Bon. Come from London?

Arch. No.

Bon. Going to London, mayhap? Arch. No.

Bon. An odd fellow this! [Bar-bell rings.] I beg your worship's pardon; I'll wait half a minute.

Aim. The course is clear, I seedear Archer, welcome to Litchfield.

Now, my

Arch. I thank thee, my dear brother in iniquity.

Aim. Iniquity! prithee leave canting; you need not change your style with your dress.

Arch. Don't mistake me, Aimwell; for 'tis still my maxim, that there's no scandal like rags, nor any crime so shameful as poverty. Men must not be poor; idleness is the root of all evil; the world's wide enough, let them bustle: fortune has taken the weak under her protection, but men of sense are left to their industry.

Aim. Upon which topic we proceed, and, I think, luckily hitherto. Would not any man swear now, that I am a man of quality, and you my servant, when, if our intrinsic value were known

Arch. Come, come, we are the men of intrinsic value, who can strike our fortunes out of ourselves; whose worth is independent of accidents in life, or revolutions in government: we have heads to get money, and hearts to spend it.

Aim. As to our hearts, I grant ye, they are as willing tits as any within twenty degrees; but I can have no great opinion of our heads, from the service they have done us hitherto, unless it be, that they brought us from London hither to Litchfield, made me a lord, and you my servant. Arch. That's more than you could expect already. But what money have we left?

Aim. But two hundred pounds.

Arch. And our horses, clothes, rings, &c.Why, we have very good fortunes now for moderate people: and let me tell you, that this two hundred pounds, with the experience that we are now masters of, is a better estate than the ten thousand we have spent-our friends, indeed, began to suspect that our pockets were low; but we came off with flying colours, shewed no signs of waut, either in word or deed.

Aim. Aye, and our going to Brussels was a good pretence enough for our sudden disappearing; and, I warrant you, our friends imagine that we are gone a volunteering.

Arch. Why, 'faith, if this project fails, it must e'en come to that. I am for venturing one of the hundreds, if you will, upon this knight errantry; but, in case it should fail, we'll reserve the other to carry us to some counterscarp, where we may die as we lived, in a blaze.

Aim. With all my heart; and we have lived justly, Archer; we can't say that we have spent our fortunes, but that we have enjoyed them.

Arch. Right; so much pleasure for so much VOL. II.

Aim. And at Lincoln I again.

Arch. Then, at Norwich, I mount, which, I think, shall be our last stage; for, if we fail there, we'll embark for Holland, bid adieu to Venus, and welcome Mars. Aim. A match!

Mum.

Enter BONIFACE.

Bon. What will your worship please to have for supper?

Aim. What have you got?

Bon. Sir, we have a delicate piece of beef in the pot, and a pig at the fire.

Aim. Good supper-meat, I must confesscan't eat beef, landlord. Arch. And I hate pig.

Aim. Hold your prating, sirrah! Do you know who you are? [Aside. Bon. Please to bespeak something else; I have every thing in the house.

Aim. Have you any veal?

Bon. Veal! sir, we had a delicate loin of veal on Wednesday last.

Aim. Have you got any fish, or wild-fowl?

Bon. As for your fish, truly, sir, we are an inland town, and indifferently provided with fish, that's the truth on't; but, then, for wild-fowl ! we have a delicate couple of rabbits.

Aim. Get me the rabbits fricasseed.' Bon. Fricasseed! Lard, sir, they'll eat much better smothered with onions.

Arch. Pshaw! Rot your onions.

Aim. Again, sirrah! Well, landlord, what you please; but, hold—I have a small charge of money, and your house is so full of strangers, that I believe it may be safer in your custody than mine; for, when this fellow of mine gets drunk, he minds nothing-Here, sirrah, reach me the strong box.

Arch. Yes sir-this will give us reputation.

