SCENE I.

SCENE II.

She is somewhere here about, I'm sure.

And yonder she sits.

'Slife, and so she does, and a charm­ing lass she is—Egad I'll to her.

Hold man, perhaps 'tis a fairy.

If she be, I don't care; I must change a word or two, be what she will.

You may if you please, for I go no further.

She's flesh and blood I see by her steps: he that would run away from such a fairy ought never to see such another—pray, pretty maid, are you married?—hey! not speak?—hum, I dad, she's sulky methinks?—what may she want now?—hum, an husband I warrant; or perhaps she has got one, and wants to be rid of 'm.

That is to say, she is either married against her will, or 'tis against her will she is not married.

[Page 5]

Pray, young woman, be'ant you well.

No indeed, yet I should be much better if you would do me one favour.

Aye, that we will, any thing you shall say.

But you will be sure, both of you, to keep your words.

Never doubt it, sweetheart, never doubt it.

Then you cannot do any thing that will please me more than to take yourselves a­way.

Oh, oh, she can speak you find.

Wounds, she's 'stound me.

Why are ye not gone?

Aye, aye, come along; troth if you don't I'll tell Sue.

I don't care for that neither; I must break my word for once.

[Page 6]

Aye, prithee do, and you'll do well.

Edad then I'll follow, go where you will, my lass.

You had better go follow the plough.

Nay, nay, now, thou dost'nt think so, I am sure: come let us be better acquainted.

Prithee, clod, begone; for thou'lt make thyself as hateful to me as thou art trou­blesome.

SCENE III.

Who could have thought so pretty a creature could have been in such a passion.

Aye, she's a trimmer I warrant ye; there's many a fair face with a foul tongue they say; you had better stick to poor Sue, if she knew you was here she would be breaking her heart I suppose.

There's no harm, man, in having two [Page 7] strings to one's bow; for when one is too full of her airs I like to have another to fly to.

And yet you are mightily mift too when Sue happens to smile at any body but yourself.

Hark! the hounds.

I' dad so there are,

hoick! hoick! hoick! hoo, hoo, by George I'll be one in the chace.

So you may if you will, but I'll have a chace of my own; I'll after yon pretty fac'd puss.

An you do, I'll tell Susan, mark that my lad.

SCENE IV.

Now to sair Emma, who knows not who I am, but believes me to be a banished man: I have [Page 8] play'd upon her in disguise, and in a pea­sant's garb, made more advancements in her good esteem than the gayest knight, or fopling of the court, with all the glaring outside of suc­cess, who woo but with their cloaths.

But yonder come some gentlemen of the hunt, proclaiming by their shouts the pleasures of a well-spent day.

SCENE V.

Joy to ye, gentlemen, the sport has been suc­cessful.

Thanks to you, Sir.

I think I never saw so fine a chace; there has been much danger too.

The more the danger greater still the sport. I saw a rustic scouring yonder cliff, and being eager in pursuit, unluckily he tript, and tumbled headlong down, but fortunately for him he was received by the friendly stream be­low, which broke his fall, that otherwise must have broke his neck.

Ha! ha! ha! poor fellow.

[Page 9]

If he had happened to have been in love, such a tumble might have cured him.—But come, my appetite is keen, I linger for refreshment, let's towards home.

Your company will be a pleasure to us, Sir, if you are disposed this way.

Sir, my disposition is to comply with every kind entreaty; the day is on the decline, and I am far from home; my horse is at a cot­tage near at hand—this is my way, and should have been right glad if chance had made it your's.

Then take good care you meet not with a witch.

A witch!

Aye, but a lovely one, with many charms, and witches deal in charms you know.

I do not understand you; enchant­ment and witchcraft! what may you mean?

Why, Sir, I'll tell you: as we came along the skirts of this wood, a lovely damsel, wrapt in thought, was walking to and fro beneath the shade; now and then she'd press her hand against her breast; then, with eyes full of loveliness and tears, she'd look around, sigh as if her gentle heart would break, and of a sudden, cry, Oh, wretched me!

Of what appearance, pray?

She wore the habit of a shepher­dess. We entreated the cause of her distress; but she rebuked us for our pains with such a modest grace that we retired.

Poor girl! a love affair perhaps?

I fancy so.

I wish I had been the happy object: I'd have given my fortune for her love.

Then you might have had it, I dare say.

I imagine if we had persevered, a little patience might have brought her to our purpose.

Not if she be really in love; reason [Page 11] will argue ineffectually, when love is rooted in the heart.

Then we'll think no more of her: so good day to you, Sir; I'll go and make love to a sirloin and a bowl of punch, and I warrant I make 'em submit.

SCENE VI.

I seek, alas, in vain: Oh, my Hen­ry, where art thou hid? perhaps he's happy with my rival now: sure there's no pain like love: What shall I do? I've lost my way, fa­tigu'd and faint in a doubtful search: hold, if I my mistake not, there's a village in my view; I'll even thence and seek refreshment there.

SCENE VII.

You see I've overte'en you, sweet­heart; I told you I would follow you.

Was ever maid so wretched! I had no sooner promised myself a comfort, but I am interrupted by a fool.

What be'ant you well yet?

Good clown leave me.

Clown, forsooth clown!

I, I, I, am not a clown, sweetheart.

Then you're as simple.

If you was a little better acquainted with me you would not say so.

I am sure of it already. What would you have? Why do you follow me so?

Why I cannot help it, because I love you.

And for that I must fall in love with thee too? being the most frightful of thy sex: if that don't rid me of him, I shall begin to pity him, lest he should feel on my account what I for Henry feel.

Ah, I don't mind that tho'; you [Page 13] don't think so, I'm sure: you pretty lasses like a deal of courting.

As I live 'tis my Emma in disguise: 'Sdeath, but why is this rustic with her? Is it for him she came or me? I'll know. She shall not see me yet, I will first turn myself to a wizzard; concealed in that I'll sift the secret out.

Pray, good fellow, leave me; if thou dost love me I'm sorry for't from my soul, since my heart is another's, it is not in my power to [Page 14] love; I would be thy friend in any thing else; but let me beg of thee never to mention love to me again.

O but I will; I know you can't help loving when you are a little better acquainted with me; for I have often heard my granny say that two chumps that had been a good many years together in our house, fell in love with one another, and it was a hard matter to part them.

That is to say, should I be as great a log as thyself, I must of course fall in love with thee, if there were nobody else in the world.

