one has a mind to be tormented; which must be your case for sartin. What signifies sitting mope, mope, mope, from morning to night?-You'd find yourself a deal better if you went out only two or three times a day. For a walk, we are next door to the Park, as I may say; and, for a ride, such a dear sweet vis-a-vis and pretty horses, might tempt any one; then, as to company, you'll say, "A fig for your starched ladies, who owe their virtue to their ugliness!"-mine is very much at your service. [Curtesies.]

Cec. How could I endure this girl, did I not know that her ignorance exceeds even her impertinence ?—I have no pleasure in going abroad.

Brid. Oh la, ma'am! how should you know till you try? Sure every body must wish to see and be seen. Then there's such a delightful hurricane-all the world are busy, though most are doing nothing;-to splash the mob, and drive against the people of quality!-Oh, give me a coach, and London for ever and ever!-You could but lock yourself up, were you as old and ugly as gay Lady Grizzle, at next door.

Cec. Had I been so, I had continued happy.

Brid. La, ma'am, don't ye talk so purphanely !— Happy, to be old and ugly?-Or, I'll tell you what, as you don't much seem to fancy going out, suppose you were to come down now and then (you know we have a pure large hall), and take a game of romps with us? If you were once to see our Jacob hunt the slipper, you would die with laughing!-Madam Frisk, my last mistress, used, as soon as ever master was gone (and indeed he did not trouble her much with his company) to run down, draw up her brocaded niggle-de-gee, and fall to play at some good fun or other!-Dear heart, we were as merry then as the day was long!—I am sure I have never been half so happy since!

Cec. I cannot possibly imitate the model you pro

pose; but though I don't choose to go abroad, you

may.

Brid. I don't love to go much among the mobility, neither. If indeed, madam, next winter you'd give me some of your tickets, I would fain go to a masquerade (it vexes me to see um stick in the thing-um-bobs for months together) and Mrs. Trim promises me the lent of a Wenus's dress, which, she says, I shall cut a figure in. Now, ma'am, if I had but some diamonds (for beggars wear diamonds there, they say) who knows but I might make my fortune, like you?

Cec. Mar it, much rather, like me.-That is no place for girls of your station, which exposes you to so much insult.

Brid. Ah, let me alone, madam, for taking care of number one. I ware never afeard but once in my whole life, and that ware of grandfar's ghost; for he always hated I, and used to walk (poor soul!) in our barken, for all the world like an ass with a tie-wig on.

[Knocking hard. Cec. Hark! that sure is Woodville's knock! Fly, and see!-[Walks eagerly to the door, and returns as eagerly.] —Alas! is this my repentance?-Dare I sin against my judgment?

Enter WOODVille.

Wood. My Cecilia!-My soul!-Have I at last the happiness of beholding you?-You know me too well to imagine I would punish myself by a moment's voluntary delay.

Cec. Oh no; it is not that

[Both sit down on the sofa. Wood. Say, you are glad to see me ;-afford me one kind word to atone for your cold looks!—Are you not well?

Cec. Rather say I am not happy.-My dear Woodville, I am an altered being!-Why have you reduced me to shrink thus in your presence?-Oh! why have

you made me unworthy of yourself?-[Leans against his shoulder, weeping.]

Wood. Cruel girl!-Is this my welcome?-When did I appear to think you so?

Cec. Tell me, when any one else will think me otherwise?

Wood. Will you never be above so narrow a prejudice? Are we not the whole world to each other?Nay, dry your tears! allow me to dry them; [Kisses her cheek.] What is there, in the reach of love or wealth, I have not sought to make you happy?

Cec. That which is the essence of all enjoyments :innocence! Oh, Woodville! you knew not the value of the heart, whose peace you have destroyed.-My sensibility first ruined my virtue, and then my repose.But, though, for you, I consented to abandon an humble happy home, to embitter the age of my venerable father, and bear the contempt of the world, I can never support my own!-My heart revolts against my situation, and hourly bids me renounce a splendour, which only renders guilt more despicable.—[Rises.] I meant to explain this hereafter; but the agitation of my mind obliged me to lighten it immediately.

