[] THE WATERMAN; OR, The Firſt of Auguſt.

SCENE I.

This, now, is my delight, to ſit at breakfaſt while the men work. Come, honeſt Tom, let us make an end of our tankard, before my wife gets up; her raking ſo in London, (where between you and I, ſhe ſtays a deviliſh deal longer than while ſhe ſells the ſparrow-graſs) keeps her a-bed woundy late of a morning.

Why, Maſter Bundle, I have often-times thought to myſelf, that it was a wonderſome kind of thing, how it came to paſs, that you two agree ſo badly; when, out of all the four and twenty hours, you are hardly ever above two of them together.

Ah, Thomas! Thomas! 'tis very hard that a man like me can't be allow'd to get drunk once a day, without being call'd to an account for it; but between you and I, ſhe is the arranteſt—

What are you all about there? Where's your lazy, idle maſter?

You hear ſhe has begun to ring her uſual peal; this is the way the moment ſhe is up.

And I believe ſhe ſeldom leaves off till ſhe goes to bed; does ſhe Maſter Bundle?

No, nor then neither; every thing muſt be her way, or there's no getting any peace. As ſoon as the marketing's over in town, away ſhe and her favourite Robin, trudge to the two-ſhilling gallery of one of the play-houſes; where they have pick'd up ſuch a pack of damn'd nonſenſe, about ſentiments and ſtuff, that I am not only obliged to put up with her ſcolding me all the time I do ſee her, but I am ſcolded in a language I don't underſtand.

Why, I ſhould like that beſt now; for then, you know, one has no right to take it for ſcolding at all.

Oh, when once ſhe raiſes her voice, you never can take it for any thing elſe.

Why then, mayhap, 'tis all concerning this ſame play-houſe buſineſs, that ſhe's ſo ſtout againſt [3] me, and does all ſhe can to ſerve Maſter Robin with Miſs Wilhelminy?

Ay, there was another of her freaks; ſhe was then as fond of romances, as ſhe is now of plays; and though my father, who was as plain a man as myſelf, ſwore he would not leave us a farthing, if we did not call the girl Margery; nothing would ſatisfy her forſooth, but we muſt give her the name of Wilelmina:—'Tis ſuch a damn'd, confounded, hard name, that I was a matter of three years before I cou'd pronounce it right.

Well, ſtand to your oars, for here ſhe comes!

SCENE II.

IS it not a moſt marvellous thing, Mr. Bundle, that I muſt be ſuch an eternal ſlave to my family, in this here manner, while you and your cologuing companions are beſotting, and ſquandering away your time with your guzzling, and every thing goes to rack and manger. I that am ſuch a quiet, well-bred, eaſy, tame creature, that never ſcolds, nor riots, nor dins your faults in your ears; but am always as gentle and as patient as a lamb.

You are a very good wife to be ſure, my dear, only a little inclined to talking; if you, now, had no tongue, or I had no ears, we ſhould be the happieſt couple in the world.

What a provocating creature!—tongue! But this comes of marrying ſuch a ſcum of a fellow, one that you may throw away all the tenderneſs in the world for, before it makes any oppreſſion upon him.—But it ſerves me right, for 'tis very well known, what great offers I refuſed upon your account!

I don't know how it ſhou'd be otherwiſe than well-known, my love; for I generally hear of it about ſix times a day: But, my dear, don't you think it will be neceſſary to give orders about loading the cart, againſt you go to London?

Sir, I ſhall not go to London to-night at all: Robin, Miſs Wilelmina, and I, are invited to go with a party to ſee the rowing match, this after⯑noon; and afterwards there is to be a hop at Mr. Wick's, the tallow-chandler's, where I intend to ſettle the purliminaries about my daughter's wedding: And I deſire you to take care, that the pines are not all gone before next week, for I intend to invite the whole party to a hop here.

But, Madam Bundle, be'n't you ſome how or other afraid, that what with one thing, and what with another, you'll hop all the money out of your huſ⯑band's pocket?

