ACT I.

IT is indeed a thouſand pities ſo generous a gentle⯑man as our maſter, ſhou'd be thus oblig'd to part with half his ſervants, merely for want of the means to retain them.

Ay, Dennis, maſter's a free horſe, but the world's a deep road, and ſpirit won't bring wheels thro' without the hard meat—ſo poor maſter's knock'd up at laſt.

What, and Monſieur ſtruck off too?

Why Monſieur Degagee, by your mirth nobody could ſuppoſe you had loſt a good place this morning.

Oui, Monſieur Denni, I am turn off a mon maitre this morning; when I did get out of bed, I was in place, and to-night when I get into bed, I ſhall be out of place. Ah, ha!

I ſee when misſortune comes—

Oui, I am one pauvre, unfortunate miſerable—Monſieur Denni, maitre Jean, attendezmi landlor did once ſet fire his own houſe, and burn me out out of my logement—five pound for de firſt engine!—I was make [4] my eſcape out of de vinder in my ſhirt—crack went de ſlame widin—whiz went de water widout—the engine did play upon pauvre me, and de mob did laugh at me, as if I vas une Comedie or Farce.

Ay, the farce of fire and water.

Fire and water, non!—I vas roaſt and drown—ver good—I ſcape vid the von ſhirt all wet, and was held to dry too near de fire, it was burn too; all de ſhirt I had in de world—but all one to Degagee.

Poor Monſieur!

Oui Vraiment, pauvre moi, attendez—after dat I was go to France in de ſuite of a mi Lor Aagloiſe, den I was tink to come back to England, and ſet up de grand ſhop in Pall-mall, and did lay out all my l'argent in de ſilk ſtocking, de tambour waſtecoat, and lace ruffles; perfume poudre, and pareſols for my ſhop—I did put all in de Dutch bottom, but at ſea, up did come de little ſailor Anglois—vid de new copper breeches, and pauf ſhoot off our maſts and ſail, and drag us into Portſ⯑mouth, and ſing—"Always are ready."

You were tow'd in.

I no underſtand dat toe.

Why Monſieur the little Engliſh ſailor with the copper breeches, took the Dutchman by the toe, and dragg'd his bottom into Portſmouth.

Ban eſt vrai, but il tout perdue—and den I vas ſan ſit ſous and ſans ſouci—I loſt all—but den, par ha⯑zard I vas come live wid dat bon tete, mon maitre, Mon⯑ſieur Edward, vat you call Sandford,—alas! he is all broke—and ma foi—I am all broke again—auſſi de debris of my wages, two, three guineas, and my cof⯑ter vid ſome pomade, comb, curling iron, and three pound mareſchale.

Poor Monſieur.

Oui, pauvre moi, maitre Jean, you looſe your place too—but you are prepare for de faſt, you carry your beef vid you—here is de beef.

[5]And here is de ſhoulder of de beef, and de leg of de beef, auſſi, and de head of de beef auſſi.

And Monſieur I have de fiſt of de beef.

Very heavy morbleu, come make a de peace, be⯑gar my king make a de good peace vid your king, ſo do you make de peace vid Degagee.

Our king, heaven bleſs him, holds the rein for his ſubjects, and he'll always hold a whip for the moun⯑ſieurs.

Vat, he vil whip de Monſieurs!

Ah, my little dog, moſh oblige Monſieur Grizley Voyez, Monſieur Denni Voyez, Maitre Jean, look at dis pretty dog,—I am turn oft a mon Maitre, pauvre, miſerable—he is turn oft auſſi.

I am ſorry we loſe you, Monſieur.

And I am ſorry, ſo full of ſorry as all de vorld!—Lol, lol, lol! Santez—Ah, jump up my little dog, mon petit Santez jedit, allons done—Lol, lol, lol! Bon jour, Maitre Jean—Adieu, Monſieur Denni.

What a merry piece of diſtreſs!

Monſieur knows his ſwarthy phiz, and broken Engliſh, ſoon recommend him to a lady of quality.

What, and Blacky goes too?

Oh, oh! me no live wid good maſſa no more; oh, oh!—what me do for de muſh good eat and drink, oh, oh!

You ſhall ſoil with me you dog—cry, you may well cry at quitting your maſter; you're grown as ſleek and as plump as a biſhop's coach horſe in his ſervice—but courage, Hannibal, your ſleece and complexion ſoon get you into bread—but when ſhall I mount a box again? Ah, I'm an Engliſhman! Well, I hope to ſee the day when that will be a better recommendation to [6] an Engliſh nobleman than being a Monſieur or a Black-amoor.

