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money in one pocket, 'tis like a man's whole estate in one county-These five in my fob-I'll keep these in my hand, lest I should have present

SCENE I-Continues.

occasion-But this town's full of pick-pockets— I'll go home again. [Exit whistling.

ACT II.

Enter POUNCE, and Captain CLERIMONT, with his arm in a scarf.

gives us a notion of the sweetness of her beauty and behaviour. A name that glides through half a dozen tender syllables, as Elismunda, Clidamira, Deidamia; that runs upon vowels off the tongue, Pounce. You are now well enough instructed not hissing through one's teeth, or breaking them both in the aunt and niece, to form your beha-with consonants. -"Tis strange rudeness those

viour.

Capt. But to talk with her apart is the great

matter.

Pounce. The antiquated virgin has a mighty affectation for youth, and is a great lover of men and money-One of these, at least, I am sure I can gratify her in, by turning her pence in the annuities, or the stocks of one of the companies; some way or other I will find to entertain her, and engage you with the young lady.

Capt. Since that is her ladyship's turn, so busy and fine a gentleman as Mr Pounce must needs be in her good graces.

Pounce. So shall you too-But you must not be seen with me at first meeting; I'll dog 'em, while you watch at a distance. [Exeunt.

Enter Aunt and Niece.

Niece. Was it not my gallant that whistled so charmingly in the parlour before he went out this morning? He's a most accomplish'd cavalier.

Aunt. Come, niece, come - You don't do well to make sport with your relations, especially with a young gentleman that has so much kindness for you.

Niece. Kindness for me! What a phrase is there to express the darts and flames, the sighs and languishings of an expecting lover!

Aunt. Pray, niece, forbear this idle trash, and talk like other people. Your cousin Humphry will be true and hearty in what he says, and that's a great deal better than the talk and compliment of romances.

Niece. Good madam, don't wound my ears with such expressions. Do you think I can ever love a man that's true and hearty? What a peasant-like amour do these coarse words import! True and hearty! Pray, aunt, endeavour a little at the embellishment of your style.

Aunt. Alack-a-day, cousin Biddy, these idle romances have quite turn'd your head.

Niece. How often must I desire you, madam, to lay aside that familiar name, cousin Biddy? I never hear it without blushing--Did you ever meet with an heroine, in those idle romances as you call 'em, that was term'd Biddy?

Aunt. Ah! cousin, cousin-These are mere vapours, indeed-Nothing but vapours

Niece. No, the heroine has always something soft and engaging in her name-Something that

familiar names they give us, when there is Aurelia, Saccharissa, Gloriana, for people of condition; and Celia, Chloris, Corinna, Mopsa, for their maids and those of lower rank.

Aunt. Look ye, Biddy, this is not to be supported-I know not where you learn'd this nicedespise it, your mother was a Bridget afore you, ty; but I can tell you, forsooth, as much as you and an excellent housewife.

Niece. Good madam, don't upbraid me with my mother Bridget, and an excellent housewife.

Aunt. Yes, I say, she was, and spent her tima in better learning than ever you did-not in readin writing out receipts for broths, possets, caudles, ing of fights and battles of dwarfs and giants; but and surfeit-waters, as became a good country gentlewoman.

Niece. My mother and a Bridget!

Aunt. Yes, niece, I say again your mother, my sister, was a Bridget! the daughter of her mother Margery, of her mother Cicely, of her mother Alice.

Niece. Have you no mercy? O, the barbarous genealogy

1

Aunt. Of her mother Winifred, of her mother Joan.

Niece. Since you will run on, then I must needs tell you I am not satisfied in the point of my nativity. Many an infant has been placed in a cottage with obscure parents, 'till by chance some ancient servant of the family has known it by its marks.

Aunt. Ay, you had best be search'd-That's like your calling the winds the fanning gales, before I don't know how much company; and the tree that was blown by it, had, forsooth, a spirit imprison'd in the trunk of it.

Niece. Ignorance!

Aunt. Then a cloud this morning had a flying dragon in it.

Niece. What eyes had you that you could see nothing? For my part, I look upon it to be a prodigy, and expect something extraordinary will happen to me before night But you have a gross relish of things. What noble descriptions in romances had been lost, if the writers had been persons of your goût?

