Aim. I can assure you, madam, your deliverance was owing to her discovery.

Dor. Your command, my lord, will do, without the obligation. I'll take care of her.

Sir Cha. This good company meets opportunely, in favour of a design I have in behalf of my unfortunate sister. I intend to part her from her husband-Gentlemen, will you assist me?

Arch. Assist you! 'Sdeath! who would not?
Foig. Ay, upon my shoul, we'll all asshist.
Enter SULLEN.

Sul. What's all this? They tell me, spouse, that you had like to have been robb'd. Mrs Sul. Truly, spouse, I was pretty near ithad not these two gentlemen interpos'd.

Sul. How came these gentlemen here? Mrs Sul. That's his way of returning thanks, you must know.

be

Foig. Ay, but, upon my conscience, de question
a-propos,
for all dat.

Sir Cha. You promis'd, last night, sir, that you would deliver your lady to me this morning. Sul. Humph.

Arch. Humph! What do you mean by humph? -Sir, you shall deliver her-In short, sir, we have sav'd you and your family, and if you are not civil, we'll unbind the rogues, join with 'em, and set fire to your house- What does the man

mean? Not part with his wife! Foig. Arra, not part wid your wife! Upon my shoul, de man dosh not understand common shivility.

Mrs Sul. Hold, gentlemen: all things here must move by consent: compulsion would spoil us. Let my dear and I talk the matter over, and you shall judge it between us.

Sul. Let me know, first, who are to be our judges.- -Pray, sir, who are you?

Sir Cha. I am Sir Charles Freeman, come to take away your wife.

Sul. And you, good sir?

Sul. No.

Arch. The condition fails of his side-Pray, madam, what did you marry for?

Mrs Sul. To support the weakness of my sex by the strength of his, and to enjoy the pleasures of an agreeable society.

Sir Cha. Are your expectations answer'd?
Mrs Sul. No.

Foig. Arra, honeys, a clear caase, a clear caase! Sir Cha. What are the bars to your mutual contentment?

Mrs Sul. In the first place, I cann't drink ale with him.

Sul. Nor can I drink tea with her.
Mrs Sul. I cann't hunt with you.
Sul. Nor can I dance with you.
Mrs Sul. I hate cocking and racing.
Sul. I abhor ombre and piquet.
Mrs Sul. Your silence is intolerable.
Sul. Your prating is worse.

Mrs Sul. Have we not been a perpetual offence to each other-a gnawing vulture at the heart? Sul. A frightful goblin to the sight.

in?

Mrs Sul. A porcupine to the feeling.

Sul. Perpetual wormwood to the taste.

Mrs Sul. Is there on earth a thing we can agree

Sul. South; far as the poles asunder.

Foig. Upon my shoul, a very pretty sheremony. Sir Cha. Now, Mr Sullen, there wants only my sister's fortune to make us easy.

Sul. Sir Charles, you love your sister, and I love her fortune: every one to his fancy, Arch. Then you won't refund? Sul. Not a stiver.

Arch. What is her portion?

Sir Cha. Twenty thousand pounds, sir. Arch. I'll pay it :-my lord, I thank him, has enabled me; and if the lady pleases, she shall go home with me. This night's adventure has proved strangely lucky to us all-For Captain Gibbet, in his walk, has made bold, Mr Sullen, with your study and escritoir, and has taken out all the writings of your estate, all the articles of marriage with your lady, bills, bonds, leases, receipts, to an infinite value: I took 'em from him, and will deliver them to Sir Charles.

[Gives him a parcel of papers and parchments. Sul. How! my writings!-My head aches consumedly. Well, gentlemen, you shall have her fortune, but I cann't talk. If you have a mind, Sir Charles, to be merry, and celebrate my sister's wedding, and my divorce, you may command my house!-but my head aches consumedly-Scrub, bring me a dram.

Arch. "Twould be hard to guess which of these parties is the better pleas'd,-the couple join'd, or the couple parted; the one rejoicing in hopes of an untasted happiness, and the other in their deliverance from an experienced misery.

Both happy in their several states we find,
These parted by consent, and those conjoin'd:
Consent, if mutual, saves the lawyer's fee;
Consent is law enough to set you free.
[Exeunt omnes.

BY

NATURE'S deserted and dramatic art,
To dazzle now the eye, has left the heart:
Gay lights and dresses, long-extended scenes,
Demons and angels moving in machines;
All that can now, or please, or fright the fair,
May be perform'd without a writer's care,
And is the skill of carpenter, not player.
Old Shakespeare's days could not thus far advance:
But what's his buskin to our ladder dance?
In the mid region a silk youth to stand,
With that unwieldy engine at command!

But we, still kind to your inverted sense,
Do most unnatural things once more dispense;
For, since you're still prepost'rous in delight,
Our author made, a full house to invite,
A funeral for a comedy to-night.

Nor does he fear that you will take the hint,
And let the funeral his own be meant;
No, in Old England, nothing can be won
Without a faction, good or ill be done :
To own this our frank author does not fear,
But hopes for a prevailing party here;

Well may you take activity for wit.