Oh, I muſt ſtrip fine coat— oh!

Yes, and that turbot off your head too.

No, John, my maſter deſires you and Hannibal may keep your liveries.

What, and may I take the harneſs I have on—bleſs his handſome heart! Well Dennis, you ſtay—good bye, lad—when you chance to drive towards Lei⯑ceſter Fields, I ſhall be glad to take a watering tankard with you at the Coach and Horſes; but mayhap, like the great courtiers, you ſcorn to know an old acquaint⯑ance out of place.

No, John, I'm not ſo polite as that yet.

Come along, Hannibal—gee up! off we go into the world again! but up or down, wet or dry, thro' thick or thin, proſperity and better fortune to my dear maſter. Gee up—ay, ay.

Poor fellows! I cannot help feeling for them.

Sad at parting with your companions, Dennis?

Not more griev'd than they were, Sir, at quit⯑ting ſo good a maſter as your honour.

Poor fellows! ay, Dennis, integrity and fidelity like other obſolete faſhions, ſeem to be caſt off by the great—it's natural that they here and there be pick'd up by their inferiors—Any body here this morning?

Mr. Wormwood, Sir, to let you know he'd call no more for his money.

I am oblig'd to him.

For he has put the affair into the attorney's hands.

And the raſcal paid his own debts with half a crown in the pound—now, my ſole dependance is upon my old friend Ruſhſtaff.

Mr. Ruſhſtaff left his compliments, Sir, is ſorry [7] he can't oblige you, as he has not more than will juſt enable him to take the box at Brookes's to-night.

Well, well—a verbal anſwer to my letter; his good manners he levels to his ſincerity—my friend too.

My dear, dear, Edward!

My ſweet Caroline.

Such a delicious ſcheme as I have deviſed for our relief—Come, come, I'll have no more melan⯑choly.

For myſelf I ſhou'd not care; if ſingle, I cou'd elbow my way thro' the buſtle of this buſy world; but to involve you, my love, a partner in my poverty—

Poor pretty bird! then it cou'd ſoaring cleave the air and ſweetly chirp the ſong of freedom, if not im⯑peded by its troubleſome, yet affectionate male.

But Edward, is the carriage gone?

Sold by auction.

You are ſo haſty—but no matter—if my plot don't lift us into another, welcome a calaſh and pattens—let us firſt methodically ſtate out caſe to fortune, and in⯑voke her aid.

Begin then.

My wealthy uncle, Sir Walter Weathercock —

Wou'd have married my rich aunt, Miſs Hebe Wintertop.

A quarrel on the bridal morn, broke off the match.

Hate ſucceeds to love.

Or rather anger to dotage.

At this period, I poſſeſſing an ardent paſſion for Caroline—

And I, having no averſion for Edward—

Are forbid by the old ones to hold further in⯑tercourſe with each other, on pain of their immortal diſ⯑pleaſure, but nobly ſacrificing intereſt to love, you ran away with me.

O fie, Edward! it was you ran away with me.

Married ſcarce a twelve month, our mutual par⯑tiality for good houſe-keeping has brought our ſtock to the laſt guinea—and no living without money.

Then let us die.

Die!

Yes,—my life to yours, it enables us to live comfortably hereafter.

Ha, ha, ha! pleaſant enough this! but Caro⯑line, I confeſs I can't comprehend how dying can con⯑duce to a perſon's living comfortably—Ha, ha, ha!

You laugh, but I am ſerious.

Death is indeed a ſerious ſubject—but come, your ſcheme.

It lies thus—you ſhall inſtantly go to your aunt, in all the ſuppos'd grief of a diſconſolate widower, tell her that I died this morning: I'll to my uncle, and tell him the ſame ſtory of you—Now, each ſuppoſing the cauſe of their diſpleaſure for ever remov'd, will,(I make no doubt) reſtore us again into favour, ſupply us with an ample ſum for the preſent, and ſettle on each an affluent appointment in future.

But the diſcovery of ſuch a fraud—

How—they never ſee each other, perhaps ne⯑ver may—then their circle is ſo remote from ours—or, at worſt, can we be poorer, or farther remov'd from, their favour than at preſent.

Say no more, I am dead.

And I, gone with the doleful news to my un⯑cle—I fear nothing but a laugh to prevent my ſucceſs.

And that we do ſucceed, dear fortune grant.

If Sir Walter ſhou'd ſee me now—what then—I'll tell him, ſays I,—if wrinkled bachelors keep ſmooth cheek'd houſe-keepers, "as Squire Ranger ſays," we clever young fellows have a right—I'd tell him—if he had not a cane in his hand—cane or no cane, I'd—Here he is—I had as good hide myſelf.