Wood. Is your affection then already extinct?-For sure it must, when you can resolve to torture me thus! Cec. Were my love extinct, I might sink into a mean content!-Oh no!-'Tis to that alone I owe my resolu

tion.

you

Wood. Can you then plunge me into despair?-So young, so lovely too!-Oh! where could find so safe an asylum as my heart?-Whither could you fly? Cec. I am obliged to you, sir, for the question; but who is it has made me thus destitute?—I may retain your protection, indeed, but at what price?

Wood. Give me but a little time, my love! I am equally perplexed between my father and my uncle; each of whom offers me a wife I can never love.

Suffer

them to defeat each other's schemes!-Let me, if possible, be happy without a crime; for I must think it one, to grieve a parent hitherto so indulgent.-I will not put any thing in competition with your peace; and long for the hour when the errors of the lover will be absorbed in the merits of the husband.

Cec. No, Woodville!-That was, when innocent, as far above my hopes, as it is now beyond my wishes.I love you too sincerely to reap any advantage from so generous an error; yet you at once flatter and wound my heart, in allowing me worthy such a distinction; but love cannot subsist without esteem; and how should I possess your's, when I have lost even my own?

Wood. It is impossible you should ever lose either, while so deserving of both. I shall not be so easily denied hereafter, but am bound by the caprices of others at present.-I am obliged to return directly, but will hasten to you the very first moment. When we meet again, it must be with a smile, remember!

--

Cec. It will when we meet again.-Oh, how those words oppress me! [Aside.]-But do not regulate your conduct by mine, nor make me an argument with yourself, for disobeying my lord; for here I solemnly swear never to accept you without the joint consent of both our fathers; and that I consider as an eternal abjuration!-But, may the favoured woman you are to 'make happy, have all my love without my weakness! [Exit in tears.

Wood. Disinterested, exalted girl!-Why add such a needless bar? For is it possible to gain my father's consent? And yet, without her, life would be insupportable! The censures of the world!-What is that world to me? Were I weak enough to sacrifice her to the erroneous judgment of the malicious and unfeeling, what does it offer to reward me?-Commendations I can never deserve, and riches I can never enjoy.

Scene II-A Street before Cecilia's House,

JACOB opens the door, and lets out WOODVILLE, who passes over the stage; JACOB remains with his hands in his pockets, whistling.

Enter VANE, disguised, with a basket of game in his hand.

Vane. So, there he goes at last. I may open the attack without fear of a discovery, since our hopeful heir will hardly return directly,-This intelligence of my landlord's at the Blue Posts has made the matter much easier.-Um, a good subject!-Sure I ought to know that bumpkin's face!-As I live, my playfellow at the parish-school, Jacob Gawky!-Now for a touch of the old dialect.-D'ye hire, young mon!-Prey, do ye knaw where one Bett Dowson do live?

Jac. Noa, not I.

Vane. Hay!-Why, zure as two-pence, thou beest Jacob Gawky!

Jac. Odsbodlikins! zo I be indeed!-But, who beest thee?

Vane. What, doost not knaw thy ould zkhoolvellow, Wull, mun?

Jac. Hay!-What-Wull!-Od rabbit it, if I ben't desprate glad to zee thee; where doost live now, mun?

Vane. Down at huome, in our parish.—I be coom'd up with Zur Izaac Promise, to be meade excoisemun.

Jac. Thee'st good luck, faith! wish, no odds to thee, my fortin ware as good!—but theed'st always a muortal good notion of wroiting and cyphers, while I don't knaw my own neame when I do zee it.-What didst leave zea for?

Vane. Why, I ware afraid I should be killed before I com❜d to be a great mon:-but what brought thee. into this foine house?

Jac. Fortin, Wull! fortin.-Didst thee knaw Nan o'th' Mill?