Hey! how's that? You puzzle me there too; I don't know what to make of that saying; I never heard of it before in all my born days; Will you say it again? I'll guess at it better; (I dad she talks better than Sue; she'll be too much for me if I don't take care).

This looby teazes me to death; would to Heaven I could get rid of him; his obstinacy makes me begin to fear him; I am perplexed when I think what I have done! I dare not go home, and if I stay here I shall be [Page 15] ruined and suspected: O my Henry, thy Em­ma's lost, a wanderer forlorn.

I dad thou'rt a main good singer; if thou sing'st much more in that strain it will be­witch me; Sue cannot sing half so well: she can sing nothing but,

I learnt her to sing it tho' by the bye; can you sing it? 'Tis a good merry song, if you knew it.

Pray thee go sing by thyself; I am not disposed for mirth just now: take thyself [Page 16] away, good fellow, and some other time I may listen to thee.

Why that's kind too; but where shall I see you another time?

Why here perhaps, or hereabout.

But what will you give me for remem­brance?

Any thing you shall ask that is in my power.

Done with you, done with you; give me a kiss—'tis a fair bargain.

What shall I do? I believe I must hold him my hand to get rid of him. Why if thou wilt promise to go away directly thou shalt kiss my hand.

Torture! what do I see? Is it possi­ble?

Heavens! Who is this?

The devil I believe—he's ugly enough—don't be afraid—he shan't hurt thee.

Ye gentle pair fly not from me; be [Page 17] happy, I'll retire again rather than disturb you, for lovers like to be by themselves.

Why that's true enough, old one; you are right there: I warrant you have been in love in your time.

I have, and feel the pangs of it to this day.

Poor soul, poor soul.

Fair one I have something to impart to thee in private, and what concerns thee nearly.

No, no, don't hear him, he's a wiz­zard; come away, sweetheart, come away.

Clodpole hold thy peace.

Don't call me clodpole, an you do, I'll give you a clout.

Fair maid will you answer me one question?

Alas! I know not what to say.

Tell me then, do you not seek a ba­nished man?

Heavens be witness, I do indeed!

Would intelligence on that head be welcome to thee?

My heart, my eyes, my ears are open to receive it; speak—speak of him forever.

[Page 18]

Plague on's ugly face I say; I don't like 'im, he's bewitched the pretty creature already.

As what I'm going to say requires se­crecy, I must beg this swain to retire a while 'till I have related my story; but if your af­fections are so strongly rooted that you cannot bear a moment's separation, I will withdraw and let it die with me.

No, rather talk forever, if Henry be thy theme; if thy story be retarded by this fel­low's presence, would to Heaven I had a gi­ant's strength that I might spurn him from my sight; for like an hateful insect has he teazed me, 'till I sickened with impatience and disgust.

Hola! Sue! Sue! here, my lass, here they are.

More interruptions! perplexing fates!

Hey dey! what Sue?

O the devil take this wizzard I say; this is some of his doing I suppose: Sue would never have come I'm sure if he had not conjured her: she never could have found me if the de­vil had not had a hand in it.

So master Allan we have found you, in the devil's company too I believe, at last.

What do you call him when he's ready?

A wizzard of the woods if you like: I believe in my heart he has bewitched this sweet creature here.

And here comes one that you have bewitched I'm afraid.

[Page 20]

Nay, but Sue, now Sue; don't go to frighten one: who the devil put all this in thy head? Don't be jealous girl, don't be jealous.

Don't you give me cause then, you false-hearted deceitful cruel creature? Jealous! how would you like to have been serv'd so? Did not you threaten to hang yourself last night if I ever let Ralph kiss me again? And now you have been raking the duce knows where, after the devil knows who all day long.

Well said Sue; give it him, ha, ha, ha, I dad this is the best sport I have seen some time.

Nay, you should not blame me for being a little waggish: Did not you say you lov'd a rake to your heart? Why I have done no harm.

I am sure you can't have been doing any good when you have been in the woods all day with such a wanton looking hussey as that is; I wish she was in the house of correction, a straggling rambling minx.

Alas, I am undone!

There, there, she says she is undone.

But not by me! I have not done it.

[Page 21]

Creature, cease thy infamy, and take thy looby and thyself away.

There, do but hear her now; she is cry­ing because she thinks she has lost you. O the hypocrite! 'twill break my heart; I'll never believe but there has been something between you.

Well done Sue.

Why, you're mistaken now; there has been nothing but—but—but—

But what? Oh mercy upon me! he is afraid to say what.

Nothing but words.

Oh if there has been nothing between [Page 22] them but words, they must have been very close together indeed, Sue.

I can hear no more of this; if you don't all instantly leave this place, I will rivet you in a tree, or turn you all to stone; I'll cramp your limbs with my magic power 'till ye shall beg to die.

O, the devil take all the wizzards I say.

What? say you so again, and I'll encircle you with toads and adders—away—begone.

Lud have mercy upon us. Pray don't, and I'll away directly. Well done Sue

Come, come Allan, you don't know who you have got in company with.

If I don't acquaint his worship I'll be hang'd, mind that Mr. Conjurer.

Now, maiden fair, to my story.

I'm all attention.

Alas, to be further plunged into af­fliction; I fear you are in love: if so, I am sorry for you indeed; and if Henry be the ob­ject of your affections, I'd have you cease to love, and fix on some one more deserving. He [Page 23] is a reveller, an outlaw, and in my opinion will come to some unseemly end.

Ah me, when shall I meet a comfort more!

Never in him I fear: Henry is be­trothed to many, but is false to all: he makes it his study to deceive your sex, and boasts of it when done.

Still must I love him. O my heart! alas, 'tis breaking, Henry! Oh my Henry!

O matchless girl! I have kill'd thee I'm afraid! Curse on my cruelty! I have made too severe a trial of her taintless love.—Hold, she revives; thanks to the fates, who are kinder to me than I deserve.—What shall I do? If I discover myself to her now, the sudden transi­tion of grief to joy may kill her quite. Sweet maid take comfort.

Where is comfort to be found if my Henry be false?

I am his friend, and will be your's. I never failed in my persuasions whenever I wanted to work him to my purpose; and in­deed I have given him a worse name than he deserves. Why he is so great a changeling he [Page 24] believes all women to be more fickle than him­self; this I've often heard him say; adding too, that if he could once find out a maid constant and sincere in her affections to a proof, he would take her to his heart forever: I'll to him, and convince him of your sincere regard and matchless love.

