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There, Mr. Manager, is an end of an act-Every beast upon his hind-legs!--I did intend, that houses and trees (according to the old story) should have joined in the dance; but it would have crowded the stage too much.

Pat. Full enough as it is, Mr. Glib. Lady Fuz. [Without.] Let me come, let me come, I say! Glib. D'ye hear, d'ye hear? her ladyship's in raptures, I find ;-I knew I should touch her. Enter LADY FUZ. Lady Fuz. These are fine doings; fine doings, Mr. Glib!

Glib. And a fine effect they will have, my lady; particularly the dancing off of the beasts. Lady Fuz. Yes, yes; they have danced off, but they shall dance back again take my word for it. [Walks about. Glib. My dear lady, and so they shall; don't be uneasy; they shall dance back again directly -here, prompter, I intended to have the scene over again; I could see it for ever.

Lady Fuz. Was this your plot, Mr. Glib? Or your contrivance, Mr. Manager?

Pat. Madam!

Glib. No, upon my soul! 'tis all my own contrivance; not a thought stole from ancient, or modern; all my own plot!

Lady Fuz. Call my servants! I'll have a postchaise directly; I see your guilt, by your vain Endeavours to hide it; this is the most bare-faced impudence!

Glib. Impudence!may I die, if I know an indecent expression in the whole piece!

Pat. Your passion, madam, runs away with you; I don't understand you.

Lady Fuz. No, sir! 'tis one of your stageplayers has run away with my daughter; and I'll be revenged on you all;-I'll shut up your house!

Pat. This must be inquired into. [Exit PATENT. Glib. What! did Miss Fuz run away without seeing Orpheus?

Lady Fuz. Don't say a word more, thou blockhead!

Glib. I am dumb, but no blockhead!

Enter SIR TOBY, in confusion,

Sir Toby. What is all this? what is it all about?

Lady Fuz. Why, it is all your fault, Sir Toby! had not you been asleep, she could never have been stolen from your side.

Sir Toby. How do you know she is stolen? Enquire first, my lady, and be in a passion afterwards.

Lady Fuz. I know she's gone; I saw her with a young fellow-he was upon his knees, swearing by the moon-let us have a post-chaise, Sir Toby, directly, and follow them!


Sir Toby. Let us dine first, my dear, and I'll wherever you please.

Lady Fuz. Dine, dine! Did you ever hear the like? you have no more feeling, Sir Toby, than your periwig.--I shall go distracted! the greatest curse of a poor woman is, to have a flighty daughter, and a sleepy husband. [Erit LADY FUZ.

Sir Toby. And the greatest curse of a poor man is, to have every body flighty in his family but himself. [Exit.


Pat. 'Tis true, Mr. Glib, the young lady is gone off, but with nobody that belongs to us'tis a dreadful affair!

Glib. So it is, faith! to spoil my rehearsal-I think it was very ungenteel of her, to choose this morning for her pranks. Though she might make free with her father and mother, she should have more manners than to treat me so; I'll tell her as much when I see her. The second act shall be ready for you next week-I depend upon you for a prologue-your genius—

Pat. You are too polite, Mr. Glib-have you an epilogue?

Glib. I have a kind of address here, by way of epilogue, to the town-I suppose it to be spoken by myself, as the author-who have you can represent me?-no easy task, let me tell you

he must be a little smart, degagee, and not

want assurance.

Pat. Smart, degagee, and not want assurance? King is the very man.

Glib. Thank, thank you! dear Mr. Patent— the very man-is he in the house? I would read it to him.

Pat. O no! since the audience received him in Linco, he is practising music, whenever he is not wanted here.

Glib. I have heard as much; and that he continually sets his family's teeth on edge, with scraping upon the fiddle.-Conceit, conceit, Mr. Patent, is the ruin of them all. I could wish, whan he speaks this address, that he would be more easy in his carriage, and not have that damned jerk in his bow, that he generally treats us with.

Pat. I'll hint as much to him.

Glib. This is my conception of the matter;Bow your body gently, turn your head semicircularly, on one side and the other; and, smiling thus, agreeably begin:

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Shou'd his wife, that's himself- -for they two are but one

Be in hell, that's in debt, and the money all gone;

Your favour brings comfort, at once cures the evil,

For 'scaping bum bailiffs, is 'scaping the devil;

Nay, cerberus-critics their fury will drop, For such barking monsters, your smiles are a sop;

But how to explain what you most will require,

That cows, sheep, and calves, should dance after the lyre?

Without your kind favour, how scanty each meal!

But with it comes dancing, beef, mutton and veal;

For sing it, or say it, this truth we all see, Your applause will be ever the true beaume de vie.

