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Pleas'd with your seeming virtue, I received you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits ;
My house, my table, nay, my fortune too,
My very self was yours: you might have us’d me
Το
your

best service; like an open friend
I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine:
When, in requital of my best endeavours,
You treacherously practis’d to undo me ;
Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling,
My only child, and stole ber from my bosom.

Jaff. 'Tis to me you owe her;
Childless you had been else, and in the grave
Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of.
You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since in your brigantine you saild to see
The Adriatic wedded by our Duke ;
And I was with you. Your unskilful pilot
Dash'd us upon a rock; when to your boat
You made for safety; enter'd first yourself:
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave wasb'd off into the deep;
When instantly. I plung'd into the sea,
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeem'd her life with half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And, with the other, dash'd the saucy waves,
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize.
I brought her; gave her to your despairing arms :
Indeed, you thank'd me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul; for, from that hour, she lov'd me,
Till, for her life, she paid me with herself.

Pri. You stole her from me ; like a thief, you stole her
At dead of night; that cursed hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.
May all your joys in her prove false as mine ;
A sterile fortune and a barren bed
Attend you both ; continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous still ;
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you; till at last, you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion.

Jaff. Half of your curse you have bestow'd in vain : Heaven has already crown'd our faithful loves

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With a young boy, sweet as his mother's beauty.
May he live to prove more gentle than his grandsire,
And happier than his father.

Pri. No more.

Jaff. Yes, all; and then adieu forever.
There's not a wretch, that lives on common charity,
But's happier than 1: for s have known
The luscious sweets of plenty ; every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never wak'd but to a joyful morning ;
Yet now must fall; like a full ear of corn,
Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening.

Pri. Home, and be humble ; study to retrench ;
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly;
Reduce the glittring trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state :
Then to some suburb cottage both retire:
Drudge to feed loathsome life : get brats and starve.
Home, home, I say

[Exit.
Jaff. Yes, if my heart would let me--
This proud, this swelling heart; home would I go,
But that my doors are hateful to my eyes,
Fill'd and damm’d up with gaping creditors.
I've now not fifty ducats in the world;
Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin.
O Belvidera ! Oh, she is my wife !~
And we will bear our wayward fate together
But ne'er know comfort more.

IV.-Boniface and Aimwell.
Bon. THIS way, this way, Sir.
Aim. You're my landlord, I suppose.

Bon. Yes, Sir, I'm old Will Boniface; pretty well known upon this road, as the saying is.

Aim. O, Mr. Boniface, your servant.

Bon. O, Sir,What will your honour please to drink, as the saying is ?

Aim. I have heard your town of Litchfield much famed for ale : I think I'll taste that.

Bon. Sir, I have now in my cellar ten tuns of the best ale in Staffordshire : 'tis smooth as oil, sweet as milk, clear as amber, and strong as brandy; and will be just fourteen years old the fifth day of next March, old style.

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Aim. You're very exact, I find, in the age of your ale.

Bon. As punctual, Sir, as I am in the age of my children: I'll show you such ale !-Here, tapster, broach number 1706, as the saying is—Sir, you shall taste my anno Domini.

- I have lived in Litchfield, man and boy, above eight and fifty years, and I believe, have not consumed eight and fifty ounces of meat.

Aim.' At a meal, you mean, if one may guess by your bulk.

Bon. Not in my life, Sir, I have fed purely upon ale; I have eat my ale,, drank my ale, and I always sleep upon ale. [Enter tapster, with a tankard.] Now, Sir, you shall

-Your worship’s health; (drinks ]-Ha! delicious, delicious !-Fancy it Burgundy, only fancy it,--and 'tis worth ten shillings a quart.

Aim. [Drinks] ”Tis confounded strong.

Bon. Strong ! it must be so, or how should we be strong that drink it ?

Aim. And have you lived so long upon this ale, landlord ?

Bon. Eight-and-fifty years, upon my credit, Sir: but it killd my wife, poor woman, as the saying is.

Aim. How came that to pass ?

Bon. I don't know how, Sir,—she would not let the ale take its natural course, Sir; she was for qualifying it every now and then with a dram, as the saying is; and an honest gentleman that came this way from Ireland, made her a present of a dozen bottles of usquebaugh--but the poor woman was never well after-but however, I was obliged to the gentleman, you know.

Aim. Why, was it the usquebaugh that kill'd her?

Bon. My lady Bountiful said so-she, good lady, did what could be done : she cured her of three tympanies; but the fourth carried her off. But she's happy, and I'm contented, as the saying is.

