ACT I.

I CAN ſcarce believe I am ſafe, but where's that young peaſant that reſcued me?

That young fellow behaved very well, he did indeed, my, lovely Emma, but you are ſafe now, I give you joy.

Give me joy, no, that you never ſhall;—

Now you are angry, but when we are married—

You and I married, that we never ſhall.

Oh [...] that will be fine indeed, to be [...] from Normandy, your father the earl of M [...]cia ſays, you Count Lewis, ſhall wed my daughter Emma—But the enemy of all ſport, a wicked Dane, darted like a [] ravenous falcon on you, my pretty little dove, and becauſe I would not fight, you will not marry me—now if I did, I might be killed, and would not be married.

To run away, and not even draw your ſword.

It is ill manners to draw—in the preſence of the ladies.

To be ſure you're a gallant cham⯑pion for the ladies!

I love the ladies, and love myſelf,—for the ladies ſake—beſides the Danes are a barbarous enemy, and I made a vow ne⯑ver to encounter a Dane.

Here comes my benefactor and deliverer.

Madam— I've chaſtiſed the vil⯑lains that have dared to inſult you, but hope you've received no hurt!

Thanks to your kindneſs—but what is your name?

William, madam.—

William—while I am here in Co⯑ventry, this token will remind you who it is you have oblig'd

And young man, if you were a a little more poliſhed, I would prefer you to be ſquire, to my lady wife here.

Your wife! never.

Never! Oh, I will go and tell your father—Oh! I—

No, nothing ſhall ever unite me to a creature ſo contemptible.

Charming Emma! when ſhe knows me to be Harold, the ſon of Earl Goodwin, her father's proſeſſed enemy, my blooming hopes are blaſted in the birth.

Is any body here? Joy! joy! huz⯑za!

For what?

Becauſe Earl Goodwin and his ſons are baniſhed.

My father, myſelf and my brother baniſhe dmdash;

Huzza! biſhop Dunſtan has com⯑manded king Edward, to command the earl, to command the mayor, to command me, to make proclamation at the croſs, that the earl Goodwin and his ſons, are traitors in the land.mdash;And I am now going to do the jobmdash;come along good-folks, God bleſs the king, and the crier, knights, yeomen, young and old men, women and children—O yes!—0 yes!

Shall I venture into the town, if once Emma returns to her father's caſtle, proba⯑bly I ſnall never ſee her again, ſhe is lodg⯑ed here in the mayor's houſe, if I am known to be Harold, it is inſtant death, but life without my Emma is not worth my care.

Nay, now, don't, I told your worſhip—you know, don't you believe any ſuch thing—Lord, what will the folks ſay, to ſee his honour the mayor of Coventry, make ſo free with Tom the taylor's wife?

Let me hear them talk, and I'll ſet them in. the ſtocks—Zounds, dare [5] they cenſure a magiſtrate—Let me ſee them wink and there's the ducking-ſtool—for a nod, the cage—for an inuendo, the pillory—and for a malicious whiſper five hundred twirls in the whirligig.

You know, your worſhip, I was vartuous—you know I was forced to leave madam, your wife's ſervice, becauſe I would not let you—you know I would not be naught with you, and ſooner than do ſo—I was forced to take up with Tom, who but a taylor, was honeſt!

Ay! Tom's a rogue!

A rogue, and like your worſhip!—why he's a bit of a magiſtrate—was not he a pariſh clerk, beadle and ſexton at one time, and is he not now overſeer and church-warden?

Ay, but who made him all this?—was he no better than a clown, till I took him under my wing?

He's certainly a little beholden to your worſhip.

Ah ! he owes it all to your pretty face Maud—it was all for your ſake, in your beauty—for you have proviſions of all forts—why you have got a beadle in that arched dimple—a conſtable's ſtaff in that pretty mole—an overſeer in that hazle-eye—a church-warden in thoſe auburn-locks— and a pair of plump aldermen in that pant⯑ing boſom—

Oh lord, I did not think I was ſuch a great body.

Yes, you are, indeed you are—talk of Godiva the earl's new-married lady, and his daughter Emma—why I will wager that ſmile, againſt the whole kingdom of Mercia—egad, if thoſe ſtars were to twinkle in the court of Gloſter, king Edward would ſoon forget his vow of chaſtity.

I tell you what now, Mr. Mayor, you ſhall not talk to me in that way any more, that's what you ſhall not.

