MY Lord, can you blame my Brother Plyant, if he refuse his Daughter upon this Provocation? The Contract's void by this unheard of Impiety.

I don't believe it true; he has better Principles—Pho, 'tis nonsense. Come, come, I know my Lady Plyant has a large Eye, and wou'd centre every thing in her own Circle; 'tis not the first time she has mistaken Respect for Love, and made Sir Paul jealous of the Civility of an undesigning per∣son, the better to bespeak his security in her unfeigned Pleasures.

You censure hardly, my Lord; my Sister's Honour is very well known.

Yes, I believe I know some that have been fami∣liarly acquainted with it. This is a little Trick wrought by some pitiful Contriver, envious of my Nephew's Merit.

Nay, my Lord, it may be so, and I hope it will be found so: but that will require some time; for in such a Case as this, demonstration is necessary.

There should have been demonstration of the con∣trary too, before it had been believ'd—

So I suppose there was.

How! Where? When?

That I can't tell; nay, I don't say there was—I am willing to believe as favourably of my Nephew as I can.

I don't know that.

How? Don't you believe that, say you, my Lord?

No, I don't say so—I confess I am troubled to find you so cold in his Defence.

His Defence! bless me, wou'd you have me de∣fend an ill thing?

You believe it then?

I don't know; I am very unwilling to speak my Thoughts in any thing that may be to my Cousin's disadvan∣tage; besides, I find, my Lord, you are prepared to re∣ceive an ill impression from any opinion of mine which is not consenting with your own: But since I am like to be suspected in the end, and 'tis a pain any longer to dissemble: I own it to you; in short I do believe it, nay, and can be∣lieve any thing worse, if it were laid to his charge—Don't ask me my Reasons, my Lord, for they are not fit to be told you.

I'm amaz'd, here must be something more than ordinary in this.

Not fit to be told me; Madam? You can have no Interests, wherein I am not concern'd, and con∣sequently the same Reasons ought to be convincing to me, which create your satisfaction or disquiet.

But those which cause my disquiet, I am willing to have remote from your hearing. Good my Lord, don't press me.

Don't oblige me to press you.

Whatever it was, 'tis past: And that is better to be unknown which cannot be prevented; therefore let me beg you rest satisfied—

When you have told me, I will—

You won't.

By my Life, my Dear, I will.

What if you can't.

How? Then I must know, nay I will: No more trifling—I charge you tell me—by all our mutual Peace to come; upon your Duty—

Nay, my Lord, you need say no more, to make me lay me heart before you, but don't be thus transported; compose your self: It is not of Concern, to make you lose one minutes temper. 'Tis not indeed, my Dear. Nay, by this kiss you shan't be angry. O Lord, I wish I had not told you any thing.—Indeed, my Lord, you have frighted me. Nay, look pleas'd, I'll tell you.

Well, well.

Nay, but will you be calm—indeed it's nothing but—

But what?

But will you promise me not to be angry—nay you must—not to be angry with Mellefont—I dare swear he's sorry—and were it to do again, would not—

Sorry, for what? 'Death you rack me with delay.

Nay, no great matter, only—well I have your promise—Pho, why nothing, only your Nephew had a mind to amuse himself, sometimes with a little Gallantry to∣wards me. Nay, I can't think he meant any thing seriously, but methought it look'd odly.

Consusion and Hell, what do I hear!

Or, may be, he thought he was not enough a-kin to me, upon your account, and had a mind to create a nea∣rer relation on his own; a Lover you know, my Lord—Ha, ha, ha. Well but that's all—now you have it; well re∣member your promise, my Lord, and don't take any notice of it to him.

No, no, no—Damnation!

Nay, I swear you must not—a little harmless mirth—only misplac'd that's all—but if it were more, 'tis over now, and all's well. For my part I have forgot it; and so has he, I hope—for I have not heard any thing from him these two days.

These two days! Is it so fresh? Unnatural Villain! 'Death I'll have him stripp'd and turn'd naked out of my doors this moment, and let him rot and perish, incestuous Brute!

O for Heaven's sake, my Lord, you'll ruine me if you take such publick notice of it, it will be a Town-talk: Consider your own and my Honour—nay, I told you you would not be satisfied when you knew it.

