Select plays: containing, 1. Wild oats. By Mr. O'Keefe. 2. Lionel and Clarissa. By Mr. Bickerstaff. 3. Love in a village. By the same. 4. The suspicious husband. By Dr. Hoadley.

LIONEL AND CLARISSA.

ACT I.

SCENE, A Chamber in Colonel Oldboy's House: Colonel Oldboy at breakfast, reading a newspaper; at a little distance sits Jenkins; and on the opposite side, Diana, playing upon a harpsichord. A Girl attending.

Diana.

AH how delightful the morning, How sweet are the prospects it yields! Summer luxuriant adorning The gardens, the groves, and the fields.

Be grateful to the season, Its pleasures let's employ; Kind nature gives, and reason Permits us to enjoy.

Col.

Well said, Dy; thank you, Dy. This, master Jen|kins, is the way I make my daughter entertain me every morning at breakfast. Come here and kiss me, you slut; come here and kiss me, you baggage.

Dian.

Lord, papa, you call one such names—

Col.

A fine girl, master Jenkins, a devilish fine girl! she has got my eye to a twinkle. There's fire for you!— spirit!—I design to marry her to a Duke; how much money do you think a Duke would expect with such a wench?

Jen.

Why, Colonel, with submission, I think there is no occasion to go out of our own country here; we have never a Duke in it, I believe; but we have many an ho|nest gentleman, who, in my opinion, might deserve the young lady.

Col.

So you would have me marry Dy to a country Squire, eh! How say you to this, Dy? Would not you rather be married to a Duke?

Dian.

So my husband's a rake, papa, I don't care what he is.

Col.

A rake! you damned confounded little baggage; why, you would not wish to marry a rake, would you? So her husband is a rake, she does not care what he is!— Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Dian.

Well, but listen to me, papa—When you go out with your gun, do you take any pleasure in shooting the poor tame ducks and chickens in your yard? No, the partridge, the pheasant, the woodcock, are the game; there is some sport in bringing them down, because they are wild; and it is just the same with an husband or a lover. I would not waste powder and shot to wound one of your sober pretty behaved gentlemen; but to hit a libertine, extravagant, madcap fellow, to take him upon the wing—

Col.

Do you hear her, master Jenkins? Ha, ha, ha!

Jen.

Well, but good Colonel, what do you say to my worthy and honorable patron here, Sir John Flowerdale? He has an estate of eight thousand pounds a year as well, paid rents as any in the kingdom, and but one only daugh|ter to enjoy it; and yet he is willing, you see, to give this daughter to your son.

Dian.

Pray, Mr. Jenkins, how does Miss Clarissa and our university friend, Mr. Lionel? That is the only grave young man I ever liked, and the only handsome one I ever was acquainted with, that did not make love to me.

Col.

Ay, master Jenkins, who is this Lionel? They say he is a damned witty, knowing fellow; and egad I think him well enough for one brought up in a college.

Jen.

His father was a general officer, a particular friend of Sir John's, who, like many more brave men that live and die in defending their country, left little else than honour behind him▪ Sir John sent this young man, at his own expence, to Oxford; where, while his son lived, they were upon the same footing: and since our young gentleman's death, which you know unfortunately hap|pened about two years ago, he has continued him there. During the vacation he is come to pay us a visit, and Sir John intends that he shall shortly take orders for a very

considerable benefice in the gift of the family, the pre|sent incumbent of which is an aged man.

Dian.

The last time I was at your house, he was teach|ing Miss Clarissa mathematics and philosophy. Lord! what a strange brain I have! If I was to sit down to dis|tract myself with such studies—

Col.

Go, hussey, let some of your brother's rascals in|form their master that he has been long enough at his toilet; here is a message from Sir John Flowerdale— You a brain for mathematics, indeed! we shall have women wanting to head our regiments to-morrow or next day.

Dian.

Well, papa, and suppose we did. I believe, in a battle of the sexes, you men would hardly get the bet|ter of us.

To rob them of strength, when wise nature thought fit By women to still do her duty, Instead of a sword, she endues them with wit, And gave them a shield in ther beauty.

Sound, sound then the trumpet, both sexes to arms! Our tyrants at once and protectors! We quickly shall see, whether courage or charms Decide for the Helens or Hectors.

Exit.

Col.

Well, master Jenkins! don't you think now that a nobleman, a Duke, an Earl, or a Marquis, might be con|tent to share his title—I say, you understand me—with a sweetener of thirty or forty thousand pounds, to pay off mortgages? Besides, there's a prospect of my whole estate; for, I dare swear her brother will never have any children.

Jen.

I should be concerned at that, Colonel, when there are two such fortunes to descend to his heirs, as yours and Sir John Flowerdale's.

Col.

Why, look you, master Jenkins, Sir John Flower|dale is an honest gentleman; our families are nearly re|lated; we have been neighbours time out of mind; and if he and I have an odd dispute now and then, it is not for

want of a cordial esteem at bottom. He is going to marry his daughter to my son; she is a beautiful girl, an elegant girl, a sensible girl, a worthy girl, and—a word in your ear—damn me, it I an't very sorry for her.

Jen.

Sorry! Colonel?

Col.

Ay—between ourselves, master Jenkins, my son won't do.

Jen.

How do you mean?

Col.

I tell you, master Jenkins, he won't do—he is not the thing, a prig—At sixteen years old, or thereabouts, he was a bold sprightly boy, as you should see in a thou|sand; could drink his pint of port, or his bottle of claret —now he mixes all his wine with water.

Jen.

Oh! if that be his only fault, Colonel, he will ne••er make the worse husband, I'll answer for it.

Col.

You know my wife is a woman of quality—I was prevailed upon to send him to be brought up by her brother Lord J••••samy, who had no children of his own, and promised to leave him an estate—He has got the estate indeed, but the fellow has taken his Lordship's name for it. Now, master Jenkins, I would be glad to know how the name of Jessamy is better than that of Oldboy?

Jen.

Well! but, Colonel, it is allowed on all hands, that his Lordship has given your son an excellent educa|tion.

Col.

Psha! he sent him to the university, and to travel, for sooth; but, what of that? I was abroad, and at the university myself, and never a rush the better for either. I quarrelled with his Lordship about six years before his death, and so had not an opportunity of seeing how the youth went on; if I had, master Jenkins, I would no more have suffered him to be made such a monkey of— He has been in my house but three days, and it is all turned topsey-turvey by him and his rascally servants— then his chamber is like a perfumer's shop, with wash-balls, pastes, and pomatum—and do you know he had the impudence to tell me yesterday at my own table, that I did not know how to behave myself.

Jen.

Pray, Colonel, how does my Lady Mary?

Col.

What, my wife? In the old way, master Jenkins; always complaining; ever something the matter with her head, or her back, or her legs—but we have had the devil to pay lately—she and I did not speak to one ano|ther for three weeks.

Jen.

How so, sir?

Col.

A little affair of jealousy—You most know, my game-keeper's daughter has had a child, and the plaguy baggage takes it into her head to lay it to me—Upon my soul, it is a fine fat chubby infant, as ever I set my eyes on; I have sent it to nurse; and, between you and me, I believe I shall leave it a fortune.

Jen.

Ah, Colonel, you will never give over.

Col.

You know my Lady has a pretty vein of poetry; she writ me an heroic epistle upon it, where she calls me her dear false Damon; so I let her cry a little, promised to do so no more, and now we are as good friends as ever.

Jen.

Well, Colonel, I must take my leave; I have de|livered my message, and Sir John may expect the pleasure of your company to dinner.

Col.

Ay, ay, we'll come—pox o' ceremony among friends. But won't you stay to see my son; I have sent to him, and suppose he will be here as soon as his valet-de-chambre will give him leave.

Jen.

There's no occasion, good sir; present my hum|ble respects, that's all.

Col.

Well, but, zounds, Jenkins, you must not go till you drink something—let you and I have a bottle of hock—

Jen.

Not for the world, Colonel; I never touch any thing strong in the morning.

Col.

Never touch any thing strong! Why, one bottle won't hurt you, man—this is old, and as mild as milk.

Jen.

Well, but, Colonel, pray excuse me.

To tell you the truth, In the days of my youth, As mirth and nature bid, I lik'd a glass, And I lov'd a lass. And I did as younkers did.

But now I am old, With grief be it told, I must those freaks forbear; At sixty-three, 'Twixt you and me, A man grows worse for wear.

Exit.

Enter Jessamy, and Lady Mary Oldboy.

Lady M.

Shut the door, why don't you shut the door there? Have you a mind I should catch my death?— This house is absolutely the cave of Aeo••us; one had as good live on the eddystone, or in a wind-mill.

Jes.

I thought they told your Ladyship that there was a messenger here from Sir John Flowerdale?

Col.

Well, sir, and so there was; but he had not pa|tience to wait upon your curling-irons. Mr. Jenkins was here, Sir John Flowerdale's steward, who has lived in the family these forty years.

Jes.

And pray, sir, might not Sir John Flowerdale have come himself? If he had been acquainted with the rules of good breeding, he would have known that I ought to have been visited.

Lady M.

Upon my word, Colonel, this is a solecism.

Col.

'Sblood, my Lady, its none. Sir John Flowerdale came but last night from my sister's seat in the West, and is a little out of order. But I suppose he thinks he ought to appear before him with his daughter in one hand, and his rent-roll in the other, and cry, Sir, pray do me the favour to accept them.

Lady M.

Nay, but, Mr. Oldboy, permit me to say—

Col.

He need not give himself so many affected airs; I think it's very well if he gets such a girl for going for— she's one of the handsomest and richest in this country, and more than he deserves.

Jes.

That's an exceeding fine china jar your Ladyship has got in the next room; I saw the fellow of it the other day at Williams's, and will send to my agent to purchase it; it is the true matchless old blue and white. Lady Betty Barebones has a couple that she gave an hundred guineas for, on board an Indiaman; but she reckons them

at a hundred and twenty-five, on account of half a dozen plates, four Nankin beakers, and a couple of shading mandarins, that the custom-house officers took from under her petticoats.

Col.

Did you ever hear the like of this! He's chatter|ing about old china, while I am talking to him of a fine girl. I tell you what, Mr. Jessamy, since that's the name you choose to be called by, I have a good mind to knock you down.

Jes.

Knock me down, Colonel! What do you mean? I must tell you, sir, this is a language to which I have not been accustomed; and if you think proper to conti|nue to repeat it, I shall be under a necessity of quitting your house?

Col.

Quitting my house?

Jes.

Yes, sir, incontinently.

Col.

Why, sir, am not I your father, sir? and have I not a right to talk to you as I like? I will, sirrah. But, perhaps I mayn't be your father, and I hope not.

Lady M.

Heavens and earth, Mr. Oldboy!

Col.

What's the matter, madam! I mean, madam, that he might have been changed at nurse, madam; and I believe he was.

Jes.

Huh! huh! huh!

Col.

Do you laugh at me, you saucy jackanapes!

Lady M.

Who's there—somebody bring me a chair. Really, Mr. Oldboy, you throw my weakly frame into such repeated convulsions—but I see your aim; you want to lay me in my grave, and you will very soon have that satisfaction.

Col.

I can't bear the sight of him.

Lady M.

Open that window, give me air, or I shall faint.

Jes.

Hold, hold, let me tie a handkerchief about my neck first. This cursed sharp north wind—Antoine, bring down my muff.

Col.

Ay, do, and his great-coat.

Lady M.

Margaret, some hartsharn. My dear Mr. Oldboy, why will you fly out in this way, when you know how it shocks my tender nerves?

Col.

'Sblood, madam, its enough to make a man mad.

Lady M.

Hartshorn! Hartshorn!

Jes.

Colonel!

Col.

Do you hear the puppy?

Jes.

Will you give me leave to ask you one question?

Col.

I don't know whether I will or not.

Jes.

I should be glad to know, that's all, what single circumstance in my conduct, carriage, or figure, you can possibly find fault with—Perhaps I may be brought to re|form—Pr'ythee, let me hear from your own mouth then, seriously what it is you do like, and what it is you do not like.

Col.

Hum!

Jes.

Be ingenuous, speak and spare not.

Col.

You would know?

Zounds, sir! then I'll tell you without any jest, The thing of all things which I hate and detest; A coxcomb, a fop, A dainty milk-sop; Who, essenc'd and dizen'd from bottom to top, Looks just like a doll for a milliner's shop. A thing full of prate, And pride and conceit; All fashion, no weight; Who shrugs and takes snuff, And carries a muff; A minikin, Finiking, French powder puff: And now, sir, I fancy I've told you enough

Exit.

