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Sir J. Lamb. But, consider, doctor-shall my wicked son then be heir to my lands, before repentance has entitled him to favour?—No, let him depend upon you, whom he has wronged; perhaps, in time he may reflect upon his father's justice, and be reconciled to your rewarded virtues. If Heaven should at last reclaim him, in you, I know, he still would find a fond forgiving father.

Dr Cant. The imagination of so blest an hour softens me to a tenderness I cannot support!

Old Lady Lamb. Oh! the dear good man! Sir J. Lamb. With regard to my daughter, doctor, you know she is not wronged by it: because, if she proves not obstinate, she may still be happy.

Old Lady Lamb. Yes, but the perverse wretch slights the blessing you propose for her.

Dr Cant. We must allow, madam, female modesty a time, which often takes the likeness of distaste: the commands of your good son might too suddenly surprise her-Maids must be gently dealt with-and might I humbly advise

Sir J. Lamb. Any thing you will; you shall govern me and her.

Dr Cant. Then, sir, abate of your authority, and let the matter rest a while.

Sir J. Lamb. Suppose we were to get my wife to speak to her? women will often hear from their own sex what, sometimes, even from the man they like, will startle them.

Dr Cant. Then, with your permission, sir, I will take an opportunity of talking to my lady. Sir J. Lamb. She's now in her dressing room; I'll go and prepare her for it. [Exit. Dr Cant. You are too good to me, sir-too bountiful.

Enter SEYWARD.

Seyw. Sir, Mr Maw-worm is without, and would be glad to be permitted to speak with you. Old Lady Lamb. Oh, pray, doctor, admit him; I have not seen Mr Maw-worm this great while; he's a pious man, tho' in a humble estate; desire the worthy creature to walk in.

Enter MAW-WORM.

-How do you do, Mr Maw-worm?

Maw. Thank your ladyship's axing-I'm but deadly poorish, indeed; the world and I can't agree I have got the books, doctor-and Mrs Grunt bid me give her service to you, and thanks you for the eighteen-pence.

Dr Cant. Hush, friend Maw-worm! not a word more; you know I hate to have my little charities blaz'd about :-a poor widow, madam, to whom I sent my mite.

Old Lady Lamb. Give her this.

[Offers a purse to MAW-WORM. Dr Cant. I'll take care it shall be given up to her. [Puts it up. Old Lady Lamb. But what is the matter with you, Mr Maw-worm?

Maw. I don't know what's the matter with

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me-I'm a breaking my heart-I think its a sin to keep a shop.

Old Lady Lamb. Why, if you think it a sin, indeed-pray what's your business?

Maw. We deals in grocery, tea, small beer, charcoal, butter, brick-dust, and the like. Old Lady Lamb. Well; you must consult with your friendly director here.

Maw. I wants to go a preaching.
Old Lady Lamb. Do you?

Maw. I'm almost sure I have had a call.
Old Lady Lamb. Ay!

Maw. I have made several sermons already; I does them extrumpery, because I cann't write; and now the devils in our alley says, as how my head's turned.

Old Lady Lamb. Ay, devils indeed———————-but don't you unind them.

We

Maw. No, I don't-I rebukes them, and preaches to them whether they will or not. lets our house in lodgings to single men; and sometimes I gets them together, with one or two of the neighbours, and makes them all cry.

Old Lady Lamb. Did you ever preach in public?

Maw. I got up on Kennington Common the last review day, but the boys threw brick-bats at me, and pinned crackers to my tail; and I have been afraid to mount ever since.

Old Lady Lamb. Do you hear this, doctor! throw brick-bats at him, and pin crackers to his tail! can these things be stood by?

Maw. I told them so-says I, I does nothing clandecently; I stand here contagious to his majesty's guards, and I charges you upon your apparels not to mislist me.

Old Lady Lamb. And it had no effect?

Maw. No more than if I spoke to so many postesses; but if he advises me to go a preaching, and quit my shop, I'll make an excressance farther into the country.

Old Lady Lamb. An excursion, you would say. Maw. I am but a sheep, but my bleatings shall be heard afar off, and that sheep shall become a shepherd: nay, if it be only, as it were, a shepherd's dog, to bark the stray lambs into the fold.

