[]

THE DEAD ALIVE: A COMIC OPERA.

IN TWO ACTS.

AS IT IS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRES IN LONDON AND DUBLIN.

By JOHN O'KEEFFE, ESQ.

DUBLIN: SOLD BY THE BOOKSELLERS.

M,DCC,LXXXIII.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

[2]
MEN.
  • Sir Walter Weathercock, MR. GEMEA.
  • Edward, MR. JOHNSTON.
  • Undertaker, MR. FOTTERALL.
  • Sheers, MR. O'REILLY.
  • Motley, MR. CORNELYS.
  • Dennis, MR. KANE.
  • Degagee, MR. WITHINGTON.
  • Coachman, MR. LYNCH.
  • Hannibal, MR. MURPHY.
  • Grizley,
WOMEN.
  • Miſs Hebe Wintertop, MRS. HEAPHY.
  • Comfit, MRS. HITCHCOCK.
  • Caroline, MRS. JOHNSTON.

Servants, &c.

THE DEAD ALIVE.

[]

ACT I.

Enter Dennis and Coachman.
Dennis.

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

Coach.

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.

(Degagee ſings without.)

What, and Monſieur ſtruck off too?

Enter Degagee, ſinging,
Den.

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

Deg.

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!

Den.

I ſee when misſortune comes—

Deg.

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.

Den.

Ay, the farce of fire and water.

Deg.

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.

Coach.

Poor Monſieur!

Deg.

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 Portſmouth, and ſing—"Always are ready."

Den.

You were tow'd in.

Deg.

I no underſtand dat toe.

Coach.

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

Deg.

Ban eſt vrai, but il tout perdue—and den I vas ſan ſit ſous and ſans ſouci—I loſt all—but den, par hazard I vas come live wid dat bon tete, mon maitre, Monſieur 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 cofter vid ſome pomade, comb, curling iron, and three pound mareſchale.

Coach.

Poor Monſieur.

Deg.

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.

Touching the coachman's belly.

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

Coach.

And Monſieur I have de fiſt of de beef.

(Oh, s;ee!)
Deg.

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

Coach.

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

Deg.

Vat, he vil whip de Monſieurs!

Enter Grizley, with a little dog.

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.

Den.

I am ſorry we loſe you, Monſieur.

Deg.

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.

Exit ſinging, and dancing the dog.
Den.

What a merry piece of diſtreſs!

Coach.

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

Enter a Black crying.
Coach.

What, and Blacky goes too?

Black.

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

Coach.

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.

Black.

Oh, I muſt ſtrip fine coat— oh!

Coach.

Yes, and that turbot off your head too.

Den.

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

Coach.

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 Leiceſter 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 acquaintance out of place.

Den.

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

Coach.

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.

Exeunt Coachman and Black.
Den.

Poor fellows! I cannot help feeling for them.

Enter Edward.
Edw.

Sad at parting with your companions, Dennis?

Den.

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

Edw.

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?

Den.

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

Edw.

I am oblig'd to him.

Den.

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

Edw.

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

Den.

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.

Exit.
Edw.

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

SONG.

If balmy friendſhip yet ſurvives,
Ah, whither is ſhe fled;
Believe the tongues of men, ſhe lives,
Their actions ſpeak her dead:
Perhaps reſponſive echo's ſhade,
She haunts this brittle mound,
Or flitting Sylph, or watry Naide,
In fancy only found.
The gilded cards to feaſt and ball,
The ſilken gueſt invite;
They fondly think 'tis friendſhip's call,
But pride and pomp indite:
For int'reſt with deluſive wiles,
Beneath fair friendſhip's form;
In ſunſhine on us ſweetly ſmiles,
But leaves us in the ſtorm.
Enter Caroline.
Caro.

My dear, dear, Edward!

Edw.

My ſweet Caroline.

Caro.

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

Edw.

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—

Caro.

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

SONG.

While pert cock ſparrows ſport and play
By turns with ev'ry female gay,
[8]The turtle faithful to his dove
Lives but for her, and lives to love,
Still cloſely nes;tling ſide by ſide
Sit the good bridegroom, and good bride,
And murm'ring, gurgling on the ſpray
Both bill and coo their hours away.

But Edward, is the carriage gone?

Edw.

Sold by auction.

Caro.

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 invoke her aid.

Edw.

Begin then.

Caro.

My wealthy uncle, Sir Walter Weathercock —

Edw.

