely happy.

Does not my old friend, Harlowe, his father, come with him?

Sir, I grieve to tell it you; ſuch was his de⯑ſign, but an unforeſeen accident has prevented him; which I aſſure you gives him great pain.

Ay! what's the matter?

The gout, Sir, the gout!

Poor gentleman!

He was ſeiz'd in his right foot, the evening [13] before we ſet out, but—I have a letter from him.

"To Doctor, Doctor Clackit, phyſician, near St. Se⯑pulchre's church."

Lud! lud! that's not it,

Let me ſee.

St. Sepulchre's church!—I find the doctor chuſes to live among his patients.

Eh! eh! that's ſo good!—you're a very wag, Sir!—He, he, he!—let me ſee—Oh, here's one like it.—To Mr. Stockwell; the ſame. I am afraid you'll hardly be able to make it out—ſhall I read it to you? Oh, this unlucky gout!

I ſee it has affected his hands too.—Wyh 'tis ſcarce legible; and ill ſpelt too.

The gout, Sir,—may it never affect you, Sir, nor madam Stockwell, Miſs Nancy, that young wo⯑man there, nor any of the good company.

"My much honour'd friend—few words are beſt in my condition; this damn'd gout has laid hold upon me, and won't let me at⯑tend my ſon, for to be preſent at his matrimony."—For to be preſent at his matrimony!—I think his hand and ſtile too much alter'd.

The gout, Sir.

"I look upon this con⯑juncture of our families." Conjuncture!—a very odd phraſe!

The gout, dear Sir, the gout! He's quite another man in it.

"I look upon this conjuncture of our families, as the comfort of my age—The ſooner it is done the more comfort I ſhall have—I don't doubt but you'll like my ſon, whom I have ſent with a moſt truſty and faithful ſervant, who de⯑ſerves your friendſhip and favour."

O law, Sir!—I am quite aſham'd.

"I am, my dear brother, your's, &c. till death, Henry Harlowe." [...] am very ſorry we can't have the old gentleman's company.—But who is this gay young fellow coming [...]o'ards us?—Can this be my ſon-in-law?

What the devil ſhou'd ail him? Look at him, Miſs; obſerve him, madam—Is not he a pretty fellow?

What is he doing?

Only paying his chairman.—Generous as a prince.

Not ill made, indeed!—You'll only be too happy, child.

I wiſh I cou'd think ſo, madam.

Dreſs us but as well, and we'll cut out our maſters, ten to one. All my fancy, I aſſure you, ladies.

Slip!

Your honour!

Mr. Stockwell, I preſume, my illuſtrious father—

The ſame, Sir, in proprium perſonum.

My dear ſon, welcome!—let me em⯑brace you.

You do me too much honour; my ſuper⯑abundant joy is too inexpreſſible to expreſs the—This I flatter myſelf

is the bril⯑liant beauty, deſtin'd to the arms of happy Mart—Harlowe—Gad! I'd like to have forgot my own name.

An impertinent, abſurd coxcomb!

Nay, nay, ſon-in-law, not ſo faſt—that's my wife. Here's my daughter Nancy!

A fine creature!

Madam, I have ſeen the world! and from all the world, here wou'd I chuſe a wife, and a miſtreſs—a family of beauties; let me die!

Exceſſively gallant! He has wit, I aſ⯑ſure you, daughter.

And taſte too, madam.

And impudence, I'm ſure!

"With a ſhape, and a face, and an air, and a grace!" Ha, ha!—Juſt, juſt as our old gentleman told me. There you'll ſee madam Stockwell, ſays he, the agreeable ſtill—take care of your heart, boy; ſhe's a dangerous beau⯑ty, though her daughter may be by.

O fie, fie, fie!

I but repeat my father's words, madam, confirm'd by my own obſervation. Ah boy, ſays he, I wiſh with all my heart, that my dear friend Mr. Stockwell was dead, I'd marry her to-morrow.

I'm much oblig'd to him, faith!

And ſo am I, I am ſure, Sir.

I but repeat my father's words, Sir.

My eſteem for your father, Sir, is mutual, and I am heartily ſorry we cou'd not have the pleaſure of his company.

Oh! madam, he was damn'd mad, that he cou'd not be at the wedding. He had flatter'd him⯑ſelf theſe two months with the hopes of dancing a minuet with Mrs. Stockwell.

Two months—Whew!—and 'tis but ſix weeks he has known her; he'll knock us all up if I don't interfere.—

—Sir, Sir Harry begs you'll haſten the ceremonials, that he may have the pleaſure of his daughter's company as ſoon as poſſible.

Well, well, every thing is ſign'd and ſeal'd; nothing remains, that I know of, but to finiſh the affair at once, and pay you my daughter's portion.

