[] SILVIA; OR, THE COUNTRY BURIAL.

SCENE I.

NOW, now's the very Criſis of our Fate.—On this important Hour depends the Happi⯑neſs, or Ruin, of my dear and only Child, and all my future Peace.—Why am I thus alarm'd! The Event muſt ſure be happy! I have long, with Pleaſure, beheld their mutual Love.—The end of all my Hopes and Fears is near—This happy Marriage will reſtore my long-loſt Peace of Mind.—After Marriage, ſhou'd he prove falſe, or unkind—what Means are left—what Power on Earth can do her Juſtice then!—Now my Pains return! thus Joy and Anguiſh alternately poſſeſs my Breaſt, as Hope or Fear prevails.

SCENE II.

Jonathan, Sir John tarries long.

That is not to be wonder'd at, when he is in ſuch good Company. I know my Maſter never thinks himſelf ſo happy, as when he is with your fair Daughter.

Jonathan, I have obſerv'd, of all Sir John's Servants, that you, who, indeed, ſeem beſt to deſerve it, have the greateſt ſhare in his Confidence and Favour: Now you are not ignorant of my Friendſhip for your Maſter, nor of his Pretenſions of Love to my Silvia; both which muſt intereſt me nearly in every thing that relates to him. I have lately heard ſome Re⯑flections on his Conduct, that much alarm me. You, if you will, can ſatisfy my Doubts, without Prejudice to your own Fidelity, or your Maſter's Honour.

Ay, dear Sir, I know that any Diſcoveries, which I might make to you, wou'd be as ſafe as in my own Boſom, and all the Uſe you wou'd make of 'em, wou'd be to improve 'em, if poſſible, to my Maſter's Advantage, and not at all to my [3] Prejudice. What a wicked, cenſorious World do we live in! My Maſter is certainly the moſt virtuous, ſober, modeſt Gentleman in the Country; and, to ſay Truth, we are a mighty regular Family. For my part, I am daily edify'd by his good Example.

This Fellow mocks me.

The Buſineſs of my Farm, and the Care of my Flocks call me hence. Fare⯑wel. My beſt Reſpects and Service to Sir John.

SCENE III.

Ha, ha, ha! a pretty Jeſt truly! diſcover my Maſter's Secrets for nothing!—when I'm ſo well paid for keeping 'em.

SCENE IV.

Urge me no farther—I have ſaid too much. How have you drawn from me the fond Confeſſion?

Meerly to ſay you wou'd obey your Father! is that too much to pay whole Years ſpent in Adoration of your Charms!

What can you ask, or what can I ſay more?

Can ardent Love be ſatisfy'd with Duty? You might have ſaid as much to any other Man, who ſhou'd have gain'd [4] your Father's Approbation. You have not yet, my charming Fair, confeſs'd you love.

Why will you preſs me to paſs the Bounds of Modeſty and Prudence? you know my Father does not force my Will.

Why then this needleſs Caution and Reſerve? your cruel Coldneſs chills me to the Heart. You never felt Love's animating Fire; ſome other Motive, in which Love has no part, muſt influence you to admit of my Addreſſes.

Your Suſpicions are as groundleſs as unkind. There may be Men falſe, deſigning, cruel and unjuſt, who court and flatter only to deceive: wou'd it be therefore juſt to charge the Crimes of ſome on all? and, for your conſtant Love, Truth and Sincerity, return you Doubts, Suſpicions and unjuſt Re⯑proaches? There may be Women too, who, for Wealth or Power, wou'd give their Hands where they refuſe their Hearts. If you think me ſuch a one, for my ſake, and your own, de⯑ſiſt at once: for Love, that is not founded on Eſteem, can never yield true Satisfaction, or continue long.

Pardon, my deareſt Silvia, a Fault, caus'd only by Exceſs of Love—Thou art ſo great a Bleſſing, 'twere Preſump⯑tion to be too ſecure. Long we ſuſpect, and hardly are con⯑vinc'd that the Treaſure, on which our Happineſs depends, ſhall ever be attain'd. But now my Fears are huſht, and all my Doubts are fled.

When Love's ſincere and conſtant, how does it bleſs and how improve Mankind? yet, ambitious Stateſmen, and fooliſh medling Prieſts, wou'd bind in Fetters the noble free-born Paſ⯑ſion. Vain Attempt!—Marriage ne'er yet kindled a mutual Flame, where it was not, but often has extinguiſh'd it where it was; Love is its ſelf its own Security, and needs no other Bonds.

This idle Talk, this common-place Raillery on Mar⯑riage, I think, at any Time is beſt omitted; but ſure, Sir John, 'tis moſt improper now. You can't expect that a Maid, who is not weary of her Condition, will take upon her the Defence of a Cauſe in which ſhe is not concern'd: yet, to pleaſure you, who, I preſume, delight to hear me talk, tho' I thereby diſco⯑ver my own Simplicity, this I will ſay, the World owes its Order, Kingdoms their peaceful regular Succeſſion, and private Families their Domeſtick Happineſs to Marriage.

The Prejudice of Education only makes you reaſon thus. I muſt inſtruct you better.

Sir John, I underſtand you not—

You ſhall joyn with me, by our Example to convince the World, that Love can ſubſiſt without the Marriage Tye.

Sir John Freeman, I have known you long, bred up under one Roof from Infancy together. I don't remember when I knew you not. The innocent Friendſhip, contracted in our Childhood, in you improv'd to Love, or you have been a thouſand Times forſworn. If I have been deceiv'd, when may a Virgin ſafely believe a Man? I wou'd not wrong your Honour by unjuſt Suſpicions,—but if you have abus'd me—

If I love thee not, or if I ever ceaſe to love thee, may I become the moſt wretched and moſt accurſt of Men.—May I—

Imprecate no more. Wave this Diſcourſe, and I am ſa⯑tisfy'd.

'Tis time, my Silvia, to compleat our Joys.

You muſt now quit your Father's humble Roof, and ſhine with me. My Wealth, great as it is, ſhall be exhauſted to ſupport thy Pleaſures. Love, only Love, ſhall be the Prieſt to joyn us. Enjoyment ſhall be our Marriage:

Each Day I ſhall a happy Bride⯑groom be, and you a Bride. Mahomet's Paradiſe ſhall be ve⯑rify'd in us; and all our long Lives ſhall be but one continu'd Tranſport.

Let go my Hand.

And leſt you ſhou'd think I mean to deceive and to forſake you, no proud Heireſs, that brings a Province for her Portion, ſhall be joyntur'd as you ſhall be. Half my Eſtate ſhall be ſettled on thee.

With brutal Force to compel me to hear thy hated Pro⯑poſals, is ſuch Inſolence.—Thy Breath is blaſting, and thy Touch infectious. Oh that my Strength was equal to my Indignation! I'd give my Hand a Ranſom for my Body.

Stay, my charming angry Fair, and hear me ſpeak.

Wou'd I had never heard you. Oh that 'twere poſſible to fly where I might never hear the Voice of Mankind more!—What, ſet a Price on my Immortal Soul and ſpotleſs Fame? Know, thou ungenerous Man, I ne'er was influenced by thy Wealth to hearken to thy Vows; for notwithſtanding my humble Birth, and Fortune, I ever ſcorn'd Riches, when com⯑par'd to Love, as now I do Love and Thee, compar'd to Virtue. She, who capitulates on Terms like theſe, confeſſes an Equivalent may be had for Innocence and Fame, and there by forfeits both.

SCENE V.

Jonathan.

SCENE VI.

Sir.

Order the Groom to bring the Horſes to the Gate.

SCENE VII.

I have made a bold, but unſucceſsful Attempt, and by it, perhaps, have loſt her for ever—perhaps not.—I wou'd fain ſee her once more, methinks.—And yet there is but little likelyhood of our coming to an Agreement. I am reſolv'd ne⯑ver to marry; and ſhe ſeems as much reſolv'd never to comply without it. Whatever is the Meaning of it, I find my ſelf more aſham'd than angry at the Diſappointment. Tho' 'tis certain that I never did, nor ever can, love any other Woman half ſo well. I feel a ſtrange Palpitation here!

I am not ſure that I don't like her the better for refuſing me.—I am ſure of nothing—but that I won't marry—I muſt e'en have recourſe to the general Remedy in theſe Caſes, a leſs ſcrupulous Female. For tho' that won't remove the Cauſe, yet it is an admirable Opiate, and relieves the Symp⯑toms to a Miracle.

SCENE VIII.

A very pretty Fancy this of being buried in her Cloaths. If it were once a Faſhion, a Sexton might get as much as an Overſeer of the Poor. Every Man is for making the moſt of his Place. But then there is no Compariſon between ſtarv⯑ing the Living and robbing the Dead, for what ſhou'd dead Folks do with Cloaths?—But the Truth of it is, in theſe healthy Countries the Poor live ſo ſhamefully long, that Pariſh-Officers get little now, beſide good Eating and Drinking.—But I have heard that formerly ſuch as were paſt their Labour, uſed to be provided for at the Expence of the Sheriff,—for then, if Perſons were likely to become chargeable to the Pariſh, the [9] whole Neighbourhood wou'd ſwear that they were Witches or Wizards; and ſo they were decently hang'd up, to ſave Charges.—But in London, and other your great Towns, an induſtrious Man of my Buſineſs may make a good Penny of it ſtill,—for there they ſteal Bodies and all, but here we're forc'd to let them rot in their Graves, becauſe we can't tell what elſe to do with them.

SCENE IX.

Ah, poor Dorothy Stitch! Reſt her Soul! She was the handſomeſt Woman in all our Pariſh. But Beauty is but Skin deep, as the Saying is; and you ſee, Neighbours, what we muſt all come to.

