No my ambitious spirit's far above
Those little tricks of mercenary love.
That man be mine, who, like the colonel here,
Can top his character in ev'ry sphere:
Who can a thousand ways employ his wit;
Out-promise statesmen, and out-cheat a cit;
Beyond the colours of a trav❜ller paint,
And cant, and ogle too-beyond a saint.

The last disguise most pleas'd me, I confess :
There's something tempting in the preaching dress;
And pleas'd me more than once a dame of note,
Who lov'd her husband in his footman's coat;-
To see one eye in wanton motions play'd,
The other to the heav'nly regions stray'd,
As if for its fellow's frailties it pray'd.
But yet I hope, for all that I have said,
To find my spouse a man of war in bed.

In this grave age, when comedies are few,
We crave your patronage for one that's new;
Though 'twere poor stuff, yet bid the author fair,
And let the scarceness recommend the ware.
Long have your ears been fill'd with tragic parts;
Blood and blank-verse have harden'd all your
hearts;

If e'er you smile, 'tis at some party strokes,Round-heads and wooden-shoes are standing jokes:

The same conceit gives claps and hisses birth,
You're grown such politicians in your mirth!
For once we try (though 'tis, I own, unsafe)
To please you all, and make both parties laugh.
Our author, anxious for his fame to-night,
And bashful in his first attempts to write,
Lies cautiously obscure and unreveal'd,
Like ancient actors, in a mask conceal'd.
Censure, when no man knows who writes the
play,

Were much good malice merely thrown away.

The mighty critics will not blast, for shame,
A raw young thing, who dares not tell his name:
Good-natur'd judges will th' unknown defend,
And fear to blame, lest they should hurt a friend:
Each wit may praise it for his own dear sake,
And hint he writ it, if the thing should take :-
But if you're rough, and use him like a dog,
Depend upon it--he'll remain incog.
If you should hiss, he swears he'll hiss as high,
And, like a culprit, raise the hue and cry.
If cruel men are still averse to spare
These scenes, they fly for refuge to the fair.
Though with a ghost our comedy be heighten'd,
Ladies, upon my word, you sha'n't be frighten'd:
Oh, 'tis a ghost that scorns to be uncivil,
A well-spread, lusty, jointure-hunting devil:
An am'rous ghost, that's faithful, fond, and true,
Made up of flesh and blood-as much as you.
Then, ev'ry evening, come in flocks, undaunted;
We never think this house is too much haunted.

SCENE L-A great Hall.

Enter the Butler, Coachman, and Gardener. But. There came another coach to town last night, that brought a gentleman to enquire about this strange noise we hear in the house. This spirit will bring a power of custom to the George.If so be he continues his pranks, I design to sell a pot of ale, and set up the sign of

the drum.

Coach. I'll give madam warning, that's flatI've always lived in sober families-I'll not disparage myself to be a servant in a house that is haunted.

Gard. I'll e'en marry Nell, and rent a bit of ground of my own, if both of you leave madam; not but that madam's a very good woman, if Mrs Abigail did not spoil her. Come, here's her health.

But. 'Tis a very hard thing to be a butler in a house that is disturbed. He made such a racket in the cellar last night, that I'm afraid he'll sour all the beer in my barrels.

Coach. Why then, John, we ought to take it off as fast as we can-Here's to you-He rattled so loud under the tiles last night, that I verily thought the house would have fallen over our heads. I durst not go up into the cock-loft this morning, if I had not got one of the maids to go along with me.

Gard. I thought I heard him in one of my bedposts. I marvel, John, how he gets into the house, when all the gates are shut.

Coach. This makes one almost afraid of one's own shadow.-As I was walking from the stable t'other night, without my lanthorn, I fell across a beam that lay in my way, and faith my heart was in my mouth. I thought I had stumbled over a spirit.

But. Thou might'st as well have stumbled over a straw. Why, a spirit is such a little thing, that I have heard a man, who was a great scholar, say, that he'll dance you a Lancashire hornpipe upon the point of a needle. As I sat in the pantry last night, counting my spoons, the candle, methought, burnt blue, and the spay'd bitch looked as if she saw something.

Coach. Ay, poor cur, she's almost frightened out of her wits.

Gard. Ay, I warrant ye she hears him, many a time and often, when we don't.

But. My lady must have him laid, that's certain, whatever it cost her.

Gard. I fancy, when one goes to market, one might hear of somebody that can make a spell. Couch. Why, may not the parson of our parish lay him?

But. No, no, no; our parson cannot lay him. Coach. Why not he, as well as another man? But. Why, ye fool, he is not qualified. He has not taken the oaths.

Gard. Why, d'ye think, John, that the spirit would take the law of him? Faith, I could tell you one way to drive him off.

Coach. How's that?

But. Why, look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep you into an augre-hole-he'll whisk through a key-hole, without so much as jostling against one of the wards.

Coach. Poor madam is mainly frighted, that's certain, and verily believes it is my master, that was killed in the last campaign.

But. Out of all manner of question, Robin, 'tis Sir George. Mrs Abigail is of opinion it can be none but his honour. He always loved the wars, and, you know, was mightily pleased, from a child, with the music of a drum.

Gard. I wonder his body was never found after the battle.

But. Found! Why, ye fool, is not his body here about the house? Dost thou think he can beat his drum without hands and arms?

Coach. 'Tis master, as sure as I stand here alive; and I verily believe I saw him last night in the town-close

Gard Ay! How did he appear?
Couch. Like a white horse.