I don't direct my diſcourſe to you, Sir; but tis my huſband that encourages you to behave in ſuch a brutiſh and outrageous manner. He has pro⯑miſed you I know, that you ſhall have my daughter, but I'll make him know who's at home—I will:—I'll aſſure you, indeed!—Such a fellow as you!—A naſty, idling, ſcurvy rapſcallion, that leads a filthy, drunken, lazy life; ſotting in one ale-houſe, and ſot⯑ting in another; and ſhall ſuch a low brute dare to expire to the honour of marrying Miſs Wilelmina Bundle?

I'll tell you what, Ma'am Bundle, I ſhould not care much for marrying your daughter, if ſhe was not of a little better temper than yourſelf.

Oh, the villain!—Why you vile, wicked—

My dear, how can you put yourſelf in ſuch a paſſion, you, you know, who are ſuch a tame creature—one that never ſcolds, or riots?—

I'll riot you all to ſome tune, I will—therefore Mr. Bundle, unleſs you wou'd have me ſue for a ſeparate maintainance—mind what I ſay—next time I go to London, I ſhall take Robin with me to Doctor's Commons, and nothing but your conſent to his marrying your daughter, ſhall ever make me look upon you again.

SCENE III.

Well, and what do you ſay to all this?

Why, I'll tell you what, honeſt Thomas; for me to contradict her, would be much the ſame thing, as for you to row againſt wind and tide.

Why, then that wou'd be bad enough, Maſter Bundle.

But I'll try what I can do with my daughter for you, and all I can ſay to put you in heart, is, that if I find her as headſtrong, and as perverſe as her mother, I ſhall adviſe you to have nothing to do with her, and ſo ſave you from hanging yourſelf in a month.

But, Maſter Bundle, if I marries Miſs, I ex⯑pect to be a little happier than you are.

Ah, Tom, Tom! the wiſeſt of us may be deceived!

SCENE IV.

I don't know but you are in the right of it. A waterman wou'd be a confounded fool, that would put up a ſail with the wind and tide both in his teeth.—But here comes Miſs Wilhelminy:—If ſhe marries me, I'll ſee if I can't get her to change her name.

SCENE V.

Take my advice, Miſs, and let it be honeſt Tom.

Oh, you brute! did you hear me?

Why, Miſs, ſuppoſe if I did, you a'n't afraid of ſpeaking your mind, be ye?

My mind! why you have not the aſſurance to pretend, that I ſaid any thing in favour of you?

Why no, I can't ſay directly that you ſaid as how you'd have me; but I'm ſure you can't help ſaying yourſelf, that it ſounded a little that way.

And do you imagine then I cou'd perfer you to Robin, ſweet Robin, as the ſong ſays, that's all over a noſegay, and the very pink of good breeding.

For my part, I makes no compariſments, as a body may ſay; but I'd be ſorry, Miſs, if there was not others as agreeable, and well behaved as he, however.

What, yourſelf I ſuppoſe?—Do you know, you odious creature, that he can ſpout Romeo by heart, and that he's for ever talking ſimilies to me?

I know he's for ever talking nonſenſe to you.

Oh! hold your filthy tongue: Did you but hear him compare my cheeks to carnations, my hands to lilies, my beautiful blue veins to violets, my lips to cherries, my teeth to ſnow-drops, and my eyes to the ſparkling dew that hangs upon the roſe trees in the morning—what would you ſay then?

Ah, but you know, Miſs, that's all in his way.

Then he writes verſes, Oh, dear me! the author of the opera book, in the parlour window, is a fool to him for writing, Oh! he's a very Ovid's Metamorphoſe!

Why, for the matter of that, Miſs, there are other folks that can write as well as he; what would you ſay now, if I had wrote ſomething about and con⯑cerning my falling in love with you?

I ſhou'd then begin to have ſome hopes of you.

Shou'd you?—Why then I have.

Oh, dear! let's ſee it?

It's a ſong, Miſs; I'll ſing it to you, if you pleaſe.

[10]Well, Miſs, how do you like it?

Like it! why it is the very moral of your⯑ſelf!—If you had not paſs'd half your time between Wapping and the Tower Stairs, you could never have wrote ſuch a ſong.

Didn't I tell you as how it was the thing?—Well, now, I hope you will conſent!

Conſent to what?

Why, to marry me: To be certain you won't find me like your Mr. Robin, an inconſidera⯑tive puppy, that will ſay more in half an hour, than he'll ſtand to in half a year! I am a little too much of an Engliſhman, I thank you, Miſs, for that; my heart lies in the right place, and as we ſay, 'tis not always the beſt looking boat that goes the ſafeſt.

