TO confine a Woman just in her rambling Age! take away her liberty at the very time she shou'd use it! O barbarous Aunt! O unnatural Father! to shut up a poor Girle at fourteen, and hinder her budding; all things are ripen'd by the Sun; to shut up a poor Girl at fourteen!—

'Tis true, Miss, two poor young Creatures as we are!

Not suffer'd to see a play in a twelve month!—

Nor to go to Ponchinello nor Paradise!—

Nor to take a Ramble to the Park nor Mulberry-garden!—

Nor to Tatnam-Court nor Islington!—

Nor to eat a Sillybub in new Spring-garden with a Cousin!—

Nor to drink a Pint of Wine with a Friend at the Prince in the Sun!—

Nor to hear a Fiddle in good Company!

Nor to hear the Organs and Tongs at the Gun in Moorfields!—

Nay, not suffer'd to go to Church, because the men are sometimes there! little did I think I should ever have long'd to go to Church!

Or I either, but between two Maids!—

Not see a man!—

Nor come near a man!—

Nor hear of a man!—

No, Miss, but to be deny'd a man! and to have no use at all of a man!—

No, faith, he's but a Monsieur, but you'll resolve your self that question within these three days: for by that time, he'll be your Husband, if your Father come to night?—

Or if I provide not my self with another in the mean time! For Fathers seldom chuse well, and I will no more take my Father's choice in a Husband, than I would in a Gown or a Suit of Knots: so that if that Cousin of mine were not an ill contriv'd ugly Freekish-fool, in being my Father's choice, I shou'd hate him; besides he has almost made me out of love with mirth and good humour, for he debases it as much as a Jack-pudding; and Civility and good Breeding more than a City Dancing-Master.—

What, won't you marry him then, Madam?

Wou'dst thou have me marry a Fool! an Idiot?

Lord! 'tis a sign you have been kept up indeed! and know little of the World, to refuse a man for a Husband, only because he's a Fool. Methinks he's a pretty apish kind of a Gentleman, like other Gentlemen, and handsome enough to lye with in the dark, when Husbands take their priviledges, and for the day-times you may take the priviledge of a Wife.

Excellent Governess, you do understand the World, I see.

Then you shou'd be guided by me.

Art thou in earnest then, damn'd Jade? wou'dst thou have me marry him? well—there are more poor young Women undone and married to filthy Fellows, by the treachery and evil Counsel of Chamber-maids, than by the obstinacy and covetousness of Parents.

Does not your Father come on purpose out of Spain to marry you to him? Can you release your self from your Aunt or Father any other way? Have you a mind to be shut up as long as you live? For my part (though you can hold out upon the Lime from the Walls here, Salt, old Shoes, and Oat-meal) I cannot live so, I must confess my patience is worn out—

Alas! alas! poor Prue! your stomach lies another way, I will take pity of you, and get me a Husband very suddenly, who may have a Servant at your Service; but rather than marry my Cousin, I will be a Nun in the new Protestant Nunnery they talk of, (where they say) there will be no hopes of coming near a man.

But you can marry no body but your Cousin, Miss, your Father you expect to night, and be certain his Spanish policy and wariness, which has kept you up so close ever since you came from Hackney-School, will make sure of you within a day or two at farthest—

Then 'tis time to think how to prevent him—stay—

In vain, vain Miss!

If we knew but any man, any man, though he were but a little handsomer than the Devil, so that he were a Gentleman.

What if you did know any man, if you had an opportunity; cou'd you have confidence to speak to a man first? But if you cou'd, how cou'd you come to him, or he to you? nay how cou'd you send to him? for though you cou'd write, which your Father in his Spanish prudence wou'd never permit you to learn, who shou'd carry the Letter? but we need not be concern'd for that, since we know not to whom to send it.

Stay!—it must be so—I'll try however—

Servitèur, Servitèur, là Cousinè, I come to give the bon Soir, as the French say.

O Cousin, you know him, the fine Gentleman they talk of so much in Town.

What! will you talk to him of any man else?

I know all the beaux monde Cousinè.

Mister—

Monsieur Taileur! Monsieur Esmit, Monsieur—

These are French-men—

Non, non, vou'd you have me say Mr. Taylor, Mr. Smith, fie, fie, testè nòn—

But don't you know the brave Gentleman they talk of so much in Town?

Who, Monsieur Gerrard?

What kind of man is that Mr. Gerrard? and then I'll tell you.

Why—he is truly a pretty man, a pretty man—a pretty so so—kind of man, for an English-man.

How! a pretty man?

Why, he is conveniently tall—but—

But, what?

And not ill-shap'd—but—

But what?

And handsom, as 'tis thought—but—

But, what are your Exceptions to him?

I can't tell you, because they are innumerable, innumerable mon foy.

Has he Wit?

Ay, ay, they say he's witty, brave and dè bèl humeùr and well-bred with all that—but—

But what? does he want Judgment?

Non, non, they say he has good sense and judgment, but it is according to the account Englis'—for—

For what?

For Jarniè—if I think it—

Why?

Why—why his Taylor lives within Ludgate—his Valet dè Chambrè is no French-man—and he has been seen at noon-day to go into an English Eating-house—

Say you so, Cousin?

Then for being well-bred you shall judge—first he can't dance a step, nor sing a French Song, nor swear a French Oatè, nor use the polite French word in his Conversation; and in fine, can't play at Hombre—but speaks base good Englis' with the commune homebred pronunciation, and in fine, to say no more, he ne'er carries a Snuff-box about with him.

Indeed—

And yet this man has been abroad as much as any man, and does not make the least shew of it, but a little in his Meen, not at all in his discour Jerniè; he never talks so much as of St. Peter's Church, and Rome, the Escurial, or Madrid, nay not so much as of Henry IV. of Pont-Neuf, Paris, and the new Louvre, nor of the Grand Roy.

'Tis for his commendation, if he does not talk of his Travels.

Auh, auh—Cousinè—he is conscious himself of his wants, because he is very envious, for he cannot endure me—

He shall be my man then for that.

Ay, ay, 'tis the same,

No I know he can't endure you, Cousin—

How do you know it—who never stir out. Testè non—

Well—dear Cousin—if you will promise me never to tell my Aunt, I'll tell you—

I won't, I won't, Jarniè—

Nor to be concern'd your self so as to make a quarrel of it.

Non, non—

Upon the word of a Gentleman.

Foy de Chevalier, I will not quarrel.

Lord, Miss! I wonder you won't believe him without more ado?

Then he has the hatred of a Rival for you.

Mal à peste

You know my Chamber is backward, and has a door into the Gallery, which looks into the back-yard of a Tavern, whence Mr. Gerrard once spying me at the Window, has often since attempted to come in at that Window by the help of the Leads of a low Building adjoining, and indeed 'twas as much as my Maid and I cou'd do to keep him out—

Aulè-Coquin!—

But nothing is stronger than aversion; for I hate him perfectly, even as much as I love you—

I believe so faith—but what design have we now on foot?

This discovery is an Argument sure of my love to you—

Ay, ay; say no more, Cousin, I doubt not your amourè for me, because I doubt not your judgment. But what's to be done with this Fanfaron—I know where he eats to night—I'll go find him out ventrè bleù—

Oh my dear Cousin, you will not make a quarrel of it? I thought what your promise wou'd come to!

Wou'd you have a man of Honour—

Keep his promise?

And lose his Mistress, that were not for my honour, may foy—

Cousin, though you do me the injury to think I cou'd be false—do not do your self the injury to think any one cou'd be false to you—will you be afraid of losing your Mistress; to shew such a fear to your Rival, were for his honour, and not for yours sure.

Nay, Cousin, I'd have you know I was never afraid of losing my Mistress in earnest—Let me see, the man can get my Mistress from me, Jarniè—but he that loves must seem a little jealous.

Not to his Rival, those that have Jealousie, hide it from their Rivals.

But there are some who say Jealousy is no more to be hid than a Cough; but it shou'd never be discovered in me, if I had it, because it is not French, it is not French at all—ventrè—bleu—

No, you shou'd railly your Rival, and rather make a Jest of your Quarrel to him, and that I suppose is French too—

'Tis so, 'tis so, Cousin, 'tis the veritable French Method; for your Englis, for want of Wit, drive every thing to a serious grum quarrel, and then wou'd make a Jest on't, when 'tis too late, when they can't laugh, Jarnie!—

Yes, yes, I wou'd have you railly him soundly, do not spare him a jot—but shall you see him to night?

Ay, ay—

Yes! pray be sure to see him for the Jest's sake—

I will—for I love a Jestè as well as any bel Esprit of 'em all—da.

Ay, and railly him soundly; be sure you railly him soundly, and tell him, just thus—that the Lady he has so long courted, from the great Window of the Ship-Tavern, is to be your Wife tomorrow, unless he come at his wonted hour of six in the morning to her Window to forbid the Banes; for 'tis the first and last time of asking: and if he come not, let him for ever hereafter stay away and hold his Tongue.

Hah, ha ha, a vèr good Jestè, testè bleu.

And if the Fool shou'd come again, I would tell him his own, I warrant you, Cousin; my Gentleman shou'd be satisfied for good and all, I'de secure him.

Bòn, Bòn.

Well, well! young Mistress, you were not at Hackney-School for nothing I see; nor taken away for nothing: a Woman may soon be too old, but is never too young to shift for her self?

Hah, ah, ah, Cousin, dòu art a merry Grigg—ma foy—I long to be with Gerrard, and I am the best at improving a Jestè—I shall have such divertisement to night testè bleù.