But I will—I will tell you what—I will call on you by and by—do not be out—I know Tom will be ringing his bells.

Lord, your honor, if your lady ſhould know.

My lady, poh! poh! ſhe's at home, God bleſs her, let her ſtay there.

Ay, but then the neighbours.—

Neighbours!—the pillory—the ſtocks—the whirligig.— I'll tell you Maud, I'll ſend you a preſent of ſome French wine, that I had from count Lewis, and Egad we'll be ſo ſnug and ſo comfortable; you go home and I'll be with you by and by.

My wife will be a mayor ſoon and I ſhall be an alderman.

I'll ſend you the wine, and there's ſomething to buy a bit of dinner. (gives Tom money)

I'm obliged to your worſhip.

(ſurpriſed at ſeeing Tom inſtead of Maud) Tom, ay, ay, how do you do Tom, how do you do, how do you do ?

Pretty well I thank your worſhip;— but ſir, is this for a corporation dinner?

No, no, (what the devil brings this felllow here, aſide.) Pray have you not a ring⯑ing to day, at the Guy of Warwick, Tom.

Oh yes, we jingle a peal of tripple-bobs, for a leg of mutton and trimmings.

(Egad that's very lucky, I ſhall have Maud all to myſelf.) Tom you are a good ringer.

Pretty well, ſir.

Yes, you are Tom, you are, you will certainly win. Mind your bells, Tom—do not neglect going, you'll certainly win Tom.—But what brought you to me now Tom?

Tho' merry I be, I never was ſo treated in my whole life, why you know our old mad Crazy, the beadle, I thought he might make ſome blunder in proclaiming, the proclamation of earl Goodwin and his ſons, as traitors, ſo I took the bell and rung the people all about me, and there I ſtood like a hen and chickens, but I no ſooner cried ' O Yes, O Yes' than I heard a voice like a gander in the marſhes, ſcreaming out' O No, O No' and who ſhould this be but old Cra⯑zy, for I having got the city bell, he hobbled with the 'pothecary's peſtle and mortar, and clattered with ſuch a devil of a noiſe, folks could not hear, and becauſe I told him to be quiet, he flew at me and tripped up the leg of old corporal Standfaſt, tumbled over Kit the tinker, overturned father Fogarty, the fat fryar, and has mauled my noſe in this manner—look—he fit for an office, indeed, an old driveller.

Why, you moſt impudent of all raſcals, who am I?

Why, ſir, you are the Mayor of Co⯑ventry.

And did not I appoint him beadle?

Why, lord, he's ſo infirm, that when he ſtands at church-door with the poor's box, his hand ſhakes ſo, that the gentle folks charity-farthings fall out of the box—why, he has not one of his twelve ſenſes left but his ſcratching.

Sirrah, he has all his talents about him,—he's been a deviliſh ſhrewd fellow.

Yes, he's a man of ſharp talons as my noſe can teſtify.

Oh! here he comes.

You a mayor—there's a fig for your crown and ſceptre.

There your worſhip, the fellow has made a king of you.

Tell me of kings—I that have ſeen Edward the martyr—the glorious Alfred and Canute the great!

Yes, but did Canute the great give you authority to ſcratch my noſe?

I'll Canute you—I that have been beadle here ever ſince the days of Edmond Ironſide.

Ay, and a deviliſh clever fellow he was.

What do you mean?

I mean that you are curſedly ſhabby about the noddle,—you have lived a great while.

Come, be quiet Tom—here I com⯑mand you to read the proclamation—now ſhew him that you can proclaim it right;—mind, in king Edward's name, you are to of⯑fer a reward of five hundred marks, to any man that will bring in Goodwin, earl of Warwick, dead or alive.

Yes I will—This is to give notice, that by command of Earl Goodwin, king Edward ſhall have five hundred marks for bringing in the head of the mayor of Coven⯑try, dead or alive.

That ſenſible fellow has made a pret⯑ty proclamation!

Now, ain't I an old chaunter?

Yes—I'll truſt you with the public affairs, but you ſhall have nothing to do with mine.

So—between the magiſtrate and his deputy, the affairs of the public are likely to fare well—he has not ſenſe enough to help you in your love affairs with the girls, as he uſed to do.

I'll try him

can't you con⯑trive to keep Tom from going home?

What! you are going to Maud?— well, I will, I will.

Mind your bells Tom—Tom—mind your bells.

