tenants of marines, and a man of war's boatsswain. Plume. A full company-you have named five -come, make them half-a-dozen-Kite, is the child a boy or girl? Kite. A chopping boy. Plume. Then set the mother down in your list, and the boy in mine; enter him a grenadier by the name of Francis Kite, absent upon furlowI'll allow you a man's pay for his subsistence; and, now, go comfort the wench in the straw, Kite. I shall, sir. Plume. But, hold-have you made any use of your German doctor's habit since you arrived? Kite. Yes, yes, sir; and my fame's all about the country for the most faithful fortune-teller, that ever told a lie-I was obliged to let my landlord into the secret, for the convenience of keeping it so; but he is an honest fellow, and will be faithful to any roguery that is trusted to him. This device, sir, will get you men and me money, which I think is all we want at present But yonder comes your friend, Mr WorthyHas your honour any further commands? Plume. None at present. [Exit KITE.] 'Tis, indeed, the picture of Worthy, but the life's departed. Enter WORTHY. What, arms across, Worthy! methinks you should hold them open when a friend's so near-The man has got the vapours in his ears, I believe. I must expel this melancholy spirit. Spleen, the worst of fiends below, [Slaps WORTHY on the shoulder. Wor. Plume! my dear captain! welcome.Safe and sound returned! Plume. I escaped safe from Germany, and sound, I hope, from London: you see I have lost neither leg, arm, nor nose. Then for my inside, 'tis neither troubled with sympathies nor antipathies; and I have an excellent stomach for roastbeef. SO. Wor. Thou art a happy fellow: once I was Plume. What ails thee, man? no inundations nor earthquakes in Wales, I hope? Has your father rose from the dead, and reassumed his estate? Wor. No. Plume. Then you are married, surely? Plume. Then you are mad, or turning quaker? Wor. Come, I must out with it-Your once gay roving friend is dwindled into an obsequious, thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb. Plume. And, pray, what is all this for? Plume. Shake hands, brother. If thou go to that, behold me as obsequious, as thoughtful, and as constant a coxcomb as your worship. Wor. For whom? Plume. For a regiment-but for a woman! 'Sdeath! I have been constant to fifteen at a time, but never melancholy for one: and can the love of one bring you into this condition? Pray, who is this wonderful Helen? Wor. A Helen, indeed! not to be won under ten years siege; as great a beauty, and as great a jilt. Plume. A jilt! pho! is she as great a whore? Wor. No, no. Plume. 'Tis ten thousand pities! But who is she? do I know her? Wor. Very well. Plume. That's impossible-I know no woman that will hold out a ten years siege. Wor. What think you of Melinda? Plume. Melinda! why she began to capitolate this time twelvemonth, and offered to surrender upon honourable terms: and I advised you to propose a settlement of five hundred pounds a year to her, before I went last abroad. Wor. I did, and she hearkened to it, desiring only one week to consider when, beyond her hopes, the town was relieved, and I forced to turn my siege into a blockade. Plume. Explain, explain. Wor. My lady Richly, her aunt in Flintshire, dies, and leaves her, at this critical time, twenty thousand pounds. Plume. Oh, the devil! what a delicate woman was there spoiled! But, by the rules of war, now- -Worthy, blockade was foolish-After such a convoy of provisions was entered the place, you could have no thought of reducing it by famine; you should have redoubled your attacks, taken the town by storm, or have died upon the breach. Wor. I did make one general assault, but was so vigorously repulsed, that, despairing of ever gaining her for a mistress, I have altered my conduct, given my addresses the obsequious and distant turn, and court her now for a wife. Plume. So; as you grew obsequious, she grew haughty, and, because you approached her like a goddess, she used you like a dog. Wor. Exactly. Plume. 