ACT I.

FATHER! Sir! Do pray come out—I fear he'll do ſome miſchief there.

Ah, ha! upon my word very well, very pretty indeed.

Pretty! ſay elegant, my dear papa—Show me ſuch another orcheſtra for a private concert—You have ſeen Drury-Lane, at an Oratorio.

Not I child.

If you had, you muſt indiſputably, nay, certainly would own that I have fitted out my little room, in a far ſuperior ſtile—A ſtranger would imagine, nothing would produce ſuch an effect, but the taſte of a Cornely.

Ah! like enough child, like enough.

Ah! like enough child, like enough.

Ah! my dear papa, what inexpreſſible delight would it give me, if you had but a little taſte for muſic.

Why I have Cecilia—I have a very great taſte for muſic.

Indeed!

Yes, I have, for I ſtopp'd upwards of two mi⯑nutes the other day, in Lincolns-Inn-fields, liſtening to the man playing on the little ſticks.

Oh! Orpheus defend me.

I like a good ſong, or a good tune upon the fid⯑dle—But at your confounded concerts, as you call them, they ſet up ſuch a roaring, ſcraping and piping, that confound me if I can hear one for the noiſe of the other.

Ha! ha! but my dear papa—If I could prevail upon you to ſtay at home only this evening.

I can't child, its Club Night.

You'll be inſpired with ſuch a Guſto.

A good ſong and a bottle that's my Guſto. I am an Engliſhman, Cecilia. I like an Engliſh ſong, and I'd rather hear the ſimple nervous ſtrains of an honeſt Tar, in praiſe of a Rodney, a Hood, or a Howe, than all the ſquallini concerts in Italy. O! girl if you was but to hear a ſong at our Club.

Over a bottle.

Ay girl, over a bottle.

They ſing ſo charming, loud and ſtrong.

Well, but I want to ſpeak to you, upon a more ſerious ſubject—I am informed, you have an acquaint⯑ance with Mr. Bouquet, a Hop Merchant.

Hop Merchant Sir! there's not a finer gentleman about Town than Mr. Bouquet.

Like enough, I never ſaw him, but my old friend Vinegar the Wine Merchant, tells me, there is not a greater coxcomb about town, than this Mr. Bou⯑quet. His father was a Frenchman I'm told, he's a fop by inheritance.

I wiſh Mr. Vinegar would mind his own affairs.

So he does, ſo he does child—He has aquired a noble fortune by the importation of Port and Madeira.

Making Port and Madeira, you mean ſir, he's an officious, impertinent, buſy, meddling, old miſchief-maker.

He's my friend, child.

Sir, your child's enemy can never be your friend —Mr. Vinegar, talk of Mr. Bouquet—Mr. Vinegar is a mechanic, but Mr. Bouquet, is a gentleman and ſcorns to do any thing.

Time enough for him to commence gentleman, when he has gathered the plum from the tree of induſtry —'Tis then a man enjoys the fruits of his labour.

Yes ſir, and by the time this plum is ripe, he with⯑out a tooth, will be obliged to mumble like old Vinegar.

She loves him, I ſee that

Harkee Child, take my word for it, Bouquet will never be worth the kernel of a damaſon. I am told it is nothing with him but Ranelaughs, Pantheons and Operas.

Well, I like him the better.

To day, I am told, away rattling in his vis-a-vis, like a Venetion Ambaſſador.—Tomorrow, perch'd up in a high Phaeton, peeping into the people's garret windows—Now in his powdered gown, like a French Barber; and then you ſee him ſliding down the Mall, in a pye bald coat—Buckles from the ſhew-glaſs, in Ex⯑eter-change, and the face of a waiting maid, under the hat of a Ruſſian trooper.

Believe me, ſir, Mr. Vinegar's outre deſcription is a moſt monſtrous Caricatura. He judges of a gentle⯑man, with his narrow ruffles, and twelve gray hairs tied up in a baſſa bag.

You love this Bouquet then.

I do ſir, I frankly own it.

Well Child, I like your candour. You ſhall go with me into the country child, and I warrant there the beautiful revolutions of the ſeaſons, will craſe him from your heart.

Ah! dear papa, never, never.