Oh, my dear Wife! my dear Wife!

Oh, my dear Mother! my dear Mother!

Don't cry ſo, Lettice; you'll ſpoil your pretty Face.

What's that to you?

'Tis very well, Mrs. Lettice Stitch!

So it is, Mr. Ned Ploughſhare. I ben't afraid of your telling my Mother now.

Good Timothy Stitch, don't take on ſo. We did not all come together, nor muſt we all go together; and our Loſs is her Gain, as we all know, Neighbours.

Ay, ay, to be ſure.

Since we muſt live by the Living, and not by the Dead, you ought to thank Heaven, and be contented.

A poor Woman, who has loſt one Husband, and is unprovided of another, has, indeed, Cauſe enough of Grief. For tho' ſhe be ever ſo much afraid to lye alone, ſhe can't, for very Shame, ask a Man to be her Bed-fellow.

Ay, ay, 'tis very true, Goody Buſy; tho' 'tis, indeed, a very hard Caſe. But Neighbour Stitch, here, need but ask and have.

She is in the Right of it. Timothy Stitch, we all know what a good Husband you was to your laſt Wife. Here's Goody Coſtive herſelf is a Widow. But I ſay no more; ſpare to ſpeak, and ſpare to ſpeed, all the World over.

How cou'd you name another Wife to me? Where ſhall I find another like my Firſt? Twenty Winters did we live in Love together, and never quarrell'd once in all our Lives.

What he ſays is very true, Neighbours; but he may thank himſelf for that. For let her ſay or do whatever ſhe wou'd, he wou'd never quarrel with her. Not but that the Woman was a very good Woman in the main.

Yes, yes; a very good Woman in the main.

Tho' I can't but ſay ſhe had an ugly way with her, of abuſing every Body.

Ay, ay; we all know that ſhe was the greateſt Scold in the Pariſh.

And that ſhe ſwore like a Trooper.

And then ſhe wou'd run in every Body's Debt, and pay no Body, by her Good-will;—as if ſhe had been a Gen⯑tlewoman.

Yet, for all that, the Woman was a good Woman in the main.

O yes! a very good Woman in the main.

Tho' ſhe was Proud.

And Lazy.

And Thieviſh.

And Impudent.

And Whoriſh.

But, above all, a ſad Drunkard.

Ah, poor Creature! that was her Death; for we all know ſhe died in her Drink.

Ah, poor Soul! we all lov'd her, to be ſure; and wou'd not ſpeak any Harm of her for the World.

Oh, no! to be ſure; for it wou'd be a wicked thing of us to ſpeak Ill of the Dead, that cannot anſwer for themſelves.

O yes; a very wicked thing, to be ſure. Tho' they do ſay it is all the Faſhion in London; the more Shame for 'em, I think.

The Moon is riſing, 'tis time to be going home. Let the Sex⯑ton fill up the Grave.

Let the Grave remain uncover'd; I'll take care of that; for here I mean to tarry 'till the Morning. Neighbours, I thank you all: Adieu.—I wiſh you well to your ſeveral Homes.—Good Night.

Stay here in the cold Church-yard all Night, with thy dead Wife!—Why, you are diſtracted, ſurely.

If he been't, that were enough to make him ſo.

Nay, never go about to perſuade me, for here I will ſtay, come Life, come Death. Therefore, Neighbours, all go home, and leave me to my ſelf.

This is the ſtrangeſt Vagary, to pretend to ſtay here with his Wife, when ſhe's dead; when there are ſo few Men who care for their Wives Company, while they are alive!

My Reſolution may ſeem ſtranger than it is; I will therefore tell you the Reaſon of it. Some time ago, my Wife was very ſick (that curſed Geneva often made her ſo) then I fell ſick with Grief; but ſhe ſoon recovering, I recover'd too. On this Occaſion, ſhe told me, if I dy'd firſt, that ſhe ſhou'd break her Heart. Yet, ſhe is dead, and I, hard-hearted and ungrateful Wretch, am here alive to ſpeak it.

Poor Heart! he weeps like any rainy Day. But, good Timothy, go on with your Tale.

Let me but dry my Eyes, and then I will. She ſaid that ſhe had heard of People that had been buried alive, and being troubled with Fits, thought, perhaps, that might be her Caſe.

Ay, ay; we all know what ſort of Fits ſhe was troubled withal—But, Mum for that.

And deſir'd me, if I out-liv'd her, to let her be buried in her beſt Cloaths, and to watch the Grave the firſt Night all alone, nor to let the Body be cover'd 'till the Morning. I pro⯑mis'd to grant her Requeſt, and now will keep my Word. Nay, tho' the Ghoſts of all thoſe whoſe Bodies have been bu⯑ried here, ſhould riſe to drive me hence, I wou'd not leave the Place 'till Morning.

O terrible! I ſhake like an old Barn in a windy Day, to hear him talk of it.

This is downright Madneſs.

And we ſhall be as mad as he, to let him have his Will. Therefore, ſince Perſuaſion won't do, Force muſt.

Ay, ay; let us carry him home by Force.

Here, ſome of you help to hold him, while o⯑thers fill up the Grave.

Hold, hold, Neighbours, and hear me ſpeak: If you fill up the Grave, and force me hence before I have perform'd my Promiſe, I will never eat, drink, or ſleep more.

Oh dear! why that will be the Death of him.

To be ſure.

Nay, then I'll have no Hand in it.

Nor I.

Nor I.

Perhaps we may bring our ſelves into Trouble a⯑bout it.

I think we are in a worſe Quandary now than we were before.

What muſt we do in this Caſe?

Pray you now hear me ſpeak.

Ay, ay, let us hear Goody Buſy ſpeak.

Ay, ay, ſhe's a notable Woman, and a Midwife, and knows what's fit, as well as any Woman in the Pariſh.

I ſay it is dangerous playing with edg'd Tools—and we ought to do as we would be done by—and it is ill medling between a Man and his Wife.—And every honeſt Man is as good as his Word.—And the Will of the Dead ought to be perform'd.—Therefore, let us leave him to keep his Promiſe to his Wife.

Ah, dear Heart! there are not many like him. More is the Pity.

Good Night, Timothy. Heaven preſerve you! Good Night.

O my dear Father! my dear Father! let me ſtay with you.

No body ſhall ſtay with me. Lettice, be a good Girl, and go home.

Come, you will let me lead you home, ſure.

No ſure, but I won't. I'll have nothing to ſay to you, nor ſhall you have any thing to do with me. My Father won't make me marry you, for he always us'd to ſay that it was pity a good-natur'd Girl ſhould be forc'd.

SCENE X.

Now from the Fields the Labourers homeward go; each one to kiſs his Wife, with ſweet Content. A good warm Supper, and a loving Spouſe, make his Houſe bleſt as mine, while Dolly liv'd. My Houſe is now like the forſaken Barn, where the blind Howlet perches all the Day.—The open Air, cold Ground, on which I ſit, with none to talk to but the ſpeechleſs Dead, is all my Comfort now. I hate my own warm Thatch, Flock-bed and Neighbour's Chat, ſince Dolly, the Flower of all my Joys, is gone.—Oh, how wretched is the State of Man

Oh!

Mercy on me!—what Noiſe was that!—Sure I heard ſomething.—I think I did—perhaps I may hear it again—No no—nothing at all.—All is ſtill—It was only my Fancy.—I'll return to my Poſt.—

O dear, O dear! what can be the meaning of this! why do you frighten a Body ſo?—Was I not a good Husband to you while living, and am I not performing my Promiſe to you now you are Dead?—Why don't you lye ſtill in your Grave?—What is't you'd have?

Hickup—Not a Drop more,—if you love me.

It Moves—and Talks!—What will become of me?

I'm very cold.—Where am I?—Sure this is a Church⯑yard.—This is a Grave too.—How came I here?

O dear, O dear!

Who's that!—Timothy!—Come, help me out.

No, I thank you, you are Dead, and a Grave is the fitteſt Place for you.

I don't believe that.—How came I dead!

Why you dy'd with Drinking, and was buried to⯑night.

I don't know any thing of the Matter; but, if I was dead, I am alive again.

I wiſh you were.

I tell you I am. Come hither and feel me. If you wou'd but feel me once, you wou'd be ſati [...]fy'd.

She was always given to lying—I dare not truſt her.—Yet if ſhe ſhou'd be alive again—I have a good Mind to venture.

—Oh, ſhe has me, ſhe has me!

The Devil have you for a Cowardly, Cabbaging Rogue▪ as you are.—What, are you afraid of your own Wife, Sirrah▪

Nay, now I am ſure 'tis my Dolly herſelf, and alive▪ My dear, dear Jewel, don't be angry. 'Twas only my Fear▪

Yes, yes, you wou'd have had me Dead. You were only afraid I ſhou'd be alive again.

I've had a ſtrange Eſcape! If you hadn't ſtay'd here, where ſhou'd I have been by this Time! I can't tell indeed; but I believe 'tis better as it is.

O my Dear, how can you ſuſpect my Love? I had rather have thee again, than be Lord of the Manor.

I wou'd not forſake my Timothy, to be made a Lady.

Will you go Home with me, and love, and live in Peace; and drink no more Drams, to fright me ſo?

Are you as glad as you ſeem to be! are you willing to take me again!

SCENE XI.