Jes.

What's the matter with the Colonel, madam; does your Ladyship know?

Lady M.

Heigho! don't be surprised, my dear; it was the same thing with my late dear brother, Lord Jes|samy; they never could agree: that good-natured, friendly soul, knowing the delicacy of my constitution, has often said, sister Mary, I pity you. Not but your father has good qualities, and, I assure you, I remember him a

very fine gentleman himself. In the year of the hard frost, one thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine, when he first paid his addresses to me, he was called agreeable J••ck O••dboy, though I married him without the consent of your noble grandfather.

J••s.

I think he ought to be proud of me: I believe there's many a Duke, nay Prince, who would esteem themselves happy in having such a son—

Lady M.

Yes, my dear; but your sister was always your father's favourite: He intends to give her a prodi|gious fortune, and sets his heart upon seeing her a woman of quality.

J••s.

He should wish to see her look a little like a gen|tlewoman first. When she was in London last winter, I am told she was taken notice of by a few men. But she wants a••r, manner—

Lady M.

And has not a bit of the genius of our fa|mily, and I never knew a woman of it, but herself, without. I have tried her. About three years ago, I set her to translate a little French song: I found she had not even an idea of versification; and she put down love and joy for rhyme—so I gave her over.

J••s.

Why, indeed, she appears to have more of the 'T••atestris than the Sappho about her.

Lady M.

Well, my dear, I must go and dress myself, though I protest I am fitter for my bed than my coach — And condescend to the Colonel a little—Do, my dear, if it be only to oblige your mamma.

Exit.

J••s.

Let me consider—I am going to visit a country Baronet here, who would fain prevail upon me to marry his daughter: the old gentleman has heard of my parts and understanding; Miss, of my figure and address — But, suppose I should not like her when I see her?— Why, positively, then I will not have her; the treaty's at an end, and, sans compliment, we break up the congress. But, won't that be cruel, after having suf|fered her to flatter herself with hopes, and shewing my|self to her. She's a strange dowdy, I dare believe: however, she brings provision with her for a separate maintenance.

Antoine, appretez la toilette. I am going to spend a cursed day; that I perceive already; I wish it was over, I dread it as much as a general election.

When a man of fashion condescends To herd among his country friends, They watch his looks, his motions: One booby gapes, another stares, And all he says, does, eats, drinks, wears, Must suit their rustic notions.

But as for this brutish old clown here, 'Sdeath, why did I ever come down here! The savage will now never quit me: Then a consort to take, For my family's sake, Twix a fair jeopardy, sp•••••• me!

Exit,

SCENE, a Study in Sir John Flowerdale's House.— Clarissa enters, followed by Jenny.

Clar.

Immortal powers, protect me, Assist, support, direct me; Relieve a heart opprest: Ah! why this palpitation! Cease, busy perturbation, And let me, let me rest.

Jen.

My dear lady, what ails you?

Clar.

Nothing, Jenny; nothing.

Jen.

Pardon me madam, there is something ails you, indeed. Lord! what signifies all the grandeur and riches in this world, if they can't procure one content. I am sure it vexes me to the heart, so it does, to see such a dear, sweet, worthy young lady, as you are, pining yourself to death.

Clar.

Jenny, you are a good girl, and I am very much obliged to you for feeling so much on my account; but in a little time, I hope, I shall be easier.

Jen.

Why, now, here to day, madam—for certain,

you ought to be merry to-day, when there's a fine gen|tleman coming to court you, but, if you like any one else better, I am sure, I wish you had him, with all my soul.

Clar.

Suppose, Jenny, I was so unfortunate as to like a man without my father's approbation—would you wish me to marry him?

Jen.

I wish you married to any one, madam, that could make you happy.

Clar.

Heigho!

Jen.

Madam! madam! yonder's Sir John and Mr. Lionel on the terrace. I believe they are coming up here. Poor, dear, Mr. Lionel, he does not seem to be in over great spirits either. To be sure, madam, it's no business of mine; but, I believe, if the truth was known, there are those in the house who would give more than ever I shall be worth, or any the likes of me, to prevent the marriage of a certain person that shall be nameless.

Clar.

What do you mean? I don't understand you.

Jen.

I hope you are not angry, madam?

Clar.

Ah! Jenny—

Jen.

Lauk, madam! do you think when Mr. Lionel's a clergyman, he'll be obliged to cut off his hair. I'm sure it will be a thousand pities, for it is the sweetest co|lour, and looks the nicest put up in a queue— and your great pudding-sleeves! Lord! they'll quite spoil his shape, and the fall of his shoulders. Well! madam, if I was a lady of large fortune, I'll be hanged if Mr. Lionel should be a parson, if I could help it.

Clar.

I'm going into my dressing-room—••t seems then Mr. Lionel is a great favorite of yours; but pray, Jen|ny▪ have a care how you talk in this manner to any one else.

Jen.

Me talk! madam—I thought you knew me bet|ter; and, my dear lady, keep up your spirits. I'm sure I have dressed you to day as nicely as hands and pins can make you.

I'm but a poor servant, 'tis true, ma'am; But was I a lady like you, ma'am, In grief would I sit? The dickens a bit; No, faith, I would search the world through, ma'am, To find what my liking could hit.

Set in case a young man, In my fancy there ran, It might anger my friends and relations; But if I had regard, It should go very hard, Or I'd follow my own inclinations.

Exeunt.

Enter Sir John Flowerdale, and Lionel.

Sir John.

Indeed, Lionel, I will not hear of it. What! to run from us all of a sudden, this way; and at such a time, too; the eve of my daughters wedding, as I may call it, when your company must be doubly agreeable, as well as necessary to us? I am sure you have no studies at present that require your attendance at Oxford: I must therefore insist on your putting such thoughts out of your head.

Lion.

Upon my word, sir, I have been so long from the university, that it is time for me to think of return|ing. It is true, I have no absolute studies; but really, sir, I shall be obliged to you if you will give me leave to go.

Sir John.

Come, come, my dear L••onel, I have for some time observed a more than ordinary gravity grow|ing upon you, and I am not to learn the reason of it: I know, to minds serious and well inclined, like yours, the sacred functions you are about to embrace—

Lion.

Dear sir, your goodness to me, of every kind, is so great, so unremitted —Your condescension, your friendly attentions—in short, sir, I want words to express my sense of obligations—

Sir John.

Fie, fie, no more of them. By my last letters, I find, that my old friend the Rector still con|tinues in good health, considering his advanced years. You may imagine, I am far from desiring the death of

so worthy and pious a man; yet, I must own, at this time, I could wish you were in orders, as you might then perform the ceremony of my daughter's marriage; which would give me a secret satisfaction.

Lion.

No doubt, sir, any office in my power that could be instrumental to the happiness of any in your family, I should perform with pleasure.

Sir John.

Why, really, Lionel, from the character of her intended husband, I have no room to doubt, but this match will make Clarissa perfectly happy: to be sure the alliance is the most eligible for both families.

Lion.

If the gentleman is sensible of his happiness in the alliance, sir.

Sir John.

The fondness of a father is always suspected of partiality; yet, I believe, I may venture to say, that few young women will be found more unexceptionable than my daughter: her person is agreeable, her temper sweet, her understanding good; and, with the obliga|tions she has to your instructions—

Lion.

You do my endeavours too much honour, sir; I have been able to add nothing to Miss Flowerdale's ac|complishments, but a little knowledge in matters of small importance to a mind already so well improved.

Sir John.

I don't think so; a little knowledge, even in those matters, is necessary for a woman, in whom I am far from considering ignorance as a desireable character|istic. When intelligence is not attended with impertinent affectation, it teaches them to judge with precision, and gives them a degree of solidity necessary for the compa|nion of a sensible man.

Lion.

Yonder's Mr. Jenkins: I fancy he's looking for you, sir.

Sir John.

I see him; he's come back from Colonel Oldboy's; I have a few words to say to him, and will re|turn to you again in a minute.

Exit.

Lion.

To be a burthen to one's self, to wage continual war with one's own passions; forced to combat, unable to overcome! But see, she appears, whose presence turns all my sufferings into transport, and makes even misery itself delightful.

Enter Clarissa.

Perhaps, madam, you are not at leisure now; other|wise, if you thought proper, we would resume the sub|ject we were upon yesterday.

Clar.

I am sure, sir, I give you a great deal of trou|ble.

Lion.

Madam, you give me no trouble; I should think every hour of my life happily employed in your service; and as this is probably the last time I shall have the satis|faction of attending you upon the same occasion—

Clar.

Upon my word, Mr. Lionel, I think myself ex|tremely obliged to you; and shall ever consider the enjoy|ment of your friendship—

Lion.

My friendship, madam, can be of little moment to you; but if the most perfect adoration, if the warmest wishes for your felicity, though I should never be witness of it—if these, madam, can have any merit to continue in your remembrance, a man once honoured with a share of your esteem—

Clar.

Hold, sir—I think I hear somebody.

Lion.

If you please, madam, we will turn over this oelestial globe once more—Have you looked at the book I left you yesterday?

Clar.

Really, sir, I have been so much disturbed in my thoughts for these two or three days past, that I have not been able to look at any thing.

Lion.

I am sorry to hear that, madam; I hope there was nothing particular to disturb you. The care Sir John takes to dispose of your hand in a manner suitable to your birth and fortune—

Clar.

I don't know, sir—I own I am disturbed; I own I am uneasy; there is something weighs upon my heart, which I would fain disclose.

Lion.

Upon your heart, madam!—did you say your heart?

Clar.

I did, sir—I—

Enter Jenny.

Jen.

Madam! madam! Here's a coach and six driv|ing up the avenue: It's Colonel Oldboy's family; and, I believe, the gentleman is in it that's coming to court you.

Lord, I must run and have a peep at him out of the win|dow.

Exit.

Lion.

Madam, I'll take my leave.

Clar.

Why so, sir?—Bless me, Mr. Lionel, what's the matter!—You turn pale.

Lion.

Madam!

Clar.

Pray speak to me, sir—You tremble—Tell me the cause of this sudden change.—How are you?— Where's your disorder?

Lion.

Oh fortune! fortune!

You ask me in vain. Of what ills I complain, Where harbours the torment I find; In my head, in my heart, It invades every part, And subdues both my body and mind.

Each effort I try, Every med'cine apply, The pangs of my soul to appease; But, doom'd to endure, What I mean for a cure, Turns poison, and feeds the disease.

Exit.

Enter Diana.

Dian.

My dear Clarissa—I'am glad I have found you alone.—For Heaven's sake, don't let any one break in upon us—and give me leave to sit down with you a little —I am in such a tremor, such a panic—

Clar.

Mercy on us, what has happened?

Dian.

You may remember, I told you, that when I was last winter in London, I was followed by an odious fellow, one Ha••man: I can't say but the wretch pleased me, though he is but a young brother, and not worth sixpence; and—in short, when I was leaving town, I promised to correspond with him.

Clar.

Do you think that was prudent?

Dian.

Madness! But this is not the worst—for, what do you think?—the creature had the assurance to write to

me about three weeks ago, desiring permission to come down and spend the summer at my father's.

Clar.

At your father's!

Dian.

Ay, who never saw him, knows nothing of him, and would as soon consent to my marrying a horse joc|key. He told me a long story of some tale he intended to invent, to make my father receive him as an indifferent person; and some gentlemen in London, he said, would procure him a letter that should give it a face; and he longed to see me so, he said, he could not live without it; and if he could be permitted but to spend a week with me—

Clar.

Well, and what answer did you make?

Dian.

Oh! abused him, and refused to listen to any such thing—But—I vow, I tremble while I tell it you— Just before we left our house, the impudent monster ar|rived there, attended by a couple of servants, and is now actually coming here with my father.

Clar.

Upon my word this is a dreadful thing.

Dian.

Dreadful my dear!—I happened to be at the window as he came into the court, and I declare I had like to have fainted away.

Clar.

Isn't my Lady below?

Dian.

Yes, and I must run down to her. You'll have my brother here presently too; he would fain have come in the coach with my mother and me, but my father in|sisted on his walking with him over the fields.

Clar.

Well Diana, with regard to your affair—I think you must find some method of immediately informing this gentleman, that you consider the outrage he has com|mitted against you in the most heinous light, and insist upon his going away directly.

Dian.

Why, I believe that will be the best way—but then he'll be begging my pardon, and asking to stay.

