ACT I.

Stop, ſtop, my dear couſin Flora, ſtop. I am quite weary, and can hoyden it no longer.

Come, reſt a while on this bank, then; mean time, our good neighbour Clodden, here, will give us the new ſheep-ſhearing ballad again.

That I will, fair damſel, and as often as you deſire it, ſo my lungs hold good, and the lads and laſſes will join in the chorus.

Strike up then.

CHORUS repeated. Happy Britons, &c.

So, you are heartily tired of your fro⯑lick, I ſee—

Indeed I am, my dear.

And was this fatiguing amuſement all the pleaſure you promiſed yourſelf from this wild pro⯑ject, of our leaving the manor-houſe, and paſſing, in this diſguiſe, under the names of Flora and Laura, for re⯑lations of farmer Sternold? I hope you do not intend to romp about with theſe good folks again to-morrow.

No, child, I was only willing to have another taſte of your rural diverſions before I left the country. And I promiſe you, I am fully ſatisfied of [3] their ruſticity. I wiſh I could prevail on you to ac⯑company me to London.

What to do there?

To ſee and converſe with human crea⯑tures, my dear; for I cannot look upon the things, that have juſt parted from us, in any other light than as a kind of intermediate beings between men and brutes; they are certainly of an inferior nature to people who live in London.

And yet, in the metropolis every thing is falſe, frivolous and artificial; while here all things appear in the plain and unaffected dreſs of nature.

And yet, my dear Lucy, people, bred in ſociety, are as preferable to theſe clowns as angels are to mere mortals.—How long do you think to live in this wilderneſs, before you get a huſband, as I did, by accident?

I ſhould hope never; were I ſo ſoon to loſe him again as you did, by accident.

Why not, my dear, if, like mine, he were as well loſt as found? The man dropped from the clouds, to pleaſe my papa; and, taking pet at the world, returned back again—to pleaſe me.

They ſay, indeed, that marriages are made in heaven.

Yes; but they ſay too, they are ſtrange⯑ly broke in coming down.

In London, perhaps, where the multi⯑plicity of objects puzzles the choice. But, out of the few that drop here in the country, we may ſoon re⯑ſolve to catch one; and be aſſured, my dear Townly, that when the right man comes, I ſhall not let him ſlip through my fingers.

Nay, there's not much choice in the whole ſex. A man's but a man, make the moſt of him. Mine, they ſay, was one of the beſt of them, and you ſee I ſurvived his loſs.

You are too young and giddy, to take any thing to heart.

True, couſin, I wore the willow only with my weeds, and that not a weeping willow neither.

You are a wild rake, Townly.

We widows have a privilege, child—But women are all rakes at heart; ſo, at leaſt the poet ſays: nay, I'll anſwer for it, that with all your ſim⯑plicity, you have your female rakes in the country, as well as we in town.

To be ſerious, my dear Lady Lucy, I cannot conceive how any woman, who has youth, beau⯑ty, and fortune at command, as you have, can take de⯑light in wandering, like a wild thing, about the woods, in gloomy groves and diſmal ſhades; when ſhe might diſplay her charms to ſo much greater advantage in the glittering circle of the Pantheon, or the brilliant viſtas of Vauxhall.

And I can as little conceive how any woman, of ſenſe or taſte, can be taken with the artifi⯑cial amuſements of the town, when ſhe might enjoy the pleaſure of breathing the freſh air, and contem⯑plating the beauties of nature, in the country.

And you do really prefer the pitiful employment of dangling after a flock of ſimple ſheep, to the ſuperlative delight of having a flock of ſimple admirers dangling after you!—As I live, here they are!

Who? What?

Men, men, my dear, ſocial beings!—See, they are coming over the ſtile! My heart flutters at the ſight of them; does not yours?

Strangers, and well dreſſed!

Two of our London beaus: Sir John Manly and young Wildman.

My couſin Wildman!

The ſame, my dear. You don't know much of him, it ſeems.

My uncle has ever kept him at ſuch a diſtance, that I have not ſeen him ſince he was a ſchool⯑boy: nor do I believe Sir Wilful himſelf would know his nephew, any more than I. He has not ſuffered the young ſpark to come into his preſence, ſince his return from his travels.

What can have brought them hither? Let us retire behind this thicket; perhaps we may learn their errand.

Well, get the carriage round to the farm-houſe, yonder in the bottom. We'll walk acroſs the fields, and meet you.

What an unlucky accident! We are not, it ſeems, above a mile or two from the manor-houſe.

It will be impoſſible, however, to get our da⯑mage repaired time enough to reach it to-night. But no matter, the news of our diſaſter will get there be⯑fore us, and, my word for it, when the good Baronet, my uncle, comes to be informed that the coach of a man of faſhion hath broken down, in croſſing the country to pay him a viſit, he'll give us an opportuni-of profiting by our misfortune.

Be it ſo then: I am ever for making a vir⯑tue of neceſſity. In the mean time, George, you will have the pleaſure of ſpending the night with your dear⯑ly beloved miſtreſs, Variety: you ſhall ſleep, for once, on a truſs of clean ſtraw, in a farmer's barn.

Well, any thing for a change in life. I am ſatisfied, ſo we tread not continually the ſame track of inſipid pleaſures as in London, where our amuſements, [7] like the company at Ranelagh, move round and round for ever in a circle.

Truce with your common-place raillery. Variety, indeed, is the pleaſure of life, but not the comfort of it. I'll hold you a wager, you'll not ſleep ſo ſoundly in a barn, as you would at a bagnio.

Not the firſt night, perhaps; but cuſtom would inure me to it.

Right—Habit only makes things eaſy and familiar. This removes every inconvenience, and makes us look even on danger and diſtreſs with indiffe⯑rence.

This is pretty moralizing, Manly. But, come, now we are ſo near our journey's end, let us rightly underſtand each other.

By all means.

You agree, then, that if, in conſequence of this viſit to my whimſical uncle, you ſhould approve of his niece, get into her good graces, and marry her, [8] you will advance me a moiety of that lady's portion, to be repaid on the death of Sir Wilful, ſhould he die inteſtate; and, in caſe of a will, partial either to ne⯑phew or niece, that we ſhare his fortune equally be⯑tween us.

Exactly.

On the other hand, if you ſhould diſlike, or decline to pay your addreſſes to the lady—

Never fear, George: as I have determined to take up and look out for a wife, ſhe will be certain⯑ly my choice. I was ſtruck when I had a ſight of her once, at Litchfield races, and have heard ſuch encomi⯑ums on her wit, beauty and underſtanding, ſince, that I am half in love with her already: ſo let us get what accommodation we can to-night, and to-morrow pro⯑ceed to buſineſs.

So, ſo, theſe are your people bred in ſo⯑ciety; theſe are your mortal angels!

Well, really, they are pretty fellows.

Yes, and prettily have they taken upon them to diſpoſe of this proper perſon of mine, without once aſking leave of the right owner.

Nay, child, there's nothing in that. People muſt have ſome way of coming together: and if your couſin helps you to a good huſband, I think you are greatly obliged to him.

And I am greatly obliged to him, for helping himſelf to half my fortune too, am I?

That, indeed, is a piece of imperti⯑nence.

For which, if I don't make them do ſuch penance—But, hold; they return this way.

Surely they won't know me in this diſ⯑guiſe. I wiſh I had a maſk.

A maſk! that would be a ſtrange ſight, indeed in the country. No, no, only act up to your dreſs and character! You made ſo different an ap⯑pearance in London, they will never recollect your fea⯑tures.

Enough! My hands are ſet, my eyes fixed; I have a bluſh at command. I'll bite the fin⯑gers of my cotton gloves, and be as very a hoyden as ever hopped round a may-pole.

