[]MAY-DAY: OR, THE LITTLE GIPSY.

SCENE I.

GO on, dear ſiſter Dolly—And ſo my ſweet girl was brought to the Widow Gadly's, as a relation of her's from Shropſhire, and went by the name of Belton?

Yes, yes—you had not been gone to London two days, before your father and ſhe met in the Wi⯑dow's garden; I was with him, he was very inquiſi⯑tive indeed, and was ſtruck with her lively manner; I could hardly get him home to dinner.

Why this was beyond expectation; and ſo, Dolly—

Yes, his liking went much beyond my ex⯑pectation, [] or your wiſhes: In a week he fell in love with her, and is at this time a very dangerous rival.

I am ſure to have ſome miſchief happen in all my ſchemes.

Her ſinging, and twenty little agreeable fooleries ſhe puts, on have bewitch'd him: Her mi⯑miking the Gipſies has ſo inchanted him, that he has prevailed upon her to come to the May-pole to-day among the holiday lads and laſſes, and tell their for⯑tunes. She has dreſs'd up herſelf often and been among 'em, without their knowing who ſhe is—in ſhort, ſhe has bewitch'd the whole village—I am to be there too as her mother—My father will have it ſo.

So much the better, while you are telling fortunes, I may talk to her without being obſerv'd; ſend but a fortune-teller, or a mountebank, among country people, and they have no eyes, and ears, for any thing elſe: Where is my father now?

Upon ſome knotty point with Roger Dozey, the clerk—I muſt go, and prepare for the frolick: don't be melancholy, Will; the worſt that can hap⯑pen is to marry the girl without your father's conſent, turn gipſy with your wife, and ſend your children to ſteal his poultry.

But harkee, Dolly, who is to have Mr. Goodwill's May-day legacy? A hundred pounds is a tolerable foundation to build upon—What is become of George, Dolly?

I have not time to tell you—He is a rogue like the reſt of you: But as I have a heart that can make an honeſt man happy that poſſeſſes it, ſo it has a ſpirit within it to deſpiſe a knave, or a coxcomb.

[3]

Well ſaid, Dolly!—but I am afraid in my ſituation, I muſt give up all hope.

Then you'll give up the beſt friend you have; make much of her, or with a true female ſpi⯑rit, like mine, ſhe'll leave you the moment you ſeem to neglect her.

Well, but Dozey, think a little, and hear a little before you ſpeak, and underſtand my queſtion.

Put it.—

You know that Walter Goodwill, Eſq. left a legacy of one hundred pounds, to the couple who ſhall be married upon certain conditions, in this pariſh, on the firſt of May.

I have 'em in my hand here, a true copy.

You told me ſo before.

Truth may be told at any time.

Zounds! hold your tongue or we ſhall keep talking all day.

Keep your temper, which is a better thing.

But I can't, if you won't hear me.

I ſay nothing, and will ſay nothing.

I know you are my friend Dozey, and I have been your friend—I found you a good companion and a ſcholar, and got you rais'd from ſexton to clerk.

Neceſſity! There was but one perſon more in the pariſh beſide myſelf who could read, and he ſtammer'd.

Well, well, no matter, we ſhall never come to the point.

Never, if you travel out of the way ſo.

I ſay then—

And I am ſilent.

I am over head and ears in love.

You had better be over head and ears in your horſe-pond, for that might cool you—Put no more upon an old horſe than he can bear—An ex⯑cellent ſaying!

You put more upon me than I can bear: I want no advice but your opinion. If I marry Fanny Belton, may I demand 'Squire Goodwill's hun⯑dred pound legacy?

I will read it.

Zounds, I have read it a thouſand times; and the bellman cries it all about the pariſh.

Are you her free choice?

To be ſure I am, as ſhe is mine.

What age has ſhe?

About twenty

Has ſhe her ſenſes perfect?

To be ſure.

I doubt it!—a girl of twenty marry three⯑ſcore and five, a free choice, and in her ſenſes, it can't be.

You are grown old and ſtupid.

She muſt be young and ſtupid, which is worſe.

May I claim the legacy, if I marry her?

You ſay the choice is free?

I do.

But is it not fit, another of the conditions—The choice muſt be both free and fit—Ergo I ſay you can't have a penny of it.

Why will you vex me ſo, Roger Dozey? I am always helping you out of ſcrapes and difficulties, and why won't you aſſiſt me?