O take me with thee too.

That would marr all; leave it to me, I will hazard my life in the success.

Lay hold of him, and I'll take care of her: I'll see whether your enchantment or my authority be strongest.

[Page 25]

Good Sir, what do you mean?

O, I'll tell you presently: you'll turn people into stone, and wedge them up in trees will you? If you be a wizzard, as I'm afraid you are, I'll see what I can turn you into.

Wounds, how grim he looks!

SCENE I.

I'm bewitch'd with this wench to be sure; for of all the red and white, the soft and smooth, I never saw her equal; she ran in my [Page 28] head so much all night, that I did nothing but dream of her: I must feel how her pulse beat: I would not send her to prison for fear somebody else might make too free with her, troth. Odds me, here she comes! I intended to have had the pleasure of waking her myself, but she has pre­vented me.

SCENE II.

So, sweetheart, you're up: what, did not you sleep well?

I have not slept at all.

Not slept?

Scarce a wink.

Then I'm afraid you have been con­triving how to make your escape.

That I never can, for I am bound in chains forever.

Bound in chains? How how do you mean, lass, bound in chains? Why you talk in your sleep to be sure: Where the deuce be your chains? I see nothing of 'em.

[Page 29]

I feel them tho', but would not break 'em for the world.

Good lack-a-day, she is certainly asleep yet: E'dad I'll wake her tho'; hallo! hallo!

Bless me, Sir, what is the matter?

What's the matter child! You walk in your sleep!

I rather think that you walk in your sleep, who cannot see that I'm awake.

I'dad perhaps I do: hey—no, no, I'm not asleep: come, hussy, give me a buss; and that will wake me, were I dead.

SCENE III.

Yes, I dare say it wou'd: you're asleep are you! You're asleep, and you must come here to be kiss'd awake: O you vile [Page 30] man! This is what you had her in the house for! This is your conscience, is it! You would not send her to prison forsooth, for fear she might prove innocent; and now you have sneak'd out of bed, like a false-hearted monster as you are, in your sleep on purpose to have this sanctify'd hypocrite wake you with her kisses.

No, no, my dear, you have convinced me that we were both awake with a vengeance; I wish you were asleep with all my heart.

Yes, I dare say you do.

Yes, and the devil take him that wakes you, should you sleep 'till Doomsday.

O you brute! you savage! you scandalous good-for-nothing creature you! but this is all your doing, madam Wag-tail, I'll soon send you a packing!—Hussy, I've a good mind to tear your eyes out.

You had better tear your tongue out, you jealous pated fool you! What a clack you keep indeed!

Madam hear me.

I won't hear you: don't talk to me: I shall go mad I believe.

You're mad enough already I think.

[Page 31]

And who may I thank for it but you? but I'll be reveng'd.

Why, look you wife; you are only making a fire for yourself all this time: you'll burn yourself up with your own fury: I did ask the young woman to kiss me indeed, but 'twas only in joke.

In joke! a pretty joke indeed! If I had not come in as I did, I dare say you'd have made a serious affair of it by this time! In joke forsooth! A very modest joke, I dare say!

[Page 32]

Madam, you may form what opinion you will of your own, because time and ap­pearances may have given you some authority for your suspicions: nothing but ill manners and a guilty mind can warrant your judging so illiberally of a stranger.

Blessings on her, she prattles like an angel.

Prithee, wench, don't prate so pertly to me: do you know who I am?

Yes, madam, I am very sensible to whom I'm talking; a splenetic—

A what! a lunatic! mind what you say girl; remember she is my wife, and there­fore claims respect.

I've said nothing but the truth, Sir, and I shall always pay a greater regard to that than her ungenerous reflections, or your autho­rity.

Hey! what do you say? Do you mean to affront me for my indulgence? I must seem to quarrel with her for the sake of peace and quietness, or I shall have a dog's life on't else.

Aye, aye, I'm glad on't; I'm glad you begin to find her out. Innocent! yes [Page 33] she's very innocent, to be sure, you may see that; but as impudent as you please: send her to prison, I insist on it—an impudent stragling hussy!

I believe I must indeed: she makes but a bad use of my civility: come, come, you shall go to prison hussy; I'll see if I can't make room for you there.

No, no, I'll save you that trou­ble; I'll take care to make room for her myself, I warrant you.

Alas! my resolution totters—arm me with fortitude, ye gracious powers, nor leave me to despair.

[Page 34]

Come, come, away with you; I've something else to do than to hear your whining forsooth.

Aye, aye, to prison with her. I have a key for that lock too; I'll have a peep at her there.

SCENE IV.

No, no, I won't speak to thee; I won't look at thee; I won't think of thee, I won't, I won't, so I won't.

Nay, plague on't Sue, don't be hard hearted: you know I love you, you know I do.

I don't know it, nor I won't know it, you shan't love me.

Well said Sue, don't give out, re­member the girl in the grove.

Hold thy tongue Robin, and don't be a fool.

[Page 35]

A fool! not I indeed, I'm not in love, I'm wise enough for that.

Don't keep teazing me so; don't think I can forget it, don't.

Ay, but you can forgive it Sue: you had always a pure tender heart of your own.

No, the duce take me if I do.

No, don't Sue, make him repent it all the days of his life.

[Page 36]

If thee don't hold thy tongue I'll make thee repent it.

Ha, ha, ha, wilt?

Yes I will.

No, no, thee can't do that, except thee cou'd make me in love with every wench that I meet, like thyself, to yelp after this, and to whine after t'other, and—odds nig­gars don't mind him Sue, don't mind him, he's in love with a thousand.

O what a fool have I been!

A fool indeed.

It's as false as old nick.

[Page 37]

Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this non­sense: Sue what do you think of me, hey? Come give me a buss and tell me.

Prithee, Robin, don't play the fool with me.

I play the fool! not I indeed! pri­thee don't lay your bargains on me; it is you that have play'd the fool I'm afraid, I'm sure I'd no hand in't; if you have made a slip I can't help it.

You was always a fool.

A fool! ha, ha, ha, give me thy hand o'that—how is't brother?—if I be a fool, I'm sure I must be some relation of your's.

Hey! to pass, what is the matter now?

To say I had made a slip!

Why, you would not be such a fool, would you?

Yes but I wou'd.

No, no, let her come to herself; if she won't bear a joke now and then, I wou'd not give a rush for her.