Old Lady Lamb. He wants method, doctor. Dr Cant. Yes, madam, but there is matter; and I despise not the ignorant,

Maw. He's a saint-till I went after him, I was little better than the devil; my conscience was tanned with sin like a piece of neat's leather, and had no more feeling than the sole of my shoe; always a roving after fantastical delights: I used to go every Sunday evening to the Three Hats at Islington; it's a public-house; mayhap your ladyship may know it: I was a great lover of skittles too, but now I can't bear them.

Old Lady Lamb. What a blessed reformation! Maw. I believe, doctor, you never know'd as how I was instigated one of the stewards of the reforming society. I convicted a man of five oaths, as last Thursday was se'nnight, at the Pewter Platter, in the Borough; and another of

three, while he was playing trap-ball in St George's Fields: I bought this waistcoat out of my share of the money.

Old Lady Lamb. But how do you mind your business?

Maw. We have lost almost all our customers, because I keeps extorting them whenever they come into the shop.

Old Lady Lamb. And how do you live? .

Maw. Better than ever we did; while we were worldly minded, my wife and I (for I am married to as likely a woman as you shall see in a thousand) could hardly make things do at all; but since this good man has brought us into the road of the righteous, we have always plenty of every thing; and my wife goes as well dressed as a gentlewoman- -we have had a child too. Old Lady Lamb. Merciful! Maw. And between you and me, doctor, I believe Susy's breeding again.

Dr Cant. Thus it is, madam; I am constantly told, though I can hardly believe it, a blessing follows wherever I come.

Maw. And yet, if you would hear how the neighbours reviles my wife, saying, as how she sets no store by me, because we have words now and then; but, as I says, if such was the case, would ever she have cut me down that there time as I was melancholy, and she found me hanging behind the door? I don't believe there's a wife in the parish would have done so by her husband.

Dr Cant. I believe 'tis near dinner time, and Sir John will require my attendance:

Maw. Oh! I am troublesome-nay, I only come to you, doctor, with a message from Mrs Grunt. I wish your ladyship heartily and heartily farewell; doctor, a good day to you.

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[Aside.

Seyw. The critics say he has his beauties, madam; but Ovid has been always my favourite. Charl. Ovid-Oh, he is ravishing! Seyw. So art thou, to madness! Charl. Lord! how could one do to learn Greek?-Were you a great while about it? Seyw. It has been half the business of my life, madam.

Charl. That's cruel now; then you think one could not be mistress of it in a month or two? Seyw. Not easily, madam.

Charl. They tell me it has the softest tone for love of any language in the world-I fancy I could soon learn it. I know two words of it al

Old Lady Lamb. Mr Maw-worm, call on me some time this afternoon; I want to have a lit-ready. tle private discourse with you; and, pray, my service to your spouse.

Maw. I will, madam; you are a malefactor to all goodness; I'll wait upon your ladyship; Į will, indeed: [Going, returns.] Oh, doctor, that's true; Susy desired me to give her kind love and respects to you. Dr Cant. Madam, if you please, I will lead you into the parlour.

[Erit.

Old Lady Lamb. No, doctor, my coach waits at the door; I only called upon the business you know of; and partly indeed to see how you did, after the usage you had met with; but I have struck the wretch out of my will for it.

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Seyw. Pray, madam, what are they? Charl. Stay-let me see-Oh-ay-Zoe kai psuche.

Seyw. I hope you know the English of them, madam.

Charl. Oh lud! I hope there is no harm in it-I'm sure I heard the doctor say it to my ladypray, what is it?

Seyw. You must first imagine, madam, a tender lover gazing on his mistress; and then, indeed, they have a softness in them; as thusZoe kai psuche-my life! my soul ! Charl. Oh the impudent young rogue! how his eyes spoke too!- -What the deuce can he want with me?

Seyw. I have startled her !—she muses! Charl. It always run in my head that this fellow had something in him above his condition; I'll know immediately.- -Well, but your business with me, Mr Seyward? You have something of love in your head, I'll lay my life on't. Seyw. I never yet durst own it, madam. Charl. Why, what's the matter?

