SCENE I. The Kitchen. Landlady discovered going up and down, busy with her family affairs, and David with two countrymen, drinking a pot of beer together.

⁠My sarvice to you, David. ⁠And here's to your very good health, Master Simons. But as I was a saying, if I were 'Squire Haretop, d'ye see, I would look after mine own affairs, and not let myself be eaten up by a parcel or greedy spendthrifts and wandering newsmongers. I would look after mine own affairs, d'ye see, that is what I would. ⁠To be sure, David, it would be all the better for him, if so be that he were in the humour to think so. ⁠Ay, to be sure it would, Master Gubbins. For this now is what I have always said, and advised, and commented, and expounded to every body, that a man who don't look after his own affairs, ​is, at the best, but a silly colt that strews about his own fodder. ⁠Lord help ye, David! would any one think to hear you talk, now, that you had been once the master of this inn, and all by neglecting of your own concerns are come to be the servant at last. ⁠Does the silly woman think, because I did not mind every gill of gin, and pint of twopenny sold in the house, that I could not have managed my own concerns in a higher line? If my parents had done by me as they ought to have done, Master Simons, and had let me follow out my learning, as I was inclined to do, there is no knowing what I might have been. Ods life! I might have been a clerk to the king, or mayhap an archbishop by this time. ⁠Is Dolly within? ⁠No, she is gone a little way a-field this morning about some errands of her own. ​ ⁠That is a pity now, for we bring her such rare news. ⁠Lack-a-daisy! what can that be? ⁠Her uncle, the grazier, is dead at last; and tho' he would never allow her a penny in his lifetime, as you well know, he has died without a will, and every thing that he has comes to Dolly. ⁠Ay, by my faith! as good ten thousand pounds, when house and stock, and all is disposed of, as any body would wish to have the handling of. ⁠Ten thousand pounds! how some people are born to be lucky! A poor woman like me may labour all her life long, and never make the twentieth part of it.

Come hither, Sally: did Doll tell you where she was going this morning?

⁠No, but I can guess well enough; for she is all ​dress'd in white, and I know it is to Middleton church to be married to that there gentleman that writes all the songs and the metre. ⁠'Tis lucky it's no worse. Step into the parlour, sirs, and I'll come to you presently. (Exeunt Farmers and Sally different ways.) What luck some people have! married to a gentleman too! fortune makes a lady of her at once. ⁠By my faith! and fortune has been in great want of stuff for that purpose when she could light upon nothing better than Doll. They lack'd of fish to make a dish that filled their pan with tadpoles. ⁠Don't be so spiteful, now, David; some folks must be low in this world, and others must be high. ⁠Yes, truly, she'll be high enough. Give some folks an inch and they'll take an ell; let fortune make her a lady, and she'll reckon herself a countess, I warrant ye.—Lord help us! I think I see her now, in all her stuff silks and her great bobbing top-knots, holding up her head as grand and as grave as a cat looking out of a window.—Foh! it were enough to make a body sick. ​ ⁠Fy, David! you are as spiteful now as if somebody were taking something out of your pocket: I'll assure you she has a more genteeler behaviour than most young women in the parish: I have given her some lessons myself. ⁠Ay, by my faith! and her gentility smacks devilishly of the place that she got it from. ⁠Lack-a-daisy! I went to the stable just now to tell Will about Dolly's great fortune; and he is gone, and Blackberry is gone, and the chaise and horses are gone. ⁠There is witchcraft about this house!—I'll pawn my life some of the gentlefolks are missing too; let us go and see.⁠(Exeunt.

SCENE II. Enter Lady Goodbody, Miss Martin, and Sir John Hazelwood.