Mercy on me! I'm frighten'd out of my Wits! I dropt the Company going home, and came back again to ſee how my poor Father did, and, as ſure as any thing, I ſaw my Mo⯑ther's Ghoſt go over the Style; and but that I know that my Father's Alive and here, I cou'd have ſworn that I had ſeen his too.—What ſhall I do? My Father will be very angry if he ſhou'd know that I am here; and yet I muſt ſpeak to him. Father, Father!—Bleſs me, he is not here. I'm frighten'd worſe now than I was before. Sure he is not fallen into my Mother's Grave. The Moon ſhines ſo directly into it, that I can ſee him if he be.

Dear, dear! there's neither Father nor Mother!—But let me think a little.—If my Mother ſhou'd be Alive, after all.—Ay marry, that wou'd fright me worſe than ſeeing twenty Ghoſts, for ſhe'll force me to marry Ned Ploughſhare. I hate Work, Poverty and Confinement; and if I marry him, I ſhall have all three.

SCENE XII.

Sir, you may be as merry as you pleaſe with my Cowardice, but I think ſtill we had better have kept on our Horſes Backs, and have ventur'd our Necks thro' the Sloughs, than to have come thro' this plaguy Church-yard at this time o' th' Night.

Ha, ha, ha!—what, you're afraid of the Dead?

I don't like their Company.—Ah, Land, a Ghoſt, a Ghoſt!

Get up, you Cowardly Raſcal, or—

O dear Sir, I can't, I can't. I'm frighten'd to Death.

Nay, if that be the Caſe—you, and the Ghoſt, if there be one, may be better acquainted preſently. I'll not ſpoil good Company. Farewel.

O Lud, that's worſe than t'other. Pray don't leave me, and I will get up.

Sure this Fellow's Folly has infected me too; for I think I ſee ſome body yonder in White.—Take your Hands from before your Eyes, you Dog, or I'll cut 'em off.

I will, I will.—O dear, dear Sir, there 'tis again.

Ceaſe your Impertinence, you Puppy, and let us ob⯑ſerve it. It ſeems to me to be a Woman; if ſo, ſhe muſt be in Diſtreſs. I'll go and ſpeak to her.

O dear Sir, don't offer it. 'Tis certainly the Devil, who knowing your Conſtitution, has turn'd himſelf into this Shape, on purpoſe to draw you into his Clutches.

Away, Fool.

Poor Sir John!—Poor Jonathan!—When the Devil has run away with the Whore-maſter, what will become of the Pimp! I have follow'd this Maſter of mine to the De⯑vil, and there will leave him, to go the reſt of his Journey with his new Acquaintance, and try to repent and ſave one.

Methinks I do it very ſcurvily. If I was ſure I was out of the Devil's reach now, I am afraid the Remembrance of my paſt Sins wou'd give me more Pleaſure than Pain. And now I look again, it does not appear ſo frightful as it did. They are very cloſe.—My Maſter has it by the Hand. If it ſhou'd be [22] a Woman after all—as it certainly is—I have made a fine piece of Work on't truly. Now will they ſtrike up a Bargain without me, and I ſhall loſe my Fee for extraordinary Services, my Place as Pimp in ordinary, and my Reputation for ever. Ay, ay, 'tis ſo—thus it goes.

They are at it ſtill. He palms her, ſhe ſuffers it; he ſwears, ſhe lies; he ſtorms, ſhe yields; Victoria, Victoria, huzzah!

I ſee and pity your Diſtreſs; but, unleſs you conſent to go along with me, how can I relieve you?

O dear Sir, you are the kindeſt Gentleman, I ſhall ne⯑ver have it in my Power to make you amends.

To ſerve any Perſon in diſtreſs, much more a Wo⯑man, rewards itſelf. And if you are but half ſo kind as you are fair, you'll always have it in your Power to lay me under the greateſt Obligations in the World.

I don't know what you mean by that, but I ſhall be very willing to be inſtructed, for I hate Ingratitude.

I hope you are ſingle, for it is a Principle with me, [...]ever to ask any Favour of a married Woman. For he who [...]ays his Liberty for a Woman, deſerves to have her to him⯑ [...]elf.

Nay, for that matter, I think, the Fools that are mar⯑ried are fit for no body but one another. For my part, I do, and always did, hate the Thoughts of a Husband.

The moſt beautiful Woman, with the beſt natured Principles, that ever I met with in the whole Courſe of my Life.

How he ſqueezes my Hand! I underſtand him—He is a fine Gentleman.—But I muſt not ſeem too forward neither.

What ſhou'd you be afraid of, Madam? If you and my Maſter ſhou'd break a Commandment together, there's no manner of harm done; for Sir John has a right to ſin ſcot-free himſelf, and make his Neighbours pay for it, as he's a Juſtice of Peace.

A Juſtice o' Peace! O dear, I'm ſo afraid now that my Father ſhould come and ſpoil my Fortune.

Bear up, Sir, and I warrant we carry her off betwixt us.

But what ſhall we do with her? Let us get off as faſt as we can, for it is certainly the Devil, who, knowing my Conſtitution, aſſumes this Shape, as the moſt likely way to draw me into his Clutches.

Pox on his Memory.

Give me leave to lead you to the Style at the end of the Church-yard, where my Horſes wait, and then—

Mount, Whip, Spur and away. Ha, Sir!

O dear Sir!—What am I doing? Whither am I going? Well, well, carry me where you will, and do with me what you pleaſe, for ſure you are a civil Gentleman.

SCENE I.

Sure Echo's grown enamour'd with my Sorrows, that thus ſhe dwells upon the plaintive Sound.

Silent Night yields no Repoſe.

Ha, this is ſomething more! Perhaps, ſome wretched Maid, like me by Love undone, has choſe you gloomy Thicket to complain in; and kindly joins her ſympathizing Notes with mine. I'll try again.

It ſeems, indeed, the Voice of one complaining; but one of that falſe, deceitful Sex, which only ſeems unhappy, when it wou'd make ours ſo indeed. Perhaps ſome buſy, prying Wretch, has ſtole, unheeded, on my Sorrows, and with ſcorn⯑ful Repetitions mocks my real Woes.

SCENE II.

Forgive, fair Maid, an unhappy Man, who has wandred all the long Night, not knowing where he went, nor where to go. Tir'd with my Miſery and fruitleſs Labour, unable to go farther, I laid me down in yonder Thicket to complain. But, hearing your Voice, I have with much Dif⯑ficulty crept hither to enquire of you, after my loſt Daughter; as I muſt of all I meet, 'till I have found her.

Is it a Child you have loſt!

A dearly beloved and a loving Child.

That is a Loſs indeed.

My Wife was buried laſt Night, and came to Life again, and while I went home with her, my Daughter was carryed away.

Your Story's very ſtrange.

But very true.

I only ſaid that it was ſtrange, not that it was not true. I have heard of People, who, ſeeming to be dead, have yet reviv'd. That may have been her Caſe.

I can't tell—It may be ſo—My Daughter is about your Age, but not ſo tall—Have you heard of any ſuch Perſon?

No, indeed.

She's loſt for ever, and I am the moſt miſerable Man in the World.

You apprehend your Miſery much greater than it is; for, if ſhe be Virtuous, and Prudent, ſhe will find the Means to return.

She may be kept by Force. She's very handſome—What may ſhe not be forc'd to?

Fear it not. Innocence is the Care of Heaven. Virtue will give her Reſolution to reſiſt Temptation, and Strength to oppoſe Violence ſhould it be offer'd; Duty will teach her ſuch Artifices as will be ſufficient to break thro' all Difficulties and Dangers, that Fraud or Force can raiſe to obſtruct her in her Return.—How fare you, Friend? Your Colour changes, and you look not well.

Indeed I'm very ſick, and faint.

Alas, poor Man! lend me your Arm, and let me lead you to yonder Bank; there you may repoſe your ſelf a while: My Father, who lives at a Farm hard by, will ſoon be here, who will, I'm ſure, aſſiſt you with any thing, that his poor Houſe affords, or Power commands.

This Kindneſs to a Stranger, Heaven will reward.

Acts of Humanity reward themſelves.

I give you too much Trouble.

They ſhew themſelves unworthy of their Kind, who ſee⯑ing their Fellow-Creatures in Diſtreſs, take not a Pleaſure in relieving them. Are not All expos'd to Time and Chance? there's oft not the diſtance of an Hour betwixt the height of Happineſs and depth of Miſery.

SCENE III.

Here is my Father. A good Morning to you, Sir.—Your Bleſſing.

Heaven bleſs my Child.

Sir, here is an Object, that claims your Pity, and Aſ⯑ſiſtance. An honeſt Man diſtreſt; ſo ſick and weak he is, that it would be too much trouble to him now to repeat the Tale of his Misfortunes.

'Tis enough that you, my Silvia, think he needs my Pity, to command all that's in my Power. Come, Friend, ac⯑cept of this Lad to guide and aſſiſt you—I'll follow pre⯑ſently [30] —you ſhall find a hearty welcome, and all the Aſ⯑ſiſtance I, or my Family, can lend you.

With many Thanks I accept your Kindneſs.

SCENE IV.

Silvia, your Lover tarried late laſt Night—I have not ſeen you ſince till now. Nay, never bluſh, and turn a⯑way—he propoſed Marriage, did he not?

O Father, why did you ever ſuffer him to talk of Love, or me to hear him?

There is no Shame in virtuous Love. The moſt mo⯑deſt Virgin may hear, and may return it too, without a Bluſh.

Oh!

Why weeps my Child? What mean theſe Sighs, and all theſe Agonies of Grief, as if thy Heart would burſt?

O, I have cauſe to weep, deſpair, and die; for I have heard from the Man, who ſwore a thouſand times he lov'd me, the Man I lov'd, the Man you bid me love, ſuch vile Propoſals.—

O! I am all on Fire—ſay, Silvia, what did he pro⯑poſe?

