Tat. Nor I--But poor Mrs. Frail and I are-
Mrs. Frail. Married.

Fore. Married! how?

Tat. Suddenly--Before we knew where we were -that villain Jeremy, by the help of disguises, trick'd us into one another.

Fore. Why, you told me just now, you went hence in haste to be married!

Ang. But, I believe Mr. Tattle meant the favour to me; I thank him.

Tat. I did, as I hope to be saved, madam; my intentions were good.- But this is the most cruel thing, to marry one does not know how, nor why, nor wherefore. The devil take me, if ever I was so much concerned at any thing in my life.

Ang. "Tis very unhappy, if you don't care for one another.

Tat. The least in the world- -that is, for my part, I speak for myself. 'Gad, I never had the least thought of serious kindness-I never liked any body less in my life. Poor woman! 'Gad, I'm sorry for her too; for I have no reason to hate her neither; but I believe I shall lead her a damned sort of a life.

Mrs. Fore. He's better than no husband at all-though he's a coxcomb. [To Mrs. Frail. Mrs. Frail. Nay, for my part, I always despised Mr. Tattle of all things; nothing but his being my husband could have made me like him less.

Tat. Look you there, I thought as much!-Pox on't, I wish we could keep it secret; why, I don't believe any of this company would speak of it.

Ben. If you suspect me, friend, I'll go out of the room. Mrs. Frail. But, my dear, that's impossible; the parson and that rogue Jeremy will publish it.

Tat. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say.

Ang. O you'll agree very well in a little time; custom will make it easy for you.

Tat. Easy! I don't believe I shall sleep to-night. Ben. Why, there's another match now, as thof a couple of privateers were looking for a prize, and should fall foul of one another. I'm sorry for the young man

with all my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, when she's going-for that you must expect, I have experience of her-when she's going, let her go. For no matrimony is tough enough to hold her; and if she can't drag her anchor along with her, she'll break her cable, I can tell you that.-Who's here? the madman? Re-enter SCANDAL and JEREMY, with VALENTINE. Val. No; here's the fool; and if occasion be, I'll give it under my hand.

Sir S. How now?

Val. Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my errors, and ask your pardon.

Sir S. What, have you found your senses at last then? In good time, sir.

Val. You were abused, sir;

never was distracted. Fore. How? not mad! Mr. Scandal?

Scan. No, really, sir; I'm his witness, it was all counterfeit.

Val. I thought I had reasons-but it was a poor contrivance: the effect has shown it such.

Sir S. Contrivance! what to cheat me? to cheat your father! Sirrah, could you hope to prosper?

Val. Indeed I thought, sir, when the father endeavoured to undo the son, it was a reasonable return of

nature.

Sir S. Very good, sir.- -Mr. Buckram, are you ready?-Come, sir, will you sign and seal?

Val. If you please, sir; but first I would ask this lady one question.

Sir S. Sir, you must ask me leave first.That lady! No, sir; you shall ask that lady no questions, till you have asked her blessing, sir; that lady is to be iny wife.

Val. I have heard as much, sir; but I would have it from her own mouth.

Sir S. That's as much as to say, I lie, sir; and you don't believe what I say.

Val. Pardon me, sir. But I reflect that I very lately

counterfeited madness: 1 don't know but the frolic may go round.

Sir S. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer him.Come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. Buck. Here it is, sir, with the deed; all is ready. [Valentine goes to Angelica.

Ang. "Tis true, you have a great while pretended love to me; nay, what if you were sincere? Still you must pardon me, if I think my own inclinations have a better right to dispose of my person, than yours.

Sir S. Are you answered now, sir?

Val. Yes, sir.

Sir S. Where's your plot, sir? and your contrivance now, sir? Will you sign, sir? Come, will you sign and seal? Val. With all my heart, sir.

Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed? to ruin yourself? Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope; and he that loses hope may part with any thing. I never valued fortune, but as it was subservient to my pleasure; and my only pleasure was to please this lady: I have made many vain attempts, and find at last that nothing but my ruin can effect it; which, for that reason, I will sign to. Give me the paper.

