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ated himself with your father, as to get footing in the house : Col. Lamb. Oh, sir, he is here in quality of chaplain; he was first introduced by the good old lady that's just gone out. You know she has been a long time a frequenter of our modern conventicles, where, it seems, she got acquainted with this sanctified pastor. His disciples believe him a saint, and my poor father, who has been for some time tainted with their pernicious principles, has been led into the same snare. Darn. Hal here's your sister again.
Enter CHAR lorre and Dočfor CANT well.
Charl. You’ll find, sir, I will not be used thus; nor shall your credit with my father protećt your insolence to me.
Col. Iamb. What’s the matter
Char. Nothing; pray be quiet—I don't want you— stand out of the way—how durst you bolt with such authority into my chamber, without giving me notice R
Darn. Confusion 1
Col. Lamb. Hold—if my father won't resent this, 'tis then time enough for me to do it.
Dr. Cant. Compose yourself, madam; I came by your father's desire, who being informed that you were entertaining Mr. Darnley, grew impatient, and gave his positive commands that you attend him instantly, or he himself, he says, will fetch you.
Darn. Ay, now the storm is rising. Dr. Cant. So, for what I have done, madam, I had his authority, and shall leave him to answer you. Charl. "Tis false. He gave you no authority to insult me; or, if he had, did you suppose I would bear it from you ? What is it you presume upon Your function Does that exempt you from the manners of a gentleman Dr. Cant. Shall I have an answer to your father, lady ? Charl. I’ll send him none by you. Dr. Cant. I shall inform him so. [Exit. Charl. A saucy puppy Col. Lamb. Pray, sister, what has the fellow done to you ? Charl. Nothing. Darn. I beg you would tell us, madam. Charl. Nay, no great matter—but I was sitting carelessly in my dressing room—a—a fastening my garter, with my face just towards the door; and this impudent cur, without the least notice, comes bounce in upon me—and my devilish hoop happening to hitch in the chair, I was an hour before I could get down my petticoats. Darn. The rogue must be corrected. Col. Lamb. Yet, 'egad, I cannot help laughing at the accident; what a ridiculous figure must she make —ha, ha, hal Charl. Hah l you're as impudent as he, I think.
Darn. Now, dear Tom, speak to her before she goes.
Charl. What does he say, brother?
Col. Lamb. Why, he wants to have me speak to you, and I would have him do it himself.
Charl. Ay, come do, Darnley; I am in a good humour now.
Darn. Oh, Charlotte, my heart is bursting—
Charl. Well, well, out with it then.
Darn. Your father now, I see, is bent on parting tls nay, what's worse, perhaps, will give you to another—I cannot speak—imagine what I want from you—
Charl. Well—O ludl one looks so silly though when one is serious—O gad! In short, I cannot get it out.
Col. Lamb. I warrant you ; try again.
Charl. O lud—well—if one must be teased, then— why he must hope, I think.
Darn. Is it possible —thus—
Col. Lamb. Buz—not a syllable: she has done very well. I bar all heroics; if you press it too far, I'll hold six to four she's off again in a moment.
Darn. I’m silenced.
Charl. Now am I on tiptoe to know what odd fellow my father has found out for me.
Darn. I’d give something to know him.
Charl. He's in a terrible fuss at your being here, I find.
Col. Lamb. *Sãeath here he comes.
Sir John LAMBERT enters hastily; and, looking sternly at DARN LeY, takes CHARLoTTE under his arm, and carries her off. Col. Lamb. So well said, doćtor. “”Tis he, “I am sure, has blown this fire ; what horrid hands “is our poor family fallen into 1 and how the rogue “seems to triumph in his power! How little is “my father like himself!—By nature open, just, and “generous; but this vile hypocrite drives his weak “passions like the wind; and I foresee, at last, some“thing fatal will be the consequence. “Darn. Not if by speedily detecting him, you take “care to prevent it. “Col. Lamb. Why, I have a thought that might “expose him to my father; and, in some unguarded “hour, we may yet, perhaps, surprise this lurking “thief without his holy vizor.” [Exeunt.
ACT II. SCENE I.
An Ante-Chamber in Sir John LAMBERT's House.
Seyward. 'Tis so—I have long suspected where his zeal would end; in the making of his private fortune.
But then, to found it on the ruin of his patron's children I shudder at the villany. What desperation may a son be driven to, so barbarously disinherited l—Besides, his daughter, fair Charlotte, too, is wronged; wronged in the tenderest point: for so extravagant is this settlement, that it leaves her not a shilling, unless she marries with the doćtor's consent, which is intended, by what I have heard, as an expedient to oblige her to marry the doćtor himself. Now, 'twere but an honest part to let Charlotte know the snare that's laid for her. This deed's not signed, and may be yet prevented. It shall be so. Yes, charming creature—I adore you. And, though I am sensible my passion is without hope, I may indulge it thus far, at least; I may have the merit of serving
you, and perhaps the pleasure to know you think yourself obliged by me.
Enter Sir Jo HN, Lady LAMBERT, and CHARLorre.
Sir J. Lamb. Oh, Seyward, your uncle wants you to transcribe some hymns.
Seyw. Sir, I’ll wait on him. [Exit.
Charl. A pretty well-bred fellow that.
Sir J. Lamb. Ay, ay; but he has better qualities than his good breeding.
Charl. He's always clean, too.
Sir 7. Lamb. I wonder, daughter, when you will take notice of a man’s real merit. Humph well bred and clean, forsooth. Would not one think now she was describing a coxcomb When do you