⁠I am heartily sorry for it: my nephew alone is to blame, and he will be severely punished for his ​fault.—You expect them to return when the ceremony is over: we shall see them soon then. ⁠I dare say we shall: and in the meantime let us drop this disagreeable subject. ⁠Forgive me, Lady Goodbody, for appearing to regret so much the honour of connecting my family with yours. ⁠Indeed, Sir John, I could have wished to have received that honour from another party. Your nephew, however, sets you a good example in marrying, tho' I'm afraid it will be lost upon you. ⁠Your Ladyship has teased Sir John so often upon this subject, that, if he has any spirit at all, he will certainly remain a bachelor from mere contradiction. ⁠Yes, Miss Martin, that is a motive urged with authority by those who recommend it from experience. Nay so greatly, it is said, do young ladies delight in it, that every thing they do ought to be explained by the rule of opposition. When they ​frown upon us it is a smile of invitation; when they avoid us it is a signal to stand upon the watch for a tete-a-tete; (approaching her with an arch smile as she draws herself up with an affected indifference.) but when they toss back their heads at our approach, in all the studied carelessless of contempt, we may consider ourselves as at the very pinnacle of favour. Is it allowable, madam, to take this rule for my guide? ⁠By all means, Sir John; self-love will naturally teach you to judge by that rule which proves most for your own advantage. I hope, however, you will allow those unlucky men upon whom we bestow our smiles, to find out another for themselves. ⁠You have got a sharp disagreeable way of talking of late, which is not at all becoming, child: you used to smile and look good-humoured to every body. ⁠And so I may again, madam, when I am with the poor silly folks who don't know how humiliating it is for them to be so treated: I hope I shall always be civil enough to spare Sir John Hazelwood that mortification. (Making him an affected and ironical curtesy.) ​ ⁠Let us have no more of this!—Sir John, I shall now give up teasing you about matrimony. I see you are incorrigible. ⁠Then you see further than I do, madam, for I rather think it possible I may be persuaded to enter into it at last. ⁠I'm sure I most earnestly wish it for your own sake; and so confident am I of your making an excellent husband, that I would even venture to recommend you to the dearest relation I have. ⁠At it again! I can bear this no longer. ⁠You see, madam, this conversation is interesting only to you and me: had I not then better make love to your ladyship? ⁠Why there was a time, Sir John, when I was not without admirers. ​ ⁠How much I should have liked—but it would have been a dangerous gratification—to have seen these attractions in their full strength which are still so powerful in their decline. ⁠There is still a good likeness of me, as I was in those days, which Mary now wears upon her arm: whilst I go to give some orders to my woman, make her pull off her glove and shew it to you. You'll have the sight of a very pretty hand and arm by the bye; our family is remarkable for pretty hands.

⁠(Exit.

⁠May I presume, madam, thus authorized, to beg you will have the condescension to gratify me. ⁠I can't possibly: it is not on my arm at present. ⁠Nay, but I see the mark of it through your glove: may I presume to assist you in pulling it off? (Offering to take hold of her glove, whilst she puts away his hand with great displeasure.) ⁠You presume indeed: I can't suffer it to be pulled off. ​ ⁠Then I must indeed be presumptuous, for positively I will see it. (Taking hold of her hand, whilst she, struggling to pull it away from him without effect, at last, in her distress, gives him with the other hand a good box on the ear, and then, bursting into tears, throws herself into the next chair, and covers her face with both her hands.) My dear Miss Martin forgive me! I fear I have behaved ungenerously to you: but believe me, careless as I may have appeared, I have beheld you with the most passionate admiration.⁠(Kneeling at her feet.) ⁠Get up. Sir John, and find out some amusement more becoming your understanding and your years. ⁠Good heaven! is it possible that you are thus affected. What is it that disturbs you so much? ⁠A very foolish distress, madam, but it will not long disturb me. ​ ⁠I hope it will not. ⁠Nay, it shall not, madam.—First when I beheld you, I was weak enough to think that I discovered in an assemblage of features by no means (pardon me) particularly handsome, as many worthy and agreeable qualities as would have been unpardonable in the most ardent physiognomist. I saw thro' the weak designs of your aunt, and applauded your delicacy and spirit. I will confess, that passing by the door of your apartment the other night, as it stood open, I heard you mention me to your cousin in a way that completely ensnared me. I was foolish enough to believe I had at last found a woman in whose keeping I might entrust my happiness. But it was a weakness in me: I fee my folly now; and this is the last time I shall be the sport of vain capricious woman. ⁠Is it possible! Oh, we have both been deceived! I have been deceived by something very far different from vanity—my wounded pride still whispering to me that I was the object of your ridicule: and you have been deceived by a physiognomy that has indeed told you untruly when it ventured to promise any thing more from me than the ordinary good qualities and disposition of my sex.— ​We have both been deceived; but let us part good friends: and when I am at any time inclined to be out of humour with myself, the recollection that I

have been, even for a few deceitful moments, the object of your partiality, will be soothing to me.

