Enter PEGGY.

Peg. Dear me, I begin to tremble-there is Mr Sparkish, and I cann't get to Mr Belville's house without passing by him-he sees me-and will discover me--he seems in liquor too!-bless me!

Spark. O ho! she stands at bay a little-she don't much relish the engagement. The first blow is half the battle. I'll be a little figurative with her. [Approaching her.] I find, madam, you like a solo better than a duet. You need not have been walking alone this evening, if you had been wiser yesterday- -What, nothing to say for yourself? Repentance, I suppose, makes you as awkward and as foolish as the poor country girl your brother has lock'd up in Pall Mall. Peg. I'm frighten'd out of my wits.

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Tres to pass him. Spark. Not a step farther shall you go, 'till you give me an account of your behaviour, and make me reparation for being ridiculous. What, dumb still-then, if you won't by fair means, I must squeeze you to a confession. [As he goes to seize her, she slips by hion ; but he catches hold | of her before she reaches BELVILLE's door.] Not quite so fast, if you please. Come, come, let me see your modest face, and hear your soft tongue or I shall be tempted to use you ill.

Enter MOODY.

Moody. Hands off, you ruffian-how dare you use a lady, and my sister, in this manner?

[MOODY takes her from SPARKISH. Spark. She's my property, sir-transferred to me by you and though I would give her up to any body for a dirty sword-knot, yet I won't be bullied out of my right, tho' it is not worth that[Snaps his fingers.

Moody. There's a fellow to be a husbandyou are justified in despising him, and flying from him-I'll defend you with my purse and my sword-knock at the door, and let me speak to Belville.[PEGGY knocks at the door; when the footman opens it, she runs in.]master at home, friend?

Foot. Yes, sir.

-Is your

Moody. Tell him then that I have rescued that lady from this gentleman, and that by her desire, and my consent, she flies to him for protection; if he can get a parson, let him marry her this minute; tell him so, and shut the door. [Exit Foolman.]-And now, sir, if your wine has given you courage, you had better shew it upon this occasion, for you are still damn'd ridiculous.

Spark. Did you ever hear the like !. Look ye, Mr Moody, we are in the Park, and to draw a sword is an offence to the court-so you may vapour as long as you please. A wo

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man.

Moody. Relinquish your title in the lady to Belville peaceably, and you may sleep in a whole

skin.

Spark. Belville! he would not have your sister with the fortune of a nabob; no, no, his mouth waters at your country tid-bit at homemuch good may it do him.

Moody. And you think so, puppy-ha, ha, ha ! Spark. Yes, I do, mastiff-ha, ha, ha! Moody. Then thy folly is complete-ha, ha, ha ! Spark. Thine will be so, when thou hast married thy country innocence-ha, ha, ha!

[ They laugh at each other. Enter HARCOURT.

Moody. Who have we here ? Spark. What, my boy Harcourt ! Moody. What brings you here, sir ? Har. I follow'd you to Belville's, to present a near relation of yours, and a nearer one of mine, to you. [Exit.

Spark. What's the matter now?

Re-enter HARCOURT with ALITHEA. Har. Give me leave, gentlemen, without of fence to either, to present Mrs Harcourt to you. Spark. Alithea ! your wife !. -Mr Moody, are you in the clouds too?

Moody. If I am not in a dream--I am the most miserable waking dog, that ever run mad with his misfortunes and astonishment!

Har. Why so, Jack?--can you object to my happiness, when this gentleman was unworthy of it? [MOODY walks about in a rage. Spark. This is very fine, very fine indeedwhere's your story about Belville now, Squire Moody ? Pr'ythee don't chafe, and stare, and stride, and beat thy head, like a mad tragedy poet -but out with thy tropes and figures. Moody. Zounds! I cann't bear it. [Goes hastily to BELVILLE's door, and knocks hard. Ali. Dear brother, what's the matter?

Moody. The devil's the matter! the devil and woman together. [Knocks again.] I'll break the door down if they won't answer. [Knocks again. Footman appears in the balcony.

Foot. What would your honour please to

have?

Moody. Your master, rascal !