'Tis the way of them all-Come, Wor thy; your obsequious and distant airs will never bring you together; you must not think to surmount her pride by your humility. Would you bring her to better thoughts of you, she must be reduced to a meaner opinion of herself. Let me see-Suppose we lampooned all the pretty wo men in town, and left her out? or, what if we made a ball, and forgot to invite her, with one or two of the ugliest? Wor. These would be mortifications, I must confess; but we live in such a precise, dull place, that we can have no balls, no lampoons, no Plume. What! no bastards! and so many re cruiting officers in town! I thought 'twas a maxim among them to leave as many recruits in the country as they carried out. Wor. Nobody doubts your good-will, noble captain, in serving your country with your best blood; witness our friend Molly at The Castle; there have been tears in town about that business, captain. Plume. I hope Sylvia has not heard of it. Wor. Oh, sir, you have thought of her? I began to fancy you had forgot poor Sylvia. Plume. Your affairs had quite put mine out of my head. 'Tis true, Sylvia and I had once agreed to go to bed together, could we have adjusted preliminaries; but she would have the wedding before consummation, and I was for consummation before the wedding: we could not agree. Wor. But do you intend to marry upon no other conditions? Plume. Your pardon, sir, I'll marry upon no condition at all-If I should, I am resolved never to bind myself down to a woman for my whole life, till I know whether I shall like her company for half an hour. Suppose I married a woman that wanted a leg-such a thing might be, unless I examined the goods before-hand If people would but try one another's constitutions before they engaged, it would prevent all these elopements, divorces, and the devil knows what. Wor. Nay, for that matter, the town did not stick to say that—— Kite. Your worship very well may-for I have got both a wife and a child in half an hour-But, as I was saying-you sent me to comfort Mrs Molly-my wife, I mean-but what d'ye think, sir? she was better comforted before I came. Plume. As how? Kite. Why, sir, a footman, in a blue livery, had brought her ten guineas to buy her babyclothes. Plume. Who, in the name of wonder, could send them? via. Kite. Nay, sir, I must whisper that—Mrs Syl Plume. Sylvia! generous creature! Wor. Sylvia! impossible! Kite. Here are the guineas, sir—I took the gold as part of my wife's portion. Nay, farther, sir, she sent word the child should be taken all imaginable care of, and that she intended to stand godmother. The same footman, as I was coming to you with this news, called after me, and told me, that his lady would speak with me—I went, and, upon hearing that you were come to town, she gave me half-a-guinea for the news, and ordered me to tell you, that Justice Balance, her father, who is just come out of the country, would be glad to see you. Plume. There's a girl for you, Worthy!-Is there anything of woman in this? no, 'tis noble, generous, manly friendship. Shew me another woman, that would lose an inch of her prerogative that way, without tears, fits, and reproaches. Plume. I hate country towns for that reason- The common jealousy of her sex, which is noIf your town has a dishonourable thought of Syl-thing but their avarice of pleasure, she despises, via, it deserves to be burnt to the ground-I love Sylvia, I admire her frank generous dispositionthere's something in that girl more than womanher sex is but a foil to her-the ingratitude, dissimulation, envy, pride, avarice, and vanity, of her sister females, do but set off their contraries in her. In short, were I once a general, I would marry her. Wor. Faith, you have reason-for, were you but a corporal, she would marry you-But my Melinda coquettes it with every fellow she seesI'll lay fifty pounds she makes love to you. Plume. I'll lay you a hundred, that I return it, if she does. Look'e, Worthy, I'll win her, and give her to you afterwards! Wor. If you win her, you shall wear her, faith. I would not value the conquest, without the credit of the victory. Enter KITE. Kite. Captain, captain! a word in your ear. Plume. You may speak out; here are none but friends. Kite. You know, sir, that you sent me to comfort the good woman in the straw, Mrs Mollymy wife, Mr Worthy. Wor. O ho! very well! I wish you joy, Mr Kite. and can part with the lover, though she dies for the man-Come, Worthy-where's the best wine? for there I'll quarter. Wor. Horton has a fresh pipe of choice Barcelona, which I would not let him pierce before, because I reserved it for your welcome to town. Plume. Let's away, then-Mr Kite, go to the lady with my humble service, and tell her, I shall only refresh a little, and wait upon her. Wor. Hold, Kite!