Before I've done, I will be satisfied. Ungrateful Monster, how long?—

Lord, I don't know: I wish my Lips had grown together when I told you—almost a Twelvemonth—nay, I won't tell you any more, till you are your self. Pray, my Lord, don't let the Company see you in this disorder—Yet, I confess, I can't blame you; for I think I was never so surpriz'd in my Life—Who would have thought my Ne∣phew could have so misconstrued my Kindness—but will Page  29 you go into your Closet, and recover your Temper. I'l make an excuse of sudden Business to the Company, and come to you. Pray, good dear my Lord, let me beg you do now: I'll come immediately, and tell you all; will you my Lord?

I will—I am mute with wonder.

Well but go now, here's some body coming.

Well I go—you won't stay, for I would hear more of this.

I follow instantly—So.

This was a Master-piece, and did not need my help—tho' I stood ready for a Cue to come in and con∣firm all, had there been occasion.

Have you seen Mellefont?

I have; and am to meet him here about this time.

How does he bear his Disappointment?

Secure in my Assistance, he seem'd not much af∣flicted, but rather laugh'd at the shallow Artifice, which so lit∣tle time must of necessity discover. Yet he is apprehensive of some farther design of yours, and has engaged me to watch you. I believe he will hardly▪ be able to prevent your Plot, yet I would have you use Caution and Expedi∣tion.

Expedition indeed; for all we do, must be per∣form'd in the remaining part of this Evening, and before the Company break up; lest my Lord should cool, and have an opportunity to talk with him privately—my Lord must not see him again.

By no means; therefore you must aggravate my Lord's Displeasure to a degree that will admit of no Confe∣rence with him.—What think you of mentioning me?

How?

To my Lord, as having been privy to Mellefont's design upon you, but still using my utmost Endeavours to Page  30 dissuade him: Tho' my Friendship and Love to him has made me conceal it; yet you may say, I threatned the next time he attempted any thing of that kind, to discover it to my Lord.

To what end is this?

It will confirm my Lord's opinion of my Honour and Honesty, and create in him a new Confidence in me, which (should this design mis•…arry) 〈◊〉 be necessary to the forming of another Plot that I have in my head—to cheat you, as well as the rest.

I'll do it—I'll tell him you hindred him once from forcing me.

Excellent! your Ladyship has a most improving Fancy. You had best go to my Lord, 〈◊〉 him as long as you can in his Closet, and I doubt not but you will mould him to what you please; your 〈◊〉 are so engaged in their own Follies and Intrigues, they'll miss neither of you.

When shall we meet?—at eight this Evening in my Chamber; there rejoice at our success, and toy away an hour in mirth.

I will not fail.

I know what she means by toying away an hour well enough. Pox I have lost all Appetite to her; yet she's a fine Woman, I lov'd her once. But I don't know, since I have been in a great measure kept by her, the case is alter'd; what was my Pleasure is become my Duty: And I have as little stomach to her now as if I were her Husband. Should she smoke my design upon Cynthia, I were in a fine pickle. She has a damn'd penetrating head, and knows how to interpret a Coldness the right way; therefore I must dissemble Ardour and E•…stasie, that's resolv'd: How easily and pleasantly is that dissembled before Fruition! Pox on't that a Man can't drink without quenching his Thirst. Ha! yonder comes Mellefont thoughtful. Let me think: Meet her at eight—hum—ha! by Heaven I have it—if I can speak to my Lord before—Was it my Brain or Providence? No Mat∣ter which—I will deceive 'em all, and yet secure my self, 'twas a lucky thought! Well this Double-Dealing is a Page  31 Jewel,

Here he comes, now for me—

Mercy on us, What will the Wickedness of this World come to?

How now, Iack? What so full of Contemplation that you run over!

I'm glad you're come, for I could not contain my self any longer: and was just going to give vent to a Secret, which no body but you ought to drink down.

Your Aunt's just gone from hence.

And having trusted thee with the Secrets of her Soul, thou art villai•…ously bent to discover 'em all to me, ha?

I'm afraid my frailty leans that way—but I don't know whether I can in honour discover all.

All, all man, what you may in honour betray her as far as she betrays her self. No tragical design upon my Per∣son I hope.