Cecilia I tell you this, I love you as a parent ought, and therefore I never will approve of Mr. Bou⯑quet's addreſſes, till he forſakes faſhion and foppery, and returns to his hop-yards in kent, and his counting houſe in St Mary Aix.

Indeed papa, you are extremely cruel to me, my ſoul is never poſſeſſed of the lov'd idea of my ſweet Bou⯑quet, that you don't ſour my temper with old Vinegar; and when I ſondly imagine every obſtacle to my hap⯑pineſs removed, you throw a hop packet in my way, and cut off my darling hope, with an odious ſimmery aix.

You know child, I mean it all for—

Oh ſir, you'll repent your unkindneſs to your poor Cecilia—Now for a ſeraphic ſtrain, to ſoften, then leave him to felt at leiſure.

Poor Cecilia, yes ſhe loves the Hop Merchant —'Twill break her heart if ſhe don't get him—Poor child. Pſhaw? what an old fool I am—I'll ſee this Bouquet—Perhaps he is not ſo bad as my friend Vinegar repreſents him—I'll ſend for him and if—well, I'll ſay no more till I ſee him—no, no, my child muſt not die of a broken heart neither—I'll ſend for him—Who's there—Oh Dolce get me, hold.

Its here

Ay, ay, Mr. Bouquet Hop merchant, this I think fetches him—if Cecilia's love is returned—Dolce, call John hither.

My Lady has ſent him out, ſir.

Ay he's running over the town hunting the [7]fiddles—well—oh apropos—Dolce, is not the young man below that brought me the letter juſt now?

Yes ſir.

He'll do—ſend him up.

This young man is ſtrongly recommended to me, by my old friend Docter Numſcull the rector. He ſays he has a moſt ſurpriſing genius for oratory and elo⯑quence, and all that—Oh here he comes.

Now ſhall I be ſtunn'd with a redundant flow of words, your ſervant ſir.

Up

I think ſir your name is Mum.

Mum.

You brought me a letter from Docter Numſcull of Somnus Hall.

Yes.

He writes me word, that you are a great ora⯑tor, and very able diſputant.

Ay.

And that your deſign in coming to London, is to deliver Lectures upon Elocution.

Yes.

Have you fixed upon a place yet for your pur⯑poſe.

No.

Well we muſt look out for ſome convenient large room for you.

Ay,

Are you married.

No.

You deſign it.

Yes.

You can't fail of ſucceſs amongſt the Ladies.

No.

Your eloquence muſt have a powerful effect with them.

Ay.

You have the art of perſuaſion.

Yes.

Docter Numſcull reports you a clever Auctio⯑neer.

Yes.

But I begin to have ſome doubts of your lo⯑quacity.

Oh, ho!

Oh, ho! two ſyllables at once—I find you are a great orator.

Ay.

But your talents ſeem better adapted to the Parliament houſe than the roſtrum—Should you like it.

Yes.

Have you much money.

No.

Then if you were in Parliament, you'd ſoon, be a conſcience out of pocket.

Aye.

You'd not give your ayes for nothing.

No.

Will you carry a letter for me.

Aye.

Here, its for Mr. Bouquet, Hop merchant, Buffolk ſtreet.

Aye.

Come back here directly, and we'll think of your oratorial ſcheme.

Oh ho!

You are the devil of an orator ſure enough, his words are ſo precious, he keeps them all for the Rorum —Now for Cecilia—If this Bouquet is at all an eligible match, why in the name of goodneſs ſhe ſhall have him, I were a malicious old aſs, to debar my child from plea⯑ſure, I can no longer enjoy myſelf, I have had my day —though gad! when kiſſes were dividing, I did not come in for the ſmalleſt ſhare—Ah! the little rogues— But I have done with them all.

Idle, I think this will do.

If it could laſt, this is a glorious life of ours.

I bid fair for it, as I have for ever baniſhed play from my faſhionable amuſements—blotted it out of my catalogue.

Right, ſir, we are able to ſpend our money our⯑ſelves.

Lilly, order my vis-a-vis.

Order our vis-a-vis! I don't like a vis-a-vis—I can't loll in it, I like to loll.

Idle, don't tell any body—keep it ſtrictly from the people of the houſe, that I was a Hop-merchant, and you my clerk.

Tell—tis too much trouble.

Idle! Charming chemiſtry this of mine! What an aethereal ſpirit, to tranſmute earth to gold!

