[]THE SPOIL'D CHILD;

ACT I.

WELL, well, Siſter, have a little patience and theſe holidays will be over; and the boy then goes back to ſchool and all will be quiet.

Yes, till the next breaking up, no, no, brother, unleſs he is ſeverely puniſh'd for what he has already done, depend upon it, this vicious humour will be confirmed into habit, and his follies increaſe in proportion with his years.

Now wou'dn't any one think to hear you talk, that my ſon had actually ſome vice in him? for my part I own there is ſomething ſo whimſical in all his tricks that I can't in my heart but forgive him, aye and for aught I know love him the better into the bargain.

Yes truly—becauſe you have never been a ſufferer by them—had you been rendered rediculous as I have been by his tricks as you call 'em, you wou'd have been the firſt to complain and to puniſh.

Nay, as to that, he hasn't ſpar'd even his father, is there a day paſſes I do not break my ſhins over ſtumbling-blocks he lays in my way?—why there isn't a door in the houſe but is arm'd with a baſon of water on top, and left juſt a jarr—ſo that I can't walk over my own houſe without running the hazard of a ſhower bath, or being wet through.

Aye, no wonder the child's ſpoil'd —ſince you will ſuperintend his education yourſelf, you indeed.

Siſter, ſiſter—don't provoke me, at any rate, I have wit enough to conceal my ignorance—I don't pretend to write verſes and nonſenſe, as ſome folks do.

Now wou'd you rail at me for the diſpoſition I was born with? can I help it if the Gods have made me poetical as the divine bard ſays.

Made you Poetical indeed, 'Sblood if you had been born in a ſtreet near a college, or even next door to a day ſchool, I ſhou'dn't have been ſurpriſed; but damn it madam, what had you to do with poetry and ſtuff.

Provoking ignorance!

Hav'n't you rendered yourſelf the ſneer of all your acquaintance by your refin'd and poetical intercourſe with Mr Tagg the [5] author, a fellow that ſtrolls about the country ſpouting and acting in every barn he comes to—and wasn't he found concealed in your cloſet to the utter ſcandal of my houſe and the ruin of your reputation?

If you had the ſmalleſt ſpark of taſte you wou'd admire the effuſions of Mr Tagg's pen, and be enchanted with his admirable acting as much as I am—but as to this ſtory it may ſerve as another ſample of my nephew's ſweet diſpoſition, to coin baſe falſehoods againſt his aunt's character.

Do you tell me I can't educate my own child? and make a Lord Chancellor of him or an archbiſhop of Canterbury—which ever I like? juſt as I pleaſe?

I'll lay my life that is another trick of that little miſchievous wretch.

An ungrateful little raſcal! to ſerve me ſuch a trick juſt as I had made an Archbiſhop of Canterbury of him —but as he can't be far off I'll immediately correct him—here Thomas

But odſo here's dinner—well I'll defer my reſentment till that's over—but if I don't remember this trick one while, ſay my name is not Pickle.

Siſter, [6] this is the firſt pheaſant we have had this ſeaſon—it looks well—ſhall I help you? they ſay anger makes people dry—mine has made me hungry I think—come here's a wing for you, and ſome of the breaſt.

O dear Sir! O dear ma'am! my young maſter ma'am! the parrot ma'am—O dear!

Parrot and young maſter—what the deuce does the girl mean!

Mean! why as ſure as I live that vile boy has been hurting my poor dear bird.

Hurting ma'am! no ma'am indeed— beſides I'm morally certain it was the ſtrange cat kill'd it this morning.

How! kill'd it, ſay you! but go on let's hear the whole.

Why ma'am the truth is, I did but juſt ſtep out of the kitchen for a moment, but in comes my young Maſter, whips the pheaſant, that was roaſting for dinner off the ſpit, and claps down your ladyſhip's parrot ready pick'd and truſſ'd in its place.

The parrot! the devil!

I kept baſting and baſting, and never thought I was baſting the parrot—till juſt now I found the pheaſant and all the parrot's feathers hid in the kitchen cupboard.

O my ſweet, my beautiful young bird, I had but juſt learn'd it to talk too.

You taught it to talk—it taught you to talk you mean—I'm ſure 'twas old enough —why 'twas hatched in the hard froſt.

Well, brother, what excuſe now? but run Suſan, d'ye hear take John, and—

O John here's a fine piece of buſineſs!

