SCENE Harcourt's lodgings.

HA, ha, ha! and so you are in love, ne­phew, not reasonably and gallantly, as a young gentleman ought, but sighingly, miserably so—not content to be ankle-deep, you have sous'd over head and ears—ha, Dick?

I am pretty much in that condition, indeed, uncle.

Nay, never blush at it—when I was of your age, I was asham'd too;—but three years at College, and half a one at Paris, methinks should have cur'd you of that unfashionable weakness—modesty.

Could I have releas'd myself from that, I had, perhaps, been at this instant happy in the possession of what I must despair now ever to obtain—heigho!

Ha, ha, ha! very foolish indeed.

Don't laugh at me, uncle; I am foolish, I know; but, like other fools, I deserve to be pitied.

Prithee don't talk of pity; how can I help you?—for this country girl of yours is certainly mar­ried.

[Page 6]

No, no—I won't believe it; she is not mar­ried, nor she shan't, If I can help it.

Well said, modesty;—with such a spirit you can help yourself, Dick, without my assistance.

But you must encourage, and advise me too, or I shall never make any thing of it.

Provided the girl is not married; for I never, never encourage young men to covet their neighbours wives.

My heart assures me, that she is not married.

O to be sure, your heart is much to be rely'd upon—but to convince you that I have a fellow-feeling of your distress, and that I am as nearly ally'd to you in missortunes as in relationship—you must know—

What, uncle? you alarm me!

That I am in love too.

Indeed!

Miserably in love.

That's charming.

And my mistress is just going to be married to another.

Better, and better.

I knew my fellow-sufferings would please you; but now prepare for the wonderful wonder of wonders!

Well!—

My mistress is in the same house with yours.

What, are you in love with Peggy too?

Well said, jealousy.—No, no, set your heart at rest.—Your Peggy is too young, and too simple for me—I must have one a little more knowing, a little bet­ter bred, just old enough to see the difference between me and a coxcomb, spirit enough to break from a brother's engagements, and chuse for herself.

You don't mean Alithea, who is to be married to Mr. Sparkish?

Can't I be in love with a lady that is going to be married to another, as well as you, Sir?

But Sparkish is your friend.

Prithee don't call him my friend; he can be [Page 7] nobody's friend, not even his own—He would thrust himself into my acquaintance, would introduce me to his mistress, tho' I have told him again and again that I was in love with her, which instead of ridding me of him, has made him only ten times more troublesome—and me really in love—He should suffer for his self­sufficiency.

'Tis a conceited puppy!—And what success with the lady?

No great hopes,—and yet, if I could defer the marriage a few days, I should not despair;—her ho­nour, I am confident, is her only attachment to my ri­val—she can't like Sparkish, and if I can work upon his credulity, a credulity which even popery would be asham'd of, I may yet have the chance of throwing sixes upon the dice to save me.

Nothing can save me.

No, not if you whine and sigh, when you should be exerting every thing that is man about you. I have sent Sparkish, who is admitted at all hours in the house, to know how the land lies for you, and if she is not married already.

How cruel you are—you raise me up with one hand, and then knock me down with the other.

Well, well, she shan't be married.

This is Sparkish, I suppose; don't drop the least hint of your passion to him; if you do, you may as well advertise it in the publick papers.

I'll be careful.—

An odd sort of a person, from the country I believe, who calls himself Moody, wants to see you, Sir; but as I did not know him, I said you were not at home, but would return directly; and so will I too, said he, very short and surly! and away he went, mum­bling to himself.

Very well, Will.—I'll see him when he comes.

Moody call to see me!—He has some­thing more in his head than making me a visit—'tis to complain of you, I suppose.

[Page 8]

How can he know me?

We must suppose the worst, and be prepared for him—tell me all you know of this ward of his, this Peggy—Peggy what's her name?

Thrift, Thrift, uncle.

Ay, ay, Sir Thomas Thrift's daughter, of Hampshire, and left very young, under the guardianship of my old companion and acquaintance, Jack Moody.

Your companion!—he's old enough to be your father.

Thank you, nephew—he has greatly the ad­vantage of me in years, as well as wisdom—When I first launched from the university, into this ocean of London—he was the greatest rake in it; I knew him well, for near two years, but all of a sudden he tooka freak (a very prudent one) of retiring wholly into the country.

There he gain'd such an ascendency over the odd disposition of his neighbour, Sir Thomas, that he left him sole guardian to his daughter, who forfeits half her fortune, if she does not marry with his con­sent—there's the devil, uncle.

And are you so young, so foolish, and so much in love, that you would take her with half her value? ha, nephew?

I'll take her with any thing—with nothing.

What! such an unaccomplish'd, aukward, silly creature—he has scarce taught her to write—she has seen nobody to converse with, but the country people about 'em; so she can do nothing but dangle her arms, look gawky, turn her toes in, and talk broad Hampshire.

Don't abuse her sweet simplicity—had you but heard her talk, as I have done, from the garden-wall in the country, by moon-light.

Romeo and Juliet, I protest, ha, ha, ha! Arise fair sun, and kill the envious—ha, ha, ha! How often have you seen this fair Capulet?

I saw her three times in the country, and spoke to her twice; I have leap'd an orchard-wall, like Ro­meo, to come at her, play'd the balcony-scene, from an old summer-house in the garden; and if I lose her, I [Page 9] will find out an apothecary, and play the tomb-scene too, for I cannot bear to be cross'd in love.

Well said, Dick!—this spirit must produce something—but has the old dragon ever caught you sighing at her?

Never in the country; he saw me yesterday kissing my hand to her, from the new tavern-window that looks upon the back of his house, and immediately drove her from it, and fasten'd up the window-shut­ters.

Very well, Will. I'll go up to 'em.

I hear Sparkish coming up—take care of what I told you—not a word of Peggy;—hear his intelli­gence, and make use of it, without seeming to mind it.

Mum, mum, uncle.

O, my dear Harcourt, I shall die with laugh­ing—I have such news for thee—ha, ha, ha!—What, your nephew too, and a little dumpish or so—you have been giving him a lecture upon oeconomy, I suppose—you, who never had any, can best describe the evils that arise from the want of it.—I never mind my own affairs, not I.—I hear, Mr. Belville, you have got a pretty snug house, with a bow-window that looks into the Park, and a back-door that goes out into it.—Very convenient, and well imagin'd—no young handsome fellow should be without one—you may be always ready there, like a spider in his web, to seize upon stray'd women of quality.

As you us'd to do—you vain fellow you—prithee don't teach my nephew your abandoned tricks—he is a modest young man, and you must not spoil him.—

May be so; but his modesty has done some mischief at our house—my surly, jealous brother-in-law saw that modest young gentleman casting a wishful eye at his forbidden fruit from the new tavern window.

You mistake the person, Mr. Sparkish, I don't know what young lady you mean.

Explain yourself, Sparkish, you must mistake—Dick has never seen the girl.

[Page 10]

I don't say he has; I only tell you what Moody says. Besides, he went to the tavern himself, and enquir'd of the waiter, who din'd in the back­room,—No. 4,—and they told him it was Mr. Bel­ville, your nephew—that's all I know of the matter, or desire to know of it—faith.

He kiss'd his hand, indeed, to your lady, Ali­thea, and is more in love with her than you are, and very near as much as I am; so look about you, such a youth may be dangerous.

The more danger the more honour, I defy you both—win her and wear her, if you can— Dolus an vir­tus in love as well as in war—tho' you must be expedi­tious, faith; for I believe, if I don't change my mind, I shall marry her to-morrow or the day after.—Have you no honest clergyman, Harcourt, no fellow-colle­gian to recommend to me to do the business?

Nothing ever sure was so lucky.

Why, faith, I have, Sparkish—my brother, a twin­brother, Ned Harcourt, will be in town to day, and proud to attend your commands—I am a very generous rival, you see, to lend my brother to marry the woman I love?

And so am I too, to let your brother come so near us—But Ned shall be the man; poor Alithea grows impatient—I can't put off the evil day any longer—I fancy the brute, her brother, has a mind to marry his country ideot at the same time.

How, country idiot, Sir!

Taisez vous bete.

I thought he had been married already.

No, no, he's not married, that's the joke of it.

No, no, he is not married.

Hold your tongue—

Not he—I have the finest story to tell you—by the by, he intends calling upon you, for he ask'd me where you liv'd, to complain of modesty there—He pick'd up an old raking acquaintance of his, as we came along together—Will. Frankly, who saw him with his girl, sculking and mu [...]led up, at the play last night—he plagu'd him much about matrimony, and his [Page 11] being asham'd to shew himself; swore he was in love with his wife, and intended to cuckold him; do you, cry'd Moody, folding his arms, and scouling with his eyes thus— You must have more wit than you us'd to have—Besides, if you have as much as you think you have, I shall be out of your reach, and this profligate metropolis, in less than a week—Moody would feign have got rid of him, but the other held him by the sleeve, so I left 'em; rejoic'd most luxuriously to see the poor devil tormented.

I thought you said, just now, that he was not married—is not that a contradiction, Sir?

Why, it is a kind of a one—but considering your modesty, and your ignorance of the young lady, you are pretty tolerably inquisitive methinks, ha, Har­court! ha, ha, ha!

Pooh, pooh! don't talk to that baby, tell me all you know.

You must know, my boody of a brother-in-law hath brought up this ward of his (a good fortune let me tell you) as he coops up, and fattens his chick­ens, for his own eating—he is plaguy jealous of her, and was very sorry that he could not marry her in the country, without coming up to town; which he could not do on account of some writings or other; so what does my gentleman, he persuades that poor silly girl by breaking a six-pence, or some nonsense or another, that they are to all intents married in heaven; but that the laws require the signing of articles, and the church service to compleat their union—so he has made her call him husband, and bud, which she constantly does, and he calls her wife, and gives out she is married, that she may not look after younger fellows, nor younger fellows after her, egad; ha, ha, ha! and all won't do.

Thank you, Sir—what heav'nly news, uncle!

What an ideot you are nephew! And so then you make but one trouble of it; and are both to be tack'd together the same day?

No▪ no, he can▪t be married this week; he damns the lawyers for keeping him in town;—besides [Page 12] I am out of favour; and he is continually snarling at me, and abusing me, for not being jealous.

There he is—I must not be seen with you, for he'll suspect something; I'll go with your nephew to his house, and we'll wait for you, and make a visit to my wife that is to be, and, perhaps, we shall shew young Modesty here a sight of Peggy too.

Sir, here's the strange odd sort of a gentleman come again, and I have shewn him into the fore-parlour.

That must he Moody! well said, Will, an odd sort of a strange gentleman indeed; we'll step into the next room 'till he comes into this, and then you may have him all to yourself—much good may do you.

Remember that he is married, or he'll suspect me of betraying him.

Shew him up Will. Now must I prepare my­self to see a very strange, tho' a very natural meta­morphosis—a once high-spirited, handsome, well­dress'd, raking prodigal of the town, sunk into a surly, suspicious oeconomical, country sloven—le voila.