Seyw. My story is too melancholy to entertain a mind so much at ease as yours.

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Seya. He's no uncle of mine, madam. Charl. You surprise me! not your uncle? Seyr. No, madam; but that's not the only character the doctor assumes, to which he has no right.

Charl. Lord! I am concerned for you. Seya. So you would, madam, if you knew all. Charl. I am already; but if there are any farther particulars of your story, pray let me hear them; and should any services be in my power, I am sure you may command them.

Seyw. You treat me with so kind, so gentle a hand, that I will unbosom myself to you.-My father, madam, was the younger branch of a genteel family in the North; his name, Truemanbut dying while I was yet in my infancy, I was left wholly dependent on my mother; a woman really pious and well-meaning, but-In short, madam, Doctor Cantwell fatally got acquainted with her, and, as he is now your father's bosom counsellor, soon became hers; for his hypocrisy had so great an effect on her weak spirit, that he entirely led and managed her at his pleasure. She died, madam, when I was but eight years old; and then I was indeed left an orphan.

Charl. Poor creature!-Lord! I cannot bear it! Seyw. She left Doctor Cantwell her sole heir and executor: but I must do her the justice to say, I believe it was in the confirmation that he would take care of, and do justice to me; who, young as I was, I yet remember to have heard her recommend to him on her death-bed: and, indeed, he has so far taken care of me, that he sent me to a seminary abroad; and for these three years last past has kept me with him.

Charl. A seminary! Oh! Heavens! but why have you not strove to do yourself justice?

Charl. But how has the wretch dared to treat you?

Seyw. In his ill and insolent humours, madam, he has sometimes the presumption to tell me that I am the object of his charity; and I own, madam, that I am humbled in my opinion, by his having drawn me into a connivance at some actions, which I cannot look back on without horror!

Charl. Indeed you cannot tell how I pity you; and depend upon it, if it be possible to serve you, by getting you out of the hands of this monster, I will.

Seyw. Once more, madam, let me assure you, that your generous inclination would be a consolation to me in the worst misfortunes; and, even in the last moment of painful death, would give my heart a joy.

Charl. Lord! the poor unfortunate boy loves me too-what shall I do with him?-Pray, Mr Seyward, what paper's that you have in your hand?- -Is it relative to

Seyw. Another instance of the conscience, and gratitude, which animates our worthy doctor.

Charl. You frighten me! pray what is the purport of it? Is it neither signed nor sealed?

Seya. No, madam; therefore to prevent it, by this timely notice, was my business here with you: your father gave it to the doctor first, to shew his counsel; who, having approved it, I understand this evening it will be executed. Charl. But what is it?

Seyw. It grants to Doctor Cantwell, in present, four hundred pounds per annum, of which this very house is part; and, at your father's death, invests him in the whole remainder of his freehold estate. For you, indeed, there is a charge of four thousand pounds upon it, provided you marry with the doctor's consent; if not, 'tis added to 'my lady's jointure-But your brother, madam, is, without conditions, utterly disinherited.

Charl. I am confounded!-What will become of us! My father now, I find, was seriousOh, this insinuating hypocrite!-Let me seeay-I will go this minute. Sir, dare you trust this in my hands for an hour only ?

Seyw. Any thing to serve you

Seyw. Thrown so young into his power as I was-unknown and friendless, but through his means, to whom could I apply for succour? Nay, madam, I will confess, that on my return to England, I was at first tainted with his enthusiastic notions myself; and, for some time, as much imposed upon by him as others; till, by degrees, as he found it necessary to make use of, or totally discard me (which last he did not think prudent to do,) he was obliged to unveil himself to me in his proper colours-And I believe I can inform you of some parts of his private character, that may be the means of detect-ther with you. ing one of the wickedest impostors that ever practised upon credulity.

[Bell rings.

Charl. Hark! they ring to dinner: pray, sir, step in: say I am obliged to dine abroad: and whisper one of the footmen to get a chair immediately; then do you take a proper occasion to slip out after me to Mr Double's chambers in the Temple; there I shall have time to talk fur

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

sity for its being a secret; and I insist upon you

SCENE I.-A Dressing Room, with Table and believing it.
Chairs.