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

Caro.

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

Edw.

Hate ſucceeds to love.

Caro.

Or rather anger to dotage.

Edw.

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

Caro.

And I, having no averſion for Edward—

Edw.

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

Caro.

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

Edw.

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

Caro.

Then let us die.

Edw.

Die!

Caro.

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

Edw.

Ha, ha, ha! pleaſant enough this! but Caroline, I confeſs I can't comprehend how dying can conduce to a perſon's living comfortably—Ha, ha, ha!

Caro.
[9]

You laugh, but I am ſerious.

Edw.

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

Caro.

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.

Edw.

But the diſcovery of ſuch a fraud—

Caro.

How—they never ſee each other, perhaps never 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.

Edw.

Say no more, I am dead.

Caro.

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

Edw.

And that we do ſucceed, dear fortune grant.

DUETTO.

Edw.
Let me but my Caroline guard,
My love from diſtreſs let me ſave;
And I aſk for no other reward
Or bleſſing on this ſide the grave.
Caro.
Let me but ſee Edward content,
His lot while his Caroline ſhares:
Tho' uncle ſhou'd never relent,
Or aunt ſhou'd be angry, who cares.
Both.
Deign fortune to ſmile on a pair,
Who've truſted ſo long to thy pow'r;
Thy woes ſince they patiently bear,
O grant them ſome ſweet with the ſour.
Exeunt.
[10] A Room in Sir Walter Weathercock's Houſe.
Enter Motley, peeping about.

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.

(Retires.)

Eh, no, its my ſweet Comfit.

Enter Comfit.
Com.

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.

Looking in a glaſs.

SONG.

When I left Primroſe Green, and firſt came up to town,
Juſt at blooming fifteen in my plain linen gown;
Tho' my thoughts were all gay and my head full of play,
Let me die, if—Oh fie! was not all I cou'd ſay.
But now improv'd in ev'ry grace,
With charms to captivate a King;
And ſeen in ſhape, or air of face,
My tout enſemble is the thing.

What can become of this wretch, Motley?

Mot.

That's I.

(Aſide.)
Com.

I know the fellow loves me.

Mot.

Do I?

(Aſide.)
Com.

He'd leap at marrying me.

Mot.

I'd look twice firſt.

(Aſide.)
Com.

I'm certainly a handſome girl.

Looking in the glaſs.
Mot.

Yes, and you don't know it.

(Aſide)
Com.

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

Mot.

I am indeed.

(Aſide.)
Com.

I'm ſorry Motley's ſo poor.

Mot.

Upon my ſoul, ſo am I.

(Aſide.)
Com.
[11]

But my three hundred pound—

Mot.

Say no more, I'll have it.

Com.

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

Mot.

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

Com.

Who ſays ſo?

Mot.

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.

Com.

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

Mot.

Yes, I think I did a little.

Com.

But how came ſhe to part with you?

Mot.

Becauſe I was a Pagan.

Com.

A Pagan!

Mot.

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.

Com.

What's ongiorum?

Mot.

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 Devil that night, had ſung his, ſong, I roar'd out—oncorum, 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.

Com.

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

Mot.

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

SONG.

An actor's a comical dog,
Now friſky, now dull as a log;
[12]So changeable all, now ſhort and now tall,
Now plump, them ſlim as a frog.
Now Paddy the brogue he puts on,
Then ſtruts with the pride of a Don;
Now a French oui Monſieur, then a Dutch ya [...] Mynheer,
Or braw Donald the head of his clan.
How rarely they take in the town,
From one ſhilling up to a crown!
They pant, and they cry, fight, tumble and die,
But laugh when the curtain is down.
Com.

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.

Mot.

He can't remember me.

Com.

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

Enter Sir Walter Weathercock.
Sir Wal.

Comfit, I wanted to aſk—who's that?

Com.

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

Sir Wal.

Calves! his maſter's a grazier,—ha!

Com.

No, Sir, a gouty doctor.

Sir Wal.

Oh! the doctor has the gout?

Com.

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

Sir Wal.

Have you a dropſy? eh Comfit!

Com.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Motley makes ſigns and faces.
Sir Wal.

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

Com.
[13]

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

Sir Wal.

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

Motley grimaces and makes ſigns.
Sir Wal.

What's that?

Com.

He means yes, Sir.

Sir Wal.

He lies!—if ſo, ſhall I be happy?—Eh!