Well met, pretty maidens.—They're de⯑viliſh handſome.

Fine girls, faith!—Can you tell us, fair damſel,

where two honeſt fellows can get a lodging tonight. We have had the misfortune to—

Fortune! Sir, we don't tell fortunes, indeed.

No, gentlemen, if you are fortune-hun⯑ters, you will find ſome of the ſiſterhood behind thoſe elms. We are no gypſies.

Gypſies, my dear! I proteſt I am aſtoniſhed to ſee ſo much beauty and elegance. Your habits are ruſtic, but they are perfectly genteel; and by your air and mien, you ſhould be fine ladies from St. James's.

Yes, we have quite the St. James's air, indeed.

Thou haſt ſomething better, my little dear. Thoſe pretty pouting lips, thoſe ſparkling eyes, this yielding hand—

Nay, pray, Sir, be civil.—Come, cou⯑ſin.

You would not, ſure, leave us in a ſtrange place, child.

Laud, Sir, we have nothing to do with you. As a couple of ſtrays, indeed, we might drive you to the head-borough.

And what then?

Why, then he would lodge you to⯑night in the pound; have you cried the three next market-days; and then, if nobody owned you—you would fall to the lady of the manor.

The lady of the manor!

Yes, Sir, for want of a lord.—May neither of you have worſe luck, —come, couſin.

Ay, come let us go.

Pray, Sir, let go my hand.

Yes, child, if you'll let go my heart, otherwiſe, my dear, I ſhall not let you eſcape. Do you know the penalty of robbing a man thus, on the highway?

If you have loſt any thing, Sir, you know your remedy. It is as yet between ſun and ſun, you may ſue the county.

No, child, I ſhall detain the robber and bring her to juſtice.

Indeed, Sir, you won't, for I ſhall in⯑ſtantly go home:

Where do you live, then?

At yonder farm-houſe.

And who is the owner of it?

One Sternold, a ſurly old farmer, who, when he's pleaſed, vouchſafes to call me daughter.

And do you live there too, my dear?

Yes, Sir, we live here two country couſins, fretting like ſilk and inkle, wove together in a piece.

How ſo?

Oh, Sir. She's quite a ruſtic, and has none of the town poliſh, one gets, by going, as I do, to market.

Arch and ſilly! A whimſical com⯑pound!

And is your father, really, a farmer?

A gentleman farmer, Sir; one that having when young ſquandered away his eſtate in Lon⯑don, took an averſion to the town, and has been con⯑ſtantly railing againſt it ever ſince.

Is he ſo moroſe a cynic, think you, as to refuſe us entertainment for a ſingle night?

Indeed I believe he is.

Surely not, if you intercede in our favour.

Perhaps not; but I am not ſatisfied of the propriety of that; I will however propoſe it to my father, and if he approves of it, you will be welcome. Come, couſin.

What a pair of pretty ruſtics!

I never ſaw any thing more charming.

My girl is the moſt angelic creature.

Mine the moſt mortal-killing beauty.

Mine the prettieſt, wittieſt—

Mine the neateſt, ſweeteſt—a little ſilly or ſo! But, no matter, the more ſimple the more kind.

Sternold. I wiſh theſe young ladies were returned. It grows late, and ſhould any accident happen to them, they might pay dear for their frolick—Ha! they have been talking to two young ſparks, I ſee: there's ſomething more in the wind, than I ſuſpected.

Oh, farmer Sternold! We have a fa⯑vour, to beg of you. Can't you furniſh lodgings for thoſe two gentlemen yonder?

Why, ladies, if you will not let me into your [13] whole project, I may commit ſome blunder. You know how apt I am to be rude to ſtrangers.

Well, well, you muſt treat them as ſuch, notwithſtanding — for tho' we know them, they don't know us: but take us for what we ſeem. Oblige us, in giving them entertainment to-night and behave to them otherwiſe as you will. They are within hearing, ſo appear to them in character.

Then I have my cue.

Ay, ſome Covent-Garden gentry, I ſuppoſe; that, hav⯑ing been fleeced at the bagnio and card-table, are come to recruit their finances on the highway. But here they can only rob the hen-rooſt. What a plague ſent them hither?

Bleſs us, Sir, how you talk! The gentlemen will hear you.

Hear me! Why, I would have them hear me. Where are they?

By yonder hedge-row, Sir—they have been waiting a good while.

Let them wait, with a murrain.

You will pleaſe, Sir, to ſay yes or no.

No, then, no! Burn my houſe and barns; let the diſtemper ſeize my cows, the rot my ſheep, the mildew my corn, and the blight my fruit; but let no London plagues come within my doors. What has bewitch'd you to aſk ſuch a queſtion!

They deſired it of us, in common hu⯑manity.

And 'twere a pity the poor gentle⯑men ſhould lie all night in the fields.

Gentlemen! —Why, ye ſimpletons, they are the bane and deſtruction of your ſex; worſe enemies to beauty than old age or the ſmall-pox—Gentle, indeed!

But under your protection, Sir—

True daughters of the firſt woman! Well to oblige you, I'll talk to them. Tell them they may come this way.

We will, Sir.

See, Sir, they are almoſt here, and look like ſober, honeſt gentlemen: not as if they come from London!

Now, to me, they look like a deputation from the cuckold-makers of the corporation, in common⯑hall aſſembled.

We are extremely ſorry, Sir—

To give you this trouble—

But, having loſt our way—

And our carriage breaking down—

Extremely ſorry! Yes, you look very ſorrow⯑ful, indeed. Loſt your way! —Now I rather think you [15] are two ſorry fellows that are never out of your way— A pretty excuſe this, you have trumped up for an un⯑ſeaſonable viſit.

Sir, in a few plain words—

Come, come, I'll tell you, in a few plain words, what honourable deſign you are bent upon. You clubbed your ſhallow wits together; your car⯑riage was to break down; you were to be benightod; and taking the advantage of my humanity for entrance into my houſe, you were honeſtly to embrace that opportunity of ruining my family. Was it not ſo? Aſk your conſciences now, ha!

Our conſciences, Sir!

Our-conſciences, Sir! Yes, your con⯑ſciences, Sir. What are you poſed? Have you no conſciences? Egad, like enough. Pray whence come you?

From London.

From London! I thought ſo: the mart of iniquity; the devil's chief reſidence. He picks up a vagabond ſinner now and then with us in the country; but he monopolizes with you in London.

You are very ſevere upon the town, Sir.

Yes, Sir. I know both ends of it.

Which are both greatly changed of late we aſſure you.

Yes, yes, I hear London is mightily changed, indeed; and if it were grown as much better as it is bigger, ſomething might be ſaid for it. But the head is too big for the body, and the whole nation has got the rickets.

I find, Sir, you are an univerſal ſatiriſt. But, come, to the purpoſe, I ſee our ſervants and horſes are coming round. Is there no ſecurity you will take for a ſingle night?

There is; but it lies in my own hands, gen⯑tlemen, and if you dare abide by honeſt conditions—

We wiſh no other, Sir. They who intend no wrong fear none.

There lies your way, then, gentlemen. Enter and welcome.

He has taken them both in.

As I live, ſo he has. Now, Lady Lucy, if the right man ſhould be dropped from the clouds; you will be as good as your word, and not let let him ſlip through your fingers.

I proteſt my heart beats ſtrangely.

Yes, child, it beats to arms, the town's beſieged and the guard is called upon duty.

But here returns your gallant, to look for us, I'll leave you together.

Nay, but—

I am come, gentle maidens—

Yes, Sir, we ſee you are. Good b'ye, couſin.

Indeed, my pretty maid, I muſt not loſe this oppor⯑tunity of talking a little ſeriouſly to you.