"Pay you my daughter's portion,"—that's all, Sir; come along, Sir, I wait on you to your cloſet.—Slip, go with my civilities to the marquis of—

go this moment, you dog, and ſecure us horſes, and let 'em be bridled and ſaddled, and ready at a minute's warning,

— [16] and don't forget my compliments to the marchioneſs.

I fly, Sir—Ladies, your moſt obedient.

Come along, Sir, to your cloſet.

Stay, ſon, ſtay!—to return to the old gentleman.

Oh, Sir, we'll return to him when the por⯑tion's paid.

No, no; firſt ſatisfy my curioſity about this unlucky law-ſuit of his.

O lud!—Slip not here now!

You ſeem diſturb'd, ſon-in-law, has any thing—

Eh! pox o' this queſtion.

I have ſuch a memory!—

as much forgot to ſend Slip to the duke of—as if I had no manner of acquaintance with him. I'll call him back—Slip!

He'll be back again preſently—but, Sir—

He ſhou'd have told me of this damn'd law-ſuit.

Has it been brought to a hearing?

O, yes, Sir, and the affair is quite over.

Ay, already!

The wrong box, I'm afraid!

And I hope you have got your cauſe?

With coſts of ſuit, I aſſure you, Sir.

I am extremely glad of it.

Thank heaven 'tis ſo well over.

Oh, the family had the law-ſuit ſo much at heart, the lawyers ſhou'd have had every farthing we were worth in the world, before we'd have been caſt.

Um! that wou'd have been carrying it a little too far,—but as it was, it coſt him a pretty penny, ha?

That it did, Sir: but juſtice—Oh, juſtice, Sir, is ſo fine a thing, we cannot pay too dear for it.

Very true; but excluſive of the expence, this has been a troubleſome affair to my friend.

You can have no idea of it, Sir—eſpeci⯑ally with ſuch a tricking ſon of a whore, as he had to do with.

Son of a whore! He told me, his anta⯑goniſt was a lady.

I thought I was in the wrong box.

A lady call you her? Yes, yes, a fine lady! but ſhe had got an old pettifogging raſcal for her attorney, and he—it was he that was ſuch a plague to our old gentleman—But damn this cauſe, let us call another—I'm for nothing now but flames, darts, daggers, Cupids and Venuſſes, and madam Stock⯑well, and Miſs Nancy—

The pink of complaiſance!

The fellow's a fool, and I'll die before I'll have him.

Well ſaid, ſon-in-law, a ſpirited fellow, faith! Come, we'll in and ſee things ready.

Shan't I wait upon you to your cloſet firſt, Sir?

As ſoon as the cerernony's over, ſon.—Come, I'll ſhew you the way.

Eh! if I cou'd but have touch'd before⯑hand, I'd have wav'd the ceremony.

—Ma⯑dam,

may I hope for the ho⯑nour.

Oh, ſweet Sir—Daughter, you'll have a pretty fellow for your huſband.

There's a lover for you, Jenny!

Not for me, madam, I aſſure you. What, ſnap at the old kite, when ſuch a tender chick is be⯑fore him!

Not a civil word to his miſtreſs, but quite gallant to her mother.

As much as to ſay, A fig for you—I'm in love with your fortune.

A fig for him, a conceited puppy; I'm in love with Belford; but how to get at him, Jenny?

Ah! poor bird, you're limed by the wing, and ſtruggling will but make it worſe.

Not ſtruggle! Ruin is better than this coxcomb! Prithee, adviſe me.

Don't tempt me.—I pity you ſo, that I cou'd give you a ſprightly piece of advice; and you are in ſo deſperate a way that I know you'd follow it.

Follow it!—I'll follow any advice, Jenny.

O, yes, to follow your own inclinations; that's a good young lady.—Well, I am at preſent much given to miſchief.—So, if you'll go into your chamber, lock the door, and let us lay our little heads together for half an hour, if we don't counter⯑plot your wiſe papa, and his intended ſon-in-law—we deſerve never to be married, or if we are, to be govern'd by our huſbands.

SCENE, a hall in Stockwell's houſe.

I Am ſurpriz'd that Martin has not return'd to tell me his ſucceſs with Jenny—He ad⯑vis'd me not to ſtir from home, and ſaid I might be aſſur'd every thing goes well, and I ſhould hear from him—But ſtill the impatience of my heart cannot bear this delay—I muſt be near the field of battle, let what will be the conſequence—I hope I ſhall get a ſight of Martin, and not unluckily light on the old gentleman; 'ſdeath! he's here!—O, no, 'tis Jenny, my heart was in my mouth.

Dear Jenny, where's your miſtreſs?

