[]LETHE.

SCENE a Grove,
With a View of the River Lethe.

PRITHEE, Philoſopher, what grand Affair is tranſacting upon Earth? There is ſomething of Im⯑portance going forward I am ſure; for Mercury flew over the Styx this Morn⯑ing, without paying me the uſual Compli⯑ments.

I'll tell thee, Charon; this is the Anniverſary of the Rape of Proſerpine; on which Day for the future, Pluto has per⯑mitted her to demand from him ſomething for the Benefit of Mankind.

I underſtand you;—his Majeſty's Paſſions, by a long Poſſeſſion of the Lady, are abated; and ſo, like a mere Mortal, he muſt now flatter her Vanity, and ſacrifice his Power, to attone for Deficiencies—But what has our Royal Miſtreſs propoſed in behalf of her favourite Mortals?

As Mankind, you know, are ever complaining of their Cares, and diſſatisfied with their Conditions, the generous Proſer⯑pine has begg'd of Pluto, that they may have free Acceſs to the Waters of Lethe, as a ſovereign Remedy for their Complaints— Notice has been already given above, and Proclamation made: Mercury is to conduct them to the Styx, you are to ferry 'em over to Elyſium, and I am placed here to diſtri⯑bute the Waters.

A very pretty Employment, I ſhall have of it, truly! If her Majeſty has of⯑ten theſe Whims; I muſt petition the Court either to build a Bridge over the River, or let me reſign my Employment. Do their Majeſties know the Difference of Weight between Souls and Bodies? How⯑ever, I'll obey their Commands to the beſt of my Power; I'll row my crazy Boat over and meet 'em; but many of them will be relieved from their Cares before they reach Lethe.

How ſo, Charon?

Why, I ſhall leave half of 'em in the Styx; and any Water is a Specifick againſt Care, provided it be taken in Quantity.

Away to your Boat, Charon; there are ſome Mortals arriv'd; and the Females among 'em will be very clamorous, if you make 'em wait.

I'll make what Haſte I can, rather than give thoſe fair Creatures a Topick for Converſation.

Coming—coming—Zounds, you are in a plaguy Hurry, ſure!—No wonder theſe mortal Folks have ſo many Complaints, when there's no Patience among 'em; if they were dead now, and to be ſettled here for ever, they'd be damn'd before they'd make ſuch a Rout to come over,—but Care I ſuppoſe is thirſty, and 'till they have drench'd themſelves with Lethe, there will be no Quiet among 'em; therefore I'll e'en to work; and ſo Friend Aeſop, and Brother Mercury, good bye to 'ye.

Now to my Office of Judge and Examiner, in which, to the beſt of my Know⯑ledge, I will act with Impartiality; for I will immediately relieve real Objects, and only divert myſelf with Pretenders.

Act as your Wiſdom directs, and conformable to your earthly Character, and we ſhall have few Murmurers.

I ſtill retain my former Sentiments, never to refuſe Advice or Charity to thoſe that want either; Flattery and Rudeneſs ſhould be equally avoided; Folly and Vice ſhould never be ſpared; and tho' by acting thus, you may offend many, yet you will pleaſe the better few; and the Approbation of one virtuous Mind, is more valuable than all the noiſy Applauſe, and uncertain Fa⯑vours, of the Great and Guilty.

Incomparable Aeſop! both Men and Gods admire thee! We muſt now prepare to receive theſe Mortals; and leſt the Solem⯑nity of the Place ſhou'd ſtrike 'em with too much Dread, I'll raiſe Muſick ſhall diſ⯑pel their Fears, and embolden them to ap⯑proach.

Mercury, Charon has brought over one Mortal already, conduct him hither.

Now for a large Catalogue of Complaints, without the Acknowledgment of one ſingle Vice!—here he comes—if one may gueſs at his Cares by his Appearance, he really wants the Aſſiſtance of Lethe.

Sir, your humble Servant—your humble Servant—your Name is Aeſop—I know your Perſon intimately, tho' I never ſaw you before; and am well acquainted with you, tho' I never had the Honour of your Converſation.

You are a Dealer in Paradoxes, Friend.

I am a Dealer in all Parts of Speech, and in all the Figures of Rhetorick—I am a Poet, Sir—and to be a Poet, and not ac⯑quainted with the great Aeſop, is a greater Paradox than—I honour you extremely, Sir; you certainly, of all the Writers of Antiquity, had the greateſt, the ſublimeſt Genius, the—

Hold, Friend, I hate Flattery.

My own Taſte exactly;—I aſſure you, Sir, no Man loves Flattery leſs than myſelf.

So it appears, Sir, by your being ſo ready to give it away.

You have hit it, Mr. Aeſop, you have hit it—I have given it away, indeed—I did not receive one Farthing for my laſt Dedi⯑cation, and yet would you believe it?—I abſolutely gave all the Virtues in Heav'n, to one of the loweſt Reptiles upon Earth.

'Tis hard, indeed, to do dirty Work for nothing.

Ay, Sir, to do dirty Work, and ſtill be dirty oneſelf, is the Stone of Syſiphus, and the Thirſt of Tantalus—You Greek Writers, indeed, carried your Point by Truth and Sim⯑plicity,— they won't do now a-days—our Patrons muſt be tickled into Generoſity—you gain'd the greateſt Favours, by ſhewing your own Merits, we can only gain the ſmalleſt, by publiſhing thoſe of other People.—You flouriſh'd by Truth, we ſtarve by Fiction; Tempora mutantur.

