Don Fer. Wife with a vengeance! Why, zounds! you have not married the Duenna!

Duen. [Kneeling.] Oh, dear papa! you'll not disown me, sure! Don Fer. Papa! papa! Why, zounds! your impudence is as great as your ugliness!

Isaac. Rise, my charmer, go throw your snowy arms about his neck, and convince him you are————— Duen. Oh, sir, forgive me!

Don Fer. Help! murder!

Enter SERVANTS.

Ser. What's the matter, sir?

[Embraces him.

Don Fer. Why, here, this damned Jew has brought an old harridan to strangle me.

Isaac. Lord, it is his own daughter, and he is so hard-hearted he won't forgive her!

Enter DON ANTONIO and DONNA LOUISA; they kneel.

Don Fer. Zounds and fury! what's here now? who sent for you, sir, and who the devil are you?

Don Ant. This lady's husband, sir.

Isaac. Ay, that he is, I'll be sworn; for I left them with a priest, and was to have given her away.

Don Fer. You were?

Isaac. Ay; that's my honest friend, Antonio; and that's the little girl I told you I had hampered him with.

Don Fer. Why, you are either drunk or mad—this is my daughter. Isaac. No, no; 'tis you are both drunk and mad, I think-here's your daughter.

Don Fer. Hark ye, old iniquity! will you explain all this, or not? Duen. Come then, Don Jerome, I will-though our habits might inform you all. Look on your daughter, there, and on me.

Isaac. What's this I hear?

Duen. The truth is, that in your passion this morning you made. a small mistake; for you turned your daughter out of doors, and locked up your humble servant.

Isaac. O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to turn his daughter out of doors, instead of an old Duenna !

Don Fer. And, O Lud! O Lud! here's a pretty fellow, to marry an old Duenna instead of my daughter! But how came the rest about? Duen. I have only to add, that I remained in your daughter's place, and had the good fortune to engage the affections of my sweet husband here.

Isaac. Her husband! why, you old witch, do you think I'll be your husband now? This is a trick, a cheat! and you ought all to be ashamed of yourselves.

Don Ant. Hark ye, Isaac, do you dare to complain of tricking? Don Jerome, I give you my word, this cunning Portuguese has brought all this upon himself, by endeavouring to overreach you, by getting your daughter's fortune, without making any settlement in return.

Don Fer. Overreach me!

Don. Louisa. 'Tis so, indeed, sir, and we can prove it to you. Don Fer. Why, Gad, take me, it must be so, or he never could put up with such a face as Margaret's-so, little, Solomon, I wish you joy of your wife, with all my soul.

Don. Louisa. Isaac, tricking is all fair in love-let you alone for the plot !

Don Ant. A cunning dog, arn't you? A sly little villain, eh? Don. Louisa. Roguish, perhaps; but keen, devilish keen!

Don Fer. Yes, yes; his aunt always called him little Solomon. Isaac. Why, the plagues of Egypt upon you all! but do you think I'll submit to such an imposition?

Don Ant. Isaac, one serious word-you'd better be content as you are; for, believe me, you will find that, in the opinion of the world, there is not a fairer subject for contempt and ridicule than a knave become the dupe of his own art.

Isaac. I don't care-I'll not endure this. Don Jerome, 'tis you have done this you would be so cursed positive about the beauty of her you locked up, and all the time I told you she was as old as my mother, and as ugly as the devil.

Duen. Why, you little insignificant reptile !

Don Fer. That's right!-attack him, Margaret.

Duen. Dare such a thing as you pretend to talk of beauty ?--A walking rouleau ?—a body that seems to owe all its consequence to the dropsy! a pair of eyes like two dead beetles in a wad of brown dough! a beard like an artichoke, with dry shrivelled jaws that would disgrace the mummy of a monkey?

Don Fer. Well done, Margaret!

Duen. But you shall know that I have a brother who wears a sword—and, if you don't do me justice————

Isaac. Fire seize your brother, and you too! I'll fly to Jerusalem to avoid you?

Duen. Fly where you will, I'll follow you.

Don Fer. Throw your snowy arms about him, Margaret.[Exeunt ISAAC and DUENNA.] But, Louisa, are you really married to this modest gentleman?

Don. Louisa. Sir, in obedience to your commands, I gave him my hand within this hour.

Don Fer. My commands!

Don Ant. Yes, sir; here is your consent, under your own hand. Don Fer. How would you rob me of my child by a trick, a false pretence? and do you think to get her fortune by the same means? Why, 'slife! you are as great a rogue as Isaac !

Don Ant. No, Don Jerome; though I have profited by this paper in gaining your daughter's hand, I scorn to obtain her fortune by deceit. There, sir-[Gives a letter.] Now give her your blessing for a dower, and all the little I possess shall be settled on her in return. Had you wedded her to a prince, he could do no more.

Don Fer. Why, Gad take me, but you are a very extraordinary fellow! But have you the impudence to suppose no one can do a

1

generous action but yourself? Here, Louisa, tell this proud fool of yours that he's the only man I know that would renounce your fortune; and, by my soul! he's the only man in Spain that's worthy of it. There, bless you both: I'm an obstinate old fellow when I'm in the wrong; but you shall now find me as steady in the right.

