Volume Iii Part 53 (1/2)

_Guil_. No matter, her Love's worth a million; and, that's so great, that I'm sure she'll be content to carry my Soot basket after me.

_Isa_. Ah! I die, I die.

_Guil_. What, and I so kind?

[_Goes and kisses her, and blacks her face_.

_Isa_. Help! murder, murder!

_Guil_. Well, Gentlemen, I am something a better fortune than you believe me, by some thousands.

[_Shows_ Car. _his Writings_.

_Car_. Substantial and good! faith, Sir, I know not where you'll find a better fortune for your Daughter, as cases stand. [_To_ Francisco.

_Guil_. And, for the Viscount, Sir, gay Clothes, Money and Confidence will set me up for one, in any ground in Christendom.

_Car_. Faith, Sir, he's i'th' right; take him home to _Sevil_, your Neighbours know him not, and he may pa.s.s for what you please to make him; the Fellow's honest, witty and handsom.

_Fran_. Well, I have considered the matter: I was but a Leather-seller my self, and am grown up to a Gentleman; and, who knows but he, being a Chimney-sweeper, may, in time, grow up to a Lord? Faith, I'll trust to Fortune, for once--here--take her and rid me of one Plague, as you, I thank you, Sir, have done of another. [_To_ Carlos.

_Guil_. Prithee be pacified, thou shalt see me within this hour as pretty a fluttering Spark as any's in Town.--My n.o.ble Lord, I give you thanks and joy; for, you are happy too.

_Car_. As Love and Beauty can make me.

_Fran_. And I, as no d.a.m.n'd Wife, proud Daughter, or tormenting Chamber-maid can make me.

_Ant_. And I, as Heaven and _Clara_ can.

_--You base-born Beauties, whose ill-manner'd Pride, Th'industrious n.o.ble Citizens deride.

May you all meet with_ Isabella's _doom_.

_Guil_. _--And all such Husbands as the Count_ Guiliome.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. Barry, made by a Person of Quality.

_I Come not a Pet.i.tioner to sue, This Play the Author has writ down to you; 'Tis a slight Farce, five Days brought forth with ease, So very foolish that it needs must please; For though each day good Judges take offence,

And Satir arms in Comedy's defence,

You are still true to your _Jack-Pudding_ Sense.

No Buffoonry can miss your Approbation, You love it as you do a new_ French _Fas.h.i.+on: Thus in true hate of Sense, and Wit's despite, Bantring and Shamming is your dear delight.

Thus among all the Folly's here abounding, None took like the new Ape-trick of Dumfounding.

If to make People laugh the business be,

You Sparks better Comedians are than we;

You every day out-fool ev'n_ Nokes _and_ Lee.

_They're forc'd to stop, and their own Farces quit, T'admire the Merry-Andrews of the Pit; But if your Mirth so grate the Critick's ear, Your Love will yet more Harlequin appear.

--You everlasting Grievance of the Boxes, You wither'd Ruins of stum'd Wine and Poxes; What strange Green-sickness do you hope in Women Should make 'em love old Fools in new Point Linen?