[Aside. Brings the box. Aim. Here, landlord, the locks are sealed down, both for your security and mine; it holds somewhat above two hundred pounds: if you doubt it, I'll count them to you after supper; but be sure you lay it where I may have it at a minute's warning; for my affairs are a little dubious at present; perhaps I may be gone in half an hour; perhaps I may be your guest till the best part of that be spent; and, pray, order your hostler to keep my horses ready saddled: but one thing above the rest, I must beg that you will let this fellow have none of your anno do 3 Q

mini, as you call it; for hes the most insufferable sot Here, sirrah, light me to my chamber. Arch. Yes, sir. [Exit, lighted by ARCHER. Bon. Cherry, daughter Cherry!

Enter CHERRY.

Cher. D'ye call, father?

Bon. Aye, child; you must lay by this box for the gentleman; 'tis full of money.

Cher. Money! is all that money? why surc, father, the gentleman comes to be chosen parliament-man. Who is he?

Bon. I don't know what to make of him; he talks of keeping his horses ready saddled, and of going perhaps at a minute's warning, or of staying perhaps till the best part of this be spent. Cher. Aye! ten to one, father, he's a highwayman!

Bo. A highwayman! Upon my life, girl, you have hit it, and this box is some new purchased booty. Now, could we find him out, the money

were ours.

Cher. He don't belong to our gang.
Bon. What horses have they?

Cher. The master rides upon a black.

Bon. A black! ten to one the man upon the black mare! and, since he don't belong to our fraternity, we may betray him with a safe conscience. I don't think it lawful to harbour any rogues but my own. Look'e, child, as the saying is, we must go cunningly to work; proofs we must have. The gentleman's servant loves drink; I'll ply him that way; and ten to one he loves a wench; you must work him t'other way.

Cher. Father, would you have me give my secret for his?

Bon. Consider, child, there's two hundred pounds to boot. [Ringing without.] Coming, coming-Child, mind your business. [Exit BONIFACE.

Cher. What a rogue is my father! My father! I deny it My mother was a good, generous, free-hearted woman, and I can't tell how far her good-nature might have extended for the good of her children. This landlord of mine, for I think I can call him no more, would betray his guest, and debauch his daughter into the bargain-by a footman, too!

Enter ARCHER.

Arch. What footman, pray, mistress, is so happy as to be the subject of your contemplation? Cher. Whoever he is, friend, he'll be but little the better for it.

Arch. I hope so, for I'm sure you did not think of me.

Cher. Suppose I had?

Arch. Why, then, you're but even with me;

for the minute I came in, I was considering in what manner I should make love to you.

Cher. Love to me, friend!

Arch. Yes, child.

Cher. Child! Manners; if you kept a little more distance, friend, it would become you much better. Arch. Distance! good-night, sauce-box.

[Going.

Cher. A pretty fellow! I like his pride-Sir; pray, sir; you see, sir, [ARCHER returns.] I have the credit to be trusted with your master's fortune here, which sets me a degree above his footman. I hope, sir, you an't affronted?

Arch. Let me look you full in the face, and I'll tell you whether you can affront me or no.— 'Sdeath, child, you have a pair of delicate eyes, and you don't know what to do with them.

Cher. Why, sir, don't I see every body?

Arch. Aye; but if some women had them, they would kill every body. Prithee, instruct me; I would fain make love to you, but I don't know what to say.

Cher. Why, did you never make love to any body before?

Arch. Never to a person of your figure, I can assure you, madam; my addresses have always been confined to persons within my own sphere; I never aspired so high before. [ARCHER sings.

But you look so bright
And dressed so tight,

That a man would swear you're right,
As arm was e'er laid over.
Such an air

You freely wear

To ensnare,

As makes each guest a lover:
Since, then, my dear, I'm your guest,
Prythee, give me of the best
Of what is ready drest.
Since, then, my dear. &c.

Cher. What can I think of this man? [Aside.] Will you give me that song, sir?

Arch. Ay, my dear, take it while it is warm. [Kisses her.] Death and fire! her lips are honeycombs.

Cher. And I wish there had been a swarm of bees, too, to have stung you for your impudence.

Arch. There's a swarm of Cupids, my little Venus, that has done the business much better. Cher. This fellow is misbegotten as well as I. [Aside.] What's your name, sir?