Indeed, Friend, if we may gueſs by your preſent Plight, you have proſtituted your Talents to very little Purpoſe.

To very little, upon my word—but they ſhall find that I can open another Vein —Satire is the Faſhion, and Satire they ſhall have—let 'em look to it, I can be ſharp as well as ſweet—I can ſcourge as well as tickle, I can bite as—

You can do any thing, no doubt; but to the Buſineſs of this Viſit, for I ex⯑pect a great deal of Company—What are your Troubles, Sir?

Why, Mr. Aeſop, I am troubled with an odd kind of a Diſorder—I have a ſort of a Whiſtling—a Singing—a Whizzing as it were in my Head, which I cannot get rid of—

Our Waters give no Relief to bodily Diſorders, they only affect the Memory.

From whence all my Diſorder pro⯑ceeds— I'll tell you my Caſe, Sir— You muſt know, I wrote a Play ſome time ago, preſented a Dedication of it to a certain young Nobleman—He approv'd and ac⯑cepted of it, but before I could taſte his Bounty, my Piece was unfortunately damn'd: —I loſt my Benefit, nor could I have Re⯑courſe to my Patron, for I was told that his Lordſhip play'd the beſt Catcall the firſt Night, and was the merrieſt Perſon in the whole Audience.

Pray, what do you call damning a Play?—

You cannot poſſibly be ignorant, what it is to be damn'd, Mr. Aeſop?

Indeed I am, Sir—We had no ſuch thing among the Greeks.

No, Sir!—No Wonder then that you Greeks were ſuch fine Writers—It is impoſſible to be deſcrib'd, or truly felt, but by the Author himſelf—If you could but get a Leave of Abſence from this World for a few Hours, you might perhaps have an Opportunity of ſeeing it yourſelf—There is a Sort of a new Piece comes upon our Stage this very Night, and I am pretty ſure it will meet with its Deſerts; at leaſt it ſhall not want my helping Hand, rather than you ſhould be diſappointed of ſatisfying your Curioſity.

You are very obliging, Sir;—but to your own Misfortunes, if you pleaſe.

Envy, Malice and Party deſtroy'd me—You muſt know, Sir, I was a great Damner myſelf, before I was damn'd—So the Frolicks of my Youth were return'd to me with double Intereſt, from my Brother Au⯑thors—But, to ſay the Truth, my Perform⯑ance was terribly handled, before it appear'd in publick.

How ſo, pray?

Why Sir, ſome ſqueamiſh Friends of mine prun'd it of all the Bawdy and Im⯑morality, the Actors did not ſpeak a Line of the Senſe or Sentiment, and the Manager (who writes himſelf) ſtruck out all the Wit and Humour, in order to lower my Performance to a Level with his own.

Now, Sir, I am acquainted with your Caſe, what have you to propoſe?

Notwithſtanding the Succeſs of my firſt Play, I am ſtrongly perſuaded that my next may defy the Severity of Criticks, the Sneer of Wits, and the Malice of Authors.

What! have you been hardy enough to attempt another?

I muſt eat, Sir—I muſt live—but when I ſit down to write, and am glowing with the Heat of my Imagination, then—this damn'd Whiſtling—or Whizzing in my Head, that I told you of, ſo diſorders me, that I grow giddy—In ſhort, Sir, I am [10] haunted, as it were, with the Ghoſt of my deceas'd Play, and its dying Groans, are for ever in my Ears—Now, Sir, if you will give me but a Draught of Lethe, to forget this unfortunate Performance, it will be of more real Service to me, than all the Waters of Helicon.

I doubt, Friend, you cannot poſ⯑ſibly write better, by merely forgetting that you have written before; beſides, if, when you drink to the Forgetfulneſs of your own Works, you ſhould unluckily forget thoſe of other People too, your next Piece will cer⯑tainly be the worſe for it.

You are certainly in the right— What then would you adviſe me to?

Suppoſe you could prevail upon the Audience to drink the Water; their forgetting your former Work, might be of no ſmall Ad⯑vantage to your future Productions.

Ah, Sir! if I could but do that— but I am afraid—Lethe will never go down with the Audience.

Well, ſince you are bent upon it, I ſhall indulge you—If you pleaſe to walk in that Grove, (which will afford you many Subjects for your poetical Contemplation) till I have examin'd the reſt, I will diſmiſs you in your Turn.

And I in return, Sir, will let the World know, in a Preface to my next Piece, that your Politeneſs is equal to your Sagacity, [12] [...] [13] [...] [10] [...] [11] [...] [11] and that you are as much the fine Gentleman as the Philoſopher.

Oh! your Servant, Sir—In the Name of Miſery and Mortality, what have we here!

Oh la! oh! bleſs me, I ſhall never recover the Fatigue—Ha! what are you Friend? Are you the famous Aeſop? And are you ſo kind, ſo very good to give People the Waters of Forgetfulneſs for no⯑thing?

I am that Perſon, Sir; but you ſeem to have no need of my Waters; for you muſt have already out-liv'd your Me⯑mory.

My Memory is indeed impair'd, it is not ſo good as it was; but ſtill it is bet⯑ter than I wiſh it, at leaſt in regard to one Circumſtance; there is one Thing which ſits very heavy at my Heart, and which I would willingly forget.

What is it, pray?