Bleſs me, Sir. What can you have ſeriouſly to ſay to me?

Say, child! Mere ſaying is too cold. Let me ſwear to thee.

Well, Sir; and what would you ſwear to me?

That I love you, paſſionately, fondly love you.

That you love me! Eh! And pray, Sir, how long may you have thus paſſionately, fondly, lov'd me!

From the firſt moment I beheld you.

About half an hour, or ſo!

Yes, my eyes caught inſtantly the infec⯑tion, my head grew confus'd, my heart inflamed, my—

Poor gentleman! troubled with the amorous epilepſy! Is it uſual for you to fall in love, thus at firſt ſight! Or is this the firſt fit of the kind!

The firſt and laſt, be aſſured. The flame which now glows in my breaſt will burn for ever.

Not it, Sir. Be comforted. It was kindled too ſuddenly, and burns too violently, to laſt long.

This, child, is mere poetry. And poets, you know, will ſay any thing.

Come then, Sir, to converſe without a metaphor.

With all my heart. Then I declare, I think you a charming creature, and never ſaw a wo⯑man I liked ſo well it my life.

At the ſame time you, think yourſelf ſufficiently agreeable, I ſuppoſe.

Why, don't you?

To be ſure, you are not abſolutely frightful.

Nay, but you like me.

Don't be too confident of that. You may flatter yourſelf, as you do me.

Flattery, my dear, is the language of love. It is impoſſible to ſay what we mean, when our mean⯑ing is beyond the power of words.

'Tis time then to have done, Sir, if you cannot ſpeak to be underſtood.

Or if you won't underſtand me. To ſpeak plainly then, in what part of this rural habita⯑tion is your bed-chamber?

That's pretty plain, indeed.

Do you ſleep alone, child.

No, Sir, with my couſin Laura. But why are you ſo inquiſitive? My father ſleeps not far off.

No matter.

So then, it ſeems, you really aſſure yourſelf that, having ſighed, kiſſed my hand, ſaid a few fooliſh fine things and impudently ſtared me in the face, I ſhall drop into your arms, as they ſay birds do into the mouth of the rattle-ſnake, by faſci⯑nation.

Nay, my love, this is all raillery. Come, you ſhall live with me and command my fortune. I'll take you from this ſurly old man, and place you in your proper ſphere. Make me but happy to night.

And you will leave me miſerable to⯑morrow. I thank you for the mighty favours you would confer. But what would the world ſay?

The world! Child. I will ſet you above it. My whole eſtate, ſhall be devoted to your plea⯑ſure, and my influence exerted to protect you from inſult.

No, Sir. Tho' you could place me beyond the reach of cenſure, you could not raiſe me above the ſenſe of ſhame. You might protect me from the inſult of reproach, but could not ſhield me from the pangs of remorſe. I ſcorn your protection.

Nay, but ſtay.

ACT II.
The curtain riſes, and diſcovers Sir John Manly, Young Wildman, Sternold, Lady Lucy, Mrs. Townly, and others ſitting at a table.

Ay, a ſong! But, let it be ſomething, in which we may all bear a part.

And let the burthen be rural hoſpitality.

Ay, only lay aſide your town manners, gen⯑tlemen; and we ſhall agree well enough.

But what hath ſet you, farmer, ſo much againſt London?

The inſolence and impertinence of its inha⯑bitants. —Prodigal as I was, I could not bear to be flee⯑ced by a ſet of money-making ſharpers, who differed from coiners, clippers, and cut-purſes only, in being greater criminals with greater ſecurity. —I could not endure the haughtineſs of ſcoundrel upſtarts; who, by taking advantage of the weakneſs, or adminiſtring to the wickedneſs of mankind, were enabled to aſſume the appearance of gentlemen, and lolled at eaſe in the carriages, which honeſter men were forced to drive.

Yet thus will it ever be, Sir; while men are men, and live in a ſtate of ſociety.

No Sir, it is becauſe men are not men, that ſuch pitiful doings diſgrace ſociety.—It is becauſe ſo many mean animals are ever ready to bend the knee and crawl on four legs that a few others ſtand ſo erect and ſtrut about ſo inſolently on two. But I! —

I hope, farmer, your ſentiments have not infected your neighbourhood. —If they have, we are [23] likely to meet with but an indifferent reception, from the old gentleman there on the top of the hill, whom we purpoſed to viſit.

Sir Wilful Wildman! Oh! no. He is ſtill fond of your men in power and place, your people of rank and quality, forſooth.

I thought him a worthy character, Sir.

He is ſo. Sir Wilful has many more good qualities than the fops he ſo fooliſhly admires. —

He has a niece, I think, the toaſt of the country!

She is, Sir, and very deſervedly; but you'll hardly have an opportunity of ſeeing her, unleſs you make ſome ſtay in theſe parts: ſhe is at preſent gone a viſiting ſomewhere, with a rantipole young widow of quality, that came down from London about a month ago. And when they will return to the manor, it ſeems, nobody knows but themſelves; and perhaps they neither.

That's unlucky.

Yes, Sir, ſhe would have been worth your ſeeing: ſhe has twenty thouſand pound in her pocket and will in all probability ſucceed to the whole eſtate of Sir Wilful.

Has the baronet no other relations, then? I thought he had a nephew.

Yes, he has a nephew, and a ſad rakehelly young dog, they ſay, he is. Sir Wilful never ſees him, and will moſt likely cut him off with a ſhilling. At leaſt I would adviſe him to it.

I'm much obliged to you for that, however.

He has been ſent abroad truly for improvement, and improved, it ſeems, he is returned.

In virtù, I ſuppoſe, eh!

Ay, if by virtù you mean all manner of vice. The devil, I think, poſſeſſes the fathers and guardians [24] of this age to ſend over their ſons and wards to the continent. Luxury is a plant that thrives pretty well in the cold climate of our own iſland: there is no need of tranſplanting it into the hot-beds of France and Italy. But, come, gentlemen, walk into the other room. I'll juſt ſtep out and ſee your ſervants and cat⯑tle provided for, and return immediately. I ſee the girls are coming again this way; they will entertain you in the mean while.

Whither away, my little charmer?

No, no, child, you don't get off ſo eaſily.

Laud, Sir, what would you have! You men are the ſtrangeſt creatures.—

And, you, women, are the moſt provoking things! Whither were you going?

I ſha'nt tell you indeed and ſo don't — follow me.

That I will; for if that be not a challenge I'll never accept one. —

Nay, Sir: No more of this, I beſeech you. —I have told you, my heart is not to be purcha⯑ſed. —

Not with mine, my dear? Come we'll make an exchange. I'll give you heart for heart. —

That was indeed the whole way, they ſay. —Before money was in faſhion, they uſed to barter in kind. —

Let us then revive that honeſt cuſtom of the age of love and innocence.

But, have you a clear title to what you would diſpoſe of? Is not that heart of yours ſold or mortgaged already?

I was free as air till I beheld thoſe eyes.

And would yet ſo ſoon exchange your freedom for ſervitude.

If I might be your ſervant.

I am afraid you'll prove a worthleſs one.

Try me, and if you like me not, diſcharge me.

That may be dangerous; but come, in⯑ſtead of taking you for a ſervant, ſuppoſe I ſhould like you well enough to make you maſter. —Would you marry me?

Marry you! Why, that is—as—to be ſure—but,—

Ha! ha! ha! Confounded as I live! The man ſo very humble as to offer me his ſervice, is too haughty to accept of mine.

Not that, child.—Not at all.—Oh, no! But why need we marry? Why ſhould you give me the command who am ſo ready to obey?

