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with ; and I always like to make the moft of'em— It's a way I have.
Bab. Madam! It's a way I have. If not fhut up Ihop—but, with fuch a friend—partner, I would fay—
Mrs. Ant, Oh! Mr. Babble!
Bab. Oh! Mrs. Antidote! (aside.) She blufties without rouge—wonderful—out of faihion long ago,
Mrs. Ant. Adieu! dear Mr. Babble. Endeavour to fparean early hour—You have motives fufficient I truft—Adieu. [Exit.
J. Bab. Adieu—dear Mrs. Antidote—that woman's Antidote by name, and antidote by nature— Love?s out of the queftion—muft marry her for all that—As to motives—I've one that's irrefiftable—. my bill—knock at the door—again in an hourwant money—muft have it—and fhe has fifteen hundred pounds—certain remedy for a confumption— will do more execution than all the phyfic in my fhop*
When from London first I came,
I wasn't worth a crown,
For tho' puffing rais'd me up,
The hammer knock'd me down;
So, as one trade would not do,
I resoU'd to try how two
Would succeed in this wonderful town O (
Open'd shop—Ladies crop,
When they're ill—powder, pill,
Sell to cure 'em—life insure 'em;
Either please 'em—so I fleece 'em,
Share 'em, lathcrum—Omnium gatherum,
Hey down, oh down, derry derry down. Was my way in this wonderful town O!
Being up to every (rick,
Thus, traders, after smashes,
Like the Phoenix from her ashes,
Recover safe and sound,
Paying three-pence in the pound;
So I from limbo easy,
And with something new to please you,
Send my bills thro' all this wonderful town O
And to satisfy this wonderful town O!
A C T II.
SCENE I.—Old Whitethorn's Cottage.
Enter Old Whitethorn and Ellen.
White. I tell you Ellen, you ought to rejoice at getting clear of fuch a companion as that Peter Babble. He's for all the world like a weed in my garden, winding himfelf round a beautiful flower, deftroying the Item that nourifh'd it. But enough of him: happinefs comes fo feldom, he's a fool that will not make the mod on't.
EUen. Then why not tell me this good news, father; 'twould help to make me happier.
Wbit. It's an odd whim to be fure; but I muftn't —now don't you be curious, Ellen—have patience, girl. You-fee a little fpot of good luck has been lying fallow a plaguy long time, and I have but juft turn'd it up. Come fetch me a bottle of goofeberry winei Ellen, and then fee if your brother is coming. [Exit Ellen.
Now that girl has got love into her head, and nothing will fatisfy her but a hufband. Well, perhaps fhe's right; I h ive heard matrimony is the only cure fur it; 'Twas much the fame with me, when I was a youngfter, fo I can't blame her.
Re-enter Ellen, with Bottle and Cup.)
ElUn. Here's the wine, father, it's the lad bottle; I've drawn the cork; but it's very hard you won't
tell rrre now: Now, pray tell me!
JVhits. Get away you coaxing baggage! Look out for Oliver, I wifh he was come.
Ellen, ho do I, I long to fee him; perhaps he knows the fecret, and I'm fure he'll tell me. [Exit.
White. I am glad fhe's gone, fhe'd certainly have found me out. Now, then, I'll drink a glafs of wine in chearfulnefs, and I'll have a fong too, tho" I fing it myfelf. [Fills his cup.)
When I have my bottle, I'll never complain,
From my snug little cottage, I ne'er wish to roam,
At home and abroad now together we stand,
Enter Peter Babble and Ellen.
Peter. Can't fay I know any thing about him—
wiflvl did—tell Fanny dire&ly, and then
Ellen. An then, what?
Peter. Something new, a wedding—two perhaps But mum's the word;.
While. Well, Mailer Peter, what's the news with you?
Peter. Don't you know—dear me, not know the news? Rare work in the village—Old Sidney's come back
Ellen. Indeed! Mr. Sidney?
White. Well, that's nothing new; I've feen him.
Peter. You feen him—hem! that's a twang !— Impoflible! I got firft intelligence—all in commotion—met his Valey de Sham—t>ot all the particulars—ftopt laft night top o'the hill—footpad and a blunderbufs—made a devil ot a noife—did you hear the report?
White. No. Mr. Sidney faid nothing of this to me. (aside.)
Peter. Kobb'd him of twenty pounds.
Peter. Yes—thort man—no figure—not at all courageous—with I had been there—talk'd of diftrefs-—bis father—lifter—fo forth—all gammon, you know.
White. Ha! what, his father!
Peter. Yes, I've my fufpicions; but, mum's the word—I fay nothing—can't help thinking. Where's Oliver?
White. It can't be. He never could. No, no, it can't be!
Ellen. Dear father, what's the matter? Why do you turn fo pale?
Peter. Thought as much—all in a pucker—know 'twas Oliver—great diftrefs—very forry—can't help
tho'—all the better for me. Dpn't be alaim'd
—mayn't be him after all.
White. Mayn't be who ? Speak, fcoundrel, who do you mean?
Peter. 1 !—1!—mean—that is—blefs my foul, don't fly out fo !t—