Oh la!—oh!—I am horribly fatigued—I am an old Man, Sir, turn'd of Ninety—We are all mortal, you know, ſo I would fain forget, if you pleaſe—that I am to die.

My good Friend, you have miſtaken the Virtue of the Waters: They can cauſe [12] you to forget only what is paſt; but if this was in their Power, you would ſurely be your own Enemy, in deſiring to forget what ought to be the only Comfort of one, ſo poor and wretched as you ſeem. What! I ſuppoſe now, you have left ſome dear loving Wife behind, that you can't bear to think of part⯑ing with.

No, no, no; I have buried my Wife, and forgot her long ago.

What, you have Children then, whom you are unwilling to leave behind you?

No, no; I have no Children at preſent—hugh—I don't know what I may have.

Is there any Relation or Friend, the Loſs of whom—

No, no; I have out-lived all my Relations; and as for Friends—I have none to loſe—

What can be the Reaſon then, that in all this apparent Miſery you are ſo afraid of Death, which would be your only Cure.

—Oh, Lord!—I have one Friend, and a true Friend indeed, the only Friend in whom a wiſe Man places any Con⯑fidence—I have—Get a little far⯑ther off, John—

I have, to ſay the Truth, a little Money— it is that indeed, which cauſes all my Un⯑eaſineſs.

Thou never ſpok'ſt a truer Word in thy Life, old Gentleman—

But I can cure you of your Uneaſineſs im⯑mediately.

Shall I forget then that I am to die, and leave my Money behind me?

No—but you ſhall forget that you have it—which will do altogether as well— One large Draught of Lethe, to the Forget⯑fulneſs of your Money, will reſtore you to perfect Eaſe of Mind; and as for your bodily Pains, no Waters can relieve them.

What does he ſay, John—eh? —I am hard of Hearing.

He adviſes your Worſhip to drink to forget your Money.

What!—what!—will his Drink get me Money, does he ſay?

No, Sir, the Waters are of a whol⯑ſomer Nature—for they'll teach you to forget your Money.

Will they ſo?—Come, come, John, we are got to the wrong Place— The pool old Fool here does not know what he ſays—Let us go back again, John— I'll drink none of your Waters, not I— Forget my Money! Come along, John.

Was there ever ſuch a Wretch! If theſe are the Cares of Mortals, the Waters of Oblivion cannot cure them.

Lookee Sir, I am come a great Way, and am loth to refuſe Favours that coſt nothing—ſo I don't care if I drink a little of your Waters—Let me ſee—ay—I'll drink to forget how I got my Money— And my Servant there, he ſhall drink a little, to forget that I have any Money at all—and, d'ye hear, John—take a hearty Draught. If my Money muſt be forgot, why e'en let him forget it.

Well, Friend, it ſhall be as you would have it—You'll find a Seat in that Grove yonder, where you may reſt yourſelf till the Waters are diſtributed.

I hope it won't be long, Sir, for Thieves are buſy now—and I have an Iron Cheſt in the other World, that I ſhould be ſorry any one peep'd into but myſelf— So pray be quick, Sir.

Patience, Patience, old Gentleman. —But here comes ſomething tripping this Way, that ſeems to be neither Man nor Wo⯑man, and yet an odd Mixture of both.

Harkee, old Friend, do you ſtand Drawer here?

Drawer, young Fop! Do you know where you are, and who you talk to?

Not I, dem me! But 'tis a Rule with me, wherever I am, or whoever I am with, to be always eaſy and familiar.

Then let me adviſe you, young Gentleman, to drink the Waters, and forget that Eaſe and Familiarity.

Why ſo, Daddy? wou'd you not have me well bred?

Yes; but you may not always meet with People ſo polite as yourſelf, or ſo paſ⯑ſive as I am; and if what you call Breeding, ſhou'd be conſtru'd Impertinence, you may have a Return of Familiarity, may make you repent your Education as long as you live.

Well ſaid, old Dry-beard, egad you have a Smattering of an odd kind of a ſort of a Humour; but come, come, prithee give me a Glaſs of your Waters, and keep your Advice to yourſelf.

I muſt firſt be informed, Sir, for what Purpoſe you drink 'em.

You muſt know, Philoſopher, I want to forget two Qualities—My Mo⯑deſty, and my Good-nature.

Your Modeſty and Good-nature!

Yes, Sir—I have ſuch a con⯑ſummate Modeſty, that when a fine Woman (which is often the Caſe) yields to my Ad⯑dreſſes, egad I run away from her; and I am [16] ſo very good-natured, that when a Man af⯑fronts me, egad I run away too.

As for your Modeſty, Sir, I am afraid you are come to the wrong Waters;— and if you will take a large Cup to the For⯑getfulneſs of your Fears, your Good-nature, I believe, will trouble you no more.

And this is your Advice, my Dear, eh?

My Advice, Sir, would go a great deal farther—I ſhould adviſe you to drink to the Forgetfulneſs of every thing you know.

The Devil you would; then I ſhould have travell'd to a fine Purpoſe truly; you don't imagine, perhaps, that I have been three Years abroad, and have made the Tour of Europe?

Yes Sir, I gueſs'd you had travell'd by your Dreſs and Converſation: But, pray, (with Submiſſion) what valuable Improve⯑ments have you made in theſe Travels?

