GO on, dear sister Dolly—And so my sweet girl was brought to the Widow Gadly's, as a relation of her's from Shropshire, and went by the name of Belton?

Yes, yes—you had not been gone to London two days, before your father and she met in the Wi­dow's garden; I was with him, he was very inquisi­tive indeed, and was struck with her lively manner; I could hardly get him home to dinner.

Why this was beyond expectation; and so, Dolly—

Yes, his liking went much beyond my ex­pectation, [Page] or your wishes: In a week he fell in love with her, and is at this time a very dangerous rival.

I am sure to have some mischief happen in all my schemes.

Her singing, and twenty little agreeable fooleries she puts, on have bewitch'd him: Her mi­miking the Gipsies has so inchanted him, that he has prevailed upon her to come to the May-pole to-day among the holiday lads and lasses, and tell their for­tunes. She has dress'd up herself often and been among 'em, without their knowing who she is—in short, she has bewitch'd the whole village—I am to be there too as her mother—My father will have it so.

So much the better, while you are telling fortunes, I may talk to her without being observ'd; send but a fortune-teller, or a mountebank, among country people, and they have no eyes, and ears, for any thing else: Where is my father now?

Upon some knotty point with Roger Dozey, the clerk—I must go, and prepare for the frolick: don't be melancholy, Will; the worst that can hap­pen is to marry the girl without your father's consent, turn gipsy with your wife, and send your children to steal his poultry.

But harkee, Dolly, who is to have Mr. Goodwill's May-day legacy? A hundred pounds is a tolerable foundation to build upon—What is become of George, Dolly?

I have not time to tell you—He is a rogue like the rest of you: But as I have a heart that can make an honest man happy that possesses it, so it has a spirit within it to despise a knave, or a coxcomb.

[Page 3]

Well said, Dolly!—but I am afraid in my situation, I must give up all hope.

Then you'll give up the best friend you have; make much of her, or with a true female spi­rit, like mine, she'll leave you the moment you seem to neglect her.

Well, but Dozey, think a little, and hear a little before you speak, and understand my question.

Put it.—

You know that Walter Goodwill, Esq. left a legacy of one hundred pounds, to the couple who shall be married upon certain conditions, in this parish, on the first of May.

I have 'em in my hand here, a true copy.

You told me so before.

Truth may be told at any time.

Zounds! hold your tongue or we shall keep talking all day.

Keep your temper, which is a better thing.

But I can't, if you won't hear me.

I say nothing, and will say nothing.

I know you are my friend Dozey, and I have been your friend—I found you a good companion and a scholar, and got you rais'd from sexton to clerk.

Necessity! There was but one person more in the parish beside myself who could read, and he stammer'd.

Well, well, no matter, we shall never come to the point.

Never, if you travel out of the way so.

I say then—

And I am silent.

I am over head and ears in love.

You had better be over head and ears in your horse-pond, for that might cool you—Put no more upon an old horse than he can bear—An ex­cellent saying!

You put more upon me than I can bear: I want no advice but your opinion. If I marry Fanny Belton, may I demand 'Squire Goodwill's hun­dred pound legacy?

I will read it.

Zounds, I have read it a thousand times; and the bellman cries it all about the parish.

Are you her free choice?

To be sure I am, as she is mine.

What age has she?

About twenty

Has she her senses perfect?

To be sure.

I doubt it!—a girl of twenty marry three­score and five, a free choice, and in her senses, it can't be.

You are grown old and stupid.

She must be young and stupid, which is worse.

May I claim the legacy, if I marry her?

You say the choice is free?

I do.

But is it not fit, another of the conditions—The choice must be both free and fit—Ergo I say you can't have a penny of it.

Why will you vex me so, Roger Dozey? I am always helping you out of scrapes and difficulties, and why won't you assist me?

I am getting you out of a scrape now, by preventing your marrying.

I'll tell you what Roger—there is something [Page 6] so perverse about you, that tho' I am your friend, you are always thwarting me.

Because you're always wrong—You are so blinded with passion, that you wou'd thrust your hand in the fire, if I did not take care that you should not burn your fingers.

Well, but dear Dozey, you are the fore­horse of this parish, and can lead the rest of the team as you please. Pray now con over this matter by yourself, you shall sit in my little smoaking room, and have a bottle of my best October to help your study, and when you have finished the bottle, and settled your mind with a dram afterwards, meet me at the may­pole, and give your opinion. I shall be there by that time, to claim the girl, and the legacy—If it is mine, a good large fee out of it shall be yours. Remember that.—

It is the only thing you have said worth re­membering—let me see—a large fee, and a good bot­tle of October will do wonders—and yet to make the union of one and twenty, with sixty-five fit, will re­quire more fees than his purse can furnish, and more October than ever was, or ever will be in his cellar—However, not to be rash—I'll drink the bottle, and consider the case.