Ang. Generous Valentine!

Buck. Here is the deed, sir.

[Aside.

Val. But where is the bond by which I am obliged to sign this?

Buck. Sir Sampson, you have it.

Ang. No, I have it; and I'll use it as I would every thing that is an enemy to Valentine. [Tears the Paper. Sir S. How now?

Val. Ha!

Ang. Had I the world to give you, it could not make me worthy of so generous and faithful a passion. Here's my hand; my heart was always yours, and struggled very hard to make this utmost trial of your virtue. [To Valentine. Val. Between pleasure and amazement, I am lost— but on my knees I take the blessing.

Sir S. Oons, what is the meaning of this?
Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again.

Father,

you and I may make a voyage together now. Ang. Well, sir Sampson, since I have played you a

;

trick, I'll advise you how you may avoid such another. Learn to be a good father, or you'll never get a second wife. I always loved your son, and hated your unforgiving nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost I have tried you too, and know you both. You have not more faults than he has virtues; and it is hardly more pleasure to me, that I can make him and myself happy, than that I can punish you.

Sir S. Oons, you're a crocodile!

Fore. Really, sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse. Sir S. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm another: the stars are liars; and if I had breath, I'd curse them and you, myself, and all the world.

Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, I can spare him mine.

Sir S. Confound you and your wife together. [Exit. Tat. Oh, are you there, sir? I am indebted to you for my happiness. [To Jeremy.

Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons: it was an arrant mistake.-You see, sir, my master was never mad, nor any thing like it.-Then how can it be otherwise?

Val. Tattle, I thank you; you would have interposed between me and heaven; but Providence laid purgatory in your way. You have but justice.

Scan. Well, madam, you have done exemplary justice, in punishing an inhuman father, and rewarding a faithful lover: but there is a third good work, which I, in particular, must thank you for: I was an infidel to your sex, and you have converted me- -for now I am convinced that all women are not, like fortune, blind in bestowing favours, either on those who do not merit, or who do not want them. [To Angelica.

Ang. It is an unreasonable accusation, that you lay upon our sex. You tax us with injustice, only to cover your own want of merit. You would all have the reward of love; but few have the constancy to stay till it becomes your due. How few, like Valentine, would sacrifice their interest to their constancy? In admiring ne, you misplace the novelty.

The miracle to-day is, that we find

A lover true: not that a woman's kind.

[Exeunt.

Sure Providence at first design'd this place
To be the player's refuge in distress;

For still, in every storm, they all run hither,
As to a shed that shields them from the weather.
But thinking of this change which last befel us,
It's like what I have heard our poets tell us:

For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading,
To help their love, sometimes they show their reading;
And, wanting ready cash to pay for hearts,
They top their learning on us, and their parts.
Once of philosophers they told us stories,

Whom, as I think, they called-Py-Pythagories,
I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give them,
And we, who know no better, must believe them.
Now to these men (say they) such souls were given,
That, after death, ne'er went to hell nor heaven,
But liv'd, I know not how, in beasts; and then,
When many years were past, in men again.
Methinks, we players resemble such a soul,
That, does from bodies; we, from houses stroll.
Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was,
May now be doom'd to animate an ass;
Or in this very house, for aught we know,
Is doing painful penance in some beau:
And thus, our audience, which did once resort
To shining theatres, to see our sport,
Now find us toss'd into a tennis court.

These walls but t'other day were fill'd with noise

Of roaring gamesters, and your damme boys;
Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast;

And now they're fiil'd with jests, and flights, and bombast!
I vow, I don't much like this transmigration,

Strolling from place to place by circulation;
Grant heaven, we don't return to our first station!
I know not what these think; but, for my part,

I can't reflect without an aching heart,
How we should end in, our original, a cart.

But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us,
That you have only set us up to leave us.
Thus, from the past we hope for future grace,
I beg it-

And some here know I have a begging face.
Then pray continue this your kind behaviour,
For a clear stage won't do without your favour.

C. Whittingham, Painter, Chiswick.