Lady A. The heart, which I cannot secure by affection, I will not alienate by suspecting.

[Returns the Letter. Mor. Pshaw! Meekness is but mockery, forbearance insult.

Lady A. How shall I behave? Which way frame my words and looks, so as not to offend? 'Would I could discover!

Mor. You never complain? You have no jealousy?

Lady A. Indeed, I have been very obstinately blind. Mor. Ay, ay! Patience on a monument !

Lady A. Reproach, at least, has never escaped my lips.

Mor. Ha! ha! ha! As if lips were the only instruments of upbraiding! No deep-fetched sighs? No pale melancholy glances? No obvious hiding of the ever-ready tear?

Lady A. I fear I have been to blame. Indeed I am sorry that my sensations have been so acute.

Mor. You accuse? You give a husband pain? Insolent supposition!

Lady A. I sincerely wish, my dear, you gave no more than I intend to give!

Mor. There! Did not I say so? Ha! ha! ha! You accuse?

Lady A. I am wrong! I forgot myself! Pray forgive me! Why am I subject to these mistakes? Mor. You are all angel! Lady A. Would I were!

Mor. And I all demon!

Lady A. Do not, Mr Mordent, by the dear affection you once bore

Mor. There! There! The affection I once bore! Lady A. Heavens! Must I ever be fated to wound, when it is most the wish of my soul to heal?

Mor. Why was the Earl of Oldcrest here this morning? Why are these family consultations held?

Lady A. They are contrary to my wish.

Mor. A separation, I hear, is the subject of them? Lady A. But not countenanced by me.

Mor. Pretending in pity to spare me yourself, they are to be set upon me.

Lady A Never! Heaven be my judge, never! Mor. I am to be subjected to their imperious dic

tates.

Lady A. I own they have lately been very urgent with me to return to my father; but, were you only kind, their solicitations would be vain indeed. Oh! take pity on yourself and me, and teach me to regain your lost affections; or, if that be too great a blessing to hope, there is still one evil which I would suffer any other torture to escape. Think, if you can, that I no longer love; treat me with unkindness; neglect, accuse, do any thing-but hate me! Let me not endure that last stage of misery! But-Oh, Heavens ! -if our former endearments must end in that, have mercy, and retard or conceal it as long as you can.

[Exit.

Mor. Ha! ha ha! What are barbs, and stings, and poisoned arrows? Pitiful instruments! Thou, triumphant wretchedness, usest these but on small occasions; they want pungency!

Enter LENnox.

Len. May I come in?

Mor. Ay, ay!-Now am I ripe for mischief. Len. You seem out of temper! What has happened?

Mor. Trifles, trifles! She has got the letter.
Len. From whom?

Mor. Mrs Enfield's.
Len. Zounds!

Mor. An invitation to a new sample of beauty: She has seen it; returned it; has graciously forgiven; has racked, has driven me mad.

Len. [Suspiciously.] And do you mean to go?

Mor. [Wildly.] Ay will I! Since devil I am, devil let me be! It will be some, though but a petty vengeance, for prying.

Len. You must not.

Mor. [Passionately.] Indeed but I will.

Len. We have long been friends, and fellow-sinners, but, in these affairs, we have always behaved honourably.

Mor. What then?

Len. I have seen the girl!

Mor. Where?

Len. At Enfield's.

Mor. Did she write to you, too?
Len. She did. An angel, Mordent.

Mor. Ha ha! ha!

Len. An angel! I am seriously and deeply smitter. Mor. Ha! ha! ha! Marry her, and make wretchedness secure.

Len. No; but I am fixed for life. Such anima, tion! Such soul! The finest creature my eyes ever beheld.

Mor. I'll see her.

Len. No; I cannot consent.

Mor. Why so? I'll aid you to carry her off.

Len. Are you serious?

Mor. As malice can make me! The sex have been worse to me than plague, pestilence, and famine. Len. And what have you been to them?

. Mor. No matter; I'll have my revenge!
Len. And you will aid me in this business?
Mor. I will.

Len. Solemnly? on your word and honour?
Mor. I tell you, I will!

Len. Why then, see her

pany, observe.

you shall;

but in

my com

Mor. Ha ha! ha! Right, anticipate your tor

ments.

Len. On this condition, I shall thank you for your assistance and advice.

Mor. Why, ay, Advice! I too, fool that I am, knowing the impotence of man to avert mischief, Í wish for advice! I-[Aside.] There may be danger in telling him.

Len. Well?

Mor. A-a friend of mine has a child; suppose it a-a natural child; that he knows not how properly to dispose of.

Len. [Ironical gravity.] A natural child, that he knows not how properly to dispose of?

Mor. Yes.

Len. Could not he sell it to the kidnappers?
Mor. Pshaw !

Len. There are honest overseers that will take it, fifty pounds down.

Mor. Not an infant: twenty years of age.

Len. Oh, then indeed, there are crimp serjeants. Mor. When I put a serious question, I expect a serious answer.

Len. [Indignation.] Serious! And ask what a man is to do with his child.

Mor. Suppose he should have legitimate offspring? Len. [Sneer.] Oh, oh, legitimate, ha! Made of other metal? A different manufacture?

Mor. You won't hear! He provided for her.
Len. A female, too?

Mor. Would have continued to provide, but she rejected his assistance.

Len, How so?

Mor. Unless he would see her, and embrace her; that is, whine over, acknowledge her, and bestow his blessing.

Len. And he refused?

Mor. Why not? Of what benefit are blessings? Where all is evil, why torment conscience concerning the mode?

Len. He is a monster.

Mor. But, sir, appearances

Len. Damn appearances !

Mor. Friends

Len. Damn his friends!

Mor. A wife

Len. Damn his wife! He has friends, appearances, and a wife; but he has no heart!

Enter DONALD, in great Agitation.

Don. She is gone! She is lost for aye, l'ze e'en red wude.

Mor. [Aside to DONALD.] How now, herald of malice and mischief?

Don. I canna forget her! Fair fa' yeer hairt, I'ze ne'er set eyes o'her mair.

Mor. Peace, hound!

Don. I tell you I wunna! Misca' me an ye wull, the de'el ma care; a father turn his back o' his bairn! Len. Oh, oh! What, it was yourself, your own daughter, you were talking of?

Don. Gin earth haud her, I'ze gar ye do her recht. [Returns ] She laft a massige for ye.

Mor. [Anxiously.] What message?

Don Tell him, gin he wunna gi his child ane kess, ane scrimpet blassing, that child wull wark, stairve, and die, ere she wull leve like a parish-pauper on scraps and alms. Tell him, she has a pridefoo' spirit, that wunna bag, gin she canna win: and, gif he scorn his dochtor, she scorns aksapt his charity. [Going. Len. So you commit a crime, and then invent a system for its justification? Excellent philosopher!

Don. [Returning] Why dunna ye spier a❜ter her yeersal? Hech Waesucks! Ye dunna ken yeer ain bairn.

Len. How?

Don. Ye never saw the face o'her, sin she hung a wee giglet at the breast! Weel, weel, nothing comes