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Man. Sir Francis-my lady is ready to receive your commands for her journey, whenever you please to appoint it.

Sir Fran. Ah, cousin! I doubt I am obliged to you for it.

Man. Come, come, Sir Francis, take it as you find it. Obedience in a wife is a good thing, though it were never so wonderful!—And now, sir, we have nothing to do but to dispose of this gentleman.

C. Bus. Mr Manly! Sir, I hope you won't ruin me.

Man. Did not you forge this note for five hundred pounds, sir?

C. Bus. Sir--I see you know the world, and therefore I shall not pretend to prevaricateBut it has hurt nobody yet, sir. I beg you will not stigmatize me: since you have spoiled my fortune in one family, I hope you won't be so cruel to a young fellow, as to put it out of my power, sir, to make it in another, sir.

Man. Look you, sir, I have not much time to waste with you; but if you expect mercy yourself, you must shew it to one you have been cruel to.

C. Bas. Cruel, sir!

Man. Have you not ruined this young woman? C. Bas. I, sir!

Man. I know you have; therefore you cann't blame her, if, in the fact you are charged with, she is a principal witness against you. However, you have one, and one only chance to get off with -Marry her this instant-and you take off her evidence.

C. Bas. Dear sir!

Man. No words, sir: A wife or a mittimus. C. Bas. Lord, sir, this is the most unmerciful mercy!

Man. A private penance, or a public one. Constable!

C. Bus. Hold, sir. Since you are pleased to give me my choice, I will not make so ill a compliment to the lady, as not to give her the preference. Man. It must be done this minute, sir: the chaplain you expected is still within call.

C. Bas. Well, sir-since it must be socome, spouse-I am not the first of the fraternity that has run his head into one noose, to keep it out of another.

Myr. Come, sir, don't repine: Marriage is, at worst, but playing upon the square.

C. Bas. Ay, but the worst of the match, too, is the devil.

Man. Well, sir, to let you see it is not so bad

as you think it, as a reward for her honesty, in detecting your practices, instead of the forged bill you would have put upon her, there's a real one of five hundred pounds, to begin a new honey-moon with. [Gives it to MYRTILLA.

C. Bas. Sir, this is so generous an actMan. No compliments, dear sir-I am not at leisure now to receive them. Mr Constable, will you be so good as to wait upon this gentleman into the next room, and give this lady in marriage to him?

a

Con. Sir, I'll do it faithfully.

C. Bus. Well, five hundred will serve to make handsome push with, however.

[Exeunt Count. MYR. and Constable.

Sir Fran. And that I may be sure my family's rid of him for ever-come, my lady, let's even take our children along with us, and be all witness of the ceremony.

[Exeunt Sir FRAN. L. WRONG. Miss and

Squire.

Man. Now, my lord, you may enter.

Enter Lord and Lady TOWNLY, and Lady GRACE.

Ld Town. So, sir, I give you joy of your negociation. Man. You overheard it all, I presume? L. Grace. From first to last, sir.

Ld Town. Never were knaves and fools better disposed of.

Man. A sort of poetical justice, my lord, not much above the judgment of a modern comedy.

Ld Town. To heighten that resemblance, I think, sister, there only wants your rewarding the hero of the fable, by naming the day of his happiness.

L. Grace. This day, to-morrow, every hour, I hope, of life to come, will shew I want not inclination to complete it.

Man. Whatever I may want, madam, you will always find endeavours to deserve you. Ld Town. Then all are happy.

Lady Town. Sister, I give you joy-consummate as the happiest pair can boast.

In you, methinks, as in a glass, I see
The happiness that once advanced to me:
So visible the bliss, so plain the way,
How was it possible my sense could stray?
But now a convert to this truth I come,
That married happiness is never found from
home.
[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MRS OLDFIELD.

METHINKS I hear some powdered critics say, Damn it! this wife reform'd, has spoil'd the play! The coxcomb should have drawn her more in fashion;

Have gratified her softer inclination;

Have tipt her a gallant, and clinch'd the provocation.

But there our bard stopt short; for 'twere uncivil
T' have made a modern belle all o'er a devil!
He hop'd, in honour of the sex, the age
Would bear one mended woman-on the stage.
From whence you see by common sense's rules
Wives might be govern'd, were not husbands
fools.

