ing things above board; I'm not for keeping any thing under hatches-so that, if you ben't as willing as I, say so, a God's name; there's no harm done. Mayhap you may be shame-faced; some maidens, thof they love a man well enough, yet they don't care to tell'n so to's face. If that's the case, why silence gives consent.

Miss P. But I'm sure it is not so, for I'll speak sooner than you should believe that; and I'll speak truth, though one should always tell a lie to a man; and I don't care, let my father do what he will, I'm too big to be whipt; so I'll tell you plainly, I don't like you, nor love you at all; nor never will, that's more. So, there's your answer for you; and don't trouble me no more, you ugly thing.

Ben. Look you, young woman, you may learn to give good words, however. I spoke you fair, d'ye see, and civil. As for your love, or your liking, I don't value it of a rope's end-and mayhap I like you as little as you do me. What I said was in obedience to father. Gad, I fear a whipping no more than you do. But I tell you one thing—if you should give such language at sea, you'd have a cat o'nine tails laid cross your shoulders. Flesh! who are you? You heard t'other handsome young woman speak ci. villy to me, of her own accord. Whatever you think of yourself, Gad, I don't think you are any more to compare to her, than a can of small-beer to a bowl of punch.

Miss P. Well, and there's a handsome gentleman,

and a fine gentleman, and a sweet gentleman, that was here, that loves me, and I love him; and if he 'sees you speak to me any more, he'll thrash your jacket for you; he will, you great sea-calf.

Ben. What! do you mean that fair-weather spark that was here just now? Will he thrash my jacket?— Let'n-let'n. But an he comes near me, mayhap I may giv'n a salt eel for's supper, for all that. What does father mean, to leave me alone, as soon as I come home, with such a dirty dowdy?—Sea-calf? I an't calfenough to lick your chalked face, you cheesecurd, you.-Marry thee! Oons I'll marry a Lapland witch as soon, and live upon selling contrary winds, and wrecked vessels.

Miss P. I won't be call'd names, nor I won't be abused thus, so I won't. If I were a man-[Cries]you durst not talk at this rate-no, you durst not, you stinking tar-barrel.

Enter Mrs. FORESIGHT and Mrs. FRAIL.

Mrs. For. They have quarrelled, just as we could wish.

Ben. Tar-barrel? Let your sweetheart there call me so, if he'll take your part, your Tom Essence, and I'll say something to him—Gad, I'll lace his muskdoublet for him. I'll make him stink; he shall smell more like a weasel than a civet cat, afore I ha' done with 'en.

Mrs. For. Bless me! what's the matter, Miss?

What, does she cry?—Mr. Benjamin, what have you done to her?

Ben. Let her cry: the more she cries the less she'll --she has been gathering foul weather in her mouth, and now it rains out at her eyes.

Mrs. For. Come, Miss, come along with me; and tell me, poor child.

Mrs. F. Lord, what shall we do? There's my brother Foresight and Sir Sampson coming. Sister, do you take Miss down into the parlour, and I'll carry Mr. Benjamin into my chamber; for they must not know that they are fallen out. Come, sir, will you venture yourself with me? [Looking kindly on him. Ben. Venture? Mess, and that I will, though it were to sea in a storm.

Enter Sir SAMPSON and FORESIGHT.

[Exeunt.

Sir S. I left them together here. What, are they gone? Ben is a brisk boy: he has got her into a corner- -father's own son, faith! he'll touzle her, and mouzle her. The rogue's sharp set coming from sea. If he should not stay for saying grace, old Foresight, but fall to without the help of a parson, ha? Odd, if he should, I could not be angry with him; 'twould be but like me, a chip of the old block. Ha! thou'rt melancholic, old prognostication; as melancholic as if thou hadst spilt the salt, or paired thy nails on a Sunday. Come, cheer up, look about thee: look up, old star-gazer. Now is he poring upon the ground for a crooked pin, or an old horse-nail, with the head towards him.

For. Sir Sampson, we'll have the wedding to-mor row morning.

Sir S. With all my heart.

For. At ten o'clock; punctually at ten.

Sir S. To a minute, to a second; thou shalt set thy watch; and the bridegroom shall observe its motions; they shall be married to a minute, go to bed to a minute; and when the alarm strikes, they shall keep time like the figures of St. Dunstan's clock, and consummatum est shall ring all over the parish!

Enter Servant.

Serv. Sir, Mr. Scandal desires to speak with you upon earnest business.

For. I go to him, Sir Sampson, your servant. [Exit. Sir S. What's the matter, friend?

Serv. Sir, 'tis about your son Valentine; something has appeared to him in a dream, that makes him prophesy.

Enter SCANDAL.

"Scand. Sir Sampson, sad news.

"For. Bless us!

"Sir S. Why, what's the matter?

"Scand. Can't you guess at what ought to afflict you and him, and all of us, more than any thing. ❝else?

"Sir S. Body o'me. I don't know any universal "grievance, but a new tax, or the loss of the Ca