Eh, no, its my ſweet Comfit.

Now who cou'd imagine that a ſimple country girl as I was five years ago, cou'd turn out ſuch a—I'm very ugly to be ſure.

What can become of this wretch, Motley?

That's I.

I know the fellow loves me.

Do I?

He'd leap at marrying me.

I'd look twice firſt.

I'm certainly a handſome girl.

Yes, and you don't know it.

But theſe men—Motley's perhaps at this mo⯑ment, liſt'ning to ſome conceited huſſey of other.

I am indeed.

I'm ſorry Motley's ſo poor.

Upon my ſoul, ſo am I.

But my three hundred pound—

Say no more, I'll have it.

Ah, Motley, you devil, how cou'd you frighten a body ſo?

Take me! for as Jacques, the huntſman, ſays—"Motley's your only man."

Who ſays ſo?

Jacques, in the play of "How d'ye like it."—There, where Harlequin Touchſtone is—"Motley," ſays he, "is your only man," and he did not know me from Adam, only it came ſo apropos.

Motley, you improv'd during the year you liv'd with the actreſs.

Yes, I think I did a little.

But how came ſhe to part with you?

Becauſe I was a Pagan.

A Pagan!

Yes—you muſt know ſhe gave me a ſhilling one night to go to the twelve-penny gallery, and order'd me, after ſhe ſung a ſong, to cry out ongiorum.

What's ongiorum?

Ongiorum is Latin for, don't ſing any more. Well, up I mounted—but unfortunately taking a glaſs too much with a friend I met in the gallery—inſtead of my miſtreſs, when one Mr.Damon, who play'd, the De⯑vil that night, had ſung his, ſong, I roar'd out—onco⯑rum, oncorum, Red Stockings—ſo my miſtreſs turn'd me off next morning; for, ſays ſhe, (looking in the glaſs, after your faſhion juſt now) none but a Pagan, cou'd miſtake a Devil for an Angel.

Poor Motley!—Pray, what ſort of people are there players?

What ſort!—Lord, my dear Comfit, of all ſorts.

That's a good ſong—but I wiſh you were down ſtairs, for my maſter makes this his way to the ſtudy, and his averſion to your miſtreſs is ſuch—I think I hear him—if he ſees you I am ruin'd.

He can't remember me.

Huſh, he's here—don't ſpeak, and I'll get you off.

Comfit, I wanted to aſk—who's that?

The lad, Sir, belongs to Mr. Quack, the famous rheumatiſm man, [...]at advertiſes to ſupply elderly gentle⯑men with calves.

Calves! his maſter's a grazier,—ha!

No, Sir, a gouty doctor.

Oh! the doctor has the gout?

No, no, Sir, he cures the rheumatiſm, gout, and dropſy.

Have you a dropſy? eh Comfit!

No, Sir, but the doctor gives this young man leave to turn a penny for himſelf in the fortune telling-way.

A fortune-teller!—I'll take a peep thro' his teleſcope of futurity—Pray friend—

Why does he make faces at me? can't he ſpeak?

He can't ſpeak, Sir, for many reaſons—firſt he's dumb—ſecondly—

Hold—your firſt reaſon is ſufficient for his not ſpeaking—ſhall I ever marry?

What's that?

He means yes, Sir.

He lies!—if ſo, ſhall I be happy?—Eh!

He means Sir, that matrimony will ſend you to Heaven.

How?

Thro' Cuckold's-gate, Sir Walter Weather⯑cock call'd cuckold, by a mumming magician! a ſecond⯑hand ſon of a ſorcerer! a hey-cockolorum conjuror! a wizard with a pig-tail! How long have you been dumb, ſirrah?

Sir, I was born dumb—Zounds!

In my life I never heard a dumb man ſpeak ſo plain.

Such a blockhead!

Cures dropſies! raiſes dropſies I fancy, eh, Comfit!—the doctor provides rams as well as calves—this is a ram of Jacob's breed—parti-colour'd, ſtreak'd and pied.

Own yourſelf.

The truth is, Sir, this is Miſs Wintertop's man, and he's come to—tell my maſter what you are come about.

Yes, Sir, I come to—what the devil did I come about;

I come, Sir—I come, Sir—I'm come, Sir.

I ſee you are come Sir, but what brought you, Sir?

With his lady's compliments for the honor of your company this evening—I know he won't go.

And pray, huſſy, have you no butt but your maſter for your hums and haws.