'Swounds, but I shall have ne'er a sweetheart at this rate.

Pshaw, pshaw, what a simpleton you are indeed! you want sadly to hurry your neck into the noose methinks: come, come, you and I will have a little sport first.

SCENE V.

'Tis high time now to make enquiry after my love; I've had a restless night on't; this is a trial I never dreamt of; if she bears this with fortitude, she will be indeed the won­der of her sex, and worthy the richest diadem on earth: that I love her, my heart and soul can witness: if after this she talks of love and Hen­ry, I shall be convinced that women can be constant, and every doubt must fade; but who comes here? a stranger; and a prisoner I sup­pose; perhaps he can inform me where my Em­ma is disposed.

SCENE VI.

Your pardon, Sir, I've interceded with the jailor for admittance, and shou'd be glad of your consent to exchange a word or two: report has made me curious, but if it has made me too impertinent, I will retire, and not of­fend you.

Sir, you do me honour; I am glad to see you: 'sdeath, who can this be? his face is most familiar to me

Sir, you are welcome.

I thank you Sir.

Ah, me!

You seem disturbed Sir.

A thought came across the sunshine of my hopes; but now—but now 'tis fair again.

There is something more than com­mon about this man, and a sensible affability that pleases me much.

You seem to muse Sir; I hope you've no design?

[Page 41]

As your suspicions are but natural, they do not much surprise me; but on my faith I've no design: I am a prisoner as yourself, and should have been glad, had it been your incli­nation too, to have pass'd an heavy hour now and then together, and been friends, that is all.

You speak, Sir, like a gentleman, and are most welcome I assure you; and as you have offered me your friendship, you shall find me grateful and sincere: I'm grieved to find a man with such a heart, in such a situation; but come, let us be chearful.

I have not had so agreeable an in­terview these twelvemonths.

[Page 42]

These twelvemonths! I hope you've not been here so long.

Much longer Sir.

I'm sorry for it; your crime surely must be great indeed, to incur so long a punish­ment.

I think I may venture to say it is more an accident than a crime.

Prisons were not made for the unfor­tunate, but the wicked and abandon'd: may I presume to enquire the cause? perhaps I may have it in my power to be your friend.

Alas, I am afraid not in such a case: my father's death was all the cause.

Imprison'd for your father's death! Shall I intreat your name? perhaps I am too bold.

My name, Sir, is Edwin: I was born at Philodale.

At Philodale! as I live my old school­fellow, and my sister's lover; how fortunate!

but I cannot understand, Sir, how your father's death could be the cause of your im­prisonment.

When he died he left a person in this neighbourhood his executor (Sightless) who [Page 43] you must have seen; but, tho' he bears the name of Justice, he is, I am afraid, as great a stranger to her rules, as he is to pity. He ever pretended that my father died involved; and, as I could not contradict it, was forc'd to think so too: this was a sad shock, tho' the least of my affliction; for I was betroth'd to the lovliest maid, whose fortune was almost equal to her beauty; but, alas, becoming destitute and poor, cou'd never think of seeing her again, and wrote her word I meant to pass the seas, never to return.

O most distressing tale! but pray go on.

Before my father died, having an occasion for a certain sum, previous to his know­ledge, which I had scarcely hinted to his wor­ship, but he begged he might oblige me; I thought it kindness, and gladly embraced the opportunity; I gave my note with promise of a double interest; but ere the best of fathers had closed his eyes, and my time for the payment of the debt unfortunately expir'd, he hurry'd me to prison, where I have been a sad and me­lancholy being ever since: I wou'd have wrote to certain friends, but he has cruelly deprived me [Page 44] of that advantage by giving the jailor the strictest charge never to place a pen and ink within my reach, or let one letter pass the door, which action has often made me think he's play'd me foul.

No doubt Sir: O the villain! come my worthy friend, do not dispair: I have a charm about me that shall extricate us both: if you dare venture to assist, I'll prove your friend: I have a stratagem on foot, by which you'll find I ll make a fair example of his worship, and you shall be reveng'd; and if they refuse us li­berty, here is a key that will unlock the strongest bolt.

Then you may command me, and depend on my integrity; I shall not dread the consequence or danger, since if we fail they cannot make us greater prisoners than we are; if they take my life 'twill be a charity.

If I don't preserve both life and li­berty, I'll resign my own; I want to be your friend.

And I want liberty; propose your plan, I long to be in action.

[Page 45]

Then to the point: you have heard no doubt on what suspicion I was committed; the superstition of the rusticks, has possest 'em meerly from my appearance, that I deal in witchcraft.

'Twas that report that first excited me to visit you.

When I found they first suspected it, I endeavoured to make 'em believe that I really did, by threat'ning them in the most romantic phrases.—But I may depend on your integrity you say.

You may, Sir, on the forfeit of my life.

Then, that you may not be deceived, I am not what I seem.

[Page 46]

Indeed I did suspect it.

No more on that head at present; but why I bear this character you shall know hereafter; be satisfied, you shall not remain a prisoner here another day; were I to declare myself they wou'd gladly give me liberty; yet as I have a reason for this strange project, I will go thro' it.

You transport me with pleasure and astonishment.

What most concerns me is, there was a fair one in my company, whom they have im­prison'd too, without the smallest circumstance of guilt, only that she was with me.

There was the most lovely maid I ever saw brought this morning to the prison.

This morning!

Scarce an hour since.

That's strange! has she not been here all night?

I can assure you, no: Sightless and his wife brought her this morning; and when his worship left the prison, he gave the strictest orders to the jailor, that none shou'd see her but himself, which made me pity her indeed.

You amaze me! 'Sdeath, but this [Page 47] disturbs me: could not one speak with the jai­lor?

Most certainly: I'll call him hither if you please.

Sir, you'll much oblige me if you wou'd.

Don't you think he might be prevail­ed upon to let us see her?

I doubt it much: such men as him are generally strangers to humanity, and seldom will be moved to a good action by any thing but a bribe.

That he shall have with all my heart.

Here he comes.

SCENE VII.

'Swounds, master Edwin, you call with as much authority as his worship: What the plague is the matter with you? I thought [Page 48] you had been hanging yourself, and was calling me to cut you down.

That is very probable to be sure.

Why I wou'd have done it for you to be sure for my own sake.

How for your own sake? what in­terest cou'd you have in that?

What! why your carcase and your cloaths: the one I shou'd have got a trifle for from the surgeons, and the others I wou'd have sold to the rag-shop.