I will:

There never was a young woman ſo beſet as I am by his worſhip—if I tell Tom, there's a quarrel—and then there's no ſtaying for us in Coventry, the mayor has ſuch a power of intereſt—I've a great mind to tell madam, his lady, now I will be quit with him one way or other, for his bad opi⯑nion of me, that I will; when people get up a little in the world—Lord, they think there's nothing but to uſe poor folks as they pleaſe [12] —hang the town—how is my Tom altered ſince I came into it,

Oh! here comes the wicked mayor.

Now, here, bring the hamper this way—bring it along—make haſte—there now, get along with you.

What ſhall I do ?

Come along—come—there get a⯑long—now to bolt the door,

I'm undone, no creature in the houſe but myſelf—he muſt not know that or he may be unmodeſt indeed,

Egad here I am Maud, and Tom is abroad with the ringers practiſing his bells [13] —here am I—but you little rogue, how nicely you gave me the flip juſt now!

I aſk your pardon, but you know I muſt obey my huſband—why would you bring me all this wine?

All under the roſe; you ſhall treat me with a glaſs; it will make your veins thrill, your cheeks glow, your boſom pant, your heart beat, your eyes ſparkle with love and rapture.

Lord, ſir, will wine bewitch a body ſo?

Yes, it will, do you know that Love has ſummoned you before me, as a witch, and by the virtue of my authority, I commit you to thoſe arms!

O! ſure your worſhip's a little mad-diſh!

I am at this time as mad a magiſ⯑trate as ever devoured a haunch of veniſon.

Nay, now do not talk that way to me, now, do not now,

Maud, Maud, why have you bolted the door?

That's my Tom!

Where ſhall I go?

Oh, lord, if he ſees you?

I'll go up ſtairs.

You muſt not, indeed, he will go up there!

What ſhall I do? oh my dear re⯑putation, hide me, hide me, ſome where.

Suppoſe you hide in this hamper that brought the wine ?

Oh, excellent! right woman, for invention, ſaith,

Why don't you open the door, Maud?

I'm coming, I'm coming, Tom.

Why the deuce did you bolt the door Maud, now I've broke the bolt.

Becauſe I was alone, and one can't tell what might happen to a body—but what brought you home, Tom?

Why grand news!

News!

Yes, there is his lorſhip, the earl of Mercia, coming to our town—and there is the wedding liveries to be finiſhed—and you are to pay your honours to the bride before ſhe leaves the mayor's houſe, and goes back to the caſtle—I have won the wager Maud, at the Guy of Warwick.

Have you?

I have won it, tol de rol—I'm come home half fuddled with joy—I'll now go and ſee how the cloaths go on—what hamper's that Maud?

Oh that!—aye, that's a hamper of wine that the Mayor deſires you to ſee left ſafe at home, and deliver'd to madam his lady.

Wine!—Oh! I'll carry it immedi⯑ately, as I'm an Officer ſhould do the May⯑or's buſineſs.

So you ſhould Tom—for the Mayor is willing enough to do your buſineſs.

I'll ſee the hamper deliver'd to none but his lady.

Egad, you'll trim his wor⯑ſhip neatly.

You are a happy wife to have ſo cle⯑ver a huſband as I am— ſuch a rare huſ⯑band, Maud !

And you have a rare wife of me, if you knew but all— Lord ! what gcod ſpi⯑rits you're come home in Tom.

How loving good cheer makes a body,

The people of this town are all run⯑ning after news—Mobs and Proclamations—it is bold of me to venture here even into the Mayor's houſe, and a price ſet upon my head by command of the earl—Cruel fate! but I will ſee Emma again, 'tho at the riſk of my life—Ah! what, my lovely Emma ſleeping—ſweet emblem of innocence.

There—leave the hamper of wine 'till I find out madam the Mayoreſs—where the plague are all the ſervants, Oh dear! ah! ah! there is young lady Emma taking a nap after dinner—egad theſe great folks eat ſo heartily of ſo many diſhes—ſhe looks ſo roſy and for all the world like a pretty pic⯑ture [17] —what a charming landſcape—I fancy your great ladies never ſnore— even Maud does not ſnore much—perhaps ſhe's dream⯑ing—I dreamt once, I ſhould be exalted a⯑bove the whole town, by the means of a great lady—may be this is my lucky mi⯑nute; what if I—Oh dear, I have a great mind—Egad I will give her a kiſs—I will

I'm dead.

Tom, you are the only perſon that has ſeen me enter here, betray me and here is inſtant death—aſſiſt me, and here is the means of living well.