Well sung my lasses—which of you all will have 'Squire Goodwill's legacy? I don't believe that any of you are in the right road to it—it must be turn'd over to the next year, and then I shall marry one of you out of pity, and get double by it.

I'll assure you, Goodman Clod—I would not have you for double, and double, and double—

The grapes are sour, Betty—

What a sin, and a shame is it—that a poor girl should miss such a fine fortune, for want of a sweetheart.

It's a sin, and a shame that there's no young fellow to be had for love or money—The devil is in 'em I believe.

They are like their betters in London—they marry, as they would do any thing for money—but then they yawn, and had rather let it alone.

What the duce, have we got any maccato­nies in the country?

Maccatonies! What are them, Clod?

Tho'f I saw a power of'em, when I was up among 'em, yet I hardly know what to make of 'em.—

What were they living creters?

Yea, and upon two legs, too—Such as they were.

What like christians?

'Ecod I don't know what they're alike, not I—they look like something—and yet they are no­thing—I heard a person say, I sat next to at the show play (for I would see every thing) that these maccato­nies, say themselves they have no souls, and I say they have no bodies, and so we may well say that they look like something, and are nothing, 'ecod.

Come prithee Clod, let's hear all about what you saw in London, and about the fine ladies too, what did they look like pray?

Like a hundred things, all in one day, but my song that I got there, will tell you better all about it, than I can.

Well sung, Clod—

But, tell us, Clod—how did young Will Fur­row behave in London?—he rak'd it about, I suppose, and that makes him so scornful to us.

Poor lad! he was more mop'd than I was; he's not scornful—His Father, shame upon him, cross'd him in love, and he sent him there to forget it.

And he ought to be cross'd in love; what does he mean by taking his love out of the parish? if [Page 11] he has lost one there, he may find another here, egad, and I had lik'd to have said a better.

Ay, but that's as he thinks—if he loves lamb, he won't like to be cramm'd with Pork—Ha, ha, ha!

His father wou'd send him to the market town to make a schollard of him, which only gave him a hankering to be proud, to wear a tucker and despise his neighbours.

Here he comes, and let him speak for him­self—he looks as gay as the best of us.

My sweet lasses, a merry May to you all—I must have the priviledge of the day—Kisses and the first of May have ever gone together in our Village, and I hate to break thro' a good old custom.

Old customs are good all the year round, and there can't be a better than this—

Come, come, adon with your kissing, for here comes the cryer to proclaim 'Squire Goodwill's legacy.

O yes! O yes! O yes! Be it known to all lads lasses of this Village of Couple-Well, that George Goodwill, Esq late of Bounty-Hall, in this County, has made the following bequest—You, my lads, open your ears, and you, my lasses, hold your tongues, and hear his worship's legacy.

Silence—Silence.

Who knows indeed!

Silence, and don't disturb the court.

Well, my good girls, and which of you is to have the hundred pound legacy?

Any of us, if you will give us a right and title—what say you to that Mr. William? The money ought not to go out of the parish.

Ay come now—here are choice; you must be very nice indeed, if one of us, and a hundred pound won't satisfy you.

'Ecod but he knows a trick worth two of that.

Well, what say you, Mr. Will?

I like you all so well, that I can't find in my heart to take one of you without the others.

What, would you make a great Turk of us, and live like a heathen in a serallery?

You may as well throw your hat among 'em, Master William; these lasses cannot live upon such slender fare, as a bit of your heart.

Then they must fast, Clod; for I have not even a bit of my heart to give them.

What in the name of May, neighbours, comes tripping thro' Farmer Danby's gate, and looks like May from top to toe.

As I hope to be marry'd 'tis the Little Gipsy that has got a bit of your father's heart; aye, and a good bit too, and holds it fast.

I'll be hang'd if she's not going to the Grange now—Your father casts a sheep's eye at her—He hinders his own son from wedding lawfully, while he is running after this Little Gipsy—I hope she'll run away with his silver tankard.

Upon my word I think my father has a good taste. How long has she been amongst you? who is she? what is she? and whence comes she?

That we neither know, nor can guess—She always comes out of 'Squire Grinly's Copse, but no­body knows how she gets there—Clod dog'd her t'other night, but she took care to throw something in his eyes, that struck fire, and half blinded him.

Ay, feath, did she; and while I was rub­bing 'em, she vanished away, and left me up to my middle in a bog.

Poor Clod! you paid dearly for peeping.

I wish she would sing! she is a perfect nightingale.

Hush! hark! I hear something—let's go back, or she may be sham'd fac'd—She's very young, and seems very modest—True merit is always bash­ful, and should never want for encouragement: She comes this way—let us keep back a little.