And gold to pleaſure.

I have reſerved a few Kentiſh acres though to ſweeten matrimony.

Yes, but this diſpoſing of one's property, is curſed troubleſome—I wiſh you had done with it at once

I have ſins enough in my liſt, not to add that of deceiving ſo amiable a girl as Cecilia.

Why, ſhe would have you, without a guinea.

And for that reaſon, I wiſh I was worth a mil⯑lion—I wiſh I could prevail on her to clope.

That eloping is ſo curſed troubleſome—Elope! Why don't you ſtep up to old Cranky, the father, and aſk his conſent?

Becauſe I am certain of a refuſal—Some imper⯑tinent blockhead has been buſy enough to tell him, what an elegant young fellow I am.

How the devil can people give themſelves ſo much trouble!

Yes! The father, it ſeems, though he never ſaw me, thinks it a high miſdemeanor, that I ſhould quit the city, and prefer life to exiſtence, without conſidering that I am at this time a combination of taſte and ſplendour.

You look well enough; I ſhould like to dreſs myſelf, but it's ſuch a damn'd deal of trouble.

I flatter myſelf I am no bad match; but if ſhe burns at priming, never more will I take aim by dreſs; never again cock my hat a-la-fuiſſe. I'll certainly diſ⯑charge my frizeur in a cloud of mariſchal, pair my nails, break my looking-glaſs, ſell off my vis-a-vis, and return to St. Mary Alxein a Hackney Couch.

I would not take ſo much trouble for the fineſt woman in the world.

I fancy, Idle, the demolition of the glaſs would be the laſt operation; for, abſolutely, 'tis a moſt ſignifi⯑cant interpreter of the glances of the face.

Oh!

Mr. Bouquet, Hop-merchant, in Suffolk-ſtreet —A Bouquet has had my apartments theſe three weeks; but this letter can't be for him.

No, No!

No. He follows no buſincſs—he's a man of for⯑tune and faſhion.

Oh!

He's this inſtant gone out in his vis-a-vis—Hop⯑merchant! —As ſure as can be—Oh! I have it—ha! ha! ha! Hop-merchant—this letter muſt be for my neigh⯑bour Bowkitt the dancing-maſter.

Oh, oh!

Hop-merchant—let's ſee—Bou—ay, that's one way of ſpelling Bow—and Q-U-E-T inſtead of K-I-T-T, kitt; and becauſe he's a dancing-maſter, they ſtile him Hop-merchant—Very comical, faith! ha! ha! ha! he lives at yonder door my lad, ha! ha!

Ha! ha!

No matter, ſay I am gone in the chariot, to give a leſſon to the Counteſs of Cotillion—toll loll de roll.

For me, ha! ha! (capers, and opens it) "Sir, in conſequence of my daughter's partiality to your merit, I can no longer oppoſe Cecilia's inclination, that I ſhould give her hand to you in the Temple of Hymen; for which purpoſe the bearer will conduct you to the houſe of your obedient ſervant, Thillegrew Cranky." So here's a new ſcholar, ha! ha!

Oh, ho!

And I am ſingled out for the honour of danc⯑ing with her, in the Temple of Hymen—The Temple of Hymen is ſome new Ball Room, I ſuppoſe, for I never heard of it before!

B-O-U-Q-U-E-T. Ay it muſt be a perſon of faſhion, by not knowing how to ſpell my name—Hop-merchant! They have heard of my keeping the little dancing-ſchool at Clerkenwell; that's unfortunate—You lead the way.

Yes.

We'll promenade as far as the Mews-gate; then hey for a Coach—Caſt off.

Hey.

Foot it, toll loll de roll.

Oh ho! toll loll de roll.

John, is the young man returned?

No, ſir!

I am quite impatient to ſee Cecilia's taſte.

A gentleman, who calls himſelf Bowkitt.

This is he—Bouquet, you blockhead. Show him up—Bowkitt—An Engliſhman is ſo naturally An⯑tigallican, that he cannot pronounce a word that ſounds that way—Oh, here is my daughter's fancy! Your ſer⯑vant, ſir.

Sir, I have the ſuperlative felicity to declare, with moſt profound reſpect, that I have the honour to profeſs myſelf, your moſt obedient, much devoted, humble ſervant.