Aunt. I wish the authors had been hang'd, and their books burnt, before you had seen 'em.

Niece. Simplicity!

Aunt. A parcel of improbable lies. Niece. Indeed, madam, your raillery is coarse. Aunt. Fit only to corrupt young girls, and fill their heads with a thousand foolish dreams of I don't know what.

Niece. Nay, now, madam, you grow extravagant.

Aunt. What I say is not to vex, but advise you for your good.

Niece. What, to burn Philocles, Artaxerxes, Oroondates, and the rest of the heroic lovers, and take my country booby, cousin Humphry, for an husband!

Aunt. Oh dear, oh dear, Biddy! Pray, good dear, learn to speak and act like the rest of the world; come, come, you shall marry your cousin, and live comfortably.

Niece. Live comfortably! What kind of life is that? A great heiress live comfortably! Pray, aunt, learn to raise your ideas-What is, I wonder, to live comfortably?

Aunt. To live comfortably, is to live with prudence and frugality, as we do in Lombard

street.

Niece. As we do-That's a fine life indeed, with one servant of each sex-Let's see how many things our coachman is good for--He rubs down his horses, lays the cloth, whets the knives, and sometimes makes beds.

Aunt. A good servant should turn his hand to every thing in a family.

Niece. Nay, there's not a creature in our family, that has not two or three different duties; as John is butler, footman, and coachman; so Mary is cook, laundress, and chamber-maid.

Aunt. Well, and do you laugh at that?

Niece. No -not I-nor at the coach horses, though one has an easy trot for my uncle's ri ding, and t'other an easy pace for your side-saddie.

Aunt. And so you jeer at the good-management of your relations, do you?

Niece. No, I'm well satisfied that all the house are creatures of business; but, indeed, was in

hopes that my poor lap-dog might have lived with me upon my fortune without an employment; but my uncle threatens every day to make him a turnspit, that he too, in his sphere, may help us to live comfortably.

Aunt. Hark ye, cousin Biddy.

Niece. I vow I'm out of countenance, when our butler, with his careful face, drives us all stowed in a chariot drawn by one horse ambling, and t'other trotting with his provisions behind for the family, from Saturday night till Monday morning, bound for Hackney-Then we make a comfortable figure indeed.

Aunt. So we do, and so will you always, if you marry your cousin Humphry.

Niece. Name not the creature.

Aunt. Creature! what, your own cousin a creature!

Nerce. Oh, let's be going, I see yonder another creature that does my uncle's law business,

and has, I believe, made ready the deeds, those barbarous deeds.

Aunt. What, Mr Pounce a creature too! Nay, now I'm sure you're ignorant-You shall stay, and you'll learn more wit from him in an hour, than in a thousand of your foolish books in an age-Your servant, Mr Pounce.

Enter POUNCE.

Pounce. Ladies, I hope I don't interrupt any private discourse.

Aunt. Not in the least, sir.

Pounce. I should be loath to be esteemed one of those who think they have a privilege of mixing in all companies, without any business, but to bring forth a loud laugh, or vain jest. Nece. He talks with the mien and gravity of a Paladin. [Aside. Pounce. Madam, I bought the other day at three and an half, and sold at seven.

Aunt. Then pray, sir, sell for me in time. Niece, mind him: he has an infinite deal of wit

Pounce. This that I speak of was for you― I never neglect such opportunities to serve my friends.

Aunt. Indeed, Mr Pounce, you are, I protest, without flattery, the wittiest man in the world.

Pounce. I assure you, madam, I said last night before an hundred head of citizens, that Mrs Barsheba Tipkin was the most ingenious young lady in the liberties.

Aunt. Well, Mr Pounce, you are so facetious -But you are always among the great ones'Tis no wonder you have it.

Niece. Idle! Idle!

Pounce. But, madam, you know Alderman Grey-Goose, he's a notable joking man-Well, says he, here's Mrs Barsheba's health-She's my

mistress.

Aunt. That man makes me split my sides with laughing, he's such a wag-(Mr Pounce pretends Grey-Goose said all this, but I know 'tis his own wit, for he's in love with me.) [Apart.,

Pounce. But, madan, there's a certain affair I should communicate to you. [Apart. Aunt. Ay, 'tis certainly so-He wants to break his mind to me.

