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Enter WAITWELL, with a bor of writings. Lady Wish. O sir Rowland-Well, rascal ? Wait. What your ladyship pleases-I have brought the black box at last, madam.

Mira. Give it me. Madam, you remember your promise.

Lady Wish. Aye, dear sir.

Mira. Where are the gentlemen?

Wait. At hand, sir, rubbing their eyes-just risen from sleep.

Fain. 'Sdeath! what's this to me? I'll not wait your private concerns.

Enter PETULANT and WITWOULD.

Pet. How now? what is the matter? whose hand's out?

Wit. Heyday! what, are you all together, like players at the end of the last act?

Mira. You may remember, gentlemen, I once requested your hands as witnesses to a certain parchment.

Wit. Aye I do, my hand I remember-Petulant set his mark.

Mira. You wrong him; his name is fairly written, as shall appear. You do not remember, gentlemen, any thing of what that parchment contained?

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Fain. Sir! pretended!

Mira. Yes, sir, I say, that this lady while a widow, having, it seems, received some cautions respecting your inconstancy and tyranny of temper, which, from her own partial opinion and fondness of you, she could never have suspectedShe did, I say, by the wholesome advice of friends, and of sages learned in the laws of this land, deliver this same, as her act and deed, to me, in trust, and to the uses within mentioned. You may read if you please [Holding the parchment]; though, perhaps, what is written on the back may serve your occasions.

Fain. Very likely, sir. What's here? Damnation!

[Reads.] A deed of conveyance of the whole estate real of Arabella Languish, widow, in trust, to Edward Mirabell.' Confusion!

Mir. Even so, sir; 'tis The Way of the World,

sir; of the widows of the world. I suppose this deed may bear an elder date than what you have obtained from your lady.

Fain. Perfidious fiend! then thus I'll be revenged

[Offers to run at Mrs FAINALL. Sir Wil. Hold, sir! now you may make your Bear-garden flourish somewhere else, sir. Fain. Mirabell, you shall hear of this, sir; be sure you shall-Let me pass, oaf. [Exit. Mrs Fain. Madam, you seem to stifle your resentment; you had better give it vent.

Mrs Mar. Yes, it shall have vent-and to your confusion, or I'll perish in the attempt.

[Erit. Lady Wish. O daughter, daughter! 'tis plain thou hast inherited thy mother's prudence.

Mrs Fain. Thank Mr Mirabell, a cautious friend, to whose advice all is owing.

Lady Wish. Well, Mr Mirabell, you have kept your promise; and I must perform mine. First, I pardon, for your sake, sir Rowland there and Foible. The next thing is to break the matter to my nephew-and how to do that

Mira. For that, madam, give yourself no trouble-let me have your consent-Sir Wilfull is my friend; he has had compassion upon lovers, and generously engaged a volunteer in this action, for our service; and now designs to prosecute his travels.

Sir Wil. 'Sheart, aunt, I have no mind to marry. My cousin's a fine lady, and the gentleman loves her, and she loves him, and they deserve one another; my resolution is to see foreign parts I have set on it-and when I'm set on't, I must do it. And if these two gentlemen would travel, too, I think they may be spared.

Pet. For my part, I say little-I think things are best; off or on.

Wait. Egad, I understand nothing of the matter -I'm in a maze yet, like a dog in a dancingschool.

Lady Wish. Well, sir, take her, and with her all the joy I can give you.

Mill. Why does the man not take me? Would you have me give myself to you over again?

Mira. Aye, and over and over again! [Kisses her hand.] I would have you as often as possibly I can. Well, Heaven grant I love you not too well; that's all my fear.

Sir Wil. 'Sheart, you'll have time enough to toy after you're married; or, if you will toy now, let us have a dance in the mean time; that we, who are not lovers, may have some other employment, besides looking on.

Mira. With all my heart, dear sir Wilfull.What shall we do for music?

Foi. O, sir, some that were provided for sir Rowland's entertainment are yet within call. [A dance.

Lady Wish. As I am a person, I can hold out

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Val. Here, take away; I'll walk a turn, and digest what I have read.

Jer. You'll grow devilish fat this upon diet!

paper

[Aside, and taking away the books. Val. And d'ye hear? go you to breakfastThere's a page doubled down in Epictetus, that is a feast for an emperor.

Jer. O lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray, what was that Epictetus?