Winding herſelf up for your ſake, and by my advice, to a proper pitch of diſobedience, that's all—but—

But what? You heſitate, Jenny, and ſeem concern'd.

Concern'd! why, we're undone, that's all. Your rival is come to town.

How!

And is this morning to marry madam.

Not while I'm alive, I can tell him that.—But, prithee, who is this happy rival of mine?

'Tis one Mr. Harlowe.

Harlowe!

A gentleman of Dorſetſhire.

I know all of that country, and can recollect no Harlowe, but the ſon of Sir Harry Harlowe, and he—

Ay, and he is your rival.

If I had no more to fear from your miſtreſs, than from my rival, as you call him—

Oh, you are very clever now, an't you? What wou'd you be at now?

The truth only—the real certain truth.

Ay, what's that?

Why, that this Harlowe is the ſon of Sir Harry Harlowe of Dorſetſhire, and my friend, my particular friend.

Yes, and ſo particular, that he will take your miſtreſs from you.

He ſhall take my life firſt.

You ſai [...] that before, have you nothing elſe to ſay?

I ſay, that this Harlowe, my friend, was mar⯑ried laſt week in the country, that's all.

And that's enough, if it is true, but I have a ſmall addition to your news.

What's that?

That the aforeſaid John Harlowe, Eſq your particular friend, and ſon to Sir Harry Harlowe of Dorſetſhire, is now within, waiting for my young lady's hand, that's all.

Jenny, no jeſting, you diſtract me!

'Tis but too true, he's this minute gone in with my maſter and miſtreſs, to ſettle preliminaries.

Impoſſible! he's my intimate acquaintance, and writ to me, not a week ago, as I tell you. I have his letter at my lodgings.

And what ſays he there?

That he's privately married to a lady of con⯑dition.

How can this be reconcil'd? Go fetch that letter, we have no time to loſe.

But what is Martin doing?

Martin, who's he?

Martin, my ſervant, whom I ſent to aſſiſt you.

Why, ſure love has turn'd your brain, Sir;—I have ſeen no Martin, not I.—

The raſcal then is run away from me again.—I have ſpoil'd him by my indulgence—He left me for a month, and returned but yeſterday; then I ſent him hither to aſſiſt you, and now the ſcoundrel has left me again.

'Tis the luxury of the times, Sir;—though we are poor we have good taſtes, and can be out of the way now and then, as well as our betters.

How this villain has uſed me! But we muſt loſe no time; I'll fetch the letter, and be back in an inſtant.

Let me ſee; can't I ſtrike ſome miſchief out of this intelligence? I warrant me—I can delay the marriage at leaſt—Here's my maſter, I'll try my ſkill upon him—If I don't quite bring him about, I'll ſet his brains in ſuch a ferment, they ſhan't ſettle in haſte again.

I think I ſaw a glimpſe of young Belford, but now—what buſineſs has he here?

Buſineſs enough, Sir; the beſt friend you have, that's all—He has been telling me a piece of news that will ſurprize you.

Let's hear this piece of news.

O' my word, a bold man, this Mr. Har⯑lowe, to take two wives at once, when moſt folk we ſee have enough of one.

Two wives! bleſs us, what do you mean?

Why, the poor man's married already, Sir, that's all.

Married!

Married, I ſay, to a young lady in the country, and very near marrying another in town; a new faſhion, I ſuppoſe.

Pooh, pooh, the thing's impoſſible I tel [...] you.

That may be, but ſo it is. He has writ to Belford, who is his friend.

All romance and invention!

All truth, I ſay, Belford is gone to fetch the letter, and he'll convince you.

I will never be convinc'd that—

Why not, Sir?—the young fellows of this age are capable of any thing.

Very true, Jenny, they are abominable!

And for aught we know, this Mr. Harlowe here may be one of thoſe gentlemen that make no ſcruple of a plurality of wives, provided they bring a plurality of portions.—But by your leave, good Sir, as this young lady, (ſhe in the country I mean) has the firſt and beſt title, we muſt look a little about us for the ſake of our young lady in town.

Very true—'tis worth attending to.

Attending to! if I were you, Sir, before I deliver'd up my daughter, I ſhould inſiſt upon the affair's being clear'd up to my ſatisfaction.

You're in the right, Jenny; here's his man, I'll ſound him about his maſter's marriage, and then—leave us together—Go—I'll make him ſpeak, I warrant you.

If this marriage is but confirm'd, I ſhall leap out of my ſkin.

Mr. Slip, come hither—My old friend Sir Harry has recommended you to me, and I like your phyſiognomy—You have an honeſt face; it pleaſes me much.

Your humble ſervant, Sir—That's your good⯑neſs,—but if I was no honeſter than my face, gad a mercy poor me!

Well, well—hark you me! this maſter of yours is a lad of ſpirit—a favourite of the ladies, I warrant him, ha?

