SCENE I.

This, now, is my delight, to sit at breakfast while the men work. Come, honest Tom, let us make an end of our tankard, before my wife gets up; her raking so in London, (where between you and I, she stays a devilish deal longer than while she sells the sparrow-grass) keeps her a-bed woundy late of a morning.

Why, Master Bundle, I have often-times thought to myself, that it was a wondersome kind of thing, how it came to pass, that you two agree so badly; when, out of all the four and twenty hours, you are hardly ever above two of them together.

Ah, Thomas! Thomas! 'tis very hard that a man like me can't be allow'd to get drunk once a day, without being call'd to an account for it; but between you and I, she is the arrantest—

What are you all about there? Where's your lazy, idle master?

You hear she has begun to ring her usual peal; this is the way the moment she is up.

And I believe she seldom leaves off till she goes to bed; does she Master Bundle?

No, nor then neither; every thing must be her way, or there's no getting any peace. As soon as the marketing's over in town, away she and her favourite Robin, trudge to the two-shilling gallery of one of the play-houses; where they have pick'd up such a pack of damn'd nonsense, about sentiments and stuff, that I am not only obliged to put up with her scolding me all the time I do see her, but I am scolded in a language I don't understand.

Why, I should like that best now; for then, you know, one has no right to take it for scolding at all.

Oh, when once she raises her voice, you never can take it for any thing else.

Why then, mayhap, 'tis all concerning this same play-house business, that she's so stout against [Page 3] me, and does all she can to serve Master Robin with Miss Wilhelminy?

Ay, there was another of her freaks; she was then as fond of romances, as she is now of plays; and though my father, who was as plain a man as myself, swore he would not leave us a farthing, if we did not call the girl Margery; nothing would satisfy her forsooth, but we must give her the name of Wilelmina:—'Tis such a damn'd, confounded, hard name, that I was a matter of three years before I cou'd pronounce it right.

Well, stand to your oars, for here she comes!

SCENE II.

IS it not a most marvellous thing, Mr. Bundle, that I must be such an eternal slave to my family, in this here manner, while you and your cologuing companions are besotting, and squandering away your time with your guzzling, and every thing goes to rack and manger. I that am such a quiet, well-bred, easy, tame creature, that never scolds, nor riots, nor dins your faults in your ears; but am always as gentle and as patient as a lamb.

You are a very good wife to be sure, my dear, only a little inclined to talking; if you, now, had no tongue, or I had no ears, we should be the happiest couple in the world.

What a provocating creature!—tongue! But this comes of marrying such a scum of a fellow, one that you may throw away all the tenderness in the world for, before it makes any oppression upon him.—But it serves me right, for 'tis very well known, what great offers I refused upon your account!

I don't know how it shou'd be otherwise than well-known, my love; for I generally hear of it about six times a day: But, my dear, don't you think it will be necessary to give orders about loading the cart, against you go to London?

Sir, I shall not go to London to-night at all: Robin, Miss Wilelmina, and I, are invited to go with a party to see the rowing match, this after­noon; and afterwards there is to be a hop at Mr. Wick's, the tallow-chandler's, where I intend to settle the purliminaries about my daughter's wedding: And I desire you to take care, that the pines are not all gone before next week, for I intend to invite the whole party to a hop here.

But, Madam Bundle, be'n't you some how or other afraid, that what with one thing, and what with another, you'll hop all the money out of your hus­band's pocket?

I don't direct my discourse to you, Sir; but tis my husband that encourages you to behave in such a brutish and outrageous manner. He has pro­mised you I know, that you shall have my daughter, but I'll make him know who's at home—I will:—I'll assure you, indeed!—Such a fellow as you!—A nasty, idling, scurvy rapscallion, that leads a filthy, drunken, lazy life; sotting in one ale-house, and sot­ting in another; and shall such a low brute dare to expire to the honour of marrying Miss Wilelmina Bundle?

I'll tell you what, Ma'am Bundle, I should not care much for marrying your daughter, if she was not of a little better temper than yourself.

Oh, the villain!—Why you vile, wicked—

My dear, how can you put yourself in such a passion, you, you know, who are such a tame creature—one that never scolds, or riots?—

I'll riot you all to some tune, I will—therefore Mr. Bundle, unless you wou'd have me sue for a separate maintainance—mind what I say—next time I go to London, I shall take Robin with me to Doctor's Commons, and nothing but your consent to his marrying your daughter, shall ever make me look upon you again.