What a character am I oblig'd to support? I shall certainly be discover'd—the country folks I see are retir'd to watch me, and my sweet heart among 'em—I am more afraid of a discovery from these, than from wiser people—Cunning will very often over­shoot the mark, while simplicity hits it. I must rely upon my dress and manner—if I can but manage to tell other people's fortune, tho' but falsely, I may really make my own.

She mutters something to herself; I wish I could hear what she is maundring about.

Fortune-tellers always do so—the devil must be always talk'd to very civilly, and not loud, or he won't be at their elbow.

Lord bless her, there's no harm in her—I wish I was the devil to be so talk'd to.

What a frolick have I begun! should I suc­ceed, our present distress will double our succeeding happiness—

[Page 16] Your servant, pretty maids, and to you also young men, if you are good, for naughtiness, they say, has found its way into the country—I hope none of you have seen it.

O, yes; I have seen enough of it, it hangs about one like a pest; and for fear my cloaths should be infected, I order'd that they should be burnt before I left London.

Ay, ay, wickedness there sticks to a body like pitch.

Then I'll fly away from the infection.

No, no, you little Gipsy, that won't do, we must hear that sweet voice again, and have our fortunes told before you go away.

I vow, neighbours, I think I have seen this face before.

It is not worth looking upon a second time.

Indeed but it is, I could look at it for ever.

'Ecod and so could I, and buss it into the bargain.

BET Law, don't make such a fuss with the poor girl, as if nobody was worth kissing but a Gipsy—sing away, child, and don't mind 'em.

No more I will, mistress.

Now you have charm'd our ears one way, my sweet Gipsy, delight our hearts by telling us our fortunes.

Here are fine cross doings in my hond.

Pray look into mine first.

Here's a hand for you, Gipsy!

I never saw a worse in all my life; bless me! here is—it frights me to see it!

Then I am sure it will fright me to hear it, so I'll stay till another time.

Little pretty Gipsy, what say you to mine?

You have a dozen lasses in love with you, and are in love with none of 'em.

There's a little witch for you!

There you are out, Gipsy; I do love one truly and sincerely.

As much as you love me—don't believe him, lasses—Come, come, let me see your hand again—by the faith of a Gipsy, you are in love, and the lass that you love—

Who is she?

She is in this parish, and not above twenty yards from the maypole.

The dickens she is! who? who is it?

Say no more, Gipsy; you know nothing at all of the matter; you should be whip'd for fibbing.

And I'll be the constable; but 'ecod I would not hurt her.

Ay, but I do know, and she is about my size.

Hold your tongue I say—here comes your mother I suppose.

What, did you run away from me you little baggage? Have I not warn'd you from wandering in the fields by yourself these wicked times?

Pray, mother, don't be angry; the morning was so fine, the fields so charming, and the lads and lasses so merry, I could not stay at home, and I knew you'd come limping after—

Hussy, hussy! have not I told you, that when the kid wanders from its dam, the fox will have a breakfast.

'Ecod, and a good breakfast too—it makes my mouth water.

I don't much like the company you are in—who is that young rake there?

One that hates kid mother, and is only giving your daughter a little good advice.

Indeed the young fellows of this age are not so rampant as they were in my days.—Well, my lads and lasses, who among you longs to know their for­tunes? I am the oldest, and the best fortune-teller under the sun.

Now, my dear little Gipsy, you must tell me my fortune.

Now for it, mother.

There's a slap o'the chops for old measter, 'ecod, I wish he was here to take it.

But now, come to particulars, goody Gipsy.

Ay, ay, to particulars, we must have par­ticulars.

Ay, zooks, let's understand your gibberish.

Let me sit down upon the bench under yonder tree, and I'll tell you all I know.

And he that desires to know more is a fool—come along, Dame D [...]al-Devil.

May heaven prosper what love has invented; and may this joyful day finish our cares for ever!

Where is the Gipsy? where is my little Gipsy, I say?

The wolf is near indeed, for here comes my father.

What shall we do?

Where are the lads and lasses, and what are you two doing here alone?

Had I my will, we should not long have been here alone: I would have put her into the hands of the constable, and sent her to her parish.

She has cheated him too—that's excellent! this is a rare frolic, faith

You send her to the constable, you booby!—I should have put you in the stocks if you had, Sirrah—don't be grave, my little pretty Gipsy, that bumkin shan't hurt you—what a fine may-game this is!—I love her more than ever!—I'll marry her to-day, and have the hundred pounds too—

I'll go home directly, I can't bear to see that young man look so cross

You shall go to my home, my dainty sweet Gipsy, and make him look crosser.

I wonder, father, you are not asham'd of yourself, to be impos'd upon by such a little pilfering creature, she ought to be whip'd from village to village, and made an example of.—

How the fool is taken in!—I'm out of my wits

I'll make an example of you, rascal, if you don't speak more tenderly to that lady.

Lady! a fine lady! ha! ha! ha!