How he throws his legs about!

I preſume, ſir, you partly gueſs at the buſineſs on which I deſired this favour.

Yes, ſir, I underſtand you deſign to give a Ball!

A Ball!

Yes, ſir, in the Temple of Hymen.

O yes, yes, ſir! my daughter wiſhes to offer you her hand there.

She does me a great deal of honour. The Temple of Hymen, of a new room is—

New! I think it is a pretty old room, ſir.

Hem! Very odd, I never heard of it before. I mean, ſir, it is ſo ſpacious.

Why, I believe the Temple of Hymen is the largeſt room in the world—for ſcarce a night paſſes that ſome millions of couples are not leudown in it.

A damn'd lying old fellow, this.

Yes, ſir, the Temple of Hymen is much frequented by per⯑ſons of faſhion.

Yes, ſir, and perſons of faſhion have lately adopted a mode of ſetting to croſs partners; but I'll ven⯑ture to ſay my Cecilia is, unfaſhionably, virtuous now, and I hope will ever remain ſo—though, ſir, I find you are decreed her partner in this long dance.

Long dance—He's damn'd vulgar.

As it's a dance that laſts you know.

I do, ſir, I am compleat maſter of all the dances now uſed in the politeſt aſſemblies of Great Bri⯑tain, from the Scots reel to the Minuet de la cour.

Yes, ſir. But as I am about to reſign my child to your care, you'll not be offended if I frankly tell you, you had much better have ſtuck to your Hops, than meddle with reels and de la cours.

Oh, ſir, thanks to taſte and practice, I have done with hops long ago.

More ſhame for you, ſir. I aſſure you, attention to buſineſs, ſhould be the ſtrongeſt recommendation to my favour.

Sir, I challenge any gentleman of the pump in London, to pay a cloſer attention to buſineſs than I; for beſides my private viſits to particular ladies in town, I have no leſs than eight boarding ſchools—Firſt, hey for Hackney—Chaſee, for Hammerſmith—Slide down for Chelſea—Croſs over to Batterſea—Figure into Stock⯑well —Promenade to Newington—Borce to London Bridge—Caſt down to Bow—So ſir, you ſee I have pretty general intercouſe with the ladies.

You are a great favourite, indeed!

Oh! ſir, ha! ha!

But, ſir, a word, if you are done with your qua⯑vers and capers—If it is your paſſion—I ſay, ſir, if you are ſo frolick ſome to dance after all the boarding-ſchools about town, my daughter can expect but little of your company.

Sir, I'll be with her three times a week.

He'll make a deviliſh faſhionable huſband.

One hour each viſit, no more time can I ſpare, ſir. No, no, muſt not neglect the boarding-ſchools—The ſweet little angels.

But, ſir, if you are connected with my family, I preſume you'll have no more to do with the little an⯑gels.

Why, ſir, I could not live without 'em.

Here's a ſellow going to marry my daughter, and tells me to my face, he can't do without three or four dozen of little angels

—and are you really of ſo amorous a conſtitution?

I amorous! Oh fie, ſir, I mean all in the way of buſineſs.

Oh then, I fancy my daughter will ſind em⯑ployment for a cleverer fellow than ever ſtood upon your legs. But ſeriouſly, ſir, have you entirely given up the Hop buſineſs.

Damn the Hop buſineſs, begging your pardon, ſir, but I had rather not have it mentioned—it was a vile drudgery, exceeding low—no, no, Sir, the boarding⯑ſchools for me.

And another ſon-in-law for me.

I wiſh you good ſucceſs—Good morning to you.

You'll ſend the young lady, ſir.

Indeed I will not—you won't do for my family.

Sir, I am extremely ſorry.

Don't let me be ſo raſh, though—Sir, one word. Are all your dealings with the Brewers at an end?

The Brewers, Sir!

Zounds! ſir, in one word, have you any pro⯑perty left?

Property, ſir!

Yes, property, ſir—After all your reels and courants, could you ſcrape up a little capital, to begin the world again with?

Here, ſir, is the little capital that I began the world with, and I'll ſcrape it up for you, with all my art and ſkill.

He's mad.

But my dear ſir, why all this paſſion! I never had, nor can imagine that money is ſo neceſſary to our agreement, at leaſt on my ſide—Do you find money, and I'll find ſteps.