Val. A very rich man-not worth a groat!
Jer. Humph! and so he has made a very fine
feast, where there is nothing to be eaten !
Val. Yes.

I

Jer. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably understand this fine feeding; but, if you please, had rather be at board-wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich rogues, teach you how to pay your debts without money? Will they shut up the mouths of your creditors? Will Plato be bail for you? or Diogenes, because he understands confinement, and lived in a tub, go to prison for you? Val. Read, read, sirrah, and refine your appe-Slife, sir, what do you mean, to mew yourself up tite; learn to live upon instruction; feast your here with three or four musty books, in commenmind, and mortify your flesh. Read, and take dation of starving and poverty? your nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of understanding. So Epictetus advises.

Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts?

Val. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know it; and therefore resolve to rail at all that have: and in that I but follow the examples of the wi

sest and wittiest men in all ages-these poets and philosophers, whom you naturally hate, for just such another reason; because they abound in sense, and you are a fool.

Jer. Ay, sir, I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me! I'm poor enough to be a wit. But I was always a fool, when I told you what your expences would bring you to; your coaches and your liveries; your treats and your balls; your being in love with a lady that did not care a farthing for you in your prosperity; and keep ing company with wits, that cared for nothing but your prosperity, and now, when you are poor, hate you as much as they do one another.

Val. Well! and now I am poor, I have an opportunity to be revenged on them all; I'll pursue Angelica with more love than ever, and appear more notoriously her admirer in this restraint, than when I openly rivalled the rich fops, that made court to her. So shall my poverty be a mortification to her pride, and perhaps make her compassionate the love, which has principally reduced me to this lowness of fortune. And for the wits, I'm sure I am in a condition to be even with them.

Jer. Nay, your condition is pretty even with theirs, that's the truth on't.

Val. I'll take some of their trade out of their hands.

Jer. Now, Heaven of mercy continue the tax upon paper!-You don't mean to write?

Val. Yes, I do; I'll write a play.

tery! Nothing thrives that belongs to it. The man of the house would have been an alderman by this time, with half the trade, if he had set up in the city. For my part, I never sit at the door, that I don't get double the stomach that I do at a horse-race. The air upon Banstead Downs is nothing to it for a whetter; yet I never see it, but the spirit of famine appears to me-sometimes like a decayed porter, worn out with pimping, and carrying billet-doux and songs; not like other porters for hire, but for the jest's sake. Now, like a thin chairman, melted down to half his proportion, with carrying a poet upon tick, to visit some great fortune; and his fare to be paid him, like the wages of sin, either at the day of marriage, or the day of death.

Enter SCANDAL.

Scand. What! Jeremy holding forth? Val. The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster up) been declaiming against wit.

Scand. Ay? Why, then, I'm afraid Jeremy has wit: for wherever it is, it's always contriving its own ruin.

Jer. Why, so I have been telling my master, sir. Mr Scandal, for Heaven's sake, sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning poet.

Scand. Poet! He shall turn soldier first, and rather depend upon the outside of his head, than the lining! Why, what the devil! has not your poverty made you enemies enough? must you needs shew your wit to get more?

Jer. Ay, more indeed: for who cares for any body that has more wit than himself?

Jer. Hem!-Sir, if you please to give me a small certificate of three lines-only to certify those whom it may concern, that the bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by name, has, for the space Scand. Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don't of seven years, truly and faithfully served Valen- you see how worthless great men and dull rich tine Legend, esquire; and that he is not now turn-rogues avoid a witty man of small fortune? Why, ed away for any misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his master from any future authority over him

Val. No, sirrah; you shall live with me still. Jer. Sir, it's impossible-I may die with you, starve with you, or be damned with your works: but to live, even three days, the life of a play, I no more expect it, than to be canonized for a muse after my decease.

Val. You are witty, you rogue, I shall want your help-I'll have you learn to make couplets, to tag the end of acts. D'ye hear? get the maids to crambo in an evening, and learn the knack of rhyming; you may arrive at the height of a song sent by an unknown hand, or a chocolate-house lampoon.

Jer. But, sir, is this the way to recover your father's favour? Why, sir Sampson will be irreconcileable. If your younger brother should come from sea, he'd never look upon you again. You're undone, sir; you're ruined; you won't have a friend left in the world, if you turn poet. Ah, pox confound that Will's coffee-house! it has ruined more young men than the Royal Oak lot

he looks like a writ of inquiry into their titles and estates; and seems cominissioned by Heaven to seize the better half.