⁠No, madam, we must not part. (Looking stedfastly and seriously in her face.) Can you, Miss Martin, for once lay aside the silly forms of womanship, and answer me a plain question upon which the happiness of my life depends? Does your heart indeed bear me that true regard which would make you become the willing partner of my way thro' life, tho' I promise not that it shall be a flowery path, for my temper and habits are particular. ⁠Indeed, Sir John, you address me in so strange a way, that I don't know what I ought to say. ⁠Fye upon it! I expected a simple, I had almost said a manly answer, from you now. (Pauses, expecting an answer from her, whilst she remains silent and embarrassed.) No, I see it is impossible: the woman works within you still, and will not suffer you to be honest. Well, I'll try another method ​with you. (Taking her hand and grasping it firmly.) If you do not withdraw from me this precious hand, I shall suppose you return me the answer I desire, and retain it as my own for ever. ⁠Why, you have hurt it so much in that foolish struggle, that you have not left it power to withdraw itself. ⁠Now, fye upon thee again! this is a silly and affected anfwer.—But let it pass: I find notwithstanding all my particular notions upon these matters, I must e'en take thee as thou art with all thy faults.⁠(Kissing her hand devoutly.) ⁠I think I hear Worshipton's voice. ⁠Ah, my poor miserable bridegroom of a nephew! I must be angry with him now, and I know not at present how to be angry. ⁠My dear uncle, I crave your blessing. ⁠I think, sir, it would become you better, in the first place, to crave my pardon. ​ ⁠The world makes great allowance, my good sir, for young men of fashion in my situation; knowing us to be of a free, careless, and liberal disposition, it calls us not strictly to account in matters of elopement. ⁠A liberal disposition! No, sir; more selfish than the miser who hides his hoarded gold in the earth. I wish you had made what is really right, and not what the world thinks allowable, the rule of your conduct. ⁠I shan't argue with you about conduct, Sir John: It is a devilish awkward word in a young fellow's mouth: but if you will do me the honour of visiting me in town next winter, I shall introduce you to such society and amusements as country gentlemen have not always the opportunity of knowing. You will, I doubt not, have more deference for the world when you are better acquainted with it. ⁠You are infinitely obliging, my most liberal sir.—And so this is all the apology you mean to offer for deceiving a young girl, and making her the victim of your frivolous and fantastical wants? ​ ⁠No, no! I do mean to make an apology to the old lady.—Ha! ha! ha! tho' I can't help laughing when I think how I have cheated that wonderful piece of goodness and circumspection. I must coax her a little to bring round the old fellow, my father-in-law, for I must have a brace of thousands to begin with immediately. ⁠Yes, you are perfectly right to make as much of him as you can. (Sir John leans thoughtfully against the side scene, and Worshipton struts conceitedly up and down, whilst Miss Martin and Hannah come forward from the bottom of the stage, engaged in conversation.) ⁠So you see, my dear Mary, you must just tell my aunt that he ran away with me, and I could not help it. For, O la! he is so in love with me you can't think! And do you know we were married by such a queer-looking man: he had fifteen holes in his cassock, for I counted them all over the time of the service. And do you know, when we came to the church door, Mr. Worshipton had never a ring to put upon my finger. And do you know he borrowed an old ugly silver one of a woman who sold ballads by the gate, and gave her half-a-guinea for it, tho' it is not worth a sixpence. But ​I'm just as good a married woman, you know, for all that, as if it had been gold. (Holding up her finger with the ring upon it.) An't I? ⁠I believe it will make no great difference. ⁠I thought so.