What is not fit for you to hear, nor me to ſpeak.

Then the Villain has dared to attempt thy Innocence and Virtue?

Vain of his Wealth, and his ſuperior Birth, with bold, [...]centious Freedom he rail'd on Marriage; then talk'd to me of Love, Enjoyment, and eternal Truth; endeavouring, by im⯑poſing on my Simplicity, to render me vile as his own Ends. More he talk'd of Eſtates and Settlements, and I know not what; and more he would have talk'd; but I, with juſt Indigna⯑tion fired, flew from his hated Preſence.

I will revenge thee, thou excellent Maid; I will re⯑venge thee on him, my ſelf, and all that ever wrong'd thee.

Alas! Sir, I want no Revenge; or if I did, what could you do againſt a Man ſo powerful?—the Attempt would prove your Ruin.—Let me not ſee him—let him not inſult me with his Preſence—by that means to be ſecur'd from new Injuries, is all the Vengeance I deſire.

He never ſhall, unleſs he comes with deep Remorſe and humble Penitence to ask your Pardon, and make you Re⯑paration.

Let him not come at all. The Man, who takes Advan⯑tage from a Maid's mean Condition to attempt her Virtue, can never make her Reparation.

I fear you hate him then.

Why ſhould you fear it? You methinks ſhould wiſh it rather. 'Twas long before my Heart was taught to love him, and by the Pain his Cruelty gives me I fear 'twill be much longer e're it will learn to hate him.

I'll go and give Orders that Care be taken of the Stranger, and then I'll ſee this mighty Man, who, by a vile Abuſe of his Power, has dared to wrong me thus. Thou'ſt Reaſon indeed for thy Anger; but grieve not, my Silvia. I can and will defend thee.

SCENE V.

My Fatherbad me not to grieve—happy for me could I in that obey him. In all the height of his Paſſion he never commanded me to hate the injurious Author of my Woes. Indulgent Pa⯑rent! He knows that 'tis not in my Power, and wou'dn't impoſe on me a Task impoſſible. Anſwer his Kindneſs then with equal Fortitude, and bear, without Reproach, thoſe Ills thou canſt not cure. To aſſert the Dignity of injur'd Virtue, tho' in an humble State, be then my Care, and leave the reſt to Heaven.

SCENE VI.

Sir John lies beyond his uſual Hour—he likes his new Bed-fellow. O the Impudence of ſome People!— [34] Here, in his own Houſe—under my Noſe, as 'twere—to bring his Trollops. Nay, to oblige me to wait upon her too—warm the Bed for 'em!—What, make a Bawd of me?—O, I could fire the Houſe, to be made a Bawd of at theſe Years. The impudent Creature too—to lie with a Man the firſt time he ask'd her.—I wonder Sir John isn't aſham'd of himſelf!—to take up with ſuch a forward Drab—At firſt, I'm ſure, he did not find me ſo eaſy.—Well, I've been a Fool;—but, if it was to do again—

SCENE VII.

O Jonathan! Sir John is a barbarous Man to me; but you remember, I hope, before you know what paſſed, you bid me fear nothing, for you were ready to marry me at any time.

Ay, ay, very likely, Child. But did Sir John promiſe nothing, before you know what paſs'd, but what he has ſince perform'd?

Yes, he did, to be ſure.—He promis'd to love me always. But, what o'that? if he be a Gentleman, and above keeping his Word, I hope that it is no Shame for poor People to be honeſt?

The greateſt in the World, Child. Why, it would be down-right Impudence in us to pretend to be wiſer than our Betters. Beſides, you are mine o' courſe, and muſt not pretend to talk of Terms now.—I have an equal Right to my Maſter's caſt Cloaths and Miſtreſſes.—You are part of my Perquiſites.

O Jonathan, ſure you won't uſe me as my Maſter has done!

I can't tell; I'll uſe you as well as I can; perhaps you may have no reaſon to repent of the Exchange.

Becauſe I've been my Maſter's Fool, do you think I'll be yours?

Yes.

You're Impudent, and—

You like me the better for't.

Now I'm down-right angry with you.

SCENE VIII.

How fine I am? All over Lace, and Holland, and Silk, and Silver!—How pretty I look, too! Nay, I always thought my ſelf too good for a Taylor's Daughter. And ſince I find what my Favours are worth, I'll be cunning, and get as much for 'em as I can, that I may never work, nor be poor a⯑gain.

SCENE IX.

Don't you wonder at your own Beauty? Dreſs'd, or Undreſs'd, Night, or Day, you're always charming.

Let me alone: Why do you ſtare upon a Body ſo? I can't bear to ſee you, I am ſo aſham'd.

Kind Innocent, yet charming Creature, that has the Art to pleaſe beyond all her Sex, that I ever knew, yet ſeems to know nothing of it. Laſt Night—ye wanton Rogue—

Oh! you're a ſad Man.

Never were Tempers better ſuited. This Girl is as much a Libertine in the Affairs of Love, as my ſelf; only ſhe don't ſeem ſo well acquainted with her own Conſtitution, as to be able to give any Account of the Matter.—It's pure Nature in her; like ſome lucky Quacks, who, tho' they know nothing of the Theory, yet practiſe with ſurprizing Succeſs.

SCENE X.

Sir, your Honour's Tenant, Farmer Welford, is come to wait upon you.

Ha! I might well expect him, indeed—I am ſtrangely ſhock'd.—Yet I muſt ſee him.—Tell him, I am coming down.

SCENE XI.

My Dear, my Affairs force me to leave you for the preſent; in the mean time my Servants ſhall attend you—Your Servants they are now, and as ſuch command them.

But, will they obey me?

Ay, or you ſhall change them for ſuch as will.

Then I ſhall be a Miſtreſs indeed.

Thou art the Miſtreſs of my Life and Fortune; for a Moment, dear Creature, farewel.

Dear Sir, good by t'ye.

SCENE XII.

I'm now a Lady indeed. A fine Houſe, fine Cloaths, and Servants to command. And this Sir John is the fineſt, hand⯑ſomeſt Gentleman.—Not that I care for him, any more than I ſhould for any Body elſe, that would but make a Gentle⯑woman of me. But I muſt take care never to let him know that, for it is for my Intereſt that he ſhould love me. Beſides, now I am a Gentlewoman, I find, I ſhould like mightily to be admir'd by every body, and care for no body.

SCENE XIII.

Madam, Breakfaſt is ready for you.

Is it ſo, Mrs. Minks? but how do you know whether I am ready for that?

I ſuppoſe Sir John knows, Madam. He order'd me to get it ready as ſoon as I could.

Where is it? How did you know but that I would have had it here in my own Chamber?

Nay, if that be all, Madam, I can ſoon fetch it, for that matter.

Come back; where is the Wench going? You're mighty ready to obey without Orders, and to run without be⯑ing ſent.

SCENE XIV.

My Chamber!—and Minks!—How the aukward Trapes takes upon her already? Sir John acts like a Gentleman, truly.—To ſuffer me to be huff'd, and abus'd by this—I don't know what to call her bad enough. I'll not bear it, that's poz. I have let Farmer Welford know what a Life my Maſter leads.—That'll make pure Miſchief; for he loves the Daugh⯑ter [41] ſo well, that he dares not diſoblige the Father. Ay, there's a Girl, who, tho' but the Daughter of a poor Farmer, by her Prudence in keeping the Fellows at a Diſtance, has as many Ad⯑mirers as there are Gentlemen in the County. Upon that ſin⯑gle Point turns the Happineſs or Miſery of a Woman's Life. But how few of us have the Wit to find this out 'till it is too late!

SCENE XV.

Sir John, tho' from your late Behaviour I'm convinc'd that you look upon me as a Wretch, whom in the Wantonneſs of your Wealth and Power you may injure without Dan⯑ger, yet, I muſt tell you, that 'tis baſe to wrong a poor Man, [42] meerly becauſe he is ſo; and not always ſo ſafe as you may imagine.

I little expected ſuch an Accuſation from any Man, much leſs, Welford, from you; whatever other Faults I may have, Pride and Cruelty, I thank Heav'n, are Strangers to my Nature. If you are uneaſy that your Leaſe is unrenew'd, the Fault is in your ſelf, you might have had it done at any time, upon your applying to me.

It is not that which I complain of; tho' your refuſing it be the Ruining me and my whole Family, yet as it is a Matter of Courteſy, not Right, you are at your Liberty.—But that is not what I now come to ſpeak of.

My Love of Pleaſure has not ſo far waſted my E⯑ſtate, or debauched my Principles, as to tempt me to wrong any Man, much leſs the Poor. The leſs they have a Right to, the greater Neceſſity there is of preſerving them in the quiet Poſſeſ⯑ſion of that Right.

Are not our Children the beſt and deareſt Part of our Properties? Is there a Monarch in the Univerſe that does not eſteem an Heir to his Crown dearer than the Crown he wears? Nature is alike in all. The meaneſt Wretch, who daily labours for the Bread with which he feeds his poor Offspring, loves them as much as the greateſt King can his.

Sir John, I have a Daughter.

You have, a fair one.

True, ſhe is fair; but her Beauty is her leaſt Perfe⯑ction.

In the Bloom of Youth ſhe hath Wiſdom, Prudence, and Modeſty, beyond what I have obſerv'd in the moſt venera⯑ble Old Age.

And to crown all, an inflexible Virtue, that ſets her as much above Temptation from Flattery, Wealth, or Power, as they are beneath her true Value.

She is, indeed, the Phoenix of her Sex.

