The young, so busy to engage a heart,
The mischief done are busy most to part;
Ungrateful wretches! who still cross one's will,
When they more kindly might be busy still:
One to a husband who ne'er dream'd of horns
Shews how dear spouse with friend his rows
adorns :

Th' officious tell-tale fool (he should repent it) Parts three kind souls that liv'd at peace contented!

Some with law quirks set houses by the ears; With physic one what he would heal impairs ; Like that dark mop'd-up fry, that neighb'ring

curse,

Who to remove love's pains bestow a worse.
Since then this meddling tribe infest the age,
Bear one a while expos'd upon the stage;
Let none but Busy Bodies vent their spite,
And with good humour pleasure crown the night.

BY

OUR author fears the critics of the stage,
Who, like barbarians, spare nor sex nor age;
She trembles at those censors in the pit,
Who think good nature shews a want of wit.
Such malice, Oh! what Muse can undergo it!
To save themselves they always damn the poet.
Our author flies from such a partial jury,
As wary lovers from the nymphs of Drury:
To the few candid judges for a smile
She humbly sues to recompence her toil;
To the bright circle of the fair she next
Commits her cause, with anxious doubts perplex'd.
Where can she with such hopes of favour kneel
As to those judges who her frailties feel?
A few mistakes her sex may well excuse,
And such a plea no woman should refuse :

If she succeeds, a woman gains applause;
What female but must favour such a cause?
Her faults-whateʼer they are-e'en pass 'em by,
And only on her beauties fix your eye.
In plays, like vessels floating on the sea,
There's none so wise to know their destiny:
In this, howe'er, the pilot's skill appears,
While by the stars his constant course he steers:
Rightly our author does her judgment shew,
That for her safety she relies on you.
Your approbation, fair ones! cann't but move
Those stubborn hearts which first you taught to

love.

The men must all applaud this play of ours, For who dare see with other eyes than yours?

SCENE I-A Street.

Enter DON LOPEZ meeting FREDERICK. Fred. My lord, Don Lopez. Lop. How d'ye, Frederick?

Fred. At your lordship's service. I am glad to see you look so well, my lord. I hope Antonio's out of danger?

Lop. Quite contrary; his fever increases they tell me; and the surgeons are of opinion his wound is mortal.

Fred. Your son, Don Felix, is safe I hope. Lop. I hope so too; but they offer large rewards to apprehend him.

Fred. When heard your lordship from him? Lop. Not since he went: I forbade him writing till the public news gave him an account of Antonio's health. Letters might be intercepted, and the place of his abode discovered.

Fred. Your caution was good, my lord. Tho' I am impatient to hear from Felix, yet his safety is my chief concern. Fortune has maliciously struck a bar between us in the affairs of life, but she has done me the honour to unite our souls.

Lop. I am not ignorant of the friendship between my son and you: I have heard him commend your morals, and lament your want of noble birth.

Fred. That's nature's fault, my lord. It is some comfort not to owe one's misfortunes to one's self; yet it is impossible not to regret the want of noble birth.

Lop. 'Tis a pity indeed such excellent parts as you are master of, should be eclipsed by mean extraction.

Fred. Such commendation would make me vain, my lord; did you not cast in the allay of my

extraction.

Lop. There's no condition of life without its cares, and it is the perfection of a man to wear 'em as easy as he can: this unfortunate duel of my son's does not pass without impression; but since it is past prevention, all my concern is now how he may escape the punishment. If Antonio dies, Felix shall for England. You have been there; what sort of people are the English?

Fred. My lord, the English are by nature what the ancient Romans were by discipline, courageous, bold, hardy, and in love with liberty. Liberty is the idol of the English, under whose banner all the nation lists: give but the word for liberty, and straight more armed legions would appear than France and Philip keep in constant pay.

Lop. I like their principles: who does not wish for freedom in all degrees of life? though

common prudence sometimes makes us act against it, as I am now obliged to do; for I intend to marry my daughter to Don Guzman, whom I expect from Holland every day, whither he went to take possession of a large estate left him by his uncle.

Fred. You will not surely sacrifice the lovely Isabella to age, avarice, and a fool! pardon the expres sion, my lord, but my concern for your beauteous daughter transports me beyond that good manners which I ought to pay your lordship's pre

sence.

Lop. I cann't deny the justness of the charac ter, Frederick; but you are not insensible what I have suffered by these wars; and he has two things which render him very agreeable to me for a son-in-law, he is rich and well born: as for his being a fool, I don't conceive how that can be any blot in a husband, who is already possessed of a good estate.-A poor fool indeed is a very scandalous thing, and so are your poor wits, in my opinion, who have nothing to be vain of but the inside of their sculls. Now for Don Guzman, I know I can rule him as I think fit. This is acting the politic part, Frederick, without which it is impossible to keep up the port of this life.

Fred. But have you no consideration for your daughter's welfare, my lord?

Lop. Is a husband of twenty thousand crowns a year no consideration? Now I think it a very good consideration.

Fred. One way, my lord. But what will the world say of such a match?

Lop. Sir, I value not the world a button. Fred. I cannot think your daughter can have any inclination for such a husband.