Sir, I beg your pardon, but I knew your ſpirit wou'd reject with scorn an offer from Miſs Wintertop, and ſo, Sir, to ſave the poor lad from the dreadful effects of your fury, I thought to have got him out of the houſe without your knowledge.

I believe I ought to be angry here

—Yes, Comfit, I am in a fury! go back to your Miſ⯑treſs, ſirrah, and if I catch you here again, I'll bamboo you ſo, that it ſhall puzzle Hunter, that able anatomiſt, to diſtinguiſh one muſcle from another! I will upon my honor, you raſcal.

Oncorum, red ſtockings again, by gad—I'll mol⯑lify him to ſome tune out of the Beggar's Opera.

Mrs. Sandford, is below Sir, and inſiſts on coming up.

What, my niece! I won't ſee her—I'll, never ſee her, tell her ſo.

She's here, Sir.

So niece, I find you will add another twig to the rod of diſobedience, by thus intruding contrary to my expreſs commands.

Ah, Sir! your rigour would diſſolve to pity and forgiveneſs, did you know my calamitous ſituation.

Pity! your tears play'd off at rny heart, are are Spaniſh onions againſt the rock of Gibraltar—you wou'd marry Miſs Wintertop's nephew; tho' you knew how injuriouſly I was us'd by that old coxcom his aunt. You have a huſband, and ſo—make much of him.

Alas, Sir! I have no huſband.

I ſaid he wou'd run away from you, when you became poor.

Ah, Sir, wrong not the memory of the—Oh, wretched Caroline! Alas, Sir, my huſband's dead.

Edward dead!—gad ſo niece, I aſk your pardon—I'm ſorry—I am faith—poor thing—Eh! gad!—now Edward is gone, I begin to think he was a wor⯑they lad—now he's gone, I—

For ever—ever gone!

Well, we m'uſt only take care of thoſe that ſtay behind,—we muſt have a handſome funeral,—but I'll go ſee the body.

Heaven forbid!

Do, dear Sir, I left his ſorrowful aunt weeping over him.

Oh, if ſhe's there, I'll ſtay here—Caroline, no money left I ſoppoſe—Ay, Edward a Bon Vivant! liv'd all the days of his life.

Well, there's five hundred pounds—have a decent funeral, Sand kiſs tne child—come dry up your tears, and look upon ma again as your parent.

Sir, this goodneſs—

Come, child, you are a young widow, don't let your tears impair your beauty.

Oh, Sir, think on what I have loſt.

And Edward's dead! it muſt be for my kind condolence that his aunt ſent for me; I'm ſorry I [16] treated her meſſage with ſuch contempt—Heigh ho! I feel my love for her revive. I'll wait on her at her own houſe, 'tho' the ſight of Edward has made her ſo ſad—Ay, no making love when a dead man's in company.

A Chamber at Miſs Wintertop's.

Only a gentleman wou'd ſpeak with Miſs Wintertop.

If my ſucceſs with my aunt here equals Caroline's ex⯑pectations—Oh, here ſhe is.

Your moſt obedient—my nephew! how dare you Richard, call me to any perſon with previouſ⯑ly bringing up their name.

I fear'd a knowledge of mine, madam, might deprive me of the honour, which I now enjoy; but did you know the fatal diſaſter that occaſioned—

I don't love diſaſters, and I now tell, once for all, nephew, your diſaſters ſhall never be the leſs for me; your diſobedient marriage with Sir Walter's niece, has—

Ah! Madam, that marriage is eternally diſ⯑ſolv'd.

Elop'd! I thought ſhe'd turn out as faſhionable a wife as e'er a Ducheſs of 'em all! but in⯑deed what can [...]e expected when ladies wear uniforms, and pay morning viſits with phaetons and ponies—gone off! fine doings.

My Caroline, Madam, was compell'd to yield; the careful parent, and the tender huſband, daily, with tears behold the wife and maiden raviſh'd from their arms by that inſatiate monſter! that general Gallant.

He rude to maidens too! the filthy fellow—what ſtreet does he live in?

Who, Madam?

General Gallant.

My grief, too copious for common language ſwell'd into a metaphor; the gallant I mean, madam, was death.

Death! well I never knew you to bring a pleaſant ſtory.

Oh!

What does the man mean by his blubber⯑ing and bellowing?

Excuſe my tears—but my Caroline is no more.

Caroline dead—Oh, that's another thing! well nephew, tho' your match was repugnant to my will, I don't rejoice at your wife's death.

That's very good of you, madam.

But how, and when, pray, did this affair happen?

This morning, ſuddenly! I hope the neceſſity of ſeeing you will excuſe the indecorum of my being ſeen abroad ſo ſoon.