Aye, ma'am ſure enough.—What you've heard I ſee, buſineſs indeed—the poor thing will never recover.

What John, is it a miſtake of Suſan's, is it ſtill alive? but where? where is it John?

Safe in the ſtable an it were as ſound, a made a hot maſh—wou'dn't touch it—ſo crippled, will never have a leg to put on ground again.

No, I'll ſwear to that—for here's one of them.

What does the fool mean? what, what's in the ſtable? what are you talking of?

Maſter's favourite mare Daiſey, ma'am, poor thing.

What? how! any thing the matter with Daiſey—wou'dn't part with her for—

Aye, aye, quite done up—won't fetch five pounds at next fair.

This dunce's ignorance diſtracts me—come along Suſan.

Why what can it be? what the devil ails her.

Why Sir, the long and the ſhort of the affair is as how—he has cut me all acroſs the face—mercy I did not loſe my eye.

This curſed fellow will drive me mad, the mare, the mare, you ſcoundrel the mare.

Yes Sir, the mare—then too my ſhins—Maſter Salve the ſurgeon ſays I muſt 'noint 'emwi—

Plague o' your ſhins you dog, what's the matter with the mare?

Why, Sir, as I was coming home this morning over Black Down, what does I ſee but young Maſter tearing over the turf upon Daiſey, ſo I calls to him to ſtop, thof I knew your honour had forbid him to ride her —but what does he me, but ſmacks his whip full in my face, and daſh over the gate into Stoney Lane.

Stoney Lane; well and what?

Farmer Flail met 'em, and had but juſt time to hide himſelf in the hedge before down comes mare and Maſter over a ſtone heap—and what's worſe—when I rated him about it, he ſnatches up Tom Carter's long whip, and lays me ſo over the legs, and before I cou'd catch hold of him he whips out of the ſtable and was off like a ſhot.

Well, if ever I forgive him this—no —I'll ſend him this moment back to ſchool —ſchool! Zounds I'll ſend him to ſea.

Well brother, yonder comes your precious child—he's muttering all the way up ſtairs to himſelf ſome freſh miſchief I warrant.

Aye, here he comes, ſtand back let's watch him—though I can never contain my paſſion long.

Well, ſo far all goes on rarely— dinner muſt be near ready—Old Poll will taſte well I dare ſay—Parrot and bread ſauce, ha, ha, ha! they ſuppoſe they're going to have a nice young pheaſant, an old parrot is a greater rarity I'm ſure, I can't help thinking how deviliſh tough the drumſticks will be— a fine piece of work aunt will make when 'tis found out, ecod for ought I know, that may be better fun than t'other—no doubt Sukey will tell and John too about the mare, a parcel of ſneaking fellows, always, tell, tell, tell, I only wiſh I cou'd catch 'em at ſchool once— that's all—I'd pay 'em well ſor't I'd be bound —O here they are, and as I live my father and aunt—to be ſure I'm not got into a pretty ſcrape now—I almoſt wiſh I was ſafe back at ſchool again.

O Sir, how d'ye do? I was juſt coming to—

Come, come, no fooling, now how dare you look me in the face after the miſchief you have done?

Miſchief Sir! what miſchief have I done?

This impudence provokes me beyond all, you know the value I ſet upon that mare you have ſpoiled for ever.

But Sir—hear me—indeed I wasn't ſo much to blame Sir, not ſo very much.

Don't aggravate your faults by pretending to excuſe them, your father is too kind to you.

Dear Sir, I own I was unfortunate, but I heard you often complain how wild and vicious Daiſey was, and ſo, Sir, ſooner than you ſhould ſuffer, I was reſolv'd to venture my own neck and try to tame her for you, that's all Sir;—and ſo I was no ſooner mounted but off ſhe ſet—I cou'dn't help that you know Sir—and ſo this misfortune happen'd—but indeed Sir—

Cou'd I be ſure this was your motive, that it was merely love and regard for your old father makes you thus teize and torment him— perhaps I might be inclined—

Yes, Sir, but 'twas no love and regard for I made him beat me ſo.

John, you know, you were to blame—indeed Sir the truth is John was ſcolding me for it, and when I told him as I have told you why I did it, and that it was to hinder your being hurt, he ſaid that was no [11] buſineſs of mine, and if your neck was broke 'twas no ſuch great matter.