Enter CHARLOTTE, with BETTY, taking off her
Cloak, &c.

Charl. Has any one been to speak with me,
Betty?

Betty. Only Mr Darnley, madam; he said he would call again, and bid his servant stay below, to give him notice when you came home.

Charl. You don't know what he wanted? Betty. No, madam; he seemed very uneasy at your being abroad.

Charl. Well, go and lay up those things[Exit BETTY.] Ten to one but his wise head has found out something to be jealous of: if he lets me see it, I shall be sure to make him infinitely easy here he comes.

see.

Enter DARNLEY.

Darn. Your humble servant, madam.
Charl. Your servant, sir.

Darn. You have been abroad, I hear?
Charl. Yes, and now I am come home, you

Darn. You seem to turn upon my words, madam! Is there any thing particular in them? Charl. As much as there is in my being abroad, I believe.

Darn. Might I not say you had been abroad without giving offence?

Charl. And might I not as well say I was come home, without your being so grave upon't? Darn. Do you know any thing that should make me grave?

Charl. I know, if you are so, I am the worst person in the world you can possibly shew it to. Darn. Nay, I don't suppose you do any thing you won't justify.

Charl. Õh, then I find I have done something you think I can't justify.

Darn. I don't say that neither; perhaps I am wrong in what I have said; but I have been so often used to ask pardon for your being in the wrong, that I am resolved henceforth never to rely on the insolent evidence of my own senses. Charl. You don't know now, perhaps, that I think this pretty smart speech of yours is very dull; but, since that's a fault you can't help, I will not take it ill; come now, be as sincere on your side, and tell me seriously-Is not what real business I had abroad the very thing you want to be made easy in?

Darn. If I thought you would make me easy, I would own it.

Charl. Now we come to the point.-Tomorrow morning, then, I give you my word to let you know it all; till when, there is a neces

Darn. But pray, madam, what am I to do is not in my power to confine; and sure you with private imagination in the mean time? that won't be offended, if, to avoid the tortures that may give me, I beg you'll trust me with the se

cret now.

Charl. Don't press me, for positively I will

not.

Darn. Will not?-cannot had been a kinder term--Is my disquiet of so little moment to you?

Charl. Of none, while your disquiet dares not trust the assurances I have given you. If you expect I should confide in you for life, don't let me see you dare not take my word for a day; and, if you are wise, you'll think so fair a trial a favour.

Darn. If you intend it such-it is a favour; if not 'tis something-so-come, let's wave the subject.

Charl. With all my heart. Have you seen my brother lately?

Darn. Yes, madam; and he tells me, it seems the doctor is the man your father has resolved

upon.

Charl. 'Tis so; nay, and what will more surprise you, he leaves me only to the choice of him, or of no fortune.

Darn. And may I, without offence, beg leave to know what resolution you have taken upon it? Charl. I have not taken any; I do not know what to do; what would you advise me to? Durn. I advise you to? nay, you are in the right to make it a question.

Charl. He says he'll settle all his estate upon him, too.

Darn. O take it: take it, to be sure; its the fittest match in the world; you can't do a wiser thing certainly.

Charl. 'Twill be as wise, at least, as the method you take to prevent it.

Darn. Is't possible? how can you torture me with this indifference?

Charl. Why do you insult me with such a barefaced jealousy?

Darn. Is it a crime to be concerned for what becomes of you? Has not your father openly declared against me, in favour of another? How is it possible, at such a time, not to have a thousand fears? What though they are false and groundless, are they not still the effect of love, alarmed, and anxious to be satisfied? I have an heart that cannot bear disguises; but, when 'tis grieved, in spite of me, will shew it-Pray pardon me-but when I am told you went out in the utmost hurry, with some writings to a lawyer, and took the doctor's nephew with you,

even in the very hour your father had proposed him as an husband, what am I to think? Can I, must I suppose my senses fail me? If I have eyes, have ears, and have an heart, must it still be a crime to think I see and hear, and feel that I am wronged?

Charl. Well, I own, it looks ill-natured now, not to shew him some concern-but then, this jealousy I must and will get the better of, or we shall be miserable.