Neceſſity! no money left I suppoſe—well, I find this accident has ſomewhat relax'd my ſeverity. Pray, do you ever ſee that civil gentleman her uncle? I fancy your extravagance has render'd you the object of his bounty, but a nephew of mine, never ſhall be oblig'd to him—I'll ſend you ſome money—come, child, you muſt not give way to grief.

O madam! had I never known the amiable qualities of Caroline, I ſhou'd not have ſuch cauſe to la⯑ment her loſs.

Sir Walter's attention to Edward and Ca⯑roline has given a gentle puff to the dying embers of my love, and if—

Sir Walter Weathercock, madam.

Oh, he has ſurpriz'd me at a moſt diſmal criterion—admit him—Edward's tale has depreſs'd my ſpirits in the abyſs of a lethargic torpitude.

Sir, this is an honour.

Madam,—I ſee ſhe's in great grief for the death of her nephew.

His niece's death affects him extremely.

Oh, Hebe! Hebe! my lovely old darling!

Old darling! as rude as ever.

You are ſorrowful—I don't wonder at it—well—accept my ſincere condolence.

Yes, you muſt feel for the death of ſo dear a relation—has it alter'd Caroline much? how does ſhe look?

Diſmal enough.

Yes, death wears a diſmal aſpect.

You've ſeen Edward.

Juſt now.

Loſt his fine complexion I ſuppoſe.

No, I think he looks as well as ever.

Ay, ſudden death, I fancy, does not change the countenance much.

Your niece was very young.

She's riſing twenty—Edward, I fancy, was not above twenty-three.

He'll be twenty-four his next birth-day.

Birth-day to a dead man.

And poor Edward's gone!

Yes, he's gone home—I wiſh you'd follow him, Sir Walter.

I am oblig'd to you, madam, but I hope I ſhan't go to his home theſe thirty years.

Now that's unkind, the ſight of a friend in the hour of trouble is ſuch a comfort.

A great comfort indeed.

I fancy you'll have a viſit from Caroline when its duſk.

Heaven forbid—no, when people quit this world, I beg to be excus'd from any further inter⯑courſe.

Why, madam, tho' my niece may be ſaid to be out of this world now, yet the funeral vow, and a [19] few Lethean tears ſhed, I warrant her youth attracts the butterflies.

Butterflies! the worms I think you mean, Sir Walter.

Worms! why to be ſure diveſted of their gaudy outſide, the macaronies are a ſpecies of grubs—but come, my angelic Hebe! let us forget our ſilly quar⯑rels—here let me take this vernal ſprig, as earneſt of the ſole poſſeſſion of thee, thou aromatic ſhrub of winter ſavory.

Oh, you amorous Philander!

Oh, extaſy! Hebe, get your nephew buried, and then we'll be married in—

Wait till my nephew is buried?

Nay, I only ſpeak for decency ſake.

How, Sir? wou'd you infer that I wou'd deviate from the rules of decency? I ſhou'd imagine when your niece is buried; the wedding—

My niece buried! why ſhe's crack'd.

Bury your nephew, madam.

Bury my nephew?

To be ſure! wou'd you hang him up be⯑tween two loadſtones like Mahomet of Mecca.

Bury my nephew! why he's mad.

You know your nephew is dead.

No, but you know your niece is dead.

Not I.

Did not you ſay your niece had left this world?

Did not you ſay your nephew was gone to his long home.

I tell you Edward left this room as you en⯑ter'd it.

I tell you, I ſaw Caroline at my houſe juſt now.

Sir, I don't think it ſafe to ſtay in a place with you.

Madam, I ſhou'dn't have troubled your place, if you had not ſent for me.

I ſend for you, Sir!

Deny that too—here comes the very fellow who brought the meſſage.

Aſtoniſhing!

Madam, the—Ha, he here! damnation! this is the ſecond time to day he croſs'd the way.

Pray Motley did I ſend you to Sir Walter Weathercock's this morning?

Nothing but a lye can ſave me.

Speak, friend, did not I ſee you at my houſe to-day?

Me! Oh Lord, Sir! not me, indeed.

Oh you infernal ſon of a—do you forget you were dumb.

Dumb! Oh dear Sir, don't ſay that of me! my lady I warrant wou'd not keep me an hour, if ſhe ſuſpected I was dumb—Lord, madam, am I dumb?

Ridiculous! it muſt be ſomebody elſe.

Oh Sir, ridiculous! it muſt be ſomebody elſe.

Brav'd out of the belief of my ears and eyes!—as for you, ſirrah—

Can'ſt eat a crocodile—drink like a weazle.

