Mrs. Sul. O lard! d'ye call that a moving thing? Dor. The sharpest arrow in his quiver, my dear sister; Why, my twenty thousand pounds may lie brooding here this seven years, and hatch nothing at last but some ill-natured clown, like yours;-Whereas, if I marry my Lord Aimwell, there will be title, place, and precedence, the park, the play, and the drawingroom, splendour, equipage, noise, and flambeaux--Hey, my Lady Aimwell's servants there-lights, lights to the stairs-My Lady Aimwell's coach, put forward-stand by; make room for her ladyship -Are not these things moving? What! melancholy of a sudden?

Mrs. Sul. Happy, happy sister! your angel has been watchful for your happiness, whilst mine has slept, regardless of his charge-Long smiling years of circling joys for you, but not one hour for me!

[Weeps. Dor. Come, my dear, we'll talk of something else.

full

Mrs. Sul. O, Dorinda, I own myself a woman, of my sex, a gentle, generous soul-easy and yielding to soft desires; a spacious heart, where love and all his train might lodge; and must the fair apartment of my breast be made a stable for a brute to lie in?

Dor. Meaning your husband, I suppose.

Mrs. Sul. Husband!-Even husband is too soft a name for him.-But, come, I expect my brother here to-night or to-morrow; he was abroad when my father married me: perhaps he'll find a way to make me easy.

Dor. Will you promise not to make yourself uneasy in the mean time with my lord's friend?

Mrs. Sul. You mistake me, sister-It happens with us as among the men, the greatest talkers are the greatest cowards; and there's a reason for it; those spirits evaporate in prattle, which might do more mischief if they took another course- Though, to confess

the truth, I do love that fellow; and if I met him dressed as he should be,Lookye, sister, I have no supernatural gifts;- -I can't swear I could resist the temptation--though I can safely promise to avoid it; and that's as much as the best of us can do. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Inn.

Enter AIMWELL and ARCHER laughing.

Arch. And the awkward kindness of the good motherly old gentlewoman

Aim. And the coming easiness of the young one'Sdeath, 'tis pity to deceive her.

Arch. Nay, if you adhere to those principles, stop where you are.

Aim. I can't stop; for I love her to distraction. Arch. 'Sdeath, if you love her a hair's breadth beyond discretion, you must go no farther.

Aim. Well, well, any thing to deliver us from sauntering away our idle evenings at White's, Tom's, or Will's-But now

Arch. Ay, now is the time to prevent all this Strike while the iron is hot-The priest is the luckiest part of our adventure; he shall marry you, and pimp for me. But here comes the doctor; I shall be ready.

Enter FOIGARD.

Foig. Shave you, noble friend.

[Exit.

Aim. O sir, your servant; Pray, doctor, may I crave your name?

Foig. Fat naam is upon me! My naam is Foigard, joy.

Aim. Foigard! a very good name for a clergyman; Pray, Doctor Foigard, were you ever in Ireland?

Foig. Ireland! No, joy:-Fat sort of plaace is dat shame Ireland? Dey say de people are catched dere when dey are young.

Aim. And some of them here, when they are old;— as for example-[Takes FOIGARD by the Shoulder.] Sir, I arrest you as a traitor against the government; you are a subject of England, and this morning showed me a commission, by which you served as chaplain in the French army: This is death by our law, and your reverence must hang for't.

Foig. Upon my shoul, noble friend, dis is strange news you tell me, Fader Foigard a subject of England -de son of a Burgomaster of Brussels a subject of England, Ubooboo—

Aim. The son of a bog-trotter in Ireland: sir, your tongue will condemn you before any bench in the kingdom.

Foig. And is my tongue all your evidensh, joy?
Aim. That's enough.

Foig. No, no, joy, for I will never spaake de English no more.

Aim. Sir, I have other evidence.-Here, Martin, you know this fellow.

Enter ARCHER.

Aim. [In a Brogue.] Shave you, my dear cussen, how does your health?

Foig. Ah! upon my shoul dere is my countryman and his brogue will hang mine. [Aside.] Mynhere,

SCENE II.] THE BEAUX STRATAGEM.

63

ick wet neat wat heyzacht, ick univirston ewe, neat,

sacrament.

Aim. Altering your language won't do, sir, this fellow knows your person, and will swear to your facc. Foig. Faash! fey, is dere brogue upon my faash

too?

Arch. Upon my shalvation dere ish, joy,--But, Cussen Mackshane, vill you not put a remembrance upon nie?

Forg. Mackshane! by St. Partick, dat is my naam shure enough. [Aside.

Aim. I fancy, Archer, you have it.

Foig. The devil hang you, joy--By fat acquaintance are you my cussen?

Arch. O, de devil hang your shelf, joy; you know we were little boys togeder upon de school, and your foster moder's son was married upon my nurse's chister, joy, and so we are Irish cussens.

Foig. De devil taake de relation! Vel, joy, and fat school was it?

Arch. I think it vas-aay--"Twas Tipperary.

Foig. Now, upon my shoul, joy, it was Kilkenny.

Aim. That's enough for us--self confession-Come, sir, we must deliver you into the hands of the next magistrate.

Arch. He sends you to gaol, you are tried next assizes, and away you go swing into purgatory. Foig. And is it sho wid you cussen?

Arch. It will be sho wid you, cussen, if you don't immediately confess the secret between you and Mrs. Gipsey-Lookye, sir, the gallows or the secret, take your choice.

Foig. The gallows! upon my shoul I hate that shame gallows, for it is a diseash dat is fatal to our family.-Vel den, there is nothing, shentlemens, but Mrs. Sullen would spaak wid the count in her cham

ber at midnight, and dere is no harm, joy, for I am to conduct the count to the plaash myself.

Arch. As I guessed.-Have you communicated the matter to the count?

Foig. I have not sheen him since.

Arch. Right again; why then, doctor;-you shall conduct me to the lady instead of the count.

Foig. Fat, my cussen to the lady! upon my shoul, gra, dat's too much upon the brogue.

Arch. Come, come, doctor, consider we have got a rope about your neck, and if you offer to squeak, we'll stop your windpipe, most certainly; we shall have another job for you in a day or two, I hope.

Aim. Here's company coming this way; let's into my chamber, and there concert our affairs further. Arch. Come, my dear cussen, come along.

Foig. Arra, the devil taake our relashion. [Exeunt. Enter BONIFACE, HOUNSLOW, and BAGSHOT, at one Door, GIBBET at the opposite.

Gib. Well, gentlemen, 'tis a fine night for our enterprize.

Houns. Dark as hell.

Bag. And blows like the devil: our landlord here has shown us the window where we must break in, and tells us the plate stands in the wainscot cupboard in the parlour.

Bon. Ay, ay, Mr. Bagshot, as the saying is, knives and forks, cups and cans, tumblers and tankards.There's one tankard, as the saying is, that's near upon as big as me it was a present to the 'squire from his godmother, and smells of nutmeg and toast, like an East India ship.

Houns. Then you say we must divide at the stairhead.

Bon. Yes, Mr. Hounslow, as the saying is--at one end of the gallery lies my Lady Bountiful and her daughter, and at the other, Mrs. Sullen-as for the 'squire.