[Captain CLERIMONT passing Pounce. Oh, Captain Clerimont, Captain Clerimont.――Ladies, pray let me introduce this young gentleman; he's my friend, a youth of great virtue and goodness, for all he is in a red

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Pounce. Sha'n't we repose ourselves on yonder seat? I love improving company, and to communicate.

Aunt. 'Tis certainly so~~) -He's in love with me, and wants opportunity to tell me so—I don't care if we do He's a most ingenious man. [Aside. [Exeunt Aunt and POUNCE. Capt. We enjoy here, madam, all the pretty landscapes of the country, without the pains of going thither.

Niece. Art and nature are in rivalry, or rather confederacy, to adorn this beauteous park with all the agreeable variety of water, shade, walks, and air. What can be more charming than these flowery lawns?

Capt. Or these gloomy shades? Niece. Or these embroider'd valleys? Capt. Or that transparent stream? Niece. Or these bowing branches on the banks of it, that seem to admire their own beauty in the crystal mirror?

Capt. I am surprised, madam, at the delicacy of your phrase-Can such expressions come from Lombard-street?

Niece. Alas! sir, what can be expected from an innocent virgin, that has been immured almost one-and-twenty years from the conversation of mankind, under the care of an Urganda of an aunt?

Capt. Bless me, madam, how have you been abused! many a lady before your age has had an hundred lances broken in her service, and as many dragons cut to pieces in honour of her. Niece. Oh, the charming man! [Aside. Capt. Do you believe Pamela was one-andtwenty before she knew Musidorus ?

Niece. I could hear him for ever. [Aside. Capt. A lady of your wit and beauty might have given occasion for a whole romance in folio before that age.

Niece. Oh, the powers! Who can he be? Oh, youth unknown! But let me, in the first place, know whom I talk to, for, sir, I am wholly unacquainted both with your person and your historyYou seem, indeed, by your deportment, and the distinguishing mark of your bravery which you bear, to have been in a conflict-May I not know what cruel beauty obliged you to such adventures, till she pitied you?

Capt. Oh, the pretty coxcomb! [Aside.] Oh, Blenheim! Oh, Cordelia, Cordelia !

Niece. You mention the place of battle-I would fain hear an exact description of it-Our public papers are so defective, they don't so much as tell us how the sun rose that glorious day-Were there not a great many flights of vultures before the battle began?

Capt. Oh, madam, they have eaten up half my acquaintance.

Niece. Certainly never birds of prey were so feasted By report, they might have lived half a year on the very legs and arms our troops left behind 'em.

Capt. Had we not fought near a wood, we should ne'er have got legs enough to have come home upon. The joiner of the Foot Guards has made his fortune by it.

Niece. I shall never forgive your general-He has put all my ancient heroes out of countenance; he has pulled down Cyrus and Alexander, as much as Louis le Grand-But your own part in that action?

Capt. Only that slight hurt, for the astrologer said at my nativity-Nor fire, nor sword, nor pike, nor musket shall destroy this child, let him but avoid fair eyes-But, madam, mayn't I crave the name of her that has captivated my heart?

Niece. I cann't guess whom you mean by that description; but if you ask my name-I must confess you put me upon revealing what I always keep as the greatest secret I have-for, would you believe it-they have call'd me-I don't know how to own it, but have call'd me-Bridget. Capt. Bridget? Niece. Bridget. Capt. Bridget?

Niece. Spare my confusion, I beseech you, sir, and if you have occasion to mention me, let it be by Parthenissa; for that's the name I have assumed ever since I came to years of discretion.

Capt. The insupportable tyranny of parents, to fix names on helpless infants which they must blush at all their lives after! I don't think there's a sirname in the world to match it.

Niece. No? what do you think of Tipkin? Capt. Tipkin! Why, I think if I was a young lady that had it, I'd part with it immediately. Niece. Pray, how would you get rid of it? Capt. I'd change it for another-I could recommend to you three very pretty syllablesWhat do you think of Clerimont!

Niece. Clerimont! Clerimont! Very wellBut what right have I to it?

Capt. If you will give me leave, I'll put you in possession of it. By a very few words I can make it over to you, and your children after you.