Sir, I learnt Drinking in Ger⯑many, Muſick and Painting in Italy, Dancing, Gaming, and ſome other Amuſements, at Paris; and in Holland—faith, nothing at all; I brought over with me the beſt Collection of Venetian Ballads, two Eunuchs, a French Dancer, and a Monkey, with Tooth-picks, Pictures and Burlettas—In ſhort, I have ſkim'd the Cream of every Nation, and have the Conſolation to declare, I never was in any [17] Country in my Life, but I had Taſte enough thoroughly to deſpiſe my own.

Your Country is greatly obliged to you,—but if you are ſettled in it now, how can your Taſte and Delicacy endure it?

Faith my Exiſtence is merely ſupported by Amuſements; I dreſs, viſit, ſtudy Taſte, and write Sonnets; by Birth, Travel, Education, and natural Abilities, I am entitled to lead the Faſhion; I am prin⯑cipal Connoiſſeur at all Auctions, chief Ar⯑biter at Aſſemblies, profeſs'd Critick at the Theatres, and a fine Gentleman—every where—

Critick, Sir, pray what's that?

The Delight of the Ingenious, the Terror of Poets, the Scourge of Players, and the Averſion of the Vulgar.

Pray, Sir, (for I fancy your Life muſt be ſomewhat particular) how do you paſs your Time; the Day, for Inſtance?

I lie in Bed all Day, Sir.

How do you ſpend your Evenings then?

I dreſs in the Evening, and go generally behind the Scenes of both Play⯑houſes; not, you may imagine to be diverted with the Play, but to intrigue, and ſhew my⯑ſelf—I ſtand upon the Stage, talk loud, and ſtare about—which confounds the Actors, and diſturbs the Audience; upon which the [18] Galleries, who hate the Appearance of one of us, begin to hiſs, and cry off, off, while I undaunted, ſtamp my Foot ſo—loll with my Shoulder thus—take Snuff with my Right-hand, and ſmile ſcornfully—thus—This exaſperates the Savages, and they attack us with Vollies of ſuck'd Oranges, and half eaten Pippins—

And you retire.

Without doubt, if I am ſober —for Orange will ſtain Silk, and an Apple may disfigure a Feature.

I am afraid, Sir, for all this, that you are oblig'd to your own Imagination, for more than three Fourths of your Importance.

Damn the old Prig, I'll bully him—

Lookee, old Philoſo⯑pher, I find you have paſs'd your Time ſo long in Gloom and Ignorance below here, that our Notions above Stairs are too refined for you; ſo as we are not likely to agree, I ſhall cut Matters very ſhort with you—Bot⯑tle me off the Waters I want, or you ſhall be convinc'd that I have Courage, in the drawing of a Cork;—diſpatch me inſtantly, or I ſhall make bold to throw you into the River, and help myſelf—What ſay you to that now? eh?

Very civil and conciſe! I have no great Inclination to put your Manhood to the Trial; ſo if you will be pleas'd to walk in the Grove there, 'till I have examined [19] ſome I ſee coming, we'll compromiſe the Affair between us.

Yours as you behave,—au Re⯑voir!

Why don't you come along, Mr. Tatoo? what the deuce are you afraid of?

Don't be angry, young Lady; the Gentleman is your Huſband, I ſuppoſe.

How do you know that, eh? What, you an't all Conjurers in this World, are you?

Your Behaviour to him is a ſuffici⯑ent Proof of his Condition, without the Gift of Conjuration.

Why, I was as free with him before Marriage, as I am now; I never was coy or prudiſh in my Life.

I believe you, Madam; pray how long have you been married? you ſeem to be very young, Lady?

I am old enough for a Huſband, and have been married long enough to be tired of one.

How long, pray?

Why, above three Months; I married Mr. Tatoo without my Guardians Conſent.

If you married him with your own Conſent, I think you might continue your Affections a little longer.

What ſignifies what you think, if I don't think ſo?—We are quite tired of one another, and are come to drink ſome of your Le—Lethaly—Leithily, I think they call it, to forget one another, and be unmar⯑ried again.

The Waters can't divorce you, Ma⯑dam; and you may eaſily forget him, with⯑out the Aſſiſtance of Lethe.

Ay; how ſo?

By remembering continually he is your Huſband, there are ſeveral Ladies have no other Receipt—But what does the Gen⯑tleman ſay to this?

What ſignifies what he ſays? I an't ſo young and ſo fooliſh as that comes to, to be directed by my Huſband, or to care what either he ſays, or you ſay.

Sir, I was a Drummer in a March⯑ing Regiment, when I ran away with that young Lady—I immediately bought out of the Corps, and thought myſelf made for ever; little imagining that a poor vain Fellow was purchaſing Fortune, at the Expence of his Happineſs.

'Tis even ſo, Friend; Fortune and Felicity are as often at Variance as Man and Wife.

I found it ſo, Sir—This high Life (as I thought it) did not agree with me; I have not laugh'd, and ſcarcely ſlept ſince my Advancement, and unleſs your Wiſ⯑dom can alter her Notions, I muſt e'en quit the Bleſſings of a fine Lady and her Portion, and for Content, have Recourſe to Eight-pence a Day, and my Drum again.

Pray who has advis'd you to a Se⯑paration?

Several young Ladies of my Ac⯑quaintance, who tell me they are not angry at me for marrying him, but being fond of him now I have married him; and they ſay I ſhould be as compleat a fine Lady as any of 'em, if I would but procure a ſeparate Divorcement.

Pray, Madam, will you let me know what you call a fine Lady?

Why, a fine Lady, and a fine Gentleman, are two of the fineſt Things upon Earth.

