[FATHER PAUL comes from behind a curtain, with a glass of wine, and in his hand a piece of cake. Paul. Here! how durst you, fellow, thus abruptly break in upon our devotions?

Port. I thought they were finished.

Paul. No, they were not.-Were they, brother Francis?

Fran. Not by a bottle each.

Paul. But neither you nor your fellows mark how the hours go; no, you mind nothing but the gratifying of your appetites; ye eat and swill, and sleep, and gormandise, and thrive, while we are wasting in mortification.

Port. We ask no more than nature craves.

Paul. 'Tis false, ye have more appetites than hairs! and your flushed, sleek, and pampered appearance is the disgrace of our order-out on't! If you are hungry, can't you be content with the wholesome roots of the earth; and if you are dry, isn't there the crystal spring?-[Drinks.] Put this away,-[Gives the glass] and show me where I'm wanted.-[Porter draws the glass.-PAUL, going, turns.] So, you would have drank it, if there had been any left! Ah, glutton! glutton! [Exeunt.

SCENE VI.-The Court before the Priory. Enter ISAAC and DON ANTONIO.

Isaac. A plaguy while coming, this same father Paul!-He's detained at vespers, I suppose, poor fellow.

Don Ant. No, here he comes.

Enter FATHER PAUL.

Good father Paul, crave your blessing.

Isaac. Yes, good father Paul, we are come to beg a favour.

Paul. What is it, pray?

Isaac. To marry us, good father Paul; and in truth thou dost look the very priest of Hymen. Paul. In short, I may be called so; for I deal in repentance and mortification.

Isaac. No, no, thou seemest an officer of Hymen, because thy presence speaks content and good humour.

Paul. Alas! my appearance is deceitful.-Bloated I am, indeed! for fasting is a windy recreation, and it hath swollen me like a bladder.

Don Ant. But thou hast a good fresh colour in thy face, father; rosy, i'faith!

Paul. Yes, I have blushed for mankind, till the hue of my shame is as fixed as their vices. Isaac. Good man!

Paul. And I have laboured too, but to what purpose? they continue to sin under my very

nose.

Isaac. Efecks, father, I should have guessed as much, for your nose seems to be put to the blush more than any other part of your face.

Paul. Go, you're a wag!

Don Ant. But, to the purpose, father-will you officiate for us?

Paul. To join young people thus clandestinely is not safe and, indeed, I have in my heart many weighty reasons against it.

Don Ant. And I have in my hand many weighty reasons for it.-Isaac, haven't you an argument or two in our favour about you?

Isaac. Yes, yes; here is a most unanswerable purse.

Paul. For shame! you make me angry: you forget who I am, and when importunate people have forced their trash-ay, into this pocket, here -or into this-why, then the sin was theirs.— [They put money into his pockets.] Fy, now how you distress me! I would return it, but that I must touch it that way, and so wrong my oath.

Don Ant. Now then, come with us.

Isaac. Ay, now give us your title to joy and rapture.

Paul. Well, when your hour of repentance comes, don't blame me.

Don Ant. [Aside.] No bad caution to my friend Isaac.-[Aloud.] Well, well, father, do you do your part, and I'll abide the consequence. Isaac. Ay, and so will I.

Enter DONNA LOUISA, running.

Don. Louisa. O Antonio, Ferdinand is at the porch, and inquiring for us.

Isaac. Who? Don Ferdinand! he's not inquiring for me, I hope.

Don Ant. Fear not, my love; I'll soon pacify

him.

Isaac. Egad, you won't-Antonio, take my advice, and run away; this Ferdinand is the most unmerciful dog; and has the cursedest long sword! -and, upon my soul, he comes on purpose to cut your throat.

Don Ant. Never fear, never fear.

Isaac. Well, you may stay if you will; but I'll get some one to marry me; for, by St. Iago, he shall never marry me again, while I am master of a pair of heels.

[Runs out.-DONNA LOUISA lets down her veil.

Enter DON FERDINAND.

Don Ferd. So, sir, I have met with you at last. Don Ant. Well, sir.

Don Ferd. Base, treacherous man! whence can a false, deceitful soul, like yours, borrow confidence to look so steadily on the man you've injured?

Don Ant. Ferdinand, you are too warm :-' -'tis true you find me on the point of wedding one I love beyond my life; but no argument of mine prevailed on her to elope-I scorn deceit, as much as you. By heaven I knew not she had left her father's till I saw her!

Don Ferd. What a mean excuse! You have wronged your friend, then, for one, whose wanton

forwardness anticipated your treachery-of this, indeed, your Jew pander informed me; but let your conduct be consistent, and since you have dared to do a wrong, follow me, and show you have a spirit to avow it.