Clar.

Why, then, you must tell him positively, you won't consent to it; and if he persists in so extravagant a design, tell him you'll never see him again as long as you live.

Dian.

Must I tell him so?

Ah! pr'ythee, spare me, dearest creature! How can you prompt me to so much ill-nature? Kneeling before me, Should I hear him implore me; Could I accuse him, Could I refuse him The boon he should ask? Set not a lover the cruel task.

No, believe me, my dear, Was he now standing here, In spite of my frights and alarms, I might rate him, might scold him— But should still strive to hold him— And sink at last into his arms.

Exit.

Clar.

How easy to direct the conduct of others, how hard to regulate our own! I can give my friend advice, while I am conscious of the same indiscretion in myself. Yet is it criminal to know the most worthy, most amiable man in the world, and not to be insensible to his merit? But my father, the kindest, best of fathers, will he ap|prove the choice I have made? Nay, has he not made another choice for me? And, after all, how can I be sure that the man I love, loves me again? He never told me so; but his looks, his actions, his present anxiety, sufficiently declare, what his delicacy, his generosity, will not suffer him to utter.

Hope and fear, alternate rising, Strive for empire o'er my heart; Every peril now despising, Now at ev'ry breath I start.

Teach, ye learned sages, teach me, How to stem this beating tide; If you've any rules to reach me, Haste and be the weak one's guide.

Thus, our trials at a distance, Wisdom, science, promise aid; But, in need of their assistance, We attempt to grasp a shade.

Exit.

SCENE, a Side View of Sir Sohn Flowerdale's.

Harman enters with Colonel Oldboy.

Col.

Well, and how does my old friend, Dick Rantum, do? I have not seen him these twelve years: he was an honest worthy fellow, as ever breathed; I remember he kept a girl in London, and was cursedly plagued by his wife's relations.

Har.

Sir Richard was always a man of spirit, Colonel.

Col.

But as to this business of yours, which he tells me of in his letter—I don't see much in it—An affair with a citizen's daughter—pinked her brother in a duel— is the fellow likely to die?

Har.

Why, sir, we hope not; but as the matter is du|bious, and will probably make some noise, I thought it was better to be for a little time out of the way; when hearing my case, Sir Richard Rantum mentioned you; he said, he was sure you would permit me to remain at your house for a few days, and offered me a recommenda|tion.

Col.

And there's likely to be a brat in the case—And the girl's friends are in business—I'll tell you what will be the consequence then—They will be for going to law with you for a maintenance—but, no matter; I'll take the affair in hand for you—make me your solicitor; and if you are obliged to pay for a single spoonful of pap, I'll be content to father all the children in the Foundling Hospital.

Har.

You are very kind, sir.

Col.

But hold—hark you—you say there's money to be had—suppose you were to marry the wench?

Har.

Do you think, sir, that would be so right, after what has happened? Besides, there's a stronger objec|tion—To tell you the truth, I am honorably in love in another place.

Col.

Oh! you are?

Har.

Yes, sir, but there are obstacles—A father—In short, sir, the mistress of my heart lives in this very county, which makes even my present situation a little irksome.

Col.

In this county! Zounds! Then I am sure I am acquainted with her; and the first letter of her name is—

Har.

Excuse me, sir, I have some particular reasons.—

Col.

But, look—who comes yonder?—Ha! ha! ha! My son, picking his steps like a dancing-master. Pr'y|thee, Harman, go into the house, and let my wife and daughter know we are come, while I go and have some sport with him: they will introduce you to Sir John Flowerdale.

Har.

Then, sir, I'll take the liberty—

Col.

But, d'ye hear?—I must have a little more dis|course with you about this girl; perhaps she is a neigh|bour of mine, and I may be of service to you.

Har.

Well, remember, Colonel, I shall try your friendship.

Indulgent powers, if ever You mark'd a tender vow, O bend in kind compassion, And hear a lover now.

For titles, wealth and honours, While others crowd your shrine; I ask this only blessing, Let her I love be mine.

Enter Jessamy, and several Servants.

Col.

Why, zounds! one would think you had never put your feet to the ground before; you make as much work about walking a quarter of a mile, as if you had gone a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.

Jes.

Colonel, you have used me extremely ill, to drag me through the dirty roads in this manner; you told me the way was all over a bowling-green; only see what a condition I am in!

Col.

Why, how did I know the roads were dirty? is that my fault? Besides, we mistook the way. Zounds, man, your legs will never be the worse when they are brushed a little.

Jes.

Antoine! have you sent La Roque for the shoes and stockings? Give me the glass out of your pocket: not a dust of powder left in my hair, and the frissure as flat as the foretop of an attorney's clerk—get your comb and pomatum; you must borrow some powder; I suppose there's such a thing as a dressing-room in the house?

Col.

Ay, and a cellar too, I hope; for I want a glass of wine, cursedly—but, hold! hold! Frank, where are you going? Stay, and pay your devoirs here, if you please; I see there's somebody coming out to welcome us.

Enter Lionel, Diana, and Clarissa.

Lion.

Colonel, your most obedient, Sir John is walk|ing with my Lady in the garden, and has commissioned me to receive you.

Col.

Mr. Lionel, I am heartily glad to see you—come here, Frank—this is my son, sir.

Lion.

Sir, I am exceeding proud to—

Jes.

Can't you get the powder then?

Col.

Miss Clary, my little Miss Clary—give me a kiss, my dear—as handsome as an angel, by Heavens—Frank, why don't you come here? This is Miss Flowerdale.

Dian.

Oh, Heavens, Clarissa! Just as I said, that im|pudent devil is come here with my father.

Aside.

Jes.

Hadn't we better go into the house?

To be made in such a pickle! Will you please to lead the way, sir,

Col.

No, but if you please, you may sir, For precedence none will stickle.

Dian.

Brother, no politeness? Bless me! Will you not your hand bestow? Lead the Lady.

Clar.

—Don't distress me; Dear Diana, let him go.

Jes.

Ma'am permit me.

Col.

—Smoke the beau.

A. 2.

Cruel must I, can I bear— Oh, adverse stars! Oh, fate severe! Beset, tormented, Each hope prevented.

Col.

None but the brave deserve the fair; Come ma'am, let me lead you: Now, sir, I precede you.

A. 5.

Lovers must ill usage bear▪ Oh, adverse stars! Oh fate severe! None but the brave deserve the fair.

Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE. A Hall in Sir John Flowerdale's House.

Lionel enters, followed by Jenny.

Jen.

WELL, but, Mr. Lionel, consider, pray consi|der, now, how can you be so prodigious un|discreet as you are, walking about the hall here, while the gentlefolks are within the parlour! Don't you think they'll wonder at your getting up so soon after dinner, and before any of the rest of the company?

Lion.

For Heaven's sake, Jenny, don't speak to me: I neither know where I am, nor what I am doing; I am the most wretched and miserable of mankind.

Jen.

Poor dear soul, I pity you. Yes, yes, I believe you are miserable enough, indeed; and, I assure you, I have pitied you a great while, and spoke many words in your favour, when you little thought you had such a friend in a corner.

Lion.

But, good Jenny, since, by some accident or other, you have been able to discover what I would wil|lingly hide from all the world, I conjure you, as you re|gard my interest, as you value your Lady's peace and ho|nour, never let the most distant hint of it escape you; for it is a secret of that importance—

Jen.

And, perhaps, you think, I can't keep a secret. Ah! Mr. Lionel, it must be hear, see, and say nothing in this world, or one has no business to live in it: Besides, who would not be in love with my Lady? There's ne|ver a man this day alive, but might be proud of it: for she's the handsomest, sweetest tempere'dest!—And I am sure, one of the best mistresses ever a poor girl had.

Lion.

Oh, Jenny, she's an angel.

Jen.

And so she is, indeed —Do you know that she gave me her blue and silver sacque to-day, and it is every crum as good as new, and, go things as they will, don't you be fretting and vexing yourself; for I am mortally certain, she would lieverer see a toad than this J••my. Though I must say, to my thinking, he's a very likely man; and a finer pair of eye-brows, and a more del••cate nose, I never saw on a fa••e.

Lion.

By Heavens I shall run mad.

Jen.

And why so? It is not beauty that always takes the fancy: moreover, to let you know, if it was, I don't think ••im any more to compare to you▪ than a thistle is to a carnation: and so's a sign; for▪ mark my words, my Lady loves you as much as she hates him.

Lion.

What you tell me, Jenny▪ is a thing I neither merit nor expect▪ No, I am unhappy, and let me conti|nue so—My most presumptuous thoughts shall never carry me to a wish that may effect her quiet, or give her cause to repent.

Jen.

That's very honourable of you, I must needs say! but, for all that▪ liking's liking, and one can't help it; and if it should be my lady's case, it is no fault of yours. I am sure, when she called me into her dressing-room, before she went down to dinner, there she stood, with her eyes brim full of tears; and so I tell a crying, for company—and then she said she could not abide the chap in the parlour; and, at the same time, she bid me take an opportunity to speak to you, and desire you to meet her in the garden this evening, after tea; for she has something to say to you.

Lion.

Jenny, I see you are my friend; for which I thank you, though I know it is impossible to do me any service; take this ring, and wear it for my sake.

Jen.

I am very much obliged to your Honour; I am your friend, indeed—but, I say, you won't forget to be in the garden now?—and, in the mean time, keep as little in the house as you can, for walls have eyes and ears; and I can tell you, the servants take notice of your uneasiness, though I am always desiring them to mind their own business.

Lion.

Pray, have a care, Jenny; have a care, my dear girl—a word may breed suspicion.

Jen.

Psha! have a care yourself; it is you that breeds suspicion, signing and pining about: you look, for all the world, like a ghost; and if you don't pluck up your spirits, you will be a ghost soon—letting things get the better of you. Though, to be sure, when I thinks with myself, being crost in love is a terrible thing—There was a young man in the town where I was born, made away with himself upon the account of it.

Lion.

Things shan't get the better of me, Jenny.

Jen.

No more they don't ought. And, once again, I say, 'Fortune is thrown in your dish, and you are not to fling it out; my lady's estate will be better than three bishoprics, if Sir John could give them to you. Think of that, Mr. Lionel, think of that.

Lion.

Think of what?

Oh, talk not to me of the wealth she possesses, My hopes and my views to herself I confine: The splendour of riches but slightly impresses A heart that is fraught with a passion like mine.

By love, only love, should our souls be cemented; No int'rest, no motive, but that I would own; With her, in a cottage, be blest and contented, And wretched without her, though plac'd on a throne.

Enter Colonel Oldboy.

Col.

Very well, my Lady, I'll come again to you pre|sently, I'm only going into the garden for a mouthful of air. Aha! my little Abigail! Here, Mo••ly, Jenny, Betty! what's your name? Why don't you answer me, hussey, when I call you?

Jen.

If you want any thing, Sir, I'll call one of the scotmen.

Col.

The footman! the footman! Damn me, I never knew one of them in my life, that wou'dn't prefer a ras|cal to a gentleman—Come here, you slut, put your hands about my neck and kiss me.

Jen.

Who, I, Sir?

Col.

Ay, here's money for you; what the devil are you afraid of? I'll take you in keeping; you shall go and live at one of my tenant's houses.

Jen.

I wonder you are not ashamed, Sir, to make an honest girl any such proposal—you that have a worthy gentlewoman▪ nay, a lady of your own. To be sure, she's a little stricken in years; but why shou'dn't she grow elderly as well as yourself?

Col.

Burn a lady, I love a pretty girl.

Jen.

Well, then, you may go look for one, Sir; I have no pretensions to the title.

Col.

Why, you pert baggage, you don't know me.

Jen.

What do you pinch my fingers for? Yes, yes, I know you well enough, and your character's well known all over the country, running after poor young creatures as you do, to ruinate them.

Col.

What, then people say—

Jen.

Indeed, they talk very bad of you; and what|ever you may think, Sir, though I'm in a menial station, I'm come of people that wou'dn't see me put upon— there are those that would take my part against the proudest he in the land, that should offer any thing un|civil.

Col.

Well, come, let me know now, how does your young lady like my son?

Jen.

You want to pump me, do you? I suppose you would know whether I can keep my tongue within my teeth.

Col.

She dosn't like him then?

Jen.

I don't say so, Sir—Isn't this a shame now?— I suppose to-morrow or next day it will be reported, that Jenny has been talking—Jenny said that and t'other— But here, Sir, I ax you, Did I tell you any such thing?

Col.

