1 Player. Then let's lay by the bones. What say you, Squire, to back your favourite Sam Sinew for a hundred?

Squire. I've already great bets depending; but I'll take you.

2 Player. Another. 3 Player. Another. 4 Player. Another.

Squire. I'll take you all. And now, gentlemen, you must excuse my leaving you.-I'm for a frolic, and I intend to beat up Mother Windblower's quarters to-night.

Brush. I shall never keep you out of bad company.

Squire. True, whilst you keep in mine.

Brush. Why, hang it! I'm at least as respectable as any in your whole catalogue of acquaintances, and ever since Sam Sinew has been at the bottom of it, I've had a great inclination to scratch out my name. - Come, will any one set me another throw?-No one?You're all afraid. Well, if there's no more business to be done, we'll go with the Squire.

Squire. That's right-give the bones a rest.

Brush. Aye, and I'll take care of the flesh too, as we are going into temptation. [Exeunt.

SCENE.-A Room in Mother Windblower's House, in King's Place.

The Mother and her Daughters are discovered, some silting and others standing before the glasses.

Mother. That old beldam, Mother Fitzwaddle, has spoil'd all our run of trade. There are really so many private ladies of casy virtue nowa-day, that it is not worth while to keep an open house. I wish all who carried on the trade, were obliged to enrol themselves, like the attornies, and take out a certificate to allow them to practise; it would produce a rare sum to government; more than the tax upon powdered heads. She keeps the Squire wholly to herself. His loss, however, would not be great, if we did not lose his companions at the same time. May a million of masses never be able to pray her soul out of purgatory! (a thundering knock at the street-door.) Here's company! Peg

Plumper, snuff the candles; don't let them think you are ashamed to show your faces. Mahomet himself has no such houris.

Enter Squire and Party with a most tremendous Noise.

Squire. Ah, my coy Dian, and her chaste nymphs!-Well, how goes virginity now?

Mother. Why, Squire, as they say at MarkLane,-None on hand, and good samples very scarce! Besides, the article is not much in request now, since you have set the fashion of leading down the dance the venerable widow Blonzalind. She has hamper'd you for a long time, but I am glad to see that you are about to regain your liberty, as it gives us hopes of seeing you as usual.

Squire. Aye, constancy is but a starving diet at the best. Well, what have you to tempt one to infidelity? Any new articles?

Mother. All fresh ones since you were here last, except Peg Plumper, and Bess Bloomer. But I am afraid that I have nothing to suit your present taste;-all green fruit, and that would set

your teeth on edge. All of them have their teeth in perfection.

Squire. Thanks to the Chevalier, your dentist.

Mother. And not a single grey hair on their heads.

Squire. That's more owing to the perukemaker, than to their youth.

Mother. No; not one above twenty-two, as I'm an honest woman!

Squire. I believe the one as much as the other. It seems, then, that I've lost my labour.

Mother. (curtseying.) Unless my years may obtain favour in your sight. But I doubt whether I have the proper testimonials engraved on my forehead.

Squire. Oh, you've too humble an opinion of yourself. If you have consulted your glass to-day, you must have seen marks of that which will ever command respect.

Mother. Oh, I won't pretend to enter the lists with your old widow in that respect;-where I've one wrinkle, she has ten; and therefore, in your eyes, she is ten times more amiable. Well,

I shall, perhaps, be old enough in time to have you for an admirer; but then you may be like old Lord Queensware; you will relish nothing but green fruit. Poor old soul! The last night he was here, coughing out some gallant things to a young new comer, I verily thought he would have coughed out his last tooth with them.

Bess Bloomer. Be quiet, Mr. Merryman; I vow, and protest, you'll do me some mischief.

Squire. Ah, Dickey, what are you about there? You will always be driving the girls up into a corner.

Mother. Why do you make such an outcry, Bess Bloomer? To my certain knowledge, you ought to have done with that folly, at least, two years ago.

Bess Bloomer. Lord, I'm not afraid of him, if he will keep his face farther off; but he sticks his fiery nose so close to my face, that I'm afraid he 'll singe some of my curis.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

Squire. Why, Dickey, that comet of yours is a terror to every body; it would make a good