Mr. Harcourt, your humble servant—have you forgot me?

What, my old friend Jack Moody! by thy long absence from the town, the grumness of thy coun­tenance, and the slovenlyness of thy habit, I should give thee joy—you are certainly married.

My long stay in the country will excuse my dress, and I have a suit of law, that brings me up to town, and puts me out of humour—besides, I must give Sparkish ten thousand pounds to-morrow to take my sister off my hands.

Your sister is very much obliged to you—be­ing so much older than her, you have taken upon you the authority of a father, and have engaged her to a coxcomb.

[Page 13]

I have, and to oblige her—nothing but cox­combs, or debauchees are the favourites now-a-days, and a coxcomb is rather the more innocent animal of the two.

She has sense, and taste, and can't like him; so you must answer for the consequences.

When she is out of my hands, her husband must look to consequences. He's a fashionable fool, and will cut his horns kindly.

And what is to secure your worship from con­sequences—I did not expect marriage from such a rake—one that knew the town so well: fye, fye, Jack.

I'll tell you my security—I have married no London wife.

That's all one—that grave circumspection in marrying a country wife, is like refusing a deceitful, pamper'd, Smithfield-jade, to go and be cheated by a friend in the country.

I wish the devil had both him and his simile.

Well, never grumble about it; what's done can't be undone; is your wife handsome and young?

She has little beauty but her youth, nothing to brag of but her health, and no attraction but her modesty—wholesome, homely, and housewifely—that's all.

You talk as like a grazier, as you look, Jack—why did you not bring her to town before to be taught something?

Which something I might repent as long as I live—No, no, women and private soldiers should beig­norant.

But prithee why wouldst thou marry her, if she be ugly, ill-bred, and silly? She must be rich then.

As rich, as if she had the wealth of the mo­gul—she'll not ruin her husband, like a London bag­gage, with a million of vices she never heard of—then because she's ugly, she's the likelier to be my own; and being ill-bred, she'll hate conversation; and since silly and innocent, will not know the difference between me and you; that is, between a man of thirty, and one of forty.

[Page 14]

Fifty, to my knowledge—

But see how you and I differ, Jack—wit to me is more necessary than beauty: I think no young woman ugly, that has it; and no handsome woman agreeable without it.

'Tis my maxim—He's a fool that marries; but he's a greater that does not marry a fool.—I know the town, Mr. Harcourt; and my wife shall be virtuous in spite of you or your nephew.

My nephew!—poor sheepish lad—he runs a­way from every woman he sees—he saw your sister Ali­thea at the opera, and was much smitten with her—He always toasts her—and hates the very name of Spark­ish; I'll bring him to your house—and you shall see what a formidable Tarquin he is.

I have no curiosity, so give yourself no trou­ble.—You have heard of a wolf in sheep's cloathing, and I have seen your innocent nephew kissing his hands at my windows.

At your sister, I suppose; nor at her unless he was tipsy—How can you, Jack, be so outragiously suspicious? Sparkish has promis'd to introduce him to his mistress.

Sparkish is a fool, and may be, what I'll take care not to be—I confess my visit to you, Mr. Har­court, was partly for old acquaintance sake, but chiefly to desire your nephew to confine his gallantries to the tavern, and not send 'em in looks, signs, or tokens, on the other side the way—I keep no brothel—so pray tell your nephew.

Nay, prithee, Jack, leave me in better hu­mour—Well, I'll tell him, ha, ha, ha! poor Dick, how he'll stare. This will give him a reputation, and the girls won't laugh at him any longer. Shall we dine to­gether at the tavern, and send for my nephew to chide him for his gallantry? ha, ha, ha! we shall have fine sport.

I am not to be laught out of my senses, Mr. Harcourt—I was once a modest, meek young gentle­man myself, and I never have been half so mischievous before or since, as I was in that state of innocence—And so, old friend, make no ceremony with me—I have [Page 15] much business, and you have much pleasure, and there­fore, as I hate forms, I will excuse your returning my visit; or sending your nephew to satisfy me of his mo­desty—and so your servant.

Ha, ha, ha! poor Jack! what a life of suspicion does he lead! I pity the poor fellow, tho' he ought, and will, suffer for his folly—Folly! 'tis treason, murder, sacrilege! When persons of a certain age will indulge their false, ungenerous appetites, at the expence of a young creature's happiness, dame na­ture will revenge herself upon them for thwarting her most heavenly will and pleasure.

SCENE a Chamber in Moody's house.

PRAY, sister, where are the best fields and woods to walk in, in London?

A pretty question! why, sister, Vauxhall, Ra­nelagh, and St. James's Park, are the most frequented.

Pray, sister, tell me why my Bud looks so grum here in town, and keeps me up close, and will not let me go a walking, nor let me wear my best gown yesterday.

O, he's jealous, sister.

Jealous! what's that?

He's afraid you should love another man.

How should he be afraid of my loving another man, when he will not let me see any but himself?

Did he not carry you yesterday to a play?

Ay; but we sat amongst ugly people: he would not let me come near the gentry, who sat under us, so that I could not see 'em. He told me none but naughty women sat there—but I would have ventured for all that.

But how did you like the play?

Indeed I was weary of the play; but I lik'd hugeously the actors; they are the goodliest, properest men, sister.

[Page 16]

O, but you must not like the actors, sister.

Ay, how should I help it, sister? Pray, sister when my guardian comes in, will you ask leave for me to go a walking?

A walking, ha, ha, ha! Lord a country gen­tlewoman's pleasure is the drudgery of a footpost; and she requires as much airing as her husband's horses.

But here comes my brother, I'll ask him, tho' I'm sure he'll not grant it.

O my dear, dear Bud, welcome home; why dost thou look so sropish? who has nanger'd thee?

You're a fool.

Faith, and so she is, for crying for no fault—poor tender creature!

What, you would have her as impudent as yourself, as arrant a gilflirt, a gadder, a magpye, and, to say all, a mere notorious town-woman!

Brother, you are my only censurer; and the honour of your family will sooner suffer in your wife that is to be, than in me, tho' I take the innocent li­berty of the town.

Hark you, Mistress, do not talk so before my wife: the innocent liberty of the town!

Pray, what ill people frequent my lodgings? I keep no company with any woman of scandalous reputation.

No, you keep the men of scandalous reputa­tion company.

Would you not have me civil, answer 'em at public places, walk with 'em when they join me in the Park, Ranelagh, or Vauxhall?

Hold, hold; do not teach my wife where the men are to be found: I believe she's the worse for your town ducuments already. I bid you keep her in ignorance, as I do.

Indeed, be not angry with her, Bud, she will tell me nothing of the town, tho' I ask her a thousand times a-day.

Then you are very inquisitive to know, I find?

[Page 17]

Not I, indeed, Dear; I hate London: our place-house in the country is worth a thousand of't; would I were there again.

So you shall, I warrant. But were you not talking of plays and players when I came in? you are her encourager in such discourses.

No, indeed, Dear, she chid me just now for liking the player-men.

Nay, if she is so innocent as to own to me her liking them, there is no hurt in't.

Come, my poor Rogue, but thou likest none better than me?

Yes, indeed, but I do; the player-men are finer folks.

But you love none better than me?

You are my own dear Bud, and I know you; I hate strangers.

Ay, my Dear, you must love me only; and not be like the naughty town-women, who only hate their husbands, and love every man else, love plays, visits, fine coaches, fine cloaths, fiddles, balls, treats, and so lead a wicked town-life.

Nay, if to enjoy all these things be a town-life, London is not so bad a place, Dear.

How! if you love me, you must hate London.

The fool has forbid me discovering to her the pleasures of the town, and he is now setting her agog upon them himself.

But, Bud, do the town-women love the player-men too?

Yes, I warrant you.

Ay, I warrant you.

Why, you do not, I hope?

No, no, Bud; but why have we no player-men in the country?

Ha! Mrs. Minx, ask me no more to go to a play.

Nay, why, Love? I did not care for going: but when you forbid me, you make me as 'twere desire [...].

So 'twill be in other things, I warrant.

Pray let me go to a play, Dear?

Hold your peace, I won't.

[Page 18]

Why, Love?

Why, I'll tell you.

Nay, if he tell her, she'll give him more cause to forbid her that place.

Pray, why, Dear?

First, you like the actors; and the gal­lants may like you.

What, a homely country girl? No, Bud, no body will like me.

I tell you, yes, they may.

No, no, you jest—I won't believe you: I will go.

I tell you then, that one of the most raking fellows in town, who saw you there, told me he was in love with you.

Indeed, who, who, pray, who was't?

I've gone too far, and slipt before I was aware. How overjov'd she is.

Was it any Hampshire gallant, any of our neighbours?—Promise you, I am beholden to him.

I promise you, you lye; for he wou'd but ruin you, as he has done hundreds.

Ay, but if he loves me, why should he ruin me? answer me to that. Methinks he shou'd not; I wou'd do him no harm.

Ha, ha, ha!

'Tis very well; but I'll keep him from doing you any harm, or me either. But here comes com­pany, get you in, get you in.

But pray, husband, is he a pretty gentleman, that loves me?

In, baggage, in.

What, all the libertines of the town brought to my lodging, by this easy coxcomb! 'Sdeath, I'll not suffer it.

Here, Belville, do you approve my choice? Dear little rogue, I told you, I'd bring you acquainted with all my friends, the wits.

Ay, they shall know her as well as you your­self will, I warrant you.

[Page 19]

This is one of those, my pretty rogue, that are to dance at your wedding to morrow, and one you must make welcome, for he's modest.

Harcourt makes himself welcome, and has not the same foible, tho' of the same family.

You are too obliging, Sparkish.

And so he is indeed—the fop's horns will as naturally sprout upon his brows, as mushrooms upon dunghills.

This, Mr. Moody, is my nephew you men­tioned to me; I would bring him with me, for a sight of him will be sufficient, without poppy or mandra­gora, to restore you to your rest.

I am sorry, Sir, that any mistake, or impru­dence of mine, should have given you any uneasiness; it was not so intended, I assure you, Sir.

It may be so, Sir, but not the less criminal for that—My wife, Sir, must not be smirk'd and nod­ded at from tavern windows; I am a good shot, young gentleman, and don't suffer magpyes to come near my cherries.

Was it your wife, Sir?

What's that to you, Sir,—suppose it was my grandmother?

I would not dare to offend her,—permit me to say a word in private to you.

Now old surly is gone, tell me, Harcourt, if thou lik'st her as well as ever—My dear, don't look down, I should hate to have a wife of mine out of countenance at any thing.

For shame, Mr. Sparkish.

Tell me, I say, Harcourt, how dost like her? thou hast star'd upon her enough to resolve me.

So infinitely well, that I could wish I had a mistress too, that might differ from her in nothing but her love and engagement to you.

Sir, Mr. Sparkish has often told me, that his acquaintance were all wits and railers, and now I find it.

No, by the universe, Madam, he does not rally now; you may believe him; I do assure you he is the honestest, worthiest, true-hearted gen­tleman; [Page 20] a man of such perfect honour, he would say nothing to a lady he does not mean.