-have you seen the other recruiting captain? Kite. No, sir; I'd have you to know I don't keep such company. Plume. Another! who is he? Wor. My rival, in the first place, and the most unaccountable fellow-but I'll tell you more as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-An apartment. MELINDA and SYLVIA meeting. Mel. Welcome to town, cousin Sylvia! [Salute.] I envied you your retreat in the country for Shrewsbury, methinks, and all your heads of shires, are the most irregular places for living. Here, we have smoke, scandal, affectation, and pretension; in short, every thing to give the spleen and nothing to divert it-then the air is | intolerable. Syl. Oh, madam! I have heard the town commended for its air. Mel. But you don't consider, Sylvia, how long I have lived in it; for I can assure you, that, to a lady, the least nice in her constitution, no air can be good above half a year. Change of air I take to be the most agreeable of any variety in life. Syl. As you say, cousin Melinda, there are several sorts of airs. Mel. Psha! I talk only of the air we breathe, or, more properly, of that we taste-Have not you, Sylvia, found a vast difference in the taste of airs? Syl. Pray, cousin, are not the vapours a sort of air? Taste air! you might as well tell me I may feed upon air! but prithee, my dear Melinda, don't put on such an air to me. Your education and mine were just the same; and I remember the time when we never troubled our heads about air, but when the sharp air from the Welch mountains made our fingers ache in a cold morning at the boarding-school. Mel. Our education, cousin, was the same, but our temperaments had nothing alike; you have the constitution of an horse. Syl. So far as to be troubled neither with spleen, cholic, nor vapours. I need no salts for my stomach, no hartshorn for my head, nor wash for my complexion; I can gallop all the morning after the hunting-horn, and all the evening after a fiddle. In short, I can do every thing with my father, but drink and shoot flying; and I am sure I can do every thing my mother could, were I put to the trial. Mel. You are in a fair way of being put to't; for I am told your captain is come to town. Syl. Ay, Melinda, he is come; and I'll take care he shan't go without a companion. Mel. You are certainly mad, cousin. amours. But, now I think on't, how stands Mel. He's my aversion. Mel. What do you say, madam? your Syl. I say that you should not use that honest fellow so inhumanly: he's a gentleman of parts and fortune; and, besides that, he's my Plume's friend; and, by all that's sacred, if you don't use him better, I shall expect satisfaction. Mel. Satisfaction! you begin to fancy yourself in breeches in good earnest-But, to be plain with you, I like Worthy the worse for being so intimate with your captain; for I take him to be a loose, idle, unmannerly coxcomb. Syl. Oh, madam! you never saw him, perhaps, since you were mistress of twenty thousand pounds: you only knew him, when you were capitulating with Worthy for a settlement, which, perhaps, might encourage him to be a little loose and unmannerly with you. Mel. What do you mean, madam! Syl. My meaning needs no interpretation, madam. Mel. Better it had, madam; for methinks you are too plain. Syl. If you mean the plainness of my person, I think your ladyship's as plain as me to the full. Mel. Were I sure of that, I would be glad to take up with a rakehelly officer, as you do. Syl. Again! look'e, madam; you are in your own house. Mel. And if you had kept in yours, I should have excused you. Syl. Don't be troubled, madam; I shaʼnt desire to have my visit returned. Mel. The sooner, therefore, you make an end of this, the better. Syl. I am easily persuaded to follow my inclinations; and so, madam, your humble servant. [Exit. Mel. Saucy thing! Enter LUCY. Lucy. What's the matter, madam? Mel. Did not you see the proud nothing, how she swell'd upon the arrival of her fellow? Syl. And there's a pleasure in being mad, 'Which none but madmen know.' Mel. Thou poor romantic Quixotte! hast thou the vanity to imagine, that a young, sprightly officer, that rambles o'er half the globe in half a year, can confine his thoughts to the little daughter of a country justice, in an obscure part of the Lucy. Her fellow has not been long enough world? arrived to occasion any great swelling, madam; Syl. Psha! what care I for his thoughts? II don't believe she has seen him yet. should not like a man with confined thoughts; it shews a narrowness of soul. In short, Melinda, I think a petticoat a mighty simple thing, and I am heartily tired of my sex. Mel. That is, you are tired of an appendix to our sex, that you can't so handsomely get rid of in petticoats as if you were in breeches. O' my conscience, Sylvia, hadst thou