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mini, as you call it; for hes the most insufferable sot- Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber. Arch. Yes, sir. [Exit, lighted by ARCHER. Bon. Cherry, daughter Cherry!

Enter CHERRY.

Cher. D'ye call, father?

Bon. Aye, child; you must lay by this box for the gentleman; 'tis full of money.

Cher. Money! is all that money? why sure, father, the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament-man. Who is he?

Bon. I don't know what to make of him; he talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going perhaps at a minute's warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of this be spent.

Cher. Aye! ten to one, father, he's a highwayman!

Bo. A highwayman! Upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some new purchased booty. Now, could we find him out, the money

were ours.

Cher. He don't belong to our gang.
Bon. What horses have they?

Cher. The master rides upon a black.

Bon. A black! ten to one the man upon the black mare! and, since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience. I don't think it lawful to harbour any rogues but my own. Look'e, child, as the saying is, we must go cunningly to work; proofs we must have. The gentleman's servant loves drink; I'll ply him that way; and ten to one he loves a wench; you must work him t'other way.

Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his?

Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pounds to boot. [Ringing without.] Coming, coming-Child, mind your business.

[Exit BONIFACE. Cher. What a rogue is my father! My father! I deny it My mother was a good, generous, free-hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good-nature might have extended for the good of her children. This landlord of mine, for I think I can call him no more, would betray his guest, and debauch his daughter into the bargain-by a footman, too!

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Cher. Child! Manners; if you kept a little more distance, friend, it would become you much better. Arch. Distance! good-night, sauce-box.

[Going. Cher. A pretty fellow! I like his pride-Sir; pray, sir; ; you see, sir, [ARCHER returns.] I have the credit to be trusted with your master's fortune here, which sets me a degree above his footman. I hope, sir, you an't affronted?

Arch. Let me look you full in the face, and I'll tell you whether you can affront me or no.-'Sdeath, child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you don't know what to do with them.

Cher. Why, sir, don't I see every body?

Arch. Aye; but if some women had them, they would kill every body. Prithee, instruct me; I would fain make love to you, but I don't know what to say.

Cher. Why, did you never make love to any body before?

Arch. Never to a person of your figure, I can assure you, madam; my addresses have always been confined to persons within my own sphere; I never aspired so high before. [ARCHER sings.

But you look so bright

And dressed so tight,

That a man would swear you're right, As arm was e'er laid over.

Such an air

You freely wear

To ensnare,

As makes each guest a lover:
Since, then, my dear, I'm your guest,
Prythee, give me of the best
Of what is ready drest.
Since, then, my dear. &c.

Cher. What can I think of this man? [Aside.] Will you give me that song, sir?

Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while it is warm. [Kisses her.] Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs.

Cher. And I wish there had been a swarm of bees, too, to have stung you for your impudence.

Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has done the business much better. Cher. This fellow is misbegotten as well as I. [Aside.] What's your name, sir?

Arch. Name! I gad, I have forgot it. [Aside.] Oh, Martin.

Cher. Where was you born?
Arch. In St Martin's parish.
Cher. What was your father?

Arch. Of-of- -St Martin's parish.
Cher. Then, friend, good night.
Arch. I hope not.

Cher. You may depend upon't.
Arch. Upon what?

Cher. That you're very impudent.

FARQUHAR.]

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491

Cher. I'm My father calls! you plaguy devil, how durst you stop my breath so! Offer to follow me one step, if you dare.

[Erit.

Arch. A fair challenge, by this light! this is
a pretty fair opening of an adventure; but we
are knight-errants, and so fortune be our guide.
[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I-A gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S house.

MRS SULLEN and DORINDA meeting. Dor. MORROW, my dear sister; are you for church this morning?

Mrs Sul. Any where to pray; for heaven alone can help me but I think, Dorinda, there's no form of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands.

Dor. But there's a form of law at Doctor's Commons; and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than see you thus continually discontented, I would advise you to apply to that: for, besides the part that I bear in your vexatious broils, as being sister to the husband, and friend to the wife, your examples give me such an impression of matrimony, that I shall be apt to condemn my person to a long vacation all its life. But supposing, madam, that you brought it to a case of separation, what can you urge against your husband? My brother is, first, the most constant man alive.

ye.

Mrs Sul. The most constant husband, I grant

Dor. He never sleeps from you.
Mrs Sul. No, he always sleeps with me.
Dor. He allows you a maintenance suitable
to your quality.