'Tis no Boaſting, but modeſt Truth in a Father to ſay ſhe is. Then where is your Judgment, or Gratitude? Have I not preferr'd you to many Gentlemen of ſuperior Merit and Fortune, in your Addreſſes to my Silvia?

I own the Obligation, and—but that I am re⯑ſolv'd never to marry.

Not marry, Sir! Why 'tis a Debt due to your An⯑ceſtors—you are the Medium 'twixt them and Poſterity, which in you muſt fail unleſs prevented by a prudent and timely Choice; and an ample Eſtate, obtain'd by their Induſtry, be poſſeſs'd by Strangers to their Blood.

As to my Anceſtors, they have had their time, as I now have mine; they liv'd to pleaſe themſelves, and ſo will I. As to Poſterity, I ſhall not trouble my ſelf about what I know nothing of, and which may or may not be, notwithſtand⯑ing all the Care we can take about it.

Since I find, what I hop'd had been only the Warmth of Youth, to be Principles with you, you are juſtly accounta⯑ble for their Conſequences.

Notwithſtanding your preſent Circumſtances, I look upon you as a Gentleman. In your Youth, as a Soldier of Fortune, you had Opportunities of knowing the World be⯑yond moſt Men; which, join'd to your good Senſe and juſt Obſervation, qualifies you to give Advice the beſt of any Man I know. And I appeal to your own Experience, whether Mar⯑riage be not a ſtate of Life, attended with innumerable Cares, Diſappointments, and Inquietudes?

'Tis true I have found it ſo; and you, by your living ſo many Years in my Houſe in your Youth, was frequently an Eye⯑witneſs [44] witneſs of this ſad Truth: And I farther confeſs that my ſe⯑cret Troubles (which were the greater for being ſo) far ex⯑ceeded all that ever were viſible; but thoſe are not eſſential to a married State, but might have been prevented by a more pru⯑dent Choice. But as it was, one darling Child, not only made them eaſy, but far o'er-paid them all. [Tho' Heaven knows that Child is now my greateſt Trouble.]

It is not the Lot of every Man to be Father to a Silvia. The ill Conveniences of Marriage are certain, the Ad⯑vantages precarious, therefore I determine to perſevere in my Freedom.

How falſely do you reaſon? Lewdneſs is a Gulph which ſwallows up the Lives and Fortunes of all who ven⯑ture into it. And ſuch will be your Fate, if you purſue the Courſe you are now ingag'd in.

I ſhall run the Hazard, ſpite of your wiſe Admo⯑nitions.

At your own Peril be it then. Have I ſuppreſs'd my juſt Reſentment thus long, to expoſtulate with thee for this? You would be thought a Man of Humanity and Honour—was not your late villanous Attempt upon my Daughter's Virtue a notorious Inſtance of both? Nay, Sir, you may ſtart, and frown, and bite your Lips, if you pleaſe,—I repeat it a⯑gain, your villanous Attempt.

Conſidering who I am, and what you are, ſup⯑poſing I had been to blame, 'twou'd have become you to have cloath'd your Complaints in ſofter Language.

No Words are ſtrong enough to expreſs your Baſe⯑neſs and my Wrongs.

Had the worſt you ſeem to apprehend been accom⯑pliſh'd—

Confound thy prophane Tongue for ſuch a Suppoſition.

Your Inſolence and Outrage would tire the Pati⯑ence of an Angel. Is not your Daughter virtuous and chaſt as ever?

The Excellency of her Virtue, whom you would have ruin'd, but aggravates thy Guilt.

The mighty Ruin you talk of was but to have de⯑voted my Life and Fortune to her Pleaſure, which ſure was ſufficient to have kept her from Contempt, and her Beauty would ſtill have been as much admir'd as ever.

After the Loſs of Virtue, Beauty and Fortune, like a fair and ſumptuous Monument erected upon a bad Man's Grave, ſerve only to perpetuate Infamy, and make it more extenſive.

What is it that you'd wiſh your Daughter?

I wiſh her Innocence, Peace, Fortune with Fame on Earth, and Everlaſting Happineſs hereafter; but you'd make them all impoſſible to her.

She may ſtill be happy.

And ſhall, in ſpite of thee. Fond Fool that I was! I thought to have made you the happy Inſtrument to have ad⯑vanced her to that Luſtre and Rank in Life her Merit claims; but you have render'd your ſelf unworthy of that Happineſs and Honour; and notwithſtanding all my Dotage on thee, you now force me to curſe the Parent that begot thee, the Womb that bore thee, and the Hour that gave thee to the Light; for thou haſt added to the Wrongs of Silvia, haſt pierc'd her Heart with new unthought of Sorrows—I have ſeen her flowing Tears, heard her ſad Sighs and ſoft Complaints for thy Ingra⯑titude, unworthy as thou art.

O Welford! Father! did ſhe weep and ſigh for me? O let me fly to throw me at her Feet! I cannot bear to [46] hear her Sorrows told. But oh! to ſee her—ſurely I ſhall die with Tenderneſs before her! I could not have thought I had been ſo happy, or ſo wretched.

Whither would you go?

Whither but to Silvia? to Silvia much wrong'd, but more belov'd; to the loving, mourning Silvia.

To what end?

To implore her Pardon, to expell her Griefs, to vow eternal Love, eternal Truth.

And if ſhe conſents to ratify thoſe Vows by marry⯑ing—Ha! he ſtarts; a crimſon Bluſh o'erſpreads his guilty Face. Wouldſt thou again abuſe my fond Credulity? I here renounce all Friendſhip with thee, and forbid all future Con⯑verſe with my Silvia. If by my Conſent you ever ſee her Face again, may Heaven renounce me; if to revenge her Wrongs and puniſh you, I ſpare my ſelf, may—

O ſtop thy Imprecations, thou raſh old Man; for know, I cannot, will not live without my Silvia's Sight. Un⯑ſay what thou haſt ſworn—I never will again abuſe my Truſt—never again will I repeat my Offence,

With me you've ſinn'd paſt all Forgiveneſs.

Tho' I ever lov'd thy charming Daughter, yet till this Hour I never knew how much. Make me not deſperate, for if you do, by all the Pains I feel, there's no Revenge ſo cruel, but I'll purſue, to make thy Miſery, if poſſible, to equal mine; eject thee from thy Farm; expoſe thee to Want, and Wretchedneſs, and—

Ha, ha, ha!

Fury and Madneſs! my Submiſſion rejected! my Pains inſulted! and my juſt Reſentment laugh'd at!

SCENE XVI.

Nay, for that matter, I've told your Father already, and he ſeem'd ſo little concern'd at it, that it put me out of all Patience. So thought I, perhaps he won't tell Mrs. Silvia, and, juſt as I thought, ſo it happen'd; ſo thought I, I'll e'en go and tell Mrs. Silvia my ſelf.

Oh!

Madam▪

Alas!

What did you ſay?

Did I ſay any thing?

I thought you did.

Not that I know of. Oh! how ſhall I conceal my Tor⯑tures from this buſy, prying Creature?

But Mrs. Silvia, don't you think this Sir John a hor⯑rible ſort of Man?

All appear ſuch to me, who fall from Virtue.

Virtue! Why he minds me no more than we do an old Sweetheart, when we have got a new one.

The tireſome Impertinent! When ſhall I have Freedom to complain?

And then he's ſo fond of her—Madam muſt have this, and Madam muſt have that, and Madam muſt have t'other; and this isn't good enough, and that isn't fine enough, [49] [...]nd t'other isn't rich enough for her. O it would make one [...]iſtracted to ſee it! The impudent Strumpet—I could tear [...]er Eyes out.

But our Jonathan, by the way, is as bad as his Maſter;—O there's a precious Couple of 'em!—but as I was ſaying, our Jonathan, who is Sir John's Cabinet-Counſellor, ſays my Ma⯑ſter loves no body from his Heart but you; and therefore the beſt of it is, her Reign is like to be but ſhort.

When Women do thoſe things, for which upon Re⯑flection they ought to hate themſelves, they can't expect that Men will love them long.

Why as you ſay, Mrs. Silvia, that Woman that a, a—(I don't very well underſtand her tho', but I ſuppoſe that means that Sir John ſhould love no body but her ſelf)

—But what were you ſaying, Mrs. Silvia?

That ſhe who parts with her Virtue, parts with the only Charm, that makes a Woman truly lovely; and ſhe may well expect, for ſhe deſerves, to be deſpis'd.

She ſpeaks plain enough now truly.

—Yes, as you ſay, one can't hate that impudent Creature too much.

If ſhe be ſuch, as you have deſcrib'd her, ſhe is miſera⯑ble, and, whatever ſhe may deſerve, as ſuch I ſincerely pity her.

Well, I'll ſtay no longer; ſhe's enough to put one out of Conceit with ones ſelf.

Mrs. Silvia, I hope you believe that what I have told you is nothing but the Truth.

Wou'd I cou'd not.

But I beg you to take no manner of Notice.

You may be aſſured I never will. May it ever remain unknown; if they are guilty, they may yet repent; which if they do, Heaven innocent and gracious will forgive; the e⯑qually guilty World, never will; if they are innocent, what Injury ſhall I do, what Guilt contract, by propagating Fal⯑ſhood?

Yes, yes, as you ſay—beſides I ſhould be turn'd out of Doors; and you know 'twould vex a body to loſe ones Place for ſuch a, a, a—but I've told you what ſhe is, and ſo Mrs. Silvia your Servant.—What a way ſhe has of talking? She gives one ſuch Rubs, and yet does not ſeem to know it neither. I don't like her; but if ſhe does but hold her Tongue I'm ſafe enough. I've made a pure deal of Miſchief, I don't doubt, for I'm ſure ſhe's nettled, for all her Gravity.