been a man, thou hadst been the greatest rake in Christendom! Syl. I should have endeavoured to know the world, which a man can never do thoroughly, without half a hundred friendships, and as many Mel. Nor sha'nt, if I can help it-Let me see |--I have it—bring me pen and ink-Hold, I'll go write in my closet. Lucy. An answer to this letter, I hope, ma- Mel. Who sent it? Mel. He's a fool, and I'm tir'd of him: send it back, unopened. Lucy. The messenger's gone, madam. Mel. Then how should I send an answer? Call him back immediately, while I go write. [Exeunt. SCENE I-An Apartment. Enter JUSTICE BALANCE and PLUME. ACT II. Bal. Look'e, captain, give us but blood for our money, and you sha'nt want men. Plume. Pray, Mr Balance, how does your fair daughter? Bal. Ah, captain! what is my daughter to a marshal of France? we're upon a nobler subject; I want to have a particular description of the battle of Hockstet. Plume. The battle, sir, was a very pretty battle as any one should desire to see; but we were all so intent upon victory, that we never minded the battle: all that I know of the matter is, our general commanded us to beat the French, and we did so; and, if he pleases but to say the word, we'll do it again. But pray, sir, how does Mrs Sylvia? Bal. Still upon Sylvia! for shame, captain ! you are engaged already, wedded to the war: Victory is your mistress, and 'tis below a soldier to think of other. any Plume. As a mistress, I confess; but as a friend, Mr Balance Bal. Come, come, captain, never mince the matter; would not debauch you my daughter, if you could? Plume. How, Sir! I hope she is not to be debauched. Bal. Faith, but she is, sir; and any woman in England, of her age and complexion, by your youth and vigour. Look'e, captain, once I was young, and once an officer, as you are, and I can guess at your thoughts now, by what mine were then; and I remember very well, that I would have given one of my legs to have deluded the daughter of an old country gentleman like me, as I was then like you. Plume. But, sir, was that country gentleman your friend and benefactor? Bal. Not much of that. Plume. There the coinparison breaks : the favours, sir, that Bal. Pho, pho! I hate set speeches: if I have done you any service, captain, it was to please myself. I love thee, and if I could part with my girl, you should have her as soon as any young fellow I know; but I hope you have more honour than to quit the service, and she more prudence than to follow the camp; but she's at her own disposal; she has fifteen hundred pounds in her pocket, and so— -Sylvia, Sylvia! [Calls. Bal. And here is a gentleman from Germany. [Presents PLUME to her.] Captain, you'll excuse me; I'll go read my letters, and wait on you. [Erit. Syl. Sir, you are welcome to England. Plume. You are indebted to me a welcome, madam, since the hopes of receiving it from this fair hand was the principal cause of my seeing England. Syl. I have often heard, that soldiers were sincere; may I venture to believe public report? Plume. You may, when 'tis backed by private insurance; for, I swear, madam, by the honour of my profession, that whatever dangers I went upon, it was with the hope of making myself more worthy of your esteem; and if ever I had thoughts of preserving my life, 'twas for the pleasure of dying at your feet. Syl. Well, well, you shall die at my feet, or where you will; but you know, sir, there is a certain will and testament to be made before hand. Plume. My will, madam, is made already, and that parchthere it is; and if you please to open ment, which was drawn the evening before the battle of Hockstet, you will find whom I left my heir. Syl. Mrs Sylvia Balance-[Opens the will, and reads.] Well, captain, this is a handsome and a substantial compliment; but I can assure you I am much better pleased with the bare knowledge of your intention, than I should have been in the possession of your legacy: but, methinks, sir, you should have left something to your little boy at Ser. Madam, my master has received some ill news from London, and desires to speak with you immediately, and he begs the captain's pardon, that he can't wait on him as he promised. Plume. Ill news! Heavens avert it! nothing could touch me nearer than to see that generous, worthy gentleman afflicted. I'll leave you to comfort him; and be assured, that if my life and fortune can be any way serviceable to the father of my Sylvia, he shall freely command both. Syl. The necessity must be very pressing, that would engage me to endanger either. 