my thoughts won't interrupt you, nor your discourse

my thoughts.

Sir D. D. I should hope, lovely charmer-
Emily. Lovely what?

Sir D. D. Lovely charmer was my expression.
Emily. Oh, very well: it's all the same.

Go on.

Sir D. D. I should hope, lovely Miss Emily Tempest, (for I won't say charmer) after the long attendance I have paid, and the proofs I have given of my patience, as well as of my passion, that I have now waited the full time that young ladies usually require to make up their minds, whether to say Aye or No to a plain proposal.

Emily. What proposal do you allude to?

Sir D. D. Surely you can't ask that question seriously at this time o'day; surely you must know, that I mean a proposal of marriage!

Emily. Right! very true—I recollect you proposed to marry me- -Well! what would you do with me when you had got me ?

Sir D. D. Lud-a-mercy! well; what would I do with you? That's comical, i'faith-why, in the first place, I'd whisk you down to the castle

Emily. Whisk me down to the castle

Sir D. D. To be sure I would, for why? things are all at sixes and sevens for want of me: nothing like a master's eye; a gentleman, who trusts to servants in his absence, is sure to be cut up.

Emily. Cut up! what's that?

Sir D. D. Why, 'tis a common phrase.

Emily. Indeed! Well, what am I to be done with then?

Sir D. D. Oh; as for that we shall soon set things upon their right bottom again, and then we will be as happy and as merry as the day is long.

Emily. Hold there! I never bargained to be happy.

Sir D. D. Why, what should hinder you, when

every thing, that money can command, shall be purchased to content you? But I'm afraid, Miss Emily, there is a little double-dealing in this business: I suspect your heart inclines to Captain Woodville; and now he is come to England, I suppose I am likely to

be cut out.

Emily. Poor man! what between cutting up and cutting out, how you will be mangled? Would not it be better to live single in a whole skin, than marry and be butchered in so barbarous a manner ?

[They rise. Sir D. D. I don't know but it might-I won't say but it may be so-if I'm not agreeable to one, I may be agreeable to another-rich folks need not go a-begging. If Captain Woodville is the man, why then perhaps I don't covet to be the master-if Captain Woodville-Hush! who's coming?

Enter HENRY WOODVILLE.

Emily. Henry!

Sir D. D. Oh Lord! my death warrant. [Aside. Henry. Well may you be surprised to see me here, and your wonder will be increased when I tell you, that I have your father's privilege for my intrusion ;— but if you and this gentleman, whom I understand to be Sir David Daw

Sir D. D. Yes, sir, I am Sir David Daw.

Henry. Are upon business of consequence, I retire upon the word.

Sir D. D. A very civil person, I must say.

Emily. Sir David, was the business we were upon of any consequence?

Sir D. D. To me of most immediate; how did you consider it, I pray?

Emily. As I do every other harmless common talk; very entertaining whilst it lasts, very soon forgot when it is over; but this gentleman has conversation of a

sort that is apt to drive all other out of my recollec tion.

Henry. Oh! Emily, Emily! for Heaven's sakeEmily. Hold your tongue.

Sir D. D. Nay, madam, the gentleman seems to understand himself very properly; but I must think that you, Miss Emily, considering who I am, and how I came here, do not understand me quite so properly; and I must say―

Henry. What must you say? Not a single word to this lady that in the slightest degree borders on disrespect; and now, with that caution for your government, let me hear what it is you must say

Sir D. D. Nay, nothing more; I think I've said enough Your very humble servant,

[Exit. Henry. This absolute repulse of your rich suitor flatters but frightens me. What will your father say? whilst I am wholly in the fault, you will bear all the blame.

Emily. If I am never blamed but for your faultsWhy let the stricken deer go weep,

66

"The hart ungalled play."

Henry. Can you account for his indulgence? Emily. Can you expound the changes of the moon? Can you explain why, when all other female hearts are fickle, mine alone is fixed?

Henry, Ought I to suffer that? honour should teach me to avoid your presence.

Emily. Yes; but if you practise that honour upon me, I never will forgive you. Come down from these high flights, if you please, and walk upon your feet, as other men do. If you are alarmed at being poor, I'll marry that money-bag, and enrich you with the pillage of it-will that be honourable? No, no! most execrable meanness; therefore away with it! Spinster as I am, I may struggle on to a good old age, and give offence to nobody; but a wife, without

a heart to bestow upon her husband, is a cheat and an impostor.

Henry. Oh! cruel, cruel fortune, why was it my lot to be the son of a gamester?

Emily. Rather say why was it not my lot to be the heiress of Penruddock, instead of that old fusty philosopher, who, when he and the spiders have stood centinels over his coffers, till watching and fasting have worn him to a skeleton, will sink into the grave, and leave his wealth to be bestowed in premiums for discoveries in the moon.

Henry. Come, come, take care how you fall into the same trap as I did: We must suspend opinions of Penruddock.

Emily. Must we? Nay, now I swear there is something in your thoughts; aye, and my father too looks wise, and whispers: well, if you have a secret, and won't tell it me, be it at your peril! I'll keep mine as close as you keep yours.

Henry. I'll compromise with you, and exchange confessions. Answer me this,-if fortune should turn round and smile upon your poor disconsolate admirer, will you, who sway each movement of my heart, inspire its hopes, allay its fears, animate its ambition, and engross its love!-Will you, oh, Emily—

Emily. Will I do what?

Henry. I dare not ask the question-it is presumptuous, base, dishonourable

Emily. And very disappointing, let me tell you, to one whose answer was so ready.-Henceforth I've done with you; I shall now retreat into the citadel, and stand upon my defences; when you want another parley, you must treat with the Governor. [Exeunt,

ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I.

A Chamber in SIR GEORGE PENRUDDOCK'S-Table and chairs.

PENRUDDOCK and WEAZEL sitting at the table. Penrud. Thus then it stands-This house, and all that its voluptuous owner had amassed within it, we doom to instant sale; some modern Lucullus will be found to purchase it; the mourners in black, and the mountebanks in their parti-coloured jackets, must be paid their wages, and dismissed-So far we are agreed.

Weazel. Perfectly, sir; and if any young heir is in haste to be rid of his estate, these are the gentlemen that will soonest help him to the end of it.

Penrud. Mrs. Woodville's settlement, which in her husband's desperate necessity she had as desperately resigned to him, is now made over, and secured in trust to her sole use and benefit.

Weazel. The deed is now in hand, and a deed it is, permit me to say, that will make your fame resound to all posterity.

Penrud. Thank Heaven, I shall not hear it! The fame I covet blows no trumpet in my ears; it whispers peace and comfort to my heart. The obligations, bonds, and mortgages, of whatever description, covering the whole of Woodville's property, are now consigned to Henry his son.

Weazel. They are, and give him clear possession of his paternal estate.

Penrud. 'Tis what I mean, and also of the house in town.

Weazel. They are effectual to both purposes; and