It is enough, Sir. I am fully ſatisfied of the baſeneſs of your deſigns.—Take back the vain offer of your heart, and know that I ſcorn as much to yield to your diſhoneſt paſſion as you do to ſubmit to honourable love.

Nay, but ſtay.—You muſt ſtay.—Let me reflect a little.

Do, Sir. Think how ungrateful, how injurious your ſolicitations. You call yourſelf a gen⯑tleman, and pretend to be ruled by the laws of truth and honour; and yet you would betray the confidence repo⯑ſed in your veracity; you would defraud your honeſt hoſt of his greateſt treaſure, the innocence of his [26] daughter; you would, inhoſpitably murder my poor father; the man whoſe houſe you entered under a ſolemn engagement, that would to common robbers, under the like circumſtances, be ſacred and inviola⯑ble.

Thou haſt touched my ſoul. A conſcious pang ſhoots through my heart and covers me with ſhame.

I know the diſparity of our fortunes.—I know you fear your family and name ſhould ſuffer in the opinion of the world; but believe me, Sir, they ſuffer more in fact, when you attempt to ſeduce an ho⯑neſt mind from virtue.

I own it.—Can you forgive me? Your juſt reproof hath overcome my ſcruples. I will marry thee.

Nay but think ſeriouſly. Can you love me for life? A poor girl without a penny of portion. Take time to conſider of it.

I have thought of it; and would marry you, were it practicable, immediately. No family can en⯑ſure, no education improve, ſuch manners. I muſt not, cannot, will not, live without you. My whole ſoul is fixed, my wiſhes all center in you. Can you deny me? Give me your hand. Let me be yours for ever. My [27] whole eſtate ſhall go to purchaſe your conſent, and that ſhall be your wedding portion.

Well, Sir, on that condition and with my father's conſent you may poſſibly obtain mine.

I'll ſeek him and obtain his inſtantly. But ſhall I then be ſure of yours!

Why that is—as—Bleſs me, here's ſomebody coming.

You promiſe then.

Promiſe! I don't know:—well—but then I do.

Charming creature! Marry you! How can I reſiſt ſuch wit, beauty and virtue united?—But the world—How ſhall I withſtand the reproach of my acquaintance?—I will renounce them. I can more eaſily ſuſtain the taunts of a thouſand ſops and flirts of faſhion, than ſupport a ſingle reproof from my lovely, virtuous Flora.

Well ſaid, heroic Anthony, But where's your Cleopatra, my boy?

A Cleopatra only in beauty, George. You come in good time: I want your advice. Shall I marry this charming little ruſtic or not?

Marry her, why you are not in love with her, ſurely?

Faith, I believe I am—I have ſtrong ſymp⯑toms of it. My heart flutters at the ſight of her. She [28] is conſtantly in my thoughts. I could fight for her, die for her.

Poh! that a man might do for an hundred women, he was never in love with. To die for a wo⯑man, Manly, is a mere piece of gallantry. But to marry her, boy, is to live for her, a ſerious piece of bu⯑ſineſs, and perhaps with her too, which is—out of fa⯑ſhion, egad, and that is worſe than being out of the world by half.

Yet that I could bear with Flora.—fame, fortune, friendſhip, all put into the balance againſt her, appear light as a feather. My regard for her will be laſting as life.

Then you muſt die ſoon, Manly, take my word for it. However, if you have a mind to put your paſſion to a violent death, you will take the readieſt way. Marriage is as certain a remedy for love, as an incurable mortification is for all other diſorders.

Don't be ſo ſevere, George. Her charms will afford an eternal ſource of pleaſure.

I don't believe either in the immortality of her charms, or the eternity of your paſſion.

Look at her again, then, and be converted.

Convert thyſelf, my friend. To marry a wo⯑man merely for her beauty, is to enſlave your whole body for the gratification only of your eyes. But why nerd you marry her? Give her ſome gold, man, pro⯑miſe her more: cheapen her; purchaſe her; carry her off, as I will do the little lapwing, her couſin: What, the devil, ſhould you encumber yourſelf with the leaſe of a houſe for, when you may rent the beſt apartments in it, as long as you like, and leave it at pleaſure?

I don't believe that. Had you ſeen with what modeſt reluctance ſhe yielded even to a kiſs! Her maiden reſerve—

Modeſt reluctance! I like that truly! Mai⯑den reſerve! Ha! ha! ha! Little artful gypſey!

And yet I have tried every temptation to al⯑lure, every argument to perſuade; and neither my gifts nor my promiſes would avail me.

Poh! poh! you did not come up to her price, I ſuppoſe. That's all. I thought, Manly, you had known women better. Beſides, conſider, you are on the cruiſe after my couſin Lady Lucy, a twenty thou⯑ſand pounder! Will you be diverted from the chace of ſuch a noble prize, by ſuch a little ſmuggling cut⯑ter as this? If the free-hearted cock-boat will give herſelf away willingly, or take a reaſonable price for her cargo, well and good. But to purchaſe a pretty beggar at the expence of your whole eſtate, reputation and liberty! Zounds, man, are you mad? Come, come, let us have no more of this, but go in and ſit down to old Cruſty's October.

It is in vain, I find, to talk of virtue to a libertine. Go in, yourſelf; I'll join you preſently. But, I muſt ſpeak a word or two with old Cruſty, as you call him, before we ſet into drinking.

Well, couſin; what have you done with your gentleman?

Nay, what have you done with yours?

Mine is grown the moſt civil, obſequi⯑ous flatterer.

Mine continues the moſt impudent, rude rogue. Do you know, that I could not get rid of him without promiſing to meet him here after ſup⯑per. And yet he no ſooner left me than he fell deſpe⯑rately in love with Cicely, the dairy-maid: and told the poor wench more lies, in five minutes, than ſhe ever heard at ſtatute, market or fair, in her whole life.

It would be a good deed to put the rake to ſome ſhame.

I intend it, if he be not ſhameleſs. I have thefore ordered Cicely to come hither and give him the meeting in my ſtead. I have alſo another ſcheme in my head, with the help of Farmer Sternhold, to puniſh his impudence more ſeverely, if he carries it any further.

So, Cicely, you have made a conqueſt of the London gentleman it ſeems.

Concourſe! Madam! Laud! I don't know what your ladyſhip means.

Madam! Ladyſhip! You know, child, you are not to call me Madam, but Miſtreſs Laura.

True Madam Laura, I declare I did not know one word in ten the gentleman ſaid▪ But he hugged and ſqueezed me ſo, I am ſure I wiſhed 'un fur⯑ther.

He did not hurt you, ſure!

Not to ſpeak of: I could have managed 'un well enough, had that been all. But as he was a gen⯑tleman, I was minded to let 'un alone a little. Yet he was ſo woundy ſkittiſh, had it been Robin or Rich⯑ard, I would have flapped the face of o'un heartily.

And yet you muſt not let even Londo⯑ners be too familiar, Cicely; for tho' leſs rough, they are not leſs rude, and are the more dangerous as they are more inſinuating.

Your Ladyſhip!

Again! your Ladyſhip! My name is Flora, you know.

Huſh! Huſh! Yonder goes our ſpark, ſauntering about to look for me, I ſuppoſe. You have your inſtructions, Cicely, ſo put your beſt foot foremoſt. We ſhall be at hand to aſſiſt you, if your gentleman grows rude upon encouragement.

I will, Madam, and as he is within ear-ſhot I'll at him firſt with a ſong.

What in full ſong, my little canary bird! I have been looking here all about for you this half hour.

For me or Mrs. Laura, Sir?

Laura! child. No for you. Did your young miſtreſs talk of coming, then.

Yes, Sir. She ſent me to tell you ſhe ſhould not come.