But. Phoo, Robin! I tell ye, he has never appeared yet, but in the shape of the sound of a drum

Coach. Ay, she has a tongue that would drown his drum, if any thing could.

But. Pugh! this is all froth: you understand nothing of the matter. The next time it makes a noise, I tell you what ought to be done-Į would have the steward speak Latin to it.

Coach. Ay, that would do, if the steward had but courage.

Gard. There you have it. He's a fearful man. If I had as much learning as he, and I met the ghost, I'd tell him his own But, a-lack! what can one of us poor men do with a spirit, that can neither write nor read!

But. Thou art always cracking and boasting, Peter: thou dost not know what mischief it might do thee, if such a silly dog as thee should offer to speak to it. For aught I know, he might flea thee alive, and make parchment of thy skin, to cover his drum with.

Gard. A fiddlestick '-Tell not me I fear nothing, not I: I never did harm in my life; I never committed murder.

But. I verily believe thee. Keep thy temper,

Peter. After supper we'll drink each of us a double mug, and then let come what will.

Gard. Why, that's well said, John-An honest man, that is not quite sober, has nothing to fear -Here's to ye- -Why, now if he should come this minute, here would I stand-Ha! what noise is that?

But. Coach. Ha! where?

Gard. The devil! the devil! Oh, no; 'tis Mrs Abigail.

But. Ay, faith, 'tis she; 'tis Mrs Abigail! A good mistake.-'Tis Mrs Abigail.

Enter ABIGAIL.

Ab. Here are your drunken sots for you! Is this a time to be guzzling, when gentry are come to the house! Why don't you lay your cloth? How come you out of the stables? Why are you not at work in your garden?

Gard. Why, yonder's the fine Londoner and madam fetching a walk together, and, methought, they looked as if they should say they had rather have my room than my company.

But. And so, forsooth, being all three met together, we are doing our endeavours to drink this same drummer out of our heads.

Gard. For you must know, Mrs Abigail, we are all of opinion that one cann't be a match for him, unless one be as drunk as a drum.

Coach. I am resolved to give madam warning to hire herself another coachman; for I came to serve my master, d'ye sce, while he was alive, but do suppose that he has no further occasion for a coach, now he walks.

But. Truly, Mrs Abigail, I must needs say that this same spirit is a very odd sort of a body, after all, to fright madam and his old servants at this rate.

Gard. And, truly, Mrs Abigail, I must needs say, I served my master contentedly while he was living, but I will serve no man living (that is, no man that is not living) without double

wages.

Ab. Ay, 'tis such cowards as you that go about with idle stories, to disgrace the house, and bring so many strangers about it: You first frighten yourselves, and then your neighbours.

Gard. Frightened! I scorn your words.-Frightened, quoth-a!

Ab. What, you sot, are you growing pot-valiant?

Gard. Frightened with a drum! that's a good one! It will do us no harm, I'll answer for it: it will bring no blood-shed along with it, take my word. It sounds as like a train-band drum as ever I heard in my life.

ous.

But. Pr'ythee, Peter, don't be so presumptu

Ab. Well, these drunken rogues take it as I could wish. [Aside. Gard. I scorn to be frightened, now I am in for't: If old dub-a-dub should come into the room, I would take him

But. Pr'ythee hold thy tongue.

Gard. I would take him

[The drum beats: the Gardener endeavours to get off, and falls.

But. Couch. Speak to it, Mrs Abigail ! Gard. Spare my life, and take all I have! Coach. Make off, make off, good butler, and let us go hide ourselves in the cellar.

[They all run off.

Ab. So, now the coast is clear, I may venture to call out my drummer-But first let me shut the door, lest we be surprised.—Mr Fantome! Mr Fantome! [He beats.] Nay, nay, pray come out: the enemy's fled-I must speak with you immediately Don't stay to beat a parley.

[The back scene opens, and discovers FANTOME with a drum.

Fan. Dear Mrs Nabby, I have overhcard all that has been said, and find thou hast managed this thing so well, that I could take thee in my arms and kiss thee-if my drum did not stand in the way.

Ab. Well, o' my conscience, you are the mer riest ghost! and the very picture of Sir George Truman.

Fan. There you flatter me, Mrs Abigail : Sir George had that freshness in his looks, that we men of the town cannot come up to.

Ab. Oh, death may have altered you, you know -Besides, you must consider you lost a great deal of blood in the battle.

Fan. Ay, that's right: let me look never so pale, this cut cross my forehead will keep me in

countenance.

Ab. 'Tis just such a one as my master received from a cursed French trooper, as my lady's letter informed her.

Fan. It happens luckily that this suit of clothes of Sir George's fits me so well-I think I cann't fail hitting the air of a man with whom I was so long acquainted.

Ab. You are the very man- -I vow I almost start when I look upon you.

Fan. But what good will this do me, if I must remain invisible?

Ab. Pray, what good did your being visible do you? The fair Mr Fantome thought no woman could withstand him-But when you were seen by my lady in her proper person, after she had taken a full survey of you, and heard all the pretty things you could say, she very civilly dismiss'd you, for the sake of this empty, noisy creature, Tinsel. She fancies you have been gone from hence this fortnight.

Fan. Why, really, I love thy lady so well, that though I had no hopes of gaining her for myself, I could not bear to see her given to another, espe cially such a wretch as Tinsel.

Ab. Well, tell me truly, Mr Fantome, have not you a great opinion of my fidelity to my dear lady, that I would not suffer her to be deluded in this manner for less than a thousand pounds?

Fan. Thou art always reminding me of my promise-Thou shalt have it, if thou canst bring our project to bear: Dost not know that stories