SCENE III.

Well, and what do you say to all this?

Why, I'll tell you what, honest Thomas; for me to contradict her, would be much the same thing, as for you to row against wind and tide.

Why, then that wou'd be bad enough, Master Bundle.

But I'll try what I can do with my daughter for you, and all I can say to put you in heart, is, that if I find her as headstrong, and as perverse as her mother, I shall advise you to have nothing to do with her, and so save you from hanging yourself in a month.

But, Master Bundle, if I marries Miss, I ex­pect to be a little happier than you are.

Ah, Tom, Tom! the wisest of us may be deceived!

SCENE IV.

I don't know but you are in the right of it. A waterman wou'd be a confounded fool, that would put up a sail with the wind and tide both in his teeth.—But here comes Miss Wilhelminy:—If she marries me, I'll see if I can't get her to change her name.

SCENE V.

Take my advice, Miss, and let it be honest Tom.

Oh, you brute! did you hear me?

Why, Miss, suppose if I did, you a'n't afraid of speaking your mind, be ye?

My mind! why you have not the assurance to pretend, that I said any thing in favour of you?

Why no, I can't say directly that you said as how you'd have me; but I'm sure you can't help saying yourself, that it sounded a little that way.

And do you imagine then I cou'd perfer you to Robin, sweet Robin, as the song says, that's all over a nosegay, and the very pink of good breeding.

For my part, I makes no comparisments, as a body may say; but I'd be sorry, Miss, if there was not others as agreeable, and well behaved as he, however.

What, yourself I suppose?—Do you know, you odious creature, that he can spout Romeo by heart, and that he's for ever talking similies to me?

I know he's for ever talking nonsense to you.

Oh! hold your filthy tongue: Did you but hear him compare my cheeks to carnations, my hands to lilies, my beautiful blue veins to violets, my lips to cherries, my teeth to snow-drops, and my eyes to the sparkling dew that hangs upon the rose trees in the morning—what would you say then?

Ah, but you know, Miss, that's all in his way.

Then he writes verses, Oh, dear me! the author of the opera book, in the parlour window, is a fool to him for writing, Oh! he's a very Ovid's Metamorphose!

Why, for the matter of that, Miss, there are other folks that can write as well as he; what would you say now, if I had wrote something about and con­cerning my falling in love with you?

I shou'd then begin to have some hopes of you.

Shou'd you?—Why then I have.

Oh, dear! let's see it?

It's a song, Miss; I'll sing it to you, if you please.

[Page 10]Well, Miss, how do you like it?

Like it! why it is the very moral of your­self!—If you had not pass'd half your time between Wapping and the Tower Stairs, you could never have wrote such a song.

Didn't I tell you as how it was the thing?—Well, now, I hope you will consent!

Consent to what?

Why, to marry me: To be certain you won't find me like your Mr. Robin, an inconsidera­tive puppy, that will say more in half an hour, than he'll stand to in half a year! I am a little too much of an Englishman, I thank you, Miss, for that; my heart lies in the right place, and as we say, 'tis not always the best looking boat that goes the safest.

And so, Mr. Thomas, you really think by all this fine talking to make me dying for love of you?

Why, Miss for the matter of that, I don't see why I shou'd not.

Well, then, I'll tell you what, if you ever expect to have any thing to say to me, you must kneel at my feet, kiss my hand, swear that I am an angel, that the very sun, moon, and stars, are not half so bright as my eyes; that I am Cupid, Venus, and the three Graces put together.

Why, to be sure, all this may be very fine; but why should I talk to you in a lingo I don't un­derstand?

This, as my dear Robin says, is the only language of true lovers, and if you don't understand it already, you'll learn it for my sake.

I'll tell you what, Miss, if you don't marry me, till I make such a fool of myself, 'tis my mind you'll never marry me at all. I love you to be sartain, there's nobody can say to the contrary of that; but you'll never catch me at your Cupids and Wenisses; [Page 11] I am plain, and downright; I'd do all that in my power lay to make you happy, if you'd have me, and if you won't, I have nothing to do but to cast away care, and go on board a man of war, for I could never bear to stay here if you was married to another.