And ſo, Mr. Thomas, you really think by all this fine talking to make me dying for love of you?

Why, Miſs for the matter of that, I don't ſee why I ſhou'd not.

Well, then, I'll tell you what, if you ever expect to have any thing to ſay to me, you muſt kneel at my feet, kiſs my hand, ſwear that I am an angel, that the very ſun, moon, and ſtars, are not half ſo bright as my eyes; that I am Cupid, Venus, and the three Graces put together.

Why, to be ſure, all this may be very fine; but why ſhould I talk to you in a lingo I don't un⯑derſtand?

This, as my dear Robin ſays, is the only language of true lovers, and if you don't underſtand it already, you'll learn it for my ſake.

I'll tell you what, Miſs, if you don't marry me, till I make ſuch a fool of myſelf, 'tis my mind you'll never marry me at all. I love you to be ſartain, there's nobody can ſay to the contrary of that; but you'll never catch me at your Cupids and Weniſſes; [11] I am plain, and downright; I'd do all that in my power lay to make you happy, if you'd have me, and if you won't, I have nothing to do but to caſt away care, and go on board a man of war, for I could never bear to ſtay here if you was married to another.

What, then, you'd leave England and all for the love of me?

That's what I wou'd, Miſs.

Well, that wou'd be charming! Oh! how I ſhou'd doat upon it, if I was to hear them cry through Batterſea-Streets, The unfortunate ſailor's la⯑mentation for the loſs of his miſtreſs!

I'll ſtick to my word, I aſſure you; if you won't have me, I'll go on board a man of war.

SCENE III.

Well, 'tis a moſt charming thing to plague theſe creatures—die for me—If I had not given myſelf ſome airs to him, he never cou'd have thought of ſuch a thing; but that's the way, if one does not uſe them like dogs, there's no getting any thing civil from them—but here comes Robin, I muſt plague him in another way.

Miſs Wilelmina, may I have the unſpeakable happineſs to tell you, how much words fall ſhort of the great honour, you wou'd prefer upon me, if you wou'd grant me the requeſt, of favouring me with your hand this evening at the hop.

Why, Mr. Robin, what particular inclina⯑tion can you have to dance with me?

What inclination, Miſs! aſk the plants why they love a ſhower? aſk the ſun-flower why it loves the ſun? aſk the ſnow-drop why it is white? aſk the violet why it is blue? aſk the trees why they bloſſom? the cabages why they grow? 'tis all becauſe they can't help it; no more can I help my love for you.

Lord, Mr. Robin, how gallant you are!

Oh, my Wilelmina! thou art ſtraiter than the ſtraiteſt tree! ſweeter than the ſweeteſt flower! thy hand is as white as a lilly! thy breath is ſweet as honey-ſuckles! and when you ſpeak, grace is in all your ſteps! heav'n in your eye! in every geſture—Oh dear!

Lord, Mr. Robin, you have ſaid that ſo often—

Well, you never heard me ſay this in your life—now mind. My heart is for all the world juſt like a hot-bed, where the ſeed of affection, ſown by your matchleſs charms, and warmed by that ſun, your [13] eyes, became a beautiful flower, which is juſt now full blown; and all I deſires, Miſs, is that you'll condeſcend to gather it and ſtick in your boſom.

And what pretenſions have you to think I ſhall ever conſent to ſuch a thing.

Pretenſions, Miſs! becauſe my love is bound⯑leſs as the ſea, and my heart is as full of Cupid's ar⯑rows, as a ſweet briar is full of thorns.

But I am afraid if I was fooliſh enough to believe you, you wou'd ſoon forget me.

Forget you, Miſs! 'tis impoſſible! ſooner ſhall aſparagus forget to grow, ſeed forget to riſe, leaves to fall, ſooner ſhall trees grow with their roots in the air, and their branches buried in the earth, than I forget my Wilelmina.

Well, I do declare there's no reſiſting you.

