Sir Cha. What can it mean? He amazes me! Hard. I told you how it would be. Hush! Mar. I am now determined to stay, madam, and I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his approbation.

Miss Hard. No, Mr Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connection, in which there is the smallest room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a transient passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?

Mar. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your power to grant me. Nor shall I ever feel repentance, but in not having seen your merits before. I will stay, even contrary to your wishes; and though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.

Miss Hard. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our acquaintance began, so let it end, iu indifference. I might have given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr Marlow, do you think I could ever submit to a connexion, where I must appear mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the confident addresses of a secure admirer?

Mar. [Kneeling.] Does this look like security? Does this look like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shews me your merit, only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me continue

--

Sir Cha. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting conversation?

Hurd. Your cold contempt; your formal interview? What have you to say now?

Mar. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean?

Hard. It means, that you can say and unsay things at pleasure. That you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public; that you have one story for us, and another for my daughter.

Mar. Daughter!-this lady your daughter? Hard. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; whose else should she be?

Mur. Oh, the devil!

Miss Hard. Yes, sir, that very identical, tall, squinting lady, you were pleased to take me for [Curtesying] She that you addressed as the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agreeable rattle of the ladies' club; ha, ha, ha!

Mar. Zounds! there's no bearing this; it's worse than death!

Miss Hard. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy;

or the loud confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs Mantrap, and old Mrs Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning; ha, ha, ha!

Mar. O, curse on my noisy head! I never attempted to be impudent yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.

Hard, By the hand of my body, but you shall not! I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. [They retire, she tormenting him to the back scene.

Mrs Hard. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr Hastings, from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here.

Sir Cha. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.

Hard. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion!

Mrs Hard. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not taken her fortune; that remains in this family, to console us for her loss.

Hard. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary?

Mrs Hard. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. But, you know, if your son, when of age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.

Hard. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought proper to wait for his refusal.

Enter HASTINGS, and MISS NEVILLE. Mrs Hard. [Aside.] What, returned so soon! I begin not to like it,

Hust. [To HARDCASTLE.] For my late attempt to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent, I first paid ber my addresses, and our passions were first founded in duty.

Miss Nev. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from the delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is denied me from a nearer connexion.

Mrs Hard. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a modern novel.

Hard. Be it what it will, I'm glad they are come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now offer you?

Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't refuse her till I'm of age, father.

Hard. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must now declare, you have been of age these three months.

Tony. Of age! Am I of age, father?
Hard. Above three months.

Tony. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. [Taking MISS NEVILLE'S hand.] Witness all men, by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, esquire, of Blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So Constantia Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again.

Sir Cha. O brave squire!
Hast. My worthy friend!

Mrs Hard. My undutiful offspring!

Mar. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.

Hast. [To Miss HARDCASTLE.] Come, madam, you are now driven to the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him. I'm sure he loves you; and you must and shall have him.

Hard. [Joining their hands.] And I say so too. Mr Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now, to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning; so, boy, take her and, as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife,

[Exeunt,

SCENE I.-An apartment at BELVILLE'S.

Enter CAPTAIN SAVAGE, and MISS WALSING

HAM.

Capt. Sav. Ha, ha, ha! Well, Miss Walsingham, this fury is going; what a noble peal she has rung in Belville's ears!

Miss Wal. Did she see you, captain Savage? Capt Sav. No, I took care of that; for though she is not married to my father, she has ten times the influence of a wife, and might injure me not a little with him, if I did not support her side of the question.

Miss Wal. It was a pleasant conceit of Mr

Belville, to insinuate the poor woman was disordered in her senses!

Capt Suv. And, did you observe how the termagant's violence of temper supported the probability of the charge?

Miss Wal. Yes; she became almost frantic, in reality, when she found herself treated like a mad-woman.

Capt. Sav. Belville's affected surprise, too, was admirable!

Miss Wal. Yes; the hypocritical composure of his countenance, and his counterfeit pity for the poor woman, were intolerable.

Capt. Sav. While that amiable creature, his wife, implicitly believed every syllable he said—

Miss Wal. And felt nothing but pity for the accuser, instead of paying the least regard to the accusation. But pray, is it really under a pretence of getting the girl upon the stage, that Belville has taken away Mrs Tempest's niece from the people she boarded with?