He'll deny, 'may be at first, that he ever courted any such Lady.

Nay, I am sure he'll be asham'd of it: I shall make him look so sillily, testè nòn—I long to find him out, adieu, adieu, la Cousinè.

Shall you be sure to find him?

Indubitablemènt I'll search the Town over, but I'll find him, hah, ha, ha—

But I'm afraid, Cousinè, if I should tell him you are to be my Wife to morrow, he wou'd not come, now I am for having him come for the Jest's sake—ventrè—

So am I, Cousin, for having him come too for the Jest's sake.

Well, well! leave it to me! ha, ha, ha.

What's all this gigling here?

My Cousin is over joy'd, I suppose, that my Father is to come to night.

I am afraid he will not come to night—but you'll stay and see, Nephew.

Non, non: I am to sup at tother end of the Town to night—la, la, la—ra, ra, ra—

I wish the French Levity of this Young-man may agree with your Father's Spanish Gravity.

Just as your crabbed old age and my youth agree.

Well, Malapert! I know you hate me, because I have been the Guardian of your Reputation. But your Husband may thank me one day.

If he be not a Fool, he would rather be oblig'd to me for my vertue, than to you, since, at long run he must whether he will or no.

So, so!—

Nay, now I think on't; I'de have you to know the poor man, whosoe'er he is, will have little cause to thank you.

No—

No; for I never lived so wicked a life, as I have done this twelve month, since I have not seen a man.

How! how! If you have not seen a man, how cou'd you be wicked? how cou'd you do any ill?

No, I have done no ill, but I have paid it with thinking.

O that's no hurt; to think is no hurt; the ancient, grave, and godly cannot help thoughts.

I warrant, you have had 'em your self, Aunt.

Yes, yes! when I cannot sleep.

Ha, ha—I believe it, but know I have had those thoughs sleeping and waking: for I have dream't of a man.

No matter, no matter, so that it was but a dream, I have dream't my self; for you must know Widows are mightily given to dream, insomuch that a dream is waggishly call'd the Widows Comfort.

But I did not only dream in—

How, how! did you more than dream! speak, young Harlotry; confess, did you more than dream? how could you do more than dream in this house? speak! confess.

Well! I will then. Indeed, Aunt, I did not only dream, but I was pleased with my dream when I awak'd.

Oh, is that all? nay, if a dream only will please you, you are a modest young Woman still, but have a care of a Vision.

I; but to be delighted when we wake with a naughty dream, is a sin, Aunt; and I am so very scrupulous, that I wou'd as soon consent to a naughty man, as to a naughty dream.

I do believe you.

I am for going into the Throng of Temptations.

There I believe you agen.

There I do not believe you.

And would take all the innocent liberty of the Town, to tattle to your men under a Vizard in the Play-houses, and meet 'em at night in Masquerade.

There I do believe you again, I know you wou'd be masquerading; but worse wou'd come on't, as it has done to others, who have been in a Masquerade, and are now Virgins but in Masquerade, and will not be their own Women agen as long as they live. The Children of this Age must be wise Children indeed, if they know their Fathers, since their Mothers themselves cannot inform 'em! O the fatal Liberty of this masquerading Age when I was a young Woman.

Come, come, do not blaspheme this masquerading Age, like an illbred City-Dame, whose Husband is half broke by living in Covent-Garden, or who has been turn'd out of the Temple or Lincolns-Inn upon a masquerading Night: by what I've heard 'tis a pleasant-well-bred-complacent-free-frolick good-natur'd-pretty-Age; and if you do not like it, leave it to us that do.

Lord! how impudently you talk, Niece, I'm sure I remember when I was a Maid.

Can you remember it, reverent Aunt?

Yes, modest Niece, that a raw young thing though almost at Womans estate, that was then at 30 or 35 years of age, would not so much as have look'd upon a Man.

Above her Fathers Butler or Coach-man.

Still taking me up! well thou art a mad Girl, and so good night. We may go to Bed, for I suppose now your Father will not come to night.

I am sorry for it, for I long to see him. But I lye; I had rather see Gerrard here, and yet I know not how I shall like him: if he has wit he will come, and if he has none he wou'd not be welcome.

'Tis ver veritablè, Jarniè, what the French say of you English, you use the debauch so much, it cannot have with you the French operation, you are never enjoyeè; but come, let us for once be enfinement galliard, and sing a French Sonnet, sings la boutelle, la boutelle, glou, glou.

What a melodious Fop it is?

Auh—you have no Complaisance.

No, we can't sing, but we'll drink to you the Ladies health, whom (you say) I have so long courted at her Window.

I had rather keep Company with a Set of wide-mouth'd drunken Cathedral Choristers.

Come, Sir, drink, and he shall do you reason to your French Song since you stand upon't sing him Arthur of Bradely, or, I am the Duke of Norfolk.

Auh, Teste bleu, an English Catch, fie, fie, ventre—

He can sing no damn'd French Song.

Nor can I drink the damn'd Englis' Wine.

Yes, to that Ladies health, who has commanded me to wait upon her to morrow at her Window, which looks (you say) into the inward Yard of the Ship-Tavern, near the end of what dee call't street.

Ay, ay, do you not know her, not you (vert & bleu.)

But 'pray repeat agen what she said.

Why, she said, she is to be marry'd to morrow to a person of Honour, a brave Gentleman, that shall be nameless, and so, and so forth (little does he think who 'tis.)

And what else?

That if you make not your appearance before her Window to morrow at your wonted hour of six in the morning to forbid the Banes, you must for ever hereafter stay away and hold your tongue, for 'tis the first and last time of asking, ha, ha, ha!

'Tis all a Riddle to me; I should be unwilling to be fool'd by this Coxcomb.

I won't tell him all she said, lest he shou'd not go, I wou'd fain have him go for the Jest's sake—ha, ha, ha.

Her name is, you say, Hippolita Daughter to a rich Spanish Merchant.

Ay, ay, you don't know her, not you à d'autre à d'autre ma foy—ha, ha, ha.

Well! I will be an easie Fool for once.

By all means go.

Ay, ay, by all means go—hah, ha, ha,

To be caught in a Fools Trap—I'll venture it. Come, 'tis her health.

And to your good reception—teste bleu—ha, ha, ha.

Well, Monsieur! I'll say this for thee, thou hast made the best use of three months at Paris as ever English Squire did.

Considering I was in a dam' Englis' Pension too.

〈◊〉 you have convers'd with some French, I see; Foot-men I suppose at the Fencing-School, I judge it by your Oaths.

French Foot-men I well, well, I had rather have the conversation of a French Footman than of an English Esquire, there's for you da—

I beg your pardon, Monsieur: I did not think the French Foot-men had been so much your Friends.

Yes, yes, I warrant they have oblig'd him at Paris much more than any of their Masters did. Well, there shall be no more said against the French Foot-men.

Non de Grace—you are alway turning the Nation Francez into redicule, dat Nation so accomplie, dat Nation which you imitate, so, dat in the conclusion you butte turn your self into redicule ma foy: if you are for de raillery, abuse the Duch, why not abuse the Duch? les grosse Villaines, Pandars, Insolents; but here in your England may foy, you have more honeur, respecte, and estimation for the Dushe Swabber, who come to cheat your Nation, den for de Franch-Foot-man, who come to oblige your Nation.

Our Nation! then you disown it for yours, it seems.

Well! wàt of dàt; are you the disobligee by date?

No, Monsieur, far from it; you cou'd not oblige us, nor your Country any other way than by disowning it.

It is de Brutale Country, which abuse de France, an' reverence de Dushe: I vill maintain, sustain, and justifie dat one little Franch-Foot-man have more honeur, courage, and generosity, more good blood in his vainee, an mush more good manners an' civility den all de State General togedèr, Jarnie—dey are only wise and valiant wen dey are drunkee.

That is always.

But dey are never honeste wen dey are drunkee; dey are de only Rogue in de Varlde, who are not honeste wen dey are drunk—ma foy.

I find you are well acquainted with them, Monsieur.

Ay, ay, I have made the toure of Holland, but it was en poste, dere was no staying for me, teste non—for de Gentleman can no more live dere den de Toad in Ir'land, ma foy; for I did not see on' Chevalier in de whole Cuntree: alway, you know de Rebel hate de gens de quality; besides, I had make sufficient observation of the Canaile barbare de first nighteè of my arrival at Amsterdammè. I did visit you must know one of de Principal of de Stat General, to whom I had recommendation from England, and did find his Excellence weighing Sope, Jarnie—ha, ha, ha.

Weighing Sope!

Weighing Sope, ma foy, for he was a whole Sale Chandeleer, and his Lady was taking the Tale of Chandels wid her own witer hands, ma foy, and de young Lady, his Excellence Daughters stringing Harring, stringing Harring, Jarnie—

So—h—and what were his Sons doing?

Auh—his Son (for he had but one) was making de Toure of France, Espaigne, Italy, an' Germany in a Coach and six, or rader now I think on't, gone of an Embassy hider to dere Master Cromwell, whom they did love and fear, because he was some-tinge de greater Rebel, bute now I talk of de Rebelle, none but de Rebel can love de Rebelle, and so mush for you and your Friend the Dushe, I'll say no more, and pray do you say no more of my Friend de Franch, not so much as of my Friend the Franch-Footman- da ▪

No, no; but, Monsieur, now give me leave to admire thee, that in three mouths at Paris you could renounce your Language, Drinking and your Country (for which we are not angry with you) as I said, and come home so perfect a French-man, that the Drey-men of your Fathers own Brew-house wou'd be ready to knock thee in the head.

