ACT I.

BETTY, any body here since?

No madam, but here's a strange servant.

Mrs Cockletop desired me, as I pass'd along Charing-Cross; to enquire for one for her, at the Re­gister-Office, and this is he, I suppose, ha, ha, ha, she's too fine a lady, to look after these things herself.

Walk up young man.

Servant. (nods.)

Quite a rustic! how long have you been in town?

Our town?

London.

I thought as how you meant our town, I com'd from Yorksop, in the county of Norfolk, to get a place.

Your name?

What of it?

What is it?

Oh! my name is Joey; but volks call'd me Mr Joey all the way up; that I com'd upon the coach roof, for as it's near Christmas time; all the inside pas­sengers were turkeys. I quitted-our-village in a huff, with one Nan Hawthorn, my sweet-heart; cause why, she got jealous, and sawcy given.

The wages, this lady gives to her▪ foot-boy, are eight guineas a year.

Guineas! that won't do, I must have eight pounds.

Well, if you insist upon eight pounds, ha, ha, ha.

Oh! I'm hired.

You can give, and take a message.

Yes sure.

Then, let's see, run.

Where?

To the door, you blockhead.

Well, I be's at the door, what now?

The deuce! open the street door.

Oh! here comes a lady.

My dear Belinda! come up (to Joey) when you hear the bell.

These gentle volks don't mind what trouble they give a poor zarvant man.

My dear friend, I've quitted Southampton boarding school without leave; though.

My sweet girl! I'm very glad to see you, but is this a prudent step?

To be sure, when I was kept there; so long against my will, by my aunt.

Ah, Belinda! confess the truth, wasn't it to see your uncle's nephew, Frank, that you've scam­per'd up to town?

Ha, ha, ha, 'pon my honour you're a witch; but suppose so, why not? you and I were school-fel­lows t'other day, yet here you're married; a propos, how is your dear husband?

The Doctor is well.

You're already happy with the man you love, while I'm kept at a boarding-school, when I'm able to teach my dancing-master.

Why then my dear Belinda, since your last letter, I've been planning schemes how to make you happy with the man you love.

My good creature, do tell me.

You know if your uncle, Mr Cockletop's tooth but aches, he fancies he'll die directly, if he hasn't my husband Doctor Camomile's advice, he's the grand oracle of his health, the barometer, and thermometer of his animal system; now as the Doctor is at Winchester, on a visit to some of his old College chums, and won't leave his good orthodox bottle of [Page 6] old port, to visit him here in London; he shall visit the Doctor at Winchester; if we can but get your uncle to leave town, on that hangs my grand scheme for the establishment of you and Frank; your aunt's maid, Mrs Flounce, and Mr Napkin the butler are my con­federates.

Oh charming! but I must know it though.

Well?

And well?

I'm com'd up, as you bid me.

But you shou'dn't have come, 'till you had heard the bell.

And wounds, it's ringing yonder, hard enough to pull church steeple down.

Ha, ha, ha!

Joey, carry those to your master.

Plants and Simples, cull'd for him, by the Doctor.—Your uncle will now be a bota­nist, as well as an antiquarian.

Ha, ha, ha! but my aunt's new fangled rage for private theatricals, are to the full as unacountably ridiculous, as my crazy uncle's passion for musty anti­quities.

Come be chearful my sweet Belinda, for I'm going there directly, on your affairs.

My kind friend!

Call a coach

Ha, ha, ha! why you've put on the Lady's hat.

Ecod one would think the Lady had put on mine.

Your London Ladies are so manified, with their Switch Rattans, and their coats and waistcoats, and their tip-top hats, and their cauliflower cravats; that ecod, I shall be in Lon­don a long time before I know a man from a woman.(Takes up the basket, and Exit.)

What a strange incident, my marrying this old Mr Cockletop; 'pon my honour, was I single, I'd have the most beautiful Theatre in my house, and his nephew Frank, shou'd be the Manager, of late he looks at me in a very particular manner; I can scarce think it possible for these features, to strike any body with admiration.

Ma'am those features must strike every body with admiration.

you flatter 'em.

Not in the least ma'am—but what signifies your beauty, or my skill in setting it off, my master since he's turn'd his brain—

Aye, since my husband has turn'd Antiqua­rian—

With his curiosities, foreign cockleshells, mouldy farthings, and all his old fashioned trumpe­ries,—I dare say, he'd sell you for the wing of a but­terfly.