I'll weazle you, and weaſand you too you dog.

Let Hercules himſelf do what he may, the dog will bark—the cat will have fair play.

Since you are ſo poſitive, to—

And you ſo obſtinate, I'll ſend to Edward's houſe and learn the truth.

ACT II.

HA, ha, ha! well my dear Edward, now all's over, the ſucceſs of ou [...] little trick is even beyond my expectation.

Yes, my dear, but the benevolent effects of their credulity almoſt gives our little trick the air of a crime, and the ſhame of a detection.

You're ever raiſing phantoms to ſcare yourſelf—the dread of meeting your aunt here will keep Sir Walter away.

True, and the fear of ſeeing him will ſecure us from her viſits, but I expect her meſſenger with the caſh every moment.

Well, I'm prepar'd here within, ſhou'd he be curious.

A ſervant from your aunt, Sir.

I'll to my poſt of mortality.

Admit him.

Now for a woe⯑ful viſage.

"Even ſuch a man ſo ſpiritleſs—ſo woe be⯑gone, &c."—Sir, I am ſorry for your loſs—my lady, Sir, deſires me to ſee the—Oh!

There ſhe lies.

As handſome a corpſe as a man wou'd wiſh to look on, as Lord Romeo ſays—"Death has not ſuck'd the honey from her cheeks, and his pale lieutenant—no—his enſign, is not quarter'd there."

Any commands from my aunt?

Yes, Sir, ſhe commands you to prop up your ſpirits with old ſtout Madeira.—She commands you Sir, to take a bumper yourſelf, and to give three bum⯑pers to every body that comes to ſee you, gentle and ſim⯑ple.

Oh!

I ſuppoſe, Sir, you'll have the funeral obſe⯑quiors; if ſo, Sir, I'd have you, Sir, far the credit of, the thing, hire Solomon Durges to ſing at it.

Oh, bitter ſeparation!

Conſider, Sir, your lady, is in heaven, where you can never come, and for your ſake, I hope your ſepara⯑tion may long continue—her death is the cauſe of your grief—therefore, Sir, I wiſh you joy.

'Sdeath! ſhe has ſent no money.—

Pray have not you any meſſage?

No, Sir, only a letter.

Right—

Lay it on the table.

She is indeed a comely corpſe—Oh, life's an Italian ſhadow, a ſtrolling player, that falls thro a trap-door upon the ſtage, and then is ſeen no more.

Thank ye, Mr. Solomon Durges! but what [24] has our kind aunt ſent us? four hundred!—very hand⯑ſome indeed.

Mrs. Cypreſs, Madam, the black Milliner.

To take orders for your weeds—Ha, ha, ha!

Ah, my frizeur ſhall ſupply me with craping for weeds—Italian flowers—and for love, I wear it on my heart.

Another Chamber in Edward's Houſe.

Mr. Sheers, Sir,—I'll tell him, Sir.

Yes, Mr. Sheers, to take orders for his mourning.

A bailiff ſhall carry them home, tho'—yet no taylor in town ſo complaiſantly ſuits his own dreſs to the preſent humour of his employer—to a briſk bridegroom, I'm white as a ſwan, and here, to this woeful widower, I ap⯑pear black—black as my own gooſe.

"Hearſe—mourning-coaches—ſcarſs—pall." Um—ay—if the caſh was plenty this might turn out a pretty, ſprightly funeral.

Servant, Sir.

Scarfs—a merry death—coffin—um—ay—

A ſudden affair this, Sir!

Sudden—ah! I'm always prepar'd for death.

Sign of a good liver.

No tradeſman within the bills of mortality lives better.

You've many cuſtomers then, Sir.

Not one breathing.

You diſoblige them, perhaps.

Why the truth is, Sir, tho' my friends wou'd die to ſerve me, yet I can't keep one three days without turning up my noſe at him—Odſo! I forgot to take meaſure of the body.

Oh, oh!—A brother taylor—you meaſure nobody here.

Yes, I ſhall—Mr. Sandford's body.

For what, pray?

For a wooden furtout lin'd with white ſattin.

Odd ſort of mourning.

But, Sir, I have the buſineſs of this family.

You! I know I have had it, ſince St. James's church-yard was ſet on fire by old Mattack the grave-digger, twenty years laſt influenza buſineſs. I have nine⯑teen bodies under lock and key this moment.

You may have bodies, ſkirts, cuffs, and but⯑tons—My buſineſs!—aſk my foreman—I don't ſet a ſtitch—I'm merely an undertaker.

