most part with applause, and established his reputation with the public as one of the supports of the English stage. In 1013 he was in France; but the occasion of his going, and the stay he made, are alike uncertain. In 1619 he went to Oxford, resided some time at Christchurch College, and in July 1619 was created M. A. in a full house of convocation, On the death of Samuel Daniel, in October, the same year, he succeeded to the vacant laurel; the salary of which was then one hundred marks per annum; but on our author's application in 1650, it was augmented to the annual sum of one hundred pounds and a tierce of Spanish wine. As we do not find Jonson's economical virtues any where recorded, it is the less to be wondered at, that quickly after we learn that he was very poor and sick, lodged in an obscure alley; on which occasion it was, that king Charles, being prevailed on in his favour, sent him ten guiness; which Ben receiving, said, "His Majesty has sent me ten guineas, because I am poor, and live in an alley; go and tell him that his soul lives in an alley." In justice, however, to the memory of Charles, it should he observed, that this story was probably form:ed from the cynicallness of Ben Jonson's temper, rather than from any real fact; as it is certain that the king once bestowed a bounty of one hundred pounds on him, which is acknowledged in an epigram written on the occasion. He died of the palsy Aug. 16, 1637, aged 65 years, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. We shall here add a character of Ben Jonson as sketched by Dryden: "If we look upon him while he was himself (for his last plays were but his dotages), I think him the most learned and judicious writer which any theatre ever had. He was a most severe judge of himself as well as others. One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it. In his works you find little to retrench or alter. Wit and language, and humour also in some measure, we had before him; but something of art was wanting to the drama, till he came. He managed his strength to more advantage than any who preceded him. You seldom find him making love in any of his scenes, or endeavouring to move the passions: his genius was too sullen and saturnine to do it gracefully, especially when he knew he came after those who had performed both to such a height. Humour was his proper sphere, and in that he delighted most to represent mechanic people. le was deeply conversant in the ancients, both Greek and Latin, and he borrowed boldly from them: there is scarce poet or historian among the Roman authors of those times, whom he has not translated in Sejanus and Catiline. he has done his robberies so openly, that Oue may see he fears not to be taxed by any law. He invades authors like a monarch, and what would be theft in other poets, is only victory in him. With the spoils of these writers he so represents old Rome to us in its rites, ceremonies, and customs, that if one of their poets had written either of his tragedies, we had seen less of it than in him. If there was any fault in his Language, it was, that he weaved it too closely and laboriously, in his comedies especially perhaps too, he did a little too much Romanize our tongue, leaving the words which he translated almost as much Latin as he found them; wherein, thongh he learnedly followed their language, he did not enough comply with the idiom of ours. If I would compare him with Shakspeare, I must acknowledge him the more correct poet, but Shakspeare the greater wit. Shakspeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets; Jonson was the Virgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakspeare. To conclude of him, as he has given us the most correct plays, so in the precepts which he has laid down in his Discoveries, we have as many aud profitable rules for perfecting the stage, as any wherewith the French can furnish us.”

EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR,

a

But

Comedy by Ben Jonson. Acted by the Lord Chamberlain's Servants 1598. This comedy is, perhaps, in point of the redundance of characters and power of language, not inferior to any of our author's works. From the character of Kitely it is pretty evident that Dr. Hoadly took the idea of his Strictland in The Suspicious Husband in which, however, he has fallen far short of the original. This play had lain dormant and unemployed for many years, from its revival after the Restoration, until the year 1725; when it was again restored to the stage, with alterations, at Lincoln's Inn Fields. From this time it was no more heard of, until Mr. Garrick, in the year 1751, brought it once more on the stage, with some few alterations, and an additional scene of his own in the fourth act; ever since which time it has continued to be a stock-play, and to be performed very frequently every season. Yet it may be doubted if in any future period this piece will ever appear to the advantage it did at that time; since, exclusive of Mr. Garrick's own abilities in Kitely, and those of Messrs. Woodward and Shuter, in the respective parts of Captain Bobadil and Master Stephen, there was scarcely any one character throughout the whole, that could be conceived by an audience in the strong light, that they were represented by each several performer: such is the prodigious advantage, with respect to an audience, of the conduct of a theatre being lodged in the hands of a man, who, being himself a perfect master in the profession, is able to distinguish the peculiar abilities of each individual under him, and to adapt them to those characters in which they are, either by nature or acquirement, the best qualified to make a figure. Mr. Whalley observes, that, in this play, as originally written, the scene was at Florence, the persons represented were Italians, and the manners in greal measure conformable to the genius of the place; but in this very play, the humours of the under characters are local, expressing not the manners of a Florentine, but the gulls and bullies of the times and country in which the poet lived. And as it was thus represented on the stage, it was published in the same manner in 1601. When it was printed again in the collection of his works, it had a more becoming and consistent aspect. The scene was transferred to London; the names of the persons were changed to English ones, and the dialogue, incidents, and manners, were suited to the place of action. Ând thus we now have it in the folio edition of 1616, and in the several editions that have been printed since.