Enter DON FERDINAND and DONNA Clara. Another wonder still! Why, sirrah! Ferdinand, you have not stole a nun, have you?

Don Ferd. She is a nun in nothing but her habit, sir-look nearer, and you will perceive 'tis Clara d'Almanza, Don Guzman's daughter: and, with pardon for stealing a wedding, she is also my wife. Don Fer. Gadsbud, and a great fortune! Ferdinand, you are a prudent young rogue, and I forgive you : and, ifecks, you are a pretty little damsel. Give your father-in-law a kiss, you smiling rogue! Don. Clara. There, old gentleman; and now mind you behave well to us.

Don Fer. Ifecks, those lips ha'n't been chilled by kissing beads! Egad, I believe I shall grow the best-humoured fellow in Spain. Lewis! Sancho! Carlos! d'ye hear? are all my doors thrown open? Our children's weddings are the only holidays our age can boast; and then we drain, with pleasure, the little stock of spirits time has left us.—[Music within.] But, see, here come our friends and neighbours !

Enter MASQUERADERS.

And, i'faith, we'll make a night on't, with wine. and dance, and catches-then old and young shall join us.

Don Fer.

Don. Louisa.

Don Ferd.

Don Ant

Don. Clara.

Don Fer.

FINALE.

Come now for jest and smiling,
Both old and young beguiling,

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
'Till we banish care away.

'Thus crown'd with dance and song,
The hours shall glide along,

With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.

Each bride with blushes glowing,

Our wine as rosy flowing,

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.

Then healths to every friend

The night's repast shall end,

With a heart at ease, merry, merry glees
Can never fail to please.

Nor, while we are so joyous,

Shall anxious fear annoy us;

Let us laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Till we banish care away.

For generous guests like these

Accept the wish to please,

So we'll laugh and play, so blithe and gay,
Your smiles drive care away.

[Exeunt omnes.

A TRIP TO SCARBOROUGH.

A COMEDY.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

AS ORIGINALLY ACTED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE IN 1777.

LORD FOPPINGTON Mr. Dodd.

SHOEMAKER
TAILOR

Mr. Carpenter.

Mr. Parker.

AMANDA

BERINTHIA.

SEMPSTRESS, POSTILION, MAID, and

SERVANTS.

SCENE.-SCARBOROUGH AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MR. KING.

WHAT various transformations we remark,
From east Whitechapel to the west Hyde Park!
Men, women, children, houses, signs, and fashions,
State, stage, trade, taste, the humours and the passions;
The Exchange, 'Change Alley, wheresoe'er you're ranging,
Court, city, country, all are changed or changing :
The streets, some time ago, were paved with stones,
Which, aided by a hackney-coach, half broke your bones.
The purest lovers then indulged in bliss ;
They run great hazard if they stole a kiss.
One chaste salute !--the damsel cried-Oh, fie!
As they approach'd-slap went the coach awry-
Poor Sylvia got a bump, and Damon a black eye.
But now weak nerves in hackney-coaches roam,
And the cramm'd glutton snores, unjolted, home;
Of former times, that polish'd thing a beau,
Is metamorphosed now from top to toe ;
Then the full flaxen wig, spread o'er the shoulders,
Conceal'd the shallow head from the beholders.
But now the whole's reversed-each fop appears,
Cropp'd and trimm'd up, exposing head and ears :
The buckle then its modest limits knew,

Now, like the ocean, dreadful to the view,

Hath broke its bounds, and swallowed up the shoe :
The wearer's foot, like his once fine estate,

Is almost lost, the encumbrance is so great.

Ladies may smile-are they not in the plot?
The bounds of nature have not they forgot?
Were they design'd to be, when put together,
Made up, like shuttlecocks, of cork and feather?
Their pale-faced grandmammas appeared with grace
When dawning blushes rose upon the face;
No blushes now their once-loved station seek;
The foe is in possession of the cheek!
No heads of old, too high in feather'd state,
Hinder'd the fair to pass the lowest gate;
A church to enter now, they must be bent,
If ever they should try the experiment.

As change thus circulates throughout the nation,
Some plays may justly call for alteration;
At least to draw some slender covering o'er,
That graceless wit* which was too bare before:
Those writers well and wisely use their pens,
Who turn our wantons into Magdalens;
And howsoever wicked wits revile 'em,
We hope to find in you their stage asylum.

ACT. I.

SCENE 1. The Hall of an Inn.

Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteau.

Fash. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau. Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself.

Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Why, sure, there's something left in it! Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of your wardrobe at Newmalton-and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag.

Fash. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full!

Lory. Yes, sir-I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage.

Fash. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do?[Aloud.] Hark'ee, boy, what's the chaise?

Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour.

Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea?

Post. Oh, yes, sir.

Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do now?-[Aloud.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below.

Fash. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well.

Lory. Yes, yes, I'll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend. Post. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too.

Fash. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means.

Post. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself. Fash, To be sure; bid them give you a crown.

* "And Van wants grace, who never wanted wit."-POPE