What! no great matter to have my neck broke.

No Sir, ſo he ſaid; and I was vex'd to hear him ſpeak ſo of you—and I believe I might take up the whip and give him a cut or two on the legs—it cou'd not hurt him much.

Well child, I believe I muſt forgive you and ſo ſhall John too—but I had forgot poor Poll; what did you roaſt the parrot for, you young dog you?

Why Sir, I knew you and my aunt were both ſo fond of it—I thought ſhe'd like to ſee it well dreſt—but dear aunt

I know you muſt be angry with me, and you think with reaſon.

Don't ſpeak to me—I'm not ſo weak as your father, whatever you may fancy.

But indeed aunt you muſt hear me, had I not lov'd you as I do, I ſhou'dn't have thus offended you—but 'twas merely my regard for your character.

Character!

Character!—O Lord—O Lord.

Get about your buſineſs you ſcoundrel.

Why dear aunt, I had heard that no ladies kept parrots, or lap dogs, till they were no longer able to keep lovers, and when at ſchool I told 'em you kept a parrot, the boys ſaid, then you muſt be a fooliſh old maid.

Indeed! impudent young wretches.

Yes aunt, and ſo I reſolved you ſhou'd no longer be thought ſo—for I think you're a great deal too handſome for an old maid.

Come Siſter, faith you muſt forgive him—no female heart can withſtand that.

Brother I can forgive where I ſee occaſion, but though theſe faults are thus excuſed, how will you anſwer to a charge of ſcandal and ill-nature.

Ill-nature ma'am—I'm ſure nobody can accuſe me of that.

How will you juſtify the report you ſpread of my being lock'd up in my cloſet with Mr Tagg the author—can you defend ſo vile an attempt to injure my dear reputation.

What! that too I ſuppoſe was from your care of her character—and ſo to hinder your aunt from being thought an old maid; you lock'd her up in her cloſet with this author as he's call'd?

Nay indeed dear ma'am—I beſeech you 'twas no ſuch thing—all I ſaid was, you were amuſing yourſelf in your cloſet with a favourite author.

I amuſe myſelf, in my cloſet with a favourite author! worſe and worſe.

Siſter, have patience—hear—

I am aſhamed to ſee you ſupport your boy in ſuch inſolence—I indeed! who am ſcrupulous to a fault—but no longer will [13] I remain ſubject to ſuch impertinence, I quit your houſe Sir, and you ſhall quit all claim to my fortune—this moment I'll alter my will, and leave my money to a ſtranger ſooner than to your family.

Her money to a ſtranger! O the three per cents conſols—O the India Stock— go child—fly, throw yourſelf at your aunt's feet, ſay any thing to pleaſe her—I ſhall run diſtracted—O thoſe conſols!

I'm gone Sir, ſhall I ſay ſhe may die as ſoon as ſhe pleaſes, but ſhe muſt not leave her money to a ſtranger.

Aye, aye, there's a good boy; ſay any thing to pleaſe her, that will do very well; ſay ſhe may die as ſoon as ſhe pleaſes, but ſhe muſt not leave her money to a ſtranger.

Well never man was ſo tormented. I thought when my poor dear wife Mrs Pickle died, and left me a diſconſolate widower, I had ſome chance of being a happy man—but I know not how it is—I cou'd bear the vexations of my wife's bad temper, better than this woman's—all my married friends were as miſerable as myſelf, that was ſome relief, but now—faith here ſhe comes, and in a fine humour no doubt.

Brother I have given directions for my immediate departure, and I am now [14] to tell you, I will perſiſt in my deſign, unleſs you this moment adopt the ſcheme I yeſter⯑day laid down for my nephew's amendment.

Why my dear ſiſter you know there's nothing I wou'dn't readily do to ſatisfy and appeaſe you, but to abandon my only child and take a beggar's brat into my arms— impoſſible!

Very well Sir, then I'm gone.

But Siſter ſtay—was ever man ſo uſed —how long is this ſcheme of yours to laſt? how long am I to be deprived of him?

How long! why till he's brought duly to reflect on his bad behaviour, which nothing will induce him to do ſooner than thinking he is no longer your ſon, but the child of poor parents—I yeſterday ſpoke to Margaret our old nurſe, and ſhe fully com⯑prehends the whole affair.