Flounce; I'll take you to see Lear, to-mor­row night at Lord Rantum's private Theatre.

Thank'ee ma'am; but Miss Toepit's maid told me all of them, except your Ladyship, made a strange piece of bungling work of their play there last Wednesday.

Work! Oh heavens, if Shakespeare cou'd have taken a peep at them, ha, ha, ha! Romeo and Juliet the play; the hero, on breaking open the tomb, totally forgot what he had to say next; in vain, the prompter whispers the word; poor Juliet might have remained in Capulet's Monument, 'till Doomsday; at length impatient; (for it grew monstrous cold) I softly bid him speak; why don't you speak? He, taking it, for what he should say, with all the fervor of distract­ted love, burst out "speak, speak, why don't you speak." Ha, ha, ha!

My first piece of service in my new place.

Ah! (screams.)

(angrily.) Astonishing, Mr Cockletop, you won't even let me have my dressing room to myself.

Oh Mrs Cockletop, what a prize! I have bought one of the long books of Livy, a manuscript so capitally illegible, that no man on the globe can dis­tinguish or read a letter of it; let's see, what change he has given me. (reckons money.)

Full of snails.

The botanical plants from Doctor Camomile, carefully pick 'em up, every leaf has the virtue—

Will they heal my wounded pocket?

Eh! what you lizard! the valuable simples.

Do my dear, let poor Frank have a little money, give him a few guineas.

Aye Sir, a few guineas cou'd never come in better time, as I'm just whip and spur, you see? hey, spank to Southampton.

Pray Frank, what business have you there?

What! but to see, my lovely cousin.

Eh!

Oh! is that your business.

May be you like—

Aye, do you admire my niece?

Admire! I love her to distraction.

the sweet girl doat on myself

get out of my sight you Locust.

Love her! after all my fond hints to him

pray sir, give me leave to express my obliga­tions to you, when I was rehearsing Imogen with you t'other night, and was to have fainted in your arms—

Aye, you villain, you stepp'd aside, and let my dear wife tumble backwards, and knock her fine head against the brass fender—take a double hop out of your two boots, you jackdaw, how dare you stand before me with your horse-whip in your hand?

Ma'am, Mrs Camomile.

Sir, command your nephew to think no more of my niece; love another, you Amateur; stand from the entrance.

Why, my dear uncle, you are really a good natured old lad, but for this nonsensical passion for antiquities, in which you have no more judgment than my boot.

What's that?

Didn't you give twenty pounds for the first plate ever Hogarth engrav'd; though 'twas only a por­ter pot from the barley mow?

No.

Didn't you throw a lobster in the fire, swear­ing it was a salamander?

Yes, but that was when I was sick. In bo­dily health my mind is bright and polish'd; but you most audacious dromedary! traduce my skill in anti­quities!—Hark'ee, when you can prove to me, that it's possible I can be imposed on in antiques, that is when I am in bodily health, I consent to give you Belinda; here's my hand on't. Begone, your face is as odious to me as a new copper halfpenny.

Sir here's the receipt.

Ah Hearty! you're my uncle's steward, re­ceiver of his cash, and yet do tip me a few guineas; cheat him a little, my honest fellow.

Mustn't.

Plague of the money! I'm sure I want it; my friend Jack Frolic, the player frank'd me into Co­vent-Garden, sat down in the upper boxes, between Miss Trump, and Mrs Roll about, when the curs'd orange woman thrust in her basket, with. "sweet gentle­man treat the ladies," I was obliged to clap my hand on my pocket, say my purse gone 'pon my honour; no entering a public place for the light finger'd gen­try; so the ladies treated the sweet gentleman; coming home yesterday, caught in a soaking shower; "your honour; coach unhir'd," in I jumps, not recollecting his dismal honour hadn't a shilling to pay for't; so as the fellow clapt to one door, out I pops at t'other, [Page 12] but then I got mobb'd by the watermen, and broke my nose over a post running away from the link loy.

Why Frank, I'll lend you my own money with all my heart.

No, before I strip you of what you may yet want to cherish your old age, I'll perish; yet this is my Belinda's birth day, by heavens, I will wish, aye, and give her joy, though I foot it every mile to South­ampton, and dine on water-cresses, by the ditch-side.