Ha! ha! ha! I like that much. Who wan⯑ted her? I had rather have your company, my dear Cicely, by half. Why, do you know that I fell in love with you—

At firſt ſight, mayhap.

Nay, before that, mayhap.

What before you ſaw me at all, Sir! What for, pray?

For your ſinging, my little woodlark. As I liſtened to the ditties you carol'd, coming home from milking, Cupid let fly his darts ſo thick at me, that one came, whiz, into my right ear.

And went, whiz, out of the left, I ſuppoſe.

No, faith, it lodged in my head, and in its way down to my heart, left, at my tongue's end, a little ſong, I once made on a name-ſake of yours, pat to our preſent purpoſe.

Unleſs, my ſweet Cicely, you ſing only for me, and then you may warble ſweet-jug all the live-long night, like a nightingale.

And will you lie ſo long awake to liſten to me?

That I will, my little Philomel. Do you think I had not rather liſten to you than gaze upon that moppet, your miſtreſs, Laura?

Moppet, Sir! Laud! Mrs. Laura is reckon⯑ed a monſtrous deal handſomer than me.

She! Mere curds and whey! No more to be compared to you than ſour butter milk is to ſweet cream, child. Beſides, the ſilly creature is half a fool, an idiot in compariſon of you.

Silly! Oh! oh! oh! Why ſhe goes in theſe parts for a great wit. You are certainly joking with me now.

Wrong not your charms, my pretty little milk⯑ſkimmer. I ſwear you look, in that ſtraw hat and ſhort petticoat, like a queen of the fairies, come to take a dance on the green by moonlight.

Ha! ha! ha!

Indeed and in⯑deed Mrs. Flora; indeed and indeed, Mrs. Laura, I was not conſenting nor relenting. The wicked gen⯑tleman would force me into the arbour, in ſpite of my teeth.

Mighty well, huſſey! Be ready to confront him then before your matter to⯑morrow morning.

For neither of you ſhall ſleep in the houſe to-night, I can aſſure you.

A pretty gentleman, indeed! Prefer the maid to the miſtreſs!

A mighty pretty gentleman, truly! Ha! ha! ha!

What an unlucky dog am I! By beginning with the maid before I had done with the miſtreſs, I ſhall do nothing, I ſuppoſe, with either miſtreſs or maid.

Come, don't look ſo renetty, my cream-cheeſe curd. If you loſe your place on my account, I'll get you an⯑other. You ſhall live with me, and churn butter in a dairy of your own. But ſurely your young miſtreſſes will not be ſo cruel as to lock us out of doors!

I don't know, Sir. They are very ſevere. I'll go and ſee, if you pleaſe.

And ſo make a ſeparate peace and leave me out of the treaty! No, no, child. If I am to ſtay all night in the orchard, you certainly ſtay along with me.

Laud! Sir, do you think I won't come back to you again?

Why, will you?

For certain I will.

Nay, then, they may do as they pleaſe. But you'll return ſoon.

Don't be too impatient neither; my young miſtreſſes want a great deal of courting.

Egad, I think ſo; but make what haſte you can, child; the dew falls apace.

Yonder is a dry hovel, Sir, where you may wait till I come back. But don't ramble into the yard, for fear of the maſtiffs.

Well thought of, my dear. I ſhall lie cloſe till you return, my dear dairy-maid. So I don't wiſh you good night.

And yet the poor gentleman might as well: for the nights are ſo ſhort, I ſhall hardly prevail to get him [37] till morning. But it is moonlight, and there is plenty of peaſe-ſtraw in the hovel.

Well, Sir; as I find your character and in⯑tentions are honourable, I am ſatisfied. I have no other objection to make than the general one againſt unequal and precipitate marriages. I could wiſh your affections had been of ſlower growth, to have taken deeper root. Beauty is like a rich but ſhallow ſoil. It is fertile; but I always ſuſpect its ſudden ſhoots come up too haſtily to be vigorous or laſting.

Rather ſuſpect the languid affection of the mercenary tribe, who marry only for money.

Well, Sir, if you are ſo fully determined, I have nothing farther to ſay; except that, if you mean to be married this morning, (for you have kept us up till paſt midnight) you muſt not have much ſleep, I can tell you. You muſt ride ſome miles, and that expedi⯑tiouſly too, to procure a licence and get tacked toge⯑ther within canonical hours.

Sleep, Sir! I promiſe you, I ſhall not go to bed till I return. You will be ſo obliging as to let my ſervant and one of yours, get the horſes ready to [38] attend us: my lovely Flora has promiſed ſhe would ſet out with me the moment I procured your permiſſion.

Adventurous girl! Well, go ſee after your miſtreſs, while I order the neceſſary preparations for your journey. Heav'n grant that your love prove as laſting as it ſeems to be ſincere. Not but that a match made only for love is as likely to turn out happy as one made merely for money.

Ay, never fear, farmer.

Fairly jilted, by Jupiter! Here have I been waiting, like an aſs, the return of a ſkittiſh young filly, till it is broad day-light. By the noiſes that have continued all the while in the houſe, one would imagine this out-of-the-way old fellow kept his family up all night; or at leaſt that, like a ſhip's crew, they, kept watch and watch about. If I am not revenged of the little devils for playing me this trick.—Ha! here comes my arch little ſimpleton alone. An early riſer, 'faith. She may chance to get a fall before night.

Ha! Miſs. Have I caught you?

Sir, my uncle would ſpeak with you.

Yes, child: and I would ſpeak with you too. What a pretty trick you country-couſins contrived to play me laſt night! Do you think I ſhall tamely put up with it?

Bleſs me, Sir! Have you been in the orchard all night?

No: but I have been ſkulking in yonder ho⯑vel, all night.

What with Cis, the dairy maid; I'll warrant!

No: all alone, I warrant, But come, child, you ſhall go and ſatisfy yourſelf.

Laud, Sir! What do you mean?

Mean, my dear! Nothing, but to let you ſee whether the bed be tumbled or not.

Nay, then, help! help! Uncle! mur⯑der, help!

So, ſo. There, there; the game is ſafe. What, my honeſt gueſt, Mr. Wildman! Is it you that have ſtrolled out poaching abroad ſo early? You are really a very modeſt gentleman. What can you ſay for yourſelf now? Ha!

Say! Why I ſay that your kinſwoman here has been very uncivil to me.

And you would have been as much too civil to her! Hah! Is it not ſo? Come, come, bring him along. He ſhall have a ducking and a fair race for it. Our [40] horſe-pond, Sir, is ſomething wide and not of the clea⯑neſt. If you can ſwim acroſs it, I believe you will not make a hunting ſeat of my farm again in haſte.

Sir, I am a gentleman, and expect to be uſed accordingly. Take off your two ruffians and let me ſpeak with you alone.

Well, Sir. I'll truſt you. I'll give you more credit than you deſerve. Do you hear?

Stay, without, that you may be ready with⯑in call.

Now, Sir, what have you to ſay in arreſt of judg⯑ment?

Sir, I ſay, that I have done nothing contrary to law.

Not contrary to law?

Not to common law; which is founded ſole⯑ly on cuſtom: and it has been the cuſtom, time out of mind, for us young fellows, whoſe blood flows briſk⯑ly through our veins, to uſe no ceremony with a whole⯑ſome cherry-cheek'd country wench, wherever we have the opportunity of a barn, bed, hovel, or haycock.

Mighty well! And ſo you confeſs you would have overpowered her, hah!

A little agreeable violence is abſolutely ne⯑ceſſary on theſe occaſions. It ſaves a world of alterca⯑tion and gives an edge to appetite.

And ſo having finiſhed this agreeable affair; that is having diſhonoured yourſelf by doing the poor girl an irreparable injury, you could have reconciled your behaviour to your principles, and have ſat down perfectly ſatisfied with the probity of the action?