Mrs Sul. A maintenance! Do you take me, madam, for an hospital child, that I must sit down and bless my benefactors for meat, drink, and clothes? As I take it, madam, I brought your brother ten thousand pounds, out of which I might expect some pretty things called plea

sures.

Dor. You share in all the pleasures the country affords.

Mrs Sul. Country pleasures! Racks and torments! Dost think, child, that my limbs were made for leaping of ditches, and clambering over stiles? Or, that my parents, wisely foreseeing my future happiness in country pleasures, had early instructed me in rural accomplishments, of drinking fat ale, playing at whist, and smoking tobacco with my husband? or of spreading of plasters, brewing of diet drinks, and stilling rosemary-water, with the good old gentlewoman, my mother-in-law?

Dor. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in our power to divert you. I could wish, indeed, a little more that our entertainments were polite, or your taste a little less refined; but pray, madam, how came the poets and philosophers, that laboured so much in hunting after pleasure, to place it at last in a country life?

Mrs Sul. Because they wanted money, child, to find out the pleasures of the town. Did you ever hear of a poet or philosopher worth ten thousand pounds? If you can shew me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pounds you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted them in their landscapes; every Phillis has her Corydon; every murmuring stream, and every flowery mead, gives fresh But yonder [ never married. alarm to love. Besides, you'll find that their couples were

see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven knows! Come, Dorinda, don't be angry; he's my husband, and your brother, and, between both, is he not a sad brute?

Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him; you're the best judge.

Mrs Sul. O, sister, sister, sister! if ever you marry, beware of a sullen, silent sot; one that's always musing, but never thinks.-There's some diversion in a talking blockhead; and since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing them rattle a little. Now you shall see; but take this, by the way; he came home this morning at his usual hour of four, wakened me out of a sweet dream of something else, by tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke all to pieces. After his man and he had rolled about the room, like sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice; his breath hot as a furnace; and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel night cap-Oh, matrimony! matrimony!-He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his shoulders, disorders the whole economy of my bed, leaves me half-naked, and my whole night's comfort is the tuneable serenade of that wakeful nightingale his nose.-But now, sister, you O, the pleasure of counting the melancholy clock by a snoring husband!shall see how handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg my pardon.

Enter SULLEN.

Sul. My head aches consumedly. Mrs Sul. Will you be pleased, my dear, to drink tea with us this morning? it may do your

head good.

Sul. No.

Dor. Coffee, brother?

Sul. Pshaw!

trying your power that way here, in Litchfield; you have drawn the French count to your colours already.

Mrs Sul. The French are a people that can't live without their gallantries.

Dor. And some English that I know, sister, are not averse to such amusements.

Mrs Sul. Well, sister, since the truth must out, it may do as well now, as hereafter. I think

Mrs Sul. Will you please dress, and go to one way to rouse my lethargic, sottish husband,

church with me? the air may help you.

Sul. Scrub!

Scrub. Sir!

Enter SCRUB.

is to give him a rival; security begets negligence in all people, and men must be alarmed to make them alert in their duty. Women are, like pictures, of no value in the hands of a fool, till he hears men of sense bid high for the purchase.

Sul. What day o' the week is this? Dor. This might do, sister, if my brother's unScrub. Sunday, an't please your worship. derstanding were to be convinced into a passion Sul. Sunday! Bring me a dram; and, d'ye for you; but, I believe, there's a natural averhear, set out the venison-pasty, and a tankard of sion on his side; and I fancy, sister, that you strong beer upon the hall-table; I'll go to break-don't come much behind him, if you dealt fairly.

fast.

[Going. Dor. Stay, stay, brother; you shan't get off so; you were very naughty last night, and must make your wife reparation. Come, come, brother; won't you ask pardon?

Sul. For what?

Dor. For being drunk last night.
Sul. I can afford it, can't I?

Mrs Sul. But I can't, sir.

Sul. Then you may let it alone.

Mrs Sul. I own it; we are united contradictions, fire and water. But I could be contented, with a great many other wives, to humour the censorious vulgar, and give the world an appearance of living well with my husband, could I bring him but to dissemble a little kindness, to keep me in countenance.

Dor. But how do you know, sister, but that, instead of rousing your husband, by this artifice, to a counterfeit kindness, he should awake in a

Mrs Sul. But I must tell you, sir, that this is real fury? not to be borne.

