SCENE.-A Dining Parlour. Squire, Brush, Hareskin, Sir Charles Belch, and others, discovered at Table; with Wine, &c. &c. Squire. Ha ha! ha! 'Fore heaven, you are in the right; the degeneracy of the age is astonishing; there are many of our acquaintance who are men of wit, genius, and spirit, but then they won't drink. Hareskin. True, Squire; they sink into the more substantial luxuries of the table, and quite neglect the bottle. Squire. Right:-besides, society suffers by it; for instead of the mirth and humour that used to mantle over a bottle of Burgundy, their conversation is become insipid as the Spa water which they drink, which has all the pertness of Champaigne, without its spirit or flavour. Sir Charles. But what will you say to those who prefer play to the bottle? There's O'Reilly, Russel, and Brush himself, who are under a hazard regimen. Squire. Psha! no such thing. What, would you train a horse for the course by keeping him from corn! Let me throw upon a bottle of Burgundy, and I never lose; at least I never feel my loss, and that's the same thing. Hareskin. True. Besides, 'tis wine that determines if a man be really in love. Squire. So it is. Fill up a dozen bumpers to a dozen beauties, and she that floats at the top is the girl that has bewitched you. Brush. But come, Squire, you have not given us your real favourite. Squire. Faith, I have withheld her only in compassion to you, for if I give her, you must toast a round of her peers, and that is impossible on earth. Brush. (Aside.) The earth could scarcely support a score of such unwieldy queans. Talk of prize-cattle! Squire. Come, bumpers,-bumpers all round! Here's Maria!-Maria! Cutlas. Maria! That's d-d common: what's her surname ? Brush. Never mind;-Maria will suit any body. Squire. Maria,-fair-fat and forty! Squire. Come, Sir Charles, you must give us a beauty superlative. Sir Charles. Then I'll give you-here's― Squire. Nay, never hesitate: but you have a song that will excuse you. All.-The song!—the song!— SONG. Here's to the maiden of blushing fifteen, Fill up the glass, toast each one his lass; E'en a lord, when in love, is no more than an ass. Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Here's to the maid with a pair of black eyes, Fill up the glass, &c. Here's to the maid with complexion of snow, And now to the damsel that's merry. Fill up the glass, &c. For let them be clumsy, or let them be slim, Fill up the glass, &c. Enter Merryman, and whispers Squire. Squire. Gentlemen, I must beg your pardon,-I must leave you upon business:-Brush, take the chair. Brush. What! this is some wench :-but we won't lose you for her. Squire. No, upon my honour; it is only a Jew, that is come by appointment. Brush. A Jew!-we'll have him in. Squire. Then desire Mr. Moses to walk in. [Exit Merryman. Brush. Squire, we'll give the rascal some generous Burgundy. Squire. No, hang it ;-wine but draws forth the natural qualities of a man's heart, and to make him drink would be only to whet his knavery. Enter Merryman and Moses. -Walk in, Mr. Moses, walk in. Chairs!Sit down, Moses.-A clean glass! Come, Moses, I'll give you a sentiment : "Here's success to usury!" Fill Moses a bumper. Moses. "Here's success to usury!" Brush. True, Moses; usury is industry, and deserves to succeed. Cutlas. Then here's-" All the success it deserves.' Moses. I wish I was out of their company. (Aside.) Brush. Come along, my boys; we will not interrupt business;-the dice are in the next room. You'll settle your business, Squire, and come to us. Squire. I will.-But, Brush, you must be ready, perhaps I may have occasion for you. Brush. Aye, aye;-bill, bond, or annuity, it is all the same to me. [Exit with company. Merryman, Mr. Moses, Squire, is a person of the strictest honour and secrecy, and always performs what he undertakes. Mr. Moses, this is |