Sir, I always love to live well, be⯑cauſe—becauſe—I am a good chriſtian.

Take your choice, gold or ſteel.

Gold is a pretty thing, I am out of conceit with ſteel, ſince laſt Monday, when I run the needle into my thumb.

When ſhe wakes give her this ring, and if ſhe queſtions tell her the owner's at hand.

Yes Sir, I'll tell her its in the own⯑ers hands.

From thence I may form ſome idea of my ſucceſs.

Madam, a handſome gentleman, an ill-looking robber, with great civility— a ſword to my throat—ſaid, Sir be ſo good, to ſhew that lady this ring—you villain—you dog—give her this.

That ring I gave to my benefac⯑tor, my dear my generous William.

Heavens! what do I hear?

Oh, ho! well I will go and carry the hamper to the May⯑oreſs— Oh, ho!—I ſuppoſe ſo—oh well—what's that to Tom?—Aye, oh, aye!—oh, ho!—oh, ho!

Madam, if I am ſo happy as to hold, a place in your affections, whilſt I acknow⯑ledge your condeſcenſion, permit me to ſay, it reflects no diſhonour on your choice, for in poor William the peaſant, you behold Harold, ſon to Goodwin, earl of Kent, and happy only in being hated by the father of her he loves.

Is it poſſible, are you Harold, for whoſe life the proclamation is out? Oh hea⯑vens! if you are diſcovered you are loſt, and I miſerable,

Charming Emma, that tender anx⯑iety for my ſafety, rewards a life of exile; but this evening is appointed for the celebra⯑tion or your nuptials with the Count—This moment the equipage is on the road to con⯑vey you away to the caſtle.

Oh Heavens! doomed to a wretch I deſpiſe.

Truſt to my honor madam, and I will inſtantly convey you to my father's court; thus you will avert the impending ſtorm, and there in ſafety you may determine the fate of him who adores you.

It would be ungrateful to diſtruſt your ſincerity—I reſign myſelf entirely to your protection—free me from this odious match with count Lewis, and it will be a fa⯑vour I ſhall ever acknowledge—and eſteem as a generous obligation.

Yes, that poor fellow muſt be ſome rich man from the money he gave me—there is love—0 yes, there is certainly love in the caſe—well, what's that to Tom?—my bu⯑ſineſs is to deliver this wine to the Mayoreſs, I am in great favour—ſhe ſmiles upon me whenever ſhe ſees me,—now if ſhe ſhould be the great lady who is to exalt me—who knows, here comes the Mayoreſs herſelf.

Not a ſervant in this houſe, all gone I ſuppoſe to ſee the young lady, Go⯑diva come into town—Oh ! good Tom.

She always calls me good Tom, that's no bad ſign.

What's this Tom?

Madam, when I went home, I found my door locked, and burſting it open, my wife Maud got this hamper in care, which [20] his worſhip the Mayor had told her—to tell me, to fetch it to your ladyſhip.

More nonſenſe of my blockhead of a huſband.

It's no nonſenſe madam, becauſe it's wine.

Oh, wine I ſuppoſe that he has purchaſed from the French Count.

It's no purchaſe, it's a preſent.

[...] a preſent from the French Count I ſuppoſe—Well for this trouble Tom you ſhall have the firſt glaſs.

I long to drink your ladyſhip's health—you are the tulip of Coventry.

You have a good taſte Tom.

Taſte, Madam, I could drink a bot⯑tle when you are the toaſt;

Ay, and you will have a bottle well filled preſently.

What brings you here?

I come to empty the hamper, ma⯑dam.

You.

Yes madam for it was laſt filled at my houſe.

So Maud you was toping, when you locked yourſelf in.

There madam!

My huſband!

Egad, this is indeed a big-bellied bottle!

What—you have been at your old tricks I ſuppoſe.

Well done Maud—Egad you have hamper'd his worſhip.

You are a right worſhipful ma⯑giſtrate.

So I am wife—Tom, remember I am the father of you all.

Yes! and you want to be father of my children.

Come here wife—come here—well Tom, as this was only a frolic you'll ſend home the wine.

Oh, is it at home now?

Yes, but you'll ſend it home to me.

Oh no—the devil a drop you get—I'll keep it to drink to my wife's virtue, and the like ſucceſs to your worſhip's intrigues.

Dear wife, forgive this.