But why in addition to the quitting my own child, am I to have the torment of receiving her's—wont the ſending him away be ſufficient.

Unleſs the plot's manag'd my way, I'll have nothing to ſay to it, but begone, can't you tell that his diſtreſs at loſing his ſituation, will be augmented, by ſeeing it in poſſeſſion of another? come, come, Brother, a week's purgatory will reform him, depend on it.

Why to be ſure as you ſay, it will reform him and as we ſhall have an eye upon him all the while, and Margaret was his own nurſe-

You may be ſure ſhe'll take care of him. Well ſince this is ſettled, the ſooner it is done the better. Thomas!

ſend your young maſter here.

I ſee you're finally reſolv'd and no other way will content you—well heaven protect my poor child.

Brother you are ſo blinded by your fooliſh fondneſs, that you ceaſe to perceive what is for his benefit, 'tis happy for you there is a perſon to direct you of my ſuperior diſcernment.

Did you ſend for me aunt?

Child come hither, I have a ſecret to diſcloſe to you, at which you will be ſurprs'd.

A ſecret Sir!

Yes, and one that requires your utmoſt courage to bear, you are no longer to conſider that perſon as your father—he is not ſo —Margaret who nurs'd you has confeſs'd— and the thing is ſufficiently prov'd, that you are not his ſon but her's—She exchanged you when an infant for my real nephew, and her conſcience at laſt compell'd her to make the diſcovery.

I another perſon's child? impoſ⯑ſible!—Ah you are only joking with me now to ſee whether I love you or not—but indeed I am yours—my heart tells me I am only, only yours.

You deceive yourſelf—there can be no doubt of the truth of Margaret's account.

Good heavens! dear Sir don't ſay ſo—I will not believe it—it can never be? —muſt I then give up all I reſpect and love to the poſſeſſion of another? believe Sir 'tisn't the ſplendor of riches I repine at quitting, 'tis the happineſs I never till now felt of calling you father—aunt.

Aſſure yourſelf of our protection, but no longer can you remain in this houſe—I muſt not do an injury to my own child—you belong to others—to them you muſt now go.

Yet Sir, for an inſtant hear me— pity me dear aunt, if yet I dare to call you ſo, intercede in my behalf—heaven! ſhe knows me not. Ah! then too ſure I know I am not your child—or would that diſtreſs, which draws tears of pity from them, fail to move nature in you—farewell I muſt away—but at leaſt forgive me—pardon the faults I have com⯑mitted—you cannot ſure in pity deny me that—

ACT II.

AND ſo as I was telling your ladyſhip, poor little maſter does ſo take it to heart—and ſo weep and wail, it almoſt makes me cry to hear him.

Well, well, ſince he begins already to repent his puniſhment ſhall be but ſhort— but have you brought your boy with you?

Aye, have I—poor Tommy—he came from aboard of ſhip but now—and is ſo grown and alter'd—ſure enough he believes every word I have told him as your honour order'd me—and I warrant is ſo ſheep⯑iſh and ſhamefaced—O here comes my maſter —he has heard it all already—

but my lady, ſhall I fetch my poor Tommy to you?— he's waiting without.

What that ill looking young raſcal in the hall? he with the jacket and trowſers?

Aye, your honour, then you have ſeen him?

Seen him!—aye and felt him too— the booby met me bolt at the corner—run his curſt carrotty poll in my face and has looſen'd every tooth in my head I believe.

Poor lad—he's a ſailor and but awkward as yet and ſo ſhy I warrant—but will you your honour be kind to him—

Kind to him—why I'm to paſs for his father, a'n't I?

Aye, I wiſh your honour had been poor Tommy's father—but no ſuch luck for me, as I ſay to my huſband.

Indeed?—your huſband muſt be very much oblige to you, and ſo am I—

But do, your honour, once let me ſee my Tommy dreſt in his fine ſmart Cloaths.

Damme! I don't half like that Tommy.

Yes, yes, you ſhall—but now go and fetch him here to us—I ſhou'd like much to ſee him.

Do you now madam, ſpeak kindly to him, for poor boy he's quite daſh'd.

Daſh'd!—yes and he has daſh'd ſome of my teeth out, plague on him.

Now Mr. Pickle I inſiſt upon your obſerving a proper behaviour and decorum towards this poor lad—obſerve the condeſcen⯑tion of my deportment—methinks I feel a ſtrange inclination already in his favour— perhaps I may advance him by and by to be my page, ſhall I brother?—here he comes— and I declare as prepoſſeſſing a countenance as I ever beheld.