Foot. He is obeying your commands, sir, and the moment he is finished he will do himself the pleasure to wait upon you.

Moody. You sneering villain you-If your master does not produce that she devil, who is now with him, and who, with a face of innocence, has cheated and undone me, I'll set fire to his house. [Exit Foot. Spark. Gad so! now I begin to smoke the business. Well said, simplicity, rural simplicity!

'Egad! if thou hast trick'd Cerberus here, I shall be so ravish'd, that I will give this couple a wedding-dinner. Pray, Mr Moody, who's damn'd ridiculous now?

Moody. [Going to SPARKISH.] Look ye, sir -don't grin, for if you dare to shew your teeth at my misfortunes, I'll dash 'em down your impudent throat, you jackanapes.

Spark. [Quite calm.] Very fine, faith- -but I have no weapons to butt with a mad bull, so you may toss and roar by yourself, if you please.

BELVILLE appears in the balcony.

Belv. What does my good friend want with me?

Moody. Are you a villain, or are you not?
Belv. I have obey'd your commands, sir.
Moody. What have you done with the girl, sir?
Belv. Made her my wife, as you desired.
Spark Very true, I am your witness-
Moody. She's my wife, and I demand her.

PEGGY appears
in the balcony.
Peg. No, but I a'n't- --What's the matter,
Bud, are you angry with me?

Moody. How dare you look me in the face, cockatrice?

Peg. How dare you look me in the face, Bud? Have you not given me to another, when you ought to have married me yourself? Have not you pretended to be married to me, when you knew in your conscience you was not?-Ånd have not you been shilly-shally for a long time? So that if I had not married dear Mr Belville, I should not have married at all-so I should not. [BELVILLE and PEGGY retire from the balcony.

Spark. Extremely pleasant, faith; ha, ha, ha! Moody. I am stupified with shame, rage, and astonishment-my fate has o'ercome-I can struggle no more with it. [Sighs.] What is left me-I cannot bear to look, or be looked upon I will hurry down to my old house, take a twelvemonth's provision into it-cut down my draw-bridge, run wild about my garden, which shall grow as wild as myself then will I curse the world, and every individual in it—and when my rage and spirits fail me, I will be found dead among the nettles and thistles, a woeful example of the baseness and treachery of one sex, and of the falsehood, lying, perjury, deceit, impudence, and damnation of the other [Exit.

Spark. Very droll, and extravagantly comic, I must confess; ha, ha, ha! [Enter BEL VILLE and PEGGY.] Look ye, Belville, I wish you joy, with all my heart-you have got the prize, and perhaps have caught a Tartar-that's no business of mine- If you want evidence for Mr Moody's giving his consent to your marriage, I shall be ready. I bear no ill will to that pair. I wish you happy. [To ALITHEA and HARCOURT.] Tho I am sure they'll be miserable and so your humble servant

BUT you, good gentry, what say you to this?
You are to jud e me have I done amiss?
I've reasons will convince you all, and strong ones,
Except old folks, who hanker after young ones;
Bud was so passionate, and grown so thrifty,
'Twas a sad life;--and then he was near fifty!
I'm but nineteen-my husband too is young,
So soft, so gentle, such a winning tongue!
Have I, pray ladies speak, done very wrong?
As for poor Bud, 'twas honest to deceive him!
More virtuous sure, to cheat him than to grieve

him.

I THE Plain Dealer am to act to-day;
And my rough part begins before the play.
First, you who scribble, yet hate all that write,
And keep each other company in spite,
As rivals in your common mistress, Fame,
And, with faint praises, one another damn,
'Tis a good play (we know) you cann't forgive,
But grudge yourselves the pleasure you receive;
Our scribbler, therefore, bluntly bid me say,
He would not have the wits pleas'd here to-day.
Next, you, the fine, loud gentlemen o' th' pit,
Who damn all plays; yet if y'ave any wit,
'Tis but what here you spunge, and daily get;
Poets, like friends to whom you are in debt,
You hate: and so rooks laugh, to see undone
Those pushing gamesters whom they live upon.
Well, you are sparks, and still will be i' th' fa-
shion;