ACT II

HUZZA! huzza! neighbours, neigh⯑bours, where are you all going?

Huzza!—to meet the earl of Mercia, and lady Godiva!

Why, neighbours, what will they think of our town—let us welcome them in order—if we muſt roar, let us roar like men and chriſtians—I'll chear them with a choice chaunt—and then I'll make a fine ſpeech,— and then when I'm making the ſpeech—not a grunt from one of you—not a grunt!

Why, what will you ſay?

Why, ſuppoſe now, you to be the counteſs—I deſire you to make a low court⯑ſey to me, becauſe you are very civil—now you frown with your under lip more—now curl up your noſe—ſo now Mr. Counteſs take your fingers out of your mouth—do, now ſettle your diamond necklace—ſhew your fine ring and white hand.—

But Mr. Tom, as I have got no dia⯑mond necklace, won't it do as well to ſtroke my beard ?

No, no it won't—did you ever hear of a counteſs ſtroking her beard?—now I will make a ſpcech—"May it pleaſe your lordſhip and your ladyſhip—the great honor you have done us, in coming to our beggar⯑ly town;"

What—Coventry a beggarly town?—why you deſerve a kicking!

Now, did you ever know a counteſs to kick a church-warden?

No ſpeech, no ſpeech—a ſpeech from the mayor, to be ſure.

The mayor's an ignorant man!

What's the matter here?

Here's Tom abuſing the whole town.

Is he?—get you gone all of you— Tom, you are a very impudent fellow—ſo Tom, I'm an ignorant man.

Are you, ſir?

And you are an impudent raſcal;

My impudence, and having a wiſe too pretty for me, and too virtuous for your worſhip.

Tom, I diſcharge you from all public offices—the public good demands it.

The public good-why—can you forget when you collected the poor's-rate, you lent out the money at three pence a week for a ſhilling—and when church-war⯑den, you was detected in putting in ſix-pence and taking out half-a-crown

I put in half-a-crown.

Ay, that was compound.

Tom, I diſcharge you down to a common conſtable.

He is no conſtable, that office be⯑longs to me!

Tom, I ſupercede you—I muſt be ready to receive the earl of Mercia.

Mr. Mayor, my daughter has made a long viſit at your houſe.

She does my houſe, my lord much honor.

Has not your fair at Coventry laſted much longer than uſual?

My lady, in order to compenſate for the great honor done us, we have had a greater variety of entertainments than ever was known in Coventry!

We have indeed had great diverſions my lady; lord, how beautiful ſhe is!

Yes, we have had much merry⯑making.

Who are you, my old friend?

Pleaſe your worſhip—I'm mayor of Coventry.

The devil you are.

Pleaſe your worſhip, that old gentle⯑man's wits are a little out at the elbows, and tho'my brain is quite new, and I've been ſo active in every office, yet the mayor has put him over my head—and he's mad.

Crazy there has merit.

I've done nothing.

So then you are the active officer that has done nothing!

I do all myſelf!

This ſame town of Coventry ſeems to be well-governed—if one may judge by the appearance of its magiſtrates.

His lordſhip ſeems to be in a plaguy ill-humour—he looks dam'd glum—come— clear up your pipes and give him a ſong.

Emma, my lord, your daughter's fled—gone off—and accompanied by a young peaſant—that I dare ſay muſt be the peaſant that reſcued her from the Danes; it [27] ſeems Harold, earl Goodwin's ſon has been lurking about the town.

Is this your fi⯑delity to me—ſince you have joined in the treaſon, all partake in the puniſhment—for this offence I amerce your city in a thouſand marks, and by Heavens, the power of man ſhall not induce me to abate one ſcruple—ſee that this is complied with in an hours notice, or rigour ſhall enforce my ſentence.

Here's a pretty job!

I remember Alfred the great laid a tax upon horn combs.

Fine care you have taken of us!

Fire, ſword and famine is come up⯑on Us!—O grief—O ruin!

You ſee when my lord takes a thing in his head, he ſays I will do it—and in that caſe he ſurely does it—and then it's done.

We all know that lady Godiva is as ſweet-temper'd as her huſband is crab⯑bed and cruſty—now I will ſummon all the good-wives in a body and I will go at their head, and with diſhevelled hair and ſtream⯑in'g eyes, will beſeech the lady, to beſeech her huſband—to take off the tax.

An excellent thought!

I muſt get the conſent of the cor⯑poration—I will go ſummon the livery—

Summon the Livery, you had better go ſummon the petticoats—

I'm for the petticoats.