I have juſt now had the Honour of knowing what a fine Gentleman is; ſo pray confine yourſelf to the Lady.

A fine Lady before Marriage, lives with her Papa and Mama, who breed her up till ſhe learns to deſpiſe 'em, and re⯑ſolves to do nothing they bid her; this makes her ſuch a prodigious Favourite, that ſhe wants for nothing.

So, Lady.

When once ſhe is her own Mi⯑ſtreſs, then comes the Pleaſure!—

Pray let us hear.

She lies in Bed all Morning, rattles about all Day, and ſits up all Night; ſhe goes every where, and ſees every thing; knows every body, and loves no body; ri⯑dicules her Friends, coquets with her Lovers, ſets 'em together by the Ears, tells Fibs, makes Miſchief, buys China, cheats at Cards, keeps a Pug-dog, and hates the Parſons; ſhe laughs much, talks aloud, never bluſhes, ſays what ſhe will, does what ſhe will, goes where ſhe will, marries whom ſhe pleaſes, hates her Huſband in a Month, breaks his Heart in four, becomes a Widow, ſlips from her Gallants, and begins the World again— There's a Life for you? What do you think of a fine Lady now?

As I expected—you are very young Lady! and if you are not very careful, your natural Propenſity to Noiſe and Affectation, will run you headlong into Folly, Extrava⯑vagance, and Repentance.

What would you have me do?

Drink a large Quantity of Lethe to the Loſs of your Acquaintance; and do you, Sir, drink another to forget this falſe Step of your Wife; for whilſt you remember her Folly, you can never thoroughly regard her, and whilſt you keep good Company, Lady, [23] as you call it, and follow their Example, you can never have a juſt Regard for your Huſ⯑band; ſo both drink and be happy.

Well, give it me whilſt I am in Humour, or I ſhall certainly change my Mind again.

Be patient, till the reſt of the Com⯑pany drink, and divert yourſelf, in the mean time, with walking in the Grove.

Well, come along, Huſband, and keep me in Humour, or I ſhall beat you ſuch an Alarum as you never beat in all your Life.

Monſieur, votre Serviteur—pour⯑quoi ne repondez vous pas?—Je dis que je ſuis votre Serviteur—

I don't underſtand you, Sir—

Ah le Barbare! il ne parle pas Fran⯑çois— Vat, Sir, you no ſpeak de French Tongue?

No really, Sir, I am not ſo polite.

En verité, Monſieur Eſope, you have not much Politeſſe, if one may be Judge by your Figure and Apparance.

Nor you much Wiſdom, if one may judge of your Head, by the Ornaments a⯑bout it.

Qu'eſt cela donc? Vat you mean to front a Man, Sir?

No, Sir, 'tis to you I am ſpeaking.

Vel, Sir, I not a Man! vat is you take me for? vat I Beaſt? vat I Horſe? par⯑bleu!

If you inſiſt upon it, Sir, I would adviſe you to lay aſide your Wings and Tail, for they undoubtedly eclipſe your Manhood.

Upon my Vard, Sir, if you treat a Gentilhomme of my Rank and Qualité comme ça, depen upon it, I ſhall be a littel en Cavalier vit you.

Pray, Sir, of what Rank and Qua⯑lity are you?

Sir, I am a Marquis François, j'entens les Beaux Arts, Sir, I have been an Avanturier all over the Varld, and am à preſent en Angleterre, in Ingland, vere I am more honoré and careſs, den ever I vas in my own Countrie, or inteed any vere elſe—

And pray, Sir, what is your Buſi⯑neſs in England?

I am arrivé dere, Sir, pour polir la Nation—de Inglis Sir, have too much a Lead in deir Heel, and too much a Tought in deir Head, ſo, Sir, if I can ligten bote, I ſhall make dem tout à fait François, and quite anoder ting.

And pray, Sir, in what particular Accompliſhments does your Merit conſiſt?

Sir, I ſpeak de French, j'ai bonne Addreſſe, I dance un Minuet, I ſing des littel Chanſons, and I have—une tolerable Aſſurance: [25] En fin, Sir, my Merit conſiſt in one Vard— I am Foreignere—and entre nous—vile de En⯑glis be ſo great a Fool to love de Foreignere better dan demſelves, de Foreignere vould ſtill be more great a Fool, did dey not leave deir own Counterie vere dey have noting at all, and come to Inglande, vere dey vant for no⯑ting at all, perdie—Cela n'eſt il pas vrai, Monſieur Aeſope?

Well, Sir, what is your Buſineſs with me?

Attendez un peu, you ſhall hear, Sir—I am in Love vith the grande Fortune of one Englis Lady; and de Lady, ſhe be in Love with my Qualité and Bagatelles. Now, Sir, me vant twenty or tirty Douzaines of your Vaters, for fear I be obligé to leave In⯑glande, before I have fini dis grande Affaire.

Twenty or thirty Dozen! for what?

For my Crediteurs; to make 'em forget the Vay to my Logement, and no trouble me for the future.

What! have you ſo many Cre⯑ditors?

So many! begar I have 'em dans tous les Quartiers de la Ville, in all Parts of the Town, fait—

Wonderful and ſurprizing!

Vonderful! Vat is vonderful— dat I ſhould borrow Money?