SCENE XVII.

She's gone, the buſy Impertinent is gone, whoſe pain⯑ful Preſence check'd my ſtruggling Griefs; and now my ſwoln Heart, and ready Eyes, may burſt with ſighing, and o'erflow with Tears! O Freeman, Freeman! I thought thy former Baſe⯑neſs, thy vile Attempt upon my injur'd Honour, had giv'n me all the Pains you could inflict, or I endure; but Jealouſy, that burning Cauſtick to a Mind wounded by Love and Injuries be⯑fore, to Torture adding Torture, Pain to Pain, gives Agonies never to be conceiv'd till they are felt.

SCENE I. SCENE A Grove.

Still ſighing!—Still in Tears!—In ſoft and gen⯑tle Murmurs ſtill complaining! Yet ſhe, innocent even in Thought of any Guilt, that might deſerve a Puniſhment ſo ſevere, accu⯑ſes not the Heavens, nor Me, nor Him, the cruel Author of her Woes. No Storm of Rage ruffles her lovely Face; no Thought of Vengeance ſwells her beating Breaſt; Virtue, Love, and Grief, ſo amply fill her Mind, there is no Room for any ru⯑der Gueſt. Never did Paſſion in a Female Breaſt run with ſo deep, ſo ſtrong, ſo ſmooth a Stream.

My Father here!

Weeping, my Silvia! Could'ſt thou think how deep thy Sorrows wound me, I know thou would'ſt endeavour to ſub⯑due them.

I did not know you was ſo nigh.—I had not elſe in⯑dulg'd this Burſt of Grief: It adds to my Unhappineſs, to afflict ſo tender, and ſo good a Father.

Thy more than Child-like Duty and Affection, thy yielding Sweetneſs, and determin'd Virtue, of which each Hour you give me freſh Examples, do ſo affect me, that I am torn 'twixt Joy and Wonder, Sorrow and Remorſe, when-e'er I look upon thee. I, I, wretched as I am, have contributed to all the Wrongs you ſuffer.

My deareſt Father, do not thus aggravate our common Grief; let not your Affection for me, cauſe you to wrong your ſelf. If you have permitted me to love, and I have been de⯑ceiv'd, were not you deceiv'd too?

Indeed I was; but all ſhall yet be well; ſhortly you ſhall be convinced, that he's ſo far unworthy of your Love, that gentle Peace and Joy ſhall fill your Breaſt, and he be ſcorn'd at firſt, and ſoon forgot.

Such are your Afflictions; and they, from their exceſ⯑ſive Greatneſs, ſhall, like ſome dreadful Viſion, find their End.

Good Man! He knows not that all has been diſcover'd to me already.

Shall I deceive the beſt of Fathers, and by Hypocriſy make that my Crime, which is but my Misfor⯑tune? No. Whatever Diſcovery you make of his Faults, for⯑give me, if I ſay, that I muſt love him ſtill. True, Virtue for⯑bids all Converſe with him, and I—obey; his Crimes I hate; his Fall from Virtue I lament; his Perſon, tho' I never ſee, nor wiſh to ſee again, 'tis ſtill certain I muſt ever, ever love.

SCENE II.

A good Day to you, Mr. Welford; I have brought with me all my Neighbours, as you requeſted; and hearing you were here, with your Daughter, I left them at your Houſe, and choſe with Goody Coſtive and Goody Gabble, to come to you, that we might have the Pleaſure of ſeeing Mrs. Silvia.

'Tis kindly done of you; there is my Daughter; I'll leave you with her, and go and bid your Friends welcome.—You may follow at your Leiſure.

SCENE III.

Do ſo, do ſo; I muſt have a little Talk with her. It is ſome Years ago ſince I ſaw her,—never ſince ſhe was Chriſtened, as I remember. It is a great way, and I (Heaven help me) grow old, I don't uſe to be ſo ſparing of my Viſits elſe.—Doſt not know me, pretty one?

I don't remember to have ſeen you before; but, as my Father's Friend, I am pleaſed to have the Opportunity to know you now.

Pretty Sweetneſs! thou'rt grown out of my Know⯑ledge too, to be ſure; but we have been better acquainted; I was thy Mother's Midwife.—Let me ſee—you will be Eighteen come the Time, and not married yet! Now out upon thy Father, for a naughty Man! it muſt have been his Fault, for you are ſo pretty, that you muſt have had Offers enow.

It is ſoon enough to know Care and Trouble.

Now out upon it! we have never had any good Times ſince People talk'd ſo.—Was not I young my ſelf? and don't I know that the moſt troubleſome and careful Part of a Woman's Life, is from the time that ſhe is fit for a Husband, till ſhe has got one? Our greateſt Care and Trouble is over then, for the Men, who ſeldom take any before, are bound to do it then.

Goody Buſy, you are always talking to People in praiſe of Marriage; now I ſuſpect you, being a Midwife, do it for your own Ends.—

Suppoſe I did, Goody Coſtive, where is the Harm of that? I am ſure, Times are ſo bad, that what with one thing, and what with another, an honeſt Woman, in my way of Buſineſs, can hardly get Bread; and I never expect to ſee it otherwiſe, while Matrimony is ſo much deſpiſed as it is; why, the Men are grown ſo horrible cunning, that few of them will marry at all; and the Women are grown ſo forward, that they won't ſtay till they are married.—But you are melancholy, Mrs. Silvia.

A little thoughtful; I hope you'll excuſe me.

Why truly, Neighbour Buſy, theſe muſt needs be great Hardſhips upon you; for no Marriages, no Lyings-Inn.

It is not that which I complain of; for, to ſay the Truth, I don't find but that ſingle People have as many Chil⯑dren as thoſe that are married; but then they are ſuch Infidels, as to let their Children dye without Chriſtening, and what ſigni⯑fies, to the Midwife, a Lying-in, without a Chriſtening?—I had once ſome Thoughts of going to London, but I am in⯑formed that it is worſe there than here; for there are, it ſeems, [57] a Number of Women who get their Livelihood by being naught with any Man that will pay them for it, and yet never have any Children at all.

I can't gueſs what my Father deſigns by ſending for theſe People.

Good lack-a-day! then they have no need of a Mid⯑wife, for certain.

No, no; the Surgeons do all their Buſineſs.

SCENE IV.

Jonathan! What comes he for?

Madam!

To me?

Yes, Madam; Sir John Freeman, by me, begs your Pe⯑ruſal of this Letter.

I am ſorry Sir John has given himſelf the Trouble, ſince I am under the Neceſſity of refuſing it.

My Maſter commanded me to tell you, that it concern'd the Happineſs of your Father.

Since ſuch is the Caſe, I'll this Inſtant to my Father, and acquaint him of this important Letter—wait you here my Return.

SCENE V.

Well, ſhe's an agreeable Lady, faith. I wonder what Sir John means, by employing me in this Affair? If his Deſign be honourable, he knows I can be of no manner of uſe to him, 'tis quite out of my way; and if he has any other Thoughts of her, he has leſs Senſe than I imagin'd he had—But who have we here! my old Acquaintance, and former Neighbour, Goody Buſy!

Bleſs me; Mr. Jonathan! is it you! why you are ſtrangely grown; almoſt out of my Knowledge. But I am glad to ſee thee, with all my Heart.

I beg your Pardon, but I muſt ſalute you.

'Tis what we are us'd to at Chriſtenings.—Pray let it go round.

With all my Heart.

A pretty civil young Man truly. I have known ſome ſqueamiſh ill-bred Fellows, refuſe to do their Duty by a Woman, becauſe ſhe was in Years.

But where haſt been all this while; and what Buſi⯑neſs doſt follow?

As you ſee, I ſerve a Gentleman.

Are you Married?

My Maſter is a ſingle Man, and won't keep any Body that is married in his Family.

Ay, Shame take theſe Gentlefolks; they would have every Body as bad as themſelves. That muſt be a ſad Houſe, that has never an honeſt Woman in it.

We live as they do in moſt Batchelors Families, very lovingly. While my Maſter is entertaining the Houſe-keeper in his Chamber, I am as civil to the Cook-maid in the Garret.

O ſad, O ſad! what pity it is that young Men ſhould ſpend their Time unfruitfully with naughty Women; when, were they honeſtly married, they might in a lawful way do much good in their Generation. If you have any Thoughts of Marriage, I have a Widow in my Eye, that would do very well for you. She has ſomething to bring you to, and is un⯑der Thirty I aſſure you. While her Husband was in Health, ſhe brought him a Child every Year; but I don't know how it fell out, he grew weary of her, and, as it is ſuppos'd, thought to have kill'd her with Kindneſs: but as it always happens in thoſe Caſes, he did his own Buſineſs inſtead of hers, he fell in⯑to a Conſumption—and dy'd about a Month ago.

No, Goody Buſy, that will never do for me; a wanton young Widow for a Wife, and a skittiſh Horſe for a long Journey, are two the moſt troubleſome things a Man can meet withal.

Perhaps you would rather have a Maid. Truly they are tickliſh things, and I don't much care to meddle or make with 'em. But I do know of a Farmer's Daughter, that will fit you to a Hair. Her Father is a ſufficient Man, and will ſtock a Farm for you. 'Tis true, indeed, ſhe has had one Child; for I am a Woman of Integrity, and would not deceive any Body in theſe matters for the World. They did not marry her ſoon enough. But ſhe'll make an excellent ſtirring Wife, I'll warrant her.

A Maid that has had a Child, is worſe than a Widow that's paſt it. I don't like any Body that you have propos'd half ſo well as yourſelf.