Faith, I believe I ſhould.

What can provoke you to ſuch injuſtice and barbarity?

Health and high ſpirits, my dear miſanthrope. Look you, old Wormwood, I have entered into a cove⯑nant [41] with youth to make the moſt of time. I have ſei⯑zed faſt hold of his forelock, and won't let him give me the ſlip for a moment without ſome enjoyment.

Hoity! Toity! What a diſſolute wretch have we got here!

Come, come, old boy, don't miſtake your ill-nature for virtue, or your cruſty humour for an antipa⯑thy to vice. Every cynic is not a philoſopher. Pr'y⯑thee poliſh yourſelf, therefore, my dear rough diamond. You are the ſoureſt old fellow, I think, I ever met with. You invite a man into your houſe here, and then deny him the only tid-bit he has a mind to.

You know the conditions, Sir, on which you entered this houſe. But you have broken through every ſocial obligation, and yet imagine you are ſtill acting in the character of a gentleman.

Well ſaid, father grey-beard! Egad I fancy you would make a good methodiſt preacher. But, as we are not likely to agree in our principles, with ex⯑change of compliments on both ſides, let us take leave.

Stay, Sir. I muſt firſt have ſatisfaction for the inſult put on my family.

Oh! with all my heart, old plough-ſhare. I underſtand you was born a gentleman. So your time, place and weapons in a few words.

Not mine, I aſſure you. I have lived long enough to be a little wiſer. But the young woman you have inſulted, has a lover; who lives in the neigh⯑bourhood, [42] and has ſpirit enough to give you the meet⯑ing.

Gad ſo! Your bullies about you too! I did not ſuſpect that. However I'll meet him, Sir.

Expect him then, under the elms, in the meadow behind the farm, preciſely at noon. And alone Sir.

I will not fail, Sir.

You dare not, for fear of being poſted for a coward; a greater reproach to a modern fine gentleman than that of being ſtigmatized as a villain, or even a murderer.

You are right, old gentleman, there is nothing a man of ſpirit is ſo much afraid of, as that of being thought afraid of any thing.

ACT III.

A fine time of day for a cool thruſt, juſt in the heat of the ſun. Egad I have no appetite for it. I wiſh it was over. But where's my rival! I am before my time, I ſee.

Ha! Manly.

George, what are you doing here?

Doing. I have been looking about the fields for you. Where the deuce have you been all this morning, that I could not get a ſight of you?

With my charming Flora, to be ſure. Where ſhould I have been?

Well, and you have brought her to reaſon at laſt, have you?

I hope ſo.

Ay, ay. I told you the way—Marry her, indeed! A fine ſcheme!

True that's all over. I may go to bed to her now if I will, without aſking leave of the parſon.

If you will! And won't you? What the devil, have you more ſcruples than the girl?

Why, faith, ſhe is ſo innocent and credu⯑lous that I cannot bear the thoughts of impoſing on her ſimplicity.

Well then, marry her afterwards, if you like it. But I may ſafely truſt you for that; you are too [44] good a friend to population to encourage the incloſure of commons.

This ſpot, however, is neither common nor waſte, George; and a little legal incloſure is a convenience to life, when the land has been carefully cultivated.

Yes, yes, it has been cultivated. I'll war⯑rant it—But you cannot intend to marry the wench.

Indeed, I did intend it in the morning.

What, to take the refuſe of a clod-hopper to your bed, and ſhare her favours perhaps with a plow⯑man

Nay, no more of this, her virtues are equal to her beauty.

Virtue! Ha, ha, ha. Yes, yes, it is a very virtuous family we have ſtumbled on here in⯑deed. I ſuppoſe I am to be bullied into marrying the niece too, but—

Hold, Sir, I have hitherto borne your re⯑flections with temper, but I muſt not indulge you farther.

Oh, Oh! You are ſerious! Are you? Well come, come, did it want a wife? It ſhall have a [45] Dutch ginger bread one, gilt with Dutch gold too; not worth a ſtiver.

Pr'ythee, George, don't make me angry with you in earneſt.

Why, what's the matter with you, man! Are you mad in earneſt? You are as fractious as if you were married already and had found your wife as wiſe as yourſelf.

To confeſs the truth then I am married.

Married! How? When? Where? To whom?

This morning, to Flora. And now you know my ſituation. Tell me, as a friend, your opi⯑nion of what I have done.

Done! Pox, you have done a very ſilly thing; tied yourſelf to a waxen baby, a mere mop⯑pet, a prating, party-coloured paroquet, which you will play with like a child, till you are tired; and then, in a peeviſh fit, be ready to wring its neck off.

Nay, if that be all, farewel. I ſee you are bent on railing at every thing. But, if you will come and dine with us at Sir Wilful's you may poſ⯑ſibly be converted.

At my uncle's!

Yes, the Baronet intercepted us, in our re⯑turn from church, and infiſted on the celebration of our marriage at the manor houſe. You'll give us your company, George.

Not I. You have ruined our project there—Beſides I have other buſineſs.—My antagoniſt is not very alert in keeping the farmer's appointment. Per⯑haps this is he coming croſs the field.—No, this is a mere boy.—I ſuppoſe my hero has ſent ſome formal excuſe; the women have locked him up; the country is raiſed: or the juſtices have iſſued their warrant to ſtop hoſtile proceedings and make up the matter over a friendly bottle.

Your ſervant, Sir.

Yours, Sir.

Some young enſign of the militia, I ſuppoſe.

I am ſent hither, Sir, to do juſtice to an injured fair, whom I have the honour to be well with, and I ſuppoſe you are my man.

And do you think yourſelf man enough, young gentleman, to ſupport your pretenſions to her.

Oh, Sir. I have brought a ſtouter man than you on his knees before now.

But what intereſt may you have in the wench to engage you thus in her affairs?

Oh, Sir! I have been her favourite a good while; her chief fault indeed is being a little too fond of me.

'Tis not ſo gallant, to be ſure, to mention particulars of this nature, but the affair is no ſecret. I think this is the ſeventh challenge I have given or received, for her and her couſin, Flora. The ſeventh! No, the eighth. Four juſtices, two exciſemen, a parſon, and yourſelf.

Flora! What you have had her too, hah?

Excuſe me there, Sir, ſhe's married, it ſeems—Faith, I'm very glad on't—Poor man! Your friend, I mean. I hope he is not apt to be jea⯑lous.—If his ſon and heir ſhould ſtep into the world before the uſual time, he would do well to impute it rather to the forwardneſs of the boy, than to the frailty of his wife.

Thou art the moſt impudent braggard, I ever met with.

'Tis falſe, Sir. What becauſe I have reprieved you a little and ſuffered you to breathe a moment, while I diverted you with my gallantries, you grow inſolent.

Ha, ha, ha, thou art a very pot-gun charged with air.

And thou, a wooden blunderbuſs without any charge at all.

Thou moſt inſignificant animal!

Hah! What have you theſe tricks, my little bully?

As you make a longer lunge than I, Sir, it may not be prudent to engage with you at ſmall ſword. But put up and take this, or this

You may change it or recharge it, if you ſuſpect my honour.

How is it loaded?

With a brace of bullets, Sir.

Aha! What engaged already, my little friend!

I told you he was a lad of ſpirit, and would find you ſport. Keep your ground, for he ſhoots flying to a miracle.

Does he? Egad, then I am glad you are come, farmer, for we were juſt going to be very ſerious here. This little huff-bluff Hetcor will let nobody kiſs your family but himſelf, it ſeems. Pr'ythee, let us make up this affair, old gentleman. I own I don't fancy this flaſh and a pop, as your young friend calls it—If I am in the wrong; why—

Oh, Sir. Nothing will ſatisfy him now, but your blood; depend on it.