—Now do speak to my aunt for me. ⁠I certainly will, my dear Hannah, tho' you have played so sly with us. ⁠But la! don't tell her about the half guinea for the ring, for that would make her angrier than all the rest of it.—O lud! here she comes: stand before me a little bit. (Shrinking behind Miss Martin's back,) ⁠Well, Mr. Worshipton, what have you done with my niece? ⁠There she is, madam. (Hannah comes from behind backs, and makes Lady Goodbody an awkward frightened curtesy.) We are both come to beg your ​forgiveness, and I hope she will not suffer in your ladyship's good opinion for the honour she has conferred upon your humble servant. ⁠He must be a very humble servant indeed who derives any honour from her. ⁠We hoped from the message you were so obliging as to send us, that we should not find you very severe. ⁠I think, however, I may be allowed to express some displeasure at not being consulted in a matter so interesting to my family, without being considered as very severe. ⁠I only wonder she is not more angry with me. (Aloud to Lady Goodbody.) I was afraid, madam, of finding you unfavourable to my wishes, and durst not risk my happiness. But I hope you have no doubt of the honour of my intentions. ⁠Certainly; I cannot doubt of their being very honourable, and very disinterested also.—I have known men mean enough and selfish enough to possess themselves by secret elopements of the ​fortunes of unwary girls, whilst they have had nothing to give in return but indifference or contempt. Nay, I have heard of men so base as to take advantage of the weakness of a poor girl's intellects to accomplish the ungenerous purpose. But it is impossible to ascribe any but disinterested motives to you, Mr. Worshipton, as Miss Clodpate has but a very small fortune. ⁠What do you mean, madam? the only child of your brother, Sir Rowland: you call'd her so yourself. ⁠I told you she was the only child of my brother by his wife Sophia Elmot; but disagreeable circumstances sometimes take place in the best families, which it goes against one's feelings to repeat; and there was no necessity for my telling you, in indifferent conversation, that he has married his own cook maid a year and a half ago, by whom he has two stout healthy boys. ⁠Come, come! this joke won't pass upon me: I'm not so easily played upon. ​ ⁠It is a joke I'm afraid that will not make you merry, Worshipton. ⁠I'll believe nobody but Hannah herself, for she can't be in the plot, and she is too simple to deceive me. (To Hannah.) Pray, my good girl, how many brothers have you got? ⁠La! only two; and one of them is called Rowland after my father, you know, and one of them little Johnny. ⁠O, hang little Johnny, and the whole fools of the race! I am ruined beyond redemption. ⁠La! Mr. Worshipton, what is the matter? ⁠Don't speak to him now. ⁠Don't be so much overcome, Mr. Worshipton; things are not so very desperate. Hannah will have ​five thousand pounds at her father's death: he allows her the interest of it in the meantime, and I shall add two hundred a year to it. This, joined