As much as any French-Footman of 'em all.

And do I speak agreeable ill Englis' enough?

Very ill.

Veritablement!

Veritablement.

For you must know, 'tis as ill breeding now to speak good Englis', as to write good Englis', good sense, or a good hand.

But indeed, methinks, you are not slovenly enough for a French-man.

Slovenly! you mean negligent?

No, I mean slovenly.

Then I will be more slovenly.

You know, to be a perfect French-man, you must never be silent, never sit still, and never be clean.

But you have forgot one main qualification of a true French-man, he▪ shou'd never be sound, that is, be very pockie too.

Oh! if dat be all, I am very pockie; pockie enough Jarnie, that is the only French qualification may be had without going to Paris, mon foy.

Here are a couple of Ladies coming up to you, Sir.

To us! did you appoint any to come hither, Martin?

Not I.

Nor you, Monsieur!

Nor I.

Sirrah, tell your Master, if he cannot protect us from the Constable, and these midnight-Coursers, 'tis not a House for us.

Tell 'em you have no body in the house, and shut the doors.

They'll not be satisfi'd with that, they'll break open the door, they search'd last night all over the House for my Lord Fisk, and Sir Jeffery Jantee, who were fain to hide themselves in the Bar under my Mistresses Chair and Petticoats

Wat do the Women hunt out the men so now?

Ay, ay, things are alter'd since you went to Paris, there's hardly a young Man in Town dares be known of his Lodging for 'em.

Bailiffs, Pursevants, or a City-Constable are modest people in comparison of them.

And we are not so much afraid to be taken up by the Watch, as by the taring midnight Ramblers, or Houza-Women.

Jarnie—ha, ha, ha.

Where are they? I hope they are gone agen?

No, Sir, they are below at the Stair-foot, only swearing at their Coach-man.

Come, you Rogue! they are in Fee with you Waiters, and no Gentleman can come hither, but they have the intelligence straight.

A man of Honour!

Vert and bleu, pleasènt, pleasènt, mon foy.

Go, go, Sirrah, shut the door, I hear 'em coming up.

Indeed, I dare not; they'll kick me down stairs, if I should.

Go you, Rascal, I say.

Flounce and Flirte upon my life.

Ladies, I am sorry you have no Volunteers in your Service; this is meer pressing, and argues a great necessity you have for men.

You need not be afraid, Sir, we will use no violence to you, you are not fit for our Service; we know you—

The hot Service you have been in formerly, makes you unfit for ours now; besides, you begin to be something too old for us, we are for the brisk Hoaza's of seventeen or eighteen.

Nay, 'faith, I am not too old yet, but an old acquaintance will make any man old; besides, to tell you the truth, you are come a little too early for me, for I am not drunk yet; but there are your brisk young men who are always drunk, and perhaps have the happiness not to know you.

The happiness not to know us!

The happiness not to know us!

Be not angry, Ladies; 'tis rather happiness to have pleasure to come, than to have it past, and therefore these Gentlemen are happy in not knowing you.

I'de have you to know, I do know the Ladies too, and I will not lose the honour of the Ladies acquaintance for any thing.

Not for the pleasure of beginning an acquaintance with us, as Mr. Gerrard says: but it is the general vanity of you Town-Fops to lay claim to all good acquaintance and persons of Honour; you cannot let a Woman pass in the Mall at midnight, but dam you, you know her strait, you know her; but you wou'd be damn'd before you wou'd say so much for one in a Mercers Shop.

He has spoken it in a French-house, where he has very good credit, and I dare swear you may make him eat his words.

Shee does want a Gown indeet: she is in her dishabiliee, this dishabiliee is a great Mode in England; the Women love the dishabiliee as well as the men, ma foy.

Pleasant Jilts.

No upon our Honours, we should not brag of your Company.

Upon your Honours?

No faith.

Come, we will venture to sit down then: yet I know the vanity of you men; you cou'd not contain your selves from bragging.

No, no! you Women now adays have found out the pleasure of bragging, and will allow it the men no longer.

Therefore indeed we dare not stay to sup with you; for you wou'd be sure to tell on't.

And we are young-men who stand upon our Reputations.

You are very pleasant, Gentlemen.

And for my part I am to be marry'd shortly, and know 'twould quickly come to my mistresses's ear.

And for my part I must go visit to morrow morning be-times a new City-Mistress, and you know they are as inquisitive as precise in the City.

Come, come! pray leave this fooling; sit down agen, and let us bespeak Supper.

No 'faith, I dare not.

Besides, we have supp'd.

No matter, we only desire you shou'd look on, while we eat, and put the glass about, or so.

Pray, stay.

Upon my life I dare not.

Upon our Honours we will not tell, if you are in earnest.

P'shaw, p'shaw—I know the vanity▪ of you Women, you cou'd not contain your selves from bragging.

Ma foy! is it certain! ha, ha, ha! hark you, Madam! can't you fare well, but you must cry Roast-meat?

You'll spoil your Trade by bragging of your gains,

The silent Sow (Madam) does eat most Grains.

—da—

Your Servant, Monsieur Fop.

Nay, faith, do not go, we will no more tell—

Then you would of a Clape, if you had it, dat's the only secret you can keep▪ Jarnie.

I am glad we are rid of these Jilts.

And we have taken a very ridiculous occasion.

Wàt! must we leave the Lady then, dis is dam Civility Englis' mon foy.

Nay, Sir, you have too much of the French Eyre to have so little honour and good breeding.

Dee you tinke so then, sweet Madam, I have mush of de French Eyre?

Auh, you are the curtoise Dame, mort-bleu, I shall stay then, if you think so. Monsieur Gerrard, you will be certain to see the Lady to morrow, pray not forget, ha, ha, ha.

No, no, Sir.

You will go then?

I will go on a Fools Errand for once.

What will you eat, Sir?

Wàt you please, Madamè.

De hear, Waiter, then some young Partridge.

What else, Madam?

Some Russes.

What else, Madam?

Some young Pheasants.

What else, Madam?

Some young Rabits, I love Rabits.

What else, Madam?

Stay—

Dis Englis' Waiter wit his wàt else, Madam, will ruine me, testè non.

What else, Madam?

Wàt else, Madam, agen! call up the French Waiter.

What else, Madam?

Again, call up the French Waiter or Quesinièr, morttestè-ventrè, vitè, vitè—Auh, Madam, the stupidity of the Englis' Waiter, I hate the Englis' Waiter, mon foy.

Be not in passion, dear Monsieur.

I kiss your hand obligeant, Madam.

Cherè Pierot, Serviteur, Serviteur, or ca a manger.

En voulez vous de Cram Schiquin.

Yes.

De Partrish, de Faysan, de Quailles.

This Bougre vil ruinè me too, but he speak wit dàt bel Eyrè and gracè. I cannot bid him hold his tongue, ventre, c'est assey, Pierot, vat-èn.

And de litèl plate dè—

Jarnie, vat-èn.

And de litèl plate dè—

De grace go dy way.

And de litel dè—

De Fourmage, de Brie, vat-èn, go, go.

What's that Cheese that stinks?

Ay, ay, be sure it stinkè extremèntè, Pierot vat-èn; but stay till I drink dy health, here's to dat pretty Fellow's health, Madam.

Auh, you will not be disobligeant, Madam, he is the Quisinier for a Cardinal or French▪ Abbot.

But how shall we divertise our selves till Supper be ready?

Can we have better Divertisement than this Gentleman?

But I think we had better carry the Gentleman home with us and because it is already late, sup at home, and divertise the Gentleman at Cards, till it be ready, dè hear, Waiter, let it be brought when 'tis ready to my Lodging hard by, in Mustard-Alley, at the Sign of the Crooked-Billet!

At the Crooked-Billet!

Come, Sir, come.

Mort-bleu, I have take the Vow (since my last Clap) never to go again to the Bourdel.

What is the Bourdel?

How call you the name of your House?

The Crooked-Billet.

No, no, the—Bawdy-house, vert and bleu.

How, our Lodging! we'd have you know—

Auh, mort-bleu, I wou'd not know it, de Crookè-Billet, hah, ha.

Come, Sir.

Besides, if I go wit you to the Bourdel, you will tell, mort-bleu.

Fie, fie, come along.

Beside, I am to be marry'd within these two days, if you shou'd tell now.

Come, come along, we will not tell.

But will you promise then to have the care of my honour, pray, good Madam, have de care of my honeùr, pray have de care of my honeùr. Will you have care of my honeùr? pray have de care of my honeùr, and do not tell, if you can help it; pray, dear Madam, do not tell.

I wou'd not tell for fear of losing you, my Love for you will make me secret.

Why, do you love me?

Indeed I cannot help telling you now what my modesty ought to conceal, but my eyes wou'd disclose it too. I have a passion for you, Sir.

A passion for me!

An extreme passion, dear Sir, you are so French, so mightily French, so agreeable French; but I'll tell you more of my heart at home: come along.

But is your patiòn sincere?

The truest in the World.

Well then, I'll venture my body wit thee for one night.

For one night, don't you believe that, and so you wou'd leave me to morrow; but I love you so, I cannot part with you, you must keep me for good and all, if you will have me. I can't leave you for my heart.

How, keep, Jarniè, de Whore Englis' have notingè but keepè, keepè in derè mouths now a▪ days, testè nòn: formerly 'twas enough to keep de shild, ma foy.

Nay, I will be kept else—but come we'll talk on't at home.