Niece. Oh fie! Whither are you running! You know a lover should sigh in private, and languish whole years before he reveals his passion; he should retire into some solitary grove, and make the woods and wild beasts his confidantsYou should have told it to the echo half a year before you had discovered it even to my hand-maid. And yet, besides-to talk to me of children-Did you ever hear of an heroine with a big belly?

Capt. What can a lover do, madam, now the race of giants is extinct? Had I lived in those days, there had not been a mortal six feet high, but should have own'd Parthenissa for the paragon of beauty, or measured his length on the ground- -Parthenissa should have been heard by the brooks and deserts at midnight-the echo's burden, and the river's murmur.

Niece. That had been a golden age, indeed! But see, my aunt has left her grave companion, and is coming towards us--I command you to

leave me.

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Niece. All he speaks savours of romance. Aunt. Romance, niece? Mr Pounce! what savours of romance?

Niece. No, I mean his friend, the accomplished Mr Clerimont.

Aunt. Fie, for one of your years to commend a young fellow !

Niece. One of my years is mightily govern'd by example. You did not dislike Mr Pounce.

Aunt. What, censorious too? I find there is no trusting you out of the house-A moment's fresh air does but make you still the more in love with strangers, and despise your own relations. Niece. I am certainly by the power of an enchantment placed among you, but I hope I this morning employ'd one to seek adventures, and break the charm.

Aunt. Vapours, Biddy, indeed! Nothing but vapours- -Cousin Humphry shall break the

charm.

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starts by rule, and blushes by example-Could I have produced one instance of a lady's complying at first sight, I should have gained her premise on the spot-How am I bound to curse the cold constitutions of the Philoclea's and Statira's! I am undone for want of precedents.

Pounce. I am sure I labour'd hard to favour your conference; and plied the old woman all the while with something that tickled either her vanity or her covetousness: I consider'd all the stocks, old and new company, her own complexion and youth, partners for sword-blades, chamber of London, banks for charity, and mine adventurers, till she told me I had the repute of the most facetious man that ever came to Garraway's-For you must know, public knaves and stock-jobbers pass for wits at her end of the town, as common cheats and gamesters do at yours.

Capt. I pity the drudgery you have gone through; but what's next to be done towards getting my pretty heroine?

Pounce. What should next be done, in ordinary method of things-You have seen her, the next regular approach is, that you cannot subsist a moment, without sending forth musical complaints of your misfortune, by way of a serenade.

Capt. I can nick you there, sir: I have a scribbling army friend, that has wrote a triumphant, rare, noisy song, in honour of the late victory, that will hit the nymph's fantasque to a hair: I'll get every thing ready as soon as pos

sible.

Pounce. While you are playing upon the fort, I'll be within, and observe what execution you do, and give you intelligence accordingly.

Capt. You must have an eye upon Mr Humphry, while I feed the vanity of Parthenissa-For I am so experienced in these matters, that I know none but coxcombs think to win a woman by any desert of their own. No, it must be done rather by complying with some prevailing humour of your mistress, than exerting any good quality in yourself.

'Tis not the lover's merit wins the field, But to themselves alone the beauteous yield. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

Enter Mrs CLERIMONT, FAINLOVE, (carrying her lap-dog,) and JENNY.

Jen. Madam, the footman that's recommended to you is below, if your ladyship will please to take him.

Mrs Cler. Oh fie; don't believe I'll think on't-It is impossible he should be good for any thing-The English are so saucy with their liberty-I'll have all my lower servants FrenchVOL. IV.

There cannot be a good footman born out of an absolute monarchy.

Jen. I'm beholden to your ladyship, for believing so well of the maid-servants in England.

Mrs Cler. Indeed, Jenny, I could wish thou wert really French: for thou art plain English in spite of example-Your arms do but hang on, and you move perfectly upon joints-Not with a swim of the whole person-But I am talking to you, and have not adjusted myself to-day: what pretty company a glass is, to have another self! [Kisses the dog.] The converse is soliloquy! To

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have company that never contradicts or displeases us! The pretty visible echo of our actions. [Kisses the dog. How easy, too, it is to be disencumber'd with stays, where a woman has any thing like shape; if no shape, a good air-But I look best when I'm talking.