Capt. Sav. It is. Belville, ever on the lookout for fresh objects, met her in those primitive regions of purity, the Green-Boxes; where, discovering that she was passionately desirous of becoming an actress, he improved his acquaintance with her, in the fictitious character of an Irish manager, and she eloped last night, to be, as she imagines, the heroine of a Dublin theatre.

Miss Wal. So, then, as he has kept his real name artfully concealed, Mrs Tempest can, at most, but suspect him of Miss Leeson's seduction.

Capt. Sav. Of no more; and this, only, from the description of the people who saw him in company with her at the play. But I wish the affair may not have a serious conclusion; for she has a brother, a very spirited young fellow, who is a counsel in the Temple, and who will certainly call Belville to an account the moment he hears of it.

Miss Wal. And what will become of the poor creature after he has deserted her?

Capt. Sav. You know that Belville is generous to profusion, and has a thousand good qualities to counterbalance this single fault of gallantry, which contaminates his character.

Miss Wal. You men! you men!-You are such wretches, that there's no having a moment's satisfaction with you! and, what's still more provoking, there's no having a moment's satisfaction without you!

Capt. Sav. Nay, don't think us all alike. Miss Wal. I'll endeavour to deceive myself; for, it is but a poor argument of your sincerity, to be the confidant of another's falsehood.

Capt. Sav. Nay, no more of this, my love; no people live happier than Belville and his wife; nor is there a man in England, notwithstanding all his levity, who considers his wife with a warmer degree of affection: if you have a friendship, therefore, for her, let her continue in an error, so necessary to her repose, and give no hint whatever of his gallantries to any body.

Miss Wal. If I had no pleasure in obliging you, I have too much regard for Mrs Belville, not to follow your advice; but you need not enjoin me so strongly on the subject, when you know I can keep a secret.

and sent it in a course of circulation to my fa ther.

Miss Wal. The peculiarity of your father's temper, joined to my want of fortune, made it necessary for me to keep our engagements invio lably secret. There is no merit, therefore, either in my prudence, or in my labouring assiduously to cultivate the good opinion of the general, since both were so necessary to my own happiness. Don't despise me for this acknowledgment now. Capt. Sav. Bewitching softness! But your good ness, I flatter myself, will be speedily rewarded; you are now such a favourite with him, that he is eternally talking of you; and I really fancy he means to propose you to me himself; for, last night, in a few minutes after he had declared you would make the best wife in the world, he seriously asked me, if I had any aversion to matrimony!

Miss Wal. Why, that was a very great conces sion, indeed, as he seldom stoops to consult any body's inclinations.

Capt. Sav. So it was, I assure you; for, in the army, being used to nothing but command and obedience, he removes the discipline of the parade into his family, and no more expects his orders should be disputed, in matters of a domestic nature, than if they were delivered at the head of his regiment.

Miss Wal. And yet, Mrs Tempest, who, you say, is as much a storm in her nature as her name, is disputing them eternally.

Enter MR and MRS BELVILle.

Bel. Well, Miss Walsingham, have not we had a pretty morning's visitor?

Miss Wal. Really, I think so; and I have been asking captain Savage how long the lady has been disordered in her senses?

Bel. Why will they let the poor woman abroad, without some body to take care of her? Capt. Sav. O, she has her lucid intervals. Miss Wal. I declare I shall be as angry with you as I am with Belville.

[Aside to the captain. Mrs Bel. You can't think how sensibly she spoke at first.

Bel. I should have had no conception of her madness, if she had not brought so preposterous a charge against me.

upon you.

Enter a Servant.

Mrs Bel. Our compliments, and we shall be glad to see her ladyship. [Exit Servant. Bel. I wonder if lady Rachel knows that Torrington came to town last night from Bath!

Mrs Bel. I hope he has found benefit by the waters; for he is one of the best creatures ex

isting; he's a downright parson Adams, in goodnature and simplicity.

Miss Wal. Lady Rachel will be quite happy at his return; and, it would be a laughable affair, if a match could be brought about between the old maid and the old batchelor.