That he is, I can tell you, Sir, a pretty fel⯑low, no woman can reſiſt him—I'll warrant, this marriage in your family will ſet you the hearts of thirty families at eaſe all round the country.

Odd!—a terrible man, I profeſs—I don't wonder now that one wife can't ſerve him.

Wife, Sir! what wife, Sir?

You ſee I know all, my friend; ſo you may as well confeſs.

Confeſs! what, Sir?

I know all the conſpiracy; and will take care that you, raſcal, ſhall have your deſert as an accomplice.

Accomplice!—Raſcal! and a conſpiracy!—Let me die if I comprehend a word you ſay.

But I'll make you, villain.—

O very well, Sir—ha! ha! ha!—I pro⯑teſt you half frightened me—Very well, indeed! ha! ha! ha!

Do you laugh at me, Sirrah?

If I had not remembered to have heard my old maſter ſay, what a dry joker you were—I proteſt I ſhould have been taken in—Very good, indeed, ha! ha! ha!

None of your buffoon'ry, Sirrah; but con⯑feſs the whole affair this minute, or be ſent to New⯑gate the next.

Newgate! ſure, Sir, that would be carrying the joke too far.

You won't confeſs, then—Who wait [...] there? Send for a conſtable this moment.

Nay, good Sir, no noiſe, I beſeech you▪ Though I am innocent as the child unborn, yet tha [...] ſevere tone of voice is apt to diſconcert one. Wha [...] was it your honour was pleaſed to hint about m [...] maſter's being married? Who could poſſibly inven [...] ſuch a fib as that?

No fib, Sirrah! he wrote it himſelf to [...] friend of his at London—to Belford.

Oh, oh!—your humble ſervant, Mr. Bel⯑ford! a fine fetch, i'faith! nay, I can't blame the man neither, ha, ha. Pray, Sir, is not this ſame Mr. Belford in love with your daughter?

Suppoſe he is, puppy; and what then?

Why then, Jenny is his friend, and at the bottom of all his fetches; I'll lay a wager that ſhe is author of this whopper.

Um!

Our arrival put 'em to their trumps—and then—Slap, my poor maſter muſt be married; and Belford muſt ſhew a forg'd letter, forſooth, under his own hand to prove it—and, and, and, you under⯑ſtand me, Sir—

Why, this has a face.

A face! ay, like a full moon: and while you're upon a falſe ſcent after this ſtory, Jenny will gain time to work upon your daughter—I heard her ſay myſelf that ſhe could lead you by the noſe.

Oh, ſhe could, could ſhe? Well, well, we'll ſee that.—

By the bye, Sir, where did you meet with this Mrs. Jenny?

How ſhould I know?—I believe my wife hired her half a year ago out of the country—She had a good character; and is very notable; but pert, very pert.

Yes, yes, ſhe is notable—Out of the country! and a good character! well ſaid, Mrs. Jenny!

What's the matter, Slip?—You have ſomething in your head, I'm ſure.—

No, nothing at all—but the luck of ſome people!—out of the country!

You muſt tell me—I ſhan't think you nean me well, if you conceal any thing from me.

Why, among ourſelves, Sir—I knew Mrs. Jenny the laſt year very well—born and bred a Covent Garden—Some time ago bar-maid to a [25] Jelly-houſe, and two children, (very fine ones in⯑deed) by little Tom the waiter. I knew when I ſaw her here that we ſhould have ſome ſport.

Ay, ay!—I know enough—well ſaid, Mrs. Jenny, indeed! But mind the cunning of this fellow, this Belford—he ſays he's the moſt inti⯑mate friend your maſter has.

Ay, Sir!—ha! ha! ha! and I dare ſay my maſter would not know him if he met him—how⯑ever, that's well obſerv'd, Sir—Um! nothing eſcapes you.

Why, I am ſeldom out, ſeldom—

Never.

I don't ſay never—But here is your maſ⯑ter, I muſt have a laugh with him about this marri⯑age; ha! ha! ha!

'Twill be rare ſport for him; he, he, he!

So, ſon-in-law! do you hear what the world ſay of you?—I have had intelligence here, (ay, and certain intelligence too) that you are marri⯑ed, it ſeems—privately married to a young lady of Dorſetſhire. What ſay you, Sir?—Is not this fine! ha, ha, ha!

Very merry, faith!

Ha, ha, ha!—'tis ſuch a joke!—What, you have heard ſo?—This Mr. World is a facetious gentleman.

Another man now would have given plumb into this fooliſh ſtory, but I—No, no, your hum⯑ble ſervant for that.

No, plague! Mr. Stockwell has a long head! He—

I would fain know who could be the author of ſuch a ridiculous ſtory.