Reſiſting me, Miſs! no I don't know how you ſhou'd; my heart is ſtock'd with love, as a flower garden is ſtock'd with flowers. The Cupids that have fled from your eyes and taken ſhelter there, are as much out of number as the leaves on a tree, or the colours in a bed of tulips; You are to me what the ſummer is to the garden, and if you don't revive me with the ſun-ſhine of your favour, I ſhall be over⯑run with the weeds of diſappointment, and choak'd up with the brambles of deſpair.

That wou'd be a pity, indeed.

So 'twould indeed, Miſs.

Do you really love me then?

Love you!

SCENE IV.

Oh, Papa! are you there?

Huſh! huſh! ſpeak ſoftly! you have not ſeen your mother, have you?

No.

Becauſe I wanted to talk with you, Wilel⯑mina, my dear.

What upon the old ſubject, I ſuppoſe.

Yes, but I wou'd not have her hear us.

Oh! ſhe's ſafe enough, ſcolding the men in the garden.

Oh! that will take her ſome time. Well, have you ſeen Thomas?

Yes, I have ſeen him, and a moſt deplorable figure he cuts; I believe by this time he has enter'd himſelf on board a man of war; that ſo, as the hiſ⯑tory book ſays, he may put an end to his exiſtence and my cruelty together.

Why, did he ſay he wou'd?

Don't I tell you I was cruel to him, and how cou'd he do any leſs.

Why the girl's diſtracted! but this comes of gadding about with your mother; if you had liſten'd to my advice, I wou'd no more have ſuffer'd you to put on ſuch ridiculous conceited airs—why, you and your mother are the laughing ſtock of the whole place; I never pop my head into the Black Raven, to get my pennyworth in a morning, but all the folks are full of it.

Why, Papa, we are only a little genteeler than the reſt of the people of Batterſea, that's all.

Genteeler! Do you call it genteel then to take a pleaſure in being pointed at? But I'll not bear it; therefore hear what I have to ſay, or—

Why do you tell me of all this? Why don't you ſpeak to my Mama? 'Tis no wonder ſhe does what ſhe pleaſes with me, when you know you don't dare to contradict her yourſelf.

Not dare to contradict her?

No, Papa; you know ſhe will have her own way, and ſince ſhe has deſired me to have Robin, what can I do but be dutiful?

What then you owe no duty to me, I ſuppoſe?

Indeed I do; and if I cou'd ſee that you owed a little to yourſelf, I wou'd oblige you willingly.

But as it is, you won't marry Thomas?

I can't, indeed,

And for no other reaſon but becauſe your Mama inſiſts upon your marrying Robin?

No other.

Very well, I'll ſettle the matter; ſhe ſhall do as I pleaſe, and if ſhe was to come acroſs me now—

SCENE V.

What then, Mr. Bundle?

My dear.

What cou'd have conduced you to raiſe your voice to ſuch a pitch? I hope you had not the aſſurance to be tampering, and plotting, and un⯑dermining my daughter's infections; and, above all, I hope you was not hatching up any vile ſcheme to impoſe my authority.

Poor Papa! how he looks.

Why, my dear, I did intend to ſay ſome⯑thing to you on that ſubject, but as my tongue does not go quite ſo faſt as a water-mill, I am afraid it wou'd be but to little purpoſe.

Scurvy creature!

If you don't ſpeak, Papa, I ſhall be obliged to marry Robin.

I can't help it.

'Tis all your own fault now; don't blame me—I muſt marry Robin, you have perfectly given me your conſent.

So thou cou'dſt but unmarry me, I'd conſent to your marrying whoever you pleas'd.

Well, my dear, what has he been ſay⯑ing to you? nothing I hope to diſcourage you in your infections to Robin.

Indeed he has, and I can't think of being undutiful.

Undutiful, indeed! I ſay undutiful—which will reflect moſt upon you do you think? to obey a mean, poor ſpirited, drone of a father, who has no⯑thing but low mechanical ideras, or a mother who is acquainted with Shakeſpeare, goes to all the ſenti⯑mental comedies, can play at cards, dance kittelions and allemands, and knows every particle of purlite⯑neſs and high-breeding.

Very true, Ma'am; but then Mr. Thomas is ſuch a ſweet young man.

He!

So good-natured!

The Vandil!

So honeſt!

Low creature!

Such an immenſity of love!