Step out of my houſe this minute.

Sir, this is very ſtrange behaviour.

Hop off, Mr Hop Factor.

What's the matter?

Why zounds, girl! the fellow is not worth a ſnilling.

What fellow!

But if you will have him, you muſt—You'll repent it, that's all—You'll find yourſelf neglected by him.

I ſhall not neglect the lady, ſir.

Did not you tell me, you could not be with her but three hours in the week.

I did ſo, ſir.

There, there—but if you will have him, you muſt—three hours in a week with you only—And he's as amorous as the Great Mogul.

N [...] I ſir, [...]ot I, I am not amorous.

Oh! did not you tell me, you could not live without chaſing after the boarding-ſchool angels.

Sir, you may be as angry as you pleaſe, but I tell you again, I cannot neglect the boarding-ſchools.

There, there—but if you will have him, you muſt. Oh child, child! he's a beggar.

Sir, I ſcorn your imputation—A beggar!

Did not you ſay you had loſt all dealings with the Brewers?

Sir, I know nothing about the Brewers.

There, there, but if you will have him you muſt, he's not worth a guinea, has not as much Hops as would produce a pennyworth of twopenny; he's poor, and to do him juſtice in my eyes, I never ſaw an uglier fellow—But as he's your choice.

My choice, ſir—Who is the gentleman?

Who ſhould he be, but your darling Bouquet, the Hop merchant of St Mary Axe?

Not he, indeed!

Who the devil is he then?

Bowkitt, the Dancing Maſter of Suffolk-ſtreet.

A Dancing Maſter!

At your ſervice.

And what brought you here?

Pray, ſir, is this your hand?

You ſent for me, ſir.

I ſend for a Dancing Maſter! ſhew me.

I, ha! ha! I have it, ha! ha! ha!

What's all this?

My dear, it proceeds from a confounded blun⯑der of Orator Mum's. Ha! ha! ha! Inſtead of deliver⯑ing my letter to your lover Bouquet, he goes and gives it to—What's your name, my lad?

Lad!

Bowkitt, ſir.

Give it to Bowkitt the Dancing Maſter, ha! ha! ha! but you will excuſe what is paſt, my lad—You ſee what has occaſioned it.

I knew there muſt be ſome miſtake—But now, ſir, I hope you will rectiſy it, by ſending for Mr. Bou⯑quet. In the mean time I can only teſtify my concern at having been the innocent cauſe of any embarraſſment to this gentleman.

Oh never mind it, Madam. I ſhall be happy to dance at your wedding.

ACT II.

I Know he is at home.

He is not at home, indeed ſir.

I am ſure he is, though.

Why, upon my word ſir, he is not.

You lie, you lie, ſirrah, he is above. Cranky— Old Cranky—Old Cranky I ſay—I warrant him here— Old Cranky I ſay—I ſay Old Cranky.

Eh! he's not here, I find—But you impudent ſcoundrel, how dare you contradict me, when I ſaid he was at home? Anſwer me that.

Becauſe I knew he was abroad.

You ought to know it was ill manners to con⯑tradict. Eh! you Plebeian. Anſwer me that.

Sir, I—

Do you prate—I'll break your head, you ſcoun⯑drel, I'll break your head.

Sir, ſir—I—if you ſtrike me—Perhaps—Per⯑haps you'd find—I'll anſwer you that.

You impudent, audacious—

Gad's my life, what's all here to do—Hey friend Vinegar.

Contradict me!

Why, Vinegar, you are always wrangling with the ſervants—What have they done to you, that you thus declare open war againſt them?

War—no war—I'll uſe them as Rodney does the French, beat them wherever I meet them.

Yes, but ſhew a little leſs of the maſter, and you'll find your ſervant more of your friend. Go down John.

Ay go down ſtairs, ſirrah—Contradict me—Were, you abroad? Anſwer me that.

I was, yes I was.

You were not—but I won't contradict you, be⯑cauſe it's not good manners—Well you were out— Where? Anſwer me that.

I was in ſearch of Mr. Bouquet, on whom I find my daughter has fixed her heart.

In ſearch of Bouquet—Not you indeed.

Upon my word I was tho'.

No, but I won't contradict you, becauſe it would be unmannerly.