No, but it's a Comical design upon mine.

What dost thou mean?

Listen, and be dumb, we have been bargaining about the rate of your ruine—

Like any two Guardians to an Orphan Heiress—well.

And whereas pleasure is generally paid with mis∣chief, what mischief I shall do, is to be paid with Pleasure.

So when you've swallow'd the Potion, you sweeten your mouth with a plumb.

You are merry, Sir, but I shall probe your Consti∣tution. In short, the price of your Banishment is to be paid with the Person of—

Of Cynthia, and her Fortune—Why you forget you told me this before.

No, no—so far you are right, and I am, as an earnest of that Bargain, to have full and free possession of the person of—your Aunt.

Ha!—Pho, you trifle.

By this Light, I'm serious; all raillery apart—I knew 'twould stun you: This Evening at eight she will re∣ceive me in her Bed-Chamber.

Hell and the Devil, is she abandon'd of all Grace—Why the Woman is possess'd——

Well, will you go in my stead?

By Heav'n into a hot Furnace sooner.

No, you would not—it would not be so convenient, as I can order Matters.

What d'ye mean?

Mean? Not to disappoint the Lady I assure you—Ha, ha, ha, how gravely he looks—Come, come, I won't perplex you. 'Tis the only thing that Providence could have contriv'd to make me capable of serving you, ei∣ther to my Inclination or your own necessity—

How, how, for Heaven's sake, dear Maskwell?

Why thus—I'll go according to Appointment; you shall have notice at the critical minute to come and surprize your Aunt and me together: Counterfeit a rage against me, and I'll make my escape through the private passage from her Chamber, which I'll take care to leave open: 'twill be hard, if then you can't bring her to any Conditions. For this Discovery will disarm her of all De∣fence, and leave her entirely at your Mercy: nay, she must ver after be in one of you.

Let me adore thee, my better Genius! By Heav'n I think it is not in the power of Fate to disappoint my hopes—my hopes, my certainty!

Well, I'll meet you here, within a quarter of eight, and give you notice.

Good Fortune ever go along with thee.

Mellefont, get out o'th' way, my Lady Plyant's coming, and I shall never succeed while thou art in sight—tho' she begins to tack about; but I made Love a great while to no purpose.

Why, what's the Matter? She's convin'd that I don't care for her.

'Pox I can't get an Answer from her, that does not begin with her Honour, or her Vertue, her Religion, or some such Cant. Then she has told me the whole History of Sir Paul's nine years Courtship; how he has lain for whole nights together upon the Stairs, before her Chamber-door; and that the first Favour he receiv'd from her, was a piece of an old Scarlet Petticoat for a Stomacher; which, since the day of his Marriage, he has, out of a piece of Gallantry, con∣verted into a Night-Cap, and wears it still with much Solem∣nity on his anniversary Wedding-night.

That I have seen, with the Ceremony thereunto be∣longing - for on that night he creeps in at the Bed's Feet like a gull'd Bassa that has married a Relation of the Grand Signior's, and that night he has his arms at liberty. Did not she tell you at what a distance she keeps him. He has con∣fess'd to me that but at some certain times, that is I suppose when she apprehends being with Child, he never has the privilege of using the familiarity of a Husband with his Wife. He was once given to scrambling with his hands and spraw∣ling in his Sleep; and ever since she has him swaddled up in Blankets, and his hands and feet swath'd down, and so put to bed; and there he lies with a great Beard, like a Russian Bear upon a drift of Snow. You are very great with him, I won∣der he never told you his Grievances, he will I warrant you.

Excessively foolish—But that which gives me most hopes of her, is her telling me of the many Temptations she has resisted.

Nay, then you have her; for a woman's bragging to a man that she has overcome Temptations, is an argu∣ment that they were weakly offered, and a challenge to him to engage her more irresistably. 'Tis only an inhancing the price of the Commodity, by telling you how many Custo∣mers have underbid her.

Nay, I don't despair—but still she has a grudging to you—I talk'd to her t'other night at my Lord Fr•…th's Masquerade, when I'm satisfied she knew me, and I had no Page  34 reason to complain of my Reception; but I find women are not the same bare-faced and in Masks, and a Vizor—disguises their Inclinations as much as their Faces.