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Enter BATES and Servant.


Bates. Is he gone out? his card tells me to come directly-I did but lock up some papers, take my hat and cane, and away I hurried."

Ser. My master desires you will sit down, he will return immediately: he had some business with his lawyer, and went out in great haste, leaving the message I have delivered. Here is my young master. [Exit Servant.


Bates, What, lively Billy!-hold, I beg your pardon-melancholy William, I think-Here's a fine revolution-I hear your uncle, who was last month all gravity, and you all mirth, have changed characters; he is now all spirit, and you are in the dumps, young man.

Neph. And for the same reason. This journey to Scarborough will unfold the riddle. Bates. Come, come, in plain English, and before your uncle comes, explain the matter.

Neph. In the first place, I am undone. Bates. In love, I know-I hope your uncle is not undone, too-that would be the devil!

Neph. He has taken possession of him in every sense. In short, he came to Scarborough to see the lady I had fallen in love with

Bates. And fell in love himself?
Neph. Yes, and with the same lady.
Bates. That is the devil indeed !

Neph. O, Mr. Bates! when I thought my happiness complete, and wanted only my uncle's consent, to give me the independence he so often has promised me, he came to Scarborough for that purpose, and wished me joy of my choice; but in less than a week, his approbation turned into a passion for her: he now hates the sight of

me, and is resolved, with the consent of the father, to make her his wife directly.

Bates. So he keeps you out of your fortune, won't give his consent, which his brother's foolish will requires, and he would marry himself the same woman, because right, title, conscience, nature, justice, and every law, divine and human, are against it!

Neph. Thus he tricks me at once both of wife and fortune, without the least want of either.

Bates. Well said, friend Whittle! but it can't be, it shan't be, and it must not be !-this is murder and robbery in the strongest sense, and he shan't be hanged in chains, to be laughed at by the whole town, if I can help it.

Neph. I am distracted, the widow is distressed, and we both shall run mad!

Bates. A widow, too! 'gad a mercy, threescore and five!

Neph. But such a widow? She is now in town with her father, who wants to get her off his hands; 'tis equal to him who has her, so she is provided for-I hear somebody coming -I must away to her lodgings, where she waits for me to execute a scheme directly for our delivery.

Bates. What is her name, Billy?
Neph. Brady.

Bates. Brady! Is not she daughter to sir Patrick O'Neale?

Neph. The same. She was sacrificed to the most senseless drunken profligate in the whole country: He lived to run out his fortune; and the only advantage she got from the union was, he broke that and his neck before he had broke her heart.

Bates. The affair of marriage is, in this country, put upon the easiest footing; there is neither love or hate in the matter; necessity brings them together they are united at first for their mutual convenience, and separated ever after for their particular pleasures-O rare matrimony!Where does she lodge?

Neph. In Pall Mall, near the hotel.

Bates. I'll call in my way, and assist at the consultation: I am for a bold stroke, if gentle methods should fail.

Neph. We have a plan, and a spirited one, if my sweet widow is able to go through it-pray let us have your friendly assistance--ours is the cause of love and reason.


Bates. Mr. Thomas, I am glad to see you; upon my word, you look charmingly-you wear well, Mr. Thomas.

Tho. Which is a wondler, considering how times go, Mr. Bates-they'll wear and tear me too, if I don't take care of myself-my old master has taken the nearest way to wear himself out, and all that belong to him.

Bates. Why, surely this strange story about town is not true, that the old gentleman is fallen in love?

Tho. Ten times worse than that!
Bates. The devil!

Tho. And his horns going to be married!
Bates. Not if I can help it.

Tho. You never saw such an altered man in your born days!-he's grown young again; he frisks, and prances, and runs about, as if he had a new pair of legs-he has left off his brown camlet surtout, which he wore all the summer, and now, with his hat under his arm, he goes open breasted, and he dresses and powders, and smirks, so that you would take him for the mad Frenchman in Bedlam-something wrong in his upper story-Would you think it?-he wants me to wear a pig-tail!

Bates. Then he is far gone, indeed!

Tho. As sure as you are there, Mr. Bates, a pig-tail! we have had sad work about it-I made a compromise with him to wear these ruffled shirts which he gave me; but they stand in my way- -I am so listless with them though I have tied up my hands for him, I won't tie up my head, that I am resolute.

Bates. This it is to be in love, Thomas? Tho. He may make free with himself, he shan't make a fool of me-he has got his head into a bag, but I won't have a pig-tail tacked to mine-and so I told him.

Bates. What did you tell him?

Tho. That as I and my father, and his father before me, had wore their own hair as heaven had sent it, I thought myself rather too old to set up for a monkey at my time of life, and wear a pig-tail-he, he, he!-he took it.