I think as you ſay, it would be unmannerly to contradict.

Do you go to the Club to night? Anſwer me that.

I intend ſo.

No you don't; but I won't contradict you, be⯑cauſe I know what manners are.

Yes, you're as polite as a Dutch Pirate.

What!

I ſay we have a fine Summer before us.

Cranky, you call'd me Pirate.

Not I—but I won't contradict you, becauſe it would not be good manners.

If you talk of manners, you may bid me ſit down in your own houſe.

Well ſit down then, and I'll give you a bottle of your own Port.

I'd rather drink any body elſe's.

John.

A bottle of Port,

Yes, ſir.

I'm a fine fellow, Anſwer me that.

So you are.

You have cauſe to ſay ſo—Retire.

Sing me a ſong, and I'll tell you a ſtory.

With all my heart.

There old Vinegar, that's my epitaph.

I wiſh it was.

Thank you.

Did you ſing your beſt?

Yes, I did.

The worſt ſong I ever heard.

Eh—but your ſtory.

Did you find Bouquet? Anſwer me that.

No.

You ſoon may.

Where?

In the Cage.

What Cage?

In St George's Fields.

The King's Bench.

Yes, he's a man of pleaſure, the Dog and Duck will be his Ranelagh, and he'll travel as far as the Lac⯑tarium.

Faith.

Think no more of him, I have a huſband for your daughter.

Who is he?

Do you like a rich Son-in-Law? Anſwer me that.

Yes.

That's wonderful—Harkee—he's worth upwards of an hundred and twenty thouſand pounds.

Is he handſome?

A little gummy or ſo.

Who is he?

A great Italian banker; lately arrived from Ve⯑nice, young, and very rich.

Well!

Come to London about a matter of buſineſs, but he likes it ſo well, that he talks of ſettling here, and taking a houſe in Portland Place.

Portland Place, well!

Has conceived a mighty paſſion for Cecilia, ſaw her at the Opera the other night: I met him at a friend's in Lombard ſtreet; he ſpoke in raptures of your daughter, and finding I knew you, gave me commiſ⯑ſion to break the matter to you—A fine affair! Anſwer me that.

A Banker of Venice!

A great thing—Young and rich.

A capital hit—If any man living can ſupplant this fop Bouquet—An Italian has the beſt chance—her paſſion for muſic makes her ſo exceeding partial to every thing of that Country.

He's a prize, don't let him ſlip. I fancy he'll call on you this morning. I gave him your addreſs. I told him you was a good natured ſtupid old fellow.

I am much obliged to you. You'll introducc him.

No, I won't, I have buſineſs. He'll come with⯑out ceremony, and he'll expect none. You know my way. I told him your character. Says I, my friend Cran⯑ky is tolerably honeſt, as the world goes; but ſay that, [23]and you ſay all: I hear, ſays my Italian, Mr. Cranky ſpoke of as a very worthy old gentleman. The world's damnably given to lying, ſays I, for the only good thing I know of him is, that he drinks my wine, and pays me ready money, ha, ha, ha!

You are very kind.

No, no, he expects no good manners from you.

Not if he judges from my company.

What's his name?

Signor—Signor—Curſe theſe Italian names. I know it ends with an ini or an elli, or ſomething that way.

His coming this evening will be quite apropos, for Cecilia is to have a concert here, in the next room, and her ſkill in muſic muſt render her doubly amiable to an Italian gentleman.

That's impoſſible that any can. He certainly will marry her, and I'd adviſe you to conclude the af⯑fair immediately, for fear of accidents.

My dear friend, I don't know how to thank you.

I know you don't, you're ſo damn'd unmanner⯑ly. Farewell. He drinks my wine, and pays me rea⯑dy money, Signor, ha, ha, ha!

That was extremely facetious, ha, ha, ha! You laughed very heartily at me.

Yes, ha, ha, ha! and the Senior laugh'd at you in broken Engliſh. Well, good bye.

You think he'll come this evening.

Yes, yes, certainly. Farewel. Where are you going? Anſwer me that.

Only to ring for a ſervant.

To watch, for fear I ſhould ſlip any thing off the ſideboard, in the parlour, as I go out. Is that your po⯑liteneſs? Oh Cranky, Cranky, I fear I never can teach you good manners.