Fie, let confusion on such dulness seize !

Blush you're so pleas'd, as we, that so we please.

they'll shew it,

And for the fellow-soldier save the poet.

SCENE I.

Eater CABINET, SABLE, and CAMPLEY.

Cab. I burst into laughter. I cann't bear to see writ over an undertaker's door,-Dresses for the dead, and necessaries for funerals !-ha, ha, ha! Sab. Well, sir, 'tis very well: I know you are of the laughers, the wits, that take the liberty to deride all things that are magnificent and solemn. Cab. But is it not strangely contradictory, that men can come to so open, so apparent an hypocrisy, as, in the face of all the world, to hire professed mourners to grieve, lament, and follow, in their stead, the nearest relations, and suborn others to do by art what they themselves should be prompted to by nature.

Sab. Alas! sir, the value of all things under the sun is merely fantastic.-We run, we strive, and purchase things with our blood and money, quite foreign to our intrinsic real happiness, and which bave a being in imagination only, as you may see by the pother that is made about precedence, titles, court-favours, maidenheads, and china-ware. Camp. Ay, Mr Sable, but all those are objects that promote our joy, are bright to the eye, or stamp upon our minds pleasure and self-satisfac

tion.

Sab. You are extremely mistaken-and there is often nothing more inwardly distress'd, than a young bride in her glittering retinue, or deeply joyful, than a young widow in her weeds and black train; of both which the lady of this house may be an instance; for she has been the one, and is, I'll be sworn, the other.

Cab. You talk, Mr Sable, most learnedly. Sab. I have the deepest learning, sir,—experience. Remember your widow cousin, that married last month.

Cab. Ay, but how could you imagine she was in all that grief an hypocrite? Could all those shrieks, those swoonings, that rising falling bosom be constrained? You're uncharitable, Sable, to believe it. What colour, what reason had you for it?

Sab. But, as for her, nothing, she resolv'd, that look'd bright or joyous should, after her love's death, approach her. All her servants that were not coal-black must turn out; a fair complexion made her eyes and heart ache; she'd none but downright jet; and, to exceed all example, she hir'd my mourning furniture by the year, and, in of my mortality, ty'd my son to the same article; so in six weeks time ran away with a young fellow.-Pr'ythee, push on briskly, Mr Cabinet; now is your time to have this widow; for Tattleaid tells me she always said she'd never

case

marry.

Cab. As you say, that's generally the most hopeful sign.

VOL. IV.

Sab. I tell you, sir, 'tis an infallible one: You know those professions are only to introduce discourse of matrimony and young fellows.

Cab. But I swear I could not have confidence, ev'n after all our long acquaintance, and the mutual love which his lordship (who, indeed, has now been so kind as to leave us) has so long interrupted, to mention a thing of such a nature so unseasonably.

Sub. Unseasonably! Why, I tell you, 'tis the only season, (granting her sorrow unfeigned.) When would you speak of passion, but in the midst of passions? There's a what d'ye call a crisis-The lucky minute, that's so talk'd of, is a moment between joy and grief, which you must take hold of, and push your fortune. But get you in, and you'll best read your fate in the reception Mrs Tattleaid gives you: All she says, and all she does, nay, her very love and hatred are mere repetitions of her ladyship's passions. I'll say that for her, she's a true lady's woman, and is herself as much a second-hand thing as her clothes. But I must beg your pardon, sir; my people are come, I see. [Ereunt CAB. and CAMP. Enter SABLE'S Men.]-Where, in the name of goodness, have you all been? Have you brought the saw-dust and tar, for embalming? Have you the hangings and the sixpenny nails, and my lord's coat of arms?

Enter Servant.

Serv. Yes, sir, and had come sooner, but I went to the herald's for a coat for Alderman Gathergrease, that died last night-he has promised to invent one against to-morrow.

Sab. Ah! pox take some of our cits; the first thing after their death is to take care of their birth-pox! let him bear a pair of stockings; he is the first of his family that ever wore one. Well, come, you that are to be mourners in this house, put on your sad looks, and walk by me, that I may sort you. Ha, you! a little more upon the dismal. [Forming their countenances.]-This fellow has a good mortal look-place him near the corpse;-that wainscot face must be o' top of the stairs; that fellow almost in a fright (that looks as if he were full of some strange misery) at the entrance of the hall-So-but I'll fix you all myself-Let's have no laughing now, on any provocation. [Makes faces.] Look yonder, that hale, well-looking puppy! You ungrateful scoundrel, did not I pity you, take you out of a great man's service, and shew you the pleasure of receiving wages? Did not I give you ten, then fifteen, now twenty shillings a week, to be sorrowful? and the more I give you, I think, the gladder you are.

Enter a Boy.

Boy. Sir, the grave-digger of St Timothy's in the Fields would speak with you. Sab. Let him come in.

L

Enter Grave-digger.