'Tis a mistake, for women may most properly be said to be unmask'd when they wear Vizors; for that secures them from blushing, and being out of Countenance, and next to being in the dark, or alone, they are most truly themselves in a Vizor Mask. Here they come, I'll leave you. Ply her close, and by and by clap a Billet doux into her hand: For a woman never thinks a man truly in love with her, till he has been fool enough to think of her out of her sight, and to lose so much time as to write to her.

Shan't we disturb your Meditation, Mr. Careless: you wou'd be private?

You bring that along with you, Sir Paul, that shall be always welcome to my privacy.

O, sweet Sir, you load your humble Servants, both me and my Wife, with continual Favours.

Jesu, Sir Paul, what a Phrase was there? You will be making Answers, and taking that upon you, which ought to lie upon me: That you should have so little breed∣ing to think Mr. Careless did not apply himself to me. 'Pray' what have you about you to entertain any bodies privacy? I swear and declare in the face of the World I'm ready to blush for your Ignorance.

I acquiesce, my Lady; but don't snub so loud.

Mr. Careless, If a person that is wholly illiterate might be supposed to be capable of being qualified to make a suitable return to those Obligations which you are pleased to conferr upon one that is wholly incapable of being qua∣lified in all those Circumstances I'm sure I should rather attempt it than any thing in the World

But I know Mr. Careless is so great a Critick and so fine a Gentleman, that it is impossible for me—

O Heavens! Madam, you confound me▪

Gad's bud, she's a fine person—

O Lord! Sir, pardon me, we women have not those Advantages: I know my own Imperfections—but at the same time you must give me leave to declare in the face of the World that no body is more sensible of Favours and Things for with the Reserve of my Honour, I assure you, Mr. Careless I don't know any thing in the World I would refuse to a person so meritorious—you'll pardon my want of Expression—

O your Ladyship is abounding in all Excellence, particularly that of Phrase.

You are so obliging, Sir.

Your Ladyship is so charming.

So, now, now; now my Lady.

So well bred.

So surprizing.

So well drest, so boon mein, so eloquent, so un∣affected, so easie, so free, so particular, so agreeable—

Ay, so, so, there.

O Lord, I beseech you, Madam, don't—

So gay, so graceful, so good teeth, so fine shape, so fine limbs, so fine linen, and I don't doubt but you have a very good skin, Sir.

For Heaven's sake, Madam—I'm quite out of Coun∣tenance.

And my Lady's quite out of Breath; or else you should hear—Gad's bud, you may talk of my Lady Froth.

O fie, fie, not to be named of a day—my Lady Froth is very well in her Accomplishments—but it is when my Lady Plyant is not thought of—if that can ever be.

O you overcome me—that is so excessive—

Nay, I swear and vow that was pretty.

O, Sir Paul, you are the happiest man alive. Such a Lady! that is the envy of her Sex, and the admiration of ours.

Your humble Servant, I am I thank Heaven in a fine way of living, as I may say, peacefully and happily, and I think need not envy any of my Neighbours, blessed be Provi∣dence— Page  36 ay, truly, Mr. Careless, my Lady is a great Blessing, a fine, discreet, well-spoken woman as you shall see—if it becomes me to say so; and we live very comfortably toge∣ther; she's a little hasty sometimes, and so am I; but mine's soon over, and then I'm so sorry—O, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thhing—

How often have you been told of that you Jack-a∣napes?

Gad so, Gad's bud—Tim. carry it to my Lady, you should have carry'd it to my Lady first.

'Tis directed to your Worship.

Well, well, my Lady reads all Letters first—Child, do so no more; d'ye hear, Tim?

No, an please you.

A humour of my wife's, you know women have little sancies—But as I was telling you, Mr. Careless, if it were not for one thing, I should think my self the happiest man in the World; indeed that touches me near, very near.

What can that be, Sir Paul?