Mr. Stockwell tells me, 'tis one Belford, I think he calls him; is not that his name, Sir?

Belford! Belford! I never heard of his [...]ame in my life.

As I ſaid, Sir; you ſee maſter knows nothing [...]f the fellow.—Stay, ſtay, is it not the young⯑ [...]er that—you know whom I mean;—that, that—

Rot me, if I do!

He that—you muſt know him—that is [...]our rival here, as the report goes.

O, ay! now I recollect.—By the ſame [...]oken, they ſaid he had but little, and ow'd much. That this match was to wipe off old ſcores, and that his creditors had ſtopp'd proceedings till he's married.

Ay! ay! there let 'em ſtop. Ha, ha, ha! They'll be tir'd of ſtopping, I believe, if they are to ſtop till he has married my daughter, ha, ha, ha.

He's no fool, let me tell you, this Mr. Bel⯑ford.

No; nor Mr. Stockwell neither:—and to convince them of that, I will go this inſtant to my banker's, and—

Sir,—I'll wait on you.

Stay, ſon-in-law, I have a propoſal to make—I own, I agreed with my old friend to give you 10,000 l. down.

Ay, down, was the word, Sir—it was ſo—down.

Now, could you conveniently take ſome houſes, that I have in the Borough, inſtead of half that ſum—They are worth a great deal more than that, I aſſure you.

O dear Sir,—your word is not to be diſ⯑puted: I'll take any thing.—but between friends, ready money is the truth—Down, you know, Si [...]; that was the word, down.

Specious, your honour knows, is of eaſier conveyance.

Yes, ſure, that's true; but—

Ay, ay, one can't put houſes in one's port⯑manteau, you, know—he! he! he!—Be⯑ſides, [27] there is a pretty eſtate to be ſold in Dorſetſhire, near my father's, and I have my eye upon that.

As pretty a condition'd thing, as any in the country, and then ſo contagious, that a hedge only parts 'em.

I may have it for 9000 l and I'm told 'tis worth ten at leaſt.

The leaſt penny, Sir;—the timber's worth half the money.

Well, well—Look you, ſon; I have a round 10,000 l. now in my banker's hands, which I thought to have made immediate advantage of.—You ſhall have a moiety of it.

Sir, I am infinitely obliged to you.—Are you a going to your banker's now, Sir?

I will but ſtep and let my wife know of it; fetch the caſh directly; and you ſhall marry my daugh⯑ter in an hour.

Sir, ſuppoſe we invite Mr. Belford to the wedding? Ha, ha, ha!

Ha! ha! ha! What a droll devil my maſ⯑ter is!

Ha! ha! ha!

Wind and tide, my boy!—My maſte [...] has certainly had an interview with Miſs Nancy Stock⯑well.

And as certainly knows Harlowe too.

They correſpond, you ſee.

But, thanks to my wit, I have ſo ſet the ol [...] man againſt Belford, that I am in hopes we ſhall pac [...] up madam's fortune in the portmanteau before he' [...] ſet to rights again; and—

Zounds! my maſter!

Where?

Don't you ſee him reading a letter?

This is my unlucky ſtar! What will becom [...] of us?

This letter gets me admittance to Miſs Stock⯑well at leaſt: and if I can but ſave her from ruin, I ſhall be happy; but I hope this may have better con⯑ſequences. Ha! what's this?—'Tis he! 'tis Martin, as I live.

Ay, 'tis I:—and well for you it is.—What do you here?

Nay, what are you doing here, and what have you done here?—What cloaths are theſe?—What's your ſcheme? and why have I not know it?

Not ſo faſt and ſo loud, good maſter of mine—walls have ears. Theſe are your rival's cloaths, who is to follow them in a few days: but his ſervant there is an old friend of mine, and ſo, as they fit me ſo well—he's—I paſs upon the family for the young fellow himſelf.

Well, and where's the joke of that?

A very good joke, I think.—I'll un⯑dertake to put theſe two old fools (your papa and mama that ſhall be) ſo out of conceit with their ſon-in-law, that—why, already I have heard the old folks agreeing, that you were much the properer match for their daughter; ſo that I expect every mo⯑ment they'll ſend for you to deliver them from me: and nothing can prevent our ſucceſs but your be⯑ [...]ng—

Ha, ha, ha! a very good ſtratagem: but there is no need of it now;—for this rival, as you call him, is my particular friend, and married to another woman:—ſo I tell you we have no⯑thing to fear.

But I tell you, you will knock us all to pieces.—The fineſt plot that ever was laid, and you'll ſpoil it in the hatching.

But what occaſion is there? He can't marry em both.

Speak lower! You think yourſelf mighty wiſe now; but here's Harlowe's ſervant, whom I have tickled in the palm, will tell you another ſtory.