What, then, you'd leave England and all for the love of me?

That's what I wou'd, Miss.

Well, that wou'd be charming! Oh! how I shou'd doat upon it, if I was to hear them cry through Battersea-Streets, The unfortunate sailor's la­mentation for the loss of his mistress!

I'll stick to my word, I assure you; if you won't have me, I'll go on board a man of war.

SCENE III.

Well, 'tis a most charming thing to plague these creatures—die for me—If I had not given myself some airs to him, he never cou'd have thought of such a thing; but that's the way, if one does not use them like dogs, there's no getting any thing civil from them—but here comes Robin, I must plague him in another way.

Miss Wilelmina, may I have the unspeakable happiness to tell you, how much words fall short of the great honour, you wou'd prefer upon me, if you wou'd grant me the request, of favouring me with your hand this evening at the hop.

Why, Mr. Robin, what particular inclina­tion can you have to dance with me?

What inclination, Miss! ask the plants why they love a shower? ask the sun-flower why it loves the sun? ask the snow-drop why it is white? ask the violet why it is blue? ask the trees why they blossom? the cabages why they grow? 'tis all because they can't help it; no more can I help my love for you.

Lord, Mr. Robin, how gallant you are!

Oh, my Wilelmina! thou art straiter than the straitest tree! sweeter than the sweetest flower! thy hand is as white as a lilly! thy breath is sweet as honey-suckles! and when you speak, grace is in all your steps! heav'n in your eye! in every gesture—Oh dear!

Lord, Mr. Robin, you have said that so often—

Well, you never heard me say this in your life—now mind. My heart is for all the world just like a hot-bed, where the seed of affection, sown by your matchless charms, and warmed by that sun, your [Page 13] eyes, became a beautiful flower, which is just now full blown; and all I desires, Miss, is that you'll condescend to gather it and stick in your bosom.

And what pretensions have you to think I shall ever consent to such a thing.

Pretensions, Miss! because my love is bound­less as the sea, and my heart is as full of Cupid's ar­rows, as a sweet briar is full of thorns.

But I am afraid if I was foolish enough to believe you, you wou'd soon forget me.

Forget you, Miss! 'tis impossible! sooner shall asparagus forget to grow, seed forget to rise, leaves to fall, sooner shall trees grow with their roots in the air, and their branches buried in the earth, than I forget my Wilelmina.

Well, I do declare there's no resisting you.

Resisting me, Miss! no I don't know how you shou'd; my heart is stock'd with love, as a flower garden is stock'd with flowers. The Cupids that have fled from your eyes and taken shelter there, are as much out of number as the leaves on a tree, or the colours in a bed of tulips; You are to me what the summer is to the garden, and if you don't revive me with the sun-shine of your favour, I shall be over­run with the weeds of disappointment, and choak'd up with the brambles of despair.

That wou'd be a pity, indeed.

So 'twould indeed, Miss.

Do you really love me then?

Love you!

SCENE IV.

Oh, Papa! are you there?

Hush! hush! speak softly! you have not seen your mother, have you?

No.

Because I wanted to talk with you, Wilel­mina, my dear.

What upon the old subject, I suppose.

Yes, but I wou'd not have her hear us.

Oh! she's safe enough, scolding the men in the garden.

Oh! that will take her some time. Well, have you seen Thomas?

Yes, I have seen him, and a most deplorable figure he cuts; I believe by this time he has enter'd himself on board a man of war; that so, as the his­tory book says, he may put an end to his existence and my cruelty together.

Why, did he say he wou'd?

Don't I tell you I was cruel to him, and how cou'd he do any less.

Why the girl's distracted! but this comes of gadding about with your mother; if you had listen'd to my advice, I wou'd no more have suffer'd you to put on such ridiculous conceited airs—why, you and your mother are the laughing stock of the whole place; I never pop my head into the Black Raven, to get my pennyworth in a morning, but all the folks are full of it.

Why, Papa, we are only a little genteeler than the rest of the people of Battersea, that's all.

Genteeler! Do you call it genteel then to take a pleasure in being pointed at? But I'll not bear it; therefore hear what I have to say, or—

Why do you tell me of all this? Why don't you speak to my Mama? 'Tis no wonder she does what she pleases with me, when you know you don't dare to contradict her yourself.