ACT I.

House.

Could I, by any practice, wean the boy
From one vain course of study he affects.

SCENE I.-A Court-yard before KNO'WELL'S He is a scholar, if a man may trust

Enter KNO'WELL and BRAINWORM.
Kno. A goodly day toward, and a fresh
morning. Brainworm,
Call up young master. Bid him rise, sir.
Tell him I have some business to employ him.
Brain. I will, sir, presently.
Kno. But hear you, sirrah,

[Exit.

The liberal voice of fame in her report,
Of good account in both our universities;
Either of which have favour'd him with graces;
But their indulgence must not spring in me
A fond opinion, that he cannot err.
Enter MASTER STEPHEN.

Cousin Stephen,

What news with you, that you are here so early?

If he be at his book, disturb him not.
Brain. Well, sir.
Kno. How happy, yet, should I esteem
myself,
you do,

Step. Nothing, but e'en come to see how uncle.

Kno. That's kindly done; you are welcome, coz.

Step. Ay, I know that, sir, I would not ha' come else. How doth my cousin Edward, uncle?

Kno. Oh, well, coz, go in and see: I doubt he be scarce stirring yet.

Step. Uncle, afore I go in, can you tell me

an' he have e'er a book of the sciences of hawking and hunting? I would fain borrow it.

Step. Sir, an' I thought you had, I would talk with you, and that presently. Serv. Good master Stephen, so you may, sir, at your pleasure.

Step. And so I would, sir, good my saucy companion, an' you were out o'my uncle's ground, I can tell you; though I do not stand upon my gentility neither in't.

Kno. Cousin! cousin! will this ne'er be left? Step. Whoreson, base fellow! A mechanical servingman! By this cudgel, and 'twere Kno. What would you do, you peremp

Kno. Why, I hope you will not a haw-not for shame, I wouldking now, will you?

Step. No wosse, but I'll practise against the tory gull? next year, uncle. I have bought me a hawk, If you cannot be quiet, get you hence. and a hood, and bells, and all; I lack nothing You see the honest man demeans himself but a book to keep it by. Modestly towards you, giving no reply Kno. Oh, most ridiculous! To your unseason'd, quarrelling, rude fashion:, Step. Nay, look you now, you are angry, And still you huff it, with a kind of carriage, uncle. Why, you know, an' a man have not As void of wit as of humanity.

[Exit Stephen. Sero. I pray you, sir, is this master Kno'

skill in the hawking and hunting languages Go get you in; 'fore heaven, I am asham'd now-a-days, I'll not give a rush for him. Thou hast a kinsman's interest in me. They are more studied than the Greek or the Latin. What, do you talk on it? Because I dwell at Hogsden, I shall keep company with well's house? none but citizens! A fine jest, i'faith! 'Slid, a gentleman mun show himself like a gentleUncle, I pray you be not angry. I know what I have to do, I trow, I am no

inan.

you must

Go cast away your money on a kite,
And know not how to keep it, when you've
done?

So, now you're told on it, you look another way.
Step. What would you ha' me do?
Kno. What would I have you do? I'll tell
you, kinsman;

Learn to be wise, and practise how to thrive;
That would I have thee do; and not to spend
Your coin on every bauble that you fancy,
Or every foolish brain that humours you.
Who comes here?

Enter a Servant.

Sero. Save you, gentlemen.

Kno. Yes, marry, is't, sir.

Step. I should inquire for a gentleman here, one master Edward Kno'well. Do you know any such, sir, pray you?

Kno. I should forget myself else, sir.

Serv. Are you the gentleman? Cry you mercy, sir, I was required by a gentleman i'the city, as I rode out at this end of the town, to deliver you this letter, sir.