to your pay may, I think, with prudence and economy, enable you to live together in a very snug comfortable way.

⁠Damn your snug comfortable ways of living! my soul abhors the idea of it. I'll pack up all I have in a napsack first, and join the wild Indians in America.—I wish I had been in the bottomless ocean ere I had come to this accursed place. ⁠Have a little patience, Worshipton, and hear my plan for you. I'll pay your debts; you shall have the same income you had before, with more prudence perhaps to manage it well; and your wife shall live with her friends in the country. ⁠No, but I'll live with mine own husband, for he knows well enough he is mine own husband. ⁠How can you use your wife so, Mr. Worshipton! ​ ⁠Oh! he don't love me! Oh dear me! he don't love me a bit! ⁠What is the creature whimpering for? I shall run distracted! ⁠For God sake be more calm! If you'll promise to live prudently in town, we shall manage your lady in the country for you. But remember, Edward, the first time I hear of your old habits returning upon you, she shall be sent to London to pay you a visit. ⁠O dog that I am! and so this is all that I have made of my plots and my——Idiot and fool that I am! ⁠Consider of it, Worshipton, and consider of it well. ⁠I am distracted, and can consider of nothing. ⁠I am come to pay my compliments to you, ​Worshipton, with all possible good will; I wish you and your fair bride joy, most cordially. ⁠Nay, I wish you joy, Amaryllis. ⁠Ha! who has been so officious as to tell you of my marriage already? ⁠Married!—No, faith; I gave you joy because I thought you a bachelor still. Married! what a dog you have made of yourself!—But no; your refined, your angelic Delia has favoured your wishes at last, and with such a woman, you may indeed be a married man without being miserable. ⁠What did you say about Delia, sir? he is married to our Doll. ⁠Who desired you to follow me here, ma'am? ⁠It was your own wedded wife, sir, that desired me to come; and since you have chosen to marry the maid, I see no reason you have for to turn up your nose at the mistress. And you need not go for to ​be ashamed of her neither: she is as clever a girl as ever whirled a mop, and as honest a girl too; and that is more than can be said for many a one that carries her head higher. ⁠Heaven and earth, Amaryllis! are your married to Mrs. Dolly? ⁠Dorothea is a very good girl, Mr. Worshipton. ⁠Yes, yes! I see 'tis even so. Ha! ha! ha! (laughing violently for a long time, till he is obliged to hold both his sides.) This is excellent! this is admirable! I thank thee Amaryllis! thou hast been playing the fool as well as myself. Give me thy hand, man.—Ha! ha! ha! ⁠No, good nephew, moderate your laughter a little: Amaryllis has been playing the fool in a very different way from you; for he has married his bride without expecting one farthing with her, and learns on returning from church, as our good landlady has been informing me, that an uncle of hers ​is just dead, who has left her a very handsome fortune. ⁠Much happiness may you both have in your good fortune! With the woman of your choice and a competency, Amaryllis, you will be in the most favourable state of all others for courting the muses. ⁠Yes, Sir John; with my own slender patrimony and the fortune my wife brings to me, I hope to make my little cot no unfavoured haunt of the fair sisters. I am not the first poet who has been caught by the artless charms of a village maid; and my wife will have as much beauty in my eyes, dress'd in her russet gown, as the—— ⁠But I won't wear a russet gown tho': I have money of my own, and I'll buy me silk ones. ⁠Well said, Mrs. Amaryllis!—Gentle poet, your village maid is a woman of spirit. ⁠She is untaught, to be sure, and will sometimes speak unwittingly. ​ ⁠Never mind that, my good sir; we shall have her taught. You shall make my house your home till your cot is ready for you, where I soon hope to have a lady who will take some pains to form your charming Dorothea for her present situation. ⁠So you are to have a lady then? If you had told me so before, I might have spared all my arguments upon this subject. ⁠Indeed, madam, you might have spared them, tho' they were very good ones, I confess: the sight of this lady (taking Miss Martin's hand) made every other argument unnecessary. I hope you will give me your blessing with her. I want but this, and will not enquire of you how many brothers she has. ⁠So my Mary has caught you after all. Thank God for it! She is good enough for any man, and I would rather give her to you than to any other man in the world. As for her brothers, she has but one, and he has increased instead of diminishing her fortune. ⁠Talk no more of these things, I hate the very name of fortune at present. ​ ⁠Pardon me; but I must tell you what my nephew Robert did: It may be good for another new-made nephew of mine to listen to it. (Glancing a look to Worshipton.) He and his sister were left orphans without any provision: I bought him a commission in the army; and with the addition of fifty pounds which I sent him every year on his birth-day, as a godmother's gift, he contrived to live respectably without debt, and was esteemed by his brother officers. ⁠I know it well: a friend of mine had the pleasure of knowing him abroad, where he served with distinction and honour. ⁠Yes, he was afterwards ordered abroad with his regiment, where he had it in his power to acquire a little money with integrity; the best part of which (three thousand pounds) he sent home to his sister immediately, that she might no longer be dependent even upon me; and it shall be paid down to you, Sir John, upon her wedding-day. ⁠No; God forbid that a country gentleman should add to his ample income the well-earn'd pittance of a soldier! I will have nothing from the young hero ​but the honour of being allied to him; and what advantage may accrue, by the bye, to my family, by setting so fair an example to such members of it

as may not have walked altogether in his footsteps.

⁠Well, well, I understand you; but tell me no more of your good-boy stories at present: this cross-fated day has taught me a powerful lesson which makes every other superfluous. (Exuent.