Sir, you are so beyond expectation obliging, that—

Nay, egad, I am sure you do admire her extremely, I see it in your eyes.—He does admire you, Madam, he has told me so a thousand and a thousand times—have not you, Harcourt? You do admire her, by the world, you do—don't you?

Yes, above the world, or the most glorious part of it, her whole sex; and till now, I never thought I should have envied you or any man about to marry: but you have the best excuse to marry I ever knew.

Nay, now, Sir, I am satisfied you are of the society of the wits, and railers since you cannot spare your friend, even when he is most civil to you; but the surest sign is, you are an enemy to marriage, the common butt of every railer.

Truly, Madam, I was never an enemy to marriage till now, because marriage was never an enemy to me before.

But why, Sir, is marriage an enemy to you now? because it robs you of your friend here? for you look upon a friend married, as one gone into a monastery, that is dead to the world.

'Tis indeed, because you marry him; I see, Madam, you can guess my meaning: I do confess heartily and openly, I wish it were in my power to break the match; by heavens, I wou'd.

Poor Frank!

Wou'd you be so unkind to me?

No, no, 'tis not because I wou'd be unkind to you.

Poor Frank, no, egad, 'tis only his kindness to me.

Great kindness to you, indeed—insensible! Let a man make love to his mistress to his face.

Come, dear Frank, for all my wise there, that shall be, thou shalt enjoy me sometimes, dear rogue: by my honour, we men of wit condole for our deceased brother in marriage, as much as for one dead [Page 21] in earnest: I think that was prettily said of me, ha, Har­court?—But come, Frank, be not melancholy for me.

No, I assure you, I am not melancholy for you.

Prithee, Frank, do'st think my wife, that shall be, there, a fine person?

I cou'd gaze upon her, till I became as blind as you are.

How, as I am? how?

Because you are a lover, and true lovers are blind, stock blind.

True, true; but, by the world, she has wit too, as well as beauty: go, go with her into a corner, and try if she has wit; talk to her any thing, she's bashful before me.

Sir, you dispose of me a little before your time.

Nay, nay, Madam, let me have an earnest of your obedience, or—go, go, Madam.

How, Sir, if you are not concern'd for the honour of a wife, I am for that of a sister; be a pan­der to your own wife, bring men to her, let e'm make love before your face, hust 'em into a corner together, then leave 'em in private! is this your town wit and conduct?

Ha, ha, ha! a silly wise rogue wou'd make one laugh more than a stark fool, ha, ha, ha! I shall burst. Nay, you shall not disturb'em; I'll vex thee, by the world. What have you done with Belville?

Shewn him the way out of my house, as you should to that gentleman.

Nay, but prithee—let me reason with thee.

The writings are drawn, Sir, settlements made, 'tis too late, Sir, and past all revocation.

Them so is my death.

I wou'd not be unjust to him.

[Page 22]

Then why to me so?

I have no obligation to you.

My love.

I had his before.

You never had it; he wants, you see, jea­lousy, the only infallible sign of it.

Love proceeds from esteem; he cannot dis­trust my virtue; besides, he loves me, or he would not marry me.

Marrying you, is no more a sign of his lo ve, than bribing your woman, that he may marry you, is a sign of his generosity. But if you take marriage for a sign of lo ve, take it from me immediately.

No, now you have put a scruple in my head; but in short, Sir, to end our dispute, I must marry him; my reputation wou'd suffer in the world else.

No; if you do marry him, with your par­don, Madam, your reputation suffers in the world.

Nay, now you are rude, Sir—Mr. Spark­ish, pray come hither, your friend here is very trou­blesome, and very loving.

Hold, hold.

D'ye hear that;—senseless puppy!

Why, d'ye think I'll seem jealous, like a coun­try bumkin?

No, rather be dishonour'd like a credulous driv'ler.

Madam, you would not have been so little generous as to have told him?

Yes, since you could be so little generous as to wrong him.

Wrong him, no man can do't, he's beneath an injury; a bubble, a coward, a senseless idiot, a wretch so contemptible to all the world but you, that—

Hold, do not rail at him, for since he is like to be my husband, I am resolv'd to like him: nay, I think I am oblig'd to tell him, you are not his friend—Mr. Sparkish, Mr. Sparkish!

What, what; now, dear rogue, has not she wit?

Not so much as I thought, and hoped she had.

[Page 23]

Mr. Sparkish, do you bring people to rail at you?

Madam!

How! no; but if he does rail at me, 'tis but in jest, I warrant: what we wits do for one another, and never take any notice of it.

He spoke so scurrilously of you, I had no patience to hear him.

And he was in the right on't.

Besides, he has been making love to me.

And I told the fool so—

True, damn'd tell-tale woman.

Pshaw, to shew his parts—We wits rail and make love often, but to shew our parts; as we have no affections, so we have no malice, we—

Did you ever hear such an ass!

He said you were a wretch below an injury.

Pshaw.

Madam!

A common bubble.

Pshaw.

A coward!

Pshaw, pshaw!

A senseless drivelling idiot.

True, true, true; all true.

How! did he disparage my parts? nay, then my honour's concern'd. I can't put up that, Sir; by the world, brother, help me to kill him.

Hold, hold.

What, what?

I must not let 'em kill the gentleman neither.

I'll be thy death.

If Harcourt would but kill Sparkish, and run away with my sister, I shou'd be rid of three plagues at once.

Hold, hold; indeed, to tell the truth, the gentleman said, after all, that what he spoke, was but out of friendship to you.

How! say, I am a fool, that is, no wit, out of friendship to me?

Yes, to try whether I was concern'd enough [Page 24] for you; and made love to me only to be satisfy'd of my virtue, for your sake.

Kind, however.

Nay, if it were so, my dear rogue, I ask thee pardon; but why wou'd not you tell me so, faith?

Because I did not think on't, faith!

Come, Belville is gone away; Harcourt, let's be gone to the new play—Come, Madam.

I will not go, if you intend to leave me alone in the box, and run all about the house as you use to do.

Pshaw, I'll leave Harcourt with you in the box, to entertain you, and that's as good; if I sat in the box, I shou'd be thought no critick—I must run about, my dear, and abuse the author—Come away, Harcourt, lead her down. B'ye, brother.

B'ye, driv'ler; well, go thy ways, for the flower of the true town fops, such as spend their estates before they come to 'em, and are cuckolds before they're married. But let me go look to my free-hold.

Master, your worship's servant—here is the lawyer, counseller gentleman, with a green bag full of papers, come again, and would be glad to speak to you.

Now, here's some other damn'd impediment, which the law has thrown in our way—I shall never marry the girl, nor get clear of the smoke and wicked­ness of this cursed town; where is he?

He's below in a coach, with three other law­yer, counseller gentlemen.

SCENE changes.

What ails you, Miss Peggy? you are grown quite melancholy.

Would it not make any one melancholy to see your mistress Alithea go every day fluttering about abroad to plays and assemblies, and I know not what, whilst I must stay at home, like a poor lonely sullen bird in a cage?

[Page 25]

Dear Miss Peggy, I thought you chose to be confin'd: I imagin'd that you had been bred so young to the cage, that you had no pleasure in flying about, and hopping in the open air, as other young ladies who go a little wild about this town.

Nay, I confess, I was quiet enough, 'till somebody told me what pure lives the London ladies lead, with their dancing meetings, and junketings, and dress'd every day in their best gowns; and I war­rant you play at nine-pins every day in the week, so they do.

To be sure, Miss, you will lead a better life when join'd in holy wedlock with your sweet temper'd guardian, the chearful Mr. Moody.

I can't lead a worse, that's one good thing—but I must make the best of a bad market, for I can't marry nobody else.

How so, Miss? that's very strange.

Why we have a contraction to one another—so we are as good as married, you know—

I know it! Heav'n forbid, Miss—

Heigho!

Don't sigh, Miss Peggy—if that young gen­tleman, who was here just now, would take pity on me, I'd throw such a contract as yours behind the fire.

Lord bless us, how you talk!

Young Mr. Belville would make you talk otherwise, if you knew him.

Mr. Belville!—where is he?—when did you see him?—you have undone me, Lucy—where was he? did he say any thing?

Say any thing! very little, indeed—he's quite distracted, poor young creature. He was talk­ing with your guardian just now.

The duce he was! but where was it, and when was it?

In this house, five minutes ago, when your guardian turn'd you into your chamber, for fear of your being seen.

I knew something was the matter, I was in such a sluster—but what did he say to my Bud?

[Page 26]

What do you call him Bud for? Bud means husband, and he is not your husband yet—and I hope never will be—and if he was my husband, I'd bud him, a surly unreasonable beast.

I'd call him any names, to keep him in good humour—if he'd let me marry any body else (which I can't do) I'd call him husband as long as he liv'd—But what said Mr. Belville to him?

I don't know what he said to him, but I'll tell you what he said to me, with a sigh, and his hand upon his breast as he went out of the door—If you ever were in love, young gentlewoman, (meaning me) and can pity a most faithful lover—tell the dear object of my affections—

Meaning me, Lucy?

Yes, you, to be sure. Tell the dear object of my affections, I live but upon the hopes that she is not married; and when those hopes leave me—she knows the rest—then he cast up his eyes thus—gnash'd his teeth—struck his forehead—would have spoke again, but could not—fetch'd a deep sigh, and vanish'd.

That is really very fine—I'm sure it makes my heart sink within me, and brings tears into my eyes—O he's a charming sweet—but hush, hush, I hear my husband!

Don't call him husband. Go into the Park this evening, if you can.

Mum, mum—

Come, what's here to do? you are putting the town pleasures in her head, and setting her a longing.

Yes, after nine-pins: you suffer none to give her those longings you mean, but yourself.

Come, Mrs. Elippant, good precepts are lost when bad examples are still before us: the liber­ty your mistress takes abroad makes her hanker after it, and out of humour at home: poor wretch! she desired not to come to London; I would bring her.

[Page 27]

O yes, you surfeit her with pleasures.

She has been this fortnight in town, and ne­ver desired, till this afternoon, to go abroad.

Was she not at the play yesterday.

Yes; but she ne'er ask'd me: I was myself the cause of her going.

Then if she ask you again, you are the cause of her asking, and not my mistress.

Well, next week I shall be rid of you all, rid of this town, and my dreadful apprehensions. Come, be not melancholy, for thou shalt go into the country very soon, dearest.

Great comfort!

Pish, what d'ye tell me of the country for.

How's this! what, pish at the country?

Let me alone, I am not well.

O, if that be all,—what ails my dearest?

Truly, I don't know; but I have not been well since you told me there was a gallant at the play in love with me.

Ha!

That's my mistress too.

Nay, if you are not well, but are so con­cern'd, because a raking fellow chanced to lye, and say he lik'd you, you'll make me sick too.

Of what sickness?

O, of that which is worse than the plague, jealousy.

Pish, you jeer: I'm sure there's no such dis­ease in our receipt book at home.

No, thou never met'st with it, poor inno­cent.