Kno. To me, sir? [Reads] To his most selected friend, Master Edward Kno'well.What might the gentleman's name be, sir, that sent it?

Serv. One master Wellbred, sir.

Kno. Master Wellbred! A young gentleman, is he not?

Serv. The same, sir; master Kitely married his sister: the rich merchant i'the Old-jewry. Kno. You say very true. Brainworm!

Re-enter BTAIN WORM.

Brain. Sir.

Kno. Make this honest friend drink here.
Pray you go in.

[Exeunt Brainworm and Servant.
This letter is directed to my son:
Yet I am Edward Kno'well too, and may,

Step. Nay, we do not stand much on our With the safe conscience of good manners, use gentility, friend; yet, you are welcome; and The fellow's error to my satisfaction. assure you, mine uncle here is a man of a Well, I will break it ope, old men are curious. thousand a year, Middlesex land: he has but What's this? [Reads. one son in all the world; I ant his next heir Why, Ned, I beseech thee, hast thou forat the common law, master Stephen, as simple sworn all thy friends in the Old-jewry? or as I stand here; if my cousin die, as there's dost thou think us all Jews that inhabit hope he will. I have a pretty,living o'my there? Leave thy vigilant father alone, to own too, beside, hard by here.

Serv. In good time, sir.

Step. In good time, sir! Why? And in very good time, sir. You do not flout, friend, do you?

number over his green apricots, evening and morning, o'the north-west wall: an' 1 had been his son, I had saved him the labour long since; if, taking in all the young wenches that pass by, at the back door, Serv. Not I, sir. and coddling every kernel of the fruit for Step. Not you, sir! You were not best, 'em would ha' served. But, prythee, come sir; an' you should, here be them can per-over to me quickly this morning: I have ceive it, and that quickly too. Go to. And such a present for thee. One is a rhymer, they can give it again soundly too, an' need be. sir, o'your own batch, your own_leaven; Serv. Why, sir, let this satisfy you: good but doth think himself poet-major o'the town; faith, I had no such intent. willing to be shown, and worthy to be seen.

The other-I will not venture his descrip-| Brain. Faith, he is not of that mind: he is tion with you till you come, hecause I would gone, master Stephen.

ha' you make hither with an appetite. If Step. Gone! which way? When went he? the worst of 'em be not worth your jour-How long since?

ney, draw your bill of charges as uncon- Step. He is rid hence. He took horse at scionable as any Guildhall verdict will give the street door. it you, and you shall be allow'd your viaticum. From the Windmill. From the Burdello, it might come as well! The Spital! Is this the man,

My son hath sung so, for the happiest wit,
The choicest brain, the times hath sent us forth?
I know not what he may be in the arts,
Nor what in schools; but surely, for his manners,
I judge him a profane and dissolute wretch.
Brainworm!

Re-enter BRAINWORM.

Brain. Sir.

Step. And I staid i'the fields! Whoreson, Scanderbeg rogue! O that I had but a horse to fetch him back again.

Brain. Why, you may ha' my master's gelding to save your longing, sir.

Step. But I have no boots, that's the spite on't.

Brain. Why, a fine whisp of hay, roll'd hard, master Stephen.

Step. No, faith, it's no boot to follow him now, let him e'en go and hang. Pr'ythee, help to truss me a little. He does so vex me— Brain. You'll be worse vex'd when you

Kno. Is the fellow gone that brought this are trussed, master Stephen; best keep un

letter?

Brain. Yes, sir, a pretty while since.
Kno. And where's your young master?
Brain. In his chamber, sir.

Kno. He spake not with the fellow, did he?
Brain. No, sir, he saw him not.

Kno. Take you this letter, seal it, and deliver it my son; But with no notice that I have open'd it, on your life.

Brain. O Lord, sir, that were a jest indeed!
Kno. I am resolv'd I will not stop his
journey;

Nor practise any violent means to stay
The unbridled course of youth in him: for that,
Restrain'd, grows more impatient.
There is a way of winning more by love,
And urging of the modesty, than fear:
Force works on servile natures, not the free;
He, that's compell'd to goodness, may be good;
But, 'tis but for that fit: where others, drawn
By softness and example, get a habit,
Then if they stray, but warn 'em; and, the same
They would for virtue do, they'll do for shame.
[Exeunt.

contents.

brac'd, and walk yourself till you be cold, your choler may founder you else.