Now out upon you, for an idle Pack. Why thou naughty, wanton, young Knave, what wouldſt thou do with me? Heaven help me, I am old, and fit for nothing.

Let me ask you a few Queſtions, and you'll find you are fit for every thing.

Well, come on then.

SCENE VI.

Come Neighbours, our Friends at Farmer Welford's expect us.—There is ſomething of Conſequence to be done; he would'n't ſend for us for nothing.—A Wedding, I hope; old Folks drop off apace, but if the young Ones would Marry, and be induſtrious, the World might ſtill be increaſing.

SCENE VII.

I have obtained my Father's Leave to receive the Letter you have brought. Whether the Contents may require or de⯑ſerve an Anſwer, I ſhall take Time to conſider. I have no more to ſay.

SCENE VIII.

See, my Silvia, the Picture of a Mind ſtruggling be⯑tween a Senſe of Virtue, and the Love of Vice. Yet he entreats to ſee thee in ſuch Terms, as might move weak Minds to pity him.

If Pity be a Weakneſs, I am, ſure, the weakeſt of my Sex; but yet I fear to ſee him.

His baſe Attempt on thee, his avow'd Averſion to Marriage, and the Ruin of the Daughter of that honeſt Stranger whom we entertain'd, all ſhew the Juſtice of thy Fear.

That Men ſhould know Vice to be an Evil, by the Pain it gives, and yet cheriſh the Monſter that deſtroys their Peace!

I have ſworn never to expoſe thee to be again inſulted by that licentious Man. Yet I cannot but wiſh he had not render'd himſelf utterly unworthy of thee. But I have given him up. You ſhall have ample Satisfaction for all the Wrongs you have ſuffer'd.

If you can entertain a Thought of Vengeance, how are you chang'd, my Father!

Hereafter thou wilt know me better.

Whither have you ſent the Stranger and his Wife? whi⯑ther are you going with the People that you ſent for? O Sir, forgive my Fears. Urg'd by your Love for me, you ruſh on to certain Ruin.

Whatever becomes of me, you are the Care of Heaven.

I never knew him tranſported thus before. He's going to Sir John, and will certainly provoke him to his Undoing. Inſtruct me, Heaven, what I ſhall do to ſave him.

SCENE IX.

A Poem on a Dwarf! what ſtrange ſtuff is here! Hey ho!

SCENE X.

There he ſits, poring o'er a Book, which he no more minds, than he does me.—Sir, did you call?

Who's there; Betty? Come hither. Why you look very amiable to-day, Betty.

O Laud, Sir, you make me bluſh.

Betty, fill me ſome Wine. The large Glaſs, and fill it up.

Yes, Sir.

My Love to you, Betty.

Thank you, Sir.

Fill your ſelf, and pledge me.

He's coming about again, I ſee.—Your Health, Sir.—If he would but drink a few more Bumpers; for when he had drank moſt he always took moſt notice of me.

Leave me; and ſend the Lady that came home with me laſt Night.

What is it you would ſay!

Why, Sir, that, that,—I don't know where to find her.

Muſt I be plagu'd with your Impertinence too! go, ſend her to me, or leave the Houſe your ſelf.

O Fathers! I can't bear it! I would I could ſend the Devil to fetch you both.

SCENE XI.

SCENE XII.

Sir, I delivered your Letter to Mrs. Silvia.

'Tis well.

SCENE XIII.

You need give your ſelf no farther Trouble to look for the Lady. I'll go and find her my ſelf.

SCENE XIV.

How, Jonathan here! This Fool loves me however. I'll divert my ſelf, by teazing him.—So Sir.

So Madam.

Captain, methinks you look very ſcurvily after your laſt Defeat.

Now I think you look like a Dealer in Second-hand Goods, who having outſtood your Market, repents, and wou'd fain be turning the Penny at any rate.

Ha, ha, how vex'd he is! but it would fret any Man, who going with flying Colours to take Poſſeſſion of a Fort, ſhould find the Gates ſhut againſt him.

Now you want to be attack'd, only for an Excuſe to ſurrender. But you may keep your tottering Tenement 'till it tumbles about your Ears, for Jonathan.

Poor Fellow! I ſee he's horrible uneaſy. But what Woman can deny herſelf the Pleaſure of tyrannizing, when ſhe has it in her Power? To be ſure, Jonathan, you can never forget your laſt Diſappointment.

SCENE XV.

O the impudent, pert, conceited Puppy! to leave me before he has had me! why he's worſe than Sir John. I am like to have a fine time on't truly, between 'em both!

SCENE XVI.

Perhaps it mayn't be agreeable to the Lady, to be expos'd to gratify your Curioſity.

Sir, the Happineſs of our Lives depends on finding our Child. And, as we are inform'd, ſhe is here.

SCENE XVII.

My Father, Mother, and Ploughſhare here! What will become of me!

Stay, Child; whither are you going?

O dear, dear Sir;—

Ay, here ſhe is; and no doubt but all the reſt we have been told is as true.

Ah Lettice, Lettice, what have you been doing? You've ſpun a fine Thread truly. We ſhall have the whole Pariſh ring of you ſhortly.

O Child, you'll break my Heart.

Will ſhe? but I'll break her Neck firſt.

O dear Sir John, ſave me, ſave me, or I ſhall be torn to Pieces.

How fine the Slut is! and how familiar with the Juſtice!

Ay, ay, 'tis certainly ſo. Oh you impudent Carrion, I'll be the Death of you.

To find my Girl ruin'd, is worſe than never to have found her at all.

Friends, have Patience. What's paſt can't be re⯑call'd, but I'm ready to make you any Satisfaction that's in my Power.

Look ye, Sir, you have utterly ruin'd the Wench. The Blame and Shame muſt now fall all upon her own Head; where⯑as, had ſhe been married, you know 'twou'd have fall'n upon her Husband's.

But who do you think will have her now?

O dear! what muſt I do? My Father will break his Heart; my Mother will beat my Brains out; and that Monſter, Ned Ploughſhare, will make me the May-game of the whole Pariſh.

Don't call me Monſter: I'm none of your Husband: So keep your Tongue to your Self.

I won't; 'tis all along of you that this has happen'd. You always knew that I hated you, and yet you would have had me, whether I would or no.

Yes, Huſſy, he would have made an honeſt Woman of you; but you muſt be a Gentlewoman, muſt you?

Wife, I never approv'd of your forcing the Girl's In⯑clinations, and now you ſee what it's come to.

Friend, you ſeem an honeſt inoffenſive Man, which aggravates my Remorſe for having wrong'd you.

What good-natur'd Man, that was but a Spectator in this Scene, but muſt be mov'd? I thought, 'till now, the general Love of Women conſiſtent with Generoſity, Honour, and Humanity.—Falſe and deſtructive Principle! By this ſingle Act of mine, how many innocent Perſons have I injur'd? The Woman, too—the Eaſineſs with which ſhe gave up her Honour, makes her, tho' pitied, yet deſpis'd, even by me, the Author of her Ruin.

SCENE XVIII.

Ha! Silvia, ſaid you? Sure you miſtake!

No, Sir; ſhe's in the next Room, and deſires to ſee you.

Fly then, and conduct her in.—Good Peo⯑ple, an Affair of Conſequence obliges me to beg you would [69] leave me for the preſent. If you pleaſe to wait in the next Room, when that's diſpatch'd, I'll ſend for you again.

SCENE XIX.

She's here, whom moſt I wiſh to ſee; and yet, ſuch is the Power of Guilt, I dare not look upon her. Could I have thought her Sight wou'd ever give me Pain?—But, like a Wretch remov'd at once from impenetrable Darkneſs, in⯑to the mid-day Blaze, I ſicken at the cheerful Light, and fain would ſhun a Brightneſs, that glads all Eyes but mine.

O Sir! pardon and pity an unhappy Maid: Had Heaven requir'd me to have dy'd, to have ſhewn my Duty to the beſt of Parents, the Pain had been far leſs; but filial Piety commands me to live, and interpoſe between your Power, and the Weak⯑neſs of my good, but incens'd Father.

SCENE XX.

O Silvia! Never, 'till now, had I Cauſe to bluſh for any Act of thine.—Riſe, nor offer that Incenſe to an Idol, which Heaven alone is worthy of, and which, were he not loſt to Shame, as well as Honour, he muſt bluſh to receive.

Condemn me not: Can any Submiſſion be too low to ſave from Ruin ſuch a Parent? Still let me kneel.

Heaven, and all that's juſt on Earth, forbid it.

Confounded and amaz'd, I had not Power to raiſe her from the Earth.—O Silvia!—Welford!—cou'd [70] you ſee my Heart! how deep my Contrition! how ſincere my Sorrow! you would no longer fear,

nor you be angry,

Vice, in all its genuine Deformities, I've juſt beheld. Virtue, in all its Charms, I ſee in you—Receive a returning Prodigal to your Arms; forgive, and make me happy.—Let the Prieſt, by honourable, holy Mar⯑riage, give me a juſt Poſſeſſion of thy Charms, and join me to Virtue, and to thee, for ever.

I came to beg your Favour for my Father, not a Hus⯑band for my ſelf. You once thought me mean enough to bar⯑ter my Innocence and Virtue, for your Wealth; ſhould I now conſent to marry you, might it not be juſtly ſuſpected that my former Reſentment was not from the Love of Virtue, and Con⯑tempt of Riches, but Artifice, to make the better Terms? Vir⯑tue is Heaven's beſt Gift: Nor have they more than the Ap⯑pearance of it, who ſubmit to the leaſt Imputation on their Fame, for Wealth, or Power, or Love, more tempting to a generous Mind. Think it not Pride in me, to refuſe an Obligation to the Man who would have robb'd me, of all that diſtinguiſh'd me from the vileſt of my Sex.