That you never can indeed. There's a man, firſt waiter at a tavern in Fleet-ſtreet, marries his maſ⯑ter's widow, a Vintner ten years, commences Wine [24]Merchant, and in fifteen years amaſſed a fortune of fifty thouſand pounds—Well done, old Vinegar—A lucky circumſtance, though—If Cecilia accept of this Banker for a huſband—Oh, here ſhe comes, with a whole cargo of fiddles, drums, hautboys, ſifes, horns and trumpets. Oh Lord! oh Lord! I muſt get out of her way, while I have the uſe of my cars.

Oh, Madam!

What's the matter?

Ah! Madam, I fear you'll ſee Mr. Bouquet no more.

You ſurpriſe me. Why, pray?

You muſt know, Madam, old Vinegar has had a long conference with your papa; and happening, by accident to paſs by the door, and hearing your name drop, I was tempted to liſten—

Liſten!

I'd ſcorn to liſten for myſelf, Madam, but hear⯑ing your name drop, and knowing Mr. Vinegar's diſlike to your marrying Mr. Bouquet, I could not reſiſt it.

What could you gather?

As ſure as I live, Madam, Mr. Vinegar has re⯑commended a great Heſſian, as a huſband for you.

A Heſſian!

Yes, Madam, a Banker it ſeems; and you are to be married to him immediately.

Dear girl, I thank you for this information. This ſhock has ſo ſuddenly affected me, I ſhan't be able to recover my brilliante this five minutes; but tell the com⯑pany, I'll do myſelf the honour of waiting on them preſently.

Yes, Madam.

What a dreadful reſolution—Such a ſudden tran⯑ſition too—My Father, that not two hours ſince ſeem'd ſo anxious for my union with my ſweet Bouquet!

Don't be angry with me, dear Madam, for promoting this pleaſing interview.

Mr. Bouquet!

My dear Cecilia!

Ah! Mr. Bouquet, what a—

I have heard it all from Dolce.

We ſhall never be united by my father's con⯑ſent, and without it, my heart is breaking.

Come my love, dry up your tears, we ſhall emerge from this envious cloud, and enjoy a full fru⯑ition of love and happineſs.

But how did you gain admittance?

As one of your band; but hearing Mr. Vine⯑gar's voice, as I am certain he knows my perſon, though your father does not, for fear of diſcovery, I popt into the caſe of the double baſs that lies in the Concert—room.

John.

My father's voice!

Mr. Bouquet, Madam, had beſt retire to the old ſtation till I am certain Mr. Vinegar's gone.

And muſt we part?

But for a moment.

I Fancy Mr. Vinegar is ſtill below ſtairs, but I muſt be upon the watch.

Dolce, my mind is now ſomewhat more at eaſe; my Father's caprice may ſoon take another turn, and that may be in our favour.

Heaven ſend it, Madam.

I expect Signor Arionelli here at the Concert. I have a notion of becoming his pupil; when he comes, ſhew him into the Concett—room.

Yes, Madam.

You know him, the Italian Opera ſinger, ſpeaks in a ſmall tone like a woman.

Oh! I know him very well, Madam.

Now to aſſume all the cheerfulneſs in my power.

John, if a foreign Gentleman comes, an Itali⯑an d'ye mind, introduce him.

Run, run, per⯑haps this is he—Ay, he'll make ſomething like a Son⯑in-law, and if I lind him as eager as Vinegar reports, I'll have the wedding ſolemnized this night.

Signor—I forget—the Italian gentleman.

Umbliſſimo ſervo, Signor, is this Mr Cranky's houſe?

You are very right, Sir, my name is Cranky.

Devotiſſimo ſervo ſuo.

He has a mighty comical voice.

The young lady your daughter.

How impatient he is to ſee her!

I have ſir, a great reſpect for her taſte in mu⯑ſic.

Sir, you do her a great deal of honour. Muſic, ſir, is her great paſſion, and I have always encouraged her in the purſuit, particularly Italian muſic. I am tran⯑ſported with Italian muſic—I'd rather hear a Scots Bag⯑pipe.

Sir, you are very obliging.

He has a very droll voice.

Sir, I am quite lanquente for the lady.

How deeply he is in love with my daughter!

To convince her.

Oh ſir, time enough for that, you ſhall have a full opportunity to cultivate a permanent eſteem.