What a savage! Faith, my friend, you seem to have a good notion.

Aye, han't I master?

Nobody a better—Methinks you and I shall agree very well.

I don't know that tho'.

I dare say we shall: could you let me change a word or two with the young woman you had brought into prison this morning?

No.—You speak with her hey? What should such an old codger as you want with a young woman? no, no, it won't do; it won't do.

Will this do?

Hey? why as you say—I don't know [Page 49] but it may; they are pretty looking fellows enough seemingly.

Are they not? I thought you and I shou'd agree; I'm an excellent physician you see; I know the strength of your constitution better than yourself you find.

Why aye, you carry a pleasant kind of physic about you; few make a wry face at it, I fancy.

Don't I? Well, what do you say; shall we agree?

I don't know what to say to it; i'faith I'm almost afraid.

Pshaw man, what shou'd you fear?

[Page 50]

Faith, dad, I like your notion; you seem to be a good hearty cock; give me your hand: you'll not blow me I hope? you under­stand me.

No, upon my honour.

Why then 'tis agreed.

Then take your reward, and shew us the way: come my worthy friend, you must bear me company.

You don't take him with you I hope.

Yes, by all means.

Nay with all my heart; tho' by the bye, take care his worship don't pop in upon you; I expect him here anon, he seems to have cast a longing eye upon her himself.

That will be lucky again, I shall be there to protect her:

O never fear us, we'll take care of ourselves.

Jailor! jailor!

Coming, coming: here take the key; she is in the best room: you know the way mas­ter Edwin; and so good luck to you.

We thank you.

Blame me but this is a good dose; [Page 51] 'Egad I should like to take such physic every day.

SCENE VII.

Surely the fates do mean to counteract all my hopes: how perplexing! I was enrap­tured with the highest expectation of seeing my Henry ere this, and now he is lost forever: wou'd I cou'd see the honest stranger once again; perhaps he might inform me where to send to him; for did he but know the pe­rilous situation I am in, he would surely think of some way to release me. Alas! should the tidings reach my father's ears, I am undone.

SCENE VIII.

You understand me?

Perfectly—behold the fair one.

O my delight! but thou shalt grieve no more: I am convinced.

Bless me! the stranger's here: surely he o'erheard my prayers.

Pardon me, thou lovely fair one, for intruding on you thus, for I am more concerned for your misfortune than my own: I could not rest 'till I had seen you once again.

Nay you are welcome, for you talk'd of Henry.

As we broke off so abruptly in our conversation relating to that youth, I have taken this opportunity, with your permission, to renew it.

O you are kind indeed!—Is this a friend of Henry's too?

He is.

Then he is most welcome.

[Page 53]

And is it possible amidst your present perils and calamity, you can think so much of Henry.

I think of nothing else.

Then shall he know how much thy truth outrates his highest expectations; for tho' I spoke unkindly of his worth, I but dissembled, he loves with equal warmth, and seldom speaks but you he makes his theme: he will be trans­ported with your virtue, and shall know it.

Know it! alas, which way?

I have a stratagem on foot for your escape, if you will assist me in it, I will instant­ly convey you to your banished man.

I'll risk my life on such a promise.

His worship will be here to visit you anon: leave this gentleman and me to manage him, and doubt not of success.

May heaven prosper your endeavours.

And hark, he comes! we'll retire from his sight a while 'till we seize our oppor­tunity.

Alas! I tremble at the task.

SCENE IX.

Well, my little rogue, how do you find yourself by this time?

Not very well you may suppose, Sir, in my present situation.

I fear not; I fear not indeed: but you shou'd not have been here if I cou'd have help'd it: my wife, you see is a terrible woman; she will be obey'd.

And your compliance, Sir, was a proof of your humility and justice.

Well said, sweetee, well said; and so it was: I wish she was dead tho' by the bye; I'd make thee the happier for it: nay, I'll make thee happy now, if thou'lt love me.

That I never can.

Ah, but you must, and you shall; 'sdeath, if you don't I'll make you.

Inded, Sir, I never can.

But you must, and you shall: I have it in my power, and I'll make thee hussy; or I'll—come, come, I won't be angry; give me [Page 55] a bufs, and I'll forgive thee.

Heavens! how will this end! I dread the consequence!

Now, now, my fair one, if you'll take your liberty you shall have it; in this dis­guise I can command your discharge.

I'll embrace the opportunity, tho' I dread it.

You, my good and faithful friend, may expect your liberty without delay: I'll re­turn and make example of his worship presently.

SCENE X.

Hallow! what the devil is the mat­ter with you old boy? What do you make such a damn'd noise for? Did not I tell you to take care of his worship? You a conjurer! you a de­vil! by the bye, now he is blindfolded with his hands tied, I've a good mind to pick his pockets:

Hey! let me look again—by the lord 'tis his worship himself: the old one has play'd him a trick:—shall I release him or no?

Coming, your worship: blame me I must release.

Oh the damn'd villains! where are they gone? I'll have 'em all hang'd: go bring 'em to me directly.

And please worship, I'm afraid they're off.

[Page 57]

Off! who's off?

Why, and please your worship, the young woman and Mr. Wizzard, as they call him.

What, have you let 'em out?

Blame me if I did not take him for your worship, having your worship's cloaths on.

And you have let them out then?

O yes, your worship, they are off in­deed!

Then if you don't find 'em again you shall be hang'd in their stead, mark that; but where's the rest? there were half a dozen of 'em I believe.

I fancy not, and please your worship? I don't believe there was any body in company with him but master Edwin and the girl.

Edwin! what have you let him out too?

No, your worship.

That's lucky, that's lucky; he shall be hang'd for the rest, that's some comfort: after the others, you dog!

[Page 58]

SCENE I.

NOW we are safe I hope; and as I have pro­mised, you shall find I'll keep my word: see you yond grove? thither go, and as sure as truth thy Henry shall meet thee there: I'll bring him with me ere you well arrive yourself.

May Heaven bless you if you do.—My Henry! shall I see my banished Henry!

And he shall meet the too, thou match­less fair one, with a heart as warm as ever glow'd with love.

[Page 60]

SCENE III.

Aye, aye, this must be the way.

'Sniggins, if we shou'd take 'em it wou'd be rare sport.

Edad, an we don't it will be bad sport for me tho', if his worship keeps his word.

Hallow! hallow! who be you when you're ready?