To have my Love and Admiration increas'd, by what gives me Deſpair, is a Puniſhment (tho' juſt) that's in⯑ſupportable.

I pardon, pity, and I love thee—

O charming Sounds!—So Heaven cheers a de⯑ſpairing Sinner, with the ſweet Voice of Mercy.

But Heaven, when it pardons, appears above Reward, by conferring Obligations. That is not in my Power.—To refuſe them is, and in that I am determined.—Farewel, for ever.—'Tis hard—but Virtue, Prudence, and my Fame require it. Therefore, farewel for ever.—If your Return to Virtue be ſincere, you have a Miſtreſs who will ne'er forſake you; but, ever blooming, crown your Days and Nights with Joy,—when I am Duſt.

O Welford, Welford! muſt I loſe her? You lov'd me once. Is there no Remains of Pity left? Can you behold me ſinking, and yet refuſe a friendly Hand to ſave me?

Heaven forbids me not to pity, love, and in the Anguiſh of my Soul, weep o'er thee, my now dearer than ever, tho' too unhappy Son.

Did not you call me Son? O that I were! To be your Son, is all the Happineſs my Soul aſpires to.

Too ſoon you'll find that Name includes the worſt of Miſeries, certain Deſpair.—But, to the Buſineſs of my coming.

SCENE XXI.

Goody Buſy, and the reſt of my Friends who came with me, pray, walk in. Now let all here attend and witneſs to the Truths I am about to utter; and you, unhappy Youth, prepare to bear the moſt ſurprizing Change of Fortune, like a Man.—You are not whom you ſeem, and whom you think your ſelf, Sir John Freeman, Baronet, and rightful Poſſeſſor of a fair Eſtate, but an innocent Impoſtor, and Uſurper of ano⯑ther's Right, and my unhappy Son indeed.

What can my Father mean!

This is the ſtrangeſt Story that ever I heard of.

Welford, to invent a Tale ſo vile, and ſo abſurd, to make me deſpair of Silvia, as being her Brother, is unwor⯑thy of your good Senſe and former Probity.

I will not thank you for your Aſſent to the Truth of what I affirm. This excellent Lady is not my Daughter, but the much wrong'd Angelica Freeman, the ſole ſurviving Child of the late Sir John Freeman, and Heireſs to his large Eſtate.—I read Wonder and Surprize in every Face.—You look for Proofs.—Goody Buſy, you ſerv'd Sir John Freeman's Lady, and my Wife, as Midwife.

That I did to be ſure.

How many Children had each?

Two, a Son and a Daughter, I ſhall never forget it: they Lay-in both times together, and your Wife nurs'd both Sir John's Children.

All this is true; but was there any thing remarkable upon the Body of Sir John's Son when born?

No, but yours was mark'd under the left Breaſt with a bunch of Grapes, the Fruit, Leaves and Stalks all in their proper Shape and Colour, as if they had been growing on the Vine.

Here is the indelible Mark, viſible and fair, as when the Seal of Heaven impreſt it firſt, to diſtinguiſh the Impoſtor from the rightful Heir.

Too well I know it.

If this Gentleman be your Son, how could his Birth have been conceal'd ſo long?

That—with my own Shame, I am now to diſcover.—My Wife, while unmarry'd, attended on the Mother of this Lady, then a Virgin, and ſo far was ſhe honour'd with her Confidence, that ſhe liv'd with her rather as a Siſter or Com⯑panion than a Servant; after her Marriage to Sir John, and my Wife's to me, the Honour of their Friendſhip was continu'd; for I was happy in Sir John's, as my Wife was in his Lady's.—That we had the ſame number of Children, and of the ſame Age and Sex, and that my Wife was entruſted with the Care of theirs, you have heard already.—Soon after the Birth of this Lady, a War breaking out, Sir John, who had an honou⯑rable Poſt in the Army, went for Flanders: I attended him thither, and (as I had formerly done) ſerv'd under him as a Vo⯑luntier.—In this our Abſence, a Fever made dreadful Ravage in this part of the Country.—Of it dy'd Sir John's Lady, and quickly after his Son, (who was then at my Houſe) and my Daughter.—My Wife taking the Advantage of the Lady's Death, and our Abſence, reported, that the Son who dy'd was ours; and the ſurviving one (truly ours) was Sir John's.—Our Daughter who dy'd was bury'd as his; and his, this Lady, was reputed and educated as our own—The Fraud was never ſo much as ſuſpected by Sir John, nor any other Perſon, my ſelf excepted—I indeed, by Obſerva⯑tions, which none elſe had opportunity to make, ſoon found it out, and charg'd my Wife with it; ſhe confeſs'd it, and to my Shame prevail'd upon me to conceal what I could never approve.—She dy'd before Sir John, and never liv'd to ſee her Son poſſeſs'd of the Honour and Wealth, which ſhe by ſuch wicked Means had endeavour'd to procure for him.—Thro' Heav'n's Mercy I hope ſhe reſts in Peace. But what have been my Tortures e'er ſince I conſented to conceal the [73] guilty Secret!—Stung hourly with Remorſe, I attempted to do her Juſtice and conceal my Shame, by effecting a Marriage between her and my Son; but Heaven, that refus'd the imper⯑fect Satisfaction, and condemn'd the Fraud, has, you ſee, made vain the fond Attempt, nor would ſuffer her to receive that as another's Gift, which is her own proper Right.

And long may ſhe enjoy it.—I have not ſo ill profited by her bright Example, as to repine at a Change of Fortune, ſo juſt, and ſo much to the Advantage of this won⯑drous Pattern of all that's excellent in Womankind.

Your Juſtice, and the Moderation of your Son, affects me more than theſe unthought of, undeſired Riches: can I ever forget your more than paternal Kindneſs and Affection?

Spare me the Confuſion, that your Goodneſs gives me; look not ſo tenderly, nor ſpeak ſo kindly, but treat me as your Injuries and my Crimes deſerve.

The Crime was another's.—Your former Tenderneſs and preſent Juſtice, tho' to the Diſadvantage of your Son, is all your own.—If you forſake me now, I am indeed an Or⯑phan—Riches have Snares, and Youth without a Guide is expos'd to many Dangers—Be ſtill my Father.

Thy own worthy Father, were he living, could never love thee more.—But to be thy Father is impoſſible.

This is your Son.—Let me be his, and you are ſtill my Father.

Do I indeed behold her heavenly Face, all clad in Smiles, and kindly bent on me? Do I indeed hear her har⯑monious Voice pronounce me happy?—Or does my flatt'ring Fancy, to ſooth Deſpair, form Images that have no real Ex⯑iſtence?

Bleſs her, bleſs her, Heaven! and as you have made her the beſt, make her the happieſt of her Sex.—Never did I taſt Joys ſincere till now.

This ſurprizing Diſcovery unmade,—had I conſented to have been yours,—the Diſintereſtedneſs of my Love and Virtue could never have been known.—Heaven has made our Duty and our Intereſt one. I may now without Reproach give my Hand, where before I had given my Heart.

What, in Tears, Betty!

What have I loſt for want of reflecting ſooner? I'd rather have that Lady's Virtue, than her Beauty and Eſtate.

Poor Girl!—Why this is to have it.—I remember on a certain Occaſion I made you a Promiſe of Marriage, if you think it worth claiming, give me your Hand.

There it is; if you can forget what's paſt, you ſhall have no Reaſon to complain of my Conduct for the future.

Ay, this is as it ſhould be—I could even cry for Joy, to ſee that there is ſo much honeſt Love left in the World.

Reclaim'd by your Virtue, and reſtored to Fortune by your Generoſity, I hope you'll take it as a Proof of my Sincerity, that I confeſs my ſelf concern'd for the Diſtreſs brought upon an honeſt Man and his Family by my Folly.

Your Concern is juſt and generous, like the Man I hope ever to find you—but have I given my ſelf to you, and not my Fortune? All is yours; diſpoſe of it as you pleaſe.

Jonathan, ſend Lettice and her Friends hither.—O Madam, the longeſt Life wou'd be too ſhort to pay my Ob⯑ligation.

SCENE XXII.

Unhappy Girl, I wiſh it was in my Power to make you ample Satisfaction for the Injury I've done you; but ſince that is impoſſible, I will ſettle ſomething on your Father, in Truſt for you, that, managed with Prudence, may ſecure you from the Fears of Poverty, the Rock on which you ſplit before.—You, Sir, I hope will continue with us.—The Farm lately Tenanted by my Father, with your Conſent, Madam, I beſtow on this honeſt Man, for the Purpoſes before-mentioned.

And may it anſwer your Intentions, which if it does, we may hereafter give 'em farther Proofs of our regard for their Welfare.

Heaven bleſs you both.

Lettice, as I ſhall never ſee you more, take this Ad⯑vice with you.—Keep this Lady's Example in view, and you may yet excell in Virtue many of your Sex, who having ne⯑ver err'd in the manner you have done, look on your Fault as unpardonable.—Nor ſhall you, Betty, or Jonathan, be forgot.

Sir, if you approve of it, Betty and I have reſolved to take one another for better for worſe.

That I do approve it, you ſhall find by the hand⯑ſome Proviſion I'll make for you.

Son, not foreſeeing this happy Event, I ſent for the Tenants to attend, that upon making the Diſcovery they might be ready to pay their Duties to this Lady, upon her taking Poſ⯑ſeſſion of her Eſtate.

Madam, what think you of inviting 'em in, to par⯑take of the general Joy?

By all means.