Lop. There, I believe, you are pretty much in the right, though it is a secret which I never had the curiosity to enquire into, nor I believe ever shall.-Inclination, quoth-a! Parents would have a fine time on't if they consulted their children's inclinations! I'll venture you a wager, that in all the garrison towns in Spain and Portugal during the late war, there was not three women who have not had an inclination for every officer in the whole army; does it therefore follow that their fathers ought to pimp for them? No, no, sir, it is not a father's business to follow his children's inclinations till he makes himself a beg gar.

Fred. But this is of another nature, my lord. Lop. Look ye, sir, I resolve she shall marry Don Guzman the moment he arrives. Though I could not govern my son, I will my daughter, I assure you.

Col. Too often-Money is the very god of | marriage; the poets dress him in a saffron robe, by which they figure out the golden deity, and his lighted torch blazons those mighty charms which encourage us to list under his banner. None marry now for love, no, that's a jest: The self-same bargain serves for wife and beast. Fred. You are always gay, colonel. Come, shall we take a refreshing glass at my house, and consider what has been said?

Col. I have two or three compliments to discharge for some friends, and then I shall wait on you with pleasure. Where do you live?

Fred. At yon corner house with the green rails.

Col. In the close of the evening I will endeavour to kiss your hand. Adieu. [Exit. [Exit.

Fred. I shall expect you with impatience.

SCENE II.-A Room in Don LOPEZ's House.

Enter ISABELLA, and INIS, her Maid. Inis. For goodness sake, madam, where are you going in this pet?

Isub. Any where to avoid matrimony. The thoughts of a husband is as terrible to me as the sight of a hobgoblin.

Inis. Ay, of an old husband: but if you may choose for yourself, I fancy matrimony would be no such frightful thing to you.

Isab. You are pretty much in the right, Inis: but to be forced into the arms of an idiot, a sneaking, snivelling, drivelling, avaricious fool! who has neither person to please the eye, sense to charm the ear, nor generosity to supply those defects. Ah, Inis! what pleasant lives women lead in England, where duty wears no fetter but inclination! The custom of our country enslaves us from our very cradles, first to our parents, next to our husbands, and when Heaven is so kind to rid us of both these, our brothers still usurp authority, and expect a blind obedience from us; so that maids, wives, or widows, we are little better than slaves to the tyrant, man. Therefore, to avoid their power, I resolve to cast myself into a monastery.

Inis. That is, you'll cut your own throat to avoid another's doing it for you. Ah, madam! those eyes tell me you have no nun's flesh about you. A monastery, quoth-a!-where you'll wish yourself into the green-sickness in a month.

Isab. What care I? there will be no man to plague me.

Inis. No; nor, what's much worse, to please you, neither-Odslife, madam, you are the first woman that ever despaired in a Christian country -Were I in your place――

Isab. Why, what would your wisdom do if you were?

Inis. I'd embark with the first fair wind with all my jewels, and seek my fortune on t'other side the water: no shore can treat you worse than your own. There's ne'er a father in Chris

tendom should make me marry any man against my will.

Isub. I am too great a coward to follow your advice. I must contrive some way to avoid Don Guzman, and yet stay in my own country.

Enter Don LOPEZ.

Lop. Must you so, mistress? but I shall take care to prevent you. [Aside.]-Isabella, whither are you going, my child? Isab. Ha! my father!-To church, sir. Inis. The old rogue has certainly overheard her. [Aside. Lop. Your devotion must needs be very strong, or your memory very weak, my dear. Why, vespers are over for this night. Come, come, you shall have a better errand to church than to say your prayers there. Don Guzman is arrived in the river, and I expect him a-shore to-morrow. Isub. Ha! to-morrow!

Lop. He writes me word that his estate in Holland is worth twelve thousand crowns a-year; which, together with what he had before, will make thee the happiest wife in Lisbon.

Isab. And the most unhappy woman in the world.-Oh, sir, if I have any power in your heart, if the tenderness of a father be not quite extinct, hear me with patience.

Lop. No objection against the marriage, and I will hear whatsoever thou hast to say.

Isub. That's torturing me on the rack, and forbidding me to groan. Upon my knees I claim the privilege of flesh and blood. [Kneels.

Lop. I grant it; thou shalt have an armful of flesh and blood to-morrow. Flesh and blood, quoth-a! Heaven forbid I should deny thee flesh and blood, my girl! [Aside.

Inis. Here's an old dog for you.

Isab. Do not mistake, sir. The fatal stroke which separates soul and body is not more terrible to the thoughts of sinners, than the name of Guzinan to my ear.

Lop. Puh, puh! you lic, you lie.

Isab. My frighted heart beats hard against my breast, as if it sought a passage to your feet, to beg you'd change your purpose.

Lop. A very pretty speech, this; if it were turned into blank verse, it would serve for a tragedy. Why, thou hast more wit than I thought thou hadst, child. I fancy this was all extempore; I don't believe thou didst ever think one word on't before.

Inis. Yes, but she has, my lord; for I have heard her say the same things a thousand times.

Lop. How, how-What, do you top your second-hand jests upon your father, hussy, who knows better what's good for you than you do yourself? Remember 'tis your duty to obey.

Isab. [Rising.] I never disobeyed before, and I wish I had not reason now; but nature hath got the better of my duty, and makes me loathe the harsh commands you lay.

Lop. Ha, ha! very fine! ha, ha!
Isab. Death itself would be more welcome.