Why, here's a letter under his own hand.—Read it.

Um—um—"Some days! privately married"—Slip.

This is eaſily clear'd up, Sir! There was ſuch a thing propoſed by my young maſter; but you muſt underſtand, Sir—that Mr. Harlowe, not approv⯑ing of the terms, has tipped the young woman's fa⯑ther a good round ſum, and ſo the affair is made up.

Can it be poſſible that he [...]s not married?

I'll take my oath of it before any magiſtrate in England.

Pooh—married! what! his old boots!

Well,—I'll decamp then: but why is not Jenny in your plot?

She! no, no; ſhe is not to be truſted.—I ſoon found out that.—Tooth and nail againſt us.

Good heav'ns! how have I been deceiv'd!

You have indeed, maſter: but we have no time for reflections. If Jenny ſhould ſee you, we are undone.

Well, well, I go.—I'll make both your for⯑tunes if you ſucceed.

Succeed! nothing can prevent us, but your being ſeen.

I'll away then.

And come not near this houſe to day. If you do, I muſt decamp.

Well; but my dear lads, take care; I de⯑pend on you.

That's all you have to do—put your fortune into our hands;—

And I'll warrant, we give a good account of it.

Think how my happineſs—

Prithee, no more.—

Depends on you.

Begone, I ſay; or I'll throw up the cards.

At laſt he's gone!

And we have time to take a little breath: for this was a hot alarm, faith!

I was only afraid the old gentleman, or Jenny, would have ſurpriſed us together.

That would have been a clincher: but now I muſt after the old gentleman for the money.

And I'll be upon the watch, for fear of miſ⯑chief.

SCENE, an apartment in Stockwell's houſe.

Still I ſay, Sir—

And ſtill I ſay, madam—

That Mr. Belford's a very honeſt gentle⯑man, and you ought to ſearch it.—

I tell you, I have ſearch'd, and prob'd it to the quick—and that he ſhall feel. I know well enough you are in his intereſt, and have your intereſt in ſo doing; and I'm ſorry you could find no prettier plot than this to defer the wedding.

Lud, Sir, do you believe?—

No—but I'm ſure on't—that's better.

Lud!—You'd make one mad.

And you'd make me a fool if you cou'd; no, no; I'm an aſs, a poor ſimpleton, that may be led by the noſe;—but you may tell my daugh⯑ter, that ſhe ſhall marry Harlowe this night.—And you may tell your friend Belford, to let his cre⯑ditors know that they need not ſtop proceedings.—And you, madam, may return to your Jelly-ſhop, and give my compliments to little Tom, and all the little family, ha, ha, ha!

What does he mean by his Jelly-houſe—little Tom—and all the little family!—There's ſomething [31] at the bottom of this, I cannot yet fathom:—but I will fathom it.—I never was out of a ſecret yet, that I had a mind to find out; and that's all that have come a-croſs me,—and my pride won't let me be long out of this.—I will go directly to Mr. Belford's, where we'll lay our heads together, and beget ſuch a piece of miſchief, that ſhall be hard for the devil himſelf, if he has the impudence to try confuſions with me.

SCENE, the ſtreet before Stockwell's houſe.

Come, ſon-in-law, we'll go to my banker's, and ſee how our caſh ſtands, and ſettle matters as well as we can.

I'll attend you, Sir, with pleaſure—caſh or notes—all the ſame to me.

I wiſh you'd take the houſes, ſon-in-law, 'twould be more convenient for me, and a greater advantage to you.

Advantage, Sir!—I ſcorn to take any advantage of you—I hate mean views.—I deſire nothing better than my bargain.—The money and your daughter's charms, are ſufficient for your poor Mart—humble ſervant.

Well, well, come along; we don't quite underſtand one another.

But we do.—

The day's our own; get ev'ry thing ready to make our retreat good.

Ay, ay, get you the money, and I'll be ready with the equipage.

I have only one doubt remaining, and that's about this ſame portion. I don't reliſh this dividing a booty.—How ſhall I cheat Martin?—I ſhould deſerve to be canoniz'd, could I but cheat that rogue [32] of rogues.—I muſt e'en throw the young lady in his way, and perſuade him for our better ſecurity, to paſs the night with her: ſo leave him with the ſhell, while I ſlip off with the kernel. A tempting bait!—But no—ſtand off, Satan!—'Tis againſt our fundamental laws. We adventurers have ten times the honour of your fair traders.

Why, what!—Sure it can't be?—Zounds, if it ſhould!—It is the very man!—Our little, old, wither'd, fiery gentleman, by all that's terrible! from what a fine dream will this gouty ſpitfire awake us!—He's certainly going to Mr. Stockwell's, and his gun⯑powder will blow up all at once! If Martin and Mr. Stockwell don't return too ſoon from the banker's, I may ſend him away; 'tis our laſt ſtake, and I muſt play it like a gameſter.