Don't put yourself into a rage with him, he is mad they say, mad for love.

So am I too—I am his father, and have more right to be mad than he has.

A lady!—A Gipsy lady!—ha, ha, ha!

And what is more, Mr. Impudence, she shall be my lady—and then what will you say to that, rascal?

That you have got a fine lady.

Have I given you a good education, you ungrateful whelp you, to laugh at me? Get out of my sight, or I'll spoil your mummery—I will—

I am gone, Sir—one word if you please—You prevented me from being happy with the choice of my heart, and to one superior to her sex in every quality of the mind, and now without the excuse of youth on your part, or the least merit on her's—As you have made me miserable with great cruelty, you are going to make yourself so without reason. And so, Sir, I am your's, and that fair lady's very humble servant—Ha, ha, ha!

If I had not resolv'd not to be in a passion this first of May, the festival of our Village, I should have sent him to the bottom of our horse-pond; but I can't help laughing neither, you have done it so featly—How the poor boy was taken in; he! he! he!—fine frolick, faith! And now, Miss, I will open my mind more to you; why should we lose a hundred pounds?—I'll marry you to day—the better day, the better deed.—What say you, my little Gipsy?

It will make a great noise!

I love a noise—what is any body good for, without noise—besides we shall be the happiest cou­ple for a hundred miles round.

Not while your son is miserable—make him happy first, and then nobody can blame you.

What a sweet creature you are! Don't trouble your head about such a fellow, I'll turn him out of the house to seek his fortune, and so he'll be provided for.

If he is not happy, I shall be miserable, nor would I be a Queen at the expence of another's hap­piness, for all the world.

What a sweet creature you are!—and how happy shall I be; the rascal shall know your kind­ness to him, and how little he deserves it—it shall be done, and the Village shall know it is all your do­ings. And here they come! now for it! I am ten times happier than I was this morning!

Come, where is my son, where is Scapegrace?

Here, Master William!

Here's Scapegrace, Sir.

Now you shall know what a fine lady this is, or rather how unlike a fine lady she is. This pilferer, wretch, baggage, and so on—she vows not to be made happy till you are so—and so being prevail'd upon by her—and her alone—I give you my consent to marry the girl you were so fond of, or any girl of character, and before all my neighbours here, on this joyful holiday, the first of May, and I likewise consent to give you the Bilberry-farm, to maintain her and my grand children.

If you indulge my inclination, I have no right to find fault with your's—be my choice where it will, you will be satisfy'd.

More than satisfy'd—I will rejoice at it, and reward it—name the party, boy.

I always did obey you, and will now.

This—this is my choice.

Zooks! here's a fine over-turn in a horse-pond.

He's crack'd, sure!

I was, Sir, and almost broken hearted; but your kindness, consent, and generosity, have made me a man again, and thus we thank you.

This is some may-game—do you know her?—and does she know you?

We have known each other long—this is she father, I saw, lov'd, and was betroth'd to; but your command separated us for a time—in my absence to London, she was here under the name of Belton; you saw her often, and lik'd her, nay lov'd her—it was our innocent device, that you might see her merits, and not think 'em unworthy of your son—You over-run our expectations, and we delay'd the discovery till this, we hope, happy moment.

You must forgive 'em, measter.

To be sure.

I can't—I am trick'd and cheated—I can't recal the farm; but I can, and I will—

Be more foolish if you please—you have trick'd, and cheated yourself, measter—but heav'n has been kind to you, and set all to rights again—

I won't be sung out of my senses—

Where is he? where is the bridegroom? I have it, I have it—October has done it!—it has inspir'd me! and the legacy shall be old George Furrow's, or I will never taste October again—I have got you the money, old boy!

You are got drunk, you old fool, and I don't want the money.

What, you are sick of marriage, and don't want the wife perhaps—did not I tell you, it was not [Page 27] fit? was not I free enough to tell you so?—it is not fit.

This drunken old fool compleats my misery.

Old fool! what Mr. Pot, do you abuse your friend kettle?—old fool am I?—now judge, neigh­bours—I have been drinking October to make this a joyful May-Day, and he wants to marry a young girl to turn it into sackcloth and ashes—who's old fool now?

Take him away.

I shall take myself away—Lasses, if any of you long for the legacy, and are not engag'd, I am your man—that old fellow, there, would have married a child in sober sadness; but I have been courting a good bottle of October, and now, having lost my senses, I am free and fit to marry any body—

Ha, ha, ha!

Where's Dolly?—was she in this plot?

In that part of it you gave her: she perform'd the old Gipsy to a miracle, as these lasses can testify, and then went home to prepare the May feast.

I will have no feast.

Was she the old Gipsy?

It is all a dream to me!

I can't come to rights again.—

Never was known such a thing as ill-nature and unkindness in our village, on the first of May, for these ten thousand years.