Spirited lad! I hope by means of this letter, I shall be able to serve him. I'll sell my old master the small collection of odd sort of rarities Ive made him, but as his knowing them to be mine may lessen their value in his opinion; this letter rouses his desire to buy them; then if I can but make him believe they are from Italy, or Herculaneum, or—

You're the new footmen?

Yes, I be's, I've put on my livery.

Here's a letter for your master, give it to him directly.

So I must give this letter too; Ecod! they're resolved in London to keep no cats that wont catch mice.

"A service in London is no such disgrace."

Isn't that?

Why Joey.

Nan! how glad I be's to see thee.

But what brings you here, and this fine laced coat?

Why I be fix'd here, for a zarvant man.

Zure! lard how comicle! and I hired here to day as maid.

Hills and mountains will meet. O dear—O—dear!

I'm now sent in here by Mrs Flounce, to do up lady's dressing room, that it seems some clumsy booby has thrown leaves about'n.

I'm not a booby Nan; I find you're as saucy tongued as ever.

O la! was it you Joey! I ax pardon.

'Twas all along of your crossness, I com'd up to London.

And 'twas your false heartedness drove me to seek my bread here.

Well, since good luck has brought us into one house—we'll never quarrel, nor be unkind any more.

Nor I never more will be jealous. —O ho! you've had this letter from Poll Primrose; oh! you deceitful!

The devil! a'dy'e see, what you've done now, this letter was for measter—if I hav'n't a mind.—

"Sir, encouraged!" why Joey don't be angry, the first letter I ever get for my lady, you [Page 14] shall open for me, that you shall.

"Better my fortune as other girls do!

Ecod!, you've spoil'd my fortune! what will become of me? before I've time enough to be set down in my place, I shall be kick'd out on't.

Where's Hearty?

For my uncle, how came it open?

It's open'd.

Why if it's you that—do you know that opening another man's letter is transportation.

Is it? then ecod I'll take the blame upon my­self, rather than Nan should go to Botany Bay,

'twas I broke it open Sir—but I meant only to—to break it open—all accident.

"Sir, Encouraged by your character, I shall to morrow in person offer you for sale some Antique Rarities!" this promises something,

well my lad, keep your own secret, and I'll bring you out of this curs'd scrape.

Do Sir.

Any wafers here?

I believe there's some in that box; but I'll get you a haperth.

My old conceited uncle has engaged to give me Belinda, when I can prove that its possible to im­pose on him in Antiquities. This may do it, and bring me a convenient sum besides, for with all the ri­diculous enthusiasm of a virtuoso, my uncle has small [Page 15] reading, no taste, but has a plentiful stock of creduli­ty.

Why I could have done that myself.

There' you dog, stand to it stoutly

that's the very one you received.

A thousand thanks, kind Sir,

But I shall want a disguise;

harkyee, you've put on your new livery since you came, where are your own cloaths?

In the butler's pantry, for you must know, Sir, when I com'd I was waundy hungry, so I went there to get a snack.

Quick, go give the letter.

Yes, Sir.

Ha, ha, ha! yes, uncle, if you have cash to buy Antiquities, I'm a stupid fellow indeed, if I can't find some to sell you, and if I succeed; hey to Southampton with the triumphant news to Belinda.

That's the very letter, I was desired to give it you, I assure you, Sir, it was not open'd.

The things this learned man mentions here are really very curious.

Sir, here be Mr Napkin, the butler, coming.

Sir, a man wants you there below.

Then Sir, do you send him up here above.

Eh! what are you idling here? come, come, I'll shew you the business of a footman, you must toast the muffins for mine and Mrs Flounce's breakfast.

I will Sir, and broil a beef-stake for my own,

Only that my brain is for ever running on my wife's charming niece Belinda; (oh! how I do love her: I love every thing old, but girls, and gui­neas;) I should certainly be second a Sir Hans Sloane— I'd be a Solander, and a Monmouth Geoffry.—Now, who's this?

If my uncle knows me now, he must have good spectacles.

Measter told me, as he told you in a letter, he'd call on you to-morrow with some rarities.

Oh, then you belong to the gentleman who sent me this letter, where does your matter live?