Why, I have, I thank Heaven, a very plentiful Fortune, a good Estate in the Country, some houses in Town, and some money, a pretty tolerable personal Estate; and it is a great grief to me, indeed it is Mr. Careless, that I have not a Son to inherit this—'Tis true I have a Daugh∣ter, and a fine dutiful Child she is, though I say it, blessed be Providence I may say; for indeed, Mr. Careless, I am mightily beholding to Providence——a poor unworthy Sinner—But if I had a Son, ah, that's my affliction, and my only affliction; indeed I cannot refrain Tears when it comes in my mind.

Why, methinks that might be easily remedied—my Lady's a fine likely Woman—

Oh, a fine likely Woman as you shall see in a Summers▪ day—indeed she is, Mr. Careless, in all respects.

And I should not have taken you to have been so old—

Alas, that's not it, Mr. Careless; ah! that's not it; no, no, you shoot wide of the mark a mile; indeed you do, that's not it, Mr. Careless; no, no, that's not it.

No, what can be the matter then?

You'll scarcely believe me, when I shall tell you why my Lady is so nice—it's very strange, but it's true: too true—she's so very nice, that I don't believe she would touch a Man for the World—at least not above once a year; I'm sure I have found it so; and alas, what's once a year to an Old Man, who would do good in his Generation? indeed it's true, Mr. Careless, it breaks my heart—I am her Hus∣band, as I may say, though far unworthy of that honour, yet I am her Husband; but alas-a-day, I have no more fa∣miliarity with her Person—as to that matter—than with my own Mother—no indeed.

Alas-a-day, this is a lamentable story; my Lady must be told on't; she must i'faith, Sir Paul; 'tis an injury to the World.

Ah! would to Heav'n you would, Mr. Careless; you are mightily in her favour.

I warrant you, what we must have a Son some way or other.

Indeed, I should be mightily bound to you, if you could bring it about, Mr. Careless.

Here, Sir Paul, it's from your Steward, here's a re∣turn of 600 Pounds; you may take fifty of it for your next half year.

How does my Girl? come hither to thy Father, poor Lamb, thou'rt melancholy.

Heav'n, Sir Paul, you amaze me, of all things in the World—you are never pleased but when we are all upon the broad grin, all laugh and no Company; ah, then 'tis such a Page  38 sight to see some teeth—sure you're a great admirer of my Lady Whifler, Mr. Sneer, and Sir Laurence Loud, and that gang.

I vow and swear she's a very merry Woman, but I think she laughs a little too much.

Merry! O Lord, what a character that is of a Wo∣man of Quality—you have been at my Lady Whifler's upon her day, Madam?

Yes, my Lord—I must humour this Fool.

Well and how? hee! what is your sense of the Con∣versation there?

O most ridiculous, a perpetual consort of laughing without any harmony; for sure, my Lord, to laugh out of time, is as disagreeable as to sing out of time or out of tune.

Hee, hee, hee, right; and then my Lady Whifler is so ready—she always comes in three bars too soon—and then, what do they laugh at? For you know laughing with∣out a jest is as impertinent; hee! as, as—

As dancing without a Fiddle.

Just 'ifaith, that was at my tongues end.

But that cannot be properly said of them, for I think they are all in good nature with the World, and only laugh at one another; and you must allow they have all jests in their Persons, though they have none in their Conversation.

True, as I'm a Person of Honour—for Heaven's sake let us sacrifice 'em to mirth a little.

'Gads so—Wife, Wife, my Lady Plyant, I have a word.

I'm busie, Sir Paul, I wonder at your imperti∣nence—

Sir Paul, harkee, I'm reasoning the matter you know; Madam,—if your Ladyship please, we'll discourse of this in the next Room.

O •…o, I wish you good success, I wish you good success. Boy, tell my Lady, when she has done, I would speak with her below.

Then you think that Episode between Susan, the Dairymaid, and our Coach-man is not amiss; you know, I may suppose the Dairy in Town, as well as in the Country.

Incomparable, let me perish—but then being an Heroick Poem, had not you better call him a Charioteer? Charioteer sounds great; besides your Ladyship's Coach-man having a red face, and you comparing him to the Sun—and you know the Sun is call'd Heav'ns Charioteer.

Oh, infinitely better; I'm extremely beholding to you for the hint, stay we'll read over those half a score lines again.

Let me see here, you know what goes before, the comparison, you know.

I'm afraid that simile wont do in wet Weather—because you say the Sun shines every day.