HAve you had a Spanish care of the Honour of my Family, that is to say, have you kept up my Daughter close in my absence, as I directed.

I have, Sir; but it was as much as I cou'd do.

I knew that; for 'twas as much as I cou'd do to keep up her Mother. I that have been in Spain, look you.

Nay, 'tis a hard task to keep up an English Woman.

As hard as it is for those who are not kept up to be honest, look you con Licentia Sister.

How now, Brother! I am sure my Husband never kept me up.

I knew that, therefore I cryed con Licentia Sister, as the Spaniards have it.

But you Spaniards are too censorious, Brother.

You English Women, Sister, give us too much cause (look you) but you are sure my Daughter has not seen a man since my departure.

No, not so much as a Church-man.

As a Church-man (Voto) I thank you for that, not a Church-man! not a Church-man!

No, not so much as a Church-man; but of any, one wou'd think one might trust a Church-man.

No, we are bold enough in trusting them with our Souls, I'll never trust 'em with the body of my Daughter, look you, Guarda, you see what comes of trusting Church-men here in England; and 'tis because the Women govern the Families, that Chaplains are so much in fashion. Trust a Church-man—trust a Coward with your honour, a Fool with your secret, a Gamster with your purse, as soon as a Priest with your Wife or Daughter, look you, Guarda, I am no Fool, look you.

Nay, I know you are a wise man, Brother.

Why, Sister, I have been fifteen years in Spain for it, at several times, lo • k you: Now, in Spain, he is wise enough that is grave; politick enough, that • ays little; and honourable enough that is jealous; and though I say it, that shou'd not say it, I as as grave, grum, and jealous, as any Spaniard breathing.

I know you are, Brother.

These three days.

And she has seen him, has she? I was contented he shou'd see her, intending him for her Husband: but she has seen no body else upon your certain knowledge?

No, no, alas! how shou'd she? 'tis impossible she shou'd.

Where is her Chamber? pray let me see her.

You'll find her, poor Creature, asleep, I warrant you; or if awake, thinking no hurt, nor of your coming this morning.

Let us go to her, I long to see her, poor innocent Wretch.

Am I not come upon your own Summons, Madam? and yet receive me so?

My Summons, Sir, no I assure you; and if you do not like your reception, I cannot help it; for I am not us'd to receive men, I'd have you to know.

She is beautiful beyond all things I ever saw.

I like him extremely.

Come, fairest, why do you frown?

Because I am angry.

I am come on purpose to please you then, do not receive me so unkindly.

I tell you, I do not use to receive men; there has not been a man in the House before, but my Cousin, this twelve month, I'd have you to know.

Then you ought to bid me the more welcome, I'd have you to know.

What do you mock me too? I know I am but a home-bred-simple Girl; but I thought you Gallants of the Town had been better bred, than to mock a poor Girl in her Fathers own House. I have heard indeed 'tis a part of good breeding to mock people behind their backs, but not to their faces.

Pretty Creature! she has not only the Beauty but the Innocency of an Angel. Mock you, dear Miss! no, I only repeated the words, because they were yours, sweet Miss, what we like we imitate.

Dear Miss! sweet Miss! how came you and I so well acquainted? This is one of your confident Tricks too, as I have been told, you'll be acquainted with a Woman in the time you can help her over a Bench in the Play-house, or to her Coach: but I need not wonder at your confidence, since you cou'd come in at the great Gallery-window just now. But pray who shall pay for the glass you have broken?

Pretty Creature! your Father might have made the Window bigger then, since he has so fine a Daughter, and will not allow people to come in at the door to her.

Why do you look away, dearest Miss?

Because you quarrell'd with me just now for frowning▪ upon you, and I cannot help it, if I look upon you.

O let me see that Face at any rate.

Wou'd you have me frown upon you? for I shall be sure to do't.

Come, I'll stand fair: you have done your worst to my heart already.

Now I dare not look upon him, lest I shou'd not be able to keep my word.

Come, I am ready, and yet I am afraid of her frowns:

Come, look, Ih—am ready, Ih—am ready.

But I am not ready.

Turn, dear Miss, Come, Ih—am ready.

Are you ready then, I'll look?

No faith, I can't frown upon him, if I shou'd be hang'd.

Dear Miss, I thank you, that look has no terrour in't.

No, I cannot frown for my heart; for blushing, I don't use to look upon men, you must know.

If it were possible any thing cou'd, those blushes wou'd add to her Beauty: well, bashfulness is the only out-of-fashion-thing that is agreeable.

Ih—h—like this man strangely, I was going to say lov'd him. Courage then, Hippolita, make use of the only opportunity thou canst have to enfranchize thy self: Women formerly (they say) never knew how to make use of their time till it was past, but let it not be said so of a young Woman of this Age; my damn'd Aunt will be stirring presently: well then, courage, I say, Hippolita, thou art full fourteen years old, shift for thy self.

So, I have look'd upon her so long, till I am grown bashful too; Love and Modesty come together like Money and Covetousness, and the more we have, the less we can shew it. I dare not look her in the face now, nor speak a word.

What, Sir, methinks you look away now.

Because you wou'd not look upon me, Miss.

Nay, I hope you can't look me in the face, since you have done so rude a thing as to come in at the Window upon me; come, come, when once we Women find the men bashful, then we take heart; now I can look upon you as long as you will; let's see if you can frown upon me now!

Lovely Innocency! No, you may swear I can't frown upon you, Miss.

So I knew you were asham'd of what you have done; well, since you are asham'd, and because you did not come of your own head, but were sent by my Cousin, you say.

Which I wonder at.

For all these reasons I do forgive you.

In token of your forgiveness then (dearest Miss) let me have the honour to kiss your hand.

O dear Miss, if I am like your Shock-dog, let it be in his Priviledges.

Why, I'd have you know he does not lye with me.

'Tis was well guess'd, Miss, for one so innocent.

No, I always kick him off from the Bed, and never will let him come near it; for of late indeed (I do not know what's the reason) I don't much care for my Shock-dog nor my Babies.

O then, Miss, I may have hopes; for after the Shock-dog and the Babies, 'tis the mans turn to be belov'd.

Why cou'd you be so good-natur'd as to come after my Shock-dog in my Love? it may be indeed, rather than after one of your Brother-men.

Hah, ha, ha—poor Creature, a Wonder of Innocency.

But I see you are humble, because you wou'd kiss my hand.

No, I am ambitious therefore.

Well, all this fooling but loses time, I must make better use of it. I cou'd let you kiss my hand, but then I'm afraid you wou'd take hold of me and carry me away.

Indeed I wou'd not.

Come! I know you wou'd.

Truly I wou'd not.

You wou'd, you wou'd, I know you wou'd.

I'll swear I wo' not—by—

Nay, don't swear, for you'll be the apter to do it then, I wou'd not have him forswear it neither; he does not like me sure well enough to carry me away.

Dear Miss, let me kiss your hand.

I am sure you wou'd carry me away, if I shou'd.

Be not afraid of it.

Nay! I am afraid of the contrary; either he dislikes me, and therefore will not be troubled with me, or what is as bad, he loves me, and is dull, or fearful to displease me.

Trust me, sweetest; I can use no violence to you.

Nay, I am sure you wou'd carry me away, what shou'd you come in at the Window for, if you did not mean to steal me?

If I shou'd endeavour it, you might cry out, and I should be prevented.

Dull, dull man of the Town, are all like thee. He is as dull as a Country Squire at Questions and Commands. No, if I shou'd cry out never so loud; this is quite at the further end of the House, and there no body cou'd hear me.

I will not give you the occasion, Dearest.

Well! I will quicken thy sense, if it be possible. Nay, I know you come to steal me away; because I am an Heiress, and have twelve hundred pound a year, lately left me by my Mothers Brother, which my Father cannot meddle with, and which is the chiefest reason (I suppose) why he keeps me up so close.

So—this has made him consider, O money, powerful money! how the ugly, old, crooked, straight, handsom young Women are beholding to thee?

Twelve hundred pound a year—

Besides, I have been told my Fortune, and the Woman said I shou'd be stoln away, because she says 'tis the Fate of Heiresses to be stoln away.

Twelve hundred pound a year—

Nay more, she described the man to me, that was to do it, and he was as like you as cou'd be! have you any Brothers?

Not any! 'twas I, I warrant you, Sweetest.

So he understands himself now.

Well, Madam, since 'twas foretold you, what do you think on't? 'tis in vain, you know, to resist Fate.

I do know indeed they say, 'tis to no purpose: besides, the Woman that told me my Fortune, or you have bewitch'd me. Ih—think.

My Soul, my Life, 'tis you have Charms powerful as numberless, especially those of your innocency irresistable, and do surprise the wary'st Heart; such mine was, while I cou'd call it mine, but now 'tis yours for ever.

Well, well, get you gone then, I'll keep it safe for your sake.

Nay, you must go with me, sweetest.

Well, I see you will part with the Jewel; but you'll have the keeping of the Cabinet to which you commit it.

Come, come, my Dearest, let us be gone: Fortune as well as Women must be taken in the humour.

O Miss, Miss! your Father, it seems, is just now arriv'd, and here is coming in upon you.

My Father!

My Daughter! and a Man!

A Man! a Man in the House!

Ha!—what mean these! a Spaniard.

What shall I do? stay—nay, pray stir not from me; but lead me about, as if you lead me about, as if you lead me a Corant.

Is this your Government, Sister, and this your innocent Charge, that has not seen the face of a man this twelve-month, En horâ mala.

O sure it is not a man, it cannot be a Man!