Why, yes, you did.

Jen.

I!—Lord bless me, how can you—

Col.

Ad, I'll mouzle you.

Jen.

Ah! ah!

Col.

What do you bawl for?

Jen.

Ah! ah! ah!

Indeed, forsooth, a pretty youth, To play the amorous fool; At such an age, methink your rage Might be a little cool.

Fie, let me go, sir. Kiss me!—No, no, sir.

You pull me and shake me; For what do you take me, This figure to make me? I'd have you to know, I'm not for your game, sir; Nor will I be tame, sir, Lord, have you no shame, sir, To tumble me so?

Enter Lady Mary, Diana, and Harman.

Lady M.

Mr. Oldboy, won't you give me your hand to lead me up stairs, my dear?—Sir, I am prodigiously obliged to you; I protest I have not been so well, I don't know when: I have had no return of my bilious com|plaint after dinner to-day; and eat so voraciously! Did you observe, Miss—'The whole wing of a partridge!'— Doctor Arsenic will be quite astonished when he hears it; surely his new-invented medicine has done me a pro|digious deal of service.

Col.

Ah! you'll always be taking one stop or other till you poison yourself.

Lady M.

It brought Sir Barnaby Drug from death's door, after having tried the Spa and Bristol waters with|out effect—It is good for several things, in many so|vereign, as in colds and consumptions, and lowness of

spirits; it corrects the humours, rectifies the juices, re|gulates the nervous system; creates an appetite, pre|vents flushings and sickness after meals; as also vain fears and head-achs; it is the finest thing in the world for an asthma; and no body that takes it is ever troubled with hysterics.

Col.

Give me a pinch of your Ladyship's snuff.

Lady M.

This is a mighty pretty sort of man, Colonel, who is he?

Col.

A young fellow, my Lady, recommended to me.

Lady M.

I protest he has the sweetest taste for poetry! —He has repeated to me two or three of his own things; and I have been telling him of the poem my late brother, Lord Jessamy, made on the mouse that was drowned.

Col.

Ay, a fine subject for a poem; a mouse that was drowned in a—

Lady M.

Hush, my dear Colonel, don't mention it— to be sure, the circumstance was vastly indelicate; but for the number of lines, the poem was as charming a morsel —I heard the Earl of Punley say, who understood La|tin, that it was equal to any thing in Catullus.

Col.

Well, how did you like your son's behaviour at dinner, madam? I thought the girl looked a little askew at him—Why, he found fault with every thing, and contradicted every body.

Lady M.

Softly—Miss Flowerdale, I understand, has desired a private conference with him.

Col.

What, Harman, have you got entertaining my daughter there? Come hither, Dy; has he been giving you a history of the accident that brought him down here?

Dian.

No, papa, the gentleman has been telling me—

Lady M.

No matter what, Miss—'tis not polite to repeat what has been said.

Col.

Well, well, my Lady, you know the compact we made; the boy is yours, the girl mine—Give me your hand, Dy.

Lady M.

Colonel, I have done.—Pray, sir, was there any news when you left London—any thing about the East

Indies, the ministry, or politics of any kind? I am strangely fond of politics; but I hear nothing since my Lord Jessamy's death—He used to write to me all the af|fairs of the nation, for he w•••• a very great politician himself. I have a manuscript speech of his in my cabinet —he never spoke it; but it is as fine a thing as ever came from man.

Col.

What is that crawling on your ladyship's petti|coat?

Lady M.

Where! where!

Col.

Zounds, a spider! with legs as long as my arm!

Lady M.

Oh, heavens! Ah, don't let me look at it— I shall faint, I shall faint! A spider! a spider! a spider!

Runs off.

Col.

Hold; zounds, let her go; I knew the spider would set her a galloping, with her damn'd fuss about her brother, my Lord Jessamy. Harman, come here▪— How do you like my daughter? Is the girl you are in lose with as handsome as this?

Har.

In my opinion, sir.

Col.

What, as handsome as Dy? I'll lay you twenty pounds she has not such a pair of eyes. He tells me he's in love, Dy—raging mad for love; and, by his talk, I begin to believe him.

Dian.

Now, for my part, papa, I doubt it very much; though, by what I heard the gentleman say just now within, I find he imagines the lady has a violent partial|ity for him; and yet he may be mistaken there too.

Col.

For shame, Dy; what the mischief do you mean? How can you talk so tartly to a poor young fellow under misfortunes? Give him your hand, and ask his pardon. Don't mind her, Harman. For all this, she is as good-natur'd a little devil as ever was born.

Har.

You may remember, sir, I told you before din|ner, that I had for some time carried on a private corres|pondence with my lovely girl; and that her father, whose consent we despair of obtaining, is the great obstacle to our happiness.

Col.

Why don't you carry her off in spite of him, then? I ran away with my wife—ask my lady Mary—

she'll tell you the thing herself. Her old conceited lord of a father thought I was not good enough; but I mount|ed a garden wall, notwithstanding their chevaux-de-frize of broken glass bottles—took her out of a three pair of stairs window, and bro't her down a ladder in my arms. By the way, she would have squeezed through a cat-hole to get at me: And I would have taken her out of the tower of London, damme, if it had been surrounded with three regiments of guards.

Dian.

But surely, papa, you would not persuade the gentleman to such a proceeding as this is; consider the noise it will make in the country; and if you are known to be the adviser and abettor—

Col.

Why, what do I care? I say, if he takes my ad|vice, he'll run away with her; and I'll give him all the assistance I can.

Har.

I am sure, sir, you are very kind: and to tell you the truth, I have more than once had the very scheme in my head, if I thought it was feasible, and knew how to go about it.

Col.

Feasible! and knew how to go about it! The thing's feasible enough, if the girl's willing to go off with you, and you have spirits sufficient to undertake it.

Har.

O, as for that, sir, I can answer.

Dian.

What, sir! that the lady will be willing to go off with you?

Har.

No, ma'am, that I have spirit enough to take her, if she is willing to go: and thus far I dare venture to promise, that between this and to-morrow morning, I will find out whether she is or not.

Col.

So he may; she lives but in this county; and tell her, Harman, you have met with a friend who is inclined to serve you. You shall have my post-chaise at a minute's warning; and if an hundred pieces will be of any use to you, you may command 'em.

Har.

And you are really serious, sir?

Col.

Serious! damme, if I an't. I have put twenty young fellows in the way of getting girls that they never would have thought of—And bring her to my house.— Whenever you come, you shall have a supper and a bed;

but you must marry her first, because my Lady will be squeamish.

Dian.

Well, but, my dear papa, upon my word, you have a great deal to answer for—Suppose it was your own case to have a daughter in such circumstances, would you be obliged to any one—

Col.

Hold your tongue, hussey, who bid you put in your oar? However, Harman, I don't want to set you upon any thing; 'tis no affair of mine, to be sure; I only give you advice, and tell you how I would act if I was in your place.

Har.

I assure you, sir, I am quite charmed with the advice; and since you are ready to stand my friend, I am determined to follow it.

Col.

You are?—

Har.

Positively.

Col.

Say no more then; here's my hand—You under|stand me—No occasion to talk any further of it at pre|sent—When we are alone, —Dy, take Mr. Harman into the drawing-room, and give him some tea.—I say, Har|man, mum—

Har.

O, Sir.

Col.

What do you mean by your grave looks, mis|tress?

How cursedly vex'd the old fellow will be, When he finds you have snapt up his daughter; But shift as he will, leave the matter to me, And I warrant you soon shall have caught her.

What a plague and a pox, Shall an ill-natur'd fox, Prevent youth and beauty From doing their duty? He ought to be set in the slocks. He merits the law; And if we can't bite him, By gad we'll indite him. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Exit.

Dian.

Sir, I desire to know, what gross acts of impru|dence you have ever discovered in me, to authorize you in this licence, or make you imagine I should not shew such marks of my resentment as your monstrous treat|ment of me deserves?

Har.

Nay, my dear Diana, I confess I have been ra|ther too bold—but consider, I languished to see you; and when an opportunity offered to give me that plea|sure, without running any risk either of your quiet, or reputation, how hard was it to be resisted 'Tis true, I little thought my visit would be attende•• with such happy consequences as it now seems to promise.

Dian.

What do you mean?

Har.

Why, don't you see your father has an inclina|tion I should run away with you, and is contriving the means himself?

Dian.

And do you think me capable of concurring? Do you think I have no more duty?

Har.

I don't know that, madam; I am sure, your re|fusing to seize such an opportunity to make me happy, gives evident proofs that you have very little love.

Dian.

If there is no way to convince you of my love, but by my indiscretion, you are welcome to consider it in what light you please.

Har.

Was ever so unfortunate a dog!

Dian.

Very pretty this, upon my word; but is it 'possible you can be in earnest?

Har.

It is a matter of too much consequence to jest 'about.

Dian.

And you seriously think I ought—

Har.

You are sensible there are no hopes of your fa|ther's coolly and wittingly consenting to our marriage, chance has thrown into our way a whimsical method of surprizing him into a compliance—and why should not we avail ourselves of it?

Dian.

And so you would have me—

Har.

I shall say no more, ma'am.

Dian.

Nay, but, for Heaven's sake—

Har.

No madam, no; I have done.

Dian.

And are you positively in this violent fuss about the matter, or only giving yourself airs?

Har.

You may suppose what you think proper, ma|dam.

Dian.

Well, come; let us go into the drawing-room and drink tea, and afterwards, we'll talk of matters.

Har.

I won't drink any tea.

Dian.

Why se?

Har.

Because I don't like it.

Dian.

Not like it! ridiculous!

Har.

I wish you would let me alone.

Dian.

Nay, pr'y thee—

Har.

I won't.

Dian.

Well, will you, if I consent to act as you 'please.

Har.

I don't know whether I will or not.

Dian.

Ha, ha, ha! poor Harman!'

Har.

Say'st thou so, my girl! Then Love renounce me, if I drive not old Truepenny's humour to the utter|most. Let me consider—What ill consequence can pos|sibly attend it?—The design is his own, as in part will be the execution. He may perhaps be angry when he finds out the deceit.—Well—he deceives himself; and faults we commit ourselves, we seldom find much diffi|culty in pardoning.

Hence with caution, hence with fear, Beauty prompts, and naught shall stay me; Boldly for that prize I steer; Rocks, nor winds, nor waves dismay me.

Yet, rash lover, look behind, Think what evils may betide you; Love and Fortune both are blind, And you have none e••se to guide you.

Exit.

SCENE, Clarissa's Dressing-Room. Diana enters before Jessamy.

Dian.

Come, brother, I undertake to be mistress of the ceremony upon this occasion, and introduce you to your first audience.—Miss Flowerdale is not here, I perceive; but no matter.—

Jes.

Upon my word, a pretty elegant dressing-room this; but, confound our builders, or architects, as they call themselves, they are all errant stone-masons; not one of them know the situation of doors, windows or chim|nies; which are as essential to a room as eyes, nose, and mouth, to a countenance. Now, if the eyes are where the mouth should be, and the nose out of proportion and its place, quelle horrible phisiognomie!

Dian.

My dear brother, you are not come here as a virtuoso, to admire the temple; but as a votary, to ad|dress the deity to whom it belongs. Shew, I beseech you, a little more devotion, and tell me, how do you like Miss Flowerdale?—don't you think her very hand|some?

Jes.

Pale—but that I am determined she shall re|medy; for as soon as we are married, I will make her put on rouge—Let me see—has she got any in her boxes here—••eretable toilette a l'Angloise. Nothing but a bottle of Hungary-water, two or three rows of pins, a paper of patches, and a little bole-armoniac, by way of tooth powder.

Dian.

Brother, I would fain give you some advice up|on this occasion, which may be of service to you. You are now going to entertain a young lady—Let me pre|vail upon you to lay aside those airs, on account of which some people are impertinent enough to call you a cox|comb; for, I am afraid, she may be apt to think you a coxcomb too, as, I assure you, she is very capable of dis|tinguishing.

Jes.

So much the worse for me.—If she is capable of distinguishing, I shall meet with a terrible repulse.—I don't believe she'll have me.

Dian.

I don't believe she will, indeed.

Jes.

Go on, sister—Ha, ha, ha!

Dian.

I protest, I am serious—Though, I perceive, you have more faith in the counsellor before you there, the looking-glass. But give me leave to tell 〈◊〉〈◊〉, it is not a powdered head, a laced coat, a grimace, a shrug, a bow, or a few p••rt phrases, learnt by rote, that constitute the power of pleasing all women.