Come hither, child, was there ever ſuch an engaging air.

Go, Tommy, do as you're bid, that's a good boy, thank his honour for his goodneſs to you.

Be you the old fellow that's juſt come to be my father?

Old fellow?—he's deviliſh daſh'd to be ſure—yes I am the old fellow as you call it—will you be a good child?

Aye, but what will you gi' me? —muſt I be good for nothing?

Good for nothing! nay, that I'll ſwear you are already, well, and how long have you been come from Sea, eh? how do you like a ſailor's life? eh?

So, this is the way I'm to be enter⯑tain'd in future with forecaſtle jokes and tarpaulin ſongs—

Brother, don't ſpeak ſo harſhly to the poor lad—come to me, my pretty boy, I'll be your friend.

Friend! Oh what your my Grand⯑mother—

father muſtn't I call her Granne?

What, he wants encouragement, Siſter, he's found out one relation however— this boy's aſſurance diverts me, I like him—

Granne's mortal croſs and frumpiſh—la, father! what makes your mo⯑ther there ſo plaguy foul weather'd.

Mother, indeed!

O nothing at all, my dear, ſhe's the beſt humour'd perſon in the world—go, throw yourſelf at her feet and aſk her bleſſing —perhaps ſhe may "gi' ye ſomething."

A bleſſing!—I ſhan't be much richer for that, neither, perhaps ſhe may give me half a crown—I'll throw myſelf at her feet and aſk for a guinea—

dear granne, gi' me that pretty picture

Stand off, wretch—am I to be robb'd as well as inſulted.

Fie! child! learn to behave yourſelf better.

Behave myſelf—learn you to behave yourſelf—I ſhou'dn't ha' thought of you indeed—get you gone—I'm a young gemman now, and muſtn't remember old acquaintances—get out, I ſay.

Well, Siſter—this plan of yours I hope ſucceeds to your ſatisfaction—he'll make a mighty pretty Page, ſiſter, what an en⯑gaging air he has, Siſter,—this is ſome revenge for her treatment of my poor boy.

I perceive this to be all a contrivance —and this boy is taught to inſult me thus— but ere long, you may repent this unparallell'd treatment of unprotected innocence.

What ſhe means to go off with her lover the player man, I ſuppoſe—but I'll watch her and her conſols too—and if I catch him in my houſe, it ſhall be his laſt appear⯑ance this Seaſon—

There they go—ha, ha, ha! my ſcheme has gone on rarely—rather better than their's I think—bleſſings on the old nurſe for conſenting to it.—I'll teach 'em to turn people out of doors—let me ſee—what [24] trick ſhall I play em now—ſuppoſe I ſet the houſe on fire—no, no, its too ſoon for that—that will do very well by and by—let me ſee—I wiſh I cou'd ſee my ſiſter—I'll diſcover myſelf to her, and then we might contrive ſomething together nicely—that ſtaircaſe leads to her room—I'll try and call her—

there's nobody in the way—hiſt, hiſt! Maria, Maria!—ſhe hears me—ſhe's coming this way—

Sure ſomebody call'd me—no, theres nobody here, heigho! I've almoſt cried myſelf blind about my poor brother—for ſo I ſhall always call him—aye, and love him too—

My Brother! Charles! impoſſible!

'Tis e'en ſo, faith—'twas all a trick about the nurſe and child—I coax'd the old woman to confeſs the whole to me— ſo borrowing this dreſs as you ſee—return'd to plague 'em a little more, that's all—now you and I muſt conſult together how to re⯑venge ourſelves—let me ſee—how ſhall we vex 'em—I'll let 'em ſee who's beſt at plot⯑ting—what [25] ſhall it be—you can't contrive to kill yourſelf for the loſs of me, can you—that wou'd have a fine effect—is there nothing I can think of—ſuppoſe you pretend to fall in love with me and we may run away together!

That will do admirably, and you may depend on my playing my part with a good will, for I owe them ſome revenge for their treatment of you—beſides you know I can refuſe you nothing.