It cannot be a Man! if he be not a Man he's a Devil; he has her lovingly by the hand too, Valga me el Cielo.

Do not seem to mind them, but dance on, or lead me about still.

What de'e mean by't?

Hey! they are frolick, a dancing.

Indeed they are dancing, I think, why Niece.

Nay, hold a little: I'll make 'em dance in the Devils name, but it shall not be la Gailliarda!

Do you hear her? what do you mean?

Take no notice of them; but walk about still, and sing a little, sing a Corant.

I can't sing; but I'll hum, if you will.

Are you so merry? Well, I'll be with you, En horâ mala.

Oh Niece, Niece, why Niece, Oh—

Why, Daughter, my dainty Daughter, my shame, my ruine, my plague.

Mind him not, but dance and sing on.

A pretty time to dance and sing indeed, when I have a Spaniard with naked Toledo at my tail: no, pray excuse me, Miss, from fooling any longer.

O my Father! my Father! poor Father! you are welcome, pray give me your blessing.

My blessing, En hora mala.

What, am I not your Daughter, Sir?

My Daughter, mi mal, mi muertè.

My name's Hippolita, Sir, I don't own your Spanish names; but pray, Father, why do you frighten one so! you know I don't love to see a Sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?

I'll shew you, Trayidor Ladron, demi houra, thou dy'st.

Not if I can help it, good Don; but by the names you give me, I find you mistake your man, I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you.

None but thee, Ladron, and thou dy'st for't.

Oh, oh, oh—help, help, help.

Oh—what will you kill my poor Dancing-master?

A Dancing-master, he's a Fencing-master rather, I think. But is he your Dancing-master? Umph—

So much Wit and Innocency were never together before.

Is he a Dancing-master?

Is he a Dancing-master? He does not look like a Dancing-master.

Pish—you don't know a Dancing-master, you have not seen one these threescore years, I warrant.

No matter; but he does not look like a Dancing-master.

Nay, nay, Dancing-masters look like Gentlemen, enough, Sister; but he's no Dancing-master by drawing his Sword so briskly: those tripping outsides of Gentlemen are like Gentlemen enough in every thing but in drawing a Sword, and since he is a Gentleman, he shall dye by mine.

Oh, hold, hold.

Hold, hold! pray, Brother, let's talk with him a little first, I warrant you I shall trap him, and if he confesses, you may kill him; for those that confess, they say, ought to be hang'd—let's see—

Poor Hippolita, I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring thy Wit; I have increased my Love, whilst I have lost my hopes, the common Fate of poor Lovers.

Come, you are guilty by that hanging down o • your head. Speak, are you a Dancing-master? Speak, speak, a Dancing-master?

How do's it appear?

Why there is his Fiddle, there upon the Table, Father.

No busie-body, but it is not—that is my Nephews Fiddle.

Why, he lent it to my Cousin; I tell you it is his.

Nay, it may be indeed, he might lend it him, for ought I know.

I, I, but ask him, Sister, if he be a Dancing-master, where?

Pray, Brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask him, sure!

What will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if you are a Dancing-master; where's your School? adondè, adondè.

Why, he'll say, may be he has ne'er a one.

Who ask'd you, nimble Chaps? So you have put an Excuse in his head.

Indeed, Sir, 'tis no Excuse, I have no School.

Well! but who sent you, how came you hither?

There I am puzl'd indeed.

How came you hither, I say? how—

Why, how, how, how shou'd I come hither?

Ay, how shou'd he come hither? upon his Legs.

So, so, now you have put an Excuse in his head too, that you have, so you have, but stay—

Nay, with your favour, Mistress, I'll ask him now.

I'facks; but you shan't, I'll ask him, and ask you no favour that I will.

I'fackins; but you shan't ask him, if you go there to, look you, you Prattle-box you, I'll ask him.

I will ask him, I say, come.

Where.

What.

Mine's a shrewd question.

Mine's as shrewd as yours.

Nay then we shall have it, come, answer me, where's your Lodging? come, come, Sir.

A shrewd question indeed, at the Surgeons Arms I warrant in—for 'tis Spring-time, you know.

Must you make lyes for him?

But come, Sir, what's your Name? answer me to that, come.

His Name, why 'tis an easie matter to tell you a false Name, I hope.

So, must you teach him to cheat us?

Why did you say my questions were not shrewd questions then?

And why wou'd you not let me ask him the question then? Brother, Brother, ever while you live for all your Spanish wisdom, let an old Woman make discoveries, the young Fellows cannot cheat us in any thing, I'd have you to know; set your old Woman still to grope out an Intrigue, because you know the Mother found her Daughter in the Oven: a word to the wise, Brother.

Come, come, leave this tattling; he has dishonour'd my Family, debauch'd my Daughter, and what if he cou'd excuse himself? the Spanish Proverb says, Excuses neither satisfie Creditors nor the injur'd; the wounds of Honour must have blood and wounds, St. Jago para mi.

Oh hold! dear Father, and I'll confess all.

She will not, sure, after all.

My Cousin sent him, because, as he said, he wou'd have me recover my Dancing a little before our Wedding, having made a Vow he wou'd never marry a Wife who cou'd not dance a Corant. I am sure I was unwilling, but he wou'd have him come, saying, I was to be his Wife, as soon as you came, and therefore expected obedience from me.

Indeed the venture is most his, and the shame wou'd be most his; for I know here in England 'tis not the custom for the Father to be much concern'd what the Daughter does, but I will be a Spaniard still.

Did not you hear him say last night he wou'd send me one this morning?

No not I sure. If I had, he had never come here.

Indeed, Aunt, you grow old, I see, your memory fails you very much. Did not you hear him, Prue, say he wou'd send him to me?

Yes I'll be sworn did I.

Look you there, Aunt.

I wonder I should not remember it.

Come, come, you are a doting old Fool.

So, so, the fault will be mine now. But pray, Mistress, how did he come in: I am sure I had the Keys of the Doors, which till your Father came in, were not open'd to day.

He came in just after my Father, I suppose.

It might be indeed while the Porters brought in the things, and I was talking with you.

O might he so, forsooth; you are a brave Governante, look you, you a Duenna voto—and not know who comes in and out.

So, 'twas my fault, I know.

Your Maid was in the Room with you! was she not, Child?

Yes indeed, and indeed, Father, all the while.

Well, Child, I am satisfi'd then; but I hope he does not use the Dancing-masters tricks of squeezing your hands, setting your Legs and Feet, by handling your Thighs, and seeing your Legs.

No indeed, Father; I'd give him a Box on the Ear, if he shou'd.

Poor Innocent! Well I am contented you shou'd learn to dance; since, for ought I know, you shall be marry'd to morrow, or the next day at farthest, by that time you may recover a Corant, a Sarabrand I wou'd say; and since your Cousin too will have a dancing Wife, it shall be so, and I'll see you dance my self, you shall be my Charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any Dancing-master, even a sawcy French Dancing-master, look you.

Well, have a care though; for this man is not dress'd like a Dancing-master.

Go, go, you dote, are they not (for the most part) better dress'd and prouder than many a good Gentleman? you wou'd be wiser than I, wou'd you? Querno—

Well, I say only look to't, look to't.

Hey, hey! come, Friend, to your bus'ness, teach her her Lesson over again, let's see.

Come, Master.

Come, come, let's see your English Method, I understand something of Dancing my self—come.

Come, Master.

I shall betray you yet, dearest Miss, for I know not a step, I cou'd never dance.

No!

Come, come, Child.

Indeed I'm asham'd, Father.

You must not be asham'd, Child, you'll never dance well, if you are asham'd.

Indeed I can't help it, Father.

Come, come, I say, go to't.

Indeed I can't, Father, before you; 'tis my first Lesson, and I shall do it so ill: pray, good Father, go into the next Room for this once, and the next time my Master comes, you shall see I shall be confident enough.

Poor-foolish-innocent Creature; well, well, I will, Child, who but a Spanish kind of a Father cou'd have so innocent a Daughter, in England? well I wou'd fain see any one steal or debauch my Daughter from me.

Nay, won't you go, Father!

Yes, yes, I go, Child, we will all go but your Maid; you can dance before your Maid.

Yes, yes, Father, a Maid at most times with her Mistress is no body.

He peeps yet at the door.

Nay, Father, you peep, indeed you must not see me, when we have done you shall come in.

Indeed, little Mistress, like the young Kitten, you see, you play'd with our prey, till you had almost lost it!

'Tis true, a good old Mouser like you, had taken it up, and run away with it presently.

Let me adore you, dearest Miss, and give you—

No, no embracing good Master, that ought to be the last Lesson you are to teach me, I have heard.

Though an after-Game be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won, Miss, with the more honour and pleasure; for all that I repent we were put to't; the coming in of your Father as he did, was the most unlucky thing that ever befel me.

What, then you think I would have gone with you.

Yes, and will go with me yet, I hope, courage, Miss, we have yet an opportunity, and the Gallery-window is yet open.

No, dear Miss, I would carry you to Court, the Play-houses, and Hide-Park—

Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit Women away to speak 'em mighty fair at first; but when you have got 'em in your Clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwall, which is as bad as to Barbadoes, and rather than be served so, I would be a Pris'ner in London still as I am.

I see the Air of this Town without the pleasures of it, is enough to infect Women with an aversion for the Country. Well, Miss, since it seems you have some diffidence in me, give me leave to visit you as your Dancing-master, now you have honour'd me with the Character, and under that, I may have your Fathers permission to see you, till you may better know me and my heart, and have a better opportunity to reward it.