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Sul. Get things ready to shave my head.

[Exit SULLEN.

Mrs Sul. Let him. If I can't entice him to the one, I would provoke him to the other. Dor. But how must I behave myself between

ye?

Mrs Sul. You must assist me.

Dor. What, against my own brother?

Mrs Sul. He's but half a brother, and I'm your entire friend. If I go a step beyond the Mrs Sul. Have a care of coming near his tem-bounds of honour, leave me; till then, I expect ples, Scrub, for fear you meet something there you should I go along with me in every thing.that may turn the edge of your razor.--[Exit The count is to dine here to-day. SCRUB.--Inveterate stupidity! Did you ever know so hard, so obstinate a spleen as his? Oh, sister, sister! I shall never have any good of the beast, till I get him to town; London, dear London, is the place for managing and breaking a husband.

Dor. And has not a husband the same opportunities there for humbling a wife?

Mrs Sul. No, no, child; 'tis a standing maxim in conjugal discipline, that, when a man would enslave his wife, he hurries her into the country; and, when a lady would be arbitrary with her husband, she wheedles her booby up to town. A man dare not play the tyrant in London, because there are so many examples to encourage the subject to rebel. O, Dorinda, Dorinda! A fine woman may do any thing in London. O'my conscience, she may raise an army of forty thousand men !

Dor. I fancy, sister, you have a mind to be

་་,

Dor. 'Tis a strange thing, sister, that I can't like that man.

Mrs Sul. You like nothing; your time is not come. Love and death have their fatalities, and strike home, one time or other. You'll pay for all, one day, I warrant ye. But come; my lady's tea is ready, and 'tis almost church-time.

SCENE II.-The Inn.

[Exeunt.

Enter AIMWELL dressed, and ARCHER.

Aim. And was she the daughter of the house? Arch. The landlord is so blind as to think so; but, I dare swear, she has better blood in her veins.

Aim. Why dost thou think so?

Arch. Because the baggage has a pert je ne sçai quoi; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled with vapours.

Aim. By which discoveries, I guess that you know more of her.

Arch. Not yet, faith. The lady gives herself airs, forsooth; nothing under a gentleman. Aim. Let me take her in hand.

Arch. Say one word more of that, and I'll declare myself, spoil your sport there, and every where else. Look ye, Aimwell; every man in his own sphere.

Aim. Right; and therefore you must pimp for your master.

Arch. In the usual forms, good sir, after I have served myself-But to our business. You are so well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a figure, that I fancy you may do execution in a country church; the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the right to make that impression favourable.

Aim. There's something in that, which may turn to advantage. The appearance of a stranger in a country church, draws as many gazers as a blazing star: no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers rnns buzzing round the congregation in a moment. Who is he? Whence comes he? Do you know him?Then I, sir, tips me the verger half-a-crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the bishop, or the dean, if he be the commanding officer, single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a bleeding by the strength of imagination, and shew the whole church my concern, by my endeavouring to hide it. After the sermon, the whole town gives me to her for a lover, and, by persuading the lady that I am dying for her, the tables are turned, and she in good earnest falls in love with me.

Arch. There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent; but, instead of rivetting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix them upon a fortune; that's our business at present.

Aim. Pshaw! No woman can be a beauty without a fortune. Let me alone for a marks

man.

Arch. Tom! Aim. Aye!

Arch. When were you at church, before, pray?

Aim. Um-I was there at the coronation. Arch. And how can you expect a blessing by going to church now ?

Aim. Blessing! Nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife. [Exit AIMWELL. Arch. Truly, the man is not very unreasonable in his demands.

[Exit ARCHER, at the opposite door. Enter BONIFACE and CHERRY. Bon. Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you brought Martin to confess?

Cher. Pray, father, don't put me upon getting any thing out of a man; I'm but young, you know, father, and don't understand wheedling.

Bon. Young! Why, you jade, as the saying is, can any woman wheedle that is not young? Your mother was useless at five-and-twenty.— Would you make your mother a whore, and me a cuckold, as the saying is! I tell you, his silence confesses it, and his master spends his money sofreely, and is so much a gentleman every manner way, that he must be a highwayman.

of

Enter GIBBET in a cloak.

Gib. Landlord, landlord, is the coast clear?
Bon. O, Mr Gibbet, what's the news?