Thank you a thouſand times, my dear Maria—thus we'll contrive it

What!—how's this!—"Dear Maria," and "I'll refuſe you nothing." Death and the devil! my daughter has fallen in love with that young raſcal and his yeo, yeo, yeo—ſee too, they embrace

mighty well, young madam, mighty well, but come, you ſhall be lock'd up immediately, and you, young raſcal, be whipt out of the houſe—

You won't be ſo heard-hearted ſure—we will not part—here is my anchor fix'd—here am I moor'd for ever—

No—we'll never, never part—O cruel, cruel fate!

He has infected her with his aſſu⯑rance already—what you young minx, do you own you love him?

Love him! Sir, I adore him, and ſpite of your utmoſt oppoſition ever, ever ſhall.

O ruin'd! undone! what a wretched old man am I—but Maria! child!

Think not to diſſuade me, Sir, vain attempt! no, Sir, my affections are fix'd, never to be recall'd.

O dear, what ſhall I do! what will become of me—Oh! a plague on my plot, I have loſt my daughter, and for ought I know, my ſon too—Why child, he's a beg⯑gar—he's not worth a ſixpence.

My ſoul abhors ſo low a thought—I deſpiſe wealth—know, Sir, I cheriſh nobler ſentiments—

What, poetry too! nay then 'tis time to prevent further miſchief—

Go to your room—a good key ſhall enſure your ſafety, and that young raſcal may go back to ſea, with his yeo, yeo, yeo, if he will.

I obey your harſh command Sir, and am gone—but alas I leave my heart behind.

Now Sir, for you—don't look ſo audacious you young villain, don't fancy you belong to me—I utterly diſclaim you.

But that's rather too late now, old one, you have publicly ſaid I was your ſon, and damme I'll make you ſtand to it.

The devil! here's an affair—here John! Thomas! William!

Take that fellow, and turn him out of doors immediately.

Fellow! who, Sir?

Who! why zounds! him there, don't you ſee him.

What! my new young maſter! no, Sir, I've turn'd out one already—I'll turn out no more—

He's not your young maſter—he's no ſon of mine—away with him I ſay.

No, Sir—we know our young maſter too well for all that—why he's as like your honour as one pea is like another.

Aye, heaven bleſs him!—and may he ſhortly ſucceed your honour in your eſtate and fortune.—

Rogues! villians! I'm abuſed, rob⯑bed—

there's a conſpiracy [28] form'd againſt me—and this little Pirate is at the head of the gang—

Odſo! here's a letter from my poor boy— this is a comfort indeed—well, I'll ſend for him home without further delay—

‘Honoured Sir—I heartily repent of having ſo far abuſed your goodneſs while bleſs'd with your protection—but as I fear no penitence will reſtore me to your favour have reſolved to put it out of my power again to offend you—by bidding adieu to my country for ever’ —here John! go, run directly to Margery's fetch home my Son, and—

You may ſave yourſelf the trouble —'tis too late—you'll never bring him too, now—make as many ſignals, and fire as many guns as you pleaſe.

Mean—why he and I have changed births that's all.

Chang'd births!

Aye, I'm got into his hammock and he's got into mine, that's all, he's ſome leagues off at ſea by this time—the tide ſerves, the wind's fair, and Botany Bay's the word my old boy.

Botany Bay—then my miſery is com⯑plete—unhappy Pickle—but I'll inſtantly ſee about this myſelf—and if its true—I'll come [29] back juſt to blow out your brains—and ſo be either hang'd, or ſent to Botany Bay after him.

This is the hour of my appoint⯑ment with Mr Tagg—and my brother's ab⯑ſence is favourable indeed—well after ſuch treatment, can he be ſurpriſed if I throw my⯑ſelf into the arms of ſo paſſionate an admirer —my fluttering little heart tells me this is an important criſis in my happineſs—how much theſe vile men have to anſwer for in thus bewitching us ſilly girls—

[30]Thus moſt charming of your ſex, let me proſtrate myſelf at the ſhrine of beauty.

Mr Tagg, I fear I never can be yours.

Adorable, lovely, the moſt beautified Ophelia "beautified is a vile phraſe"—

Indeed, Mr Tagg, you make me bluſh with your compliments.

Compliments!— ‘O call not by that hacknied name the voice of truth’ — ‘lovely nymph O deign to hear me—I'll teach you what it is to love.’

Love! Mr Tagg!—O moderate your tranſports be adviſed—think no more of this fatal paſſion.