Well, but pray, Bud, let's go to a play to­night.

No, no;—no more plays—But why are you so eager to see a play?

Faith, Dear, not that I care one pin for their talk there; but I like to look upon the player-men, and wou'd see, if I could, the gallant you say loves me: that's all, dear Bud.

Is that all, dear Bud?

This proceeds from my mistress's example.

[Page 28]

Let's go abroad however, dear Bud, if we do't go to the play.

Come, have a little patience, and thou shalt go into the country next week.

Therefore I would see first some sights, to tell my neighbours of: nay, I will go abroad, that's once.

What, you have put this into her head?

Heav'n defend me, what suspicions! some­body has put more things into your head than you ought to have.

Your tongue runs too glibly, Madam, and you have liv'd too long with a London lady, to be a proper companion for innocence—I am not overfond of you, mistress.

There's no love lost between us.

You admitted those gentlemen into the house, when I said I wou'd not be at home; and there was the young fellow too that behav'd so indecently to my wife at the tavern window.

Because you wou'd not let him see your hand­some wife out of your lodgings.

Why, O Lord! did the gentleman come hither to see me indeed?

No, no, you are not the cause of that damn'd question too.

Come, pray, Bud, let's go abroad before 'tis late; for I will go, that's flat and plain—only into the Park.

So! the obstinacy already of the town-wife; and I must, whilst she's here, humour her like one.

How shall we do, that she may not be seen or known?

Muffle her up with a bonnet and handker­chief, and I'll go with her to avoid suspicion.

And run into more danger.—No, no, I am obliged to you for your kindness, but she shan't stir without me.

What will you do then?

What, shall we go? I am sick with staying at home: if I don't walk in the Park, I'll do nothing that I am bid for a week—I won't be mop'd.

[Page 29]

O, she has a charming spirit! I could stand your friend now, and would, if you had ever a civil word to give me.

I'll give thee a better thing, I'll give thee a guinea for thy good advice, if I like it; and I can have the best of the ollege for the same money.

I despise a bribe—when I am your friend, it shall be without fee or reward.

Don't be long then, for I will go out.

The taylor brought home last night the clothes you intend for a present to your godson in the country.

You must not tell that, Lucy.

But I will, Madam—When you were with your lawyers last night, Miss Peggy, to divert me and herself, put 'em on, and they fitted her to a hair.

Thank you, thank you, Lucy—'tis the luckiest thought! Go this moment, Peggy, into your chamber, and put 'em on again—and you shall walk with me into the Park, as my godson—Well thought of, Lucy—I shall love you for ever for this.

And so shall I too, Lucy, I'll put 'em on di­rectly.

Suppose, Bud, I must keep on my petticoats, for fear of shewing my legs?

No, no, you fool, never mind your legs.

No more I will then, Bud—This is pure.

What a simpleton it is! Well, Lucy, I thank you for the thought, and before I leave Lon­don, thou shalt be convinc'd how much I am obliged to thee.

And before you leave London, Mr. Moody, I hope I shall convince you how much you are oblig'd to me.

SCENE the Park.

AND the moment Moody left me, and be­fore I left his lodgings, I took an opportu­nity of conveying some tender sentiments thro' Lucy to Miss Peggy, and it was Lucy advis'd me to strole here this evening; and here I am in expectation of seeing my country goddess.

And so to blind Moody, and take him off the scent of your passion for this girl, and at the same time to give me an opportunity with Sparkish's mis­tress, (and of which I have made the most) you hinted to him with a grave melancholy face, that you were dying for his sister—gad-a-mercy, nephew! I will back thy modesty against any other in the three king­doms—It will do, Dick.

What could I do, uncle?—it was my last stake, and I play'd for a great deal.

You mistake me, Dick, I don't say you could do better—I only can't account for your modesty's doing so much; you have done such wonders, that I, who am rather bold than sheepish, have not yet ceas'd wondering at you. But do you think that you impos'd upon him?

Faith, I can't say—I am rather doubtful, he said very little, grumbled much, shook his head, and shew'd me the door.—But what success have you had with Alithea?

Just enough to have a glimmering of hope, without having light enough to see an inch before my nose.—This day will produce something; Alithea is a woman of great honour, and will sacrifice her happiness to it, unless Sparkish's absurdity stand my friend, and does every thing that the fates ought to do for me.

[Page 31]

Yonder comes the prince of coxcombs, and if your mistress and mine should, by chance, be trip­ping this way, this fellow will spoil sport—let us avoid him—you can't cheat him before his face.

But I can tho', thanks to my wit, and his want of it; a foolish rival, and a jealous husband, assist their rivals designs, for they are sure to make their women hate them, which is their first step to their love for another man.

But you cannot come near his mistress but in his company.

Still the better for me, nephew, for fools are most easily cheated, when they themselves are ac­cessaries, and he is to be bubbled of his mistress, or of his money (the common mistress) by keeping him company.

Who's that is to be bubbled? faith, let me snack; I han't met with a bubble since Christmas. 'Gad, I think bubbles are like their brother wood­cocks, go out with the cold weather.

O pox, he did not hear all, I hope?

Come, you bubbling rogues you, where do we sup? O Harcourt, my mistress tells me, you have made love, fierce love to her last night, all the play long, ha, ha, ha! but I—

I make love to her!

Nay, I forgive thee, and I know her, but I am sure I know myself.

Do you, Sir? Then you are the wisest man in the world, and I honour you as such.

O, your servant, Sir, you are at your rail­lery, are you?—You can't oblige me more—I'm your man—He'll meet with his match—Ha! Harcourt!—Did not you hear me laugh prodigiously at the play last night?

Yes, and was very much disturb'd at it.—You put the actors and audience into confusion—and all your friends out of countenance.

[Page 32]

So much the better—I love confusion—and to see folks out of countenance;—I was in tip top spi­rits, faith, and said a thousand good things.

But I thought you had gone to plays to laugh at the poet's good things, and not at your own?

Your servant, Sir: no, I thank you. 'Gad I go to a play, as to a country treat: I carry my own wine to one, and my own wit to t'other, or else I'm sure I should not be merry at either: and the reason why we are so often louder than the players, is, be­cause we hate authors damnably.

But why should you hate the poor rogues? you have too much wit, and despise writing, I'm fure.

O yes, I despise writing. But women! wo­men, that make men do all foolish things, make 'em write songs too. Every body does it: 'Tis e'en as common with lovers, as playing with fans; and you can no more help rhyming to your Phillis, than drink­ing to your Phillis.

But the poets damn'd your songs, did they?

O yes, damn the poets; they turn'd them into burlesque, as they call it: That burlesque is a hocus pocus trick they have got, which by the virtue of hictius doctius, topsey turvey, they make a clever witty thing absolute nonsense; do you know, Har­court, that they ridicul'd my last song, twang, twang, the best I ever wrote?

That may be, and be very easily ridicul'd for all that.

Favour me with it, Sir, I never heard it.

What, and have all the Park about us?

Which you'll not dislike, and so prithee be­gin.

I never am ask'd twice—and so have at you.

What the deuce did you go away for?

Your mistress is coming.

The devil she is—O hide, hide me from her.

She sees you.

But I will not see her: for I'm engag'd, and at this instant.

Pray first take me, and reconcile me to her.

Another time: faith, it is to a lady, and one cannot make excuses to a woman.

[Page 34]

You have need of 'em I believe.

Pshaw, prithee hide me.

Your servant, Mr. Moody.

Come along—

Lau!—what a sweet delightful place this is!

Come along, I say—don't stare about you so—you'll betray yourself—

He does not know us—

Or he won't know us—

So much the better—

Who is that pretty youth with him, Spar­kish?

Some relation of Peggy's, I suppose, for he is something like her in face and gawkyness.

By all my hopes, uncle—Peggy in man's clothes—I am all over agitation.

Be quiet, or you'll spoil all. They return—Alithea has seen you, Sparkish, and will be angry if you don't go to her: besides, I wou'd fain be recon­cil'd to her, which none but you can do, my dear friend.

Well, that's a better reason, dear friend: I wou'd not go near her now for her's or my own sake; but I can deny you nothing: for tho' I have known thee a great while, never go, if I do not love thee as well as a new acquaintance.

I am obliged to you indeed, my dear friend: I wou'd be well with her, only to be well with thee still; for these ties to wives usually dissolve all ties to friends.

But they shan't tho'—come along.

Sister, if you will not go, we must leave you—

The fool her gallant and she will muster up all the young saunterers of this place. what a swarm of cuckolds and cuckold-makers are here? I begin to be uneasy.

Come, let's be gone, Peggy.

Don't you believe that I han't half my belly­ful of sights yet?

Then walk this way.

Lord, what a power of fine folks are here. And Mr. Belville, as I hope to be married.

Come along; what are you a muttering at?

There's the young gentleman there, you were so angry about—that's in love with me.

No, no, he's a dangler after your sister—or pretends to be—but they are all bad alike—come along, I say.

I'm glad to hear that—perhaps I may fit you tho'.

Come, dear Madam, for my sake you shall be reconciled to him.

For your sake I hate him.

That's something too cruel, Madam, to hate me, for his sake.

Ay, indeed, Madam, too, too cruel to me, to hate my friend for my sake.

I hate him, because he is your enemy; and you ought to hate him too, for making love to me, if you love me.

That's a good one! I hate a man for loving you! If he did love you, 'tis but what he can't help; and 'tis your fault, not his, if he admires you.

[Page 36]

Is it for your honour, or mine, to suffer a man to make love to me, who am to marry you to­morrow?

But, why, dearest Madam, will you be more concern'd for his honour than he is himself? Let his honour alone for my sake and his. He has no ho­nour.

How's that?

But what, my dear friend, can guard him­self.

O ho—that's right again.

You astonish me, Sir, with want of jealousy.

And you make me giddy, Madam, with your jealousy and fears, and virtue and honour: 'Gad, I see virtue makes a woman as troublesome as a little reading or learning.

Come, Madam, you see you strive in vain to make him jealous of me: my dear friend is the kind­est creature in the world to me.

Poor fellow.

But his kindness only is not enough for me, without your favour, your good opinion, dear Madam: 'tis that must perfect my happiness. Good gentleman, he believes all I say: wou'd you wou'd do so. Jea­lous of me! I wou'd not wrong him nor you for the world.

Look you there: hear him, hear him, and not walk away so. Come back again.

I love you, Madam, so—

How's that! nay—now you begin to go too far indeed.

So much, I confess, I say, I love you, that I wou'd not have you miserable, and cast yourself away upon so unworthy and inconsiderable a thing, as what you see here.

No, faith, I believe thou wou'dst not; now his meaning is plain; but I knew before thou wou'dst not wrong me, nor her.

No, no, heav'ns forbid the glory of her sex shou'd fall so low, as into the embraces of such a con­temptible [Page 37] temptible wretch, the least of mankind—my dear friend here—I injure him.

Very well.

No, no, dear friend, I knew it: Madam, you see he will rather wrong himself than me in giving himself such names.