I ſhall be careful ſir, delegents in my part, to merit her favour,

I'll anſwer for my daughter—And for my part, ſir, there is no man in England I am more anxious to have introduced into my family, from the excellence of your character; and therefore ſir, if you pleaſe, we'll have every thing ſettled immediately.

Sir. I'll anſwer that after I ſing one ſong.

A ſong, ſir!

You can form a better judgment of my voice.

Oh, ſir, your voice is a very immaterial point. A gentleman's character, ſir, is—

Yes, ſir, but I would convince you that my voice comes up to my character.

I ſuppoſe he has a voice in the Senate of Venice, [28]that he makes ſuch a work about it!

Pray ſir, pardon me, are you a Senator?

Sir!

Perhaps you are a Venetian Parliament-man.

Sir, I don't underſtand—

Then I muſt come to the point, ſir. We will adjuſt this affair immediately.

But ſir, after the Concert—In the mean time, I'll ſing you one little ſong.

What has a concert to do with the buſineſs in queſtion? In a ſhort interview with my daughter, you'll be acquainted with her qualifications. We'll ſend for our lawyers, and—

Lawyers! dear ſir, you are too particular, there is no occaſion for lawyers in—

Pardon me, ſir, all theſe little formalites pro⯑perly adjuſted before marriage lays the foundation of future happineſs; beſides, a proviſion for the children, you know, is eſſential.

Children, marriage—I beg your pardon, ſir, I did not conſider about—this marriage—but it ſeems your daughter is going to be married.

Certainly, if you pleaſe.

I beg your pardon ſir, I'll take my leave for the preſent,

Take your leave!

Oh ſir, I am not at all impatient.

Very odd this!

You are not impatient.

No, no, ſir, any other time will do for me.

Sir you are grown very cool of a ſudden—In one word will you be married?

Sir, I don't underſtand.

Will you marry my daughter, that's the Eng⯑liſh of it.

Sir I came here for a Concert.

Well my daughter is a Concert for a prince.

Sir, I mean I came here to a Concert.

Oh! we'll ſtay for the Concert; but do you like my daughter?

She is very beautiful.

And have you any thing to ſay againſt her vir⯑tue?

O caro, no, Signor.

Then, zounds!

Sir, ſir, your daughter is a very fine lady, and a very good lady—but for—marriage—it is quite out of my way.

How are your affections engaged ſince you ſaw Old Vinegar?

I have no Old Vinegar, nor affections for any thing but my notes.

Well, every banker ſhould take care of his notes, but he might like a pretty girl too.

Sir, I reſpect and honor the pretty girls; but for marriage—it will do for me to ſing to the ladies.

Sir, if you object to marry my daughter, you came to my houſe with a diſhonourable intent.

Sir, I!

Sir, you diſcloſed your paſſion for my daughter to Old Vinegar—I believe Old Vinegar.

I don't underſtand—Old Vinegar!

Zounds, ſir—

Oh my ſweet Signor, we have been all lan⯑quente for your preſence.

Sweet Signor, oh! oh! now I ſee what ob⯑ſtructed the marriage. Oh thou wicked girl!

Sir!

O thou vile ſeducer!

Signor!

What's the matter new, ſir?

After all he won't marry you.

What all, ſir?

Has he not undone you?

Signor, I can undo no body.

Undone me, ſir!

Yes, you profligate.

Ha, ha, ha!

What do you laugh at? Oh ſhe is hardened in her iniquity.

Why, my dear ſir, do you know who this is?

Oh yes, madam, I know your Venetian Banker.

Why, ſir, this is Signor Arionelli the Opera ſinger.

Nelly the Opera ſinger marry my daughter! Oh, I have miſtook my man!

Madam, if you pleaſe, madam, I will go into the Concert.

Ay, ay, go, go to the Concert.

La Rin—Grazio Signor ſhiavo ſuo Signor.

I am veſted with myſelf, I have made myſelf ſo ridiculous with the opera ſingere and dancing maſters. I believe ſomething, I don't know what, interferes in this affair. Cecilia, I will be obeyed—and therefore I in⯑ſiſt that you take—

Oh dear ſir.

The man of your choice.

Dear kind papa.

Come, exhibit your Concert—room—John.