Think no more of it!— ‘can love be controul'd by advice?’ — ‘will Cupid our mother obey?’ —O then conſent my angel to join our hands in one—or give me my death in a frown.

Can I refuſe any thing to ſuch a lover—but my dear friend—were I to conſent to our tender union—how cou'd we contrive our eſcape—my brother's vigilence wou'd overtake us—and you might have ſome cauſe to repent of his anger.

O he's a Goth, a meer Vandyke, my love!— ‘but fear makes the danger ſeem double—ſay Hymen what miſchief and trouble, ſay what men will, wedlock's a Pill —bitter to ſwallow and hard of digeſtion’ — I've contrived the plot and every ſcene of the elopement—here in this ſhady bleſt retreat will I unfold it all—

lets ſit down like Jeſſica and the fair Lorenzo here—

O I cou'd liſten thus for ever to the charms of love and harmony—but how are we to plan our eſcape?

In a low and mean attire muffled up in a great cloak will I await you in this happy [32] ſpot—but why, my ſoul, why not this inſtant fly—thus let me ſeize my tender bit of lamb —there I think I had her as dead as mutton

No, I'm not yet equipp'd for an elopement, and what is of more conſequence ſtill, I hav'n't got with me a caſket of jewels I have prepared, rather too valuable to be left behind.

That is of ſome conſequence indeed to me—"my diamond, my pearl," then be a good girl until I come to thee again—

Come back again in the diſguiſe immediately—and if fortune favours faithful lovers vows I will contrive to ſlip out to you—

Diſpoſe of me, lovely creature as you pleaſe—but don't forget the caſket.

Granne! granne!

What rude interuption's this?

O nothing at all—only father's coming—that's all—

The devil! what a cataſtrophe!

One laſt adieu!

think you we ſhall ever meet again—

Damme if I think we ſhall ever part—

Don't detain me—wont you let me go—

Go! zounds! I wiſh you was gone.

Well, all's not ſo bad as I fear'd— he's not yet gone to ſea, and Margery aſſures me I ſhall ſee him again ſoon, quite another thing from what he was—but now let me look after my Siſter—tho' ſhe let me play the fool, I'll take care to prevent her—I muſtn't give up the conſols too—but odſo I haven't yet ſeen my daughter,—I'll to her firſt, leſt young yeo, yeo, ſhou'd really get her ſhipt off —and when I've ſecured fifteen, I'll look after fifty—but who's coming here? I'll con⯑ceal myſelf and watch—

Mr Tagg—Mr Tagg—I hope he's return'd—how I tremble—kind Cupid aid your vot'ry's feeble ſteps—

O my dear Mr Tagg—take the caſket, and let us make haſte that we may eſcape before my brother comes back—

This way—this way—

Your moſt obedient, humble ſervant, madam—well ſaid fifty egad!—your moſt obſequious, Mr Alexander

what John! William! Thomas! you ſha'n't want attendants, mighty Prince—

or may hap you had rather ſleep in a caſtle, great Hero, we have a con⯑venient jail cloſe by, where you'll be very ſafe, moſt illuſtrious chief—

A jail! O heav'ns! poor dear Mr Tagg—a victim to his love for me—O let's [35] implore his forgiveneſs and intreat him to releaſe you.

Thus then let me implore for pardon, and believe that a repentance ſo ſin⯑cere as mine will never ſuffer my heart again to wander from its duty towards him.

What's this, my ſon,

odds my heart I'm glad to ſee him once more —O you dear little fellow—but you wicked ſcoundrel, how dare you play me ſuch tricks?

Tricks! O Sir, recollect you have kindly pardoned them already, and now you muſt intercede for me with my aunt, that I may have her forgiveneſs too, for preventing her from eloping with her tender ſwain, Mr Tagg.

Mr Tagg! odſo! there the conſols were ſinking apace, but you have rais'd them once more.

And do you then indeed, Sir, ſincerely forgive me and forget all my paſt follies.

Forget them—ah, had you vex'd me as much again I ſhou'd have been more than repaid by the happineſs of this moment.

Kind Sir, my joy is then com⯑plete, and I will never more offend.

And yet wou'd theſe our fair and gracious ſpectators condeſcend to own they have been amuſed by my tricks, (and if I can judge of looks, or am ſkill'd in the language of eyes, they deign to ſmile aſſent) I ſhall be tempted again to tranſgreſs.