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names-I wunna tell you who my master is, se ye, my thoughts were not over-strong for a nunnery, me now?

Ped. And who are you, rascal, that know my daughter so well? ha! [Holds up his cane. Lis. What shall I say, to make him give this Scotch dog a good beating? [Aside.]—I know your daughter, signior! Not I; I never saw your daughter in all my life.

Gib. [Knocks him down with his fist.] Deel ha my saul, sar, gin ye get no your carich for that lie now.

Ped. What, hoa! where are all my servants?

Enter COLONEL, FELIX, ISABELLA, and V10

LANTE.

Raise the house in pursuit of my daughter!
Ser. Here she comes, signior.

Col. Hey-day! what's here to do?

Gib. This is the loon-like tike, an lik your honour, that sent me heam with a lee this morn. Col. Come, come; 'tis all well, Gibby; let him rise.

Ped. I am thunderstruck-and have no power to speak one word.

Fel. This is a day of jubilee, Lissardo; no quarrelling with him this day.

Lis. A pox take his fists-Egad! these Britons are but a word and a blow.

Enter DoN LOPEZ.

father.

Lop. Your daughter has played you a slippery trick, too, signior.

Ped. But your son shall never be the better for it, my lord; her twenty thousand pounds was left on certain conditions, and I'll not part with a shilling.

Lop. But we have a certain thing, called law, shall make you do justice, sir.

Ped. Well, we'll try that-my lord, much good may it do you with your daughter-in-law. [Exit, Lop. I wish you much joy of your rib. [Exit.

Enter FREDERICK.

Fel. Frederick, welcome!-I sent for thee to be partaker of my happiness; and pray give me leave to introduce you to the cause of it.

Fred. Your messenger has told me all, and I sincerely share in all your happiness.

Col. To the right about, Frederick; wish thy friend joy.

Fred. I do, with all my soul-and, madam, I congratulate your deliverance.-Your suspicions are cleared now, I hope, Felix?

Fel. They are; and I heartily ask the colonel pardon, and wish him happy with my sister; for love has taught me to know, that every man's happiness consists in choosing for himself.

Lis. After that rule, I fix here. [To FLORA. Flo. That's your mistake; I prefer my lady's

right and title to you to-day.

Lis. Choose, proud fool! I sha'nt ask you twice.

Lop. So, have I found you, daughter? Then service, and turn you over to her that pleaded you have not banged yourself yet, I see. Col. But she is married, my lord. Lop. Married! Zounds! to whom? Col. Even to your humble servant, iny lord. If you please to give us your blessing. [Kneels. Lop. Why, hark ye, mistress, are you really

married?

Isa. Really so, my lord.
Lop. And who are you, sir?

Col. An honest North Briton by birth, and a colonel by commission, my lord. Lop. An heretic! the devil!

[Holding up his hands. Ped. She has played you a slippery trick, indeed, my lord.-Well, my girl, thou hast been to see thy friend married--next week thou shalt have a better husband, my dear.

[To VIOLANTE. Fel. Next week is a little too soon, sir; I hope to live longer than that.

Ped. What do you mean, sir? You have not made a rib of my daughter, too, have you?

Vio. Indeed but he has, sir; I know not how, but he took me in an unguarded minute-when

Gib. What say ye now, lass?-will ye gee yer hond to poor Gibby?-What say you? will you dance the reel of Bogie with me?

Inis. That I may not leave my lady, I take you at your word; and, though our wooing has been short, I'll, by her example, love you dearly. [Music plays. Fel. Hark! I hear the music; somebody has done us the favour to call them in.

[A country-dance.

-How

Gib. Wounds, this is bonny music!caw ye that thing that ye pinch by the craig, and tickle the weamb, and make it cry grum, grum? Fred. Oh! that's a guitar, Gibby.

Fel. Now, my Violante, I shall proclaim thy virtues to the world.