The Hottentot! I'll tell you what, Wilelmina, your father has put all this into your head [18] I'll go and give it to him heartily, while my blood's up, for daring to be beforehand with me; and then I have but one word to ſay to you, either comply and marry Robin, or elſe I'll diſinherit you from any ſhare in the blood of my family, the Grograms; and you may creep through life with the dirty, pitiful, mean, paltry, low, ill-bred notions which you have gather'd from his family the Bundles.

SCENE VI.

Well, in all I have read, I never met with a girl of more ſpirit than myſelf—for I make two lovers, and a father and mother as miſerable as I can deſire; and yet, am I to blame? are not they the au⯑thors of all this buſtle themſelves? If I oblige one, I diſoblige the other; I ſhall, therefore, ſet all other conſiderations aſide, and conſult only my own heart.

SCENE I.

WHAT ſhall I do with this perverſe girl? I have but poor comfort for my friend Thomas—However, all things conſider'd, I don't know whe⯑ther I ſhou'd not have done him a more unfriendly office by marrying him, than by keeping him ſingle. For my own part, was I to chuſe whether I wou'd keep my wife, or have the plague; on my conſcience I ſhou'd run the riſque of the laſt. But mercy on us! here ſhe comes—'tis a ſtrange thing that I never mention the word plague, but ſhe's at my elbow.

Mr. Bundle—I ſhall be very cool, Sir.

I hope ſo, my dear.

What the devil is the reaſon that you have been making all this here piece of work?

My dear.

I ſay, Sir, how comes it to paſs, that in ſpight of all my conjunctions to the contrary, you will behave ſo monſtrouſly ſhameful as to oblige me to put myſelf in theſe here paſſions.

Why, my dear, are you ever in a paſſion?

Don't provoke me—you think, I ſup⯑poſe, becauſe you have got your daughter on your ſide, to carry all before you; but, Mr Bundle, though [21] you have been coaxing and wheedling her to marry that low, dirty—I won't bemean myſelf by repeating his filthy name. Though I ſay ſhe has been undutiful, and wicked enough, to ſuffer ſuch a low unpolite clown as you, to perſuade her to marry a fellow as vulgar and as mean as yourſelf; yet if I have any authority, you ſhall no more carry it off in the man⯑ner you think—

My dear—

I won't hear a word.

Have a moment's patience now, and I'll con⯑vince you.

I won't have patience; nor I won't be convinced; 'tis a ſhame and a ſcandalous thing; and whoever tells me to be patient, or wants to con⯑vince, me it ſhall be the worſe for them.

Go on, my dear.

Oh, how I am uſed! I cou'd hang myſelf for vexation.

My dear, if you had about half as much reaſon as you have paſſion, how very eaſily cou'd all theſe matters be ſettled; for you are wrong, from the begining to the end, in this affair; in the firſt place, I don't think it wou'd be very undutiful in a girl to do what her father deſires her, was it as you ſay; in the next, I deſired her to give her conſent to marry Thomas, 'tis true, but ſhe refuſed me.

Why this is worſe than t'other—Firſt uſe me ill, and then reſult me—for the girl told me with her own mouth, that ſhe promiſed you to marry Thomas.

And ſhe told me, with her own mouth, ſhe had promiſed you to marry Robin.

What am I to think of this?

E'en what you pleaſe, my dear, you know I never dictate to you.

Here ſhe comes herſelf, we ſhall know the truth of all this. Come here, child, ſpeak in⯑genuoſly now: Did not you tell me, that you would not marry Robin?

I did, Ma'am.

There, Mr. Bundle—and pray what reaſon did you give me for it?

Becauſe Papa had perſuaded me to marry Thomas.

And have you the confidence to look me in the face, after all this?

Pray hear me one word.

I won't hear a ſyllable.

Nay, let me ſpeak in my turn. Wilelmina, come hear, child, ſpeak ingenuouſly; did not you tell me you wou'd not marry Thomas?

I did, Sir.

There, Mrs. Bundle—and pray what reaſon did you give me for it?

Becauſe my Mama had perſuaded me to marry Robin.

And have you the confidence to look me in the face after this?

Why you little dirty trollop, have you been making a jeſt of us both?

Indeed, my dear, there is ſomething—

Hear me, my dear Papa and Mama; when firſt you propoſed Robin to me, and you Thomas, I determined to have neither, 'till one or the other had given me ſome proof beſide telling me ſo, that he wou'd make me a faithful and affectionate huſband; the firſt that does ſhall have me; and though I would not wiſh to have either of you think me undutiful, on that alone ſhall depend my giving my conſent to be a wife.

