A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.-BY ARTHUR MURPHY. ACT I. SCENE I.-A Room. YOUNG WILDING Enter YOUNG WILDING and BEAUFORT. WILL. following. Wild. Ha! ha! My dear Beaufort! A fiery, young fellow like you, melted down into a sighing, love-sick dangler after a high heel, a well-turned ancle, and a short petticoat. Beau. Prythee, Wilding, don't laugh at me. Maria's charms Wild. Maria's charms! And so now you would fain grow wanton in her praise, and have me listen to your raptures about my own sister. Ha! ha! Poor Beaufort! Is my sister at home, Will? Will. She is, sir. Wild. How long has my father been gone out? Will. This hour, sir. Wild. Very well. Pray give Mr. Beaufort's compliments to my sister, and he is come to wait upon her. [Exit Will.] You will be glad to see her, I suppose, Charles? Beau. I live but in her presence. Wild. Live but in her presence! How the devil could the young baggage raise this riot in your heart? 'Tis more than her brother could ever do with any of her sex. Beau. Nay, you have no reason to complain. You are come up to town, post-haste, to marry a wealthy citizen's daughter, who only saw you last season at Tunbridge, and has been languishing for you ever since. Wild. That's more than I do for her; and to tell you the truth, more than I believe she does for me. This is a match of prudence, man! Bargain and sale! My reverend dad, and the old put of a citizen, finished the business, at Lloyd's coffeehouse, by inch of candle: a mere transferring of property. "Give your son to my daughter, and I will give my daughter to your son.' "That's the QUILLDRIVE MARIA CORINNA whole affair; and so I am just arrived to consummate the nuptials. Beau. Thou art the happiest fellow Wild. Happy! so I am. What should I be otherwise for? If Miss Sally-upon my soul, I forget her name. Beau. Well! that is so like you. Miss Sally Philpot. Wild. Ay, very true; Miss Sally Philpot. She will bring fortune sufficient to pay off an old incumbrance upon the family estate; and my father is to settle handsomely upon me; and so I have reason to be contented, have not I? Beau. Pho! this is all idle talk; and, in the meantime, I am ruined. Wild. How so? Beau. Why you know the old couple have bargained your sister away. Wild. Bargained her away! And will you pretend you are in love? Can you look tamely on, and see her bartered away at Garraway's like logwood, cochineal, or indigo? Marry her privately, man, and keep it a secret 'till my affair is over. Beau. My dear Wilding, will you propose it to her? Wild. With all my heart. She is very long a-coming. I'll tell you what, if she has a fancy for you, carry her off at once; but perhaps she has a mind to this cub of a citizen, Miss Sally's brotherBeau. Oh, no! he is her aversion. Wild. I have never seen any of the family, but my wife that is to be. What sort of a fellow is the son? Beau. Oh! a diamond of the first water! a buck, sir, a blood! every night at this end of the town; at twelve next day he sneaks about the 'Change, and looks like a sedate book-keeper in the eyes of all who behold him. Wild. Upon my word, a gentleman of spirit. Beau. Spirit!-he drives four-in-hand, keeps his girl at the west end of the town, and is the citylover, you say? (Maria shrugs her shoulders and gay George Philpot at the clubs. shakes her head.) Wild. Oh brave!-and the father? Beau. The father, sir-But here comes Maria; take his picture from her. (She sings within.) Wild. Hey! she is musical this morning; she holds her usual spirits, I find. Beau. Yes, yes, the spirit of eighteen, with the idea of a lover in her head. Wild. Ay! and such a lover as you too! though still in her teens, she can play upon all your foibles, and treat you as she does her monkey, tickle you, torment you, enrage you, soothe you, exalt you, depress you, pity you, laugh at you-Ecce signum! Enter MARIA, singing. Wild. The same giddy girl! Sister; come, my dear Mar. Have done, brother; let me have my own way, I will go through my song. Wild. I have not seen you this age; how I do. ask me Mar. I won't ask you how you do; I won't take any notice of you; I don't know you. Wild. Do you know this gentleman, then? Will you speak to him? Mar. No, I won't speak to him; I'll sing to him; it's my humour to sing. (Sings.) Beau. Be serious but for a moment, Maria; my all depends upon it. Mar. Oh! sweet sir, you are dying, are you? Then positively I will sing the song; for it is a description of yourself: mind it, Mr. Beaufort, mind it. Brother, how do you do? (Kisses him.) Say nothing, don't interrupt me. (Sings.) Wild. Have you seen your city lover yet? Mar. Yes, long to see him. (Beaufort looks thoughtful.) Brother, brother! (Goes to him softly, and beckons him to look at Beaufort.) do you see that? (Mimics him.)