Gib. No matter, ask no questions, all's fair and honourable; here, my dear Cherry-[Gives her a bag.]-Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as ever hanged or saved a rogue; lay them by with the rest; and here-three wedding-or mourning rings; 'tis much the same, you know. Here, two silver hilted swords; I took these from fellows that never shew any part of their swords but the hilts. Here is a diamond necklace, which the lady hid in the privatest place in the coach, but I found it out. This gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's wife; it was left in her hands by a person of quality; there's the arms upon the case.

Cher. But who had you the money from?

Gib. Ah! Poor woman, I pitied her; from a poor lady just eloped from her husband. She had made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as hard as she could drive; she told me of her husband's barbarous usage, and so, faith, I left her half-a-crown. But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry; I have a present for you. Cher. What is't?

Gib. A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a lady's under-petticoat pocket. Cher. What, Mr Gibbet, do you think that I paint?

Gib. Why, you jade, your betters do. I'm sure the lady, that I took it from, had a coronet upon her handkerchief—Here, take my cloak, and go secure the premises.

[Exit,

Cher. I will secure them. Bon. But, hark ye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?

Gib. They'll be here to-night.

Bon. D'ye know of any other gentleman o' the pad on this road?

Gib. No.

Bon. I fancy that I have two that lodge in the house just now.

Gib. The devil! how d'ye smoke them? Bon. Why, the one is gone to church. Gib. To church! That's suspicious, I must confess.

Bon. And the other is now in his master's chamber; he pretends to be a servant to the

other; we'll call him out, and pump him a little.

Gib. With all my heart.

Bon. Mr Martin! Mr Martin !

Enter ARCHER, combing a periwig, and singing.. Gib. The roads are consumed deep; I'm as dirty as old Brentford at Christmas.A good pretty fellow, that; whose servant are you, friend?

Arch. My master's.
Gib. Really?
Arch. Really.

Gib. That's much.-That fellow has been at the bar, by his evasions.-But pray, sir, what is your master's name?

Arch. Tall, all, dall! [Sings, and combs the periwig.] This is the most obstinate curl

Gib. I ask you his name?

Arch. Name, sir?-Tall, all, dall!-I never asked him his name in all my life-Tall, all, dall! Bon. What think you now?

Gib. Plain, plain; he talks now, as if he were before a judge. But pray, friend, which way does your master travel?

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Arch. And where go out? Cher. I won't tell you.

Arch. What are the objects of that passion?
Cher. Youth, beauty, and clean linen.
Arch. The reason?

Cher. The two first are fashionable in nature, and the third at court.

Arch. That's my dear! What are the signs and tokens of that passion?

Cher. A stealing look, a stammering tongue, words improbable, designs impossible, and actions impracticable.

Arch. That's my good child; kiss me—What must a lover do to obtain his mistress?

Cher. He must adore the person that disdains him; he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays him; and court the footman that laughs at him. He must, he must

Arch. Nay, child, I must whip you, if you don't mind your lesson: he must treat his

Cher. O aye. He must treat his enemies with respect, his friends with indifference, and all the world with contempt; he must suffer much, and fear more; he must desire much, and hope little; in short, he must embrace his ruin, and throw himself away.

Arch. Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as mine! Come, my dear; why is love called a rid

dle?

Cher. Because, being blind, he leads those that see; and, though a child, he governs a man. Arch. Mighty well!-And why is love pictured blind?

Cher. Because the painters, out of their weakness, or the privilege of their art, chose to hide those eyes they could not draw.

Arch. That's my dear little scholar; kiss me again--And why should love, that's a child, govern a man?

Cher. Because that a child is the end of love. Arch. And so ends love's catechism.And now, my dear, we'll go in, and make my master's bed?

Cher. Hold, hold, Mr Martin-you have taken a great deal of pains to instruct me, and what d'ye think I have learned by it?

Arch. What?

Cher. That your discourse and your habit are contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe you a footman any longer.

Arch. Oons, what a witch it is!

Cher. Depend upon this, sir, nothing in that garb shall ever tempt me for though I was born to servitude, I hate it.-Own your condition, swear you love me, and then

Arch. And then we shall go make my master's bed?

Cher. Yes.

Arch. You must know, then, that I am born a gentleman; my education was liberal; but I went to London a younger brother, fell into the hands of sharpers, who stript me of my money; my

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