SCENE II.

Well, my dear, what do you ſay to all this?

Say! why that I am perfectly in a quan⯑dary; the confidence of the baggage goes beyond all—One would think ſhe had never been edicated by me.

Oh! I am afraid it's her having been edicated by you, as you call it, that has taught it her.

What do you ſtand muttering there about? 'tis you ſhe may thank for all theſe mean no⯑tions; if ſhe wou'd but ſuffer me to teach her a little the bone-tone, ſhe wou'd deſpiſe the idera of conſult⯑ing her heart about marrying, ſuch low mechanical ſtuff has been out of faſhion a long time ſince, among people that know how to bemean themſelves.

Well, but I ſuppoſe, you intend to let her do what ſhe pleaſes.

No, Sir; do you think I am ſo tame as to be ruled by my daughter? I believe you can witneſs for me that I ſeldom let any body rule but myſelf.

You never let any body rule but yourſelf, my dear; and really you do it ſo well, it is a pity to hinder you.

None of your ſneers, Sir—But I ſee into the bottom of all this; 'tis a ſcheme between you and your daughter, to make a fool of me; but I'll after her and cure her of her ridiculous notions of love, and a pack of ſtuff, and ſhe ſhall marry the man I have choſe for her, or—In ſhort, I have determined what to do, and let me hear you, or her, ſay a ſingle word againſt it, if you dare.

SCENE III.

Maſter Bundle, how fares it? I wanted to ſpeak to you, but I never likes to interrupt people when they are in agreeable company.

What you ſaw my wife with me, ſhe is the moſt agreeable company, it muſt be confeſs'd.

Why ſhe did not ſeem to be cantancaras with you now.

No, her anger was levelled at her daughter; but 'tis all the ſame, I feel the good effects of it, let her be cantancaras, as you call it, with who ſhe will.

But, Maſter Bundle, how comes it to paſs that ſhe ſhou'd be angry with Miſs Wilelmina? ſhe has not refuſed to marry Robin, has ſhe?

But ſhe has though, and refuſed to marry you too.

Ay, ay, why I never heard ſhe had any other ſweetheart.

I don't know what the girl has got in her head, not I—a parcel of abſurd ſ [...]uff! ſhe has a mind to make fools of us all I believe; but there was ſomething well enough too in what ſhe ſaid, if ſhe's ſincere; but the lord help thoſe that truſts too much to them, ſay I.

Why, what does ſhe ſay?

Why, that ſhe does not know which ſhe ſhall have yet; but that ſhe'll marry the firſt that does any thing to deſerve her.

Does ſhe?—why then 'tis my opinion ſhe'll marry me.

Why ſo?

I know why, well enough; but cou'd not a body ſpeak to her now?

I am going in, and I'll ſend her to you; but I wou'd not have you depend too much on her.

I'll run the riſque, Maſter Bundle.

Only ſee the difference between us, you are all agog to get married, and I wou'd give the world to be rid of my ſhackles.

Why, I believe if a man was to take up the trade of unmarrying folks, he would get more money by it, than you and I do by our's.

More money!

SCENE IV.

Yes, but I hope I ſhan't have ſuch a crank and humourſome piece of ſtuff to deal with as you have; I don't know not I, but for my ſhare, I can't ſee why married people mayn't be happy as well as others; 'tis my mind, Miſs here, is trying which is the moſt loving of us two, and if ſo I wou'd not give my little Robin three-pence for his chance, for I know as well as can be, that he has no more notion of making a woman happy than nothing at all—but here ſhe comes.

Hey, day! Why I thought you was gone on board a man of war before now?

Why no, Miſs, I e'n't yet gone, I am in hopes there will be no occaſion, if there ſhould, I am always one of my word.

Oh, you unkind creature! to diſappoint me ſo, I was in hopes by this time to have received a long letter from you, upbraiding me with my cruelty, and telling me that you were gone abroad with a broken heart at being diſappointed of me.