Jes.

You had better return to the gentleman, and give him his tea, my dear.

Dian.

These qualifications we find in our parrots and monkies. I would undertake to teach Fo•• in three weeks the fashionable jargon of half the fine men about town; and, I am sure, it must be allowed, that pug, in a scarlet coat, is a gentleman as degagé and alluring as most of them.

Jes.

Upon my honour, that's a charming India ca|binet—But Miss Flowerdale will be here presently— You had better return to give the gentleman his tea, and it is ten to one but we shall agree, though I should not profit by your sage advice.

Dian.

Well! I will leave you.

Ladies, pray admire a figure, Faite selon ••a derniere gout. First, his hat, in size no bigger Than a Chinese woman's shoe; Six yards of ribbon bind His hair en ba••on behind; While his foretop's so high, That in crown he may vie With the tufted cuckatoo.

Then his waist so long and taper, 'Tis an absolute thread-paper: Maids, resist him, you that can; Odd's life, if this is all th' affair, I'll clap a hat on, club my hair, And call myself a Man.

Exit.

Enter Clarissa.

Clar.

Sir, I took the liberty to desire a few moments private conversation with you—I hope you will excuse it —I am really greatly embarrassed. But, in an affair of such immediate consequence to us both—

Jes.

My dear creature, don't be embarrassed before me; I should be extremely sorry to strike you with any awe; but this is a species of mauvaise honte, which the company I shall introduce you to, will soon cure you of.

Clar.

Upon my word, sir, I don't understand you.

Jes.

Perhaps you may be under some uneasiness, lest I should not be quite so warm in the prosecution of this affair, as you could wish. It is true, with regard to quality, I might do better; and, with regard to fortune, full as well; but, you please me—Vpon my soul, I have not met with any think more agreeable to me a great while.

Clar.

Pray, sir, keep your seat.

Jes.

Manvaise honte, again. My dear, there is no|thing in these little familiarities between you and me— When we are married, I shall do every thing to render your life happy.

Clar.

Ah! sir, pardon me. The happiness of my life depends upon a circumstance—

Jes.

Oh! I understand you—You have been told, I suppose, of the Italian Opera girl—Rat people's tongues. However, 'tis true, I had an affair with her at Naples, and she is now here. But, be satisfied—I'll give her a thou|sand pounds, and set her about her business.

Clar.

Me, sir! I protest nobody told me—Lord! I never heard any such thing, or enquired about it.

Jes.

Nor have they been chattering to you of my af|fair at Pisa, with the Principessa del—

Clar.

No, indeed, sir.

Jes.

Well, I was afraid they might; because, in this rude country—But, why silent on a sudden? Don't be afraid to speak.

Clara.

No, sir—I will come to the subject, on which I took the liberty to trouble you—Indeed, I have great re|liance on your generosity.

Jes.

You'll find me generous as a prince, depend on't.

Clara.

I am blest, sir, with one of the best of fathers: I never yet disobeyed him: In which I have had little me|rit; for his commands hitherto have only been to secure my own felicity.

Jes.

Well, my dear, don't imagine I will prevent your being dutiful to your father: no, no; continue to love him; I than't be jealous. —Apres ma chere.

Clara.

But now, sir, I am under the shocking necessity of disobeying him, or being wretched for ever.

Jes.

Hem!

Clar.

Our union is impossible—therefore, sir, since I cannot be your wife, let me entreat you to make you my friend.

'Poor panting heart, ah! wilt thou ever 'Throb within my troubled breast; 'Shall I see the moment never 'That is doom'd to give thee rest?

'Cruel stars! that thus torment me, 'Still I seek for ease in vain; 'All my efforts but present me 'With variety of pain.'

Exit.

Jes.

Who's there?

Enter Jenkins.

Jen.

Do you call, sir?

Jes.

Hark you, old gentleman; who are you?

Jen.

Sir, my name is Jenkins.

Jes.

Oh! you are Sir John Flowerdale's steward; a ser|vant he puts confidence in.

Jen.

Sir, I have served Sir John Flowerdale many years: he is the best of masters; and, I believe, he has some dependance on my attachment and fidelity.

Jes.

Then, Mr. Jenkins, I shall condescend to speak to you. Does your master know who I am? Does he know, sir, that I am likely to be a Peer of Great Britain? That I have ten thousand pounds a year? That I have passed through all Europe with distinguished eclat? That I refused the daughter of Mynheer Van Slokenfolk, the great Dutch burgomaster? And that, if I had not had the misfortune of being bred a Protestant, I might have mar|ried the neice of his present Holiness the Pope, with a fortune of two hundred thousand piasters?

Jen.

I am sure, sir, my master has all the respect ima|ginable—

Jes.

Then, sir, how comes he, after my shewing an inclination to be allied to his family—how comes he, I say, to bring me to his house to be affronted? I have

let his daughter go; but, I think, I was in the wrong; for a woman that insults me, is no more safe than a man. I have brought a lady to reason before now, for giving me saucy language; and left her male friends to revenge it.

Jen.

Pray, good sir, what's the matter?

Jes.

Why, sir, this is the matter, sir—your master's daughter, sir, has behaved to me with damn'd insolence, and impertinence; and you may tell Sir John Flowerdale, first, with regard to her, that I think she is a silly, igno|rant, aukward, ill-bred country puss.

Jen.

Oh! sir, for Heaven's sake—

Jes.

And that, with regard to himself, he is, in my opinion, an old doating, ridiculous country squire; with out the knowledge either of men or things; and that he is below my notice, if it were not to despise him.

Jen.

Good Lord! good Lord!

Jes.

And advise him and his daughter to keep out of my way; for, by gad, I will affront them in the first place I meet them—And if your master is for carrying things further, tell him I fence better than any man in Europe.

In Italy, Germany, France, have I been, Where princes I've liv'd with, where monarchs I've seen: The great have caress'd me, The fair have address'd me, Nay, smiles I have had from a queen.

And now shall a pert, Insignificant flirt, With insolence use me, Presume to refuse me! She fancies my pride will be hurt.

But tout an contraire, I'm pleas'd, I declare, Quite happy to think I escape from the snare: Serviteur, mam'felle; my claim I withdraw. Hey! where are my people? Fal, lal, lal, lal, la.

Exit.

Jen.

I must go and inform Sir John of what has hap|pened; but I will not tell him of the outrageous beha|viour of this young spark; for he is a man of spirit, and would resent it. Egad, my own fingers itched to be at him, once or twice; and, as stout as he is, I fancy these old fists would give him a bellyful. He complains of Miss Clarissa; but she is incapable of treating him in the manner he says. Perhaps, she may have behaved with some coldness towards him; and yet, that is a mystery to me too— for she has seen him before; and I have heard Sir John say a thousand times, that she expressed no re|pugnance to the match.

We all say the man was exceedingly knowing, And knowing most surely was he, Who found out the cause of the ebbing and flowing, The flux and reflux of the sea.

Nor was he in knowledge far from it, Who first mark'd the course of a comet; To what it was owing, Its coming and going, Its wanderings hither and thither: But the man that divines A lady's designs, Their cause or effect, In any respect, Is wiser than both put together.

SCENE, Sir John Flowerdale's Garden.—Lionel enters, leading Clarissa.

Lion.

Hist—methought I heard a noise—should we be surprized together, at a juncture so critical, what might be the consequence!—I know not how it is; but at this, the happiest moment of my life, I feel a damp, a tremor, at my heart—

Clar.

Then, what should I do? If you tremble, I ought to be terrified indeed, who have discovered senti|ments, which perhaps I should have hid, with a frankness that, by a man less generous, less noble minded than your|self, might be construed to my disadvantage.

Lion.

Oh? wound me not with so cruel an expression— You love me, and have condescended to confess it—You have seen my torments, and been kind enough to pity them—The world, indeed, may blame you—

Clar.

And yet, was it proclaimed to the world, what could the most malicious suggest? They could but say, that truth and sincerity got the better of forms; that the tongue dared to speak the honest sensations of the mind; that, while you aimed at improving my understanding, you engaged and conquered my heart.

Lion.

And is it—is it possible!

Clar.

Be calm, and listen to me—What I have done has not been lightly imagined, nor rashly undertaken: it is the work of reflection, of conviction; my love is not a sacrifice to my own fancy, but a tribute to your worth; did I think there was a more deserving man in the world—

Lion.

If, to doat on you more than life, be to deserve you, so far I have merit; if, to have no wish, no hope, no thought, but you, can entitle me to the envied dis|tinction of a moment's regard, so far I dare pretend.

Clar.

That I have this day refused a man, with whom I could not be happy, I make no merit; born for quiet and simplicity, the crowds of the world, the noise at|tending pomp and distinction, have no charms for me: I wish to pass my life in rational tranquility, with a friend, whose virtues I can respect, whose talents I can admire; who will make my esteem the basis of my affection.

Lion.

O charming creature! yes, let me indulge the flattering idea; formed with the same sentiments, the same feelings, the same tender passion for each other; Nature designed us to compose that sacred union, which nothing but death can annul.

Clar.

One only thing remember.—Secure in each other's affections, here we must rest; I would not give my father a moment's pain, to purchase the empire of the world.

Lion.

Command, dispose of me as you please; angels take cognizance of the vows of innocence and virtue; and, I will believe that ours are already registered in Heaven.

Clar.

I will believe so too.

Go, and on my truth relying, Comfort to your cares applying, Bid each doubt and sorrow f••ying, Leave to peace and love your breast.

Go, and may the pow'rs that hear us, Still, as kind protectors near us, Thro' our troubles safely steer us To a port of joy and rest.

Exit.

Enter Sir John Flowerdale.

Sir John.

Who's there?—Lionel!

Lion.

Heavens! 'tis Sir John Flowerdale.

Sir John.

Who's there?

Lion.

'Tis I, sir—I am here—Lionel.

Sir John.

My dear lad, I have been searching for you this half hour, and was at last told you had come into the garden. I have a piece of news, which, I dare swear will shock and surprize you—My daughter has refused Colo|nel Oldboy's son, who is this minute departed the house in violent resentment of her ill-treatment.

Lion.

Is he gone, sir?

Sir John.

Yes, and the family are preparing to follow him. Oh, Lionel! Clarissa has deceived me—In this af|fair she has suffered me to deceive myself. The measures which I have been so long preparing, are broken in a moment; my hopes frustrated; and both parties, in the eye of the world, rendered light and ridiculous.

Lion.

I am sorry to see you so much moved: pray, sir, recover yourself.

Sir John.

I am sorry, Lionel, she has profited no better by your lessons of philosophy, than to impose upon and distress so kind a father.

Lion.

Have juster thoughts of her, sir: she has not imposed on you; she is incapable—Have but a little pa|tience, and things may yet be brought about.

Sir John.

No, Lionel, no; the matter is past, and there's an end to it; yet I would conjecture to what such an un|expected turn in her conduct can be owing, I would fain be satisfied of the motive that could urge her to so ex|traordinary

a proceeding, without the least intimation, the least warning to me, or any of her friends.

Lion.

Perhaps, sir, the gentleman may have been too impetuous, and offended Miss Flowerdale's delicacy— certainly nothing else could occasion—

Sir John.

Heaven only knows—I think, indeed, there can be no settled aversion; and surely her affections are not engaged elsewhere?

Lion.

Engaged, sir! No, sir.

Sir John.

I think not, Lionel.

Lion.

You may be positive, sir, I am sure—

Sir John.

O worthy young man, whose integrity, open|ness, and every good quality, has rendered dear to me as my own child—I see this affair troubles you as much as it does me.

Lion.

It troubles me indeed, sir.

Sir John.

However, my particular disappointment ought not to be detrimental to you, nor shall it: I well know how irksome it is to a generous mind to live in a state of dependance, and have long had it in my thoughts to make you easy for life.

Lion.

Sir John, the situation of my mind is at present a little disturbed—spare me—I beseech you, spare me— Why will you persist in a goodness that makes me asham|ed of myself?

Sir John.

There is an estate in this county, which I purchased some years ago. By me it will never be missed, and whoever marries my daughter, will have little rea|son to complain of my disposing of such a trifle for my own gratification. On the present marriage, I intended to per|fect a deed of gift in your favour, which has been for some time prepared: my lawyer has this day completed it, and it is yours, my dear Lionel, with every good wish that the warmest friend can bestow.

Lion.

Sir, if you presented a pistol with a design to shoot me, I would submit to it: but you must excuse me—I can|not lay myself under more obligations.