Motley points upwards with his finger.
Com.

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

Sir Wal.

How?

Motley makes horns with his fingers.
Sir Wal.

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

Mot.

Sir, I was born dumb—Zounds!

Aſide.
Sir Wal.

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

Com.

Such a blockhead!

Aſide.
Sir Wal.

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.

Com.

Own yourſelf.

[Apart to Motley]

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

Mot.

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

[Apart to Comfit]

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

Sir Wal.

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

Com.

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

Aſide.
Sir Wal.

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

Com.
[14]

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.

Sir Wal.

I believe I ought to be angry here

[Aſide]

—Yes, Comfit, I am in a fury! go back to your Miſtreſs, 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.

Mot.

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

Aſide.

SONG.

Oh ponder well, be not ſevere,
Nor beat me like a drum;
A ſtick that makes that ſpeak I fear,
Would make poor Motley dumb.
Exeunt Motley and Comfit.
Enter Servant.
Serv.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Ser.

She's here, Sir.

Exit.
Enter Caroline.
Sir Wal.

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

Caro.

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

Sir Wal.

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.

Caro.
[15]

Alas, Sir! I have no huſband.

Sir Wal.

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

Caro.

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

Sir Wal.

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 worthey lad—now he's gone, I—

Caro.

For ever—ever gone!

Sir Wal.

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.

Caro.

Heaven forbid!

[Aſide.]

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

Sir Wal.

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.

[Gives her a note.]

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.

Caro.

Sir, this goodneſs—

Sir Wal.

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

Caro.

Oh, Sir, think on what I have loſt.

SONG.

See the bloſſom of Spring that enriches the thorn,
Unfolding its ſweetneſs to welcome the mam;
But if nipt, the fond birds in ſoft elegy mourn,
That fragrance and beauty that ne'er ſhall return.
Can the ſun beams of hope glance a ray of relief,
No, let tears overflow the dew drops of grief,
Soon the bold hand of Winter ſhall cover the head,
Soon alas! muſt I wither ſince Edward is dead.
Exit.
Sir Wal.

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.

Exit.

A Chamber at Miſs Wintertop's.

Enter Edward and a Servant.
Edw.

Only a gentleman wou'd ſpeak with Miſs Wintertop.

Exit Servant.

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

Enter Miſs Wintertop and Servant.
Miſs Win.

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

Exit Servant.
Edw.

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—

Miſs Win.

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—

Edw.

Ah! Madam, that marriage is eternally diſſolv'd.

Miſs Win.

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

Edw.

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.

Miſs Win.

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

Edw.

Who, Madam?

Miſs Win.

General Gallant.

Edw.
[17]

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

Miſs Win.

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

Edw.

Oh!

Miſs Win.

What does the man mean by his blubbering and bellowing?

Edw.

Excuſe my tears—but my Caroline is no more.

Miſs Win.

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.

Edw.

That's very good of you, madam.

Miſs Win.

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

Edw.

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

Miſs Win.

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.

Edw.

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

Exit.
Miſs Win.

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

Enter Servant.
Serv.

Sir Walter Weathercock, madam.

Miſs Win.

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.

[Enter Sir Walter Weathercock.]

Sir, this is an honour.

Sir Wal.
[18]

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

Aſide.
Miſs Win.

His niece's death affects him extremely.

Sir Wal.

Oh, Hebe! Hebe! my lovely old darling!

Miſs Win.

Old darling! as rude as ever.

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

Diſmal enough.

Miſs Win.

Yes, death wears a diſmal aſpect.

Sir Wal.

You've ſeen Edward.

Miſs Win.

Juſt now.

Sir Wal.

Loſt his fine complexion I ſuppoſe.

Miſs Win.

No, I think he looks as well as ever.

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

Your niece was very young.

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

Birth-day to a dead man.

[Aſide.]

And poor Edward's gone!

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

A great comfort indeed.

[Aſide.]

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

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.

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

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 quarrels—here let me take this vernal ſprig, as earneſt of the ſole poſſeſſion of thee, thou aromatic ſhrub of winter ſavory.

Taking her hand.
Miſs Win.

Oh, you amorous Philander!

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

Wait till my nephew is buried?

Sir Wal.

Nay, I only ſpeak for decency ſake.

Miſs Win,

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—

Sir Wal.

My niece buried! why ſhe's crack'd.

[Aſide.]

Bury your nephew, madam.

Miſs Win.