Step. By my faith, and so I will, now thou tell'st me on't. How dost thou like my leg, Brainworm?

Brain. A very good leg, master Stephen; but the woollen stocking does not commend it so well.

Step. Foh, the stockings be good enough, now summer is coming on, for the dust: I'll have a pair of silk against the winter, that I go to dwell i'the town. I think my leg would show in a silk hose.

Brain. Believe me, master Stephen, rarely well.

Step. In sadness, I think it would; I have a reasonable good leg.

Brain. You have an excellent good leg, master Stephen; but I cannot stay to praise it longer now; I am very sorry for't. [Exit. Step. Another time wili serve, Brainworm. Gramercy, for this.

Re-enter Young KNO'WELL.
Young K. Ha, ha, ha!

SCENE II.-Young KNO'WELL'S Study. Step. 'Slid! I hope be laughs not at me; an' he do [Aside. Enter Young KNO'WELL and BRAINWORM. Young K. Here was a letter, indeed, to be Young K. Did he open it, say st thou? intercepted by a man's father! He cannot Brain. Yes, o'my word, sir, and read the but think most virtuously both of me and the sender, sure, that make the careful costerWhat countenance, monger of him in our familiar epistles. I wish I knew the end of it, which now is doubtful, and threatens-What! my wise cousin? Nay, then I'll furnish our feast with one gull more toward the mess. He writes to me of a brace, and here's one, that's three; O for a fourth! Fortune, if ever thou'lt use thine eyes, I entreat thee[Aside.

Young K. That's bad. pray thee, made he i'the reading of it? Was he angry or pleas'd?

Brain. Nay, sir, I saw him not read it, nor open it, I assure your worship.

Young K. No! how know'st thou, then, that he did either?

Brain. Marry, sir, because he charg'd me, on my life, to tell nobody that he open'd it: which, unless he had done, he would never fear to have it revealed.

Step. O, now I see who he laughs at. He laughs at somebody in that letter. By this good light, an' he had laugh'd at me- [Aside. Young K. How now, cousin Stephen, me[Exit. lancholy?

Young K. That's true; well, I thank thee, Brainworm.

Enter MASTER STEPHEN. Step. O, Brainworm, didst thou not see a fellow here in a what-sha'-call him doublet? He brought mine uncle a letter, e'en now. Brain. Yes, master Stephen, what of him? Step. O! I ha' such a mind to beat himwhere is he? canst thou tell?

Step. Yes, a little. I thought you had laugh'd at me, cousin.

Young K. Why, what an' I had, coz, what would you ha' done?

Step. By this light, I would ha' told mine uncle.

Young K. Nay, if you would ha' told your uncle, I did laugh at you, coz.

Young K. What then?

Step. I am satisfied; it is sufficient.

The lodge in such a base, obscure place as thy house! Tut, I know his disposition so well, he would not lie in thy bed, if thou'dst gi' it him.

Cob. I will not give it him, though, sir. Young K. Why, be so, gentle coz. And I Mass, I thought somewhat was in't, we could you, let me entreat a courtesy of you. not get him to bed all night! Well, sir, though I am sent for this morning, by a friend the he lie not o'my bed, he lies o'my bench. An't Old-jewry, to come to him; it's but crossing please you to go up, sir, you shall find him over the fields to Moorgate: will you bear with two cushions under his head, and his me company? I protest it is not to draw you cloak wrapped about him, as though he had into bond, or any plot against the state, coz. neither won nor lost; and yet, I warrant, he Step. Sir, that's all one, an 'twere; you ne'er cast better in his life, than he has done shall command me twice so far as Moorgate to-night. to do you good in such a matter. Do you think I would leave you? I protest— Young K. No, no, you shall not protest, coz. Step. By my fackins, but I will, by your leave; I'll protest more to my friend than I'll speak of at this time.

Young K. Your speak very well, coz, Step. Nay, not so, neither; you shall pardon me but I speak to serve my turn.

Mat. Why, was he drunk?

Cob. Drunk, sir! you hear not me say so, Perhaps he swallowed a tavern-token, or some such device, sir; I have nothing to do withal. I deal with water, and not with wine. Gi' me my bucket there hoa. God b'wi'you, sir, it's six o'clock; I should ha' carried two turns by this. What, hoa! my stopple! come. Mat. Lie in a water-bearer's house! A

Enter TIB.