And I love the petticoats.

What a dilemma?

The city guard being poſted pre⯑vented our eſcape—

When my father knows you are the perſon that aſſiſted my eſcape, he will be in ſuch a rage—

A ſeparation from my Emma, alone is a terror for her faithful Harold.

Was my father but to conſider your valour, he would certainly be reconcil⯑ed.

True, my love, I have bled in my country's cauſe, and ſhall again—not the fire of love, nor the froſt of age, ſhall check my ſpirit in the cauſe of Britain.

Oh, do not have an idea of ſepa⯑ration; if you could but find a place of ſafety here for the preſent—I think this is the houſe of poor honeſt Tom, the taylor, I have ſeen ſo often at the Mayor's.

Ay, they there go—what a fine ſtring of them, I did not think there were ſo ma⯑ny women in Coventry, at leaſt not ſo ma⯑ny pretty girls in it—I love the pretty girls becauſe they are generally ſo handſome— they always ſnigger at me as they paſs, how can they help it, when I caſt ſuch fly looks at them—there they all march in a body—egad it's a delicate body and the May⯑oreſs at their head, ſhe's a fine head—well if this ſcheme ſucceeds, I will get drunk to⯑night like a ſober citizen, and drink ſuc⯑ceſs to the petticoat corporation—Oh lord, madam Emma, there they are gone up to the lady Godiva.

You'll not betray me!

Mind Tom, money or ſteel.

No, Sir, I have enough of gold and keep the ſword to defend the lady,—you will find ſhelter in my houſe, perhaps as good as in a rich man's—for lord, I am as great a friend to love as the women's fa⯑vourite the fat fryar father Fogarty.

I have a great fancy to know what Maud and the Mayoreſs have done—Lord, how I long to know what ſucceſs they have had, or whether they will forgive the tax—oh, there's Maud come back, I hear her voice.

Oh, madam, I'll only tell my Tom.

Oh, Tom, here we have got the young lady Emma in the houſe—have you ſeen the counteſs?

I know what we have got—but tell me, ſhall we get the tax off, you all went, and were you all there?

Yes, there we went, and we were all admitted to lady Godiva's preſence!

Oh, God that was pleaſant.

So it was Tom—we all fell a cry⯑ing.

How did you manage that, Maud—I never ſaw you cry in all my life.

I only made believe—then we all fell on our knees, then we got up again.

Yes, yes, Oh, I ſee—I ſee you did!

Then the Counteſs ſhe heard our petitions, and ſhe aſked my lord to pardon the city—no, ſaid his lordſhip that I will not—I have ſworn that the power of man ſhall not perſuade me—Yes, but ſays ſhe, the power of woman may, and I am a woman, ſays ſhe.

Oh, ſhe need not have told him that.

And ſays her ladyſhip, I am a good woman and your wife; and you as a good huſband ought to do as I bid you.

She was a little out there.

Says the earl as you are a good woman, I will forgive the tax, only on one condition—what's that ſays my lady? It is, ſays he, only if you will ride through the city of Coventry naked, without a rag of cloaths on.

What!

Now, he only joked; having no notion ſhe would do it—but ſhe having the good of our city at heart took him at his word, and is actually now preparing for it.

Lady Godiva, ride a horſe-back—all through the city, without any—well if I ever—

Now you are all agog, with you nonſenſical curioſity.

I have? no curioſity.

Tom, Tom, our fortune is made, for as the lady Emma has taken ſhelter in our houſe—

O u houſe— ride—ſo, ſo—

But here's a young peaſant in her company.

Company; then I ſuppoſe ſhe will have nothing, at all—

Tis very odd, for he ſeems to have a fight of money.

Sight of money—ſuch a ſight.

Hang the man is he grown ſtupid—what are you thinking of Tom?

I was thinking of a ſide-ſaddie.

Was there ever ſuch a fool, but I muſt go and attend lady Emma, ſo I will leave you to ride on your ſide-ſaddle.

Talk of a coronation, 'tis no more to this—Lady Godiva is a proceſſion in her⯑ſelf, I muſt go in time to procure a good place—ſhall I aſk our Maud to go—no, no, the ſight would be loſt, upon Maud—but I'll go—

What brings you here, Sir.

Well Tom, I ſuppoſe you have heard?

Yes Sir.

Lady Godiva, in her progreſs thro' the city, paſſes by your houſe here.