Do not you understand him yet?

Come, come, you shall stay till he has sa­luted you; that I may be assur'd you are friends, af­ter his honest advice and declaration: come, pray, Madam, be friends with him.

You must pardon me, Sir, that I am not yet so obedient to you.

What, invite your wife to kiss men? Mon­strous! Are you not asham'd? I will never forgive you. Let's be gone, sister.

Are you not asham'd, that I shou'd have more confidence in the chastity of your family, than you have?—You must not teach me, I am a man of ho­nour, Sir, tho' I am frank and free; I am frank, Sir—

Very frank, Sir, to share your wife with your friends—You seem to be angry and yet won't go.

No impertinence shall drive me away.

Because you like it—But you ought to blush at exposing your wife as you do.

What then? It may be I have a pleasure in't, as I have to shew fine clothes at a play-house, the first day, and count money before poor rogues.

He that shews his wife, or money, will be in danger of having them borrowed sometimes.

I love to be envy'd, and wou'd not marry a wife, that I alone cou'd love. Loving alone is as dull as eating alone; and so good night, for I must to Whitehall—Madam, I hope, you are now reconcil'd to my friend; and so I wish you a good night, Ma­dam, and sleep if you can; for to-morrow you know I must visit you early with a canonical gentleman. Good night, dear Harcourt—remember to send your brother.

[Page 38]

You may depend upon me. Madam, I hope you will not refuse my visit to-morrow, if it should be earlier, with a canonical gentleman, than Mr. Spar­kish.

This gentlewoman is yet under my care, therefore you must yet forbear your freedom with her.

Must, Sir!

Yes, Sir, she is my sister.

'Tis well she is, Sir—for I must be her ser­vant, Sir.—Madam—

Come away, sister, we had been gone if it had not been for you, and so avoided these lewd rake­hells, who seem to haunt us.

I see a little time in the country makes a man turn wild and unsociable, and only fit to converse with his horses, dogs, and his herds.

I have business, Sir, and must mind it: your business is pleasure, therefore you and I must go diff'rent ways.

Well, you may go on; but this pretty young gentleman

shall stay with us, for I suppose his business is the same with ours, pleasure.

'Sdeath, he knows her, she carries it so sil­lily; yet if he does not, I shou'd be more silly to dis­cover it first

Pray let him go, Sir.

Come, come.

Had you not rather stay with us?

Prithee who is this pretty young fellow?

One to whom I am a guardian—I wish I cou'd keep her out of your hands.

Who is he? I never saw any thing so pretty in all my life.

Pshaw, do not look upon him so much, he's a poor bashful youth, you'll put him out of counte­nance.

Here, nephew—let me introduce this young gentleman to your acquaintance—You are very like, and of the same age, and should know one another—Salute him, Dick, a la Francoise.

[Page 39]

I hate French fashions. Men kiss one ano­ther.

I am out of my wits—What do you kiss me for, I am no woman.

But you are ten times handsomer.

Nay, now you jeer one; and pray don't jeer me.

Kiss him again, Dick.

No, no, no; come away, come away.

Why, what haste are you in? Why won't you let me talk with him?

Because you'll debauch him, he's yet young and innocent. How she gazes upon him! The devil!

Come, pray let him go, I cannot stay fooling any longer; I tell you my wife stays supper for us.

Does she? Come then, we'll all go sup with her.

No, no—now I think on't, having staid so long for us, I warrant she's gone to bed—I wish she and I were well out of your hands.

Come, I must rise early to-morrow; come—

Well then, if she be gone to bed, I wish her and you a good night. But pray, young gentleman, present my humble service to her.

Thank you heartily, Sir.

'Sdeath, she will discover herself yet in spite of me.

And mine too, Sir.

That I will, indeed.

Pray give her this kiss for me.

O heavens! what do I suffer?

And this for me.

Thank you, Sir.

O the idiot—now 'tis out—Ten thousand cankers gnaw away their lips. Come, come, Driv'ler.

Good night, dear little gentleman. Madam, good night—Farewel, Moody—Come, nephew—have not I rais'd his jealous gall finely?

A little too much I fear.

[Page 40]

So, they are gone at last. Sister, stay with Peggy—'till I find my servant—don't let her stir an inch, I'll be back directly.

What, not gone yet?—Nephew, shew the young gentleman Rosamond's Pond, while I speak another word to this lady.

Shall I have that pleasure?

With all my heart and soul, Sir.

I cannot consent to it indeed.

Let 'em look upon the place where so many despairing lovers have been destroy'd—You must in­dulge them—and me too in a few words.

My brother will go distracted—tho' he de­serves to be vex'd a little for his brutality.

My nephew is a very modest young man, you may depend upon his prudence.

Modest, prudent, and your nephew—I can't believe it, and I must follow them.—

Where! How!—what's become of—gone—whither?—

He's only gone with the young gentleman to see something.

Something! see something! with a plague—where are they?

In the next walk only, brother.

Only, only, where, where?—

What's the matter with him? Why so much concerned? But, dearest Madam—

Pray let me go, Sir; I have said and suffered enough already.

Then you will not look upon, nor pity my sufferings?

[Page 41]

To look upon 'em, when I cannot help 'em, were cruelty, not pity; therefore I will never see you more.

Gone, gone, not to be found; quite gone; ten thousand plagues go with 'em; which way went they?

But in t'other walk, brother.

T'other walk—t'other devil! You are so full of vanity, and fond of admiration, that you'll suffer your own honour and mine to run any risque, rather than not indulge your inordinate desire of flat­tery.—Where are they, I say?

You are too abusive, brother, and too vio­lent about trifles; therefore let your jealousy search for them, for I know nothing of 'em.

You know where they are, you infamous wretch, eternal shame of your family; which you do not dishonour enough yourself, you think, but you must help her to it too, thou legion of—

Good brother—

False, false sister—

Shew me to my chair, Mr. Harcourt—His scurrility has overpower'd me—I will get rid of his tyranny and your importunities, and give my hand to Sparkish to-morrow morning.

SCENE changes to another part of the Park.

No disguise could conceal you from my heart; I pretended not to know you, that I might deceive the dragon that continually watches over you—but now he's asleep, let us fly from misery to happiness.

Indeed, Mr. Belville, as well as I like you, I can't think of going away with you so—and as much as I hate my guardian, I must take leave of him a little handsomely, or he will kill me, so he will.

But, dear Miss Peggy, think of your situa­tion; [Page 42] if we don't make the best use of this opportu­nity, we never may have another.

Ay, but Mr. Belville—I am as good as married already—my guardian has contracted me, and there wants nothing but church ceremony to make us one—I call him husband, and he calls me wife already: He made me do so;—and we had been married in church long ago, if the writings could have been finished.

That's his deceit, my sweet creature—He pretends to have married you, for fear of your liking any body else—You have a right to chuse for your­self, and there is no law in heaven or earth that binds you before marriage to a man you cannot like.

I'fack, no more I believe it does; sister Ali­thea's maid has told me as much—she's a very sensible girl.

You are in the very jaws of perdition, and nothing but running away can avoid it—the law will finish your chains to-morrow, and the church will rivet them the day after—Let us secure our happiness by escape, and love and fortune will do the rest for us.

These are fine sayings, to be sure, Mr. Bel­ville; but how shall we get my fortune out of Bud's clutches? We must be a little cunning, 'tis worth trying for—We can at any time run away without it.

I see by your fears, my dear Peggy, that you live in awe of this brutal guardian; and if he has you once more in his possession, both you and your fortune are secur'd to him for ever.

Ay, but it shan't, tho'—I thank him for that.

If you marry without his consent, he can but seize upon half your fortune—The other half, and a younger brother's fortune, with a treasure of love, are our own—Take it, my sweetest Peggy, and this moment, or we shall be divided for ever.

Ifackins, but we won't—Your fine talk has bewitch'd me.

[Page 43]

'Tis you have bewitch'd me—thou dear in­chanting sweet simplicity—Let us fly with the wings of love to my house there, and we shall be safe for ever.

And so we will then—there squeeze me again by the hand; now run away with me, and if my guardy follows us, the devil take the hindmost, I say.

Boo!—here he is.

Curst fortune!

O! there's my stray'd sheep, and the wolf again in sheep's cloathing!—Now I have recover'd her, I shall come to my senses again—Where have you been, you puppy?

Been, Bud?—We have been hunting all over the Park to find you.

From one end to the other, Sir.

But not where I was to be found, you young devil you—Why did you start when you saw me?

I'm always frighten'd when I see you, and if I did not love you so well—I should run away from you, so I should.

But I'll take care you don't.

This gentleman has a favour to beg of you, Bud.

I am not in the humour to grant favours to young gentlemen, tho' you may.—What have you been doing with this young lady?—Gentleman I would say,—blisters on my tongue!

Fie, Bud, you have told all.

I have been as civil as I could to the young stranger; and if you'll permit me, I will take the trou­ble off your hands, and shew the young spark Rosa­mond's Pond, for he has not seen it yet—Come, pret­ty youth, will you go with me?

As my guardian pleases.

[Page 44]

No, no, it does not please me—whatever I think he ought to see, I shall show him myself—You may visit Rosamond's Pond if you will—and the bot­tom of it, if you will—And so, Sir, your humble ser­vant.

What cursed luck!

to be prevented at the very instant of my carrying off the golden fleece!—We have now rais'd his suspicions to such a degree, that he'll lock her up directly—sign articles this night—marry her in the morning—and away from the church into the country.—What a miserable situ­ation am I in!—I have love enough to be a knight­errant in the cause—I will lose my life, or rescue my Dulcinea.—I have hopes in her spirit too—for at the worst she can open her window, throw herself into my arms, from thence into a post-chaise, and away for the Tweed as fast as love and four post-horses can car­ry us.

SCENE Moody's house.

WELL, Madam, now I have dress'd you, and set you out with so many ornaments, and spent so much time upon you, and all this for no other purpose but to bury you alive; for I look upon Mr. Sparkish's bed to be little better than a grave.

Hold your peace.

Nay, Madam, I will ask you the reason, why you would banish poor Mr. Harcourt for ever from your sight? how cou'd you be so hard-hearted?

'Twas because I was not hard-hearted.

No, no; 'twas stark love and kindness, I warrant?

It was so: I would see him no more because I love him.

Hey day! a very pretty reason.

You do not understand me.

I wish you may yourself.

I was engag'd to marry, you see, another man, whom my justice will not suffer me to deceive or injure.

Can there be a greater cheat or wrong done to a man, than to give him your person, without your heart? I should make a conscience of it.

I'll retrieve it for him, after I am married.

The woman that marries to love better, will be as much mistaken, as the rake that marries to live better.

What nonsense you talk.

'Tis a melancholy truth, Madam—Marrying to increase love, is like gaming to become rich—Alas! you only lose what little stock you had before—There are many woeful examples of it in this righteous town!

[Page 46]

I find by your rhetorick you have been brib'd to betray me.

Only by his merit, that has brib'd your heart, you see, against your word and rigid honour.