Val. Therefore, I would rail in my writings, and be revenged.

Scand. Rail! at whom? the whole world? Impotent and vain! Who would die a martyr to sense, in a country where the religion is folly? You may stand at bay for a while; but, when the full cry is against you, you shan't have fair play for your life. If you can't be fairly run down by the hounds, you will be treacherously shot by the huntsmen. No; turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer; any thing but poet. A modern poet is worse, more servile, timorous, and fawning, than any I have named without you could retrieve the ancient honours of the name, recal the stage of Athens, and be allowed the force of open honest satire.

Val. You are as inveterate against our poets, as if your character had been lately exposed upon the stage. Nay, I am not violently bent upon the trade.-[One knocks.] Jeremy, see who's there. [JEREMY goes to the door.]-But tell me

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Val. And how the devil do you mean to keep your word?

Jer. Keep it? Not at all: it has been so very much stretched, that I reckon it will break of course by to-morrow, and nobody be surprised at the matter!-[knocking.]-Again! Sir, if you don't like my negociation, will you be pleased to answer these yourself?

Val. See who they are. [Erit JEREMY.] By this, Scandal, you may see what it is to be great. Secretaries of state, presidents of the council, and generals of an army, lead just such a life as I do; have just such crowds of visitants in a morning, all soliciting of past promises; which are but a civiller sort of duns, that lay claim to voluntary debts.

Scand. And you, like a truly great man, having engaged their attendance, and promised more than ever you intended to perform, are more perplexed to find evasions, than you would be to invent the honest means of keeping your word, and gratifying your creditors.

Val. Scandal, learn to spare your friends, and do not provoke your enemies. This liberty of your tongue will one day bring confinement on your body, my friend.

Enter JEREMY.

Jer. O, sir, there's Trapland the scrivener, with two suspicious fellows, like lawful pads, that would knock a man down with pocket tipstaves!

And there's your father's steward; and the nurse, with one of your children, from Twitten

ham.

Val. Pox on her! could she find no other time to fling my sins in my face? Here! give her this, [gives money.] and bid her trouble me no more.

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Scand. What, is it bouncing Margery, with my godson? Jer. Yes, sir.

Scand. My blessing to the boy, with this token [gives money.] of my love.

Val. Bid Trapland come in. If I can give that Cerberus a sop, I shall be at rest for one day.

[JEREMY goes out, and brings in TRAPLAND. O Mr Trapland! my old friend! welcome. Jeremy, a chair, quickly: a bottle of sack, and a toast-fly-a chair first.

Trap. A good morning to you, Mr Valentine; and to you, Mr Scandal.

Scand. The morning's a very good morning, if you don't spoil it.

Val. Come, sit you down; you know his way. Trap. [sits.] There is a debt, Mr Valentine, of fifteen hundred pounds, of pretty long standing

Val. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty palate. Sirrah! the sack!

Trap. And I desire to know what course you have taken for the payment.

Val. Faith, and troth, I am heartily glad to see you-my service to you! fill, fill, to honest Mr Trapland-fuller.

Trap. Hold! sweetheart-this is not to our business. My service to you, Mr Scandal!— [drinks.]— I have forborn as long

Val. T'other glass, and then we'll talk-Fill, Jeremy.

Trap. No more, in truth-I have forborn, I say

Val. Sirrah! fill! when I bid you. And how does your handsome daughter?-Come, a good husband to her. [drinks.

Trap. Thank you-I have been out of this money

Val. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink? [They drink. Trap. And, in short, I can be put off no long

er.

Val. I was much obliged to you for your supply: it did me signal service in my necessity. But you delight in doing good. Scandal, drink to me, my friend Trapland's health. An honester man lives not, nor one more ready to serve his friend in distress, though I say it to his face. Come, fill each man his glass.

Scand. What? I know Trapland has been a whoremaster, and loves a wench still. You never knew a whoremaster, that was not an honest fellow.

Trap. Fie, Mr Scandal, you never knew !—

Scand. What don't I know?I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry-Eight hundred pounds a-year jointure, and twenty thousand pounds in money. Ahah! old Trap.

Val. Say you so, i'faith? Come, we'll remember the widow: I know whereabouts you are; come, to the widow.

Trap. No more, indeed.

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