At Brentford, but I be's from Taunton Dean, and as I was coming to Town to day, he thought I might as well drop them here; if you'll buy them, these be they.

Oh! what he's sent you, with the things that are mentioned here

I warrant 'em all waundy rich; he gave me such strict charge about'n.

Rich! ah, these fordid souls can't conceive that the most extreme delight to the eye of an antiqua­rian is beautiful brown rust, and heavenly green ver­digrease. Let's see,

the first is a Neptune's trident from the barbarian gallery.

That's it—

One of Niobe's tears, preserv'd in spirits.

That—

Curious! a piece of houshold furniture from the ruins of Herculaneum, comprizing the genuine sec­tion of the Escurial, Precious indeed!

section of the Escurial; aye then, it must be in the shape of—

That's it —

"The cap of William Tell, the ce­lebrated Swiss patriot, worn when he shot the apple off his son's head.

I've forgot to bring any thing even like that, what shall I do

I warrant it's here Sir.

I hope it is, for I will not buy one without all.

Then all you shall have,

"That's it may hap?"

Great! this is indeed, what the Romans call'd the Pi-leus, or Cap of Liberty:

" half a yard of cloth from Otahiete, being a part of the mantle of Queen Oberea, presented by her to Captain Cook."

Zounds, I was in such a hurry to get to work, that I've forgot half my tools.

Where's the cloth from Otahiete?

I dare say it's here,

no, mustn't hurt poor Joey. Eh!

belike that's it,—

What wonderful soft texture; we've no such cloath in England, this must have been the fleece of a very fine sheep.

Aye, taken from the back of an old stupid ram.

Speak of what you understand you clown, much talk may betray little knowledge. Cut your coat according to your cloath.

Yes, Sir, I cut your coat according to your cloth. I must fix him in his opinion now, with a lit­tle finesse,

Measter do expect fifty pounds for this balderdash.

Here's the money.

No, if he even thought you such a fool to give it, he must be a rogue to take it, but he shan't make me a party. I'll let him know, I'm an honest man; damm'e if I don't throw them in the kennel, and quit his service—

Leave them there, and take the mo­ney to your master, or I'll make him send you to the devil, you thick scull'd buffalo.

Not a penny of it will I touch.

Here my good fellow; here's a guinea for your­self; there.—

Thank you, Sir; though I do think you're an old fool, and that you're most confoundedly humm'd.

Old fool! get you out of my house you scoun­drel, or I'll—

blow you to Taunton Dean you dog, I will.

Enter Mrs COCKLETOP and MRS CAMOMILE,

Heavens! Mr Cockletop, will you kill us?

Lord! what's on your head?

The cap of liberty; oh the super-beautiful purchase I have just made; such a charming addition to my little curious collection; Mis Camomile you've taste, I'll give you a treat.—I'll shew her all,

Heavens! who has done this!

Pliny the elder.

Here take these, and fling them—

Lay your fingers on them, and I'll—Strabo, Campden— and Bishop Pocock— madam you shou'd,

that is you—you do know— you're a Dilitnete. I say you are a celebrated Dili— and—now what a fine discourse an F. R. S. would make on these, madam, I say.

Bless me! who has trimm'd you thus?

Sir Ashton Lever, I wish your husband Doc­tor Camomile was in town; I've here such a feast, [Page 20] for the venerable Bede. Travellers, come, and lay at my feet, the wonderful fruits of their wise researches. A wake!—prepare your understanding, here's a tear of—the devil, I forgot who cried this tear

Hem! it's a precious drop preserv'd in spirits.

Ha, ha, ha!

Get along you most scandalous tongued, I de­sire Mrs Cockletop you'll order your slip-slop out of the museum, then, here is a most valuable—

Here, I'm sent to broil beef-stakes, and toast muffins, the cock said Mr Frank took, and brought out of the kitchen the—

They all cost me only fifty pounds; this is a Neptune's trident, and this piece of furniture from Herculaneum, the model of the Escurial, built in honour of St Lawrence who was broil'd on—

Thanke'e, Sir; I was looking for the toasting fork, and gridiron.

Ha, ha, ha!

What is that?

Why Mr Cockletop what have you been about here?

Only look.

I believe I'm bit. Taunton Dean, he was a a rogue,

Is my face genuine?