Let us no more thy sex's conduct blame,
Since thou'rt a proof, to their eternal fame,
That man has no advantage, but the name.
[Exeunt omnes,

VOL. II.

AC

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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.

Enter the BUTLER, COACHMAN, and GARDENER. But. There came another coach to town last night, that brought a gentleman to inquire 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 flat- Gard. I thought I heard him in one of my I've always lived in sober families-I'll not dis-bed-posts. I marvel, John, how he gets into the parage myself to be a servant in a house that is house, when all the gates are shut! haunted.

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But. Why, look ye, Peter, your spirit will creep you into an augre-hole-he'll whisk ye through a key-hole, without so much as justling 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 liked the wars; and, you know, was mightly 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?
Coach. 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. 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 spayed bitch looked as if she saw something.

Coach. Ay, poor cur, she is 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. Coach. 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?

Gard. I'll tell you immediately. [Drinks.]— I fancy Mrs Abigail might scold him out of the house.

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-I 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, alack! 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 harin 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 fearHere'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.

Abi. 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 cannot 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 see, 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 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 doable wages.

Abi. 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, quotha!

Abi. What, you sot! are you grown pot-va- | could withstand him-But, when you were seen liant?

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.

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

ous.

by my lady in your proper person, after she had taken a full survey of you, and heard all the pretty things you could say, she very civilly dismissed 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, could not bear to see her given to another, especially such a wretch as Tinsel.

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

But. Prithee, hold thy tongue.
Gard. I would take him-

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

But. Coach. 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. Abi. So, now the coast is clear, 1 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 FAN-
TOME with a drum.

Fun. Dear Mrs Nabby, I have overheard 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 my way.

Abi. Well, o' my conscience, you are the merriest 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.

Abi. 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 of ghosts and apparitions generally end in a pot of money?

Abi. Why, truly, now, Mr Fantome, I should think myself a very bad woman, if I had done what I do for a farthing less.

Fan. Dear Abigail, how I admire thy virtue! Abi. No, no, Mr Fantome; I defy the worst of my enemies to say I love mischief for mischief's sake.

Fan. But is thy lady persuaded that I'm the ghost of her deceased husband?

Abi. I endeavour to make her believe so: and tell her, every time your drum rattles, that her husband is chiding her for entertaining this new lover.

Fun. Prithee, make use of all thy art: for I'm tired to death with strolling round this wide old house, like a rat behind the wainscoat.

Abi. Did not I tell you, 'twas the purest place in the world for you to play your tricks in? There's none of the family that knows every hole and corner in it, besides myself.

Fan. Ah, Mrs Abigail! You have had your intrigues

Abi. For, you must know, when I was a rompAbi. Oh, death may have altered you, youing young girl, I was a mighty lover of hide and know-Besides, you must consider, you lost a great deal of blood in the battle.

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

countenance.

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

Fun. It happens luckily, that this suit of clothes of sir George's fits me so well-I think I cannot fail hitting the air of a man with whom I was so long acquainted.

Abi. 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?

Abi. Pray, what good did your being visible do you? The fair Mr Fantome thought no woman

seek.

Fan. I believe, by this time, I am as well acquainted with the house as yourself.

Abi. You are very much mistaken, Mr Fantome: but no matter for that; here is to be your station to-night. This place is unknown to any one living, besides myself, since the death of the joiner, who, you must understand, being a lover of mine, contrived the wainscoat to move to and fro, in the manner that you find it. I designed it for a wardrobe for my lady's clothes. Oh, the stomachers, stays, petticoats, commodes, laced shoes, and good things, that I have had in it! Pray, take care you don't break the cherry brandy bottle, that stands up in the corner.

Fun. Well, Mrs Abigail, I hire your closet of you but for this one night-A thousand pounds you know, is a very good rent.

Abi. Well, get you gone: you have such a way with you, there's no denying you any thing.

Fan. I am thinking how Tinsel will stare, when he sees me come out of the wall; for I am resolved to make my appearance to-night.