Sir John.

Your delicacy carries you too far. In this I confer a favour on myself: however, we'll talk no more on the subject at present—Let us walk towards the house;

our friends will depart else without my bidding them adieu.

Exeunt.

Enter Diana and Clarissa.

Dian.

So the••, my dear Clarissa, you really give cre|dit to the ravings of the French wretch, with regard to a plurality of worlds?

Clar.

I don't make it an absolute article of belief; but I think it an ingenious conjecture, with great probability on its side.

Dian.

And we are a moon to the moon! Nay, child, I know something of astronomy, but that—that little shining thing there, which seems not much larger than a silver plate, should, perhaps, contain great cities like London; and who can tell but they may have kings there, and parliaments, and plays and operas, and people of fashion! Lord, the people of fashion in the moon must be strange creatures.

Clar.

Methinks, Venus shines very bright in yonder corner.

Dian.

Venus! O pray, let me look at Venus—I sup|pose, if there are any inhabitants there, they must be all lovers.

Enter Lionel.

Lion.

Was ever such a wretch!—I can't stay a moment in a place—where is my repose?—fled with my virtue. Was I then born for falshood and dissimulation? I was, I was, and I live to be conscious of it; to impose upon my friend; to betray my benefactor, and lie to hide my ingratitude—a monster in a moment—No, I may be the most unfortunate of men, but I will not be the most odious; while my heart is yet capable of dictating what is honest, I will obey its voice.

Aside.

Enter Colonel Oldboy, and Harman.

Col.

Dy, where are you? What the mischief, is this a time to be walking in the garden? The coach has been ready this half hour, and your mamma is waiting for you.

Dian.

I am learning astronomy, sir; do you know, papa, that the moon is inhabited?

Col.

Hussey; you are half a lunatic yourself; come here; things have just gone as I imagined they would—

the girl has refused your brother; I knew he must dis|gust her.

Dian.

Women will want taste now and then, sir.

Col.

But I must talk to the young lady a little.

Har.

Well, I have had a long conference with your father about the elopement, and he continues firm in his opinion that I ought to attempt it: in short, all the ne|cessary operations are settled between us, and I am to leave his house to-morrow morning, if I can but persuade the young lady—

Dian.

Ay, but I hope the young lady will have more sense—Lord, how can you teaze me with your nonsense? Come, sir, isn't it time for us to go in? Her Ladyship will be impatient.

Col.

Friend Lionel, good night to you; Miss Clarissa, my dear, though I am father to the puppy who has dis|pleased you, give me a kiss; you served him right, and I thank you for it.

Col.

O what a night is here for love! Cynthia brightly shining above; Among the trees, To the sighing breeze, Fountains tinkling, Stars a twinkling:

Dian.

O what a night is here for love! So may the morn propitious prove;

Har.

And so it will, if right I guess; For sometimes light, As well as night, A lover's hopes may bless.

A 2.

Farewell, my friend, May gentle rest Calm each tumult in your breast; Every pa••n and fear remove.

Lion.

What have I done? Where shall I run, With grief and shame at once opprest? How my own upbraiding shun, Or meet my friend distrest?

A. 3.

Hark to Philomel, how sweet From yonder elm.

Col.

Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet.

A. 5.

O what a night is here for love! But vainly nature strives to move. Nor nightingales among the trees, Nor twinkling stars, nor sighing breeze, Nor murmuring streams, Nor Phoebe's beams, C•••• charm, unless the heart's at ease.

Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE, A Room in Colonel Oldboy's House. Harman enters, with his hat, boots, and whip, followed by Diana.

Dian.

PR'YTHEE, hear me.

Har.

My dear, what would you say?

Dian.

I am afraid of the step we are going to take; indeed, I am—'Tis true my father is the contriver of it; but, really, on consideration, I think I should appear less culpable if he was not so; I am at once criminal myself, and rendering him ridiculous.

Har.

Do you love me?

Dian.

Suppose I do, you give me a very ill proof of your love for me, when you would take advantage of my tenderness, to blind my reason. How can you have so little regard for my honour, as to sacrifice it to a vain triumph? For it is in that light I see the rash action you are forcing me to commit; nay, methinks my con|senting to it should injure me in your own esteem. When a woman forgets what she owes herself, a lover should set little value upon any thing she gives to him.

Har.

Can you suppose then, can you imagine, that my passion will ever make me forget the veneration— And, an elopement is nothing, when it is on the road to matrimony.

Dian.

At best, I shall incur the censure of disobedience and indiscretion; and, is it nothing to a young woman what the world says of her? Ah! my good friend, be assured, such a disregard of the world is the first step to|wards deserving its reproaches.

Har.

But the necessity we are under—Mankind has too much good sense, too much good nature—

Dian.

Every one has good sense enough to see other people's faults, and good nature enough to overlook their own. Besides, the most sacred things may be made an ill use of; and even marriage itself, if indecently and improperly—

Har.

Come, get yourself ready: where is your band|box, hat, and cloak? Slip into the garden; be there at the iron-gate, which you shewed me just now; and, as the post-chaise comes round, I will stop and take you in.

Dian.

Dear Harman, let me beg of you to desist.

Har.

Dear Diana, let me beg of you to go on.

Dian.

I shall never have resolution to carry me through it.

Har.

We shall have four horses, my dear, and they will assist us.

Dian.

In short—I—cannot go with you.

Har.

But before me—Into the garden—Wont you?

Dian.

Ha, ha, ha.

Come then, pining, peevish lover, Tell me what to do and say; From your doleful dumps recover, Smile, and it shall have its way.

With their humours thus to teaze us, Men are sure the strangest elves! Silly creatures, would you please us, You should still seem pleas'd yourselves.

Exit.

Enter Colonel Oldboy.

Col.

Hey-day! what's the meaning of this? Who is it went out of the room there? Have you and my daugh|ter been in conference, Mr. Harman?

Har.

Yes, faith, sir, she has been taking me to task h••••e very severely, with regard to this affair; and she has said so much against it, and put it into such a stra••••e light—

Col.

A busy, impertinant baggage; egad, I wish •• had caught her meddling, and after I ordered her no•••• but you have sent to the girl, and you say she is 〈…〉〈…〉 go with you; you must not disa••••oint her ••ow.

Har.

No, no, Colonel; I always have politeness enough to hear a lady's reasons, but constancy enough to keep a will of my own.

Col.

Very well—now let me ask you—Don't you think it would be proper on this occasion, to have a letter ready writ for the father, to let him know who has got his daughter, and so forth?

Har.

Certainly, sir; and I'll write it directly.

Col.

You write it! You be damned? I won't trust you with it; I tell you, Harman, you'll commit some cursed blunder, if you don't leave the management of this whole affair to me: I have writ the letter for you myself.

Har.

Have you, sir?

Col.

Ay—Here, read it; I think it's the thing; how|ever, you are welcome to make any alteration.

Har.

SIR, I have loved your daughter a great while se|cretly; she assures me there are no hopes of your consenting to our marriage; I therefore take her without it. I am a gen|tleman, who will use her well; and, when you consider the matter, I dare swear you will be willing to give her a for|tune. If not, you shall find I dare behave myself like a man —A word to the wis••—You must expect to hear from me in another style.

Col.

Now, sir, I will tell you what you must do with this letter: as soon as you have got off with the girl, sir, send your servant back to leave it at the house, with or|ders to have it delivered to the old gentleman.

Har.

Upon my honour I will, Colonel.

Col.

But upon my honour, I don't believe you'll get the girl—Come, Harman, I'll bet you a buck and six dozen of burgundy, that you won't have spirit enough to bring this affair to a crisis.

Har.

And I say done first, Colonel.

Col.

Then look into the court there, sir; a chaise, with four of the prettiest bay geldings in England, with two boys in scarlet and silver jackets, that will whisk you along.

Har.

Boys! Colonel? Little cupids, to transport me to t•••• ••ummit of my desires.

Col.

Ay, but for all th•••• it mayn't be amiss for me to talk to them a little out of the window for you. Dick, come hither; you are to go with this gentleman, and do whatever he bids you; and take into the chaise whoever he pleases; and drive like devils, do you hear?—but be kind to the dumb beasts.

Har.

Leave me to that, sir—And so, my dear Colo|nel, bon voyage!

'To fear a stranger, 'Behold the soldier arm; 'He knows no danger, 'When honour sounds the alarm; 'But dauntless goes, 'Among his foes.

'In Cupid's militia, 'So fearless I issue; 'And, as you see, 'Arm'd cap-a-pie, 'Resolve on death or victory.'

Exit.

Enter Lady Mary, and then Jenny.

Lady M.

Mr. Oldboy, here is a note from Sir John Flowerdale; it is addressed to me, entreating my son to come over there again this morning. A maid brought it: she is in the anti-chamber—We had better speak to her— Child, child, why don't you come in?

Jen.

I choose to stay where I am, if your Ladyship pleases.

Lady M.

Stay where you are!—why so?

Jen.

I am afraid of the old gentleman there.

Col.

Afraid of me, hussey

Lady M.

Pray, Colonel, have patience—Afraid?— Here is something at the bottom of this,—What did you mean by that expression, child?

Jen.

Why, the Colonel knows very well, madam, he wanted to be rude with me yesterday.

Lady M.

Oh, Mr. Oldboy!

Col.

Lady Mary, don't provoke me, but let me talk to the girl about her business. How came you to bring this note here?

Jen.

Why, Sir John gave it to me, to deliver it to my uncle Jenkins, and I took it down to his house; but while we were talking together, he remembered that he had some business with Sir John, so he desired me to bring it, because he said it was not proper to be sent by any of the common servants.

Lady M.

Colonel, look in my face, and help blushing, if you can.

Col.

What the plague's the matter, my Lady! I have not been wronging you now, as you call it.

Jen.

Indeed, madam, he offered to make me his kept madam—I am sure, his usage of me put me into such a twitter, that I did not know what I was doing all the day after.

Lady M.

I don't doubt it, though I so lately forgave him; but as the poet says, his sex is all deceit. Read Pamela, child, and resist temptation.

Jen.

Yes, madam, I will.

.Col.

Why, I tell you, my Lady, it was all a joke.

Jen.

No, sir, it was no joke; you made me a proffer of money—so you did—whereby I told you, you had a lady of your own; and that though she was old, you had no right to despise her.

Lady M.

And how dare you, mistress, make use of my name? Is it for such trollops as you to talk of persons of distinction behind their backs?

Jen.

Why, madam, I only said you was in years.

Lady M.

Sir John Flowerdale shall be informed of your impertinence, and you shall be turned out of the family; I see you are a confident creature, and I believe you are no better than you should be.

Jen.

I scorn your words, madam.

Lady M.

Get out of the room; how dare you stay in this room to talk impudently to me.

Jen.

Very well, madam, I shall let my Lady know how you have used me; but I shan't be turned out of my place, madam; nor at a loss, if I am—and if you are angry with every one that won't say you are young, I believe there is very few you will keep friends with.

I wonder I'm sure, why this fuss should be made; For my part I'm neither asham'd nor afraid Of what I have done, nor of what I have said. A servant, I hope, i•• no slave; And tho', to their shames, Some ladies call names, I know better how to behave. Times are not so bad, If occasion I had, Nor my character such I need slarpe on't; And for going away, I don't want to stay, And so I'm your Ladyship's servant.

Exit.

Enter Jessamy.

Jes.

What is the matter here?

Lady M.

I will have a separate maintenance—I will, indeed. Only a new instance of your father's infidelity, my dear. Then with such low wretches, farmers daugh|ters, and servant wenches: but any thing with a cap on, 'tis all the same to him.

Jes.

Upon my word, sir, I am sorry to tell you, that those practices very ill suit the character which you ought to endeavour to support in the world.

Lady M.

Is this a recompence for my love and regard; I, who have been tender and faithful as a turtle-dove?

Jes.

A man of your birth and distinction, should me|thinks have views of a higher nature, than such low, such vulgar libertinism.

Lady M.

Consider my birth and family too—Lady Mary Jessamy might have had the best matches in Eng|land.

Jes.

Then, sir, your grey hairs—

Lady M.

I, that have brought you so many lovely, sweet babes —

Jes.

Nay, sir, it is a reflection on me.

Lady M.

The henious sin, too.—

Jes.

Indeed, sir, I blush for you.

Col.

'Sdeath and fire! you little effeminate puppy, do you know who you talk to?—And you, madam, do you know who I am?—Get up to your chamber, or, zounds, I'll make such a—

Lady M.