No, Sir. Nothing but your blood! Nothing but your blood! Demme.

Well, Sir, if nothing elſe will do—

Come on—Let us retreat each five paces, then turn round on our heels, and give fire together.

Oh, he is ſhot! he is killed! my poor boy is murdered!

What have I done! Curſe on my ſteady hand.

Help, help, murder! Help.

Nay then it is time to provide for my own ſafety.

What's the matter! What's the matter?

Codſo! here's murderation committed, I believe.

Run, fly, purſue the murderer, all of you. Yonder he ſcampers. I'll ſee to the young gentle⯑man.

Is the coaſt clear?

All off. Admirably performed, indeed. I was afraid you durſt not have ſtood fire.

Yes, yes, as I know there was no danger I was not much afraid. Bring him up to the [50] manor houſe when taken—I'll ſlip acroſs the fields and be there before you.

.

Really, Sir Wilful, you give yourſelf too much trouble, I am obliged to you, but could wiſh, to be excuſed.

Excuſed! No, no. No excuſe; I will have no excuſe. What a bridegroom and afraid of a fiddle! A tenant's daughter married and not have a dance!

Well, Sir, if it muſt be ſo—

And ſo it is that graceleſs young rogue, my nephew, you have brought with you into the country, eh?

Yes, Sir Wilful; and I could wiſh I might be the means of reſtoring him to your favour.

Reſtore him, Sir!—He never loſt my favour. He never had it. He forfeited all preten⯑ſions to that before he was born.

How, Sir! Before he was born!

My brother, you muſt know, mortally offended me by his extravagance; ſo that, though I conſented to be the boy's guardian, for the ſake of his mother, I ſhall never be reconciled to him on the ac⯑count of his father.

That reſolve does not ſquare with your re⯑ported generoſity, Sir Wilful. The ſon may not in⯑herit the foibles of his father.

Yes, yes, prodigality runs in the blood as well as other faſhionable diſorders; he has made away with his whole patrimony already, and might ſtarve but for the annuity, I allow him out of regard to the honour of our family.

Young men, Sir Wilful, are apt to be too liberal. By keeping good company he has fallen into bad hands.

Why give the rogue his due, he has kept good company, as you ſay. Who but George Wild⯑man at Boodle's, the thatched houſe, the St. James's, and, and—every where elſe, egad, where he might ſpend, or loſe his money. To be ſure, he is the worſe, for good company. And yet, if the young raſcal had my eſtate to-morrow, he'd run headlong into better, and ruin himſelf for ever.

It is unhappily too true, Sir. The firſt men in the kingdom are liable to be ſtript by ſharpers.

Yes, but George is not ſharp enough to ſtrip me. He would be the firſt man in the kingdom, I know, to do it, but I ſhall be the laſt man to let him. No, no, let him play at ſharps with thoſe that have taught him the game.

But, Sir Wilful—

No entreating, Sir John. It is only waſte of breath. It will be to no purpoſe. Here has been a pretty lady from London, this month paſt interceding for him. If ſhe can do any thing with him, well and good; otherwiſe I am inexorable. Not but that he ſhall have all when I die; I'll not give ſixpence out of the family—But not a farthing more than his allowance while I live. But I ſhall ſurvive the rogue; he'll cer⯑tainly come to be hanged. I have heard ſuch things of him! he'll certainly come to be hanged.

The coach is returned, Sir, with the ladies.

Gadſo, ay, ſhew them up.

Ladies! Sir Wilful.

Only a neighbour or two, juſt to make up a party for a country dance after dinner.

.

This queer old Baronet is ſo trouble⯑ſome with his civility, I find I muſt go through the im⯑pertinence of a public wedding after all.

Sir John Manly.

So! I muſt ſalute them too, it ſeems.

My love! my dear! Is it you? Why this change of dreſs? Where⯑fore thus metamorphoſed?

I hope my features are not alter'd with my clothes.

No, my love; but you can receive no ad⯑dition by dreſs that will not injure the ſimplicity of your charms.

All this is very true, Sir John. But here⯑by hangs a tale. It was formerly an odd cuſtom for the Lord of this Manor—

Why are not you he?

Not I, Sir: no, no. The preſent Lord is a relation of mine by marriage. I thought you had known him; but you'll know him preſently.

Well, Sir; and what of him?

Being a humoriſt and a man of pleaſure, he lately took it into his head to revive the obſolete cuſtom, I was going to tell you of; by promiſing a handſome marriage portion to a tenant's daughter, on condition of her indulging him in the privilege of a huſband on her wedding-night.

And ſhe has found a man, I ſupppſe, that will marry her on ſuch conditions!

Our peaſantry, Sir John, are few of them ſo nice as to let honour ſtand in the way of profit.

But what is all this to us, Sir!

True, Sir John, that is as you take it; but the point is, your ſpouſe is the damſel, on whom my kinſman has promiſed to beſtow his bounty, and as he is ready to fulfil his part of the agreement, he thinks he has a right to inſiſt on the performance of covenants on the part of the bride.

Ha! ha! ha! I ſee you are diſpoſed to be merry with me, Sir Wilful.

Gadſo, but I am very ſerious, Sir John. The maiden, never dreaming it would be her lot to meet with a huſband, who ſhould object to the condi⯑tion of the obligation, thought there was no harm in thus providing herſelf with ſomething to begin the world with. But, if you refuſe your conſent, to be ſure, the landlord muſt forego his claim.

Conſent! Confound his claim and his cove⯑nant too! I'll ſhoot him through the head, for having the inſolence to mention it.

And me through the heart at the ſame time, Sir?

Madam!

Since all muſt come out, Sir, it is in vain to deny that I love this landlord.

Love him! Sir Wilful's kinſman! the lord of the manor!

The ſame, Sir.

Mighty loving, indeed! I thank you for your love, Madam. —But what can you ſee in me ſo abſurd as to attempt thus to impoſe upon me?

Take care you don't impoſe on your⯑ſelf, Sir.

'Sdeath, Madam! who is this landlord? — Let me ſee him. What's his name? Where is he?

If you can command your paſſion, Sir, you may find, yourſelf alone with him in the adjoin⯑ing gallery, and be ſatisfied of his claim.

Yes, yes, Madam, he ſhall give me ſatis⯑faction, depend on it.

'Egad, his blood circulates purely. What a confounded flurry he is in!

I begin to pity him, Sir; he ſuffers too much from an imaginary evil. Let us follow him.

Confuſion! What can I make of all this?

I ſee nobody.

Ah, ha! here he comes.

So far, ſo good. Now, if I can but ſteal undiſcovered to her dreſſing-room—

.

Yes, Sir; but you don't ſteal undiſcovered to her dreſſing-room, I aſſure you,. 'Sdeath, Sir! how dare you have the impudence to think a gentleman would ſuffer ſuch an inſult? Draw this moment, or—

.

Bleſs me, Sir! What's the matter?

You know very well what's the matter, Sir.

The deuce take me, if I do.

Come, come, draw, my little rampant lord land'ord.

Landlord: The deuce a landlord am I, Sir. Not a manſion, hovel, or tenement have I in the whole county—Nay, Sir, I am only tenant at will to the cloaths on my back.

It is in vain to trifle. You were ſneaking to her dreſſing-room. Draw, I ſay.

Not I, Sir, without ſome better reaſon.

Doſt thou talk of reaſon too, thou con⯑temptible little animal?

Town. Yes, faith, do I. And I think it very hard, for a man who has juſt fallen in one duel, to be taken up ſo ſoon by a ſecond.

Do you laugh at me, Sir?