Aim. Who is that lady Bountiful you mentioned ? Bon. Odd's my life, Sir, we'll drink her health: (drinks) --My lady Bountiful is one of the best of women. Her last husband, Sir Charles Bountiful, left her worth a thousand pounds a year; and I believe she lays out one half on't in charitable uses, for the good of her neighbours.

Aim. Has the lady been any other way useful in her generation ?

Bon. Yes, Sir, she has had a daughter by Sir Charles ; the finest woman in all our country, and the greatest fortune.

-Sir, my

She has a son too, by her first husband ; 'squire Sullen, who married a fine lady from London t'other day ; if you please, Sir, we'll drink his health. [drinks ]

Aim. What sort of a man is he?

Bon. Why, Sir, the man's well enough ; says little, thinks less, and does—nothing at all, faith : but he's a man of great estate, and values nobody.

Aim. A sportsman, I suppose ?

Bon. Yes, he's a man of pleasure ; he plays at whist, and smokes his pipe eight-and-forty hours together sometimes.

Aim. A fine sportsman, truly !- And married, you say ?

Bon. Ay; and to a curious woman, Sir.—But he's my Jandlord; and so a man, you know, would nothumble service to you. [drinks]—Though I value not a farthing what he can do to me; I pay him his rent at quarter day: I have a good running trade-I have but one daughter, and I can give her—but no matter for that.

Aim. You're very happy, Mr. Boniface; pray, What other company

have
you

in town? Bon. A power of fine ladies ; and then we have the French officers.

Aim. O, that's right, you have a good many of those gentlemen: pray how do you like their company ?

Bon. So well, as the saying is, that I could wish we had as many more of them. They’re full of money, and pay double for every thing they have. They know, Sir, that we paid good round taxes for the taking of 'em; and so they are willing to reimburse'us a little ; one of’em lodges in my house. [Bell rings) beg your worship’s pardon—I'll wait on you again in half a minute.

V.--Lovegold and Lappet. Love., ALL's well hitherto; my dear money is safe.--Is it you, Lappet?

Lap. I should rather ask if it be you, Sir; why, you look so young and vigorous

Love. Do I? Do I?

Lap. Why, you:grow younger and younger every day, Sir; you never looked half so young in your life, Sir, as you do now, Why, Sir, I know fifty young fellows of five and twenty, that are older than you are.

Love. That may be, that may be, Lappet, considering the lives they lead; and yet I am a good ten years above fifty.

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Lap. Well, and what's ten years above fifty ? ''Tis the very flower of a man's age. Why, Sir, you are now in the very prime of your life.

Love. Very true, that's very true, as to understanding ; but I am afraid, could I take off twenty years, it would do me no harm with the ladies, Lappet.—How goes on our affair with Mariana ? Have you mentioned any thing about what her mother can give her? For nowadays nobody marries a woman, unless she bring something with her besides a petticoat.

Lap. Sir, why, Sir, this young lady will be worth to you as good a thousand pounds a year, as ever was told.

Love. How ! A thousand pounds a year? Lap. Yes, Sir. There's in the first place, the article of a table; she has a very little stomach ;-she does not eat above an ounce in a fortnight; and then, as to the quality of what she eats, you'll have no need of a French cook upon her account. As for sweetmeats, she mortally hates them; so there is the article of desserts wiped off all at once. You'll have no need of a confectioner, who would be eternally bringing in bills for preserves, conserves, biscuits, comfits, and jellies, of which half a dozen ladies would swallow you ten pounds worth at a 'meal. This, I think, we may very moderately reckon at two hundred pounds a year at least.–For clothes, she has been bred up at such a plainness in them, that should we allow but for three birthnight suits a year, saved, which are the least a town lady would expect, there go a good two hundred pounds a year more.For jewels (of which she hates the very sight) the yearly interest of what you must lay out in them would amount to one hundred pounds.-Lastly, she has an utter detestation for play, at which I have known several moderate ladies lose a good two thousand pounds a year.-Now, let us take only the fourth part of that, which arnounted to five hundred, to which if we add two hundred pounds on the table account, two hundred pounds in clothes, and one hundred pounds in jewels—there is, Sir, your thousand pounds a year, in hard money.

Love. Ay, ay, these are pretty things; it must be confessed, very pretty things; but there is nothing real in them.

Lap. How, Sir! Is it not something real to bring you a vast store of sobriety, the inheritance of a love for simplicity of dress, and a vast acquired fund of hatred for play?

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