I am getting you out of a ſcrape now, by preventing your marrying.

I'll tell you what Roger—there is ſomething [6] ſo perverſe about you, that tho' I am your friend, you are always thwarting me.

Becauſe you're always wrong—You are ſo blinded with paſſion, that you wou'd thruſt your hand in the fire, if I did not take care that you ſhould not burn your fingers.

Well, but dear Dozey, you are the fore⯑horſe of this pariſh, and can lead the reſt of the team as you pleaſe. Pray now con over this matter by yourſelf, you ſhall ſit in my little ſmoaking room, and have a bottle of my beſt October to help your ſtudy, and when you have finiſhed the bottle, and ſettled your mind with a dram afterwards, meet me at the may⯑pole, and give your opinion. I ſhall be there by that time, to claim the girl, and the legacy—If it is mine, a good large fee out of it ſhall be yours. Remember that.—

It is the only thing you have ſaid worth re⯑membering—let me ſee—a large fee, and a good bot⯑tle of October will do wonders—and yet to make the union of one and twenty, with ſixty-five fit, will re⯑quire more fees than his purſe can furniſh, and more October than ever was, or ever will be in his cellar—However, not to be raſh—I'll drink the bottle, and conſider the caſe.

SCENE II.

Well ſung my laſſes—which of you all will have 'Squire Goodwill's legacy? I don't believe that any of you are in the right road to it—it muſt be turn'd over to the next year, and then I ſhall marry one of you out of pity, and get double by it.

I'll aſſure you, Goodman Clod—I would not have you for double, and double, and double—

The grapes are ſour, Betty—

What a ſin, and a ſhame is it—that a poor girl ſhould miſs ſuch a fine fortune, for want of a ſweetheart.

It's a ſin, and a ſhame that there's no young fellow to be had for love or money—The devil is in 'em I believe.

They are like their betters in London—they marry, as they would do any thing for money—but then they yawn, and had rather let it alone.

What the duce, have we got any maccato⯑nies in the country?

Maccatonies! What are them, Clod?

Tho'f I ſaw a power of'em, when I was up among 'em, yet I hardly know what to make of 'em.—

What were they living creters?

Yea, and upon two legs, too—Such as they were.

What like chriſtians?

'Ecod I don't know what they're alike, not I—they look like ſomething—and yet they are no⯑thing—I heard a perſon ſay, I ſat next to at the ſhow play (for I would ſee every thing) that theſe maccato⯑nies, ſay themſelves they have no ſouls, and I ſay they have no bodies, and ſo we may well ſay that they look like ſomething, and are nothing, 'ecod.

Come prithee Clod, let's hear all about what you ſaw in London, and about the fine ladies too, what did they look like pray?

Like a hundred things, all in one day, but my ſong that I got there, will tell you better all about it, than I can.

Well ſung, Clod—

But, tell us, Clod—how did young Will Fur⯑row behave in London?—he rak'd it about, I ſuppoſe, and that makes him ſo ſcornful to us.

Poor lad! he was more mop'd than I was; he's not ſcornful—His Father, ſhame upon him, croſs'd him in love, and he ſent him there to forget it.

And he ought to be croſs'd in love; what does he mean by taking his love out of the pariſh? if [11] he has loſt one there, he may find another here, egad, and I had lik'd to have ſaid a better.

Ay, but that's as he thinks—if he loves lamb, he won't like to be cramm'd with Pork—Ha, ha, ha!

His father wou'd ſend him to the market town to make a ſchollard of him, which only gave him a hankering to be proud, to wear a tucker and deſpiſe his neighbours.

Here he comes, and let him ſpeak for him⯑ſelf—he looks as gay as the beſt of us.

My ſweet laſſes, a merry May to you all—I muſt have the priviledge of the day—Kiſſes and the firſt of May have ever gone together in our Village, and I hate to break thro' a good old cuſtom.

Old cuſtoms are good all the year round, and there can't be a better than this—

Come, come, adon with your kiſſing, for here comes the cryer to proclaim 'Squire Goodwill's legacy.

O yes! O yes! O yes! Be it known to all lads laſſes of this Village of Couple-Well, that George Goodwill, Eſq late of Bounty-Hall, in this County, has made the following bequeſt—You, my lads, open your ears, and you, my laſſes, hold your tongues, and hear his worſhip's legacy.

Silence—Silence.

Who knows indeed!