Bury my nephew?

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

Bury my nephew! why he's mad.

Sir Wal.

You know your nephew is dead.

Miſs Win.

No, but you know your niece is dead.

Sir Wal.

Not I.

Miſs Win.

Did not you ſay your niece had left this world?

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

I tell you Edward left this room as you enter'd it.

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.
[20]

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

Miſs Win.

I ſend for you, Sir!

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

Aſtoniſhing!

Enter Motley.
Mot.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Mot.

Nothing but a lye can ſave me.

Aſide.
Sir Wal.

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

Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Mot.

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?

Miſs Win.

Ridiculous! it muſt be ſomebody elſe.

Mot.

Oh Sir, ridiculous! it muſt be ſomebody elſe.

Sir Wal.

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

Takes him by the collar.
Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Mot.

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

Exit.
Sir Wal.

Since you are ſo poſitive, to—

Miſs Win.

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

DUET.

Miſs Win.
Away Sir! get out of my ſight,
You are wrong, and I'm ſure I am right.
A poſitive perſon who takes in his pate,
Such whimſies and fancies I ever ſhall hate.
Sir Wal.
[21]
Sweet Hebe, nay, hear me, ſweet Hebe,
With reaſon and love let me rule.
Miſs Win.
You infant, you grey-headed baby,
Mere dotage has made you a fool.
Sir Wal.
I doating and ſtupid,
Oh Venus and Cupid,
What tyrannous uſage is this?
But my rage I'll reſtrain,
I'll ſubmit to my chain,
And each link of the chain be a kiſs.
Miſs Win.
Since meek and obedient,
You think it expedient,
To receive like a law my command,
In the courſe of nine years,
I may melt with yaur tears,
And preſent you my heart and my hand.
Both.
Yes meek and obedient, &c.
END OF ACT FIRST.

ACT II.

[22]
Enter Edward and Caroline.
Caroline.

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

Edw.

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.

Caro.

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

Edw.

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

Caro.

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

Enter Dennis.
Den.

A ſervant from your aunt, Sir.

Caro.

I'll to my poſt of mortality.

Exit.
Edw.

Admit him.

[Exit Dennis.]

Now for a woeful viſage.

Enter Motley.
Mot.

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

Edw.

There ſhe lies.

[Pointing to the ſide ſcene.]
Mot.
[Goes to the door and looks in!]

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."

Edw.

Any commands from my aunt?

Mot.
[23]

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 bumpers to every body that comes to ſee you, gentle and ſimple.

Edw.

Oh!

Mot.

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

Edw.

Oh, bitter ſeparation!

Mot.

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

Going.
Edw.

'Sdeath! ſhe has ſent no money.—

[Aſide.]

Pray have not you any meſſage?

Mot.

No, Sir, only a letter.

Edw.

Right—

[Aſide.]

Lay it on the table.

Mot.
[Lays it down.]

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.

SONG.

The world is all nonſenſe and noiſe,
Fantoccini or Ombres Chinois,
Mere pantomime mummery,
Puppet-ſhow flummery;
A magical lanthorn confounding the ſight.
Like players or puppets we move,
On the wires of ambition and love,
The poets write wittily,
Maidens look prettily,
Till death drops the curtain—all's over—good night.
Exit.
Enter Caroline.
Edw.

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

Enter Dennis.
Den.

Mrs. Cypreſs, Madam, the black Milliner.

Exit.
Edw.

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

Caro.

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

Exeunt

Another Chamber in Edward's Houſe.

Enter Sheers and Grizley.
Griz.

Mr. Sheers, Sir,—I'll tell him, Sir.

Sheers.

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

Exit Grizley

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 appear black—black as my own gooſe.

Enter Undertaker.
Under.

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

Sheers.

Servant, Sir.

Under.

Scarfs—a merry death—coffin—um—ay—

Sheers.

A ſudden affair this, Sir!

Under.

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

Sheers.

Sign of a good liver.

Under.

No tradeſman within the bills of mortality lives better.

Sheers.

You've many cuſtomers then, Sir.

Under.
[25]

Not one breathing.

Sheers.

You diſoblige them, perhaps.

Under.

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.

Sheers.
(Aſide.)

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

Under.

Yes, I ſhall—Mr. Sandford's body.

Sheers.

For what, pray?

Under.

For a wooden furtout lin'd with white ſattin.

Sheers.

Odd ſort of mourning.

[Aſide.]