Why 'tis an antique; but indeed my dear, you don't look well.

Don't I?

This may help my scheme, to get him out of town

my dear Sir, I wou'd, not shock you' but you look—

Do I?

My husband, the Doctor, often told me, that your bodily illness always had an effect upon your mind.

No man living understands my constitution, but Doctor Camomile; I must be

phlebotomiz'd.

When a gentleman of your knowledge is so grossly dup'd, it's a certain sign—

It is, that I'm ill, or I never cou'd have been taken in.

Lud, I wish your husband, the Doctor, was in town.

I advise Mr Cockletop to go to him to Winchester.

Here [...] Napkin, order horses too: Your poor master will go to the Doctor at Winchester.

Aye, aye, to the Doctor,— to Winchester.

Napkin, ha, ha, ha! here's an opportu­nity for our plan; you know, as we've all without success repeatedly endeavoured to persuade the old couple, to settle some provision on their neice and ne­phew Frank and Belinda.

Aye, we must try stratagem.

The excuse your mistress gives is the chance of her having children of her own, whom she can't wrong, by lavishing their patrimony on others.

Ha, ha, ha! then to put her out of all hopes of that, as you have settled, we'll make her believe my master's dead, and as I am now going into the coun­try with him, leave that to me.

I fancy 'twill be easy, as she already thinks him ill—

And weak; heard him threaten to climb up the mouldering walls of Nettleston Abbey in search of a sprig of ivy, or an owl's nest, and if I can't invent a story to bring the old gentleman tumbling down—

Ha, ha, ha! and make your mistress the mourning widow, establish the dear, amiable young couple, well and happy.

'Twill be an excellent joke to laugh at over their wedding supper, but I must prepare for the jour­ney.

And I, home, to comfort poor Belinda, only do you act your part, most dolefully natural, and we must prosper.

Act II.

HOLLO! Mrs Camomile! here's a nick, ha, ha, ha! honest fellow; my horse is at the livery sta­bles t'other side of Westminster bridge, you'd best step on before me, have him out ready, you'll not have a moment to lose

ha, ha, ha! well my mock curiosities may. have a better effect, on my uncle than Hearty's real ones; if they can help to cure him of an absurd whim, that makes him the dupe of imposters, siinging his money after things of no utility

getting late, I'd like to see if Mrs Camomile has any commands for her friend Belinda,

then hey for my divine Belinda.

Pray Sir, whither in such a monstrous hurry.

My love, in the name of miracles how did you get here?

You know we've the best friend in the world, in dear Mrs Camomile, the mistress of this house.

Come, come, you happy pair of turtles— this room is the stage for a little comedy I'm to act with your aunt, of which I hope your union will prove the denouement.

Madam, my mistress is just drove up to the door.

Oh heavens! if she finds that I have run to town,

Stop, she'll meet you on the stairs.

This way, Frank—when my aunt comes in here, we'll slip down.

But Belinda, you'll tell Frank what we're both at, and trip directly home, and you, and all the servants on with your sables.

Sables! what, to celebrate my true-love's birth-day, no, now that my crusty uncle's out of town, and I have cash, I'll have such a roaring entertainment at home—Tol—derol lol.

Will you hold your tongue, and come along.

If my little plot on their aunt but prospers —Flounce, run and desire Napkin to con over the lesson I taught him, and look as dismal as an executor left without a legacy.

And Madam, I'll bid him keep his hand­kerchief to his eyes for fear an unfortunate laugh should come on his face, and spoil all—Here's my mistress, madam, I wish you success.

Oh Mrs Camomile!

Well, how do you do?

Our house seems so melancholy since my poor dear man has left town, that now I can't bear to stay at home.

And when he was at home, you was always gadding.

I forgot to shew you my dress, had it made up for Cordelia, in our intended play at Mr Pathos's; as you were not there, I put it on to consult your taste.

Oh my dear creature, I forgot to thank you for my ticket, but excuse me, that an engage­ment—

Ha, ha, ha! You had no loss, for our tra­gedy was converted into a ball.—Lear you know was our play—which we got up with every care and elegance; Well, Ma'am, Colonel Toper, who was to have play'd Gloster, having conquer'd too many bottles of Bur­gundy after dinner,

"No, damme, I be for none of your stage—I'll sit in the side boxes among the ladies, begin your play by yourselves."—So says my Lord Brainless, I'll make an apology, and I'll—"Ladies and Gentlemen, Colonel Toper having been taken suddenly ill, hopes for your usual indulgence to accept a dance instead of the tragedy."—The fid­dles struck up Mrs Casey, and audience and actors join'd in a country dance—'Pon my honour, tho' I laugh I am exceedingly melancholy.