Silence, and don't diſturb the court.

Well, my good girls, and which of you is to have the hundred pound legacy?

Any of us, if you will give us a right and title—what ſay you to that Mr. William? The money ought not to go out of the pariſh.

Ay come now—here are choice; you muſt be very nice indeed, if one of us, and a hundred pound won't ſatisfy you.

'Ecod but he knows a trick worth two of that.

Well, what ſay you, Mr. Will?

I like you all ſo well, that I can't find in my heart to take one of you without the others.

What, would you make a great Turk of us, and live like a heathen in a ſerallery?

You may as well throw your hat among 'em, Maſter William; theſe laſſes cannot live upon ſuch ſlender fare, as a bit of your heart.

Then they muſt faſt, Clod; for I have not even a bit of my heart to give them.

What in the name of May, neighbours, comes tripping thro' Farmer Danby's gate, and looks like May from top to toe.

As I hope to be marry'd 'tis the Little Gipſy that has got a bit of your father's heart; aye, and a good bit too, and holds it faſt.

I'll be hang'd if ſhe's not going to the Grange now—Your father caſts a ſheep's eye at her—He hinders his own ſon from wedding lawfully, while he is running after this Little Gipſy—I hope ſhe'll run away with his ſilver tankard.

Upon my word I think my father has a good taſte. How long has ſhe been amongſt you? who is ſhe? what is ſhe? and whence comes ſhe?

That we neither know, nor can gueſs—She always comes out of 'Squire Grinly's Copſe, but no⯑body knows how ſhe gets there—Clod dog'd her t'other night, but ſhe took care to throw ſomething in his eyes, that ſtruck fire, and half blinded him.

Ay, feath, did ſhe; and while I was rub⯑bing 'em, ſhe vaniſhed away, and left me up to my middle in a bog.

Poor Clod! you paid dearly for peeping.

I wiſh ſhe would ſing! ſhe is a perfect nightingale.

Huſh! hark! I hear ſomething—let's go back, or ſhe may be ſham'd fac'd—She's very young, and ſeems very modeſt—True merit is always baſh⯑ful, and ſhould never want for encouragement: She comes this way—let us keep back a little.

What a character am I oblig'd to ſupport? I ſhall certainly be diſcover'd—the country folks I ſee are retir'd to watch me, and my ſweet heart among 'em—I am more afraid of a diſcovery from theſe, than from wiſer people—Cunning will very often over⯑ſhoot the mark, while ſimplicity hits it. I muſt rely upon my dreſs and manner—if I can but manage to tell other people's fortune, tho' but falſely, I may really make my own.

She mutters ſomething to herſelf; I wiſh I could hear what ſhe is maundring about.

Fortune-tellers always do ſo—the devil muſt be always talk'd to very civilly, and not loud, or he won't be at their elbow.

Lord bleſs her, there's no harm in her—I wiſh I was the devil to be ſo talk'd to.

What a frolick have I begun! ſhould I ſuc⯑ceed, our preſent diſtreſs will double our ſucceeding happineſs—

[16] Your ſervant, pretty maids, and to you alſo young men, if you are good, for naughtineſs, they ſay, has found its way into the country—I hope none of you have ſeen it.

O, yes; I have ſeen enough of it, it hangs about one like a peſt; and for fear my cloaths ſhould be infected, I order'd that they ſhould be burnt before I left London.

Ay, ay, wickedneſs there ſticks to a body like pitch.

Then I'll fly away from the infection.

No, no, you little Gipſy, that won't do, we muſt hear that ſweet voice again, and have our fortunes told before you go away.

I vow, neighbours, I think I have ſeen this face before.

It is not worth looking upon a ſecond time.

Indeed but it is, I could look at it for ever.

'Ecod and ſo could I, and buſs it into the bargain.

BET Law, don't make ſuch a fuſs with the poor girl, as if nobody was worth kiſſing but a Gipſy—ſing away, child, and don't mind 'em.

No more I will, miſtreſs.

Now you have charm'd our ears one way, my ſweet Gipſy, delight our hearts by telling us our fortunes.

Here are fine croſs doings in my hond.

Pray look into mine firſt.

Here's a hand for you, Gipſy!

I never ſaw a worſe in all my life; bleſs me! here is—it frights me to ſee it!

Then I am ſure it will fright me to hear it, ſo I'll ſtay till another time.

Little pretty Gipſy, what ſay you to mine?