Fetter me but 'tis his worship him­self.

In troth and so it is—well the more the merrier I say: God bless his worship, he's a good natured gentleman, I say he is.

You say he is, that's a sign you know [Page 61] much of the matter to be sure; I'm afraid we shall see little of his good nature 'till we have taken the wizzard and his wench again; but mum—here he comes.

Well, my brave lads, what news?

An't please your worship, we met an old fellow just now, who told us he saw 'em on this road together.

Away with you then, away with you; don't stand here, but after 'em, or they'll be gone to the devil else.

Your worship will follow I hope?

Aye, Aye, I'll follow, I'll follow; away with you, away!

SCENE III.

I'm distress'd 'tween hope and fear, in doubt if Henry will meet me here or not, and in fear the stranger may deceive me.

SCENE IV.

[Page 63]

My Henry!

Come to his heart, thou truest maid!

Blest be the hand that pointed me the way: blest be the tongue that told me where to come.

Rather blest be she that followed such a guide with such unequall'd faith.

Wou'd I cou'd see the worthy friend again, that I might think of some reward.

Nay, in truth thou ow'st him none; for thou hast over paid him for his pains.

Alas, I've paid him nothing!

Indeed, indeed thou hast! I was thy guide, thy lover, and thy friend!

Is it possible?

It is, and true.

Ah me! we're ta'en again; for see the hateful crew has trac'd us hither.

So much the better; 'tis just as I wou'd wish.

So much the better?

Fear not my love, there is no danger; they will be glad to let us go again: I beg, my love, that you will not shew one sign of fear; [Page 64] for as sure as you are fair, so sure you'll find no danger: Shall I swear?

No, no, I have no further doubt; I will not fear: if Henry says it, Emma must be­lieve.

Generous maid! that we may not be overcome, I've previously sent for certain friends of mine to meet me there.

Friends! alas, what friends?

Anon you shall know all: the Justice is a knave, and I'll expose him to the world; but here come his brainless instruments: I'll di­vert myself with their stupidity; and seem to make resistance: pray be chearful, and all will be well.

SCENE V.

Oh! by the king of good luck here's ma'am! with a new acquaintance faith; but where's the old one? tho' by the bye I fancy she'll be the most welcome prize to his worship, and therefore I'll secure her first: come, miss, [Page 65] if you please, you shall go back again to his worship with me.

Go back to his worship! for what?

For what! O his worship will tell you presently: he will be here in a trice.

His worship is a knave, and you're a fool: tell him I say so.

Why, you dog, if you say so again I'll take you to jail along with her.

I'll say it and prove it.

You will?

I will.

And so you shall, my lad; if you don't you shall see I'll prove you a fool pre­sently—lay hold of him.

His worship's a knave, is he! and you'll prove it! a pretty fellow indeed!

If he does I'll be hang'd.

You shall all be hang'd if I don't.

Aye, aye, who'll hang me, pray?

I will.

I'll give you leave to do that, my boy, when you please; but I fancy the gal­lows is groaning for you already.

Hands off I say!

[Page 66]

SCENE VI.

What have ye got 'em again?

Aye part of 'em; and an impudent fellow here, who calls his worship a knave and an ass.

His worship an ass! 'swounds he'll be hang'd?

I'll take care of that.

You'd better take care of yourself.

Ne'er plague your head about that. What have you done with his worship?

He was tired to death, and went back again with some gentry we met, who [Page 67] came from the lord knows where, to have a look at the wizzard.

They're come a day after the fair then: I wish we had got the old dog; it wou'd be a few pence in my pocket.

That's very good;

Come, why don't you lead us to prison? Why do you keep us both here?

You're in a hurry methinks: you're the strangest hand I ever met with; but I'll oblige you for once; so come, come along. Constable you'd better hike after the old one, and take one or two along with you; then if you take him the prize will be your own you know.

SCENE VII.

Lud, what a dangerous thing it is to meddle with other folk's matters! mocking is catching, that saying is true enough: Sue and [Page 68] I, forsooth, were only trying to make Allan a little jealous or so; but her kisses have stuck so close to my lips, and her good natured looks, I am afraid have bewitched me. Now, as one may say, I find myself over head and ears in love: ratt'un, I don't know what to make on't; I wish I had not meddled with her: and yet somehow, I don't wish so neither: 'edad, an I thought she cou'd love me, I shou'd be mainly pleas'd: I'll have a trial for her; I'm a little uneasy about her too; and yet I'm strangely pleas'd methinks—I'm most certainly in love, that's flat.—Sue has something more than her­self to give away too; old Quickset, her father, has got a few good pounds by him I warrant me; and that is all Allan is in love with, in my opinion.

[Page 69]'Odds niggins, here they come together; I'll slip behind this bush, and hear what they say.

SCENE VIII.

Why surely Sue, you cannot love Ro­bin; if you do you are strangely bit: he never lov'd a girl in his life, and always laugh'd at every body else that did: I'm sure you only do it to plague me now.

Nor you don't love Dolly Hedger to be sure: don't think to deceive me Allan; she has told me of all your tricks; you have just served her as you have me; but you shall never deceive me again: love Robin indeed! if he was here I'd give him my hand before thy face.

I dad that's bravely said; I'll take it, and thank thee to boot: I'm always ready to receive a good bargain, you see.

Prithee make free with thy own, man.

Why so I do; she said she'd be mine; [Page 70] besides, she's none of your's, you never deserved her.

Don't I?

No you don't; you've got twenty and deceive 'em all; and that girl is a fool that believes you, say what you will.

He seems to be in earnest!

But say what you will, they will be­lieve me.

You're a conceited fool now for your pains; you shall find yourself mistaken in me however, if there was not another man in the world.

Especially when there is another at hand that loves you so well.

Now who wou'd deceive her?

Why you if she wou'd let you.

You love her, hey?

Yes, I love her.

Nay, Robin, now, I am sure you de­ceive me.

Murrins take me if I do.

Nay now, you make me laugh: I never heard you talk of loving before.

I shou'd like mainly to know what kind of love it wou'd be.

[Page 71]

Shou'd you? why I'd marry her di­rectly, and make her a good husband when I'd done; that is more than you can do in my opi­nion.

Nay, Robin, don't joke too far.

Why look you Sue, I never lov'd a girl in my life before, I confess, and shou'd not have lov'd you now, in my opinion, had I not seen you so often made a fool of by another; and always knowing thee to be an honest, mo­dest, good-natur'd lass, I cou'd not help loving thee, somehow.