Why, Miſs, as to breaking my heart, to be ſure I ſhould go well-nigh to do that, if I could not perſuade you to have me; but I have been thinking that it would be better to try if I can't ſtay at home, and do ſomething to obtain your conſent, for to be ſure the pleaſure of having you, is not what every body deſerves.

Oh! 'till I hear you have been venturing your life for me, I ſhall never relent.

Well now, Miſs, I for my part, think you will.

Indeed, you have a great deal of confidence to think any ſuch thing.

I hope you won't be angry, if I do my beſt to make you—

And what do you call doing your beſt?

Why 'tis not my way to brag, and ſo I won't ſay any thing about it now, but I have a favour to beg of you if you pleaſe.

What is it pray?

Why, you know that the young watermen are to row for the Coat and Badge this afternoon, and ſo I have made bold to beſpeak a room at the Swan, for you and your friends to go and ſee the ſight.

That's very gallant, indeed, Mr. Thomas! but you talk of trying to deſerve me, why did not you make one among the watermen, and ſo win the Coat and Badge yourſelf?

Well, never you mind any thing about that, will you accept of my proffer of the room?

Why, I think I will.

And do you think now, if ever I was to do any thing with an intent to pleaſe you, that you cou'd bring yourſelf to look upon me with kindneſs?

Why, I don't know but I might.

Why, then I aſſure you, if ever you ſhou'd be agreeable to marry me, you ſhou'd be as happy as ever love and an honeſt heart can make you.

SCENE V.

There's great honeſty about this poor fel⯑low—Here comes t'other; I ſee I muſt chooſe ſoon, or there will be no peace for me. So, Mr. Robin, what news have you?

News, My angel! news that will make your heart dance with joy, and clear away the clouds and miſts that hang on thy beautiful face; juſt for all the world as the ſun clears away the ſhowers in the month of April.

Indeed! I ſhould be glad to hear it.

You can't think how you will be overjoyed.

Shall I? Why don't you tell it me then?

Well then, Miſs, I'll keep you no longer in ſuſpence; your mother is determined that we ſhall be married to-morrow morning.

What, whether I will or no?

Whether you will or no! how can you help it; don't I love you better than the ivy loves oak, better than cucumbers love heat, or birds love cher⯑ries; I love you better—

Hold, hold, Mr. Robin, 'tis neceſsary in this caſe I ſhou'd love you a little.

And don't you!—Hear this, you blooming jon⯑quils, and loſe your ſweetneſs! turn white you roſes, and you lilies red! each flower loſe its fragrance and it's hue, and nature change, for Wilelmina's falſe!

Indeed, Mr. Robin, you have ſuch winning ways; that pretty ſpeech has half perſuaded me to conſent.

Has it?

It has upon my word.

Jonquils ſmell ſweet again! roſes and lilies keep again your colour! and every flower look brighter than before, for Wilelmina's true!

How dearly you do love me, Mr. Robin!

Why, Miſs, the paſſion which is planted in my heart has taken root, as like as can be to a great elm which there is no grubbing up, but it ſpreads farther and farther, and you can't for the life of you deſtroy it 'till you ſaw down the trunk and all.

That's as much as to ſay, that you'll love me as long as you live.

The very thing—Lord how ſenſible you are, Miſs!

Really, Mr. Robin, you are ſo gay and agreeable—

E'n't I, Miſs? So every body ſays—only think then how you will be envied—Well then, I'll ſtep to your Mama and tell her what has paſt; and then I ſhall have nothing to do but to go to town to⯑morrow for the ring and licence.

SCENE VI.

Well, Robin, have you reform'd her what I order'd you?—What I ſuppoſe you have been a fool now?—there never was ſuch a timerſome fel⯑low in the world—I tell you what, Wilelmina, if I find you have been impoſing upon this poor baſhful creature, you will put me in a paſſion, and you know when I am once in a paſſion, I am not eaſily pacified.

Let me underſtand you, Ma'am?

Why I ſent this blockhead to let you know that I am diſolved to ſee you married to-morrow morning, and I know you have been giving yourſelf ſome confounded airs or other, and ſo he has been afraid to tell you.

I wonder, Ma'am you ſhould be uneaſy on that account—he told me, and in very plain terms.

Well, and I hope you had not the conference to ſay any thing againſt it.

So far from it, Ma'am, I now plainly ſee the great abſurdity of attempting to oppoſe your will.