Don. Louisa. Antonio, I perceive his mistake— leave him to me.

Paul. Friend, you are rude, to interrupt the union of two willing hearts.

Don Ferd. No, meddling priest! the hand he seeks is mine.

Paul. If so, I'll proceed no further.-Lady, did you ever promise this youth your hand?

[TO DONNA LOUISA, who shakes her head. Don Ferd. Clara, I thank you for your silence -I would not have heard your tongue avow such falsity; be't your punishment to remember I have not reproached you.

Enter DONNA CLARA, veiled.

Don. Clara. What mockery is this?

SCENE VII.-A Grand Saloon in DON
JEROME'S House.

Enter DON JEROME, LOPEZ, and Servants, Don Jer. Be sure now let everything be in the best order-let all my servants have on their merriest faces-but tell them to get as little drunk as possible, till after supper.-[Exeunt Servants.] So, Lopez, where's your master ? shan't we have him at supper?

Lop. Indeed, I believe, not, sir-he's mad, I doubt; I'm sure he has frighted me from him. Don Jer. Ay, ay, he's after some wench, I

Don Ferd. How's this! my sister! Clara too -I'm confounded.

Don. Louisa. 'Tis even so, good brother. Paul. How! what impiety? did the man want to marry his own sister?

Don. Louisa. And aren't you ashamed of yourself not to know your own sister?

Don. Clara. To drive away your own mistress

Don. Louisa. Don't you see how jealousy blinds people?

Don. Clara. Ay, and will you ever be jealous again?

Don Ferd. Never-never! - You, sister, I know will forgive me-but how, Clara, shall I presume

Don. Clara. No, no, just now you told me not to tease you "Who do you want, good signor ?" "Not you, not you!"-Oh, you blind wretch ! but swear never to be jealous again, and I'll forgive you.

Don. Ferd. By all

Don. Clara. There, that will do-you'll keep the oath just as well. [Gives her hand. Don. Louisa. But, brother, here is one, to whom some apology is due.

Don Ferd. Antonio, I am ashamed to thinkDon Ant. Not a word of excuse, Ferdinand -I have not been in love myself without learning that a lover's anger should never be resented. But come-let us retire with this good father, and we'll explain to you the cause of this

crror.

without him.

Enter Servant. Ser. Sir, here is signor Isaac.

Enter ISAAC.

[Exit LOPEZ.

[Exit.

Don Jer. So, my dear son-in-law-there, take my blessing and forgiveness.-But where's my daughter? where's Louisa?

Isaac. She's without, impatient for a blessing, but almost afraid to enter.

Don Jer. Oh, fly and bring her in.-[Exit ISAAC.] Poor girl, I long to see her pretty face.

Isaac. [Without.] Come, my charmer! my trembling angel!

Re-enter ISAAC with Duenna; DON JEROME runs to meet them; she kneels.

Don Jer. Come to my arms, my-[Starts back.] Why, who the devil have we here?

Isaac. Nay, Don Jerome, you promised her forgiveness; see how the dear creature droops!

Don Jer. Droops indeed! Why, Gad take me, this is old Margaret!-But where's my daughter, where's Louisa?

Isaac. Why, here, before your eyes-nay, don't be abashed, my sweet wife!

Don Jer. Wife with a vengeance! Why, zounds, you have not married the Duenna!

Duen. [Kneeling.] Oh, dear papa! you'll not disown me sure!

Don Jer. Papa! papa! Why, zounds, your impudence is as great as your ugliness!

Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his neck, and convince him you are— Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me! [Embraces him. Don Jer. Help! murder!

Enter Servants.

Ser. What's the matter, sir? Don Jer. Why, here, this damned Jew has brought an old harridan to strangle me.

Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard-hearted he won't forgive her!

Enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA; they kneel. Don Jer. Zounds and fury! what's here now? who sent for you, sir, and who the devil are you? Don Ant. This lady's husband, sir.

Isaac. Ay, that he is, I'll be sworn; for I left

them with a priest, and was to have given her

away.

Don Jer. You were?

Isaac. Ay; that's my honest friend, Antonio ; and that's the little girl I told you I had hampered him with.

Don Jer. Why, you are either drunk or madthis is my daughter.

Isaac. No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad I think-here's your daughter.

Don Jer. Hark ye, old iniquity! will you explain all this, or not?

Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will-though our habits might inform you all-look on your daughter, there, and on me.

Isaac. What's this I hear?

Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this morning, you made a small mistake; for you turned your daughter out of doors, and locked up your humble servant.

Isaac. O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to turn his daughter out of doors, instead of an old Duenna!

Don Jer. And, O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to marry an old Duenna instead of my daughter!--but how came the rest about?

Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in your daughter's place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my sweet husband here. Isaac. Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your husband now? this is a trick, a cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed of yourselves.

Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking?-Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any settlement in return.

Don Jer. Overreach me !

Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you.

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, it must be so, or he could never have put up with such a face as Margaret's-so, little Solomon, I wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul.

Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love— let you alone for the plot!

Don Ant. A cunning dog, aren't you? A sly little villain, he?

Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps; but keen,

devilish keen !

Don Jer. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon.

Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all!-but do you think I'll submit to such an imposition?

Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word-you'd better be content as you are; for, believe me, you will find, that, in the opinion of the world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule, than a knave become the dupe of his own art.

Don

Isaac. I don't care-I'll not endure this. Jerome, 'tis you have done this-you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you locked up, and all the time, I told you she was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the devil.

Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile !Don Jer. That's right !-attack him, Margaret. Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty?-A walking rouleau !-a body that seems

to owe all its consequence to the dropsy !—a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough!-a beard like an artichoke, with dry shrivelled jaws, that would disgrace the mummy of a monkey!

Don Jer. Well done, Margaret!

Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a sword-and, if you don't do me justice

Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! I'll fly to Jerusalem to avoid you!

Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you.

Don Jer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.-[Exeunt ISAAC and Duenna.] But, Louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman ?

Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your commands, I gave him my hand within this hour. Don Jer. My commands:

Don Ant. Yes, sir; here is your consent, under your own hand.

Don Jer. How would you rob me of my child by a trick, a false pretence? and do you think to get her fortune by the same means? Why, 'slife, you are as great a rogue as Isaac !

Don Ant. No, Don Jerome; though I have profited by this paper, in gaining your daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit. There, sir.-[Gives a letter.] Now give her your blessing for a dower, and all the little I possess shall be settled on her in return. Had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.

Don Jer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow! But have you the impudence to suppose no one can do a generous action but yourself?-Here, Louisa, tell this proud fool of yours, that he's the only man I know that would renounce your fortune; and, by my soul, he's the only man in Spain that's worthy of it.-There, bless you both: I'm an obstinate old fellow when I'm in the wrong; but you shall now find me as steady in the right.

Enter DON FERDINAND and DONNA CLARA. Another wonder still!-Why, sirrah! Ferdinand, you have not stole a nun, have you ?

Don Ferd. She is a nun in nothing but her Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter; and, with habit, sir-look nearer, and you will perceive 'tis pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife.

Don Jer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune!-Ferdinand, you are a prudent young rogue, and I forgive you and, ifecks, you are a pretty little damsel. Give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling rogue!

Don. Clara. There, old gentleman; and now mind you behave well to us.

Don Jer. Ifecks, those lips han't been chilled by kissing beads !-Egad, I believe I shall grow the best-humoured fellow in Spain ! - Lewis ! Sancho! Carlos! d'ye hear? are all my doors thrown open?-Our children's weddings are the only holidays our age can boast; and then we drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left us.-[Music within.] But see, here come our friends and neighbours !

Enter Masqueraders.

And, i'faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine, and dance, and catches-then old and young shall join us.

WHAT various transformations we remark,
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde-park!
Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions,
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours, and the
passions;

The Exchange, 'Change-alley, wheresoe'er you're ranging,

Court, city, country, all are changed or changing :
The streets, sometime ago, were paved with stones,
Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your
The purest lovers then indulged no bliss; [bones.
They run great hazard, if they stole a kiss.
One chaste salute !—the damsel cried-O fy!
As they approach'd-slap went the coach awry-
Poor Sylvia got a bump, and Damon a black eye.

But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam,
And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home:
Of former times, that polish'd thing, a beau,
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe;
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders
Conceal'd the shallow head from the beholders !
But now the whole's reversed-each fop appears,
Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head and ears:
The buckle then its modest limits knew,
Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view,
Hath broke its bounds, and swallows up the shoe;

The wearer's foot, like his once fine estate,
Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great.
Ladies may smile-are they not in the plot?
The bounds of nature have not they forgot?
Were they design'd to be, when put together,
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather?
Their pale-faced grandmamas appear'd with grace,
When dawning blushes rose upon the face;
No blushes now their once-loved station seek;
The foe is in possession of the cheek!
No heads, of old, too high in feather'd state,
Hinder'd the fair to pass the lowest gate;
A church to enter now, they must be bent,
If ever they should try the experiment.

As change thus circulates throughout the nation,

Some plays may justly call for alteration;
At least to draw some slender covering o'er
That graceless wit* which was too bare before :
Those writers well and wisely use their pens,
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens;
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em,
We hope to find in you their stage asylum.