Gad Sir, that's lucky, I ſhall have an opportunity of ſeeing her nicely.

Yes, and you will have an oppor⯑tunity of hanging in hemp nicely at your own door—the ſtreets are to be cleared—all the windows and the houſes to be faſtened up, no perſon to be ſeen on pain of death, of the male kind.

Me—do you think I would look, ſir,—I wiſh I could get him out of my houſe— why what need your worſhip be in a hurry to go.

I am in a hurry to go Tom.

It's a fine day abroad, Sir.

But every body muſt ſtay at home.

Well if you will go home you muſt—good-bye, to you, Sir.

What are you going Tom?

Yes, Sir; I wiſh you a good-bye, Sir, I will not ſtay in this room, while lady Godiva paſſes it commands ſuch a proſpect.

Gad that's true, from that window I could have a charming peep, if that fel⯑low was but out of the way.

I'll go down, and lock myſelf in the cellar to avoid temptation.

Do Tom—that's a good boy, and I'll go home, Tom!

Good-bye to you, Sir.

Good-bye to you, Tom.

So you are going home, Sir?

Yes, I'm going home, now do you go and lock yourſelf up in the cellar.

Yes, I will Sir, good-bye, Sir

Good-bye, Tom!

Good-bye, Sir.

Good-bye, Tom!

By this time, lady Godiva's paſt the croſs, all is clear, and fooliſh Tom has lock⯑ed himſelf up in the cellar, and thinks I am gone home—She cannot be far off now—I ſhall have a charming peep at her from that window—I'll go and look for ſomething to put on this table.

So by this time his worſhip's at home, curſt troubleſome old hound, and lady Go⯑diva muſt be at hand—I think. I hear her horſe's feet—the clinking of their hoofs is far ſweeter than a haut-boy.

There there, ſhe's turning the corner.

I can find, nothing—I'll. try to reach the window upon my tip-toes, tho' I break my neck for it—

Oh, you villain have I caught you peeping.

Sir, I was only going to take in the cock chaffinch.

Come down, I'll have you hanged—I came here only on the look-out.

You ſhall be hanged Tom.

Then your lordſhp muſt get me another neck, for this is engaged already—

How, ſirrah! did you not know it was inſtant death!

True, my lord, but I thought it was no harm.

Oh, my dear, what's the matter, it is all along this wicked Mayor, he wants to make a widow of me—it would be for the public good if he was hanged, inſtead of my huſband—

Then we ſhould leave his wife here a ſorrowful widow.

Oh, my lord I ſhould not mind my private ſorrows for the public good—

So then Mr. Mayor, all this was to forward your deſigns upon the young wo⯑man—if this culprit here will give up my daughter, his life ſhall be ſaved.

Then I have a dull chance, my lord; but my lord, tho'I am but a poor fellow, the richeſt jewel in your lordſhip's coronet could not make me betray a perſon, after once giving him the protection of my roof.

See him to execution—I will try him further.

No mercy, my lord.

Yes, if you can produce Harold in your place, that may ſave your life.

Then ſave his life and take mine, I am Harold, but now the huſband of your un⯑happy daughter.

Diſobedient child—of all men upon earth, is this your wretched choice?

My choice—my pride.

I would ſooner have beſtowed you on that peaſant, that reſcued you from the Danes, for his valour at loaſt has a claim up⯑on my gratitude.

Then let Harold have that claim; he was that peaſant, the protector of my life and honour.

I ſee now that my prejudice to Earl Goodwin, has blinded me to his ſon's pecu⯑liar virtues, and what you have ſaved—take for your reward.

My lord, your daughter I claim ac⯑ording to your promiſe.

No, he's unworthy of a lady's [...]e, that has not courage to protect it.

So here I ſtand all this while with the rope about my neck.

I muſt do my duty, bring in the conſtables.

Tis your duty to reſign an office to which you are a diſgrace—Here I grant Tom a full pardon for his adherence to his word, and in your place I appoint him Mayor of Coventry.

What Peeping Tom!

Hold your tongue, you dog, or I'll put you in the ſtocks.

Whoever is Mayor, I'll be Church-Warden.

I believe I have been too ſevere up⯑on your city, but ſince it has produced one honeſt man, I relinquiſh my claims.

Yes, I'm an honeſt man, and you have found me out.

Then I hope our friends will be equally indulgent, and every man that loves a fine woman, will pardon, PEEPING TOM OF COVENTRY.