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my house—whenever you come, you shall have a supper and a bed; but you must marry her first, because my lady will be squeamish.
Diana. Well, but, my dear papa, upon my word you have a great deal to answer for : suppose it was your own case to have a daughter in such circumstances, would you be obliged to any one
Col. O. Hold your tongue, hussy, who bid you put in your oar 2 However, Harman, I don’t want to set you upon any thing-'tis no affair of mine, to be sure *II only give you advice, and tell you how I would act, if I were in your place.
Har I assure you, sir, I am quite charmed with the advice; and, since you are ready to stand my friend, I am ready to follow it.
Col. O. You are 2
Col. O. Say no more, then, here's my hand-You understand me—No occasion to talk any further of it at present—When we are alone—Dy, take Mr Harman into the drawing-room, and give him some tea.—I say, Harman, mum. [Ezeunt severally.
CLARIssa’s Dressing-Room.—On one Side, a Table, with a Glass, Bowes, and Two Chairs.
Enter DiANA, then JESSAMX.
Diana. Come, brother, I undertake to be mistress of the ceremony, upon this occasion, and introduce you to your first audience. Miss Flowerdale is mos here, I perceive; but no matter.
Jess. Upon my word, a pretty, elegant, dressingroom this but confound our builders, or architects, as they call themselves; not one of them knows the situation of doors, windows, or chimmies. Diana. My dear brother, you are not come here as a virtuoso, to admire the temple; but, as a votary, to address the deity to whom it belongs. Show, I beseech you, a little more devotion, and tell me, how do you like Miss Flowerdale —Don’t you think her very handsome 2 Jess. Pale—but that I am determined she shall remedy; for, as soon as we are married, I will make her put on rouge–Let me see, has she got any in her boxes here? Diana. Brother, I would fain give you some advice upon this occasion, which may be of service to you. You are now going to entertain a young lady —Let me prevail upon you to lay aside those airs, on account of which, some people are impertinent enough to call you a coxcomb; for I am afraid she may be apt to think you a coxcomb too, as I assure you, she is very capable of distinguishing. Jess. So much the worse for me -If she is capable of distinguishing, I shall meet with a terrible repulse—I don’t believe she’ll have me. Diana. I don’t believe she will, indeed. Jess. Go on, sister—ha! has ha! Diana. I protest, I am serious ! Though, I perceive, you have more faith in the counsellor before you there, the looking-glass: But, give me leave to tell you, it is not a powdered head, a laced coat, a grimace, a shrug, a bow, or a few pert phrases, learnt by rote, that constitutes the power of pleasing all WOmen, ~ Jess. You had better return to the gentleman, and give him his tea, my dear. Diana. These qualifications we find in our parrots and monkies. I would undertake to teach Poll, in - D
three weeks, the fashionable jargon of half the fine men about town; and I am sure it must be allowed, that pug, in a scarlet coat, is a gentleman as degagé and alluring as most of them. - -
Ladies, pray admire a figure, Fait selon le derrier gout. First, his hat, in size no bigger Than a Chinese woman’s shoe : Sir yards of ribbon bind His hair en baton behind; While his fore-top's so high, That in crown he may vie With the tufted cockatoo. Then his waist, so long and taper, 'Tis an absolute thread-paper: Maids, resist him, you that can; Odd's life, if this is all th’ #. I’ll clap a hat on, club my hair, And call myself a man. - [Exit. Enter CLARIssa. Clar. Sir, I took the liberty to desire a few moments private conversation with you—I hope you will excuse it—I am really greatly embarrassed; but, in an affair of such immediate consequence to us both— Jess. My dear creature, don't be embarrassed before me—I should be extremely sorry to strike you with any awe; but this is a species of mauvaise honte, which the company I shals introduce you to will soon cure you of ' ' ' ' ' ' . . Clar. Upon my word, sir, I don't understand you. Jess. Perhaps, you may be under some uneasiness lest I should not be quite so warm in the prosecution of this affair as }. could wish—it is true, with regard to o might do better: and, with regard to fortune, full as well–But you please me—Unofi
my soul, I have not met with any thing more agreeable to me a great while. Clar. Pray, sir, keep your seat. . o Jess. Mauvaise honte again. My dear, there is nothing in these little familiarities between you and me—When we are married, I shall do every thing to render your life happy. Clár. Ah, sir! pardon me. The happiness of my life depends upon a circumistance Jess, Oh! I understand you—You have been told, I suppose, of the Italian opera girl—Rat people's tongues!—However, 'tis true, I had an affair with her, at Naples, and she is now here. But be satisfied:– I’ll give her a thousand pounds, and send her about her business. * Clar. Me, sir! I protest nobody told me–Lord! I never heard any such thing, or enquired about it. Jess. No! have they not been chattering to you of my affair at Pisa, with the Principessa del §. No, indeed, sir. Jess. Well, I was afraid they might; because, in this rude country—But, why silent on a sudden f – don’t be afraid to speak. Clar. No, sir, I will come to the subject, on which I took the liberty to trouble you—Indeed, I have great reliance on your generosity. Jess. You'llfindmegenerousasaprince,dependon't, Clar. I am blessed, sir, with one of the best of fa. thers; I never yet disobeyed him, in which I have had little merit; for his commands hitherto have only been to secure my own felicity. Jess. Apres machere— Clar. But now, sir, I am under the shocking necessity of disobeying him, or being wretched for ever, Jess. Hem! -Clar. Our union is impossible.—Perhaps this frankness may offend you; but the anxiety under which I now labour, will, I hope, plead my excuse. The com
mands of such a father as I am blessed with, I own, ought to be held sacred; yet such is his liberality of sentiment, that, I am well assured, he will not sacrifice my happiness to interest; neither can I act so basely, as to bestow my hand without my heart. [Exit. Jess. Who’s there 2 -
Jenk. Do you call, sir? Jess. Hark you, old gentleman who are you? Jenk. Sir, my name is Jenkins. Jess. Oh, you are Sir John Flowerdale's steward —a servant he puts confidence in. Jenk. Sir, I have served Sir John Flowerdale many ears, y Jess. Then, Mr. Jenkins, I shall condescend to speak to you. Does your master know who I am?— Does he know, sir, that I am likely to be a peer of Great Britain —That I have ten thousand pounds a year?—That I have passed through all Europe with distinguished eclat? That I refused the daughter of Mynheer Van Slokenfolk, the great Dutch burgomaster 2 and that, if I had not had the misfortune of being bred a protestant, I might have married the niece of his present holiness, the pope, with a fortune of two hundred thousand piastres? Jenk. I am sure, sir, my master has all the respect imaginable— Jess. Then, sir, how comes he, after my showing an inclination to be allied to his family; how comes he, I say, to bring me to his house to be affronted I have let his daughter go, but, I think, I was in the wrong; for a woman that insults me is no more safe than a man. I have brought a lady to reason before now, for giving me saucy language, and left her male friends to revenge it. Jenk. Pray, good sir, what's the matter? Jess. Why, sir, this is the matter, sir—your master's