[Aside.

Young K You turn, coz! Do you know gentleman of his havings! well, I'll tell him what you say? A gentleman of your sort, my mind. parts, carriage, and estimation, to talk o'your turn i'this company, and to me alone, like a water-bearer at a conduit! Come, come, wrong Cob. What, Tib, show this gentleman up not the quality of your desert with looking to the captain. [Tib shows Master Matthew downward, coz; but hold up your head so; into the House] You should ha' some now, and let the idea of what you are be pourtray'd would take this Mr. Matthew to be a gentlei'your face, that men may read i'your physiog- man at the least. His father is an honest nomy, here, within this place, is to be seen, man, a worshipful fishmonger, and so forth; the true and accomplished monster, or miracle and now does he creep, and wriggle into acof nature, which is all one. What think you quaintance with all the brave gallants about of this, coz? the town, such as my guest is. O, my guest Step. Why, I do think of it; and I will be is a fine man! he does swear the legiblest of more proud, and melancholy, and gentleman- any man christened: by saint George-the foot like, than I have been, I'll assure you. of Pharaoh-the body of me-as I am a gentleYoung K. Why, that's resolute, master man and a soldier-such dainty oaths! And Stephen! Now, if I can but hold him up to withal, he does take this same filthy roguish his height, as it is happily begun, it will do tobacco, the finest and cleanliest! it would do well for a suburb humour: we may hap have a man good to see the fume come forth out a match with the city, and play him for forty pounds. [Aside] Come, coz. Step. I'll follow you.

at's tonnels! Well, he owes me forty shillings, my wife lent him out of her purse by sixpence a time, besides his lodging; I would Young K. Follow me! you must go before. I had it. I shall ha' it, he says, the next acStep. Nay, an' I must, I will. Pray you, tion. Helter-skelter, hang sorrow, care'll kill show me, good cousin. [Exeunt. a cat, uptails all, and a louse for the hang

SCENE III.-The Street before COB's House.

Enter MASTER MATTHEW.

Mat. I think this be the house. What, hoa!

Enter COB, from the House. Cob. Who's there? O, master Matthew! gi' your worship good morrow.

Mat. What, Cob! How dost thou, good Cob? Dost thou inhabit here, Cob.

Cob. Ay, sir; I and my lineage ha' kept a poor house here in our days.

Mat. Cob, canst thou show me of a gentleman, one captain Bobadil, where his lodging is?

Cob. O, my guest, sir, you mean!
Mat. Thy guest! alas! ha, ha!
Cob. Why do you laugh, sir? do you not
mean captain Bobadil?

Mat. Cob, pray thee, advice thyself well; do not wrong the gentleman and thyself too. I dare be sworn he scorns thy house. He!

man.

[Exit.
SCENE IV-A Room in COB's House.
CAPTAIN BOBADIL discovered upon a Bench.
Enter TIB.

Capt. B. Hostess, hostess!
Tib. What say you, sir?

Capt. B. A cup o'thy small beer, sweet hostess.

Tib. Sir, there's a gentleman below would speak with you.

Capt. B. A gentleman! 'Ods so. I am not within.

Tib. My husband told him you were, sir.
Capt. B. What a plague-what meant he?
Mat. [Within] Captain Bobadil!
Capt. B. Who's there?-Take away the
bason, good hostess. Come up, sir.

Tib. He would desire you to come up, sir.
You come into a cleanly house here. [Exit.

Enter MASTER MATTHEW.
Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain.

Capt. B Gentle master Matthew! Is it you, absurd clown of Christendom, this day, he is sir? Please you sit down. holden. I protest to you, as am a gentle

Mat. Thank you, good captain; you may man and a soldier, 1 ne'er chang'd words see I am somewhat audacious. with his like. By his discourse, he should

Capt. B. Not so, sir. I was requested to eat nothing but hay. He was born for the supper last night, by a sort of gallants, where manger, pannier, or pack-saddle! He has not you were wish'd for, and drank to, I assure so much as a good phrase in his belly, but you.

Mat. Vouchsafe me by whom, good captain. Capt. B. Marry, by young Wellbred, and others. Why, hostess! a stool here for this gentleman.