Ah! my dear, come away from him.

Exit.

Enter a Servant.

Col.

Am I to be tutored, and called to an account?— How now, you scoundrel, what do you want?

Serv.

A letter, sir.

Col.

A letter—from whom, sirrah?

Serv.

The gentleman's servant, an't please your ho|nour, that left this just now in the post-chaise—the gen|tleman my young lady went away with.

Col.

Your young lady, sirrah! Your young lady went away with no gentleman, you dog! What gentleman? What young lady, sirrah?

Jes.

There is some mystery in this—With your leave, sir, I'll open the letter: I believe it contains no secrets.

Col.

What are you going to do, you jackanapes? You shan't open a letter of mine. Dy—Diana— Somebody call my daughter to me there—To John Oldboy, Esq. —SIR, I have loved your daughter a great while secretly . . . . Consenting to our marriage—

J••s.

So, so.

Col.

You villain! you dog! what is it you have bro't me here?

Serv.

Please your honour, if you'll have patience, I'll tell your honour. As I told your honour before, the gentleman's servant, that went off just now in the post-chaise, came to the gate, and left it after his master was gone. I saw my young lady go into the chaise with the gentleman.

J••s.

A very fine joke, indeed. Pray, Colonel, do you generally write letters to yourself? Why, this is your own hand.

Col.

Call all the servants in the house—Let horses be saddled directly—Every one take a different road.

Serv.

Why, your honour, Dick said it was by your own orders.

Col.

My orders, you rascal? I thought he was going to run away with another gentleman's daughter. Dy— Diana Oldboy!

Jes.

Don't waste your lungs to no purpose, sir; your daughter is half a dozen miles off by this time.

Col.

Sirrah, you have been bribed to further the scheme of a pick-pocket here.

Jes.

Besides, the matter is entirely of your own con|triving, as well as the letter and spirit of this elegant epistle.

Col.

You are a coxcomb, and I'll disinherit you; the letter is none of my writing; it was writ by the devil, and the devil contrived it. Diana, Margaret, my Lady Mary, William, John!—

Exit.

Jes.

I am very glad of this—prodigiously glad of it, upon my honour—He! he! he! It will be a jest this hundred years. But, what shall I do with myself? I can't think of staying here any longer. Rot the coun|try; I wish I had never returned to it, with their vul|gar trade and liberty. What's the matter now? —

(bells ring violently on both sides.)

O! her ladyship has heard of it, and is at her bell; and the Colonel answers her. A pretty duet! but a little too much upon the forte, me|thinks. It would be a diverting thing now to stand un|seen at the old gentleman's elbow.

'Hist! soft! let's hear how matters go; 'I'll creep, and listen—so, so, so. 'They're altogether by the ears— 'Oh, horrid! how the savage swears! 'There, too, again; ay, you may ring; 'Sound out the alarm bell—ding, ding, ding. 'Dispatch your scouts, 'tis all in vain, 'Stray maids are seldom sound again.

'But hark, the uproar hither sounds; 'The Colonel comes with all his hounds; 'I'll wisely leave them open way. 'To hunt with what success they may.'

Exit.

Colonel Oldboy re-enters, with one boot, a great coat on his arm, &c. followed by several Servants.

Col.

She's gone, by the Lord; fairly stole away, with that poaching, coney••catching rascal! However, I won't follow her, no, damme. Take my whip, and my cap, and my coat, and order my groom to unsaddle the horses: I won't follow her the length of a spur-leather.—Come here, you sir, and pull off my boots—

[whistles.]

She has made a fool of me once; she shan't do it a second time— not but I'll be revenged, too; for I'll never give her six|pence: the disappointment will put the scoundrel out of temper, and he'll thrash her a dozen times a-day. The thought plases me—I hope he'll do it.— Zounds, who would ever have dependance on any thing female? She that seem'd so well contented in my house, and in the very moment when I was best contented with her, and contriving to make her fortune—But why should I vex myself? I am no worse off than every father may be, if an opportunity offers.

What do you stand gaping and staring at, you impu|dent dogs? Are you laughing at me? I'll teach you to be merry at my expence.—

A rascal, a hussey—zounds! she that I counted In temper so mild, so unpractised in evil: I set her on horseback, and, no sooner mounted, Than crack, whip and spur, she rides post to the devil. But there let her run, Be ruin'd, undone; If I go to catch her, Or back again fetch her, I'm worse than the son of a gun.

A mischief possest me to marry, And further my folly to carry, To be s••ill more a sot, Sons and daughters I got, And pretty ones, by the Lord Harry.

Exeunt.

SCENE, Clarissa's Dressing-Room; Clarissa enters melan|choly, with a book in her hand, followed by Jenny.

Clar.

Jenny, set my work here.

Jen.

Yes, ma'am, and my own, too. I'm sure I've been very idle this week, and I am in no very good working humour, at present.

Clar.

Where have you been, Jenny? I was enquiring for you. Why will you go out, without letting me know?

Jen.

Dear ma'am, never any thing happened so unluc|ky: I am sorry you wanted me—But I was sent to Colo|nel Oldboy's with a letter, where I have been so used— Lord have mercy upon me!—quality, indeed! I say, quality!—Pray, madam, do you think that I looks any ways like an immodest person? To be sure, I have a gay air, and I can't help it—and I loves to appear a little genteelish, that's what I do.

Clar.

Jenny, take away this book.

Jen.

Heaven preserve me, madam, you are crying

Clar.

O, my dear Jenny!

Jen.

My dear mistress, what's the matter?

Clar.

I am undone.

Jen.

No, madam, no; Lord forbid!

Clar.

I am, indeed—I have been rash enough to disco|ver my weakness for a man, who treats me with con|tempt.

Jen.

Is Mr. Lionel ungrateful, then?

Clar.

I have lost his esteem forever, Jenny. Since last night, that I fatally confessed what I should have kept a secret from all the world, he has scarce condescended to cast a look at me, nor given me an answer when I spoke to him, but with coldness and reserve.

J••n.

Then he is a nasty, barbarous, unhuman brute.

Clar.

Hold, J••nny, hold; it is all my fault.

Jen.

Your fault, madam! I wish I was to hear such a

a word come out of his mouth; if he was a minister to|morrow, and to say such a thing from his pulpit, and I by, I'd tell him it was false, upon the spot.

Clar.

Somebody's at the door; see who it is.

Jen.

You in fault, indeed!—that I know to be the most virtuousest, nicest, most delicatest—

Clar.

How now?

Jen.

Madam, it's a message from Mr. Lionel. If you are alone, and at leisure, he would be glad to wait upon you: I'll tell him, madam, that you are busy.

Clar.

Where is he, Jenny?

Jen.

In the study, the man says.

Clar.

Then go to him, and tell him I should be glad to see him—But do not bring him up immediately, be|cause I will stand in the balcony a few minutes for a little air.

Jen.

Do so, dear madam, for your eyes are as red as ferrets: you are ready to faint, too—Mercy on us!—for what do you grieve and vex yourself?—If I was as you—

Exit.

Clar.

Oh!

Why with sighs my heart is swelling, Why with tears my eyes o'erflow; Ask me not, 'tis past the telling, Mute involuntary woe.

Who to winds and waves a stranger, Vent'rous tempts the inconstant seas, In each billow fancies danger, Shrinks at every rising breeze.

Exit.

Enter Sir John Flowerdale, and Jenkins.

Sir John.

So then the mystery is discovered—but is it possible that my daughter's refusal of Colonel Oldboy's son should proceed from a clandestine engagement, and that engagement with Lionel?

Jen.

My niece, sir, is in her young lady's secrets, and, Lord knows, she had little design to betray them; but having remarked some odd expressions of her's yesterday, when she came down to me this morning with the letter,

I questioned her; and, in short, drew the whole affair out: upon which I feigned a recollection of some business with you▪ and desired her to carry the letter to Colonel Ol••boy's herself, while I came up hither.

Sir J••••n

And they are mutually promised to each other, and that promise was exchanged yesterday?

J••n.

Yes, sir, and it is my duty to tell you; else I would rather die than be the means of wounding the heart of my dear young lady; for if there is one upon earth of truly delicate sentiments—

Sir John.

I thought so once, J••nkins.

Jen.

And think so still: O, good Sir John, now is the time for you to exert that character of worth and gentle|ness, which the world so deservedly has given you. You have indeed cause to be offended; but consider, sir, your daughter is young▪ beautiful, and amiable; the poor youth unexperienced, sensible, and at a time of life when such temptations are hard to be resisted—Their opportu|nities were many, their cast of thinking the same.—

Sir John.

Jenkins, I can allow for all these things; but the young hypocrites—there's the thing, Jenkins—their hypocrisy, their hypocrisy wounds me.

Jen.

Call it by a gentler name, sir—modesty on her part, apprehension on his.

Sir John.

Then what opportunity have they had?— they never were together but when my sister or myself made one of the company; besides, I had so firm a reli|ance on Lionel's honour and gratitude—

Jen.

Sir, I can never think that Nature stamped that gracious countenance of his, to mask a corrupt heart.

Sir John.

How! at the very time that he was conscious of being himself the cause of it, did he not shew more concern at this a Fair than I did? Nay, don't I tell you that last night, of his own accord, he offered to be a me|diator in the a••fair, and desired my leave to speak to my daughter? I thought myself obliged to him▪ consented; and, in consequence of his assurance of success, wrote that letter to Colonel Oldboy, to desire the family would come here again to-day.

Jen.

Sir, as we were standing in the next room, I

heard a message delivered from Mr. Lionel, desiring leave to wait upon your daughter— dare swear they will be here presently: suppose we were to step into that closet and overhear their conversation?

Sir John.

What, J••ns, after having lived so many years in confidence with my child, shall I become an e••es-dropper, to detect her?

Jen.

It is necessary at present —Come in my dear master— ••et us only consider that we were once young, like them; subject to the same passions, the same indis|cretions; and it is the duty of every man to pardon er|rors incident to his kind.

When love gets into a youthful brain, Ins••ruction is fru••tless, and c••u••on ••ain: Prudence may cry, do so; But if Love says No, Poor Prudence may go, With her preaching, And teaching, To Jericho. Dear sir, in old age, 'Tis not hard to be sage, And 'tis easy to point the way; But do or say, What we may, Love and youth will have their day.

Exeunt.

Enter Clarissa and Lionel.

Clar.

Sir, you desired to speak to me—I need not tell you the present situation of my heart—it is full. What|ever you have to say, I beg you will explain yourself; and if possible, rid me of the anxiety under which I have laboured for some hours.

L••on

Madam, your anxiety cannot be greater than mine— come indeed, to speak to you; and yet, •• know not how, I come to advise you—shall I say, as a friend? Yes! as a friend to your glory, your felicity—dearer to me than my life.

Clar.

Go on, sir.

Lion.

Sir John Flowerdale, madam, is such a father as few are blessed with. His care, his prudence, has pro|vided for you a match—Your refusal renders him incon|solable. Listen to no suggestions that would pervert you from your duty; but make the worthiest of men happy, by submitting to his will.

Clar.

How, sir, after what passed between us yesterday evening, can you advise me to marry Mr. Jessamy?

Lion.

I would advise you to marry any one, madam, rather than a villain.

Clar.

A villain, sir?

Lion.

I should be the worst of villains, madam, was I to talk to you in any other strain: nay, am I not a vil|lain, at once treacherous and ungrateful? Received into this house as an asylum—what have I done? Betrayed the confidence of the friend that trusted me! endea|voured to sacrifice his peace, and the honour of his fami|ly, to my own unwarrantable desires.

Clar.

Say no more, sir; say no more. I see my error too late; I have parted from the rules prescribed to my sex: I have mistaken indecorum for a laudable sincerity; and it is just I should meet with the treatment my impru|dence deserves.

Lion.

'Tis I, and only I, am to blame. While I took advantage of the father's security, I practised upon the tenderness and ingenuity of the daughter; my own ima|gination gone astray, I artfully laboured to lead yours af|ter it: But here, madam, I give you back those vows which I insidiously extorted from you; keep them for some happier man, who may receive them without wounding his honour, or his peace.

Clar.

For heaven's sake —

Lion.

Why do you weep?

Clar.

Don't speak to me.

Lion.

Oh! my Clarissa, my heart is broke; I am hate|ful to myself for loving you: yet, before I leave you for ever, I will once more touch that lovely hand. Indulge my fondness with a last look—Pray for your health and prosperity.