Whate'er by Nature dames are prone to do,
They seldom stray but when they govern you;
When the wild wife perceives her deary tame,
No wonder then she plays him all the game.
But men of sense meet rarely that disaster;
Women take pride where merit is their master:
Nay, she that with a weak man wisely lives,
Will seem t'obey the due commands he gives!
Happy obedience is no more a wonder,
When men are men, and keep them kindly under:

But modern consorts are such high-bred creatures,

They think a husband's power degrades their features;

That nothing more proclaims a reigning beauty, Than that she never was reproached with duty; And that the greatest blessing Heaven e'er sent, Is in a spouse incurious and content.

To give such dames a different cast of thought, By calling home the mind, these scenes were wrought.

If with a hand too rude the task is done,
We hope the scheme by Lady Grace laid down
Will all such freedom with the sex atone;
That virtue there unsoil'd by modish art,
Throws out attractions for a Manly's heart.

You, you, then, ladies, whose unquestioned lives

Give you the foremost fame of happy wives,
Protect, for its attempt, this helpless play,
Nor leave it to the vulgar taste a prey;
Appear the frequent champions of its cause;
Direct the crowd, and give yourselves applause.

2 M

VOL. III.

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THE

SPANISH FRIAR.

BY

DRYDEN.

Now luck for us, and a kind hearty pit;
For he who pleases never fails of wit.
Honour is yours,

PROLOGUE.

And you, like kings at city treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet:
But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow;
You cry the same sense up and down again,
Just like brass money once-a-year in Spain:
Take you i' the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham;
Though 'tis no more like sense in ancient plays,
Than Rome's religion's like St Peter's days:
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did

range,

But even your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of your age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage,
Unless each vice in short-hand they indite,
Even as notch'd 'prentices whole sermons write.
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,
But what they usʼd a hundred years ago;

They cheat, but still from cheating sires they

come;

They drink, but they were christ'ned first in mum,
Their patrimonial sloth the Spaniards keep,
And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.
The French and we still change, but here's the

curse,

They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing.
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
And they, for change, will try our English air.
As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play;
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fail to drinking.
Scowring the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies, chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made
To hire night-murderers, and make death a trade.
When murder's out, what vice can we advance ?
Unless the new-found pois'ning trick of France:

Like honest plants, where they were stuck they And when their art of rats-bane we have got,

grow.

By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our Plot.

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Alph. Heaven avert it.

Ped. Then Heaven must not be Heaven. Judge the event

By what has pass'd. The usurper joy'd not long His ill-got crown. "Tis true, he died in peace, (Unriddle that, ye powers,) but left his daughter, Our present queen, engaged, upon his death-bed, To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father

Had helped to make him great.

Hence you well know this fatal war arose, Because the Moor Abdallah, with whose troops The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused, And, as an infidel, his love despised.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro, and, like lawyers,

Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good cause would do well though; It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran Has now three times been beaten by the Moors; What hope we have is in young Torrismond, Your brother's son.

Alph. He's a successful warrior, And has the soldier's hearts. Upon the skirts Of Arragon our squad on'd troops he rallies: Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late. Alph. No more-Duke Bertran,

Enter BERTRAN, attended.

Bert. Relieve the centries that have watched all night.

[TO PED.

Now, colonel, have you disposed your men, That you stand idle here?

Ped. Mine are drawn off, To take a short repose.

Bert. Short let it be ;

For from the Moorish camp, this hour and more. There has been heard a distant humming noise, Like bees disturbed, and arming in their hives. What courage in our soldiers? Speak! What hope?

Ped. As much as when physicians shake their heads,

And bid their dying patient think of Heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,

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And harassed out with duty.

Bert. Good night all then.

Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose: I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my few friends above, and then expect The next fair bullet.

Alph. Never was known a night of such dis

traction;

Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds, That run, and know not whither; torches gliding, Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar,With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon't; a true son of the church; Fresh colour'd, and well thriven on his trade,Came puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads, in such an agony, He told them false for fear: about his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score | Another sin before he left the world.

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