-mind him; ha, ha! Beau. Make me ridiculous, if you will, Maria ; so you don't make me unhappy, by marrying this citizen. Mar. And would not you have me marry, sir? What, I must lead a single life to please you, must I? Upon my word, you are a pretty gentleman, to make laws for me. (Sings.) Can it be or by law or by equity said, That a comely young girl ought to die an old maid? Wild. Come, come, Miss Pert, compose yourself a little. This will never do. Mar. My cross, ill-natured brother! but it will do. Lord! what, do you both call me hither to plague me? I won't stay among ye, à l'honneur, à l'honneur, (Running away.) à l'honneur— Wild. Hey, hey, Miss Notable! come back, pray madam, come back. (Forces her back.) Mar. Lord! what do you want? Wild. Come, come, truce with your frolics, Miss Hoyden, and behave like a sensible girl; we have serious business with you. Mar. Have you! Well, come, I will be sensible; there, I blow all my folly away. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, and now I'll talk sense: come, is that a sensible face? Wild. Pho, pho, be quiet, and hear what we have to say to you. Mar. I will, I am quiet. It is charming weather; it will be good for the country, this will. I am Wild. Pho, ridiculous! how can you be so silly? Mar. Bless me! I never saw anything like you. There is no such thing as satisfying you. sure it was very good sense what I said. Papa talks in that manner. Well, well! I'll be silent then. I won't speak at all; will that satisfy you? Wild. Come, come, no more of this folly, but mind what is said to you. You have not seen your Wild. Why don't you answer? Beau. My dear Maria, put me out of pain. (Maria shrugs her shoulders again.) Wild. Pho! don't be so childish, but give a rational answer. Mar. Why, no, then; no-no, no, no, no, no. I tell you no, no, no. Wild. Come, come, my little giddy sister, you must not be so flighty; behave sedately, and don't be a girl always. Mar. Why, don't I tell you I have not seen him? But I am to see him this very day. Beau. To see him this day, Maria? Mar. Ha, ha! look there, brother; he is beginning again. But don't fright yourself, and I'll tell you all about it. My papa comes to me this morning,-by-the-by, he makes a fright of himself with his strange dress. Why does not he dress as other gentlemen do, brother? Wild. He dresses like his brother fox-hunters in Wiltshire. Mar. But when he comes to town, I wish he would do as other gentlemen do here. I am almost ashamed of him. But he comes to me this morning-" Hoic! hoic! our Moll. Where is the sly puss? Tally ho!" Did you want me, papa? Come hither, Moll, I'll gee thee a husband, my girl; one that has mettle enow; he'll take cover, warrant un; blood to the bone." Beau. There now, Wilding, did not I tell you this? Wild. Where are you to see the young citizen? Mar. Why, papa will be at home in an hour, and then he intends to drag me into the city with him, and there the sweet creature is to be introduced to me. The old gentleman, his father, is delighted with him, but I hate him, an old ugly thing. Wild. Give us a description of him; I want to know him. Mar. Why he looks like the picture of Avarice sitting with pleasure upon a bag of money, and trembling for fear any body should come and take it away. He has got square-toed shoes, and little tiny buckles, a brown coat, with small round brass buttons, that looks as if it was new in my great-grandmother's time, and his face all shrivelled and pinch'd with care, and he shakes his head like a mandarin upon a chimney-piece. "Ay, ay, Sir Jasper, you are right," and then he grins at me; "I profess she is a very pretty bale of goods. Ay, ay, and my son George is a very sensible lad; ay, ay! and I will underwrite their happiness for one and a half per cent." Wild. Thank you, my dear girl; thank you for this account of my relations. Beau. Destruction to my hopes! Surely, my dear little angel, if you have any regard for meMar. There, there, there, he is frightened again. (Sings, Dearest creature, &c.) Wild. Psha! give over these airs; listen to me, and I'll instruct you how to manage them all. Mar. Oh! my dear brother, you are very good, but don't mistake yourself; though just come from a boarding-school, give me leave to manage for myself; there is in this case a man I like, and a man I don't like; it is not you I like (To Beaufort) no, no, I hate you. But let this little bead alone; I know what to do; I shall know how to prefer one, and get rid of the other. Beau. What will you do, Maria? Oh! relieve me, &c. Wild. Come, come, be serious, Miss Pert, and I'll instruct you what to do. The old cit, you say, admires you for your understanding, and his son would not marry you, unless he found you a girl of sense and spirit? Mar. Even so; this is the character of your giddy sister. from him. Wild. Why then, I'll tell you, you shall make him hate you for a fool, and so let the refusal come [how? Mar. But how, how, my dear brother? Tell me Wild. Why, you have seen a play with me, where a man pretends to be a downright country oaf, in order to rule a wife and have a wife. Mar. Very well; what then? what then? OhI have it-I understand you-say no more-'tis charming; I like it of all things; I'll do it, I will; and I will so plague him, that he sha'n't know what to make of me. He shall be a very toad-eater to me; the sour, the sweet, the bitter, he shall swallow all, and all shall work upon him alike for my diversion. Say nothing of it; it's all among ourselves; but I won't be cruel. I hate ill-nature, and then who knows but I may like him? Beau. My dear Maria, don't talk of liking him. Mar. Oh! now you are beginning again. (Sings, Voi Amanti, &c. and exit.) Beau. 