Will you believe him Sue? ha, ha, ha.

[Page 72]

I don't know what to say to it—I've a a good mind.

She'll be a fool if she believes thee any more however.

You seem to be in earnest methinks.

An I be'ant I'll be hang'd: if you think you can love me, give me your hand, and you shan't doubt me any longer.

Why, what wilt do man?

Do! What I ought, to be sure.

What is that pray?

What's that! why I'll tell you again and again: I'd take her to church directly, and not stand sniv'ling and playing for a twelve­month, and deceive her when I've done.—If she'll give me her hand, you shall see if I don't.

Then take it and welcome.

Blessings on thee! that's kindly said.

Why, Sue, thou art not in earnest sure?

Indeed but I am.

Pshaw, pshaw, don't make a fool of one.

You've made one of me long enough.

But you won't marry him Sue?

Aye, but she will tho'.

[Page 73]

Odds heart what shall I do! who cou'd have thought it! I'm almost ready to hang my­self.—If he marries her I'll make a cuckold of him, as sure as he's born.

SCENE IX.

Sure fate has doom'd me to inevita­ble destruction: every effort that I've made to [Page 74] restore my liberty has unfortunately proved the means of making me still more a prisoner: the stranger, my fair-spoken ally, is not yet re­turn'd, and night is near at hand: Sightless, who never wanted spur to prick him on to cruelty, now will aggravate each circumstance, which he thinks will reach my life.—Well, if my friend shou'd ne'er return again, I'm likely to be releas'd by death.

SCENE X.

Here, fair lady, is my house, such as it is: will you do me the honour to walk in and give me your good company? My wife is a lit­tle jealous, or so; but you need not mind that: pray walk in; it won't be long, I dare say, be­fore we have our conjuring gentleman again.

I thank you, Sir, there's a pleasant air abroad which is very agreeable; with your leave, I had much rather rest me here a little.

By the by, I'm not sorry for that nei­ther: it may save me a supper perhaps.

Why, as you say, Madam, it is very pleasant to be sure: this is a favourite tree of mine; I often make it my bench of authority, and try my cri­minals here.

Beneath this tree!

[Page 76]

Aye, marry do I: this tree was set by a grandfather of mine, and has had many a re­bel hung upon it since he died; and if I shou'd once more meet with this wizard again, he shall have the honour of hanging upon it him­self, and you shall have the pleasure of seeing him, if you please: I am sure you never saw a greater rogue hang'd in your life; and I've got another in prison at present shall keep him com­pany.

Sure you'll not hang him, Sir?

Not burn him you mean! hang him! O yes, you may depend upon that.

What call you these, Sir?

[Page 77]

Some fool has got himself married I suppose; if he has got him as good a wife as mine, he had better staid a little longer, and have been hang'd with Mr. Wizard and Co.

Away with ye, away with ye; you had need be merry forsooth: I hate to see such a parcel of fools.

I must confess it gives me infinite plea­sure to see them so happy.

Aye, but how will they look by and by? that's the joke.

That we cannot tell; a good heart ever makes a pleasant eye.

If that be true, your ladyship's a good heart of your own, for you have a main plea­sant eye, I can tell you that.

You've a pleasant tongue of your own to tell me so; how true I will not say; nor will I thank you for the compliment, because that wou'd be accepting of what I don't deserve.

Troth but you do deserve it; and [Page 78] therefore must accept on't, and as a rarity too; for I seldom give my compliments away with­out return.

Then you sell 'em, I presume.

No, no, lack a day, not I; when I compliment a lady, I mean to get a kiss if I can, when a man—

His money I suppose?

Hum, ah, why sometimes, as one may say, on some occasions or so: faith she's a sweet one! and as wise as a judge; she'll be too much for me if I don't take care:—what a chance had I here now were I not married!—O plague on that bitter old jade at home I say, she's a tough one, or the devil wou'd have had her ere now.

I wonder we have not seen my brother yet.

It is very strange!

O here they come! here they come! now you shall see the very devil himself.

I shall beg to be excused the sight.

Don't fear, madam, don't fear; I've too much power over his devilship, than to let him do so sweet a lady any harm.

[Page 79]

I shall not fear that devil much that is afraid of you.

SCENE XI.

So, madam Gad-about, you have found your way back again! but where is the son of old Beelzebub, the wizard?

And please your worship we have not ta'en him yet; master Constable and two or three more are after him: I suppose they will bring him anon: I thought it best to bring young madam back first, lest she might give us the slip again.

Right, lad, right: but who have you here?

One of the wizard's acquaintance, I find: my lady and he were together.

What is he? and where does he come from?

I don't know, and please your wor­ship; they were together, as I said; and when [Page 80] I talk'd of taking her away, he began to abuse me, and call'd your worship a fool and an ass.

An ass! an impudent rascal! I'll ass you sirrah! I'll ass you, ye villain, I will! you shall prove me an ass or I'll prove you a goose.

That your worship's an ass needs no proof, or a goat rather.

Sirrah! sirrah! how dare you talk to me in this manner? dost know who thou art talking to?

Perfectly well.

Tie him neck and heels, an impudent scoundrel! and to prison with him.

Nay, give me leave to strip first.

Now, Sir, I'm at your service: I was the wizard.

My brother! astonishment!

Lord Henry!

My Henry a lord!

Mercy upon me! what will become of me?

Why don't you put your threats in practice Justice? where are your ropes and your gibbets? methinks your worship cools upon it: [Page 81] what, not a word? shame on thee! well may'st thou stiffen with thy guilt! I cou'd forgive thy imprisonment and insolence to me; but when I think on thy ungenerous and execrable beha­viour to this lady, my temper catches fire at the deed, and whets me to revenge.

Ah, your lordship! mercy! mercy! we are all frail.

But not all villains too I hope, like thee: nay, be ever dumb: can there be excuse for thee! old and full of sin.—What would have been thy guilt, if fortune had not thrown me in the way to avert thy design, when like a monster as thou art, thou threatenedst to force this fair one to compliance: is it possible thou canst form an excuse for such a crime? no, no, tho' her beauty's so divine, that saints beholding her might break off their prayers, and beg to taste the perfume of her lips.—Come! come to my heart! thou matchless piece of fortitude and love!

with heaven's will and thine, we'll part no more.

Nay, then let danger threaten as it lists.