Abi. Get you in, get you in; my lady's at the door.

Fan. Pray, take care she does not keep me up so late as she did last night, or, depend upon it, I'll beat the tattoo.

Abi. I'm undone, I'm undone !-[As he is going in.]-Mr Fantome! Mr Fantome! Have you put the thousand pound bond into my brother's hand?

Fan. Thou shalt have it; I tell thee, thou shalt have it.

[FANTOME goes in. Abi. No more words-Vanish, vanish!

Enter LADY TRUEMAN.

Abi. [Opening the door.]-Oh, dear madam, was it you that made such a knocking? My heart does so beat-I vow you have frighted me to death I thought, verily, it had been the drum

mer.

Lady True. I have been shewing the garden to Mr Tinsel he's most insufferably witty upon us, about this story of the drum.

Abi. Indeed, madam, he's a very loose man: I'm afraid 'tis he that hinders my poor master from resting in his grave.

Lady True. Well, an infidel is such a novelty in the country, that I am resolved to divert myself a day or two, at least, with the oddness of his conversation.

Abi. Ah, madam, the drum began to beat in the house, as soon as ever that creature was admitted to visit you. All the while Mr Fantome made his addresses to you, there was not a mouse stirring in the family, more than used to be-

Lady True. This baggage has some design upon me, more than I can yet discover.-[Aside.]— Mr Fantome was always thy favourite.

Abi. Aye, and should have been yours, too, by my consent. Mr Fantome was not such a slight fantastic thing as this is-Mr Fantome was the best built man one should see in a summer's day! Mr Fantome was a man of honour, and loved you. Poor soul! how has he sighed, when he has talked to me of my hard-hearted lady. Well, I had as lief as a thousand pounds, you would marry Mr Fantome.

Lady True. To tell thee truly, I loved him well enough, till he loved me so much. But Mr Tinsel makes his court to me with so much neglect and indifference, and with such an agreeable sauciness--Not that I say I'll marry him.

Abi. Marry him, quotha! No-if you should, you'll be awakened sooner than married couples generally are-You'll quickly have a drum at your window.

Lady True. I'll hide my contempt of Tinsel

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for once, if it be but to see what this wench drives at. [Aside.

Abi. Why, suppose your husband, after this fair warning he has given you, should sound you an alarm at midnight; then open your curtains with a face as pale as my apron, and cry out with a hollow voice-What dost thou do in bed with this spindle-shanked fellow?

Lady True. Why wilt thou needs have it to be my husband? He never had any reason to be offended at me. I always loved him while he was living; and should prefer him to any man, were he so still. Mr Tinsel is, indeed, very idle in his talk: but I fancy, Abigail, a discreet woman might reform him.

Abi. That's a likely matter, indeed! Did you ever hear of a woman who had power over a man when she was his wife, that had none while she was his mistress? Oh, there's nothing in the world improves a man in his complaisance like marriage!

Lady True. He is, indeed, at present, too familiar in his conversation.

Abi. Familiar, madam! in troth, he's downright rude.

Lady True. But that, you know, Abigail, shews he has no dissimulation in him--Then he is apt to jest a little too much upon grave subjects.

Abi. Grave subjects! He jests upon the church.

Lady True. You talk as if you hated him.
Abi. You talk as if you loved him.

Lady True. Hold your tongue; here he comes.
Enter TINSEL.

Tin. My dear widow !
Abi. My dear widow! Marry come up!

[Aside. Lady True. Let him alone, Abigail; so long as he does not call me my dear wife, there's no harm done.

Tin. I have been most ridiculously diverted since I left you--Your servants have made a convert of my booby: his head is so filled with this foolish story of a drummer, that I expect the rogue will be afraid hereafter to go a message by moon-light.

Lady True. Ave, Mr Tinsel, what a loss of billet-doux would that be to many a fine lady! Abi. Then you still believe this to be a foolish story? I thought my lady had told you, that she had heard it herscif.

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