Sir Paul. I suppose they have been laying their heads together.

Lord Froth. How?

Sir Paul. Nay, only about poetry, I suppose, my lord; making couplets.

Lord Froth. Couplets!

Sir Paul, O, here they come.

Enter Lady FROTH and BRISK.

Brisk. My lord, your humble servant :-Sir Paul, yours. -The finest night!

Lady Froth. My dear, Mr. Brisk and I have been stargazing, I don't know how long.

Sir Paul. Does it not tire your ladyship; are not you weary with looking up?

Lady Froth. Oh, no, I love it violently.-My dear, you're melancholy.

Lord Froth. No, my dear; I'm but just awake.

Lady Froth. Snuff some of my spirit of hartshorn. Lord Froth. I've some of my own, thank you, my dear. Lady Froth. Well, I swear, Mr. Brisk, you understood astronomy like an old Egyptian.

Brisk. Not comparably to your ladyship; you are the very Cynthia of the skies, and queen of stars.

Lady Froth. That's because I have no light but what's by reflection from you, who are the sun.

Brisk. Madam, you have eclipsed me quite, let me perish!-I can't answer that.

Lady Froth. No matter.-Harkee, shall you and I make an almanac together?

Brisk. With all my soul.-Your ladyship has made me the man in't already, I'm so full of the wounds which you have given.

Lady Froth. O finely taken! I swear now you are even with me. O Parnassus! you have an infinite deal of wit. Sir Paul. So he has, gadsbud, and so has your ladyship.

Enter Lady PLYANT, CARELESS, and CYNTHIA.

Lady Ply. You tell me most surprising things; bless me, who would ever trust a man ! O my heart aches for fear they should be all deceitful alike.

Care. You need not fear, madam, you have charms to fix inconstancy itself.

Lady Ply. O dear, you make me blush!

Lord Froth. Come, my dear, shall we take leave of my lord and lady?

Cyn. They'll wait upon your lordship presently.

Lady Froth. Mr. Brisk, my coach shall set you down. [A great shriek from the corner of the stage.

All. What's the matter?

Lady TOUCHWOOD runs in affrighted, Lord TOUCHWOOD after her, disguised in a parson's habit.

Lady Touch. O, I'm betrayed!-Save me! help me! Lord Touch. Now, what evasion, strumpet?

Lady Touch. Stand off! let me go.

Lord Touch. Go, and thy own infamy pursue thee[Exit Lady TOUCHWOOD.]—You stare as you were all amazed.—I don't wonder at it—but too soon you'll know mine, and that woman's shame.

Enter MELLEFONT disguised in a parson's habit, and pulling in MASK WELL, followed by Servants.

Mel. Nay, by Heaven, you shall be seen!—Careless, your hand.-[To MASKWELL.] Do you hold down your head? Yes, I am your chaplain; look in the face of injured friend, thou wonder of all falsehood!

Lord Touch. Are you silent, monster?

your

Mel. Good Heavens! how I believed and loved this man!-Take him hence, for he's a disease to my sight. Lord Touch. Secure that manifold villain.

Care. Miracle of ingratitude!

[Servants seize him.

Brisk. This is all very surprising, let me perish!

Lady Froth. You know I told you Saturn looked a little more angry than usual.

Lord Touch. We'll think of punishment at leisure, but let me hasten to do justice, in rewarding virtue and wronged innocence.-Nephew, I hope I have your pardon, and Cynthia's.

Mel. We are your lordship's creatures.

Lord Touch. And be each other's comfort.-Let me join your hands.-Unwearied nights and wishing days attend you both; mutual love, lasting health, and circling joys, tread round each happy year of your long lives.

Let secret villainy from hence be warned;
Howe'er in private mischiefs are conceived,
Torture and shame attend their open birth;
Like vipers in the womb, base treachery lies,
Still gnawing that whence first it did arise;
No sooner born, but the vile parent dies.

[Exeunt omnes.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. MOUNTFORD.1

COULD poets but foresee how plays would take,
Then they could tell what epilogues to make;
Whether to thank or blame their audience most:
But that late knowledge does much hazard cost:
'Till dice are thrown, there's nothing won nor lost.
So, till the thief has stolen, he cannot know
Whether he shall escape the law or no.

1 A favourite actress. Her maiden name was Percival, and she married Mountford the actor, one of the handsomest men of his day, who was killed by Loid Mohun for protecting Mrs. Bracegirdle. She afterwards married Jack Verbrugen, who acted parts in several of Congreve's plays, including that of Careless in The Double-Dealer. Mrs. Mountford is described as being "a fine, fair woman, plump, full-featured, her face of a fine smooth oval." She died in 1730.

But poet's run much greater hazards far,
Than they who stand their trials at the bar,
The law provides a curb for its own fury,
And suffers judges to direct the jury:

But in this court, what difference does appear!
For every one's both judge and jury here;
Nay, and what's worse, an executioner.
All have a right and title to some part,
Each choosing that in which he has most art.
The dreadful men of learning all confound,
Unless the fable's good, and moral sound.
The vizor-masks that are in pit and gallery,
Approve or damn the repartee and raillery.
The lady critics, who are better read,
Inquire if characters are nicely bred;

If the soft things are penned and spoke with grace:
They judge of action, too, and time, and place;
In which we do not doubt but they're discerning,
For that's a kind of assignation learning.

Beaux judge of dress; the witlings judge of songs;
The cuckoldom, of ancient right, to cits belongs.
Poor poets thus the favour are denied

Even to make exceptions, when they're tried.
'Tis hard that they must every one admit ;
Methinks I see some faces in the pit
Which must of consequence be foes to wit.
You who can judge, to sentence may proceed;
But though he cannot write, let him be freed
At least from their contempt who cannot read.

A madman, stripped of your paternal estate, stripped of your money,

He will make no more of it, than if he should set about raving by right

reason and rule.