I am afraid, to know your heart, would require a great deal of time, and my Father intends to marry me very suddenly to my Cousin who sent you hither.

Pray, sweet Miss, then let us make the better use of our time, if it be short: but how shall we do with that Cousin of yours in the mean time, we must needs charm him?

Leave that to me!

But what's worse! how shall I be able to act a Dancing-master? who ever wanted inclination and patience to learn my self.

A Dancing-School in half an hour will furnish you with terms of the Art Besides, Love (as I have heard say) supplies his Scholars with all sorts of Capacities they have need of in spight of Nature, but what has Love to do with you?

Love indeed has made a grave Gouty States-man fight Duels; the Souldier fly from his Colours, a Pedant asine Gentleman; nay, and the very Lawyer a Poet, and therefore may make me a Dancing-master.

If he were your Master.

I'm sure, dearest Miss, there is nothing else which I cannot do for you already, and therefore may hope to succeed in that.

Come, have you done?

O! my Father agen.

Come, now let us see you dance.

Indeed I am not perfect yet, pray excuse me till the next time my Master comes: but when must he come agen Father?

Let me see, Friend, you must needs come after Dinner agen, and then at night agen, and so three times to morrow too. If she be not marry'd to morrow (which I am to consider of) she will dance a Corant in twice or thrice teaching more, will she not? for 'tis but a twelve-month since she came from Hackney-School.

Truly, I think she may be marry'd to morrow, therefore I would not have you lose any time, look you.

You need not caution me I warrant you, Sir, sweet Scholar, your humble Servant, I will not fail you immediately after Dinner.

No, no, pray do not, and I will not fail to satisfie you very well, look you.

He does not doubt his reward, Father, for his pains. If you shou'd not, I wou'd make that good to him.

Come, let us go in to your Aunt, I must talk with you both together, Child.

I follow you, Sir.

Here's the Gentlewoman o'th'next House come to see you, Mistress.

She's come, as if she came expresly to sing the new Song the sung last night, I must hear it, for 'tis to my purpose now.

Madam, your Servant, I dream't all night of the Song you sung last; the new Song against delays in Love: pray let's hear it again.

Your Father calls for you, Miss.

I come, I come. I must be obedient as long as I am with him.

SErviteur, Serviteur, la Cousin, your Maid told me she watch'd at the stair-foot for my coming, because you had a mind to speak wit me before I saw your Fader, it seem.

I wou'd so indeed, Cousin.

Or ca, Or ca, I know your affair, it is to tell me wat recreation you adè with Monsieur Gerrard; but did he come, I was afrait he wou'd not come.

Yes, yes, he did come.

Ha, ha, ha—and were you not infiniment divertiseè and please, confess.

I was indeed, Cousin, I was very well pleas'd.

I do tinkè so. I did tinkè to come and be divertiseè my self this morning with the sight of his reception; but I did ran'counter last night wit dam Company dàt keep me up so late I cou'd not rise in dè morning. Mala-pestè de Puteins—

Indeed we wanted you here mightily, Cousin.

To elpè you to laugh; for if I adde been here, I had made such recreation wid dàt Coxcomb Gerrard.

Indeed, Cousin! you need not have any subject or property to make one laugh, you are so pleasant your self, and when you are but alone, you wou'd make one burst.

Am I so happy, Cousin? then in the bòn quality of making people laugh.

Mighty happy, Cousin.

De gracè.

Indeed!

I do believe you do.

Nay, as I marchè in de street I can make de dull Apprenty laugh and sneer.

This Fool, I see, is as apt as an ill Poet to mistake the contempt and scorn of people for applause and admiration.

Ah, Cousin, you see wàt it is to have been in France; before I went into France I cou'd get no body to laugh at me, ma foy.

No! truly Cousin, I think you deserv'd it before, but you are improv'd indeed by going into France.

Ay, as, the Franch Education make us propre à tout; beside, Cousin, you must know to play the Fool is the Science in France, and I diddè go to the Italian Academy at Paris thrice a week to learn to play de Fool of Signior Scaramouchè who is the most excellent Personage in the World for dat Noble Science. Angel is a dam English Fool to him.

Methinks now Angel is a very good Fool.

Nauh, nauh, Nokes is a better Fool, but indeed the Englis' are not fit to be Fools; here are ver few good Fools. 'Tis true, you have many a young Cavalier, who go over into France to learn to be the Buffoon; but for all dat, dey return but mauvais Buffoon. Jarniè.

I'm sure, Cousin, you have lost no time there.

Auh lè bravè Scaramouchè.

But is it a Science in France, Cousin? and is there an Academy for Fooling: sure none go to it but Players.

Dey are Comedians dàt are de Matrès, but all the beaux monde go to learn, as they do here of Angel and Nokes; for if you did go abroad into Company, you wou'd find the best almost of de Nation conning in all places the Lessons which dey have learnt of the Fools, dere Matrès, Nokes and Angel.

Indeed!

Yes, yes, dey are the Gens de quality that practise dat Science most, and the most ambitieux; for Fools and Buffoons have been always most welcome to Courts, and desir'd in all Companies. Auh to be de Fool, de Buffoon, is to be de greatè Personagè.

Fools have Fortune, they say indeed.

So say old Senequè.

Well, Cousin (not to make you proud) you are the greatest Fool in England, I am sure.

Non, non, de gracè, non, Nokes dè Comedian is a pretty man, a pretty man for a Comedian, da—

You are modest, Cousin; but least my Father shou'd come in presently (which he will do as soon as he knows you are here) I must give you a Caution, which 'tis fit you shou'd have before you see him.

Vel, vèl, Cousin, vat is dat?

You must know then (as commonly the conclusion of all mirth is sad) after I had a good while pleas'd my self in jesting and leading the poor Gentleman you sent into a Fools Paradise, and almost made him believe I wou'd go away with him, my Father coming home this morning, came in upon us, and caught him with me.

Mala-pes • e.

And drew his Sword upon him, and wou'd have kill'd him; for you know my Father's Spanish fierceness and jealousie.

But, how did he come off then? testè nòn.

In short, I was fain to bring him off by saying he was my Dancingmaster.

Hah, ha, ha, vèr good Jestè.

I was unwilling to have the poor man kill'd you know for our foolish Frolick with him; but then upon my Aunts and Fathers inquiry, how he came in, and who sent him; I was forc'd to say you did, desiring I shou'd be able to dance a Corant before our Wedding.

A vèr good Jest—da—still bettrè as bettrè.

Now all that I am to desire of you, is to own you sent him, that I may not be caught in a lye.

Yes, yes, a ver good Jest, Gerrard, a Mastrè dè Dance, hah, ha, ha.

Nay, the Jest is like to be better yet; for my Father himself has oblig'd him now to come and teach me: So that now he must take the Dancingmaster upon him, and come three or four times come before our Wedding, lest my Father, if he shou'd come no more, shou'd be suspicious I had told him a lye: and (for ought I know) if he shou'd know o • but guess he were not a Dancingmaster, in his Spanish strictness and Punctillioes of Honour he might kill me as the shame and stain of his Honour and Family▪ which he talks of so much. Now you know the jealous cruel Fathers in Spain serve their poor innocent Daughters often so, and he is more than a Spaniard.

Non, non, fear noting, I warrant you he shall come as often as you will to the House, and your Father shall never know who he is till we are marry'd; but then I'll tell him all for the Jests sake.

But will you keep my Counsel, dear Cousin, till we are marry'd?

Poor▪ dear Fool, I warrant thee, mon soy.

Nay, what a Fool am I indeed, for you wou'd not have me kill'd: you love me too well sure, to be an Instrument of my death;

But here comes my Father, remember.

I would no more tell him of it, than I would tell you if I had been with a Weach, Jarnie—she's afraid to be kill'd, poor Wretch, and he's a capricious jealous Fop enough to do't, but here he comes.

I'll keep thy Counsel I warrant thee, my dear Soul, mon petit Coeùr.

Peace, peace, my Father's coming this way.

I, but by his march he won't be near enough to hear us this half hour, hah, ha, ha.

Is that thing my▪ Cousin, Sister?

'Tis he, Sir.

Is that a Spanish Complement?

So much disguis'd, Cousin.

Oh! is it out at last, ventrè?

Serviteur, Serviteur, à Monseur mon Oncle, and I am glad to see you here within doors, most Spanish Oncle, ha, ha, ha. But I should be sorry to see you in the streets, teste non.

Why soh—would you be asham'd of me, hah—(voto a St. Jago) wou'd you? hauh—

I it may be you wou'd be asham'd your self, Monseur mon Oncle, of the great Train you wou'd get to wait upon your Spanish Hose, puh—the Boys wou'd follow you, and hoot at you (vert and bleu) pardonè my Franch Franchise, Monsieur mon Oncle.

We shall have sport anon, betwixt these two Contraries.

Do'st thou call me Monseur (voto a St. Jago▪ )

No, I did not call you Monseur voto a St. Jago, Sir, I know you are my Uncle Mr. James Formal—da—

But I can hardly know you are my Cousin, Mr. Nathaniel Paris; but call me Sir Don Diego henceforward, look you, and no Monsieur, call me Monsieur Guarda.

I confess my errour, Sir; for none but â blind man wou'd call you Monsieur, ha, ha, ha - But pray do not call me neder Paris, but de Paris, de Paris (si vou plai'st) Monseur de Paris! Call me Monseur and welcome, da—

Monsieur de Pantaloòns then voto—

Monsieur de Pantalloons! a pretty name, a pretty name, ma foy, da—bein trove de Pantalloons; how much betrè dèn your de la Fountaines, de la Rivieres, de la Roches, and all the De's in France—da—well; but have you not the admiration for my Pantalloon, Don Diego mon Oncle?