Not dare to contradict her?

No, Papa; you know she will have her own way, and since she has desired me to have Robin, what can I do but be dutiful?

What then you owe no duty to me, I suppose?

Indeed I do; and if I cou'd see that you owed a little to yourself, I wou'd oblige you willingly.

But as it is, you won't marry Thomas?

I can't, indeed,

And for no other reason but because your Mama insists upon your marrying Robin?

No other.

Very well, I'll settle the matter; she shall do as I please, and if she was to come across me now—

SCENE V.

What then, Mr. Bundle?

My dear.

What cou'd have conduced you to raise your voice to such a pitch? I hope you had not the assurance to be tampering, and plotting, and un­dermining my daughter's infections; and, above all, I hope you was not hatching up any vile scheme to impose my authority.

Poor Papa! how he looks.

Why, my dear, I did intend to say some­thing to you on that subject, but as my tongue does not go quite so fast as a water-mill, I am afraid it wou'd be but to little purpose.

Scurvy creature!

If you don't speak, Papa, I shall be obliged to marry Robin.

I can't help it.

'Tis all your own fault now; don't blame me—I must marry Robin, you have perfectly given me your consent.

So thou cou'dst but unmarry me, I'd consent to your marrying whoever you pleas'd.

Well, my dear, what has he been say­ing to you? nothing I hope to discourage you in your infections to Robin.

Indeed he has, and I can't think of being undutiful.

Undutiful, indeed! I say undutiful—which will reflect most upon you do you think? to obey a mean, poor spirited, drone of a father, who has no­thing but low mechanical ideras, or a mother who is acquainted with Shakespeare, goes to all the senti­mental comedies, can play at cards, dance kittelions and allemands, and knows every particle of purlite­ness and high-breeding.

Very true, Ma'am; but then Mr. Thomas is such a sweet young man.

He!

So good-natured!

The Vandil!

So honest!

Low creature!

Such an immensity of love!

The Hottentot! I'll tell you what, Wilelmina, your father has put all this into your head [Page 18] I'll go and give it to him heartily, while my blood's up, for daring to be beforehand with me; and then I have but one word to say to you, either comply and marry Robin, or else I'll disinherit you from any share in the blood of my family, the Grograms; and you may creep through life with the dirty, pitiful, mean, paltry, low, ill-bred notions which you have gather'd from his family the Bundles.

SCENE VI.

Well, in all I have read, I never met with a girl of more spirit than myself—for I make two lovers, and a father and mother as miserable as I can desire; and yet, am I to blame? are not they the au­thors of all this bustle themselves? If I oblige one, I disoblige the other; I shall, therefore, set all other considerations aside, and consult only my own heart.

SCENE I.

WHAT shall I do with this perverse girl? I have but poor comfort for my friend Thomas—However, all things consider'd, I don't know whe­ther I shou'd not have done him a more unfriendly office by marrying him, than by keeping him single. For my own part, was I to chuse whether I wou'd keep my wife, or have the plague; on my conscience I shou'd run the risque of the last. But mercy on us! here she comes—'tis a strange thing that I never mention the word plague, but she's at my elbow.

Mr. Bundle—I shall be very cool, Sir.

I hope so, my dear.

What the devil is the reason that you have been making all this here piece of work?

My dear.

I say, Sir, how comes it to pass, that in spight of all my conjunctions to the contrary, you will behave so monstrously shameful as to oblige me to put myself in these here passions.

Why, my dear, are you ever in a passion?

Don't provoke me—you think, I sup­pose, because you have got your daughter on your side, to carry all before you; but, Mr Bundle, though [Page 21] you have been coaxing and wheedling her to marry that low, dirty—I won't bemean myself by repeating his filthy name. Though I say she has been undutiful, and wicked enough, to suffer such a low unpolite clown as you, to persuade her to marry a fellow as vulgar and as mean as yourself; yet if I have any authority, you shall no more carry it off in the man­ner you think—

My dear—

I won't hear a word.

Have a moment's patience now, and I'll con­vince you.

I won't have patience; nor I won't be convinced; 'tis a shame and a scandalous thing; and whoever tells me to be patient, or wants to con­vince, me it shall be the worse for them.

Go on, my dear.