You have a dozen laſſes in love with you, and are in love with none of 'em.

There's a little witch for you!

There you are out, Gipſy; I do love one truly and ſincerely.

As much as you love me—don't believe him, laſſes—Come, come, let me ſee your hand again—by the faith of a Gipſy, you are in love, and the laſs that you love—

Who is ſhe?

She is in this pariſh, and not above twenty yards from the maypole.

The dickens ſhe is! who? who is it?

Say no more, Gipſy; you know nothing at all of the matter; you ſhould be whip'd for fibbing.

And I'll be the conſtable; but 'ecod I would not hurt her.

Ay, but I do know, and ſhe is about my ſize.

Hold your tongue I ſay—here comes your mother I ſuppoſe.

What, did you run away from me you little baggage? Have I not warn'd you from wandering in the fields by yourſelf theſe wicked times?

Pray, mother, don't be angry; the morning was ſo fine, the fields ſo charming, and the lads and laſſes ſo merry, I could not ſtay at home, and I knew you'd come limping after—

Huſſy, huſſy! have not I told you, that when the kid wanders from its dam, the fox will have a breakfaſt.

'Ecod, and a good breakfaſt too—it makes my mouth water.

I don't much like the company you are in—who is that young rake there?

One that hates kid mother, and is only giving your daughter a little good advice.

Indeed the young fellows of this age are not ſo rampant as they were in my days.—Well, my lads and laſſes, who among you longs to know their for⯑tunes? I am the oldeſt, and the beſt fortune-teller under the ſun.

Now, my dear little Gipſy, you muſt tell me my fortune.

Now for it, mother.

There's a ſlap o'the chops for old meaſter, 'ecod, I wiſh he was here to take it.

But now, come to particulars, goody Gipſy.

Ay, ay, to particulars, we muſt have par⯑ticulars.

Ay, zooks, let's underſtand your gibberiſh.

Let me ſit down upon the bench under yonder tree, and I'll tell you all I know.

And he that deſires to know more is a fool—come along, Dame D [...]al-Devil.

May heaven proſper what love has invented; and may this joyful day finiſh our cares for ever!

Where is the Gipſy? where is my little Gipſy, I ſay?

The wolf is near indeed, for here comes my father.

What ſhall we do?

Where are the lads and laſſes, and what are you two doing here alone?

Had I my will, we ſhould not long have been here alone: I would have put her into the hands of the conſtable, and ſent her to her pariſh.

She has cheated him too—that's excellent! this is a rare frolic, faith

You ſend her to the conſtable, you booby!—I ſhould have put you in the ſtocks if you had, Sirrah—don't be grave, my little pretty Gipſy, that bumkin ſhan't hurt you—what a fine may-game this is!—I love her more than ever!—I'll marry her to-day, and have the hundred pounds too—

I'll go home directly, I can't bear to ſee that young man look ſo croſs

You ſhall go to my home, my dainty ſweet Gipſy, and make him look croſſer.

I wonder, father, you are not aſham'd of yourſelf, to be impos'd upon by ſuch a little pilfering creature, ſhe ought to be whip'd from village to village, and made an example of.—

How the fool is taken in!—I'm out of my wits

I'll make an example of you, raſcal, if you don't ſpeak more tenderly to that lady.

Lady! a fine lady! ha! ha! ha!

Don't put yourſelf into a rage with him, he is mad they ſay, mad for love.

So am I too—I am his father, and have more right to be mad than he has.

A lady!—A Gipſy lady!—ha, ha, ha!

And what is more, Mr. Impudence, ſhe ſhall be my lady—and then what will you ſay to that, raſcal?

That you have got a fine lady.

Have I given you a good education, you ungrateful whelp you, to laugh at me? Get out of my ſight, or I'll ſpoil your mummery—I will—

I am gone, Sir—one word if you pleaſe—You prevented me from being happy with the choice of my heart, and to one ſuperior to her ſex in every quality of the mind, and now without the excuſe of youth on your part, or the leaſt merit on her's—As you have made me miſerable with great cruelty, you are going to make yourſelf ſo without reaſon. And ſo, Sir, I am your's, and that fair lady's very humble ſervant—Ha, ha, ha!