Come, pray talk no more of honour, nor Mr. Harcourt; I wish the other wou'd come to se­cure my fidelity to him, and his right in me.

You will marry him then?

Certainly; I have given him already my word, and will my hand too, to make it good, when he comes.

Well, I wish I may never stick a pin more, if he be not an errant natural to t'other fine gentle­man.

I own he wants the wit of Harcourt, which I will dispense withal, for another want he has, which is want of jealousy, which men of wit seldom want.

Lord, Madam, what shou'd you do with a fool to your husband? You intend to be honest, don't you? Then that husbandly virtue, credulity, is thrown away upon you.

He only that cou'd suspect my virtue, shou'd have cause to do it; 'tis Sparkish's confidence in my truth, that obliges me to be faithful to him.

What, faithful to a creature who is incapable of loving and esteeming you as he ought!—To throw away your beauty, wit, accomplishments, sweet tem­per—

Hold your tongue.

That you know I can't do, Madam; and upon this occasion, I will talk for ever.—What, give yourself away to one, that poor I, your maid, would not accept of?

How, Lucy!

I would not, upon my honour, Madam; 'tis never too late to repent. Take a man, and give up your coxcomb, I say.

Mr. Sparkish, with company, Madam, at­tends you below.

[Page 47]

I will wait upon 'em.

My heart begins to fail me, but I must go through with it; go with me, Lucy.

Not I, indeed, Madam—If you will leap the precipice, you shall fall by yourself.—What ex­cellent advice have I thrown away!—So I'll e'en take it where it will be more welcome.—Miss Peggy is bent upon mischief against her guardian, and she can't have a better privy-counsellor than myself—I must be busy one way or another.

SCENE a chamber in Moody's house.

I saw him kiss your hand, before you saw me. This pretence of liking my sister was all a blind—the young abandon'd hypocrite!

Tell me, I say, for I know he likes you, and was hurrying you to his house—tell me, I say—

Lord, han't I told it a hundred times over?

I would try if, in the repetition of the un­grateful tale, I cou'd find her altering it in the least circumstance, for if her story be false, she is so too.

Come, how was't, baggage?

Lord, what pleasure you take to hear it, sure?

No, you take more in telling it, I find; but speak, how was't? no lies—I saw him kiss you—he kiss'd you before my face.

Nay, you need not be so angry with him nei­ther, for, to say truth, he has the sweetest breath I ever knew.

The Devil!—you were satisfy'd with it then, and would do it again?—

Not unless he shou'd force me.

Force you, changeling.

If I had struggled too much, you know—he wou'd have known I had been a woman; so I was quiet, for fear of being found out.

If you had been in petticoats, you wou'd have knock'd him down, wou'd not you?

[Page 48]

With what, Bud?—I cou'd not help myself—besides, he did it so modestly, and blush'd so—that I almost thought him a girl in men's cloaths, and upon his mummery too as well as me—and if so, there was no harm done, you know.

This is worse and worse—so 'tis plain she loves him, yet she has not love enough to make her conceal it from me; but the sight of him will en­crease her aversion for me, and love for him; and that love instruct her how to deceive me, and satisfy him, all idiot as she is: Love, 'twas he gave women first their craft, their art of deluding; out of nature's hands they came plain, open, silly, and fit for slaves, as she and heaven intended 'em, but damn'd Love—well—I must strangle that little monster, whilst I can deal with him—Go, fetch pen, ink and paper, out of the next room.

Yes, I will, Bud, what's the matter now?

This young fellow loves her, and she loves him—the rest is all hypocrisy—how the young modest villain endeavoured to deceive me! But I'll crush this mischief in the shell—Why, should women have more invention in love than men? It can only be, because they have more desire, more soliciting passions, more of the Devil.

Come, Minks, sit down and write.

Ay, dear, dear Bud, but I can't do't very well.

I wish you cou'd not at all.

But what should I write for?

I'll have you write a letter to this young man.

O Lord, to the young gentleman a letter!

Yes, to the young gentleman.

Lord, you do but jeer; sure you jest.

I am not so merry; come, sit down, and write as I bid you.

What, do you think I am a fool?

[Page 49]

She's afraid I wou'd not dictate any love to him, therefore she's unwilling; but you had best begin.

Indeed, and indeed, but I won't, so I won't.

Why?

Because he's in town; you may send for him here, if you will.

Very well, you wou'd have him brought to you? is it come to this? I say take the pen ink and write, or you'll provoke me.

Lord, what d'ye make a fool of me for? Don't I know that letters are never writ, but from the country to London, and from London into the coun­try? now he's in town, and I am in town too; there­fore I can't write to him, you know.

So, I am glad it is no worse; she is inno­cent enough yet.

Yes you may, when your husband bids, write letters to people that are in town.

O may I so! then I am satisfied.

Come begin— Sir—

Shan't I say, Dear Sir? you know one says always something more than bare Sir.

Write as I bid you, or I will write some­thing with this penknife in your face.

Nay, good, Bud— Sir—

Though I suffer'd last night your nauseous loath'd kisses and embraces—write!

Nay, why shou'd I say so? you know I told you he had a sweet breath.

Write!

Let me put out loath'd.

Write, I say.

Well then.

Let me see what have you writ.

Tho' I suffer'd last night your kisses and embraces—

Thou impudent creature, where is nauseous and loath'd?

I can't abide to write such filthy words.

Once more write as I'd have you, and ques­tion it not, or I will spoil your writing with this; I [Page 50] will stab out those eyes that cause my mischief.

O Lord, I will.

So—so—let's see now! tho' I suffered last night your nauseous loath'd kisses and embraces; go on— yet I would not have you presume that you shall ever repeat them—so.

I have writ it.

O then— I then conceal'd myself from your knowledge, to avoid your insolencies—

To avoid—

Your insolencies—

Your insolencies.

The same reason, now I am out of your hands—

So—

Makes me own to you my unfortunate—tho' innocent frolick of being in man's clothes.

So—

That you may for evermore.

Evermore?

Evermore cease to pursue her, who hates and detests you.

So—h.

What do you sigh for?— detests you—as much as she loves her husband and her honour—

I vow, husband, he'll ne'er believe I shou'd write such a letter.

What, he'd expect a kinder from you? Come, now your name only.

What, shan't I say your most faithful humble servant till death?

No, tormenting fiend—Her stile I find wou'd be very soft.

Come, wrap it up now whilst I go fetch wax and a candle, and write on the outside, For Mr. Belville.

For Mr. Belville—so—I am glad he is gone—Hark! I here a noise

ifeck there's folks with him—that's pure—now I may think a little—Why should I send dear Mr. Bellville such a letter?—Can one have no shift? ah! a London woman wou'd have had a hundred presently.—Stay—what if I should write a letter and wrap it up like this, and [Page 51] write upon't too?—Ay, but then my guardian wou'd see't—I don't know what to do—But yet y'vads I'll try, so I will—for I will not send this letter to poor Mr. Belville, come what will on't.

Dear, sweet, Mr. Belville—so— My guardian wou'd have me send you a base, rude letter, but I won't—so— and wou'd have me say, I hate you—but I won't—there— for I'm sure if you and I were in the country at cards together—so— I cou'd not help treading on your toe under the table—so pray keep at home, for I shall be with you as soon as I can—so no more at present from me who am, dear, dear, poor, dear Mr. Belville, your loving friend till death, Margaret Thrift.

So—now wrap it up just like t'other—so—now write, For Mr. Belville—But oh! what shall I do with it? for here comes my guardian.

I have been [...]ined by a sparkish cox­comb, who pretended a visit to me, but I fear 'twas to my wife.

What have you done?

Ay, ay, Bud, just now.

Let's see't; what d'ye tremble for?—

So I had been serv'd, if I had given him this.

Come, where's the wax and seal?

Lord, what shall I do now? Nay, then I have it—pray let me see't. Lord, you think me so errand a fool, I cannot seal a letter; I will do't, so I will.

Nay, I believe you will learn that and other things too, which I wou'd not have you.

So, han't I done it curiously? I think I have—there's my letter going to Mr. Belville, since he'll needs have me send letters to folks.

[Page 52]

'Tis very well, but I warrant, you wou'd not have it go now?

Yes, indeed, but I wou'd, Bud, now.

Well, you are a good girl then. Come, let me lock you up in your chamber, till I come back; and be sure you come not within three strides of the window, when I am gone; for I have a spy in the street.

At least 'tis fit she thinks so; if we do not cheat women, they'll cheat us, and fraud may be justly used with secret enemies, of which a wife is the most dangerous; and he that has a handsome one to keep, and a frontier town, must pro­vide against treachery rather than open force—Now I have secured all within, I'll deal with the foe with­out, with false intelligence. This will dash all his im­pudent hopes

at once, and I shall sleep now securely in my garrison without fear of sur­prize—But no time is to be lost—I'll steal a march upon him.

SCENE changes to Belville's lodgings.

I run great risques to be sure to serve the young lady, and you, Sir—but I know you are a gentleman of honour, and wou'd scorn to betray a friend who means you well, and is above being mer­cenary.

As you are not mercenary, Mrs. Lucy, I ought to be the more generous—give me leave to pre­sent you with this trifle,

not as a re­ward for services, but as a small token of friendship.

Tho' I scorn to be brib'd in any cause, yet I am proud to accept it, as a mark of your regard, and as such shall keep it for your sake—and now to busi­ness.

You flatter me then, that Miss Peggy has the most rooted aversion for her guardian, and some preju­dices in my favour.

She has intrusted me with her very thoughts—and I have rais'd her disobedience to such a pitch, [Page 53] that she would have open'd her whole heart to you in a letter, had we not been interrupted by her brutal guardian.

She told me in the Park, that you had con­vinced her she was not married to him.

There was not much difficulty in that; but if any thing could have frighten'd her into that belief, her filthy guardian had done it—He made her almost believe, that the saving her soul depended upon mar­rying him—Did you ever hear of such a reprobate?

How I adore her bewitching simplicity!

Simplicity, Sir! she's able to make a fool of any of us—if I had half her wit, I would not conti­nue long in service, as well as I love my mistress.

But, dear Lucy, what can Miss Peggy pro­pose?

To run away from her guardian, and marry you.

She might have done both, and lost the op­portunity.

She will do both, and make an opportunity, if it does not come of itself. The thought of running away, or of being married, when taken separately, will put any maiden of us into great confusion; but when they come both together, are too much for the boldest of us—Miss Peggy was overpower'd with your pro­posal, and no wonder she could not determine for the best; I should have been a little frighten'd myself.

But has the dear creature resolv'd?

Has she—why, she will run away and mar­ry you, in spite of your teeth, the first moment she can break prison—so you, in your turn, must take care not to have your qualms—I have known several bold gentlemen not able to draw their swords, when a chal­lenge has come too quick upon 'em.

I assure you, Mrs. Lucy, that I am no bully in love, and Miss Peggy will meet with her match, come when she will.

Ay, so you all say, but talking does no busi­ness—stay at home till you hear from us.

Blessings on thee, Lucy, for the thought.