3N [Exeunt severally. SCENE II.-Another Apartment. Enter BALANCE and SYLVIA. Syl. Whilst there is life there is hope, sir; perhaps my brother may recover. Bal. We have but little reason to expect it; the doctor acquaints me here, that before this comes to my hands, he fears I shall have no son -Poor Owen-but the decree is just; I was pleased with the death of my father, because he left me an estate, and now I am punished with the loss of an heir to inherit mine. I must now look upon you as the only hope of my family; and I expect that the augmentation of your fortune will give you fresh thoughts and new prospects. Syl. My desire in being punctual in my obedience, requires that you would be plain in your commands, sir. Bal. The death of your brother makes you sole heiress to my estate, which you know is about twelve hundred pounds a-year: this fortune gives you a fair claim to quality and a title you must set a just value upon yourself, and, in plain terms, think no more of Captain Plume. : Syl. You have often commended the gentleman, sir. had one; and you have been so careful, so indulgent, to me since, that indeed I never wanted one. Bal. Have I ever denied you any thing you asked of me? Syl. Never, that I remember. Bul. Then, Sylvia, I must beg, that, once in your life, you would grant me a favour. Syl. Why should you question it, sir? Bal. I don't; but I would rather counsel than command. I don't propose this with the autherity of a parent, but as the advice of your friend, that you would take the coach this moment, and go into the country. Syl. Does this advice, sir, proceed from the contents of the letter you received just now? Bal. No matter; I will be with you in three or four days, and then give you my reasons-but, before you go, I expect you will make me one solemn promise. Syl. Propose the thing, sir. Bal. That you will never dispose of yourself to any man, without my consent. Syl. I promise. Bul. Very well; and to be even with you, I promise I never will dispose of you, without your own consent: and so, Sylvia, the coach is ready. Bul. And I do so still; he's a very pretty fel- Farewell [Leads her to the door, and returns.] low: but, though I liked him well enough for a-Now, she's gone, I'il examine the contents of bare son-in-law, I don't approve of him for an this letter a little nearer. heir to my estate and family: fifteen hundred pounds, indeed, I might trust in his hands, and it might do the young fellow a kindness; but-odd's my life! twelve hundred pounds a-year would ruin him, quite turn his brain-A captain of foot worth twelve hundred pounds a-year! 'tis a prodigy in nature! Enter a servant. Ser. Sir, here's one with a letter below for your worship; but he will deliver it into no hands but your own. Bal. Come, shew me the messenger. [Exit with servant. Syl. Make the dispute between love and duty, and I am Prince Prettyman exactly. If my brother dies, ah, poor brother! if he lives, ah, poor sister! It is bad both ways. I'll try it again Follow my own inclinations, and break my father's heart, or obey his commands, and break my own? Worse and worse. Suppose I take it thus: A moderate fortune, a pretty fellow, and a pad; or, a fine estate, a coach-and-six, and an ass? That will never do neither. Enter BALANCE and a servant. Bal. Put four horses to the coach. [To a servant, who goes out.] Ho, Sylvia! Sul. Sir. Bal. How old were you, when your mother died? Syl. So young, that I don't remember I ever 'SIR, [Reads. 'My intimacy with Mr Worthy has drawn a secret from him, that he had from his friend captain Plume; and my friendship and relation 'to your family, oblige me to give you timely notice of it. The captain has dishonourable designs upon my cousin Sylvia. Evils of this na❝ture are more easily prevented, than amended; ' and that you would immediately send my cousin into the country, is the advice of, 'Sir, your humble servant, 'MELINDA.' Why, the devil's in the young fellows of this age! they are ten times worse than they were in my time: had he made my daughter a whore, and foreswore it, like a gentleman, I could almost have pardoned it; but to tell tales before-hand is monstrous. Hang it! I can fetch down a woodcock, or a snipe, and why not a hat and a cockade? I have a case of good pistols, and have a good mind to try. Enter WORTHY. Wor. I'm sorry, sir, to be the messenger of ill news. Bal. I apprehend it, sir; you have heard that my son Owen is past recovery. Wor. My letters say he's dead, sir. Bal. He's happy, and I am satisfied: The |