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

Under.

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 nineteen bodies under lock and key this moment.

Sheers.

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

Under.

Undertaker! ſo am I—and for work—

Sheers.

Now I do no work—I cut out indeed—

Under.

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

Sheers.

I never made maſquerade habits.

Under.

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

Sheers.

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

Under.

Nothing like ſage, thyme, pepper, and ſalt.

Sheers.

Pepper and ſalt! thunder and lightning for a colour.

Under.

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

Sheers.

I pickle a Duke!

Under.

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

Sheers.
[26]

Mr. Hatchment! never made a coat for a gentleman of that name.

Under.

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

Sheers.

Mayhap ſo, but I'll let you know no croſslegg'd, and bandy button-making, Bedford bury, ſhredſeller, ſhall rip a cuſtomer from me.

Under.

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

Sheers.

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

[The undertaker throws down his cane which Sheers takes up, and beats him with.]
Under.

Oh, death and treachery! help! murder!

Enter Dennis.
Den.

Hey! what's all this?

Under.

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

Sheers.

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

Under.

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

Sheers.

Zounds, man, I'm no Undertaker! I'm a taylor.

Under.

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

Den.

I perceive this miſtake.

(Aſide.)

One word good gentlemen mechanics—Mr. Taylor.

Sheers.

Sir.

Den.

My Lady is not dead.

Sheers.

Your Lady not dead!

Den.

No, nor my maſter neither.

Under.

Your maſter not dead!

Den.

No.

Under.

Then perhaps he don't want to be buried.

Den.

Not alive, I believe.

Under.

The moſt good for nothing family in the pariſh.

Sheers.
[27]

By theſe ſheers, parchment of mine ſhall never croſs a ſhoulder in it.

Exit.
Under.

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

Exit.
Exit Dennis.
SCENE changes to an Apartment at Miſs Wintertop's.
Sir Walter and Miſs Wintertop diſcover'd ſitting—Motley at a ſide-table attending.
Miſs Win.

Then you will be poſitive, Sir Walter.

Sir Wal.

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.

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

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.

Mot.

Ha, ha, ha!

Miſs Win.

For ſhame, Motley, how dare you laugh!

Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

Sirrah, I'll—

Miſs Win.

Sir Walter! have you no reſpect for my livery.

Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.
[28]

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

Sir Wal.

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.

Mot.

Jove in his chair of the ſky Lord Mayor!

Singing.
Sir Wal.

Are you there ſtill?—Withdraw you raſcal.

Miſs Win.

Motley, retire.

Mot.

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

Exit.
Miſs Win.

Mercy on me!

Sir Wal.

What's the matter?

Miſs Win.

We are alone indeed.

Sir Wal.

Well.

Miſs Win.

This room has double doors.

Sir Wal.

What then?

Miſs Win.

If I cry out nobody can hear me.

Sir Wal.

Cry out! what ails you?

Miſs Win.

If you ſhou'd be rude now.

Sir Wal.

Me! I ſhan't touch you.

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

Oh, oh!

DUET.

Sir Wal.
In vain to ſmother love we ſtrive.
Miſs Win.
I feel my tenderneſs revive,
Yes, Cupid, once again thy flame,
Burn fierce and bright, and ſtill the ſame,
For when it has been truly lit,
No quarrel can extinguiſh it.
Sir Wal.
Extinguiſh it—Ah, no! I'll prove,
There's no extinguiſher for love;
For quarrels do but ſnuff the light,
A moment quench'd to ſhine more bright.
Miſs Win.
[29]
In vain to ſmother love we ſtrive,
I feel my tenderneſs revive.
Both.
In vain to ſmother love we ſtrive,
I feel my tenderneſs revive.
Sir Walter going to kiſs her.
Enter Caroline.
Com.

Sir.

Sir Wal.

Well, Comfit, who's ſhrouded?

Com.

All's over, Sir.

Sir Wal.

I ſaid ſo.

Miſs Win.

And ſo did I.

Com.

But ſuch a lovely corpſe.

Miſs Win.

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

Com.

Who, Dennis, madam.

Miſs Win.

What Dennis? I mean my nephew.

Com.

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

Sir Wal.

Be poſitive again, Miſs Hebe.

Miſs Win.

My nephew dead—Motley!

Sir Wal.

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

Enter Motley.
Miſs Win.

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

Mot.

To your nephew, madam.

Miſs Win.