No, Sir, that any body ſhould lend it you—

En verité vous vous trompez; you do miſtake it, mon Ami: If Fortune give me no Money, Nature give me des Talens; j'ai des Talens, Monſieur Aeſope; vich are de ſame ting—par Example; de Engliſman have de Money, I have de Flatterie and bonne Ad⯑dreſſe; and a little of dat from a French Tongue is very good Credit and Securité for touſand Pound—Eh! bien donc, ſal I have this twenty or tirty Douzaines of your Vater? Ouy ou non?

'Tis impoſſible, Sir.

Impoſſible! pourquoi donc? vy not?

Becauſe if every fine Gentleman, who owes Money, ſhould make the ſame Demand, we ſhould have no Water left for our other Cuſtomers.

Que voulez vous que je faſſe donc? Vat muſt I do den, Sir?

Marry the Lady as ſoon as you can, pay your Debts with Part of her Portion, drink the Water to forget your Extravagance, retire with her to your own Country, and be a better Oeconomiſt for the future.

Go to my own Contré!—Je vous demande Pardon, I had much rather ſtay vere I am; I cannot go dere, upon my Vard—

Why not, my Friend?

Entre nous, I had much rather paſs for one French Marquis in Inglande, [27] keep bonne Compagnie, manger des Delica⯑teſſes, and do noting at all; than keep a Shop en Provence, couper and friſſer les Cheveux, and live upon Soupe and Sallade the reſt of my Life—

I cannot blame you for your Choice, and if other People are ſo blind not to di⯑ſtinguiſh the Barber from the fine Gentleman, their Folly muſt be their Puniſhment— Therefore, go to the reſt of the Company, and you ſhall take the Benefit of the Water with them.

Monſieur Aeſope, ſans Flatterie ou Compliments, I am your very humble Ser⯑viteur— Jean Friſſeron en Provence, ou le Marquis de Poulville en Angleterre.

Shield me and defend me! another fine Lady!

A Monſter! a filthy Brute! your Watermen are as unpolite upon the Styx as upon the Thames—Stow a Lady of Faſhion with Tradeſmen's Wives and Mechanics— Ah! what's this, Serbeerus or Plutus!

am I to be frighted with all the Mon⯑ſters of this internal World.

What is the Matter, Lady?

Every thing is the matter, my Spirits are uncompos'd, and every Circum⯑ſtance about me in a perfect Dilemma.

What has diſorder'd you thus?

Your filthy Boatman, Scarroon, there.

Charon, Lady, you mean.

And who are you? you ugly Creature you; if I ſee any more of you, I ſhall die with Temerity.

The Wiſe think me handſome, Madam.

I hate the Wiſe; but who are you?

I am Aeſop, Madam, honour'd this Day by Proſerpine with the Diſtribution of the Waters of Lethe; command me.

Shew me to the Pump Room then, Fellow—where's the Company—I die in Solitude.

What Company?

The beſt Company, People of Faſhion! the Beau Monde! ſhew me to none of your gloomy Souls, who wander about in your Groves and Streams—ſhew me to glit⯑tering Balls, enchanting Maſquerades, raviſh⯑ing Operas, and all the polite Enjoyments of Elyſian.

This is a Language unknown to me, Lady—No ſuch fine Doings here, and very little good Company (as you call it) in Elyſium—

What! no Operas! eh! no Elyſian then! [Sings fantaſtically in Italian.] 'Sfortunato Monticelli! baniſh'd Elyſian, as [29] well as the Hay-Market! Your Taſte here, I ſuppoſe, riſes no higher than your Shake⯑ſpears and your Johnſons; oh you Goats and Vandils! in the Name of Barbarity take 'em to yourſelves, we are tir'd of 'em upon Earth—one goes indeed to a Playhouſe ſome⯑times, becauſe one does not know how elſe one can kill one's Time—every body goes, be⯑cauſe —becauſe—all the World's there—but for my part—call Scarroon, and let him take me back again, I'll ſtay no longer here— ſtupid Immortals!

You are a happy Woman, that have neither Cares nor Follies to diſturb you.

Cares! ha! ha! ha! Nay, now I muſt laugh in your ugly Face, my Dear: What Cares, does your Wiſdom think, can enter into the Circle of a fine Lady's En⯑joyments?

By the Account I have juſt heard of a fine Lady's Life, her very Pleaſures are both Follies and Cares; ſo drink the Water, and forget them, Madam.

Oh gad! that was ſo like my Huſband now—forget my Follies! forget the Faſhion, forget my Being, the very Quincet⯑tence and Emptity of a fine Lady! the Fel⯑low wou'd make me as great a Brute as my Huſband.

You have an Huſband then, Ma⯑dam?

Yes—I think ſo—an Huſband and no Huſband—Come, fetch me ſome of your Water; if I muſt forget ſomething, I had as good forget him, for he's grown in⯑ſufferable o'late.

I thought, Madam, you had no⯑thing to complain of—

One's Huſband, you know, is almoſt next to nothing.

How has he offended you?

The Man talks of nothing but his Money, and my Extravagance—won't re⯑move out of the filthy City, tho' he knows I die for the other End of the Town; nor leave off his naſty Merchandizing, tho' I've labour'd to convince him, he loſes Money by it. The Man was once tolerable enough, and let me have Money when I wanted it; but now he's never out of a Tavern, and is grown ſo valiant, that, do you know—he has preſum'd to contradict me, and refuſe me Money upon every Occaſion.

And all this without any Provoca⯑tion on your Side?

