LOVE IN A VILLAGE. ACT THE FIRST. SCENE I. A Garden. ROSETTA and LUCINDA are discovered at Work, seated upon Two Garden Chairs. Ros. AIR I. Hope! thou nurse of young desire, Painted vapour, glow-worm fire, Lucin. Hope! thou earnest of delight, Both. Kind deceiver, flatter still, Lucin. Heigho-Rosetta! Ros. Well, child, what do you say? Lucin. "Tis a devilish thing to live in a village an hundred miles from the capital, with a preposterous 'gouty father, and a superannuated maiden aunt.—I am heartily sick of my situation. Ross. And with reason-But 'tis in a great measure your own fault: here is this Mr. Eustace, a man of character and family; he likes you, you like him; you know one another's minds, and yet you will not resolve to make yourself happy with him. AIR II. Whence can you inherit Permitted, forbid : 'Tis leading the life of a dog. For shame, you a lover! Take courage, nor here longer mope; Run riot like me, And to perfect the picture, elope. Lucin. And this is your advice? Ros. Positively. Lucin. Here's my hand; positively I'll follow it—I have already sent to my gentleman, who is now in the country, to let him know he may come hither this day; we will make use of the opportunity to settle all preliminaries—And then-But take notice, whenever we decamp, you march off along with us. Ros. Oh! madam, your servant; I have no inclination to be left behind, I assure you-But you say you got acquainted with this spark, while you were with your mother, during her last illness at Bath, so that your father has never seen him? Lucin. Never in his life, my dear; and I am confident he entertains not the least suspicion of my having any such connexion: my aunt, indeed, has her doubts and surmises; but, besides that my father will not allow any one to be wiser than himself, it is an established maxim between these affectionate relations, never to agree in any thing. Ros. Except being absurd; you must allow they sympathize perfectly in that- -But now we are on the subject, I desire to know what I am to do with this wicked old justice of peace, this libidinous father of yours? He follows me about the house, like a tame goat. Lucin. Nay, I'll assure you he has been a wag in his time-you must have a care of yourself. Ros. Wretched me! to fall into such hands, who have been just forced to run away from my parents to avoid an odious marriage-You smile at that now; and I know you think me whimsical, as you have often told me; but you must excuse my being a little over delicate in this particular. AIR III. My heart's my own, my will is free, Let parents rule, cry nature's laws; And is there then no saving clause, -Was your father Lucin. Well, but my dear mad girlRos. Lucinda, don't talk to me— to go to London, meet there by accident with an old fellow, as wrong-headed as himself, and in a fit of absurd friendship agree to marry you to that old fel low's son, whom you had never seen, without consulting your inclinations, or allowing you a negative, in case he should not prove agreeable Lucin. Why, I should think it a little hard, I confess—yet, when I see you in the character of a chambermaid Ros. It is the only character, my dear, in which I could hope to lie concealed; and I can tell you, I was reduced to the last extremity, when, in consequence of our old boarding-school friendship, I applied to you to receive me in this capacity: for we expected the parties the very next week. Lucin. But had not you a message from your intended spouse, to let you know he was as little inclined to such ill-concerted nuptials as you were? Ros. More than so; he wrote to advise me, by all means, to contrive some method of breaking them off, for he had rather return to his dear studies at Oxford; and after that, what hopes could I have of being happy with him? Lucin. Then you are not at all uneasy at the strange rout you must have occasioned at home? I warrant, during this month you have been absent Ros. Oh! don't mention it, my dear; I have had so many admirers since I commenced Abigail, that I am quite charmed with my situation-But hold, who stalks yonder into the yard, that the dogs are so glad to see? Lucin. Daddy Hawthorn, as I live! He is come to pay my father a visit; and never more luckily, for he always forces him abroad. By the way, what will -you do with yourself, while I step into the house to see after my trusty messenger, Hodge? Ros. No matter; I'll sit down in that arbour, and listen to the singing of the birds: you know I am fond of melancholy amusements. Lucin. So it seems, indeed: sure, Rosetta, none of your admirers had power to touch your heart; you are not in love, I hope? Ros. In love! that's pleasant: who do you suppose I should be in love with, pray? Lucin. Why, let me see -What do you think of Thomas, our gardener? There he is, at the other end of the walk-He's a pretty young man, and the servants say he's always writing verses on you. Ros. Indeed, Lucinda, you are very silly. Lucin. Indeed, Rosetta, that blush makes very handsome. Ros. Blush! I am sure I don't blush. you look Ros. Pshaw, Lucinda, how can you be so ridiculous? Lucin. Well, don't be angry, and I have done But suppose you did like him, how could you help yourself? AIR IV. When once Love's subtle poison gains SCENE II. Another Part of the Garden. Enter YOUNG MEADOWS. [Exeunt. Y. Mead. Let me see-on the fifteenth of June, at half an hour past five in the morning-[Taking out a Pocket-book.]-I left my father's house, unknown to any one, having made free with a coat and jacket of |