Clar.

Can you forsake me?—Have I then given my

affections to a man who rejects and disregards them?— Let me throw myself at my father's feet: he is generous and compassionate—He knows your worth—

Lion.

Mention it not: were you stript of fortune, re|duced to the meanest station, and I monarch of the globe, I should glory in raising you to universal empire; but as it is—

Clar.

Yet hear me—

Lion.

Farewel, farewel!

O dry those tears! like melted oar, Fast dropping on my heart they fall: Think, think no more of me; no more The memory of past scenes recal.

On a wild sea of passion tost, I split upon the fatal shelf; Friendship and love at once are lost, And now I wish to lose myself.

Exit.

Enter Jenny.

Jen.

O Madam! I have betrayed you. I have gone and said something I should not have said, to my uncle Jenkins; and, as sure as day, he has gone and told it all to Sir John.

Clar.

My father!

Enter Sir John Flowerdale.

Sir John.

Go, Jenkins, and desire that young gentle|man to come back— tay, where are you?—But what have I done to my child? How have I deserved that you should treat me like an enemy? Has there been any undesigned rigour in my conduct, or terror in my looks?

Enter Jenkins, and Lionel.

Clar.

Oh, sir!

Jenk.

Here is Mr. Lionel.

Sir John.

Come in—When I tell you that I am in|structed in all your proceedings, and that I have been ear-witness to your conversation in this place, you will, pe••haps, imagine what my thoughts are of you, and the measures which justice prescribes me to follow.

Lion.

Sir, I have nothing to say in my own defence; I stand before you self-convicted, self-condemned, and shall submit without murmuring to the sentence of my judge.

Sir John.

As for you, Clarissa, since your earliest in|fancy, you have known no parent but me; I have been to you, at once, both father and mother; and that I might the better fulfil those united duties, though left a widower in the prime of my days, I would never enter into a second marriage—I loved you for your likeness to your dear mother; but that mother never deceived me— and there the likeness fails—you have repaid my affec|tion with dissimulation—Clarissa, you should have trusted me.

Jen.

O, my dear sweet Lady —

Sir John.

As for you, Mr. Lionel, what terms can I find strong enough to paint the excess of my friendship! —I loved, I esteemed, I honoured your father: he was a brave, a generous, and a sincere man; I thought you inherited his good qualities—you were left an orphan, I adopted you, put you upon the footing of my own son; educated you like a gentleman, and designed you for a profession, to which, I thought, your virtues would have been an ornament.

Jen.

Dear me, dear me!

Jenk.

Hold your tongue.

Sir John.

What return you have made me, you seem to be acquainted with yourself: and, therefore, I shall not repeat it—Yet, remember, as an aggravation of your guilt, that the last mark of my bounty was conferred upon you in the very instant when you were undermining my designs. Now, sir, I have but one thing more to say to you—Take my daughter: was she worth a million, she is at your service.

Lion.

To me, sir!—your daughter▪—do you give her to me?—Without fortune—without friends!—without—

Sir John.

You have them all in your heart? him whom virtue raises, fortune cannot abase.

Clar.

O, sir, let me on my knees kiss that dear hand —acknowledge my error, and entreat forgiveness and blessing.

Sir John.

You have not erred, my dear daughter; you have distinguished. It is I should ask pardon for this little trial of you; for I am happier in the son-in-law you have given me, than if you had married a prince—

Lion.

My patron—my friend—my father—I would fain say something; but as your goodness exceeds all bounds—

Sir John.

I think I hear a coach drive into the court— it is Colonel Oldboy's family; I will go and receive them. Don't make yourself uneasy at this; we must endeavour to pacify them as well as we can. My dear Lionel, if I have made you happy, you have made me so. Heaven bless you, my children, and make you deserving of one another.

Exeunt Sir John and Jenkins.

Jen.

O, dear madam, upon my knees I humbly beg your forgiveness—Dear Mr. Lionel, forgive me—I did not design to discover it, indeed; and you won't turn me off, madam, will you? I'll serve you for nothing.

Clar.

Get up, my good Jenny—I freely forgive you, if there is any thing to be forgiven. I know you love me; and, I am sure, here is one who will join with me in rewarding your services.

Jen.

Well, if I did not know, as sure as could be, that some good would happen, by my left eye itching this morning.

Lion.

O bliss unexpected! my joys overpower me! My love, my Clarissa, what words shall I find! Remorse, desperation, no longer devour me; He blest us, and peace is restor'd to my mind.

Clar.

He blest us! O rapture! Like one I recover Whom death had appall'd, without hope, without aid; A moment depriv'd me of father and lover, A moment restores, and my pangs are repaid.

Lion.

Forsaken, abandon'd.

Clar.

— What folly! what blindness!

Lion.

We 〈◊〉〈◊〉 accus'd,

Clar.

—and the sates that decreed:

A. 3.

But pain was inflicted by Heaven, out of kindness, To heighten the joys that were doom'd to succeed.

Our day was o'ercast; But brighter the scene is, The sky more serene is, And softer the calm for the hurricane past.

Exeunt.

Enter Lady Mary Oldboy, lea••ing on a Servant, Jessamy leading her; and afterwards Sir John Flowerdale, with Colon••l Oldboy.

Lady M.

'Tis all in vain, my dear; set me down any where; I can't go a step further.—I knew, when Mr. Oldboy insisted upon my coming, that I should be seized with a meagrim by the way; and it's well I did not die in the coach.

Jes.

But, pr'ythee, why will you let yourself be affect|ed with such trifles? Nothing more common than for young women of fashion to go off with low fellows.

Lady M.

Only feel, my dear, how I tremble! Not a nerve but what is in agitation; and my blood runs cold, cold!

Jes.

Well, but Lady Mary, don't let us expose ourselves to those people; I see there is not one of the rascals about us, that has not a grin upon his countenance.

Lady M.

Expose ourselves my dear! Your father will be as ridiculous as Hu••ibras, or Don Quixotte.

Jes.

Yes, he will be very ridiculous, indeed.

Sir John.

I give you my word, my good friend and neighbour, the joy I feel on this occasion, is greatly al|layed by the disappointment of an alliance with your fa|mily; but I have explained to you how things have hap|pened. You see my situation; and as you are kind enough to consider it yourself, I hope you will excuse it to your son.

Lady M.

Sir John Flowerdale, how do you do? You see we have obeyed your summons; and I have the plea|sure to assure you, that my son yielded to my intreaties with very little disagreement: in short, if I may speak metaphorically, he is content to stand candidate again, notwithstanding his late repulse, when he hopes for an unanimous election.

Col.

Well, but, my Lady, you may save your rheto|ric;

for the borough is disposed of, to a worthier mem|ber.

Jes.

What do you say, sir?

Enter Lionel, and Clarissa.

Sir John.

Here are my son and daughter.

Lady M.

Is this pretty, Sir John?

Sir John.

Believe me, madam, it is not for want of a just sense of Mr. Jessamy's merit, that this affair has gone off on any side; but the heart is a delicate thing; and af|ter it has once felt, if the object is meritorious, the im|pression is not easily effaced—It would, therefore, have been an injury to him, to have given him in appearance, what another in reality possessed.

Jes.

Upon my honour, upon my soul, Sir John, I am not in the least offended at this contretemps.—Pray, Lady Mary, say no more about it.

Col.

Tol, lol, lol, lol.

Sir John.

But, my dear Colonel, I am afraid, after all, this affair is taken amiss by you; yes, I see you are an|gry on your son's account; but, let me repeat it, I have a very high opinion of his merit.

Col.

Ay! that's more than I have. Taken amiss! I don't take any thing amiss; I never was in better spirits or more pleased, in my life.

Sir John.

Come, you are uneasy at something, Co|lonel?

Col.

Me! Gad, I am not uneasy.—Are you a justice of peace? Then you could give me a warrant, cou'dn't you? You must know, Sir John, a little accident has happened in my family since I saw you last; you and I may shake hands—Daughters, sir, daughters! Your's has snapt at a young fellow without your approbation— and how do you think mine has served me this morning? —only run away with the scoundrel I brought to dinner here yesterday.

Sir John.

I am excessively concerned.

Col.

Now I'm not a bit concerned—No, damn me, I am glad it has happened; yet, thus far I'll confess, I should be sorry that either of them would come in my way, because a man's temper may sometimes get the

better of him; and I believe I should be tempted to break her neck, and blow his brains out.

Clar.

But pray, sir, explain this affair.

Col.

I can explain it no farther—Dy, my daughter Dy, has run away from us.

Enter Diana, and Harman.

Dian.

No, my dear papa, I am not run away; and, upon my knees I entreat your pardon for the folly I have committed; but let it be some alleviation, that duty and affection were too strong to suffer me to carry it to ex|tremity: and, if you knew the agony I have been in, since I saw you last—

Lady M.

How's this?

Har.

Sir, I restore your daughter to you, whose fault, as far as it goes, I must also take upon myself; we have been known to each other for some time; as Lady Richly, your sister, in London, can acquaint you—

Col.

Dy, come here—Now, you rascal, where's your sword; if you are a gentleman, you shall fight me; if you are a scrub, I'll horse whip you—Draw, sirrah— Shut the door there, don't let him escape.

Har.

Sir, don't imagine I want to escape; I am ex|tremely sorry for what has happened, but am ready to give you any satisfaction you think proper.

Col.

Follow me into the garden, then—Zounds! I have no sword about me—Sir John Flowerdale—lend us a case of pistols, or a couple of guns, and come and see fair play.

Clar.

My dear papa!

Dian.

Sir John Flowerdale—O my indiscretion!—we came here, sir, to beg your mediation in our favour.

Lady M.

Mr. Oldboy, if you attempt to fight, I shall expire.

Sir John.

Pray, Colonel, let me speak a word to you in private.

Col.

Slugs and a saw-pit—

Jes.

Why, Miss Dy, you are a perfect heroine for a romance—And, pray, who is this courteous knight?

Lady M.

O sir, you that I thought such a pretty be|haved gentleman!—

Jes.

What business are you of, friend?

Har.

My chief trade, sir, is plain dealing; and as that is a commodity you have no reason to be very fond of, I would not advise you to purchase any of it, by imperti|nence.

Col.

And is this what you would advise me to?

Sir John.

It is, indeed, my dear old friend: as things are situated, there is, in my opinion, no other prudent method of proceeding; and it is the method I would adopt myself, was I in your case.

Col.

Why, I believe you are in the right of it—say what you will for me then.

Sir John.

Well, young people, I have been able to use a few arguments, which have softened my neighbour here, and in some measure pacified his resentment. I find, sir, you are a gentleman by your connections?

Har.

Sir, till it is found that my character and family will bear the strictest scrutiny, I desire no favour—And for fortune—

Col.

Oh! rot your fortune, I don't mind that—I know you are a gentleman, or Dick Rantum would not have re|commended you: and so, Dy, kiss and friends.

Jes.

What, sir, have you no more to say to the man who has used you so ill?

Col.

Used me ill! That's as I take it. He has done a mettled thing; and, perhaps, I like him the better for it. It's long before you would have spirit enough to run away with a wench—Harman, give me your hand; let's hear no more of this now—Sir John Flowerdale, what say you? shall we spend the day together, and dedicate it to love and harmony?

Sir John.

With all my heart.

Col.

Then take off my great coat.

Lion.

Come then, all ye social powers, Shed your influence o'er us; Crown with bliss the present hours, And lighten those before us. May the just, the generous kind, Still see that you regard 'em; And Lionels forever find Clarissas to reward 'em.

Clar.

Love, thy godhead I adore, Source of sacred passion: But will never come before Those idols, wealth or fashion. May, like me, each maidens wise, From the fop defend her; Learning, sense, and virtue prize, And scern the vain pretender.

Har.

Why the plague should men be sad, While in time we moulder? Grave, or gay, or vex'd, or glad, We every day grow older. Bring the flask, the music bring, Joy will quickly find us; Drink, and laugh, and dance, and sing, And cast our cares behind us.

Dian.

How shall I escape—so naught, On filial laws to trample; I'll e'en courtsey, own my fault, And plead papa's example. Parents, 'tis a hint to you; Children oft are shameless— Oft transgress—the thing's too true— But are you always blameless?

Col.

One word more before we go; Girls and boys have patience; You to friends must something owe, As well as to relations. These kind gentlemen address— What tho' we forgive 'em? Still they must be lost, unless You lend a hand to save 'em.

Exeunt omnes

END OF THE OPERA.