Bates. With a wry face, for it was wormwood.

Tho. Yes, he was frumped, and called me old blockhead, and would not speak to me the Bates. Get you gone, with your love rest of the day-but the next day he was at it and reason! they seldom pull together now-again-he then put me into a passion-and I a-days. I'll give your uncle a dose first, and could not help telling him, that I was an Eng then I'll meet you at the widow's-What says lishman born, and had my prerogative as well your uncle's privy counsellor, Mr. Thomas, to as he; and that as long as I had breath in my this? body, I was for liberty, and a strait head of hair!

Neph. He is greatly our friend, and will enter sincerely into our service-he is honest, sensible, ignorant, and particular; a kind of half coxcomb, with a thorough, good heart-but he's here.

Bates. Do you go about your business, and leave the rest to me. [Exit NEPHEW.

Bates. Well said, Thomas!--he could not answer that.

Tho. The poorest man in England is a match for the greatest, if he will but stick to the laws of the land, and the statute books, as they are delivered down to us from our forefathers.

Bates. You are right-we must lay our wits together, and drive the widow out of your old master's head, and put her into your young master's hands.

Tho. With all my heart!-nothing can be more meritorious-marry at his years! what a terrible account would he make of it, Mr. Bates! -Let me see on the debtor side sixty-fiveand per contra creditor, a buxom widow of twenty-three-He'll be a bankrupt in a fortnighthe, he, he!

Bates. And so he would, Mr. Thomas-what have you got in your hand?

Whit. I believe you never saw me look better, Frank, did you?

Bates. O yes, rather better forty years ago. Whit. What, when I was at Merchant Taylors' School?

Bates. At Lincoln's-Inn, Tom. Whit. It can't be--I never disguise my age, and next February I shall be fifty-four.

Bates. Fifty-four! Why I am sixty, and you always iicked me at school--though I believe I could do as much for you now, and 'ecod I believe you deserve it too.

Whit. I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year.
Bates. O, you are?-let me see-we were to-

Tho. A pamphlet my old gentleman takes in -he has left off buying histories and religiousgether at Cambridge, anno domini twenty-five, pieces by numbers, as he used to do; and since he has got this widow in his head, he reads nothing but the Amorous Repository, Cupid's Revels, Call to Marriage, Hymen's Delights, Love lies a Bleeding, Love in the Suds, and such like tender compositions.

Bates. Here he comes, with all his folly about him.

Tho. Yes, and the first fool from Vanity-fair -Heaven help us!-love turns man and woman topsy Turvy! [Erit THOMAS. Whit. [Without.] Where is he? where is my good friend?


Ha! here he is-give me your hand.

Butes. I am glad to see you in such spirits, my old gentleman.

Whit. Not so old neither-no man ought to b called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and

which is near fifty years ago-you came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young; and what is more surprising, by this calculation, you went to school before you was born-you was always a forward child.

Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humour; and so, Mr. Bates, when you are in temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with you.

Bates. Fare you well, my old boy-young fellow, I mean-when you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses; when you have half killed yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and gallochies, I am at your service again. So bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four---ha, ha! [Exit.

Whit. He has certainly heard of my affairbut he is old and peevish---he wants spirits, and strength of constitution to conceive my happi

Bates. In his senses-which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicksome inness--I am in love with the widow, and must my life.

Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don't make use of my philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years-I have been always bautered as of too grave a cast-you know, when I studied at Lincoln's Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom.

Bates. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name.

Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side. [Touches his sword.]

have her: Every man knows his own wants--let the world laugh, and my friend stare! let them call me imprudent, and mad, if they please--I live in good times, and among people of fashion; so none of my neighbours, thank Heaven, can have the assurance to laugh

at me.


Kec. What, my friend Whittle! joy, joy, to you, old boy-you are going, a going, a going! a fine widow has bid for you, and will have you

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Bates. A hero, too! what in the name of Cofumon sense is come to you, my friend?- -hah, friend? all for the best--there is nohigh spirits, quick honour, a long sword, and thing like it--hugh, hugh, hugh !---a good wife is a bag!--you want nothing but to be terribly a good thing, and a young one is a better---hah in love, and then you may sally forth Knight--who's afraid? If I had not lately married of the Woeful Countenance. Ha, ha, ha!

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one, I should have been at death's door by this time- -hugh, hugh, hugh!

Whit. Thank, thank you, friend! I was coming to advise with you---I am got into the pound again-in love up to the cars---a fine woman, faith; and there's no love lost between usAm I right, friend?

Kec. Right! ay, right as my leg, Tom! Life's nothing without love-hugh, hugh! I am happy as the day's long! my wife loves gudding,


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