And have you conſented to have him, then?

She has Ma'am.

Then thou art my child again—Mr. Wick's family will be in raptures at this; run, Robin, and tell them we ſhall call at their houſe in our way to the rowing match.

And will you forgive my former diſobe⯑dience, Ma'am?

Oh! it was all your father, my dear; but I'll now take the pains to inſtruct you how to behave yourſelf.

I am obliged to you, Ma'am, but I don't think I ſhall ever be ſo accompliſhed as you.

Why, I don't think you will ever get my genteel air; but as for other matters they are eaſily underſtood.

Are they, Mama?

I'll tell you.

SCENE VII.

Indeed, Mama, I beg your pardon, but I ſhall not receive any inſtruction from you—Let me ſee—I have promiſed her to marry her favorite Robin; to heighten the plot a little more, I'll e'en go and pro⯑miſe my Papa to marry favorite Thomas; and then for the Swan, where, I think, there will be a tolerable confuſion. What a buſtle this ſame love makes among us, we all ſeem to be afraid of it, and yet all wiſh to poſſeſs it.

SCENE, the Laſt. A ROOM at the SWAN.

My dear Mr. Wick, as to that, gen⯑tility's every thing—I hates to ſee a parcel of trumpery that knows nothing of life. Do, Robin, ſtep and ſee after Wilelmina—what can be become of the girl?

She's here, Ma'am.

Come, my dear, you'll loſe the ſight; they tells me that the rowers have ſet out from the Old Swan ſome time.

They are very near ſurely; for ſee what a number of boats are come in ſight.

Oh! I can ſee them very plain. How many is there?

One, two, three, four, I think I can count five.

That ſmart young man will certainly win it; how clean and neat he looks!

Here he comes; his boat perfectly flies!

Oh! he'll win it.

He has won it already, Madam; he's paſt the ſtairs.

See, he jumps on ſhore.

And ſee he's coming this way—Surely 'tis not—

Here's your Thomas for you! he's coming!—I told you he'd be the firſt that wou'd do any thing to deſerve you—Here he is!

And was it you that won the Coat and Badge?

'Twas indeed, Miſs.

And what made you?

Thus then I reward you.

What is all this?

Why, all this is that I am a happy fellow, and you are knock'd out of your chance.

Is not he a ſweet fellow, Ma'am? How ne [...] and clean he looks!

Wilelmina, don't put me in paſſion.

I have no intention, Ma'am, to do any ſuch thing.

Why, you impudent ſlut! have not you deceived me? Depoſed upon me? Promiſed me to marry this young man?—and now—

Indeed, Ma'am, you muſt excuſe me; but in ſo ſerious a matter, I thought it of much more conſequence to conſider myſelf than you; beſides, I was ſo ſituated that I muſt have diſobliged either you or my Papa, for whenever I gave you a promiſe, I gave one to him, and had your choice appeared to me the moſt likely to make me happy, I ſhou'd not have heſitated a moment in refuſing his.

My hopes are all blighted then, I find.

I ſaid all along, that this was a con⯑trived thing between you; but, Mr. Bundle, you ſhall ſmart for it.

My dear, you know I am a man of an eaſy temper and few words, but I am pretty firm in keep⯑ing a reſolution; I have ſuffered you to expoſe me at home pretty well; but if you are reſolved to carry your folly to ſuch a height as to expoſe me abroad, I am reſolved it ſhall not be for nothing: Therefore, either promiſe before this company, to bid adieu to ſcolding for the future, or before this company I will do what you threat'ned me this morning—be ſepa⯑rated from you.

Why, I am thunderſtruck!

I expected little leſs; but am reſolved, de⯑pend upon it; however to let you ſee that you are very welcome to be miſtreſs of your own houſe, manage your concerns as you like, do what you pleaſe, ſo you let me be quiet: In ſhort, do nothing to give me uneaſineſs, and I make an agreement from this moment, for you to govern while I ſmoke.

Dear Mama, it is impoſſible for any thing to be fairer.

Come, come, ſhe muſt have a little time to think of it; but ſhe'll agree to the terms, I'm ſure of it; and now let us think of nothing but pleaſure, and as this is the happieſt day I ev [...] ſaw in my life, I ſay let us make it the merrieſt.