his next visit will be to this creature; by following him you will find out where she lives. Prepare, then, as quick as possible, and send me word when you are ready; for, till then, I will not suffer him to depart.

me.

[Exit.

Vane. A pretty errand this, his formal lordship has honour'd me with !--Um; if I betray him, shall I not get more by it?-ay, but our heir is such a sentimental spark, that, when his turn was served, he might betray Were he one of our hare-um skare-um, goodnatured, good-for-nothing fellows, it would go against my conscience to do him an ill turn.-I believe I stand well in my lord's will, if Counsellor Puzzle may be trusted (and, when he can get nothing by a lie, perhaps he may tell truth); so, like all thriving men, I will be honest because it best serves my interest.

Scene III.-A confined Garden.

WOODVILLE, walking about.

[Exit.

Wood. How tedious is this uncle !-how tedious every body! Was it not enough to spend two detestable months from my love, merely to preserve the secret, but I must be tantalized with seeing without arriving at her? Yet how, when I do see her, shall I appease that affecting pride of a noble heart conscious, too late, of its own inestimable value?-Why was I not uniformly just? I had then spared myself the bitterest of regrets.

Enter CAPTAIN HARCOURT.

Capt. Har. Woodville! how do'st?-Don't you, in happy retirement, pity me my Ealing and Acton marches and countermarches, as Foote has it?-But, methinks thy face is thinner and longer than a forsaken nymph's, who is going through the whole cere

mony of nine months' repentance.- What, thou'st fall'n in love?-rustically too?-Nay, pr'ythee don't look so very lamentable!

Wood. Ridiculous!-keep this Park-conversation for military puppies!-How can we have an eye or ear for pleasure, when our fate hangs over us undecided?

Capt. Har. I guess what you mean; but why make mountains of mole-hills? Is the rosy-fisted damsel so obstinately virtuous ?

Wood. Imagine a fair favourite of Phoebus in all respects; since, while her face caught his beams, her heart felt his genius!-Imagine all the graces hid under a straw hat, and russet gown: imagine

Capt. Har. You have imagined enough of conscience! and now for a few plain facts, if you please.

Wood. To such a lovely country maid I lost my heart last summer; and soon began to think romances the only true histories; all the toilsome glories recorded by Livy, phantoms of pleasure, compared with the mild enjoyments described by Sir Philip Sydney; and happiness not merely possible in a cottage, but only possible there.

Capt. Har. Well, all the philosophers (ancient and modern) would never be able to convince me, a coach was not a mighty pretty vehicle; and the lasses as good-natured in town as country: but pray let us know, why you laid aside the pastoral project of eating fat bacon and exercising a crook all day, that thou might'st conclude the evening with the superlative indulgence of a peat fire, and a bed stuff'd with straw?

Wood. Why, faith! by persuading the dear girl to share mine.

Capt. Har. Oh, now you talk the language of the world and does that occasion thee such a melancholy face?

Wood. How ignorant are you both of me and her!— Ev'ry moment since I prevail'd, has only serv'd to con

vince me I can sooner live without ev'ry thing else than her; and this fatal leisure (caus'd by my absence with my father) she has employ'd in adding ev'ry grace of art to those of nature; till, thoroughly shock'd at her situation, her letters are as full of grief as love, and I dread to hear ev'ry hour I have lost her.

Capt. Har. I dread much more to hear you have lost yourself. Ah, my dear Woodville, the most dangerous charm of love is, ev'ry man conceits no other ever found out his method of loving: but, take my word for it, your Dolly may be brought back to a milk-maid.— Leave her to herself awhile, and she'll drop the celestials, I dare swear.

Wood. She is too noble: and nothing but the duty I owe to so indulgent a father, prevents me from off'ring her all the reparation in my power.

Capt. Har. A fine scheme truly! Why, Woodville, art frantic?-To predestinate yourself among the horned cattle of Doctors' Commons, and take a wife for the very reason which makes so many spend thousands to get rid of one

Wood. To withdraw an amiable creature from her duty, without being able to make her happy, is to me a very serious reflection ;-nay, I sinned, I may say, from virtue: and, had I been a less grateful son, might have called myself a faultless lover.

Capt. Har. Well, well, man, you are young enough to trust to Time, and he does wonders.-Don't go now and ruin yourself with your uncle; I have found him out already, and advertise you, none of your formal obsequious bows and respectful assents will do with him; having been cheated in former times of half his fortune by a parasite, he mistrusts ev'ry one, and always mistakes politeness for servility. Maintain your own opinion, if you would win his; for he generally grows undetermined, the moment he knows those around him are otherwise: and, above all, shake off this mental lethargy.

Wood. I will endeavour to take your advice. Should she fly, I were undone for ever!-but you are no judge of my Cecilia's sincerity. How should you know those qualities, which rise with ev'ry following hour?— Can you think so meanly of me, as that I could be duped by a vulgar wretch? a selfish wanton?— Oh no!—she possesses every virtue but the one I have robbed her of. [Exit.

HARCOURT alone.

Capt. Har. Poor Frank! thy sponsors surely, by intuition, characterised thee when they gave thee that name. -Did I love your welfare less, I could soon ease your heart, by acquainting you of my marriage with Miss Mortimer; but now the immediate consequence would be this ridiculous match.-How, if I apprize either my lord or the Governor? both obstinate in different ways: I might betray only to ruin him.-A thought occurs;-my person is unknown to her-choosing an hour when he is absent, I'll pay her a visit, offer her an advantageous settlement, and learn from her behaviour her real character and intentions.

[Exit.

ACT II.

Scene I.-An elegant Dressing-room, with a Toilette richly ornamented; a Harpsichord, and a Frame with Embroidery.

BRIDGET fetches various small jars with flowers, and talks as she places them.

Brid. Lord help us!-how fantastical some folks not an hundred miles off are!-If I can imagine what's come to my lady.-Here has she been sighing and

groaning these two months, because her lover was in the country; and now, truly, she's sighing and groaning because he is come to town.-Such maggots, indeed!-I might as well have staid in our parish all the days of my life, as to live mewed up with her in this dear sweet town; I could but have done that with a vairtuous lady-although I know she never was at Fox-Hall in all her jaunts, and we two should cut such a figure there!—Bless me! what's come to the glass? [setting her dress.] why, sure it is dulled with her eternal sighing, and makes me look as frightful as herself!— O! here she comes, with a face as long, and dismal, as if he was going to be married, and to somebody else too.

CECILIA enters, and throws herself on the sofa, leaning on her hand.

Cec. What can detain Woodville such an age?—It is an hour at least since he rode by.-Run, Bridget!. and look if you can see him through the drawing-room window.

Brid. Yes, madam.

[Exit, eying her with contempt. Cec. How wearisome is every hour to the wretched! -They catch at each future one, merely to while away the present. For, were Woodville here, could he relieve me from the torment of reflection? or the strong though silent, acknowledgment my own heart perpetually gives of my error?

Brid. [Without.] Here he comes, ma'am, here he comes !

Cec. Does he? Run down then.

[Fluttered.

Brid. Dear me, no; 'tis not, neither; [enters] 'tis only the French Ambassador's new cook, with his huge bag and long ruffles.

Cec. Blind animal!-Sure nothing is so tormenting as expectation.

Brid. La, ma'am—any thing will torment one, when