Arch. Name! I gad, I have forgot it. [Aside.] Oh, Martin.

Cher. Where was you born?
Arch. In St Martin's parish.
Cher. What was your father?

Arch. Of-of-St Martin's parish.

Cher. Then, friend, good night.
Arch. I hope not.

Cher. You may depend upon't.
Arch. Upon what?

Cher. That you're very impudent.

SCENE I-A gallery in LADY BOUNTIFUL'S house.

MRS SULLEN and DORINDA meeting. Dor. MORROW, my dear sister; are you for church this morning?

Mrs Sul. Any where to pray; for heaven alone can help me but I think, Dorinda, there's no form of prayer in the liturgy against bad husbands.

Dor. But there's a form of law at Doctor's Commons; and I swear, sister Sullen, rather than see you thus continually discontented, I would advise you to apply to that: for, besides the part that I bear in your vexatious broils, as being sister to the husband, and friend to the wife, your examples give me such an impression of matrimony, that I shall be apt to condemn my person to a long vacation all its life. But supposing, madam, that you brought it to a case of separation, what can you urge against your husband? My brother is, first, the most constant man alive.

Mrs Sul. The most constant husband, I grant ye.

Dor. He never sleeps from you. Mrs Sul. No, he always sleeps with me. Dor. He allows you a maintenance suitable to your quality.

Mrs Sul. A maintenance! Do you take me, madam, for an hospital child, that I must sit down and bless my benefactors for meat, drink, and clothes? As I take it, madam, I brought your brother ten thousand pounds, out of which I might expect some pretty things called plea

sures.

Dor. You share in all the pleasures the country affords.

Mrs Sul. Country pleasures! Racks and torments! Dost think, child, that my limbs were made for leaping of ditches, and clambering over stiles? Or, that my parents, wisely foreseeing my future happiness in country pleasures, had early instructed me in rural accomplishments, of drinking fat ale, playing at whist, and smoking tobacco with my husband? or of spreading of plasters, brewing of diet drinks, and stilling rosemary-water, with the good old gentlewoman, my mother-in-law?

Dor. I'm sorry, madam, that it is not more in our power to divert you. I could wish, indeed, that our entertainments were a little more polite, or your taste a little less refined; but pray, madam, how came the poets and philosophers, that laboured so much in hunting after pleasure, to place it at last in a country life? Mrs Sul. Because they wanted money, child, to find out the pleasures of the town. Did you ever hear of a poet or philosopher worth ter thousand pounds? If you can shew me such a man, I'll lay you fifty pounds you'll find him somewhere within the weekly bills. Not that I disapprove rural pleasures, as the poets have painted thein in their landscapes; every Phillis has her Corydon; every murmuring stream, and every flowery mead, gives fresh alarm to love. Besides, you'll find that their couples were never married. But yonder I see my Corydon, and a sweet swain it is, Heaven knows! Come, Dorinda, don't be angry; he's my husband, and your brother, and, between both, is he not a sad brute?

Dor. I have nothing to say to your part of him; you're the best judge.

Mrs Sul. O, sister, sister, sister! if ever you marry, beware of a sullen, silent sot; one that's always musing, but never thinks.-There's some diversion in a talking blockhead; and since a woman must wear chains, I would have the pleasure of hearing them rattle a little. Now you shall see; but take this, by the way; he came home this morning at his usual hour of four, wakened me out of a sweet dream of something else, by tumbling over the tea-table, which he broke all to pieces. After his man and he had rolled about the room, like sick passengers in a storm, he comes flounce into bed, dead as a salmon into a fishmonger's basket; his feet cold as ice; his breath hot as a furnace; and his hands and his face as greasy as his flannel night cap-Oh, matrimony! matrimony!--He tosses up the clothes with a barbarous swing over his shoulders, disorders the whole economy of my bed, leaves me half-naked, and my whole night's comfort is the tuneable serenade of that wakeful nightingale his nose.-O, the pleasure of counting the melancholy clock by a snoring husband! But now, sister, you shall see how handsomely, being a well-bred man, he will beg my pardon.