Oh, how I am used! I cou'd hang myself for vexation.

My dear, if you had about half as much reason as you have passion, how very easily cou'd all these matters be settled; for you are wrong, from the begining to the end, in this affair; in the first place, I don't think it wou'd be very undutiful in a girl to do what her father desires her, was it as you say; in the next, I desired her to give her consent to marry Thomas, 'tis true, but she refused me.

Why this is worse than t'other—First use me ill, and then result me—for the girl told me with her own mouth, that she promised you to marry Thomas.

And she told me, with her own mouth, she had promised you to marry Robin.

What am I to think of this?

E'en what you please, my dear, you know I never dictate to you.

Here she comes herself, we shall know the truth of all this. Come here, child, speak in­genuosly now: Did not you tell me, that you would not marry Robin?

I did, Ma'am.

There, Mr. Bundle—and pray what reason did you give me for it?

Because Papa had persuaded me to marry Thomas.

And have you the confidence to look me in the face, after all this?

Pray hear me one word.

I won't hear a syllable.

Nay, let me speak in my turn. Wilelmina, come hear, child, speak ingenuously; did not you tell me you wou'd not marry Thomas?

I did, Sir.

There, Mrs. Bundle—and pray what reason did you give me for it?

Because my Mama had persuaded me to marry Robin.

And have you the confidence to look me in the face after this?

Why you little dirty trollop, have you been making a jest of us both?

Indeed, my dear, there is something—

Hear me, my dear Papa and Mama; when first you proposed Robin to me, and you Thomas, I determined to have neither, 'till one or the other had given me some proof beside telling me so, that he wou'd make me a faithful and affectionate husband; the first that does shall have me; and though I would not wish to have either of you think me undutiful, on that alone shall depend my giving my consent to be a wife.

SCENE II.

Well, my dear, what do you say to all this?

Say! why that I am perfectly in a quan­dary; the confidence of the baggage goes beyond all—One would think she had never been edicated by me.

Oh! I am afraid it's her having been edicated by you, as you call it, that has taught it her.

What do you stand muttering there about? 'tis you she may thank for all these mean no­tions; if she wou'd but suffer me to teach her a little the bone-tone, she wou'd despise the idera of consult­ing her heart about marrying, such low mechanical stuff has been out of fashion a long time since, among people that know how to bemean themselves.

Well, but I suppose, you intend to let her do what she pleases.

No, Sir; do you think I am so tame as to be ruled by my daughter? I believe you can witness for me that I seldom let any body rule but myself.

You never let any body rule but yourself, my dear; and really you do it so well, it is a pity to hinder you.

None of your sneers, Sir—But I see into the bottom of all this; 'tis a scheme between you and your daughter, to make a fool of me; but I'll after her and cure her of her ridiculous notions of love, and a pack of stuff, and she shall marry the man I have chose for her, or—In short, I have determined what to do, and let me hear you, or her, say a single word against it, if you dare.

SCENE III.

Master Bundle, how fares it? I wanted to speak to you, but I never likes to interrupt people when they are in agreeable company.

What you saw my wife with me, she is the most agreeable company, it must be confess'd.

Why she did not seem to be cantancaras with you now.

No, her anger was levelled at her daughter; but 'tis all the same, I feel the good effects of it, let her be cantancaras, as you call it, with who she will.

But, Master Bundle, how comes it to pass that she shou'd be angry with Miss Wilelmina? she has not refused to marry Robin, has she?

But she has though, and refused to marry you too.

Ay, ay, why I never heard she had any other sweetheart.

I don't know what the girl has got in her head, not I—a parcel of absurd s [...]uff! she has a mind to make fools of us all I believe; but there was something well enough too in what she said, if she's sincere; but the lord help those that trusts too much to them, say I.

Why, what does she say?

Why, that she does not know which she shall have yet; but that she'll marry the first that does any thing to deserve her.

Does she?—why then 'tis my opinion she'll marry me.

Why so?

I know why, well enough; but cou'd not a body speak to her now?

I am going in, and I'll send her to you; but I wou'd not have you depend too much on her.

I'll run the risque, Master Bundle.

Only see the difference between us, you are all agog to get married, and I wou'd give the world to be rid of my shackles.