Laud! how ſhou'd I provoke him? I ſeldom ſee him, very ſeldom ſpeak to the Creature, unleſs I want Money; be⯑ſides, he's out all Day—

And you all Night, Madam; Is it not ſo?

I keep the beſt Company, Sir, and Day-light is no agreeable Sight to a po⯑lite [31] Aſſembly; the Sun is very well and com⯑fortable, to be ſure, for the lower Part of the Creation; but to Ladies who have a true Taſte of Pleaſure, Wax Candles, or no Can⯑dles, are preferable to all the Sun-beams in the Univerſe—

Prepoſterous Fancy!

And ſo, moſt delicate ſweet Sir, you don't approve my Scheme; ha! ha! ha!—oh you ugly Devil you! have you the Vanity to imagine People of Faſhion will mind what you ſay; or that to learn Polite⯑neſs and Breeding, it is neceſſary to take a Leſſon of Morality out of Aeſop's Fables— ha! ha! ha.

It is neceſſary to get a little Reflec⯑tion ſome where; when theſe Spirits leave you, and your Senſes are ſurfeited, what muſt be the Conſequence?—

Oh, I have the beſt Receipt in the World for the Vapours; and leſt the Poiſon of your Precepts ſhou'd taint my Vi⯑vacity, I muſt beg leave to take it now, by way of Anecdote.

Oh, by all means—Ignorance, and Vanity!

Lady Rantan's Compliments to Mrs. Riot.

There's a Life for you, you old Fright! ſo trouble your Head no more about your Betters—I am ſo perfectly ſatisfied with myſelf, that I will not alter an Atom of me, for all you can ſay; ſo you may bottle up your philoſophical Waters for your own Uſe, or for the Fools that want 'em—Gad's, my Life! there's Billy Butterfly in the Grove —I muſt go to him—we ſhall ſo railly your Wiſdom between us—ha, ha, ha.

Unhappy Woman! nothing can re⯑trieve her; when the Head has once a wrong Bias, 'tis ever obſtinate, in proportion to it's Weakneſs: But here comes one who ſeems to have no Occaſion for Lethe to make him more happy than he is.

Come along Neighbour Snip, come along Taylor; don't be afraid of Hell before you die, you ſniv'ling Dog you.

For Heaven's ſake Mr. Riot, don't be ſo boiſterous with me, leſt we ſhould of⯑fend the Powers below.

What in the name of Ridicule have we here!—So, Sir, what are you?

Drunk,—very drunk, at your Service.

That's a piece of Information I did not want.

And yet it's all the Information I can give you.

Pray, Sir, what brought you hither?

Curioſity, and a Hackney Coach.

I mean, Sir, have you any Occaſion for my Waters?

Yes, great Occaſion; if you'll do me the Favour to qualify them with ſome good Arrack and Orange Juice.

Sir!

Sir!—Don't ſtare ſo, old Gen⯑tleman— let us have a little Converſation with you.

I wou'd know if you have any thing oppreſſes your Mind, and makes you unhappy?

You are certainly a very great Fool, old Gentleman; did you ever know a Man drunk and unhappy at the ſame?

Never otherwiſe, for a Man who has loſt his Senſes—

Has loſt the moſt troubleſome Companions in the World, next to Wives and Bum-Bailiffs.

But, pray, what is your Buſineſs with me?

Only to demonſtrate to you that you are an Aſs—

Your humble Servant.

And to ſhew you, that whilſt I can get ſuch Liquor as I have been drink⯑ing all Night, I ſhall never come for your Water Specificks againſt Care and Tribula⯑tion: However, old Gentleman, if you'll do one thing for me, I ſhan't think my Time and Converſation thrown away upon you.

Any thing in my Power.

Why, then, here's a ſmall Mat⯑ter for you; and, do you hear me? Get me one of the beſt Whores in your Territories.

What do you mean?

To refreſh myſelf in the Shades here after my Journey.—Suppoſe now you introduce me to Proſerpine, who knows how far my Figure and Addreſs may tempt her; and if her Majeſty is over nice, ſhew me but her Maids of Honour, and I'll warrant you they'll ſnap at a Bit of freſh Mortality.

Monſtrous!

Well, well, if it is monſtrous, I ſay no more—if her Majeſty and Retinue are ſo very virtuous—I ſay no more;—but I'll tell you what, old Friend, if you'll lend me your Wife for half an Hour; when you make a Viſit above, you ſhall have mine as long as you pleaſe; and if upon Trial you ſhou'd like mine better than your own, you ſhall carry her away to the Devil with you, and ten thouſand Thanks into the Bargain.

This is not to be born; either be ſilent, or you'll repent this drunken Inſo⯑lence.

What a croſs old Fool it is—I preſume, Sir, from the Information of your Hump, and your Wiſdom, that your Name is—is—what the Devil is it?

Aeſop, at your Service—

The ſame, the ſame—I knew you well enough, you old ſenſible Pimp you—many a time has my Fleſh felt Birch upon your account; prithee, what poſſeſs'd thee to write ſuch fooliſh old Stories of a Cock and a Bull, and I don't know what, to plague poor innocent Lads with! It was damn'd cruel in you, let me tell you that.

I am now convinc'd, Sir, I have written 'em to very little Purpoſe.

To very little, I aſſure you—But never mind it—Damn it, you are a fine old Grecian, for all that [claps him on the Back] come here, Snip—is not he a fine old Gre⯑cian? —And tho' he is not the handſomeſt, or beſt dreſs'd Man in the World, he has ten times more Senſe than either you or I have—

Pray, Neighbour, introduce me.