Rail, then, at plays, to hide your obligation.
Now, you shrewd judges who the boxes sway,
Leading the ladies hearts and sense astray,
And, for their sakes, see all, and hear no play,
Correct your cravats, foretops, lock behind;
The dress and breeding of the play ne'er mind.
Plain dealing is, you'll say, quite out of fashion;
You'll hate it here, as in a dedication:

And your fair neighbours, in a limning poet,
No more than in a painter will allow it.
Pictures too like, the ladies will not please:
They must be drawn too here like goddesses.
You, as at Lely's too, would truncheon wield,
And look like heroes in a painted field;
But the course dauber of the coming scenes,
To follow life and nature only means;
Displays you as you are; makes his fine woman
A mercenary jilt, and true to no man:
His men of wit and pleasure of the age
Are as dull rogues as ever cumber'd stage:
He draws a friend, only to custom just,
And makes him naturally break his trust.
I, only, act a part like none of you;
And yet, you'll say, it is a fool's part too,—
An honest man, who, like you, never winks
At faults, but, unlike you, speaks what he thinks:
The only fool who ne'er found patron yet;
For truth is now a fault, as well as wit.
And where else but on stages do we see
Truth pleasing, or rewarded honesty?
Which our bold poet does this day in me.
If not to th' honest, be to th' prosperous kind;
Some friends at court let the Plain Dealer find.

MEN.

MANLY, of an honest, surly, nice humour, supposed first, in the time of the Dutch war, to have procured the command of a ship, out of ho nour, not interest, and chusing a sea-life, only to avoid the world.

FREEMAN, Manly's lieutenant, a gentleman well educated, but of a broken fortune, a complier with the age.

VARNISH, Manly's bosom and only friend. NOVEL, a pert, railing coxcomb, and an admirer of novelties, makes love to Olivia.

Major OLDFOX, an old, impertinent fop, given to scribbling, makes love to the Widow Black

acre.

Man. Tell not me, my good Lord Plausible, of your decorums, supercilious forms, and slavish ceremonies; your little tricks, which you, the spaniels of the world, do daily over and over, for, and to one another, not out of love or duty, but your servile fear.

L. Plau. Nay, i'faith, i'faith, you are too passionate, and I must humbly beg your pardon, and leave to tell you, they are the arts and rules the prudent of the world walk by.

Man. Let'em. But I'll have no leading-strings; I can walk alone; I hate a harness, and will not tug on in a faction, kissing my leader behind, that another slave may do the like to me.

L. Plau. What, will you be singular then, like nobody? follow love, and esteem nobody?

Man. Rather than be general, like you; follow every body, court and kiss every body; though, perhaps, at the same time, you hate every body. L. Plau. Why, seriously, with your pardon, my dear friend

Man. With your pardon, my no friend, I will not, as you do, whisper my hatred or my scorn, call a man fool or knave, by signs or mouths over his shoulder, whilst you have him in your arms;

for such as you, like common whores and pickpockets, are only dangerous to those you embrace. L. Pluu. Such as I! Heavens defend me

upon my honour

Man. Upon your title, my lord, if you'd have me believe you.

L. Plau. Well, then, as I am a person of honour, I never attempted to abuse or lessen any person in my life.

Man. What, you were afraid?

L. Plau. No; but, scriously, I hate to do a rude thing: no, faith, I speak well of all mankind.

Man. I thought so; but know, that the speaking well of all mankind is the worst kind of detraction; for it takes away the reputation of the few good men in the world, by making all alike: now, I speak ill of most men, because they deserve it; I that can do a rude thing, rather than an unjust thing.

L. Plau. Well, tell not me, my dear friend, what people deserve; I ne'er mind that; I, like an author in a dedication, never speak well of a man for his sake, but my own; I will not disparage any man, to disparage myself; for to speak ill of people behind their backs is not like a person of honour; and, truly, to speak ill of 'em to their faces is not like a complaisant person: but if I did say or do an ill thing to any, it should be sure to be behind their backs, out of pure good

manners.