But I must and will see him, let him have what company he will.

As I hope to be marry'd, Mr. Belville, I hear Mr. Moody's voice—where shall I hide myself?—if he sees me—we are all undone.

This is our cursed luck again—what the devil can he want here?—I have lost my senses—get into this closet till he's gone.

This visit means something; I am quite confounded—Don't you stir, Lucy—I must put the best face upon the matter—Now for it—.

You will excuse me, Sir, for breaking thro' forms, and your servant's intreaties, to have the honour—but you are alone, Sir—your fellow told me below that you were with company.

Yes, Sir, the best company.

When I converse with my betters, I chuse to have 'em alone.

And I chose to interrupt your conversati­on; the business of my errand must plead my excuse.

You shall be always welcome to me—but you seem ruffled, Sir; what brings you hither, and so seemingly out of humour?

Your impertinency—I beg pardon—your modesty, I mean.

My impertinency.

Your impertinency.

Sir, from the peculiarity of your character, and your intimacy with my uncle, I shall allow you great privileges: but you must consider, youth has its privileges too; and as I have not the honour of your acquaintance, I am not oblig'd to bear with your ill humours, or your ill manners.

They who wrong me, young man, must bear with both; and if you had not made too free with me, I should have taken no liberties with you.

[Page 55]

I don't understand you, Sir; but, you gen­tlemen, who have handsome wives, think you have a privilege of saying any thing to us young fellows, and are as brutish as if you were our creditors.

I shan't trust you any way.

But why so diffident, Sir? you don't know me.

I am not diffident, young man, but cer­tain, because I think I do know you.

I could have wish'd, Sir, to have found you a little more civil, the first time I have the ho­nour of a visit from you.

If that is all you want, young gentleman, you will find me very civil indeed! There, Sir,—read that, and let your modesty declare whether I want either kindness or civility—Look you there, Sir.

What is't?

Only a love letter, Sir;—and from my wife.

How, is it from your wife;—hum and hum.

Even from my wife, Sir; am not I won­d'rous kind and civil to you now too? But you'll not think her so.

Ha, is this a trick of his or her's?

The gentleman's surpriz'd, I find; what, you expected a kinder letter?

No, faith, not I, how could I?

Yes, yes, I'm sure you did; a man so young, and well made as you are, must needs be dis­appointed, if the women declare not their passion at the first sight, or opportunity.

But what shou'd this mean? It seems, he knows not what the letter contains!

Come, ne'er wonder at it so much.

Faith, I can't help it.

Now, I think, I have deserv'd your infinite friendship and kindness, and have shew'd myself suf­ficiently an obliging kind friend and husband—am I not so, to bring a letter from my wife to her gallant.

Ay, indeed you are the most obliging kind [Page 56] friend and husband in the world; ha, ha, ha! Pray, however, present my humble service to her, and tell her, I will obey her letter to a tittle, and fulfil her desires, be what they will, or with what difficulty soever I do't; and you shall be no more jealous of me, I warrant her, and you.

Well then, fare you well, and play with any man's honour but mine, kiss any man's wife but mine, and welcome—so, Mr. Modesty, your ser­vant.

So, brother-in-law, that was to have been, I have follow'd you from home to Belville's: I have strange news for you.

What, are you wiser than you were this morning.

Faith I don't know but I am, for I have lost your sister, and I shan't eat half an ounce the less at dinner for it; there's philosophy for you.

Insensibility, you mean—I hope you don't mean to use my sister ill, Sir?

No, Sir, she has used me ill; she's in her tantrums—I have had a narrow escape, Sir.

If thou art endow'd with the smallest por­tion of understanding, explain this riddle.

Ay, ay, prithee, Sparkish—condescend to be intelligible.

Why, you must know—we had settled to be married—it is the same thing to me, whether I am married or not—I have no particular fancy one way or another, and so I told your sister; off or on, 'tis the same thing to me; but the thing was fix'd, you know—You and my Aunt brought it about—I had no hand in it, and, to shew you, that I was as wil­ling to marry your sister as any other woman, I suffer­ed the law to tye me up to hard terms, and the church would have finish'd me still to harder—but she was taken with her tantrums!

Damn your tantrums—come to the point.

Your sister took an aversion to the parson, Frank Harcourt's brother—abus'd him like a pick­pocket, and swore 'twas Harcourt himself.

[Page 57]

And so it was, for I saw him.

Here's fine work!—why, you are as mad as your sister—I tell you it was Ned, Frank's twin brother.

What, Frank told you so?

Ay, and Ned too—they were both in a story.

What an incorrigible fellow!—Come, come, I must be gone.

Nay, nay, you shall hear my story out.—She walk'd up within pistol-shot of the church—then twirl'd round upon her heel—call'd me every name she could think of; and when she had exausted her imagination, and tir'd her tongue—no easy mat­ter, let me tell you—she call'd her chair, sent her footman to buy a monkey before my face, then bid me good morrow with a sneer, and left us with our mouths open in the middle of a hundred people, who were all laughing at us! If these are not tantrums, I don't know what are.

Ha, ha, ha! I thank thee, Sparkish, from my soul; 'tis a most exquisite story; I have not had such a laugh for this half year—Thou art a most ri­diculous puppy, and I am infinitely oblig'd to thee; ha, ha, ha!

Did you ever hear the like, Belville?

O yes; how is it possible to hear such a foolish story, and see thy foolish face, and not laugh at 'em; ha, ha, ha!

Hey-day! what's that? what have you rais'd a devil in the closet, to make up a laughing chorus at me? I must take a peep—

Indeed but you must not.

'Twas a woman's voice.

So much the better for me.

Prithee introduce me.

Though you take a pleasure in exposing your ladies, I chuse to conceal mine. So, my dear Spark­ish, lest the lady should be sick by too long a confine­ment, [Page 58] and laughing heartily at you—I must intreat you to withdraw—Prithee excuse me, I must laugh—ha, ha, ha!

Do you know that I begin to be angry, Belville?

I can't help that; ha, ha, ha!

My character's at stake—I shall be thought a damn'd silly fellow—I will call Alithea to an account directly.

Ha, ha, ha!

Ha, ha, ha! O dear Sir, let me have my laugh out, or I shall burst—What an adventure!

My sweet Peggy has sent me the kindest letter—and by the dragon himself—There's a spirit for you!

There's simplicity for you! Shew me a town­bred girl with half the genius—Send you a love­letter, and by a jealous guardian too! ha, ha, ha! 'Tis too much—too much—

She begs me to stay at home—for she in­tends to run away with me, the first opportunity.

And, to complete the whole, my mistress is delivered from her fool too—Ha, ha, ha! I shall die; ha! ha! ha!—Dear Mr. Belville, laugh, laugh, I beseech you laugh.

I do, I do, my dear Lucy, and I hope we never shall have cause to be less merry as long as we live—ha, ha, ha!

O never, never—I shall certainly die—Well, Mr. Belville—the world goes as it should do—my mistress will exchange her fool for a wit, Miss Peggy her brute for a pretty young fellow; I shall dance at two weddings—be well rewarded by both parties—get a husband myself, and be as happy as the best of you—and so your humble servant.

Success attend you, Lucy—

SCENE Moody's house.

WELL, 'tis e'en so, I have got the Lon­don disease they call love; I am sick of my guardian, and dying for Mr. Belville! I have heard this distemper call'd a fever, but methinks it is liker an ague; for, when I think of my guardian, I tremble, and am in a cold sweat; but when I think of my gallant, dear Mr. Belville, my hot fit comes, and I am all in a fever indeed: my own chamber is tedious to me, and I would fain be remov'd to his, and then methinks I shou'd be very well. Ah! poor Mr. Belville! Well, I cannot, will not stay here; therefore I'll make an end of my letter to him, which shall be a finer letter than my last, because I have studied it like any thing. Oh! sick, sick!

What, writing more letters?

O Lord! Bud, why d'ye fright me so?

How's this! nay, you shall not stir, Ma­dam. Dear, dear, dear Mr. Belville,—very well, I have taught you to write letters to good purpose—but let's see't.—

— First, I am to beg your pardon for my boldness in writing to you, which I'd have you to know I would not have done, had you not said first you lov'd me so extremely; which, if you do, you will never suffer me to be another man's, who I loath, nausiate, and detest: (now you can write these filthy words.) But what follows?— therefore I hope you will speedily find some way to free me from this un­fortunate match, which was never, I assure you, of [Page 60] my choice, but I'm afraid 'tis already too far gone; however, if you love me, as I do you, you will try what you can do; you must help me away before to-morrow, or else, alas! I shall be for ever out of your reach, for I can defer no longer our—our—(what is to follow our—speak what) our journey into the country, I suppose.—Oh, woman, damn'd woman! and Love, damn'd Love! their old tempter; for this is one of his miracles: in a moment he can make those blind that cou'd see, and those see that were blind; those dumb that could speak, and those prattle who were dumb be­fore; nay, what is more than all, make those dough­bak'd, senseless, indocile animals, women, too hard for us, their politick lords and rulers, in a moment. But make an end of your letter, and then I'll make an end of you thus, and all my plaguestogether.

O Lord! O Lord! you are such a passionate man, Bud!

Come, take the pen, and make an end of the letter, just as you intended; if you are false in a tit­tle, I shall soon perceive it, and punish you with this, as you deserve.

Write what was to follow—let's see—( You must make baste and help me away before to-morrow, or else I shall be for ever out of your reach, for I can defer no longer our) what follows our?—

Must all out then, Bud?—Look you there, then.

Let's see—( for I can defer no longer our wedding—Your slighted Alithea.) What's the mean­ing of this, my sister's name to't? speak, unriddle.

Yes, indeed, Bud.

But why her name to't? speak—speak, I say.

Ay, but you'll tell her again: if you wou'd not tell her again—

I will not; I am stunn'd, my head turns round. Speak.

Won't you tell her indeed, and indeed?

No; speak, I say.

[Page 61]

She'll be angry with me; but I had rather she should be angry with me than you, Bud. And to tell you the truth, 'twas she made me write the letter, and taught me what I should write.

Ha—I thought the style was somewhat better than her own.

Cou'd she come to you to teach you, since I had lock'd you up alone?

Oh, thro' the key-hole, Bud.

But why shou'd she make you write a let­ter for her to him, since she can write herself?

Why, she said because—for I was unwilling to do it.

Because, what—because—

Because, lest Mr. Belville, as he was so young, shou'd be inconstant and refuse her, or be vain after­wards, and shew the letter, she might disown it, the hand not being hers.

Belville again!—Am I to be deceiv;d again with that young hypocrite?

You have deceiv'd yourself, Bud, you have indeed—I have kept the secret, for my sister's sake, as long as I could—but you must know it—and shall know it too.

Dry your eyes.

You always thought he was hankering after me—Good law! he's dying for Alithea, and Alithea for him—they have had private meetings—and he was making love to her before yesterday, from the ta­vern window, when you thought it was to me—I would have discover'd all—but she made me swear to deceive you, and so I have finely—have not I, Bud?