I don't know how my old friend Stockwell may receive me after this diſappointment.

Stay till you ſee Mr. Stockwell, my old friend.

Bleſs me, what do I ſee! Sir Harry, is it you?—Indeed your honour?—Your very humble ſervant.

I don't know you, friend, keep your diſ⯑tance.

Don't you know me, Sir?—

It cannot be Slip, ſure! Is this the fool's coat my ſon ordered you for his wedding?

Yes, Sir; and a genteel thing it is upon me. What, you had a mind to ſurprize your friends?—Who thought of you at London, Sir?

I ſet out ſoon after you, lame as I was.— [...] bethought me, it look'd better to ſettle matters of [...]uch conſequence with Mr. Stockwell viva voce, [...]an to truſt it to a ſervant.

You were always a nice obſerver of deco⯑ [...]ms:—you are going now to Mr. Stockwell's?

Directly.—

Hold your deſperate hand! and thank for⯑tune that brought me hither for your reſcue.

Why, what's the matter? Reſcue me, quoth-a! Have you ſeen 'em, Slip?

Seen 'em! ay, and felt 'em too. I am juſt eſcap'd.—The old lady is in a damn'd paſſion with you, I can tell you.

With me!

Ay, that ſhe is. How, ſays ſhe, does the old fool think to fob us off with a flam, and a ſham, of a dirty trollop?—Muſt my daughter's reputation—and then ſhe bridled and ſtalk'd up to me thus, Sir.

How!—but there's no anſwering a ſilly woman: how can this affect her daughter's charac⯑ter?

That's what I ſaid.—Madam, ſays I—but you can't expect a woman in a fury to hear rea⯑ſon:—'tis almoſt as much as they can do when they are cool. No, no; as for her argument, it was ſad ſtuff! Will the world, ſays ſhe, believe ſuch a—no, no; they'll think the old hunks has found ſome flaw in our circumſtances, and ſo won't ſtand to his bargain.

Poh! Nothing diſguiſes a woman like paſſion.—Though it may become a man ſome⯑times.—

Lud, Sir; you wou'd not know her again—her eyes ſtare in her head, and ſhe can't ſee a crea⯑ture.—On a ſudden, (for I puſh'd the argument pretty home) ſhe caught hold of my throat, thus, Sir; and knock'd me down with the butt end of her fan.

Did ſhe?—But what did her huſ⯑band ſay to this? Let us hear that.

Oh, Sir; I found him pretty reaſonable.—He only ſhew'd me the door, and kick'd me down ſtairs.

If he's for that work, we can kick too.

Dear Sir, conſider your gout.

No, Sir; when my blood is up, I never [...]eel the gout.—But could they poſſibly take it [...]miſs, that I conſented to my ſon's marriage?— [...] doubt you did not explain circumſtances.

I told 'em plain enough, I thought, that my young maſter, having begun the ceremony at the wrong end, the family were going ding-dong to law; and that you had behav'd like a man of honour, and—very wiſely compounded matters.

And did not this convince 'em?

I ſay convince!—They're in a pretty tem⯑per to be convinc'd.—If you'd take a fool's coun⯑ſel, you ſhould return to your inn, and never think of convincing them.

They are for kicking, are they? I could have kick'd pretty well my ſelf once.—We ſhall ſee what they would be at—

Indeed, Sir, you ſhall not.—What! have your face ſcratch'd by an old woman, or be run thro' the body with a ruſty ſword? Indeed you ſhall not.—

—We have ſwords, that run thro' bodies, as well as they; ay, and piſtols too.—If he will quarrel, I'm his man.—Steel or lead, 'tis all one to me.—A paſſionate old fool! I'll cool him; kick me down ſtairs—!

Lord! Sir; you are ſo hot!—You forget, it was me he kick'd down ſtairs,—not you.

'Tis the ſame thing, Sir.—Whoever kicks you, kicks me by proxy—nay worſe;—you have only the kicks, but I have the affront.—

If the kicks are the beſt, I ſhall be content with the worſt another time.—Undone, undone! This way, this way, Sir.—Let us go this way—there will certainly be bloodſhed.

What is the matter, you fool? What art afraid of?

Don't you ſee Mr. Stockwell coming thi [...] way? Bleſs me, how he ſtares! He's mad with paſ⯑ſion.—Don't meet him, Sir Harry.—Yo [...] are out of wind, and have not puſh'd a great while▪ and he'll certainly be too much for you.—

I won't avoid him.—My blood's up as well as his;—if the fool will be for fighting—let him take what follows.—Hold my cane, Slip.—

Ay, 'tis all over.—If Martin has but go [...] the money, we may retire while the champions are at it.—

We will count our money and bills ove [...] again, ſign the writings; and then, ſon, for ſinging and dancing, and—

Don't give yourſelf that trouble, Mr. Stock⯑well;—among friends, you know—pray, let me eaſe you of that weight.

