going on from one thing to another, and end in nothing at last.

Sir J. This is provoking! Any body with him this morning?

Charles. He has had a power of people with him, sir-A commission-broker, to sell him a company in a marching regiment-the mayor of a borough, about a seat in parliament. And there are several with him now, sir. There is Sir Harry Lovewit, and

Bygrove. Ay! Sir Harry! I am glad he is of age, and that I am no longer his guardian. He has not had a new idea in his head since he was five years old, and yet the blockhead affects to be lively. He runs after wits, who do nothing but laugh at him. He repeats scraps and sentences-all memory and no understanding -a mere retailer of what falls from other people, and with that stock, he sets up for a wit.

Charles. He is with my master, sir; and there is Mr. Malvil, and Mr. Dashwould, and-[Bell rings.]— He rings, sir-you will pardon me, I must begone, sir.

[Exit.

Bygrove. And that fellow, Dashwould! he is the ruin of your son, and of poor Sir Harry into the bargain. He is the Merry Andrew of the town; honour has no restraint upon him, truth he sets at naught, and friendship he is ever ready to sacrifice to a joke.

Sir J. Po! mere innocent pleasantry-Dash would has no harm in him.

Bygrove. No harm in him? I grant you the fellow has a quick sense of the ridiculous, and draws a character with a lucky hit.-But every thing is distorted by him. He has wit to ridicule you-invention to frame a story of you-humour to help it about; and when he has set the town a laughing, he puts on a familiar air, and shakes you by the hand.

Enter SIR HARRY LOVEWIT, laughing violently.

Sir H. Oh! oh! oh! I shall certainly expire one day, in a fit of laughing.

Sir J. What's the matter, Sir Harry?

Bygrove. What fool's errand brings him hither?

Sir H. That fellow, Dash would, will be the death of me.-The very spirit of whim, wit, humour, and raillery, possess him.

Bygrove. Ay; wit and humour for the meridian of your understanding.

Sir H. By the shade of Rabelais! he is the most entertaining creature! He has played off such a firework of wit?-I'll tell you what he said this mo

ment

Bygrove. No, sir, no; if you are a' pedlar in smart sayings, and brisk repartees, we don't desire you to unpack for us.

Sir H. A plague on him, for an agreeable devil!— And then the rogue has so much ease!

Bygrove. Yes, the ease of an executioner. He puts all to death, without remorse-he laughs at every thing, as if heaven intended to make its own work ridiculous. He has no relish for beauty, natural or moral. He is in love with deformity, and never better pleased, than when he has most reason to find fault.

Sir H. There is a picture of as harsh features as any in Dash would's whole collection:

Bygrove. But the picture is true-no exaggeration in it.

Sir H. He gave us a' miniature of you, this morning, my dear guardian, and you shall have it.

Dash would has made a discovery, Sir John-What reason do you think he gives, for Mr. Bygrove's railing for ever at your son's inconstancy of temper?

Bygrove. Ay now! now!

Sir H. You positively shall hear it. Mr Bygrove's

desires being all rusted to a point, looking directly toward the land of matrimony

Bygrove. Matrimony! now gild the pill with humour, and down it goes.

Sir H. Dashwould has found you out. Mr. Bygrove's desires being all collected, and fixed on matrimony, he rails at the variety of my friend Millamour's whimsies, like Sir George Bumper, with chalkstones on his knuckles as big as nutmegs, hobbling along, and thanking Doctor Le Fevre, that he has no small humours flying about him.

Sir J. That's a discovery, indeed!

Bygrove. Sir John, can you mind what such a fellow as Dashwould says? Every thing that passes through the medium of his fancy, appears deformed, as the straightest stick looks crooked in troubled water.

Sir H. Well dashed out, upon my soul!—with tolerable spleen, and some vivacity.

Bygrove. Po! if you had taken my advice, Sir Harry, and renounced his acquaintance long ago, you had been now a young man coming into life, with some promise of a character. Continue in dissipation, sir: for my part, it is a rule with me, neither to give, nor to take, a joke.

Sir H. Ha! ha! ha! a pleasant rule, positivelyHa ha ha! Dash would shall have it this moment; do you take the consequence, and in the meantime I'll leave you to the practice of your social humour. [Exit.

Bygrove. It is such coxcombs as that butterfly, that encourage him to fix his pasquinades upon every man's character. Matrimony! a licentious-No, Sir John, I still cherish the memory of your sister-she was the best of wivesSdeath! interrupted again by that -No, it's my friend Malvil; he is a man of true value.

Sir J. Dashwould says, he is a compound of false charity and real malice.

Bygrove. And it is enough for you, that Dash would says it. Malvil is a man of honour, sir, and an enemy to all scandal, though wit prove a palatable ingredient in the poison.

Enter MALVIL.

Malvil. Intolerable! there is no being safe where he is-A licentious railer! all truth, all morality, sacrificed to a jest! nothing sacred from his buffoonery! Bygrove. I told you, Sir John, how it is.

Malvil. Oh, such indiscriminate satire! There is no enduring it. Ridicule is a very unfair weapon, Mr. Bygrove; it is, by no means, the test of truth, Sir John.

Sir J. Nay, but you are too grave about this matter. Malvil. Too grave! shall he wantonly stab the reputation of his neighbour, and then tell you he was in jest? For my part, I had rather throw a veil over the infirmities of my friend, than seek a malicious pleasure in the detection-That's my way of thinking.

Sir J. I fancy you are right. This son of mine does so perplex me! [Walks aside. Malvil. Pray, Mr. Bygrove, give me leave-I am sorry to hear certain whispers about a friend of ours. Bygrove. About whom? the widow, Mrs. Bromley? Malvil. Oh, no, no! I have a great respect for her, though I Pray, don't you think she throws out the lure for a young husband?

Bygrove. For a husband!—yes, but not too young a one-you can serve my interest in that quarter.

Malvil. I know it; rely upon my friendship. But have you heard nothing of an eminent Turkey merchant?

Bygrove. Mr. Freeport?

Malvil. I say nothing-I don't like the affair ;-have you really heard nothing?

Malvil. So much the better; though it is fit you should be put on your guard. Any money of yours in his hands?

Bygrove. Po! as safe as the Bank.

Malvil. I may be mistaken-I hope I am-I was in company the other night-several members of parliament present-they did not speak plainly-hints and inuendos only-you won't let it go any further?-His seat in the house, they all agreed, is perfectly convenient at this juncture-I hope the cloud will blow over. I shall remember you with the widow.

Bygrove. One good turn deserves another; I sha'n't be unmindful of your interest.

Malvil. There, now you hurt me-you know my delicacy: must friendship never act a disinterested part? I esteem you, Mr. Bygrove, and that's sufficient. Sir John, give me leave to say, the man who busies himself about other people's affairs, is a pragmatical character, and very dangerous in society.

Bygrove. So I have been telling Sir John: but to laugh at every thing is the fashion of the age. A pleasant, good-for-nothing fellow, is, by most people, pre'ferred to modest merit. A man like Dashwould, who runs on- -So! here comes scandal in folio.

Enter DASHWOULD.

Dash. Sir John, I rejoice to see you-Mr. Bygrove, I kiss your hand. Malvil, have you been uneasy for ́any friend since ?'

Malvil. Po! absurd!

[Walks away.

Dash. I have been laughing with your son, Sir John. -Pray, have I told you about Sir Richard Doriland? Bygrove. You may spare him, sir, he is a very worthy man.

Dash. He is so-great good-nature about him-I love Sir Richard you know he was divorced from his wife, a good fine woman, but an invincible idiot.