I am astonish'd at them verde deramentè, they are wonderfully ridiculous.

Redicule, redicule! ah—'tis well you are my Uncle, da—Redicule, ah—is dere any ting in de Universe so jenti as de Pantalloons? any ting so ravisaunt as de Pantalloons? Auh—I cou'd kneel down and varship a pair of jenti Pantalloons? vat, vat, you wou'd have me have de admiration for dis outward skin of your Thigh, which you call Spanish Hose, fie, fie, fie—ha, ha, ha▪

Do'st thou deride my Spanish Hose? young Man, hauh.

In comparison of Pantalloon I do undervalue 'em indeet, Don Diegue mon Oncle, ha, ha, ha.

Thou art then a gavanho de malo gusto, look you.

You may call me vat you vill, Oncle Don Diegue; but I must needs say, your Spanish Hose are scurvy Hose, ugly Hose, lousie Hose, and stinking Hose.

Do not provoke me, Boracho.

Indeet for lousie I recant dat Epithete, for dere is scarce room in 'em for dat little Animal, ha, ha, ha. But for stinking Hose, dat Epithete may stand; for how can dey chuse but stink, since dey are so furieusmentè close to your Spanish Tail, da▪

Do not provoke me, I say, En horâ malâ.

Nay, Oncle, I am sorry you are in de pation; but I must live and dye for de Pantalloon against de Spanish Hose, da.

You are a rash young Man, and while you wear Pantalloons, you are beneath my passion, voto—Auh—they make thee look and waddle (with all those gew-gaw Ribbons) like a great old Fat, slovenly Water-dog.

And your Spanish Hose, and your Nose in the Air, make you look like a great grisled-long-Irish-Grey-hound, reaching a Crust off from a high Shelf, ha, ha, ha.

Bueno, Bueno.

What have you a mind to ruine your self, and break off the Match?

Pshaw—wat do you telle me of the Matchè? deè tinke I will not vindicate Pantalloons, Morbleu?

Well! he is a lost young Man, I see, and desperately far gone in the Epidemick Malady of our Nation, the affectation of the worst of French Vanities: but I must be wiser than him, as I am a Spaniard look you Don Diego, and endeavour to reclaim him by Art and fair means (look you, Don Diego) if not, he shall never marry my Daughter look you, Don Diego, though he be my own Sister's Son, and has two thousand five hundred seventy three pound Starling twelve shillings and two pence a year Penny-rent, Segouaramentè.

Come, Young-man, since you are so obstinate, we will refer our difference to Arbitration, your Mistress my Daughter shall be Umpire betwixt us, concerning Spanish Hose and Pantalloons.

Pantalloons and Spanish Hose (si vous plaist.)

Your Mistress is the fittest Judge of your Dress, sure?

I know ver vel, dat most of the Jeunesse of England will not change the Ribband upon de Crevat widout the consultation of dere Matress, but I am no Anglois da—nor shall I make de reference of my Dress to any in the Universe, da—I judg'd by any in England, teste non▪ I wou'd not be judg'd by an English Looking-glass, Jarnie.

Be not positivo, Young-man.

Nay, pray refer it, Cousin, pray do.

Non, non, your Servant, your Servant, Aunt.

But pray be not so positive, come hither, Daughter, tell me which is best.

Indeed, Father, you have kept me in universal ignorance, I know nothing.

And do you tink I shall refer an Affair of dat consequence to a poor young ting who have not see the Varld, da, I am wiser than so voto?

Well, in short, if you will not be wiser, and leave off your French Dress, Stammering, and Tricks, look you, you shall be a Fool and go without my Daughter, voto.

How, must I leave off my Janti Franch Accoustrements, and speak base Englis too, or not marry my Cousin! mon Oncle Don Diego▪ Do not break off the Match, do not; for know I will not leave off my Pantalloon and Franch Pronuntiation for ne'er a Cousin in England't, da.

Ver vèl, ver vèl! and I am a Franch Positivo.

Then I am Definitivo; and if you do not go immediately into your Chamber, and put on a Spanish Habit, I have brought over on purpose for your Wedding Cloaths, and put off all these French Fopperies and Vanidades, with all your Grimaces, Agreeables, Adorables, ma Foys, and Jernies. I swear you shall never marry my Daughter (and by an Oath by Spaniard never broken) by my Whiskers and Snuff-box.

O hold, do not swear, Uncle, for I love your Daughter furieusmènt.

If you love her, you'll obey me.

Auh, wat vil become of me! but have the consideration, must I leave off all the Franch Beautes, Graces, and Embellisemènts, bote of my Person and Language.

I will have it so.

I am ruinne den undonne, have some consideration for me, for dere is not the least Ribbon of my Garniture, but is as dear to me as your Daughter, Jernie—

Then you do not deserve her, and for that reason I will be satisfi'd you love her better, or you shall not have her, for I am positivo.

Vil you breake mine Arte! pray have de consideration for me.

I say agen, you shall be dress'd before night from Top to Toe in the Spanish Habit, or you shall never marry my Daughter, look you.

If you will not have de consideration for me, have de consideration for your Daughter; for she have de passionate Amour for me, and like me in dis Habite betre den in yours, da—

What I have said I have said, and I am uno Positivo.

Will you not so mush as allow me one little Franch Oate?

No, you shall look like a Spaniard, but speak and swear like an English man, look you.

Helas, helas, den I shall take my leave, mort, teste, ventre, Jernie, teste-bleu, ventre-bleu, ma foy, certes.

Pedro, Sanchez, wait upon this Cavaliero into his Chamber with those things I ordered you to take out of the Trunks, I wou'd have you a little accustomed to your Cloaths before your Wedding; for if you comply with me, you shall marry my Daughter to morrow, look you.

Adieu then, dear Pantalloon! dear Beltè! dear Sword! dear Perruque! and dear Chappeaux, Retrouseè, and dear Shoe, Jernie; adieu, adieu, adieu, helas, helas, helas, will you have yet no pity.

I am a Spanish Positivo, look you.

And more cruel than de Spanish Inquisitiono, to compel a Man to a Habit against his Conscience, helas, helas, helas.

Here is the Dancing-master, shall I call my Mistress, Sir?

Yes. O you are as punctual as a Spaniard: I love your punctual Men, nay, I think 'tis before your time something.

So, so, 'tis well.

I were a very unworthy Man, if I should not be punctual with her, Sir.

You speak honestly, very honestly, Friend; and I believe a very honest man, though a Dancing-master.

I am very glad you think me so, Sir.

What you are but a Young-man, are you marry'd yet?

No, Sir, but I hope I shall, Sir, very suddenly, if things hit right.

What the old Folks her Friends are wary, and cannot agree with you so soon as the Daughter can?

Yes, Sir, the Father hinders it a little at present; but the Daughter I hope is resolv'd, and then we shall do well enough.

What! you do not steal her, according to the laudable Custom of some of your Brother Dancing-masters?

No, no, Sir, steal her, Sir, steal her, you are pleas'd to be merry, Sir, ha, ha, ha. I cannot but laugh at that question.

No, Sir, methinks you are pleas'd to be merry; but you say the Father does not consent.

Not yet, Sir; but 'twill be no matter whether he does or no.

Was she one of your Scholars? if she were, 'tis a hundred to ten but you steal her.

I shall not be able to hold laughing.

Nay, nay, I find by your laughing you steal her, she was your Scholar, was she not?

Yes, Sir, she was the first I ever had, and may be the last too; for she has a Fortune (if I can get her) will keep me from teaching to dance any more.

So, so, then she is your Scholar still it seems, and she has a good Portion, I am glad on't, nay, I knew you stole her.

My laughing may give him suspicions, yet I cannot hold.

What, you laugh I warrant to think how the young Baggage and you will mump the poor old Father; but if all her dependance for a Fortune be upon the Father, he may chance to mump you both, and spoil the Jest.

I hope it will not be in his power, Sir, ha, ha, ha.

I shall laugh too much anon.

Pray, Sir, be pleas'd to call for your Daughter, I am impatient till she comes; for time was never more precious with me and with her too, it ought to be so, sure, since you say she is to be marry'd to morrow.

She ought to bestir her, as you say indeed, wuh, Daughter, Daughter, Prue, Hippolita: Come away, Child, why do you stay so long?

Your Servant, Master! indeed I am asham'd you have stay'd for me.

O good Madam, 'tis my Duty, I know you came as soon as you cou'd.

I knew my Father was with you, therefore I did not make altogether so much haste as I might; but if you had been alone, nothing shou'd have kept me from you, I wou'd not have been so rude as to have made you stay a minute for me, I warrant you.

Lord, Sir, I hope you'll allow me to shew my respect to my Master, for I have a great respect for my Master.

And I am very proud of my Scholar, and am a very great Honourer of my Scholar.

Come, come, Friend, about your bus'ness, and honour the King. Your Dancing-masters and Barbers are such finical smooth-tongu'd, tatling Fellows, and if you set 'em once a talking, they'll ne'er a done, no more than when you set 'em a fidling: indeed all that deal with Fiddles are given to impertinency.

Well! well! this is an impertinent Fellow, without being a Dancingmaster: he's no more a Dancing-master than I am a Maid.

What! will you still be wiser than I? voto.

Come, come about with my Daughter, Man.

So he wou'd, I warrant you, if your Worship wou'd let him alone.

How now Mrs. Nimble-Chaps?