I'll do it—Mr. Aeſop, this ſneak⯑ing Gentleman is my Taylor, and an honeſt Man he was, while he lov'd his Bottle, but ſince he turn'd Methodiſt, and took to Preach⯑ing, he has cabbag'd one Yard in ſix from all [37] his Cuſtomers; now you know him, hear what he has to ſay, while I go and pick up in the Wood here—Upon my Soul, you are a fine old Grecian!

Come, Friend, don't be dejected; what is your Buſineſs?

I am troubled in Mind.

Is your Caſe particular, Friend?

No, indeed, I believe it is pretty ge⯑neral in our Pariſh.

What is it? ſpeak out, Friend—

It runs continually in my Head, that I am—

What?

A Cuckold—

Have a care, Friend, Jealouſy is a rank Weed, and chiefly takes Root in a bar⯑ren Soil.

I am ſure my Head is full of nothing elſe—

But how came you to a Knowledge of your Misfortune? has not your Wife as much Wit as you?

A great deal more, Sir, and that is one Reaſon for my believing myſelf diſho⯑nour'd—

Tho' your Reaſon has ſome Weight in it, yet it does not amount to a Conviction.

I have more to ſay for myſelf, if your Worſhip will but hear me.

I ſhall attend to you.

My Wife has ſuch very High Blood in her, that ſhe is lately turn'd Papiſt, and is always railing at me and the Govern⯑ment— The Prieſt and ſhe are continually laying their Heads together, and I am afraid he has perſuaded her, that it will ſave her precious Soul, if ſhe cuckolds a Heretick Tay⯑lor—

Oh, don't think ſo hardly of 'em.

Lord, Sir, you don't know what Tricks are going forward above; Religion, indeed, is the Outſide Stuff, but Wickedneſs is the Lining.

Why, you are in a Paſſion, Friend, if you would but exert yourſelf thus at a proper Time, you might keep the Fox from your Poultry.

Lord, Sir, my Wife has as much Paſſion again as I have; and whenever ſhe's up, I curb my Temper, ſit down, and ſay nothing.

What Remedy have you to propoſe for this Misfortune?

I would propoſe to dip my Head in the River, to waſh away my Fancies—and if you'll let me take a few Bottles to my Wife, if the Water is of a cooling Nature, I may perhaps be eaſy that Way; but I ſhall do as your Worſhip pleaſes.

I am afraid this Method won't an⯑ſwer, Friend; ſuppoſe therefore you drink to forget your Suſpicions, for they are nothing more, and let your Wife drink to forget your Uneaſineſs—A mutual Confidence will ſuc⯑ceed, and conſequently, mutual Happineſs.

I have ſuch a Spirit, I can never bear to be diſhonour'd in my Bed.

The Water will cool your Spirit, and if it can but lower your Wife's, the Bu⯑ſineſs is done.—Go for a Moment to your Companion, and you ſhall drink preſently; but do nothing raſhly.

I can't help it, Raſhneſs is my Fault, Sir; but Age and more Experience, I hope, will cure me—Your Servant, Sir—Indeed he is a fine old Grecian.

Poor Fellow, I pity him.

What can be the Meaning, Aeſop, that there are no more Mortals coming over; I perceive there is a great Buſtle on the other Side the Styx, and Charon has brought his Boat over without Paſſengers.

Here he is to anſwer for himſelf.

Oh! oh! oh!

What diverts you ſo, Charon?

Why there's the Devil to do among the Mortals yonder; they are all together by the Ears.

What's the Matter?

There are ſome Ladies, who have been diſputing ſo long and ſo loud about taking Place and Precedency, that they have ſet their Relations a tilting at one another, to ſupport their Vanity: The Standers-by are ſome of them ſo frighted, and ſome of them ſo diverted at the Quarrel, that they have not time to think of their Misfortunes; ſo I e'en left them to ſettle their Prerogatives by them⯑ſelves, and be Friends at their leiſure.

What's to be done, Aeſop?

Diſcharge theſe we have, and finiſh the Buſineſs of the Day.

I never went to pick up a Whore in my Life, but the firſt Woman I laid hold of, was my dear virtuous Wife, and here ſhe is—

Is that Lady your Wife?

Yes, Sir; and yours, if you pleaſe to accept of her—

Tho' ſhe has formerly given too much into faſhionable Follies, ſhe now re⯑pents, and will be more prudent for the fu⯑ture.

Look ye, Mr. Aeſop, all your Preaching and Morality ſignifies nothing at all—but ſince your Wiſdom ſeems bent upon our Reformation, I'll tell you the only Way, old Boy, to bring it about. Let me have enough of your Water to ſettle my Head, and throw Madam into the River.

'Tis in vain to reaſon with ſuch Be⯑ings, therefore, Mercury, ſummon the Mor⯑tals from the Grove, and we'll diſmiſs 'em to Earth, as happy as Lethe can make 'em—

Now Mortals attend; I have per⯑ceiv'd from your Examinations, that you have miſtaken the Effect of your Diſtem⯑pers [43] for the Cauſe—you wou'd willingly be relieved from many Things which interfere with your Paſſions, and Affections, while your Vices, from which all your Cares and Misfortunes ariſe, are totally forgotten and neglected—Then follow me, and drink to the Forgetfulneſs of Vice—