You've nothing to make you uneasy; you are sure, that with my husband. Doctor Camomile, Mr Cockletop is in safe hands.

Well, Mrs Camomile it astonishes me how you can be cheerful while your husband's absent; but indeed it's rather unfortunate when people are found with hearts of more sensibility than others.

Why, Ma'am, here's Mr Napkin just come below.

But is his matter return'd too ?

Well, if he is not, why should that alarm you?

Then perhaps Napkin has brought word, where is he? why don't he come up—Napkin—

Torture me with suspence—Oh Lord Mrs Camomile if any thing's the matter, I shall die.

My dear good master.

My husband—Oh Lord! speak, pray speak.

Madam, will you have him brought up to town, or shall he be buried in the country?

Dead!

I wish, Henry the Eighth had levell'd Nettle­ston Abbey, my sweet master's thirst of knowledge-such a height—top of the old spire—his head giddy— feeble limbs—stretching too far, a stone giving way [Page 27] —though I caught him by the heel—head foremost— corner of a tombstone—dash—Oh!

My fears are true—I faint—I die—please to reach that chair.

Nay, nay, my dear friend, pray be com­forted.

Comforted, did you say? how is that possible, my dear Mrs Camomile, when I've heard you yourself remark that mourning don't become me —though if I was to dress like Almeria in the Mourn­ing Bride—

To confess the truth, I was afraid to tell you, but I before knew of this melancholy event, and there that foolish boy your nephew Frank, through his zealous respect for the memory of his uncle, has, contrary to all custom and decorum, already ordered the whole family to put on the black clothes that were only t'other day laid by when the mourning for your brother-in-law expir'd.

Madam, you're very obliging.

I see his loss bears hard upon your mind, therefore it mayn't be proper so soon troubling you with worldly affairs—but now my dear, you'll have no [Page 28] children of your own, indeed you should think of some establishment for your niece Belinda.

I'll first establish my husband's nephew Frank, merely to shew I prefer my dear man's relations to my own.

This will answer the same purpose, as Frank marries Belinda,

—Well shall I tell the lad your good intentions towards him?

You're very good, I'll tell him myself— but I'll first consult you my good friend on the thoughts I have in my mind how to make him happy, but in my interview with the boy I wouldn't have any body else by; the hour of sorrow's sacred, it's a cruel world, and people luxurious, sensual, gay, and fortunate, have no feeling for the disconsolate, widow.

My dear creature endeavour to keep up your spirits.

Ah friend, what should a poor woman do that has lost so good a husband, but try to—get a bet­ter.

Ha, ha, ha! this is the most whimsical thought of your friend Mrs Camomile.

Isn't it charming?

Your aunt, and indeed the whole family, ex­cept Mrs Flounce, actually believe, that my uncle's [Page 29] dead; this is your natal day, the birth of beauty; I'll give an entertainment upon my soul, ha, ha, ha! pert Mrs Flounce says, Oh, Sir; I Can't run any bills with the trades people—but dem bills and credit, while we've money—my uncle's curiosity guineas shall fly— Illuminate the rooms, brilliant lustres, gerandoles and chandeliers.

Yes sir! la! how where's Joey to do all this? Mr John, light the clusters, jeridoles, and chanticleers.

Lord Frank what's come to you?

Money and long separated friends have a joy­ful meeting—prepare the saloon-bell, we will have a ball.

Air the balloon, for master's going to play ball.

And lay supper, then let Napkin send for a pipe and tabor for a dance we must have, tol, lol, lol.

But indeed now this is extravagance.

Can't I afford a little extravagance? an't my kind aunt to give me my uncle's cash, then my Belinda you and I go to church, and Hymen in his saffron robes shall lead us to the rosy bower.

For Heavens sake Frank, a little decency be­fore the servants, how unfeeling they must think you.

I'll shew you the feeling of servants for such a master.

Harkee! Tom, the coachman, you know your mas­ter's no more.