I'm all astonishment and wonder!

O sister! take this jewel to thy breast; [Page 82] for she's a paragon of constancy: I've tried her truth, and, like the purest gold, have found her speckless: she has gone a pilgrimage for me by day and night, thro' all the perils of the dreary wild, and never faulter'd in a word or thought. Here, take her, Aethelia, for she is one you long have wish'd to see:—behold the matchless Nut-brown Maid!

Indeed! then you could not have pre­sented me with a maid more welcome.

So kind a saying from so fair a friend, delights me much.

Tho' my expectations were other than I've met, I'm far more pleas'd in the disap­pointment.

That's kindly said; so generous an acknowledgment deserves a good return; nor shall you find me backward to be grateful; I'll endeavour to repay, tho' what I give may prove unwelcome.

Where is the need? why wou'd you lessen my regard, by thinking I have an interest in my love?

Mistake me not, I only wish you happy as myself.

[Page 83]

That you know can never be, since you are in possession of the dearest object of your heart, and mine is lost forever.

Alas! I pity you from my soul!

Never despair: with his worship's leave I'll take the liberty to send for a gentle­man, a friend of mine, and a most intimate ac­quaintance of the man you love; who, I am persuaded, can give you some account; nay, will convince you he still survives and loves you.

Heavens! what do I hear!

What says your worship? will you condescend to oblige me?

In any thing your lordship shall please to ask: 'sheart, I'm glad he's so pleasant, 'faith.

Then send this instant for that injured youth, whose tale I fain wou'd hear again, that you may be a weeping auditor like me.

Who may your lordship mean?

The gentleman that help'd me to escape.

What means my Henry?

You make me tremble with conjecture: pray unfold the mystery, and ease me of suspense.

The prisoner shall unriddle all; have [Page 84] patience but a little while, and you'll be paid for it.—Your worship seems to hesitate: I've not been us'd to ask a favour twice, and there­fore must demand him now: send for him, I say, or take his place yourself for the refusal.

Oh, I'll send for him to be sure, my lord.—Poor soul!—Jailor go fetch him hither directly.

I hope your lordship did not doubt my sending for him.—Oh that I had hang'd him a twelvemonth ago, and then he wou'd not have stood in judgment against me now!

How fares my Emma? she seems im­patient.—O let no thought but joy intrude upon the best of minds.—Sister, be chearful; I'll make you smile before we part: you came to see a wizard, you'll allow; and that you may not be disappointed quite, I'll prove my­self a conjurer at least.

If one who deals in mysteries be such, you are a conjurer indeed.—O this provoking curiosity! but I'm sure it bodes no ill since my Henry is concerned.

[Page 85]

Alas, what can it mean! my heart seems conscious of some strange event; I'm all surmise and fear.

And here comes one will tell you what it means.

Ah, poor soul! here he comes!

SCENE XII.

Edwin!

Aethelia! lord Henry!

[Page 86]

From oblivion or the grave return'd!

From oblivion, if you please Aethe­lia; but as great a stranger to the grave as you.

Is the gentleman an acquaintance of your sister's then?

He is, my love, the most intimate one in the world; and yet you see they hardly speak to one another.

Alas, I pity their confusion.

Edwin, thy hand—there is Aethelia, she is most glad to see thee, tho' asham'd to own it yet, because her passion is a secret one: thou art inclin'd to speak I know, but thy mis­fortunes, and appearance, I perceive, make thee set too light a value on thyself: excuse me Ed­win, I am as much thy friend as ever, and am overjoy'd to see thee; my sister there is some­thing more than friend, and she of course is glad to see thee too; I have presum'd to speak your inclinations, and flatter myself was pretty near the mark.

For me, my lord, you have spoken as if some friendly genius had whisper'd in my ear the dictates of my heart: but can Aethelia think on one so poor, so sad as I? tho' I must [Page 87] confess the loss of her has been the greatest sor­row that I've felt, when barr'd from liberty and light.

Nay then, my every doubt is hush'd: nor will I blush to own, when 'midst the gayest pageantry of life, I felt a sorrow for my Ed­win's loss I never cou'd overcome.

What do I hear! Oh, I cou'd live upon the sound forever! love in spite of for­tune and her frowns, now makes me bold, and in Aethelia's name, I feast on bliss eternal.

Now, sister, I hope you'll own I've a good knack at wizardizing?

Is it possible you cou'd assume that character so well?

As sure as you are here, thro' my en­chantment.

What cou'd have been your motive first?

Your beauty was the motive, and your matchless constancy has prov'd the great reward, and confuted my every doubt of wo­man's love.—O 'tis such extasy of bliss to find the maid I love, the fairest of her sex, so true, so faithful, and so kind.

SCENE XIII.

Where is she? a jade! an impu­dent hussy!

'Swounds, are you mad! don't you see who's before you!

Pray Sir let her go on: let us hear what the good lady has to say.

Nothing.

Nothing is a good answer; 'tis the soonest said you know my lord.

I wish I had no more to say to you; but in justice to this injured gentleman, I must have a further hearing on his account; 'till when I shall beg you'll accept his lodgings for yourself, a night or two, which you have so generously bestow'd on him this twelvemonth past.

This is all your own doings.— [Page 89] I thought what it wou'd come to, I'll be hang'd if I did'nt.—O mercy on me!

My lord! your lordship!—for hea­ven's sake! for my wife's sake!

I have no time to hear you now; therefore, Mr. Jailor, I beg you'd take care of his worship: give him this gentleman's apart­ments; keep the locks fast upon him, and on the peril of your own life, that you give him liberty, 'till you hear from me: here is some­thing for encouragement; I know you love a bribe.

God bless your honour my lord: I hope your honour, my lord, will not let me be brought into a scrape for it.

Take care of his worship, I say; and you've nothing to fear.

Enough said my lord: I'll take care of him, I warrant you.—Upon my soul, your worship, I'm sorry for it; but I can't help it you see, therefore your worship had better be budging to crib and make the best on't.

O what distraction is this!

Away with 'em jailor; I'm sick of their company.

[Page 90]

Your worship had better take heart.

O what a pickle I'm in!

Now naught but pleasure and delight shall crown the coming hours.

And lo! the villagers appear, with pipe and tabor; see they come this way.

They shall be welcome all: come, my Edwin, the sound of joy shall drive each dull and languid vapour hence; whilst Emma, the dearest treasure of my heart, and mind, shall be the burden of each rustic's song.