Hold, hold, Sir! I tell you I have been ſhot once to-day already. You would not go to kill me again.

Inſolent trifler! —Defend yourſelf this mo⯑ment, or, by heavens—

Nay, then, it is well I ſecured my fire⯑arms.

.

Ha! ha! ha! What, fencing with the air, man? Fighting with your own ſhadow?

It is well, Sir, that your age and houſe pro⯑tect you. As for you, Madam, I have learned to de⯑ſpiſe you, ſince I have ſeen the thing on which you had placed your affections.

What thing, Sir?

That toy of ſilk and tinſel, that went out juſt now. Bullies ſhould be made of more ſubſtantial ſtuff. But, thank Heaven, our marriage is not con⯑ſummated, nor ever ſhall. I'll ſue out a divorce, or ride poſt to Japan, but I'll get rid of this affair.

Codſo! We ſhall carry this joke too far here: the man's brain is turned in good earneſt.—

Why, Sir John, there was nobody here but in your own imagination.

Away! thou egregious old coxcomb.

.

'Sdeath, Madam! What do you mean?

I mean, Sir, that you yourſelf are the favourite landlord in queſtion. It is you who gave me the promiſe of your whole fortune for my wed⯑ding-portion. —It is you to whom I have given both my hand and heart.

It is even ſo, Sir John. This is my niece Lucy, late Lady of the Manor; and you my new kinſman, who have entered, it ſeems, into a matrimo⯑nial contract to go to bed together. You ſee you have ſtumbled on a fortune without knowing it.

Yes, Sir; and I now give you my por⯑tion in poſſeſſion, in return for yours in promiſe. —This morning I was miſtreſs of this manſion, with all the paſtures and plowed fields within two miles round. At preſent they are yours: you are their owner now, lord of this manor and me.

Is it poſſible?

Oh, yes, it is very poſſible that things ſhould be as they are. Well, Sir John, what ſay you now? Shall the marriage be conſummated or not? Shall the landlord have his due? or will you ſhoot him through the head? Sue out a divorce, or ride poſt to Japan, to get rid of this affair? Hah?

I am dumb with admiration.

I was reſolved, Sir, never to venture on a huſband, till I was convinced that my perſon, ra⯑rather than my fortune, was his aim. —That proof you have generouſly given me; and I am rejoiced that I can make you this grateful return. —You muſt impute the artifices, I have uſed in procuring this aſſurance, to the deſign concerted between you and your friend, for the diſpoſal of both my perſon and fortune without my conſent.

I own it; with bluſhes I own it. How ſhall I repay thy generoſity? —Give me thy hand, thy lips, thy heart; there let me dwell, and be for ever happy.

.

There, there; ſo, ſo. All's compos'd again. Egad, I was afraid you were non compos, when you talked of meeting a bully here.

By heavens, I encountered an inſolent boy, who with fire arms ſet me at defiance and retired.

Mrs. Townly, as I live, returning from her expedition againſt Mr. Wildman; who is in con⯑ſequence, you ſee, taken into cuſtody. You muſt join with us in inflicting a little imaginary puniſhment too on your friend.

An pleaſe your worſhip, we have apprehended a vagrom here, who has committed a murder, as I may ſay, in Farmer Sternold's cloſe. And ſo we have brought him to take his exami⯑nation afore your worſhip, and be committed to gaol.

Murder! ſay you? Whom has he mur⯑dered?

Nea, nea, I did na ſee the dead mon, to be ſure, to aſk'un. But the fellow and he, beliken, had [60] ſome words about their ſweethearts, and ſo he ſhot'un that's aw.

I always told you, George, what theſe wild doings would bring you to; but you would ſtill run riot upon every thing. What could you expect?

Yes, faith, we have made a very fine expedi⯑tion of it. One of us is married to a jilt, and the other will be hanged for killing her bully.

A fair confeſſion. Where's John, clerk! Here, let him make out the fellow's mittimus. I'll diſpatch him to the county jail, in an inſtant.

To the county jail! Sir John, you will be bound for my appearance at the aſſizes.

As to that, George, I muſt beg to be excuſed. I am ſorry for you, but a murder is ſerious affair, and the law muſt take its courſe.

Ay, certainly—Where's John, clerk! The vagrant ſtands committed.

Then, Sir, for the ſake of your family, I muſt be ſo free as to acquaint you who I am. Look at me, Sir, are my features unknown to you?

Gadſo! Where's my ſpectacles! Let me ſee—Ay, ſure enongh, the very fellow that I commit⯑ted to Lincoln jail for horſe-ſtealing! Egad, friend, if yours be a family phiz, it is a very unpromiſing one, I can aſſure you.

And yet, Sir, I am your nephew, George Wildman.

My nephew! you George Wildman!

Tis too true, Sir Wilful, and I cannot help reflecting on the ſagacity of your late prediction. The young gentleman will certainly come to be hanged, as you ſaid.

True, but I did not think I ſhould have the trouble of ſigning his mittimus.

With your worſhip's leave; as the culprit [61] proves to be a kinſman of yours, and I am the only wit⯑neſs that can convict him; if he ſhould chuſe to ſupply the place of the poor girl's ſweetheart he has killed, and marry her, my evidence, you know, on that con⯑dition—

No, thou raſcally old pandar.

Nay, no abuſe, friend; you have your choice. It is a fair offer; the girl or the gallows.

That's true.

Hey day! What's the matter here!

.

Ha! my little bully alive.

My antagoniſt in cuſtody! I expected as much. You may releaſe him, gentlemen, as I am unhurt. My foot only ſlipped, and my friend, the far⯑mer, here, took the alarm before I could recover myſelf.

Let me embrace you, my little bravo.

.

Nay no more rudeneſs, Sir, at your pe⯑ril. My Uncle Sternold is here to protect me. Don't you know his niece. Laura, Sir?

How! Laura!

Very frolickſome truly all this! A pretty piece of work, you young folks have made of it here. But come, come, it is my turn to have a frolick now. Look you here Mr. Scapegrace, I dare ſay, tho' Mrs. Laura did not chuſe to be a miſtreſs, ſhe will have no objec⯑tions to be made a wife.

Sir Wilful.

Silence, huſſy.

But, Sir Wilful!

How, Sir! a farmer's daughter!

Ay, ſirrah, or you ſhall inherit no farm lands of mine. A farmer's daughter, booby! Why every woman is ſomebody's daughter. But you're out, you rogue, this is Mrs. Townly, Sir, a London lady of fa⯑mily and fortune.

Mrs. Townly! Nay then I am caught in a ſnare, I thought I had eſcaped. Folly, I ſee, makes one as blind as love; I ſhould elſe have ſooner recol⯑lected thoſe features I have ſo often admired. May I hope, Madam—

.

Townly. Nay don't talk to me about your hopes, I know nothing of the matter. Sir Wilful ſeems to diſpoſe of us all as his property; but—

But what, huſſy? Come take her hand, boy, take her hand. If you can venture for once on a wife, I warrant ſhe'll venture twice on a huſband.

.

Hold, hold, Sir; no more. Sir Wil⯑ful ſeems poſitive, but—

Again! at your buts?

Nay, couſin, pay ſome regard, for my ſake, to the haſty example before you.

Which if they don't follow, adod, I'll make ſuch an example of them—

Never fear, Sir Wilful. I'll be bound for my friend's appearance at the aſſizes now. At the ſame time, take notice, George, that however you, libertines, may affect to turn matrimony into ridicule, there is no laſting bliſs but in honourable love.

Right, Sir John: And here I ſee are our neighbours and tenants aſſembled to wiſh you joy on the occaſion. Let them all come in—you muſt know it is our ſheepſhearing time, and we muſt make a ge⯑neral holiday of it.