Why did you write that foolish letter to him then, and make me more foolish to carry it?

To carry on the joke, Bud—to oblige them.

And will nothing serve her but that taper jackanapes, that great baby?—he's too young for her to marry.

Why do you marry me then? 'tis the same thing, Bud.

No, no, 'tis quite different—How inno­cent she is!—This changeling cou'd not invent this [Page 62] lye; but if she cou'd, why shou'd she? she might think I should soon discover it.

—But hark you, Madam, your sister went out in the morning, and I have not seen her within since.

Alack-a-day, she has been crying all day above, it seems, in a corner.

Where is she? let me speak with her.

O Lord! then she'll discover all—

Pray hold, Bud; what d'ye mean to discover me? she'll know I have told you then. Pray, Bud, let me talk with her first.

I must speak with her, to know whether Belville ever made her any promise, and whether she will be marry'd to Sparkish, or no.

Pray, dear Bud, don't, till I have spoke with her, and told her that I have told you all; for she'll kill me else.

Go then, and bid her come to me.

Yes, yes, Bud.

Let me see—

I have just got time to know of Lucy, who first set me on work, what lye I shall tell next; for I am e'en at my wits end.

Well, I resolve it, Belville shall have her: I'd rather give him my sister, than lend him my wife; and such an alliance will prevent his pretensions to my wife, sure—I'll make him of kin to her, and then he won't care for her.

O Lord, Bud, I told you what anger you wou'd make me with my sister.

Won't she come hither?

No, no, she's a sham'd to look you in the face; she'll go directly to Mr. Belville, she says—She must speak with him, before she discovers all to you—or even sees you—She says too, that you shall know the reason by-and-by—Pray let her have her way, Bud—she won't be pacify'd if you don't—and will never for­give me—For my part, Bud, I believe, but don't tell any body, they have broken a piece of silver between 'em—or have contracted one another, as we have [Page 63] done, you know, which is the next thing to being mar­ry'd.

Pooh! you fool—she asham'd of talking with me about Belville, because I made the match for her with Sparkish! But Sparkish [...] and I have no objection to Belville's family or fortune—tell [...].

I will, Bud.

Stay, stay, Peggy—let her have her own way—she shall go to Belville herself, and I'll follow her—that will be best—let her have her whim.

You're in the right, Bud—for they have certainly had a quarrel, by her crying and hanging her head so—I'll be hang'd if her eyes an't swell'd out of her head, she's in such a piteous taking.

Belville shan't use her ill, I'll take care of that—if he has made her a promise, he shall keep to it—but she had better go first—a word or two by themselves will clear matters for my appearance—I will follow her at a distance, that she may have no in terruption; and I will wait in the Park before I see them, that they may come to a reconciliation before I come upon 'em.

Law, Bud, how wise you are! I wish I had half your wisdom; you see every thing at once—Stand a one side then—and I'll tell her you are gone to your room, and when she passes by, you may follow her.

And so I will—she shan't see me till I break in upon her at Belville's.

Now for it.

My case is something better—for suppose the worst—should Belville use her ill—I had rather fight him for not marrying my sister, than for debauch­ing my wife, for I will make her mine absolutely tomorrow; and of the two, I had rather find my sister too forward than my wife: I expected no other from her free education, as she calls it, and her passion for the town—Well, wife and sister are names which make us expect love and duty, pleasure and comfort but we find 'em plagues and torments, and are equally, tho' differently, troublesome to their keeper. But here she comes.

Heigho!

There the poor devil goes, sighing and sobbing; a woeful example of the fatal consequences of a town education—but I am bound in duty, as well as inclination, to do my utmost to save her—but first I'll secure my own property.

—Peggy! Peggy!—my dear!—I will return as soon as possible, do you hear me? Why don't you answer? You may read in the book I bought you till I come back—As the Jew says in the play, fast bind, fast find.

This is the best, and only security for female affections.

Scene the Park before Belville's door.

If I can but meet with her, or any body that belongs to her, they will find me a match for 'em—When a man has wit, and a great deal of it—Champagne gives it a double edge, and nothing can with stand it—'tis a lighted match to gunpowder—the mine is sprung, and the poor devils are toss'd heels uppermost in an instant. I was right to consult my friends, and they all agree with Moody, that I make a damn'd ridiculous figure, as matters stand at present. I'll consult Belville—this is his house, he's my friend too—and no fool—It shall be so—damn it, I must not be ridiculous.

Hold! hold! if the Cham­pagne does not hurt my eye-sight, while it sharpens my wit, the enemy is marching up this way—Come on, Madam Alithea; now for a smart fire, and then let's see who will be ridiculous.

Dear me, I begin to tremble—there is Mr. Sparkish, and I can't get to Mr. Belville's house with­out [Page 65] passing by him—he sees me—and will discover me—he seems in liquor too!—bless me.

Oho! she stands at bay a little—she don't much relish the engagement—The first blow is half the battle—I'll be a little figurative with her.

I find, Madam, you like a solo better than a duet. You need not have been walking alone this evening, if you had been wiser yesterday—What, nothing to say for yourself?—Repentance, I suppose, makes you as aukward and as foolish, as the poor country girl your brother has lock'd up in Pall Mall.

I'm frighten'd out of my wits.

Not a step farther shall you go, 'till you give me an account of your behaviour, and make me reparation for being ridiculous. What, dumb still!—then if you won't by fair means, I must squeeze you to a confession.

Not quite so fast, if you please—Come, come—let me see your modest face, and hear your soft tongue—or I shall be tempted to use you ill.

Hands off, you ruffian—how dare you use a lady, and my sister, in this manner?

She's my property, Sir—transfer'd to me by you—and tho' I would give her up to any body for a dirty sword-knot, yet I won't be bullied out of my right, tho' it is not worth that—

There's a fellow to be a husband—you are justify'd in despising him, and flying from him—I'll de­fend you with my purse and my sword—knock at that door, and let me speak to Belville.—

—Is your master at home, friend?

Yes, Sir.

Tell him then, that I have rescu'd that lady from this gentleman, and that by her desire, and my consent, she flies to him for protection; if he can get [Page 66] a parson, let him marry her this minute; tell him so, and shut the door.

And that he will, I'll answer for him.

The maa's mad, stark mad!

And now, Sir, if your wine has given you courage, you had better shew it upon this occasion, for you are still damn'd ridiculous.

Did you ever hear the like—Look ye, Mr. Moody, we are in the Park, and to draw a sword is an offence to the court—so you may vapour as long as you please. A woman of so little taste, is not worth fighting for—she's not worth my sword; but if you'll fight me to morrow morning for diversion, I am your man.

Relinquish your title in the lady to Belville peaceably, and you may sleep in a whole skin.

Belville! he would not have your sister, with the fortune of a nabob; no, no, his mouth wa­ters at your country tid-bit at home—much good may do him.

And you think so, puppy—ha, ha, ha!

Yes, I do, mastiff—ha, ha, ha!

Then thy folly is complete—ha, ha, ha!

Thine will be so, when thou hast married thy country innocence—ha, ha, ha!

Who have we here?

What, my boy Harcourt!

What brings you here, Sir?

I follow'd you to Belville's, to present a near relation of yours, and a nearer one of mine, to you.

What's the matter now?

Give me leave, gen­tlemen, without offence to either, to present Mrs. Harcourt to you!

Alithea! your wife!—Mr. Moody, are you in the clouds too?

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If I am not in a dream—I am the most mi­serable waking dog, that ever run mad with his misfor­tunes and astonishment!

Why so, Jack—can you object to my hap­piness, when this gentleman was unworthy of it?

Nothing but his total indifference to me, and the highest opinion of himself, could possibly have fore'd me to fly here for protection.

This is very fine, very fine, indeed—where's your story about Belville now, 'squire Moody? Prithee don't chase and stare, and stride, and beat thy head like a mad tragedy poet—but out with thy tropes and figures.

Zounds! I can't bear it.

Dear brother, what's the matter?

The devil's the matter! the devil and wo­man together.

I'll break the door down, if they won't answer.

What would your honour please to have?

Your master, rascal!

He is obeying your commands, Sir, and the moment he has finish'd, he will do himself the pleasure to wait on you.

You sneering villain you—if your master does not produce that she-devil, who is now with him, and who, with a face of innocence, has cheated and undone me, I'll set fire to his house.

Gad so! now I begin to smoke the business. Well said, simplicity, rural simplicity! egad! if thou hast trick'd Cerberus here, I shall be so ravish'd, that I will give this couple a wedding dinner. Pray, Mr. Moody, who's damn'd ridiculous now?

Look ye, Sir—don't grin, for if you dare to shew your teeth at my mis­fortunes—I'll dash 'em down your impudent throat, you jackanapes.

[Page 68]

Very fine, faith—but I have no weapons to but with a mad bull, so you may toss and roar by yourself, if you please.

What does my good friend want with me.

Are you a villain, or are you not?

I have obey'd your commands, Sir.

What have you done with the girl, Sir?

Made her my wife, as you desired.

Very true, I am your witness—'tis plea­sant, faith, ha, ha, ha!

She's my Wife, and I demand her.

No, but I an't—what's the matter, Bud, are you angry with me?

How dare you look me in the face, cock­atrice?

How dare you look me in the face, Bud? Have you not given me to another, when you ought to have married me yourself? Have not you pretended to be married to me, when you knew in your consci­ence you was not?—And have not you been shilly shally for a long time? So that if I had not married dear Mr. Belville, I should not have married at all—so I should not.

Extremely pleasant, faith; ha, ha, ha!

I'm stupify'd with shame, rage, and asto­nishment—my fate has o'ercome me—I can struggle no more with it.

What is left me?—I cannot bear to look, or be look'd upon—I will hur­ry down to my old house; take a twelvemonth's pro­vision into it—cut down my draw-bridge, run wild about my garden, which shall grow as wild as myself—then will I curse the world, and every indivi­dual in it—and when my rage and spirits fail me, I will be found dead among the nettles and thistles; a woeful example of the baseness and treachery of one sex, and of the falsehood, lying perjury, deceit, im­pudence and—damnation of the other.

Verry droll, and extravagantly comic, I must confess; ha, ha, ha.

Look ye, Belville, I wish you joy with all my heart—you have got the prize, and perhaps have caught a tartar—that's no business of mine—If you want evidence for Mr. Moody's giving his con­sent to your marriage, I shall be ready. I bear no ill will to that pair, I wish you happy—

—tho' I'm sure they'll be miserable—and so your humble servant.

I hope you forgive me, Alithea, for playing your brother this trick; indeed I should have only made him and myself miserable, had we married together.

Then 'tis much better as it is—But I am yet in the dark, how this matter has been brought about. How your innocence, my dear, has outwit­ted his worldly wisdom.

If you will walk in, Madam, for a moment, we will tell you our adventure, and consult with you and Mr. Harcourt, the most likely means to reconcile your brother to us—we will be guided by you in every step we take.

And we shall be ready and happy to effect so desirable an end.

I am sure I'll do any thing to please my Bud, but marry him.