Aye, Sir, death has whip'd his horses to their journey's end, to our great sorrow.

Poor Tom! I'm told you're so griev'd, you have sworn never to touch a drop of punch as long as you live.

Me! I'll be damn'd if I ever swore any such thing.

Ha, ha, ha! a jovial bout the servants shall have. Fly, and every one bring in his hand something toward the good cheer of the night.

All my doors open, this blowy night reminds me of Lisbon earthquake, but my storm cap has pro­tected me, —odd my not finding Belinda at Southamp­ton—I wish I had come into town over London-bridge; that now is a sort of young ruin—but then over West­minster-Bridge, to see my man Joey; mounted like the emperor of Morocco's blackamoor—I'm not sorry Nap­kin left me, nobody knows now I've been after my sweet Belinda—how glad my loving wife will be when she finds I am come home and well—

Eh, my dearee has company—this don't speak much feeling for my illness.

While Napkin is uncorking the wine, I'll see if I can't spread a table cloth as well as a hammer cloth.

I wonder who drives my old [Page 31] master now in t'other world?—does he go up or down hill?

Eh! now who has put Thomas my coachman into mourning?—As I left you a pied zebra, why do I find you a black bear?

Gee up!

What's all this about?

I love's beet-root—

Yes, and so do I— Tell me young woman, for whom are you in mourning.

Haven't, I mistook the house? I believe I'm at next door.

Ha, ha, ha! Flounce if you had seen how ca­pitally doleful I play'd my part.

None of your dolefuls now master's out of town, Mistress safe at Mrs Camomile's, the house to ourselves and the young pair—since Mr Frank will treat us to a little hop.

Aye Flounce, for music you know, Im no bad scraper.

No, Napkin, nothing gives so much spirit to a dance as a pipe and tabor—so send out and see if one can be had.

My fiddle John.

Now listen Flounce for our country dance; only mind the violin, why I'll Lift up Ja [...]ky Bull sprightly enough to move the dead, aye, even to make our old master caper about.—

So my good friend, I bring you into the coun­try, you leave me sick, sneak away, and here I find you like N [...]ro at Rome, rasping your Cremona, ex­plain what brings you all in black—if any body's de­ceas'd, why do you celebrate the funeral rites with feasting and fiddling; and if no body's dead, why change my dovehouse into a rookery.

Oh then there is somebody! who is it? Eh, tell me! Vexation, an't I to know? Sblood, are people to die in my house, and the master not to be told?

What, or who shall I say?

What am I to think of all this?

Why Sir, from seeing us all in black—you're to think—that—that—

What?

That we're in mourning.

But for whom? it can't be my friend Mrs Ca­momile, or my nephew Frank? oh Lord, if it should be Miss Belinda—no, no, they wou'dn't fiddle and dance for them—now there is one belov'd person [Page 33] that I don't care a farthing for

—yet I left her so well—I see they are afraid to shock me— Napkin is it—is it—

It is—my—wi—wi—wife—'tis so, his si­lence is a funeral oration.

Oh, ho? it be a bitter sharp night, my hands are stone.

Are you petrified, I wish you were; I'd put you in a case.

But, Sir, here we come home, and find all our servants in mourning, and when I ask for whom, they shake their heads and walk away.

Joey, its for—for your mistress.

My Lady dead! I believe I ought to cry

The gentle friend and companion of my youth.

Yes, I should cry.

Oh!

The best of wives—

The kindest mistress,

Yet my servants' rejoicing shews how ill she was beloved.

Yes Sir, I said to myself when I com'd, Joey, said I, you have got a good master, but a bad mistress.

Stay, I'm releas'd from her extravagant vaga­ries, why she'd give as much for a little toilette patch box as would purchase the black letter palace of plea­sure [Page 34] —her week's hair dressing would buy me Colly Cibber's, Foppington wig—then her temper.

She was a wixen devil.

With her lace cap and her fripperies,—her private plays, with her denouement and catastrophe.

If I didn't suspect she play'd in private with that Mr Denoumong behind the tapestry.

I've no right to be so sad.

Yes, Sir, we man be glad, ha, ha, ha, ha! he, he, he!

The funeral over—I'll do what I've long wished, convert her dressing room into my museum—the room has an easter prospect—the windows face Athens—though disgraced now by cockspur Persu­mery, and Fleet-street japannery—I'll remove her things out of it.