Undertaker! ſo am I—and for work—

Now I do no work—I cut out indeed—

Cut out! Oh you embowel 'em perhaps—can you make a mummy in the Egyptian faſhion?

I never made maſquerade habits.

What! cou'd you ſtuff a perſon of rank, to ſend him ſweet over ſea.

Stuff! perſons of rank—Iriſh tabinets are in ſtile for people of rank.

Nothing like ſage, thyme, pepper, and ſalt.

Pepper and ſalt! thunder and lightning for a colour.

Thunder and lightning! why you are in the clouds, man—in one word, cou'd you pickle a Duke?

I pickle a Duke!

Cou'd you place a lozenge over a window, or make out a coat for a hatchment without the help of a Herald?

Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gen⯑tleman of that name.

Mr. Hatchment, you've a ſcull as thick as a tombſtone.

Mayhap ſo, but I'll let you know no croſs⯑legg'd, and bandy button-making, Bedford bury, ſhred⯑ſeller, ſhall rip a cuſtomer from me.

Friend, depart in peace—or my cane ſhall make you a Memento Mori to all impertinent raſcals.

Here's a cowardly advantage! to attack a naked man—lay by your cane, and I'll talk to you.

Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!

Hey! what's all this?

A villain!—Why here's another Undertaker inſiſts that's he that's to bury your maſter.

O thread and needles! I bury a gentleman! but egad you're a frolickſome taylor.

Taylor!—Oh you ſon of a Sexton! call you me taylor! a more capital Undertaker than yourſelf.

Zounds, man, I'm no Undertaker! I'm a tay⯑lor.

And Zounds, man—taylor, I mean—I'm an Undertaker.

I perceive this miſtake.

One word good gentlemen mechanics—Mr. Taylor.

Sir.

My Lady is not dead.

Your Lady not dead!

No, nor my maſter neither.

Your maſter not dead!

No.

Then perhaps he don't want to be buried.

Not alive, I believe.

The moſt good for nothing family in the pa⯑riſh.

By theſe ſheers, parchment of mine ſhall ne⯑ver croſs a ſhoulder in it.

Zounds I'll go home, and bury myſelf for the good of my family.

Then you will be poſitive, Sir Walter.

Yes, when I'm right. I never was wrong but once in my life; and that was in preferring the wing to the leg of a rabbit.

Pſha! I tell you 'tis your niece that's gone.

And I tell you, 'tis your nephew that's gone.

Gone down the Burn from whence no traveller returns back again.

Oh my dumb fortune-teller! is this fellow's word your authority? if that raſcal this moment ſwore I held my own noſe, I'd have him cropp'd for perjury—conſider I am a Privy Counſellor.

Ha, ha, ha!

For ſhame, Motley, how dare you laugh!

I beg your pardon, madam; but it wou'd make a Chancellor laugh to ſee a fool take a, Privy Counſellor by noſe.

Sirrah, I'll—

Sir Walter! have you no reſpect for my livery.

Ay, Sir, wou'd you beat lady's livery?

Well, I'll not duſt the raſcal's jacket this bout; here's your health Hebe—but I'm ſure I'm right.

Then I ſuppoſe, Sir Walter, it's to this ob⯑ſtinacy of adherence to your own opinion I am beholden for this honour.

Don't ſay ſo! for that ſherbet was nectar from the hand of my divine Hebe, and inclines me to fancy myself a little Jove.

Jove in his chair of the ſky Lord Mayor!

Are you there ſtill?—Withdraw you raſ⯑cal.

Motley, retire.

It is not ſafe to leave you two alone, till Doctor Thump has made you too in one.

Mercy on me!

What's the matter?

We are alone indeed.

Well.

This room has double doors.

What then?

If I cry out nobody can hear me.

Cry out! what ails you?

If you ſhou'd be rude now.

Me! I ſhan't touch you.

I've heard that you gentlemen never ſlip a [...] opportunity of kiſſing a lady when you get her alone.

Oh, oh!

Sir.

Well, Comfit, who's ſhrouded?

All's over, Sir.

I ſaid ſo.

And ſo did I.

But ſuch a lovely corpſe.

Motley's words—be poſitive again, Sir Wal⯑ter—has he ſent any meſſage?

Who, Dennis, madam.

What Dennis? I mean my nephew.

Lord ma'am, he's—I'm ſorry to ſay it, but your nephew's dead.

Be poſitive again, Miſs Hebe.

My nephew dead—Motley!

Dead! why not? Gad ſhe fancies all her family to be Saturns, or Pluto's, or ſome old immortal gods or other.

Pray, Motley, who did you give my letter to?

To your nephew, madam.