[Kisses the lap-dog in FAINLOVE's arms. Jen. You always look well.

Mrs Cler. For I'm always talking, you mean so; that disquiets thy sullen English temper, but I don't really look so well when I am silentIf I do but offer to speak-Then I may say thatOh, bless me, Jenny, I am so pale, I am afraid of myself—I have not laid on half red enoughWhat a dough-baked thing I was before I improved myself, and travelled for beauty- -However, my face is very prettily design'd to-day.

Fain. Indeed, madam, you begin to have so fine an hand, that you are younger every day than other.

Mrs Cler. The ladies abroad used to call me Mademoiselle Titian, I was so famous for my colouring; but, pr'ythee, wench, bring me my black eye-brows out of the next room.

Jen. Madam, I have 'cm in my hand. Fain. It would be happy for all that are to see you to-day, if you could change your eyes too. Mrs Cler. Gallant enough-No, hang it, I'll wear these I have on; this mode of visage takes mightily; I had three ladies last week came over to my complexion-I think to be a fair woman this fortnight, 'till I find I'm aped too much-I believe there are an hundred copies of me already.

Jen. Dear madam, won't your ladyship please to let me be of the next countenance you leave off?

Mrs Cler. You may, Jenny-but I assure you it is a very pretty piece of ill-nature, for a woman that has any genius for beauty, to observe the servile imitation of her manner, her motion, her glances, and her smiles.

Fain. Ay, indeed, madam, nothing can be so ridiculous as to imitate the inimitable.

Mrs Cler. Indeed, as you say, Fainlove, the French mien is no more to be learn'd than the language, without going thither-Then, again, to see some poor ladies who have clownish, penurious English husbands, turn and torture their old clothes into so many forms, and dye 'em into so many colours, to follow me- -What say'st, Jenny? What say'st? Not a word?

Jen. Why, madam, all that I can say

Mrs Cler. Nay, I believe, Jenny, thou hast nothing to say, any more than the rest of thy countrywomen-The splenetics speak just as the weather lets 'em-They are mere talking barometers-Abroad, the people of quality go on so eternally, and still go on, and are gay and entertain-In England discourse is made up of nothing but question and answer.-I was t'other day at a visit, where there was a profound silence for, I believe, the third part of a minute.

Jen. And your ladyship there?

Mrs Gler. They infected me with their dulness.

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Boy. Madam, your spinet-master is come. Mrs Cler. Bring him in, he's very pretty company.

Fain. His spinet is, he never speaks himself. Mrs Cler. Speak, simpleton! What then, he keeps out silence, does not he? [Enter.]-Oh, sir, you must forgive me, I have been very idleWell, you pardon me? [Master bows.] -Did you think I was perfect in the song [Bows.] But, pray let me hear it once more. Let us see it. [Reads.

SONG.

With studied airs and practised smiles,
Flavia my ravish'd heart beguiles:
The charms we make, are ours alone,
Nature's works are not our own.

Her skilful hand gives ev'ry grace,
And shows her fancy in her face;
She feeds with art an amorous rage,
Nor fears the force of coming age.

You sing it very well: But, I confess, I wish you'd give more into the French manner.—Observe me hum it à la Françoise.

With studied airs, &c.

The whole person, every limb, every nerve sings -the English way is only being for that time a mere musical instrument, just sending forth a -Now I'll sound, without knowing they do sogive you a little of it like an English.woman— You are to suppose I've denied you twenty times, look'd silly, and all that-Then with hands and face insensible--I have a mighty cold.

With studied airs, &c.

Enter Servant.

Serv. Madam, Captain Clerimont, and a very strange gentleman, are come to wait on you. Mrs Cler. Let him and the very strange gentleman come in.

Fain. Oh! madam, that's the country gentle man I was telling you of.

Enter HUMPHRY and Captain CLERIMONT,

Fain. Madam, may I do myself the honour to recommend Mr Gubbin, son and heir to Sir Harry Gubbin, to your ladyship's notice?

Mrs Cler. Mr Gubbin, I am extremely pleased with your suit, 'tis antique, and originally from France.

Humph. It is always lock'd up, madam, when I'm in the country. My father prizes it mightily. Mrs Cler, 'Twould make a very pretty dan

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