No, no, ſon; you ſhan't have a farthing more or leſs than your bargain.—We citizens are exact, and muſt have our way, in form.

Zounds! he has not got the money!—We muſt have a ſcramble for it at laſt then.

Now he eyes me!—I'll be as fierce as he;—now for it—hem, hem!

Eh! ſure, if my eyes don't deceive me, there is ſomebody very like my old friend and your father▪ Sir Harlowe!

Damnably like indeed, Sir.

He looks like the devil at me; but I'l [...] be even with him.

What, my dear friend, is it you?

None of your hypocritical palavers with [...]e.—Keep your diſtance, you diſſembling old [...]ool you, or I'll teach you better manners, than to [...]ick my ſervant down ſtairs.

What do you mean, Sir Harry?—He's [...]ad ſure!

Nothing can ſave us now, Slip!

Trip up his heels, and fly with the money to [...]he post-chaiſe; while I tread upon my old maſter's [...]oes, that he mayn't follow us.

We have nothing elſe for it.—Have at em.

Nay, but Sir Harry!

Have I caught you, raſcals!—in the very nick too! Secure 'em, conſtables.

What, in the name of wonder, are you about?

I have a double pleaſure in this;—for I have not only diſcovered two villains, but at the very time, Sir, their villainy was taking effect, to make you miſerable.

Two villains! Mr. Stockwell, do you hear this? Explain yourſelf, Sir; or blood and brim⯑ſtone—

Explain, Mr. Belford:—Sir Harry Har⯑lowe! What is all this!—I am all ſtupefac⯑tion!—

Is this Sir Harry?—I am your humble ſer⯑vant, Sir.—I have not the honour to be known to you, but am a particular acquaintance of your [37] ſon's; who has been miſrepreſented here, by that pretty gentleman, once a raſcal of mine.

I'm in a wood, and don't know how to get out of it!

Is not this your ſon, Sir Harry?

No, you paſſionate old fool; but this is my ſervant, and my ſon's pimp, whom I underſtand you have been kicking down ſtairs!

Here's a fine heap of roguery!

It was my good fortune, by the intelligence and inſtigation of Mrs. Jenny, to diſcover the whole before theſe wretches had accompliſhed their deſigns.

What a hair-breadth 'ſcape have I had! as the poet ſays, the very brink of deſtruction! for I ſhould have given him the caſh in five minutes.—I'm in a cold ſweat at the thoughts of it. Dear Mr. Belford!

O, Mr. Stockwell! here are fine doings going forward.—Did not I tell you, that I was for Mr. Belford from the beginning?

Don't trouble us now, wife; you have been for and againſt him twenty times in four and twenty hours.

Your humble ſervant, gentlemen! What, dumb and aſham'd too!—the next ſcheme you go about, take care that there is not ſuch a girl as I within twenty miles of you.

I wiſh we were twenty miles from you, with all my ſoul.

As you don't like our company, Madam, we'll retire.

Hold 'em faſt, conſtables:—They muſt give ſome account of themſelves at the Old Bailey, and then perhaps they may retire to our plantations.

But what have they done? or what will [38] you do? or what am I to do?—I'm all in the dark—pitch-dark.—

Is your son married, Sir Harry?

Yes, a fortnight ago:—and this fellow you kick'd down ſtairs, was ſent with my excuſes.

I kick'd him down ſtairs!—You villain you.—

Don't diſturb yourſelf with what is paſt, but rejoice at your deliverance.—If you and Sir Harry will permit me to attend you within, I will acquaint you with the whole buſineſs.

I ſee the whole buſineſs now, Sir. We have been their fools.

And they are our knaves; and ſhall ſuffer as such.—Thanks to Mr. Belford here—My good angel, that has ſav'd my 10,000l.—

He has ſav'd your family, Mr. Stock⯑well.

Cou'd you but think, Sir, my good ſervices to your family, might intitle me to be one of it.—

You'd make your daughter happy, by giving her to your beſt friend.

My dear; for once hear me and rea⯑ſon, and make 'em both happy.

You ſhall be happy, Belford.—Take my daughter's hand.—You have her heart.—You have deſerved her fortune, and ſhall have that too.—Come, let us go in and examine theſe cul⯑prits.—

Right, Mr. Stockwell. 'Tis a good thing to puniſh villainy; but 'tis a better to make virtue happy:—and ſo let us about it.