Are you ſure?

Sure—by the ſame token he ſaid—Motley, ſays he, you're a fine fellow, you're as honeſt as—an iron cheſt; and if your lady knew how, to reward a good ſer⯑vant, ſhe'd take half a guinea out of her own ſilk purſe, with her lily white hand, and ſay, there Motley, drink my health, my good friend.

Mr. Edward ſay all this! Oh, you notorious, abominable—the dear gentleman I ſaw ſtretch'd—and Mrs. Caroline told me.

She ſpeak! Oh you notorious abominable—The dear lady that at this moment is as pretty a corpſe as ever enter'd a church-yard heels foremoſt.

You ſaucy, impudent—ſo I'm not to be be⯑liev'd.

I wou'd not believe my father, when I knew he was telling a lye.

I know it's Edward.

I'm ſure it's Caroline.

Well, madam, ſince you are ſo poſitive—

And you ſo obſtinate—I'll go this moment to Edward's houſe, and prove your folly to a ſhameful conviction.

And to prove you—take an aſs in your com⯑pany, I'll go with you myſelf.

Comical fiſh in our pond—Ha, ha, ha! you car⯑ried it on extremely well.

Carried it on—what does the man mean?

Why ſure, you was not in earneſt?

Earneſt—certainly.

Eh!—why that's good faith—and you believe too that it's Mr. Edward that's dead.

I know it.

I ſay it's Mrs. Caroline.

Say, but what do you think—come I ſee a lye in that brazen face.

Then my braſs is highly poliſh'd, and ſerves for looking glaſs. No, if the lady had ſurviv'd, I'd have it her myſelf—"Before her ſhoes were broke, with which ſhe follow'd her huſband to the grave, like Nob⯑b [...], all in tears."

Upon my word.

Yes, and have her! for widows now take huſ⯑bands, as the boys box—one down t'other comes on—ſhe's jealous.—

Comfit, kiſs me, my dear.

Carry your kiſſes to King's Place, puppy.

To King's Place! what, with this caſe of pockets.

Are all the cards ready for Tueſday ſe'nnight, Dennis?

Yes, madam.

The laſt bottle of Champagne, Dennis?

Ay, Sir, it ſhou'd be good, for it has not its fel⯑low in the houſe.

Well, my cellar died like Seneca; you've ſent to my merchant for the old quantum of champagne, claret and burgundy?

Yes, Sir, old Grizley's gone this half hour.

I wiſh he was here—I thirſt to pour out a crimſon libation of thankſgiving to fortune, our propiti⯑ous deity—Caroline, take one glaſs—come, I'll give you a toaſt for its paſſport—Here's reconciliation with Ame⯑rica, and let Rodney transfer her flag, and give Thirteen Stripes to the French and Spaniards.

I heard a noiſe!

It's old Grizley with the wine, madam; he ſometimes ſince, the ſervants went away, leaves the door at a jar.

Then come in old Grizley with the wine.

Edward!

Caroline!

Why here's the Dead Alive!—What news from the other world, Sir?

Was it you pray, Mr. Orphens, that brought back your Euridice?

How is old Scratch, and all our black friends below—this bottle from Pluto's ſide-board, I ſuppoſe

Upon my honour his diabolical majeſty drinks celeſtial liquor; good wine—but, I fancy, Pluto has a good many perſons of quality at his table?

Confuſion!

Sir here's—Mr. Edward!—A ghoſt! a ghoſt!

The wench is crack'd—Mrs. Caroline! "Avaunt and quit my fight! Thy blood is marrowleſs, thy bone is cold, and no ſpectacles upon thoſe eyes you glare with."

How now, boy?

"Ay, and a bold boy too, to look on that—that looks like Paul the devil."

Such an audacious fraud! pretended to die.

Ay, are not you aſham'd to be alive.

The truth is, Sir, our money was departed, and our credit expir'd.

And we cou'd no longer have liv'd in earneſt, had we not died in jeſt.

By gad and a good jeſt It was, and I am glad it was a jeſt—Eh,—ſhall I—yes—Ha, ha, ha! I will laugh—Ha, ha, ha! Hebe—you muſt grant me two trifles, forgive them, and marry me.

Lord, Sir Walter!

You muſt, you ſhall, and firſt your virgin hand—as to the young folks, the fault was partly ours, to ſuffer our whimſical caprices to abandon them to po⯑verty; I'd never let a child want money, for neceſſity of⯑ten obliges a perſon to do that, which otherwiſe he'd bluſh to think of.

It was a knaviſh affair—but I forgive you—and Sir Walter, I am yours for ever.