Capt. Sav. Mr Torrington is too much taken up at Westminster-Hall, to think of paying his devoirs to the ladies, and too plain a speaker, I fancy, to be agreeable to lady Rachel.

Bel. You mistake the matter widely; she is deeply smitten with him; but honest Torrington is utterly unconscious of his conquest, and modestly thinks, that he has not a single attraction for any woman in the universe.

Mrs Bel. Yet, my poor aunt speaks sufficiently plain, in all conscience, to give him a different opinion of himself.

Miss Wal. Yes; and puts her charms into such repair, whenever she expects to meet him, that her cheeks look, for all the world, like a rasberry ice upon a ground of custard.

Capt. Sav. I thought Apollo was the only god of lady Rachel's idolatry; and that, in her passion for poetry, she had taken leave of all the less elevated affections.

Bel. O, you mistake again! the poets are eternally in love, and can by no means be calculated to describe the imaginary passions, without being very susceptible of the real ones.

Enter a Servant.

Ser. The man, madam, from Tavistock-street, has brought home the dresses for the masquerade, and desires to know, if there are any commands for him.

Mrs Bel. O! bid him stay till we see the dresses! [Exit Servant. Miss Wal. They are only dominos. Bel. I am glad of that; for characters are as difficult to be supported at the masquerade, as they are in real life. The last time I was at the Pantheon, a vestal virgin invited me to sup with her, and swore that her pocket had been picked by a justice of peace.

Miss Wal. Nay, that was not so bad as the Hamlet's ghost, that boxed with Henry the Eighth, and afterwards danced a hornpipe to the tune of Nancy Dawson! Ha, ha, ha!We follow you, Mrs Belville. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.-Changes to LEESON's chambers, in the temple.

Enter LEESON.

Lee. Where is this clerk of mine? Connolly! Con. [Behind.] Here, sir! Lee. Have you copied the marriage-settlement, as I corrected it?

Enter CONNOLLY, with pistols. Con. Ay, honey, an hour ago.

Lee. What! you have been trying those pistols?

Con. By my soul, I have been firing them this half hour, without once being able to make them go off.

Lee. They are plaguy dirty.

Con. In troth, so they are; I strove to brighten them up a little, but some misfortune attends every thing I do, for the more I clane them, the dirtier they are, honey.

Lee. You have had some of your usual daily visitors for money, I suppose?

Con. You may say that! and three or four of them are now hanging about the door, that I wish handsomely hanged any where else for bodering

us.

Lee. No joking, Connolly! my present situation is a very disagreeable one.

Con. Faith, and so it is; but who makes it disagreeable? your aunt Tempest would let you have as much money as you please, but you won't condescend to be acquainted with her, though people in this country can be very intimate friends without seeing one another's faces for seven years.

Lee. Do you think me base enough to receive a favour from a woman, who has disgraced her family, and stoops to be a kept mistress? you see, my sister is already ruined by a connexion

with her.

Con. Ah, sir, a good guinea is not the worse for coming through a bad hand! if it was, what would become of us lawyers? and, by my soul, many a high head in London would, at this minute, be very low, if they had not received favours even from much worse people than kept mistresses.

Lee. Others, Connolly, may prostitute their honour, as they please; mine is my chief possession, and I must take particular care of it.

Con. Honour, to be sure, is a very fine thing, sir; but I don't see how it is to be taken care of without a little money; your honour, to my knowledge, has not been in your own possession these two years; and the devil a crumb can you honestly swear by, till you get it out of the hands of your creditors.

Lee. I have given you a licence to talk, Connolly, because I know you are faithful: but I have not given you a liberty to sport with my

misfortunes.

Con. You know I'd die to serve you, sir! but, of what use is your giving me leave to spake, if you oblige me to hould my tongue? 'tis out of pure love and affection that I put you in mind of your misfortunes,

Lee. Well, Connolly, a few days will, in all probability, enable me to redeem my honour, and to reward your fidelity; the lovely Emily, you know, has half consented to embrace the first opportunity of flying with me to Scotland, and the paltry trifles I owe, will not be missed in her fortune.