Grav. I carried home to your house the shroud the gentleman was buried in last night: I could not get his ring off very easily, therefore I brought you the finger and all: and, sir, the sexton gives his service to you, and desires to know whether you'd have any bodies remov'd or not: if not, he'll let them lie in their graves a week longer. Sab. Give him my service,

Enter GOODY TRASH.

I wonder, Goody Trash, you could not be more punctual, when I told you I wanted you, and your two daughters, to be three virgins to-night, to stand in white about my lady Catherine Grissel's body; and you know you were privately to bring her home from the man-midwife's, where she died in child-birth, to be buried like a maid :but there is nothing minded. Well, I have put off that till to-morrow. Go, and get your bags of brick-dust and your whiting; go, and sell to the cook-maids; know who is surfeited about town; bring me no bad news,-none of your recoveries again. [Exit GOODY TRASH.] And you, Mr Blockhead, I warrant you have not call'd at Mr Pestle's the apothecary.-Will that fellow never pay me? I stand bound for all the poison in that starving murderer's shop! He serves me just as Dr Quibus did, who promised to write a treatise against water-gruel, a damn'd healthy slop, that has done me more injury than all the faculty. Look you now, you are all upon the sneer: let me have none but downright stupid countenancesI've a good mind to turn you all off, and take people out of the play-house; but, hang them, they are as ignorant of their parts as you are of yours: they never act but when they speak; when the chief indication of the mind is in the gesture, or, indeed, in case of sorrow, in no gesture, except you were to act a widow, or so-but yours, you dolts, is all in dumb show, dumb show. I mean expressive elegant show: as who can see such an horrid ugly phiz as that fellow's, and not be shocked, offended, and killed of all joy while he beholds it? But we must not loiter-Ye stupid rogues, whom I have picked out of the rubbish of mankind, and fed for your eminent worthlessness, attend, and know that I speak you this moment stiff and immutable to all sense of noise, mirth, or laughter. [Makes mouths at them as they pass by him, to bring them to a constant countenance.] So:-they are pretty well-pretty well. [Exeunt.

Enter TRUSTY and Lord BRUMPTON, Trusty. 'Twas fondness, sir, and tender duty to you, who have been so worthy and so just a master to me, made me stay near you: they left me so, and there I found you wake from your lethargic slumber; on which I will assume an authority to beseech you, sir, to make just use of your revived life, in seeing who are your true friends, and knowing her who has so wrought upon your noble nature, as to make it act against itself, in disinheriting your brave son.

L. Brump. Sure, 'tis impossible she should be such a creature as you tell me-My mind reflects upon ten thousand endearments that plead unanswerably for her ;-her chaste reluctant love, her easy observance of all my wayward humours, to which she would accommodate herself with so much ease, I could scarce observe it was a virtue in her; she hid her very patience.

Trusty. It was all art, sir, or indifference to you; for what I say is downright matter of fact.

L. Brump. Why didst thou ever tell me it? or why not in my life-time? for I must call it so ; nor can I date a minute mine, after her being false: all past that moment is death and darkness.— Why didst thou not tell me then, I say?

Trusty. Because you were too much in love with her to be inform'd. I must, I will conjure you to be conceal'd, and but contain yourself in hearing one discourse with that cursed instrument of all her secrets, that Tattleaid, and you will see what I tell you; you will call me then your guardian and good genius.

L. Brump. Well, you shall govern me; but would I had died in earnest ere I had known it: my head swims, as it did when I fell into my fit, at the thoughts of it.-All human life's a mere vertigo!

Trusty. Ay, ay, my lord, fine reflections, fine reflections; but that does no business. Thus, sir, we'll stand concealed, and hear, I doubt not, a much sincerer dialogue than usual between vicious persons; for a late accident has given a little jealousy, which makes them over-act their love [They retire.

and confidence in each other.

Enter Widow and TATTLEAID, meeting, and running to each other.

Wid. Oh, Tattleaid! his and our hour is come! Tat. I always said, by his church-yard cough, you'd bury him, but still you were impatient.

Wid. Nay, thou hast ever been my comfort, my confidant, my friend, and my servant: and now I'll reward thy pains; for tho' I scorn the whole sex of fellows, I'll give them hopes for thy sake:-every smile, every frown, every gesture, humour, caprice, and whimsy of mine shall be gold to thee, girl; thou shalt feel all the sweets and wealth of being a fine rich widow's woman. Oh! how my head runs my first year out, and jumps to all the joys of widowhood! If, thirteen months hence, a friend should haul one to a play one has a mind to see, what pleasure 'twill be, when my lady Brumpton's footman's called, who kept a place for that very purpose, to make a sudden insurrection of fine wigs in the pit and side-boxes. Then, with a pretty sorrow in one's face, and a willing blush, for being stared at, one ventures to look round, and bow to one of one's own quality. Thus [very directly] to a snug pretending fellow of no fortune. Thus [as scarce seeing him] to one that writes lampoons. Thus [fearfully] to one one really loves. Thus [looking down] to one woman acquaintance. From box to box thus, [with looks differently familiar.] Then the serenades! the lovers!