No, for the Sun it wont, but it will do for the Coachman, for you know there's most occasion for a Coach in wet Weather.

Right, right, that saves all.

Then I don't say the Sun shines all the day, but, that he peeps now and then, yet he does shine all the day too, you know, tho' we don't see him.

Right, but the vulgar will never comprehend that.

Well you shall hear—let me see.

That's right, all's well, all's well.

Ay, Charioteer does better.

For Susan, you know, is Theti•…, and so—

Incomparable well and proper, Igad—but I have one exception to make.—don't you think bilk (I know its good Rhime) but don't you think bilk and fare too like a Hackney Coach-man?

I swear and vow I'm afraid so—And yet our Iehu was a Hackney Coach-man, when my Lord took him.

Was that he then, I'm answered, if Iehu was a Hack∣ney Coach-man—you may put that into the marginal Notes, tho' to prevent Criticisms—only mark it with a small aste∣rism, and say,—Iehu was formerly a Hackney Coach-man.

I will; you'd oblige me extremely to write Notes to the whole Poem.

With all my Heart and Soul, and proud of the vast honour, let me perish.

Hee, hee, hee, my Dear, have you done—wont you joyn with us, we were laughing at my Lady Whister, and Mr. Sneer.

—Ay my Dear—were you? Oh filthy Mr. Sneer; he's a nauseous figure, a most fulsamick Fop, Foh—he spent two days together in going about Covent Garden to suit the lining of his Coach with his complexion.

O silly! yet his Aunt is as fond of him, as if she had brought the Ape into the World her self.

Who, my Lady Toothless; O, she's a mortifying Spe∣ctacle; she's always chewing the Cud like an old Yew.

Fie Mr. Brisk, 'tis Eringo's for her Cough.

I have seen her take 'em half chew'd out of her Mouth, to Laugh, and then put 'em in again—Foh.

Foh.

Then she's always ready to Laugh when Sneer offers to speak——And sits in expectation of his no Jest, with her Gums bare, and her Mouth open.—

Like an Oyster at low Ebb, I'gad—ha, ha, ha.

Well, I find there are no Fools so inconsi∣derable in themselves, but they can render other People contemptible in exposing their Infirmities.

Then that t'other great strapping Lady—I can't hit of her Name; the old fat Fool that Paints so ex∣orbitantly.

I know whom you mean—But Deuce take me, I can't hit of her Name neither—Paints de'e say? Why she lays it on with a Trowel—Then she has a great Beard that bristles through it, and makes her look as if she were plaistred with Lime and Hair, let me perish.

Oh you made a Song upon her, Mr Brisk.

He? e'gad, so I did—My Lord can sing it.

O good my Lord let's hear it.

'Tis not a Song neither—it's a •…ort of an Epigram, or rather an Epigrammatick Sonnet; I don't know what to call it, but it's Satyr.—Sing it my Lord.

Short, but there's Salt in't, my way of writing I'gad.

How now?

Your Ladiships Chair is come.

Is Nurse and the Child in it?

Yes, Madam.

O the dear Creature! Let's go see it.

I swear, my Dear, you'll spoil that Child, with sending it to and again so often, this is the seventh time the Chair has gone for her to Day.

O-law, I swear it's but the sixth,—and I han't seen her these two hours.——The poor dear Creature—If wear, my Lord, you don't Love poor little Sapho—Come, my dear Cynthia, Mr. Brisk, we'll go see Sapho, tho' my Lord wont.

I'll wait upon your Ladiship.

Pray, Madam, how old is Lady Sapho?

Three Quarters, but I swear she has a World of Wit, and can sing a Tune already? My Lord wont you go? Wont you? What not to see Saph? Pray, My Lord, come see little Saph. I knew you cou'd not stay.

'Tis not so hard to counterfeit Joy in the depth of Affliction, as to dissemble Mirth in Company of Fools—Why should I call 'em Fools? The World thinks better of 'em; for these have Quality and Education, Wit and fine Conversation are receiv'd and admir'd by the World—If not, they like and admire themselves—And why is not that true Wisdom, for 'tis Happiness: And for ought I know, we have misapply'd the Name all this while, and mistaken the thing: Since