Kick them down stairs, an't you man of the house?

I am! you're but a boy—but I see you've spi­rit—follow me to her dressing-room.

Yes, Sir.—Hem!

Every room, every article of furniture only reminds me of my dear man—my belov'd Frank's ill tim'd mirth don't correspond with his haste in getting Every body into mourning, but indeed my poor hus­band was never an uncle [...]o him.

Oh madam, you look so well in your weeds.

Do I ?—though I revere the memory of my late husband, yet his ridiculous passion for shells, fossils, and antique nonsense was got to such an intole­rable height—was determined on the first opportu­nity I'd fling all his rubbish out of the house, and now I'll do it, it's a good large room, and I think tastily [...]itted up will make me a most beautiful little theatre —the thought charms me, but alas my charmer is no more. I'll instantly go up, and throw all his old cop­pers and crocodiles out—his museum

[...] most horrid place, but I will have it clear'd out, [...] you come and help me.

Yes, an't please you.

Ha, ha, ha! if our mistress could but pop her head out of her coffin and see what a fine rum­mage we have made among her falderals, trinketies, and ginglibobs

A, by itself A-l-o-lo-t-i-ti-on, lotion for the face,

face! ecod I think it's a good notion for the stomach—the very thing I wanted to warm my gay little heart—they say what people set their hearts on in this world, runs so much in their heads, that even in t'other they can't rest if they should be disturbed—Maister says he'll give these to the flames— I'll ask him to give them to my flame pretty Nan—if she gets this here cap upon her [...]ate, and our lady mistress was to come stalking in with a candle in her dead hand.

And then says Nan, with a trembling voice "Who's here" not pereciving her.

Don't be afraid Joey, its only me.

Mercy on us.

Heavn's! who pulled my things about this way?

Now the devil was in our master, that he couldn't let'n bide.—I thought we should have her up

Who did it?

Will it quiet your poor soul?

Bid Nan make haste down to me.

Down! then she's,

Ah, these London ladies lead tory rory lives,

Nan,

Don't hurt Nan—I'll go for a Parson.

Parson! then my intentions to marry Frank is already known among the servants—but I'll see how Flounce dare to let my room be ransack'd in this man­ner.

I've left the parson in the room—who's there? but he insists it be auld master that's dead—the good gentleman that just now with me for madam's death [Page 37] cried so fine, all alive and merry: but this stupid mi­ster won't believe it, so if he meets her there, and [...] still disturbed about her rumplified caps, she'll gave it him for certain; I know nought where master's got to, and the servant's seem all to hide. Can't find Nan, I would we were both safe again in the country —Well, I've saved this drop of cordial—who's you? Heaven defend us she is come again—I have no hopes now but my bottle and this table.

Frank!

this is the room I desired Mrs Camomile to bid him meet me in, and here he comes this way—Frank—

I'm glad there's no light though ; to discover my blushes at the open declaration I must make him.

As dark as an Egyptian catacomb. Belinda venturing to town must be on the report of her aunt's death, and if Hearty has told her—I'll speak to her here.

Are you there ?

Yes, 'tis she. I wish we had a light—where are you, you little guinea pig?

Eh, my dear when I bury Mr Cockletop.

Bury me—

—When for you I'll make a mummy of Mrs Cockletop.

Angels and Ministers! it's the ghost of my deceas'd husband come to upbraid me —oh much wrong'd spouse!

Spouse! it's the spirit of my wife—Oh Lord! oh great injured goblin!

Oh here's the parson striving to lay my mis­tress—but shell surely tear his head off—it's my poor dear master—help, murder!

Eh! what work's here?

My lady's ghost tearing old master to pieces.

Mr Cockletop alive!

My wife not dead.

Uncle, you promis'd that when proved to be deceived in Antiquities, Belinda should be mine,

Now zure besides the fifty pounds, give her to poor Taunton Dean.

Was't you? take her: I was a wise man till my brain got Love coddl'd—so my dear let's forgive Frank and Belinda, and forget our follies.

Come, come, let us transfer our passion for ancient virtue to the encouragement of Modern Geni­us.—Had not Rome, and Athens, cherish'd the arts of their times, they'd have left no antiquities for us to admire.