Well, though I have got a little Canting at the Dancing-School since I was here, yet I do all so bunglingly, he'll discover me.

Try, come take my hand, Master.

Look you, Brother, the impudent Harletry gives him her hand.

Can he dance with her without holding her by the hand?

Here, take my hand, Master.

I wish it were for good and all.

You Dancing-masters are always so hasty, so nimble.

Voto a St. Jago, not that I can see, about, about with her, Man.

Indeed, Sir, I cannot about with her as I wou'd do, unless you will please to go out a little, Sir; for I see she is bashful still before you, Sir.

Hey, hey, more fooling yet, come, come, about with her.

Nay, indeed, Father, I am asham'd and cannot help it.

But you shall help it, for I will not stir: move her, I say begin Hussie, move when he'll have you.

I cannot but laugh at that, ha, ha, ha,

Come then, Madam, since it must be so let us try, but I shall discover all, One, two, and Coupee.

Nay de' see how he squeezes her hand, Brother, O the lewd Villain!

Come, move, I say, and mind her not.

One, two, three, four, and turn round.

De' see again he took her by the bare Arm.

Come, move on, she's mad.

One, two, and a Coupee.

Come, one, two, turn out your Toes.

There, there, he pinch'd her by the Thigh, will you suffer it?

One, two, three, and fall back.

Fall back, fall back, back, some of you are forward enough to fall back.

Back, Madam.

Fall back when he bids you, Hussie.

I say she shall, Huswife, come.

She will, she will, I warrant you, Sir, if you won' be angry with her.

Do you know what he means by that now, you a Spaniard?

How's that, I not a Spaniard? say such a word again.

Come forward, Madam, three steps agen.

See, see, she squeezes his hand now, O the debauch'd Harletry!

So, so, mind her not, she moves forward pretty well; but you must move as well backward as forward, or you'll never do any thing to purpose.

Do you know what you say, Brother, your self now? are you at your beastliness before your young Daughter?

Ha, ha, ha.

How now, Mistress, are you so merry? is this your staid Maid as you call her, Sister impertinent?

I have not much to say to you, Miss; but I shall not have an opportunity to do it, unless we can get your Father out.

Come about agen with her.

Look you, there she squeezes his hand hard again.

Indeed and indeed, Father, my Aunt puts me quite out, I cannot dance while she looks on for my heart, she makes me asham'd and afraid together.

Indeed if you wou'd please to take her out, Sir, I am sure I shou'd make my Scholar do better, than when you are present, Sir, pray, Sir, be pleased for this time to take her away; for the next time I hope I shall order it so, we shall trouble neither of you.

No, no, Brother, stir not, they have a mind to be left alone. Come, there's a beastly Trick in't: he's no Dancing-master I tell you.

Damn'd Jade, she'll discover us.

What will you teach me? nay then I will go out, and you shall go out too, look you.

I will not go out, look you.

Come, come, thou art a censorious wicked Woman, and you shall disturb them no longer.

What will you bawd for your Daughter?

Ay, ay, come go out, out, out.

I will not go out, I will not go out, my Conscience will not suffer me; for I know by experience what will follow.

I warrant you, Sir, we'll make good use of our time when you are gone.

Do you hear him again, don't you know what he means?

'Tis very well, you are a fine Gentleman to abuse my poor Father so.

'Tis but by your Example, Miss.

Well I am his Daughter, and may m ••• the bolder with him, I hope.

And I am his Son-in-law, that shall 〈…〉 nd therefore may claim my Priviledge too of making bold with him, I hope.

Methinks you shou'd be contented in making bold with his Daughter; for you have made very bold with her, sure.

I do not doubt your confidence, for you are a Dancing-master.

Why, Miss? I hope you wou'd not have me a fine senseless Whining, modest Lover; for modesty in a Man is as ill as the want of it in a Woman.

I thank you for that, Sir, how you have made bold with me indeed; but if I am such a confident Piece, I am sure you made me so; if you had not had the confidence to come in at the Window, I had not had the confidence to look upon a Man: I am sure I cou'd not look upon a Man before.

But that I humbly conceive, sweet Miss, was your Fathers fault, because you had not a Man to look upon. But, dearest Miss, I do not think you confident, you are only innocent; for that which would be called confidence, nay impudence in a Woman of years, is called innocency in one of your age; and the more impudent you appear, the more innocent you are thought.

Say you so! has Youth such Priviledges? I do not wonder then most Women seem impudent, since it is to be thought younger than they are it seems; but indeed, Master you are as great an Encourager of impudence I see, as if you were a Dancing master in good earnest.

Yes, yes, a young thing may do anything, may leap out of the Window, and go away with her Dancing-master, if she please.

So, so, the use follows the Doctrine very suddenly.

Well, Dearest, pray let us make the use we shou'd of it, lest your Father shou'd make too bold with us, and come in before we wou'd have him.

Indeed old Relations are apt to take that ill bred freedom of pressing into young Company at unseasonable hours.

Come, dear Miss, let me tell you how I have design'd matters; for in talking of anything else we lose time and opportunity: people abroad indeed say the English Women are the worst in the World in using an opportunity, they love tittle tattle and Ceremony.

'Tis because I warrant opportunities are not so scarce here as abroad, they have more here than they can use; but let people abroad say what they will of English Women, because they do not know 'em, but what say people at home?

Pretty Innocent, ha, ha, ha. Well I say you will not make use of your opportunity.

I say you have no reason to say so yet.

Well, then anon at nine of the Clock at night I'll try you; for I have already bespoke a Parson, and have taken up the three back Rooms of the Tavern, which front upon the Gallery-window, that nobody may see us escape, and I have appointed (precisely betwixt eight and nine of the Clock when it is dark) a Coach and Six to wait at the Tavern-door for us.

A Coach and Six, a Coach and Six, do you say? nay then I see you are resolv'd to carry me away▪ for a Coach and Six, though there were not a Man but the Coach-man with it, wou'd carry▪away any young Girl of my Age in England, a Coach and Six!

Then you will be sure to be ready to go with me.

What young Woman of the Town cou'd ever say no to a Coach and Six, unless it were going into the Country: a Coach and Six, 'tis not in the power of fourteen years old to resist it.

You are sure 'tis a Coach and Six?

I warrant you, Miss.

I warrant you then they'll carry us merrily away▪ a Coach and Six?

But have you charm'd your Cousin the Monsieur (as you said you wou'd) that he in the mean time say nothing to prevent us?

I warrant you.

I will come in.

Well, I hope by this time you have given her full instructions, you have told her what and how to do, you have done all.

We have just done indeed, Sir.

Ay, Sir, we have just done, Sir.

And I fear just undone, Sir.

De' hear that damn'd Witch.

Come leave your censorious prating, thou hast been a false right Woman thy self in thy Youth, I warrant you.

I right! I right! I scorn your words, I'd have you to know, and 'tis well known. I right! no 'tis your dainty Minx, that Jillflirt your Daughter here that is right, do you see how her Handkerchief is ruffled, and what a heat she's in?

She has been dancing.

Ay, ay, Adam and Eve's Dance, or the beginning of the World, de' see how she pants?

She has not been us'd to motion.

Motion, motion, motion de' call it? no indeed, I kept her from motion till now, motion with a vengeance.

You put the poor bashful Girl to the blush, you see, hold your peace.

'Tis her guilt, not her modesty, marry.

Come, come, mind her not, Child, come, Master, let me see her dance now the whole Dance roundly together, come sing to her.

Faith, we shall be discovered after all, you know I cannot sing a Note, Miss.

Come, come, Man.

Indeed, Father, my Master's In haste now, pray let it alone till anon at night, when you say he is to come again, and then you shall se me dance it to the Violin, pray stay till then, Father.

I will not be put off so, come begin.

Pray▪ Father.

Come, sing to her, come begin.

Pray, Sir, excuse me till anon, I am in some haste.

I say begin, I will not excuse you, come take her by the hand, and about with her.

I say he shall not take her by the hand▪ he shall touch her no more; while I am here there shall be no more squeesing and tickling her palm, good Mr. Dancing-master, stand off.

Stand off, I say, he shall not touch her, he has touch'd her too much already.

If patience were not a Spanish Vertue, I wou'd lay it aside now. I say let 'em dance.

I say they shall not dance.

Pray, Father, since you see my Aunts obstinacy, let us alone till anon, when you may keep her out.

Well then, Friend, do not fail to come.

Nay, if he fail me at last.

Be sure you come, for she's to be marry'd to morrow, do you know it?

Yes, yes, Sir, sweet Scholar, your humble Servant, till night, and think in the mean time of the instructions I have given you, that you may be the readier when I come.

I, Girl, be sure you do, and do you be sure to come.

You need not be so concern'd, he'll be sure to come, I warrant you; but if I cou'd help it, he shou'd never set foot agen in the House.

You wou'd frighten the poor Dancing-master from the House; but be sure you come for all her.

Yes, Sir.

But this Jade will pay me when I am gone.

Hold, hold, Sir, I must let you out, and I wish I cou'd keep you out. He a Dancing-master, he's a Chouce, a Cheat, a meer Cheat, and that you'll find.

I find any Man a Cheat! I cheated by any Man! I scorn your words, I that have so much Spanish Care, Circumspection, and Prudence, cheated by a Man: do you think I who have been in Spain, look you, and have kept up my Daughter a twelve-month, for fear of being cheated of her, look you? I cheated of her!

Well, say no more.

Well, old Formality, if you had not kept up your Daughter, I am sure I had never cheated you of her.