Why, I believe if a man was to take up the trade of unmarrying folks, he would get more money by it, than you and I do by our's.

More money!

SCENE IV.

Yes, but I hope I shan't have such a crank and humoursome piece of stuff to deal with as you have; I don't know not I, but for my share, I can't see why married people mayn't be happy as well as others; 'tis my mind, Miss here, is trying which is the most loving of us two, and if so I wou'd not give my little Robin three-pence for his chance, for I know as well as can be, that he has no more notion of making a woman happy than nothing at all—but here she comes.

Hey, day! Why I thought you was gone on board a man of war before now?

Why no, Miss, I e'n't yet gone, I am in hopes there will be no occasion, if there should, I am always one of my word.

Oh, you unkind creature! to disappoint me so, I was in hopes by this time to have received a long letter from you, upbraiding me with my cruelty, and telling me that you were gone abroad with a broken heart at being disappointed of me.

Why, Miss, as to breaking my heart, to be sure I should go well-nigh to do that, if I could not persuade you to have me; but I have been thinking that it would be better to try if I can't stay at home, and do something to obtain your consent, for to be sure the pleasure of having you, is not what every body deserves.

Oh! 'till I hear you have been venturing your life for me, I shall never relent.

Well now, Miss, I for my part, think you will.

Indeed, you have a great deal of confidence to think any such thing.

I hope you won't be angry, if I do my best to make you—

And what do you call doing your best?

Why 'tis not my way to brag, and so I won't say any thing about it now, but I have a favour to beg of you if you please.

What is it pray?

Why, you know that the young watermen are to row for the Coat and Badge this afternoon, and so I have made bold to bespeak a room at the Swan, for you and your friends to go and see the sight.

That's very gallant, indeed, Mr. Thomas! but you talk of trying to deserve me, why did not you make one among the watermen, and so win the Coat and Badge yourself?

Well, never you mind any thing about that, will you accept of my proffer of the room?

Why, I think I will.

And do you think now, if ever I was to do any thing with an intent to please you, that you cou'd bring yourself to look upon me with kindness?

Why, I don't know but I might.

Why, then I assure you, if ever you shou'd be agreeable to marry me, you shou'd be as happy as ever love and an honest heart can make you.

SCENE V.

There's great honesty about this poor fel­low—Here comes t'other; I see I must choose soon, or there will be no peace for me. So, Mr. Robin, what news have you?

News, My angel! news that will make your heart dance with joy, and clear away the clouds and mists that hang on thy beautiful face; just for all the world as the sun clears away the showers in the month of April.

Indeed! I should be glad to hear it.

You can't think how you will be overjoyed.

Shall I? Why don't you tell it me then?

Well then, Miss, I'll keep you no longer in suspence; your mother is determined that we shall be married to-morrow morning.

What, whether I will or no?

Whether you will or no! how can you help it; don't I love you better than the ivy loves oak, better than cucumbers love heat, or birds love cher­ries; I love you better—

Hold, hold, Mr. Robin, 'tis necessary in this case I shou'd love you a little.

And don't you!—Hear this, you blooming jon­quils, and lose your sweetness! turn white you roses, and you lilies red! each flower lose its fragrance and it's hue, and nature change, for Wilelmina's false!

Indeed, Mr. Robin, you have such winning ways; that pretty speech has half persuaded me to consent.

Has it?

It has upon my word.

Jonquils smell sweet again! roses and lilies keep again your colour! and every flower look brighter than before, for Wilelmina's true!

How dearly you do love me, Mr. Robin!

Why, Miss, the passion which is planted in my heart has taken root, as like as can be to a great elm which there is no grubbing up, but it spreads farther and farther, and you can't for the life of you destroy it 'till you saw down the trunk and all.

That's as much as to say, that you'll love me as long as you live.

The very thing—Lord how sensible you are, Miss!

Really, Mr. Robin, you are so gay and agreeable—

E'n't I, Miss? So every body says—only think then how you will be envied—Well then, I'll step to your Mama and tell her what has past; and then I shall have nothing to do but to go to town to­morrow for the ring and licence.

SCENE VI.

Well, Robin, have you reform'd her what I order'd you?—What I suppose you have been a fool now?—there never was such a timersome fel­low in the world—I tell you what, Wilelmina, if I find you have been imposing upon this poor bashful creature, you will put me in a passion, and you know when I am once in a passion, I am not easily pacified.