If I had not reſolv'd not to be in a paſſion this firſt of May, the feſtival of our Village, I ſhould have ſent him to the bottom of our horſe-pond; but I can't help laughing neither, you have done it ſo featly—How the poor boy was taken in; he! he! he!—fine frolick, faith! And now, Miſs, I will open my mind more to you; why ſhould we loſe a hundred pounds?—I'll marry you to day—the better day, the better deed.—What ſay you, my little Gipſy?

It will make a great noiſe!

I love a noiſe—what is any body good for, without noiſe—beſides we ſhall be the happieſt cou⯑ple for a hundred miles round.

Not while your ſon is miſerable—make him happy firſt, and then nobody can blame you.

What a ſweet creature you are! Don't trouble your head about ſuch a fellow, I'll turn him out of the houſe to ſeek his fortune, and ſo he'll be provided for.

If he is not happy, I ſhall be miſerable, nor would I be a Queen at the expence of another's hap⯑pineſs, for all the world.

What a ſweet creature you are!—and how happy ſhall I be; the raſcal ſhall know your kind⯑neſs to him, and how little he deſerves it—it ſhall be done, and the Village ſhall know it is all your do⯑ings. And here they come! now for it! I am ten times happier than I was this morning!

Come, where is my ſon, where is Scapegrace?

Here, Maſter William!

Here's Scapegrace, Sir.

Now you ſhall know what a fine lady this is, or rather how unlike a fine lady ſhe is. This pilferer, wretch, baggage, and ſo on—ſhe vows not to be made happy till you are ſo—and ſo being prevail'd upon by her—and her alone—I give you my conſent to marry the girl you were ſo fond of, or any girl of character, and before all my neighbours here, on this joyful holiday, the firſt of May, and I likewiſe conſent to give you the Bilberry-farm, to maintain her and my grand children.

If you indulge my inclination, I have no right to find fault with your's—be my choice where it will, you will be ſatisfy'd.

More than ſatisfy'd—I will rejoice at it, and reward it—name the party, boy.

I always did obey you, and will now.

This—this is my choice.

Zooks! here's a fine over-turn in a horſe-pond.

He's crack'd, ſure!

I was, Sir, and almoſt broken hearted; but your kindneſs, conſent, and generoſity, have made me a man again, and thus we thank you.

This is ſome may-game—do you know her?—and does ſhe know you?

We have known each other long—this is ſhe father, I ſaw, lov'd, and was betroth'd to; but your command ſeparated us for a time—in my abſence to London, ſhe was here under the name of Belton; you ſaw her often, and lik'd her, nay lov'd her—it was our innocent device, that you might ſee her merits, and not think 'em unworthy of your ſon—You over-run our expectations, and we delay'd the diſcovery till this, we hope, happy moment.

You muſt forgive 'em, meaſter.

To be ſure.

I can't—I am trick'd and cheated—I can't recal the farm; but I can, and I will—

Be more fooliſh if you pleaſe—you have trick'd, and cheated yourſelf, meaſter—but heav'n has been kind to you, and ſet all to rights again—

I won't be ſung out of my ſenſes—

Where is he? where is the bridegroom? I have it, I have it—October has done it!—it has inſpir'd me! and the legacy ſhall be old George Furrow's, or I will never taſte October again—I have got you the money, old boy!

You are got drunk, you old fool, and I don't want the money.

What, you are ſick of marriage, and don't want the wife perhaps—did not I tell you, it was not [27] fit? was not I free enough to tell you ſo?—it is not fit.

This drunken old fool compleats my miſery.

Old fool! what Mr. Pot, do you abuſe your friend kettle?—old fool am I?—now judge, neigh⯑bours—I have been drinking October to make this a joyful May-Day, and he wants to marry a young girl to turn it into ſackcloth and aſhes—who's old fool now?

Take him away.

I ſhall take myſelf away—Laſſes, if any of you long for the legacy, and are not engag'd, I am your man—that old fellow, there, would have married a child in ſober ſadneſs; but I have been courting a good bottle of October, and now, having loſt my ſenſes, I am free and fit to marry any body—

Ha, ha, ha!

Where's Dolly?—was ſhe in this plot?

In that part of it you gave her: ſhe perform'd the old Gipſy to a miracle, as theſe laſſes can teſtify, and then went home to prepare the May feaſt.

I will have no feaſt.

Was ſhe the old Gipſy?

It is all a dream to me!

I can't come to rights again.—

Never was known ſuch a thing as ill-nature and unkindneſs in our village, on the firſt of May, for theſe ten thouſand years.