Are you ſure?

Mot.

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 ſervant, 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.

Com.

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

Mot.
[30]

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.

Com.

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

Mot.

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

Sir Wal.

I know it's Edward.

Miſs Win.

I'm ſure it's Caroline.

Sir Wal.

Well, madam, ſince you are ſo poſitive—

Miſs Win.

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

Exit.
Sir Wal.

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

Exit.
Mot.

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

Com.

Carried it on—what does the man mean?

Mot.

Why ſure, you was not in earneſt?

Com.

Earneſt—certainly.

Mot.

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

Com.

I know it.

Mot.

I ſay it's Mrs. Caroline.

Com.

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

Mot.

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 Nobb [...], all in tears."

Com.

Upon my word.

Mot.

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

Aſide.

Comfit, kiſs me, my dear.

Com.

Carry your kiſſes to King's Place, puppy.

Exit.
Mot.

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

SONG.

[31]
I.
See a nymph ſo briſk and witty,
As nimbly tripping thro' the Park,
Throwing round her eyes ſo pretty,
And ogling every powder'd ſpark;
She'll leer, and gaze with fond delight,
Invite you home and kiſs you too;
Sigh, kneel, and ſwear my angel bright,
Without your caſh, your kiſſing won't do.
With a long purſe, ever go to your love,
Chink it, chink it, there, oh there;
When you twinkum, twankum, tol de rol, lol de rol,
Ha, ha, ha! then ſhe'll love you dear.
II.
Who'd refuſe a lad of my inches,
Sprightly, ſightly, neat, compleat;
But wagtails lur'd are by gold-finches,
Tho' eyes may roll, and pulſes beat,
They'll leer and gaze with fond delight,
Tip 'em an ogle, they ogle too;
My dove, my duck, my angel bright,
Without the caſh, your kiſſing won't do.
Without a long purſe, &c.
Edward and Caroline diſcover'd with wine and glaſſes.
Dennis attending.
Caro.

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

Den.

Yes, madam.

Edw.

The laſt bottle of Champagne, Dennis?

Den.

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

Edw.
[32]

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

Den.

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

Edw.

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

A noiſe without.
Caro.

I heard a noiſe!

Den.

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

Edw.

Then come in old Grizley with the wine.

Enter Sir Walter and Miſs Wintertop.
Sir Wal.

Edward!

Miſs Win.

Caroline!

Sir Wal.

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

Miſs Win.

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

Sir Wal.

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

(Drinks.)

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?

Edw.

Confuſion!

Enter Comfit.
Com.

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

Enter Motley.
Mot.

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."

Sir Wal.

How now, boy?

Mot.
[33]

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

Miſs Win.

Such an audacious fraud! pretended to die.

Sir Wal.

Ay, are not you aſham'd to be alive.

Edw,

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

Caro.

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

Sir Wal.

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.

Miſs Win.

Lord, Sir Walter!

Sir Wal.

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 poverty; I'd never let a child want money, for neceſſity often obliges a perſon to do that, which otherwiſe he'd bluſh to think of.

Miſs Win.

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

FINALE.

Sir Wal.
Away with care, adieu to deſpair,
'Tis the ſeaſon to marry not bury,
In love let's join, I'm Hebe's, ſhe's mine;
And all are alive and merry.
Miſs Win.
When a lover ſo briſk, gives the ſpirits a friſk,
Even maids muſt ſing, hey down derry;
Then to church let us go for I cannot ſay no,
Where all are alive and merry.
Edw.
[34]
Late, my Caroline dear, be thou laid on the bier,
May thoſe lips long keep red as cherry;
May both uncle and aunt prove a flouriſhing plant,
And all keep alive and merry.
Caro.
Now both uncle and aunt are like us grown gallant,
'Tis too ſoon to paſs Charon's ferry;
So my Edward and I, gladly join in the cry,
While all are alive and merry.
Mot.
An adventure ſo gay, is as good as a play,
Or a cup of canary or ſherry;
And if Comfit wou'd join, and ſay Motley I'm thine.
We ſhou'd all be alive and merry.
Com.
When you offer your love, right and true let it prove,
For champagne do not fool me with perry,
Then if thoſe who are here, contented appear,
We ſhall all be alive and merry.
FINIS.
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Citation Suggestion for this Object
TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4263 The dead alive a comic opera In two acts As it is performed at the theatres in London and Dublin By John O Keeffe Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5DDF-2