Let me understand you, Ma'am?

Why I sent this blockhead to let you know that I am disolved to see you married to-morrow morning, and I know you have been giving yourself some confounded airs or other, and so he has been afraid to tell you.

I wonder, Ma'am you should be uneasy on that account—he told me, and in very plain terms.

Well, and I hope you had not the conference to say any thing against it.

So far from it, Ma'am, I now plainly see the great absurdity of attempting to oppose your will.

And have you consented to have him, then?

She has Ma'am.

Then thou art my child again—Mr. Wick's family will be in raptures at this; run, Robin, and tell them we shall call at their house in our way to the rowing match.

And will you forgive my former disobe­dience, Ma'am?

Oh! it was all your father, my dear; but I'll now take the pains to instruct you how to behave yourself.

I am obliged to you, Ma'am, but I don't think I shall ever be so accomplished as you.

Why, I don't think you will ever get my genteel air; but as for other matters they are easily understood.

Are they, Mama?

I'll tell you.

SCENE VII.

Indeed, Mama, I beg your pardon, but I shall not receive any instruction from you—Let me see—I have promised her to marry her favorite Robin; to heighten the plot a little more, I'll e'en go and pro­mise my Papa to marry favorite Thomas; and then for the Swan, where, I think, there will be a tolerable confusion. What a bustle this same love makes among us, we all seem to be afraid of it, and yet all wish to possess it.

SCENE, the Last. A ROOM at the SWAN.

My dear Mr. Wick, as to that, gen­tility's every thing—I hates to see a parcel of trumpery that knows nothing of life. Do, Robin, step and see after Wilelmina—what can be become of the girl?

She's here, Ma'am.

Come, my dear, you'll lose the sight; they tells me that the rowers have set out from the Old Swan some time.

They are very near surely; for see what a number of boats are come in sight.

Oh! I can see them very plain. How many is there?

One, two, three, four, I think I can count five.

That smart young man will certainly win it; how clean and neat he looks!

Here he comes; his boat perfectly flies!

Oh! he'll win it.

He has won it already, Madam; he's past the stairs.

See, he jumps on shore.

And see he's coming this way—Surely 'tis not—

Here's your Thomas for you! he's coming!—I told you he'd be the first that wou'd do any thing to deserve you—Here he is!

And was it you that won the Coat and Badge?

'Twas indeed, Miss.

And what made you?

Thus then I reward you.

What is all this?

Why, all this is that I am a happy fellow, and you are knock'd out of your chance.

Is not he a sweet fellow, Ma'am? How ne [...] and clean he looks!

Wilelmina, don't put me in passion.

I have no intention, Ma'am, to do any such thing.

Why, you impudent slut! have not you deceived me? Deposed upon me? Promised me to marry this young man?—and now—

Indeed, Ma'am, you must excuse me; but in so serious a matter, I thought it of much more consequence to consider myself than you; besides, I was so situated that I must have disobliged either you or my Papa, for whenever I gave you a promise, I gave one to him, and had your choice appeared to me the most likely to make me happy, I shou'd not have hesitated a moment in refusing his.

My hopes are all blighted then, I find.

I said all along, that this was a con­trived thing between you; but, Mr. Bundle, you shall smart for it.

My dear, you know I am a man of an easy temper and few words, but I am pretty firm in keep­ing a resolution; I have suffered you to expose me at home pretty well; but if you are resolved to carry your folly to such a height as to expose me abroad, I am resolved it shall not be for nothing: Therefore, either promise before this company, to bid adieu to scolding for the future, or before this company I will do what you threat'ned me this morning—be sepa­rated from you.

Why, I am thunderstruck!

I expected little less; but am resolved, de­pend upon it; however to let you see that you are very welcome to be mistress of your own house, manage your concerns as you like, do what you please, so you let me be quiet: In short, do nothing to give me uneasiness, and I make an agreement from this moment, for you to govern while I smoke.

Dear Mama, it is impossible for any thing to be fairer.

Come, come, she must have a little time to think of it; but she'll agree to the terms, I'm sure of it; and now let us think of nothing but pleasure, and as this is the happiest day I ev [...] saw in my life, I say let us make it the merriest.