Darn. Speak, Charlotte; is still my jealousy a crime?

Charl. If you still insist on it as a proof of love, then I must tell you, sir, 'tis of that kind, that only slighted hearts are pleased with when I am so reduced, perhaps I may bear it. The fact you charge me with, is true: I have been abroad; but let appearances be ever so strong, while there is a possibility that what I have done may be innocent, I won't bear a look that tells me to my face, you dare suspect me. If you have doubts, why don't you satisfy them before you see me? Can you suppose I am to stand confounded, like a criminal, before you ?--Come, come, there's nothing shews so low a mind, as those grave and insolent jealousies.

Darn. However, madam, mine you won't find so low as you imagine; and, since I see your tyranny arises from your mean opinion of me, 'tis time to be myself, and disavow your power; you use it now beyond my bearing; not only impose on me to disbelieve my senses, but do it with such an imperious air, as if my manly reason were your slave, and this despicable frame that follows you, durst shew no signs of life but what you vouchsafe to give it.

Charl. You are in the right: go on-suspect me still-believe the worst you can-'tis all

truc-I don't justify myself.- -Why do you trouble me with your complaints? If you are master of that manly reason you boasted, give a manly proof of it; at once resume your liberty; despise me; go off in triumph now, like a king in a tragedy; and let me see you scorn the woman, whose overbearing falsehood would insult your senses.

Darn. Is this the end of all, then? and are those tender protestations you have made me, for such I thought them, when, with a kind reluctance, you gave me something more than hope-what all-oh, Charlotte, all come to this!

Charl. Oh, lud! I am growing silly; if I hear on, I shall tell him every thing; 'tis but another struggle, and I shall conquer it.--So, you are not gone, I see.

Darn. Do you then wish me gone, madam? Charl. Your manly reason will direct you. Darn. This is too much--my heart can bear no more!--What, am I rooted here? Enter SEYWARD.

Charl. At last I am relieved.-Well, Mr Seyward, is it done?

Seyw. I did not stir from the desk till it was entirely finished.

Charl. Where's the original?

Seyw. This is it, madam.

Charl. Very well; that, you know, you must keep; but come, we must lose no time; we will examine this in the next room.-Now I feel for him. [Exit. Darn. This is not to be borne-Pray, Mr Charles, what private business have you with that lady? Seyw. Sir!

Darn. I must know, young man.

Seyw. Not quite so young, but I can keep a secret, and a lady's too--you'll excuse me, sir. [Exit.

Darn. 'Sdeath !- -I shall be laughed at by every body--I shall run distracted--this young fellow should repent his pertness, did not this house protect him.-This is Charlotte's contrivance to distract me--but-but what?Oh!—I have love enough to bear this, and ten times as much.

Enter Colonel LAMBERT. Col. Lamb. What, in raptures?

Darn. Pr'ythee--I am unfit to talk with

you.

Col. Lamb, What, is Charlotte in her airs again?

Darn. I know not what she is.

Col. Lamb. Do you know where she is?

Darn. Retired this moment to her chamber with the young fellow there-the doctor's nephew.

Col. Lamb. Why, you are not jealous of the doctor, I hope?

Darn. Perhaps she'll be less reserved to you, and tell you wherein I have mistaken her.

Col. Lamb. Poor Frank! every plot I lay upon my sister's inclination for you, you are sure to ruin by your own conduct.

Darn. I own I have too little temper, and too much real passion, for a modish lover.

Col. Lamb. Come, come, make yourself easy once more; I'll undertake for you: If you'll fetch a cool turn in the Park, upon Constitution-Hill, in less than half an hour I'll come to you, and make you perfectly easy.

Darn. Dear Tom, you are a friend indeed!I have a thousand things--but-you shall find me there. [Exit.

Enter CHARLOTTE and SEYWARD. Col. Lamb. How now, sister? what have you done to Darnley? The poor fellow looks as if he had killed your parrot.

Charl. Psha! you know him well enough; I've only been setting him a love lesson; it a little puzzles him to get through it at first, but he'll know it all by to-morrow▬▬ -you will be in the way, Mr Seyward.

Seya. Madam, you may depend upon me: I have my full instructions. [Erit.

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