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Lady G. Certainly that must be vastly pretty.

Lady T. Oh, there's no life like it! Why, t'other day, for example, when you dined abroad, my lord and I, after a pretty cheerful tete a tete meal, sat us down by the fireside, in an easy, indolent, pick tooth way, for about a quarter of an hour, as if we had not thought of one another's being in the room.-At last, stretching himself and yawning -My dear, says he,

-you come home very late last night. -'Twas but just turned of two, says I. I was in bed

--by éleven, says he. So you are every night, says I.–Well, says he, I am amazed you can sit up so late.--How can you be amazed, says I, at a thing that happens so often !- -Upon which we entered into a conversation : and though this is a point which has entertained us above fifty times already, we always find so many pretty new things to say upon it, that I believe in my soul it will last as long as I live.

Lady G. But pray, in such sort of family dialogues (tho extremely well for passing the time) doesn't there now and then enter some little witty sort of bitterness ?

Lady T. Oh, yes! which does not do amiss at all. A smart repartee, with a zest of recrimination at the head of it, makes the prettiest sherbet. Ay, ay, if we did not mix a little of the acid with it, a matrimonial society would be so luscious, that nothing but an old liquorish prude would be able to bear it.

Lady G. Well, certainly you have the most elegant taste

Lady T. Though, to tell you the truth, my dear, I rather think we squeezed a little too much lemon into it this bout; for it grev so sour at last, that I think I almost told him he was a fool- and he again talked something oddly of turning me out of doors.

Lady G. Oh! have a care of that.

Lady T. Nay, if he should, I may thank my own wise father for it.

Lady G. How so?

Lady T. Why, when my good lord first opened his honourable trenches before me, my unaccountable papa, in whose hands I then was, gave me up at discretion.

Lady G. How do you mean?

Lady T. He said the wives of this age were come to that pass, that he would not desire even his own daughter should be trusted with pinmoney; so that my whole train of separate inclinations are left entirely at the mercy of a husband's odd humours.

Lady G. Why, that indeed is enough to make a woman of spirit look about her.

Lady T. Nay, but to be serious, my dear, what would you really have a woman to do in my case ?

Lady G. Why, if I had a sober husband, as you have, I would make myself the happiest wife in the world, by being as sober as he.

Lady T. Oh, you wicked thing! how can you teaze one at this rate, when you kuow he is so very sober, that (except giving mo money) there is not one thing in the world he can do to please me. And I, at the same time, partly by nature, and partly, perhaps by keeping the best company, do with my soul love almost every thing he hates. I dote upon assemblies; my heart bounds at a ball; and at an opera-I expire. Then, I love play to distraction;

rds enchant me and dice-put me out of my little wits. Dear, dear hazard-Oh, what a flow of spirits it gives one! do you never play at hazard, child ?

Lady G. Oh, never! I don't think it sits well upon women; there's something so masculine, so much the air of a rake in it. You see how it makes the men swear and curse; and, when a woman is thrown into the same passionwhy

Lady T. That's very true; one is a little put to it, sometimes, not to make use of the same words to express it. Lady G. Well

, and upon ill luck, pray what words are you really forced to make use of ?

Lady T. Why, upon à very hard case, indeed, when a sad wrong word is rising just to one's tongue's end, I give a great gulp and swallow it.

Lady G. Well--and is it not enough to make you for suvear play as long as you live ?

Lady T. O, yes ; I have forsworn it.
Lady G. Seriously?

Lady T. Solemnly, a thousand times; but then one is constantly forsworn.

Lady G. And how can you answer that ?

Lody T. My dear, what we say, when we are losers, we look upon to be no more binding than a lover's oath, or a great man's promise. But I beg pardon, child: I should not lead you so far into the world; you are a prude, and design to live soberly.

Lady G. Why, I confess my nature and my education do in a good degree incline me that way.

Lady T. Well, how a woman of spirit (for you don't want that, child) can dream of living soberly, is to me inconceivable ; for you will marry, I suppose. Lady G. I can't tell but I

may. Lady T. And won't you live in town? Lady G. Half the year, I should like it very well.

Lady T. My stars! and you would really live in London half the year to be sober in it!

Lady G. Why not?

Lady T. Why can't you as well go and be sober in the country?

Lady G. So I would—tother half year.

Lady T. And pray, what comfortable scheme of life would

you

form now for your summer and winter sober entertainments ?

Lady G. A scheme that I think might very well content

Us.

Lady T. Oh, of all things, let's hear it,

Lady G. Why, in summer I could pass my leisure hours in riding, in reading, walking by a canal, or sitting at the end of it under a great tree; in dressing, dining, chatting with an agreeable friend ; perhaps hearing a little music, taking a dish of tea, or a game at cards—soberly; managing my family, looking into its accounts, playing with my children, if I had any; or in a thousand other innocent amusements--soberly; and possibly, by these means, I might induce my husband to be as sober as myself.

Lady T. Well, my dear, thou art an astonishing crcature! For sure such a primitive antediluvian notion of life have not been in any head these thousand years. -Under a great tree! ha! ha! ha! But I beg we may have the sober town scheme too--for I am charmed with the country one.

Lady G. You shall, and I'll try to stick to my sobriety there too.

Lady T. Well, though I am sure it will give me the vapours, I must hear it.

Lady G. Why, then, for fear of your fainting, madam, I will first so far come into the fashion, that I would never be dressed out of it---but still it should be soberly; for I can't think it any disgrace to a woman of my private fortune not to wear her lace as fine as the wedding suit of a first

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dutchess; though there is one extravagance I would venture to come up to.

Lady T. Ay, now for it-
Lady G. I would every day be as clean as a bride.

Lady T. Why, the men say that's a great step to be made one.

-Well, now you are drost, pray let's see to what purpose.

Lady G. I would visit that is, my real friends; but as little for form as possible- I would go to court; sometimes to an assembly, nay, play at quadrille--soberly. I would see all the good plays; and because 'tis the fashion, now and then go to an opera ; but I would not expire there --for fear I should never go again. And lastly, I can't say, but for curiosity, if I liked my company, I might be drawn in once to a masquerade ;-and this, I think, is as far as any woman can go soberly.

Lady T. Well, if it had not been for that last piece of sobriety, I was just going to call for some surfeit-water.

Lady G. Why, don't you think, with the farther aid of breakfasting, dining, taking the air, supping, sleeping, (not to say a word of devotion, the four-and-twenty hours might roll over in a tolerable manner ?

Lady T. Tolerable ; deplorable Why, child, all you propose is but to endure life ; now, I want to enjoy it.

III.-Priuli and Jaffier. Pri. No more! I'll hear no more! Be gone and leave

me.

Jaff. Not hear me! By my sufferings, but you shall !
My lord, my lord! I'm not that abject wretch
You think me.

Patience! Where's the distance throws
Me back so far, but I may boldly speak
In right, though proud oppression will not hear me !

Pri. Have you not wrong'd me ?

Jaff. Could my nature e'er
Have brook'd injustice or the doing wrong,
I need not now thus low have bent myself,
To gain a hearing from a cruel father.
Wrong'd you?

Pri. Yes, wrong'd me. In the nicest point,
The honour of my house, you've done me wrong.
When you first came home from travel,
With such hopes as made you look'd on
By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation,

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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
To

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 her 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 sail'd 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; entered first yourself:
Th' affrighted Belvidera, following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was by a wave wash'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 barrcn 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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