Mat. No haste, sir; 'tis very well.

all old iron and rusty proverbs; a good commodity for some smith to make hob-nails of

Mat. Ay, and he thinks to carry it away with his manhood still; where he comes, be brags he will gi' me the bastinado, as I fear. Capt. B. How? He the bastinado? How came he by that word, trow?

Mat. Nay, indeed, he said, cudgel me; I term'd it so, for my more grace,

Capt. B. Body of me! it was so late ere we parted last night, I can scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen as you came. How passes the day abroad, sir? you can tell. Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven. Now, trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging he so? here, very neat and private.

Capt. B. Ay, sir; sit down. I pray you, master Matthew, in any case, possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging.

Mat. Who? I, sir? No?

Capt. B. That may be; for I was sure it was none of his word. But when? when said Mat. Faith, yesterday, they say; a young gallant, a friend of mine, told me so.

Capt. B. By the foot of Pharaoh, an' twer my case now, I should send him a challenge presently. The bastinado! a most proper and sufficient dependence, warranted by the grea Capt. B. Not that I need to care who know Cavanza. Come hither, you shall challenge it, for the cabin is convenient; but in regard him. I'll show you a trick or two, you shall I would not be too popular and generally vi- kill him with at pleasure; the first stoccata, i sited, as some are. you will, by this air.

Mat. True, captain; I conceive you. Capt. B. For, do you see, sir, by the heart i'the mystery, I have heard, sir. of valour in me, except it be to some pecu

Mat. Indeed, you have absolute knowledge

Capt. B. Of whom? Of whom ha' you

liar and choice spirits, to whom I am extra-heard it, I beseech you?
ordinarily engaged, as yourself, or so, I could
not extend thus far.

Mat. O Lord, sir, I resolve so.

Mat. Troth, I have heard it spoken of by divers, that you have very rare and un-inone-breath-utterable skill, sir.

[Pulls out a Paper, and reads. Capt. B. By heaven, no, not 1; no skil Capt. B. I confess, I love cleanly and quiet i'the earth; some small rudiments i'the science, privacy, above all the tumult and roar of as to know my time, distance, or so. I have fortune. What new piece ha' you there? profess'd it more for noblemen and gentleRead it. men's use than mine own practice, I assure Mat. [Reads] To thee, the purest object you. I'll give you a lesson. Look you, sir exalt not your point above this state, at any hand; so, sir, come on! Oh, twine your body

of my sense,

The most refined essence heaven covers. Send I these lines, wherein I do commence more about, that you may fall to a more The happy state of turtle-billing lovers, sweet, comely, gentleman-like guard. So, inCapt. B. 'Tis good; proceed, proceed. different. Hollow your body more, sir, thus What's this? Now, stand fast o'your left leg; note your Mat. This, sir? a toy o'mine own, in my distance; keep your due proportion of timenonage; the infancy of my muses. But, when Oh, you disorder your point most irregularly will you come and see my study? Good faith, Come, put on your cloak, and we'll go to I can show you some very good things I some private place, where you are acquainthave done of late. That boot becomes your ed, some tavern or so- and have a bitleg passing well, captain, methinks. What money ha' you about you, Mr. Matthew. Mat. Faith, I ha' not past a two shillings,

Capt. B. So, so; it's the fashion gentlemen

now use.

or so.

Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak Capt. B. 'Tis somewhat with the least, but o'the fashion, master Wellbred's elder brother come, we will have a bunch of radishes, and and I are fallen out exceedingly: this other salt, to taste our wine; and a pipe of tobacco, day I happen'd to enter into some discourse to close the orifice of the stomach; and then of a hanger, which I assure you, both for we'll call upon young Wellbred. Perhaps we fashion and workmanship, was most peremp-shall meet the Corydon, his brother, there, tory beautiful and gentleman-like; yet he con- and put him to the question. Come along. demn'd, and cry'd it down, for the most pied Mr. Matthew. and ridiculous that ever he saw.

Capt. B. Squire Downright, the half-brother, was't not?

Mat. Ay, sir, George Downright.
Capt. B. Hang him, rook! He! Why he

has no

ACT II.

[Exeunt

SCENE II.-A Warehouse belonging to KITELY.
Enter KITELY, CASH, and DoWNRIGHT.

more judgement than a malt-horse. Kite. Thomas, come hither. By St. George, I wonder you'd lose a thought There lies a note within, upon my desk; upon such an animal! The most peremptory Here, take my key-It is no matter, neither.