'Sdeath, Wilding, I shall be never your brother-in-law at this rate. Wild. Psha, follow me; don't be apprehensive; I'll give her farther instructions, and she will execute them, I warrant you; the old fellow's daughter shall be mine, and the son may go shift for himself elsewhere. [Exeunt. Quill. Thank you, sir. [Exit. G. Phil. Who now in my situation would envy any of your great folks at the court end! A lord bas nothing to depend upon but his estate. He can't spend you a hundred thousand pounds of other people's money; no, no, I had rather be a little bob-wig citizen, in good credit, than a commissioner of the customs. Commissioner! The king has not so good a thing in his gift, as a commission of bankruptcy. Don't we see them all with their country seats at Hoxton, and at Kentish Town, and at Newington Butts, and at Islington; with their little flying Mercury's tipt upon the top of the house, their Apollo's, their Venuses, and their leaden Herculeses in the garden; and themselves sitting before the door, with pipes in their mouths, waiting for a good digestion. Old Phil. speaks without.) Zoons! here comes old dad! Now for a few dry maxims of left-handed wisdom, to prove myself a scoundrel in sentiment, and pass in his eyes for a hopeful young man, likely to do well in the world. Enter OLD PHILPOT. Old Phil. Twelve times twelve is a hundred and forty-four. (Aside.) G. Phil. I'll attack him in his own way. Commission at two and a half per cent. (Aside.) Old Phil. There he is, intent upon business! (Aside.) What, plodding, George? G. Phil. Thinking a little of the main chance, sir. Old Phil. That's right; it's a wide world, George. G. Phil. Yes, sir, but you instructed me early SCENE II.-Old Philpot's House. Enter QUILLDRIVE; GEORGE PHILPOT, peeping in. in the rudiments of trade. G. Phil. Hist, hist! Quilldrive! G. Phil. Is Square-toes at home? G. Phil. Has he asked for me? G. Phil. (Walks in on tiptoe.) Does he know I did not sleep at home? Quill. No; I sunk that upon him. G. Phil. Well done; I'll give you a choice gelding to carry you to Dulwich of a Sunday. Damnation! up all night-stripp'd of nine hundred pounds-pretty well for one night! Picqued, repicqued, flamm'd, and capotted every deal! Old Dry-beard shall pay all. Is forty-seven good? no -fifty good? no?-no, no, no, no, to the end of the chapter. Cruellack! D-n me, it's life tho' -this is life. 'Sdeath! I hear him coming. (Runs off, and peeps.) no, all's safe. I must not be caught in these clothes, Quilldrive. Quill. How came it you did not leave them at Madam Corinna's, as you generally do? G. Phil. I was afraid of being too late for old Square-toes, and so I whipt into a hackney-coach, and drove with the windows up, as if I was afraid of a bum-bailey. Pretty clothes, a'n't they? Quill. Ah! sir G. Phil. Reach me one of my mechanic city frocks; no-stay-it's in the next room, a'n't itQuill. Yes, sir. G. Phil. I'll run and slip it on in a twinkle. [Exit. Quill. Mercy on us! what a life does he lead? Old codger within here will scrape together for him, and the moment young master comes to possession, ill got ill gone, I warrant me; hard card I have to play between 'em both; drudging for the old man, and pimping for the young one. The father is a reservoir of riches, and the son is a fountain to play it all away in vanity and folly! Re-enter GEORGE PHILPOT. G. Phil. Now I'm equipped for the city. D-n the city! I wish the papishes would set fire to it again. I hate to be beating the hoof here among them. Here comes father-no; it's Dapper.Quilldrive, I'll give you the gelding. Old Phil. Ay, ay; I instilled good principles into thee. G. Phil. So you did, sir. Principal and interest is all I ever heard from him. (Aside.) I shall never forget the story you recommended to my earliest notice, sir. Old Phil. What was that, George? It is quite out of my head. Inkle, of London, merchant, was cast away, and G. Phil. It intimated, sir, how Mr. Thomas was afterwards protected by a young lady, who grew in love with him; and how he afterwards bargained with a planter to sell her for a slave. Old Phil. Ay, ay, (laughs) I recollect it now. G. Phil. And when she pleaded being with child by him, he was no otherwise moved than to raise his price, and make her turn to better account. ha, ha! there was the very spirit of trade! ay— Old Phil. (Bursts into a laugh.) I remember it: ay-ha, ha, ha! G. Phil. That was calculation for you. G. Phil. The rule of three. If one gives me so much; what will two give me? Old Phil. Ay, Ay. (Laughs.) G. Phil. Rome was not built in a day. Forkeep, and fear to lose. tunes are made by degrees. Pains to get, care to Old Phil. Ay, ay, the good boy. Old Phil. The good boy! George, I have great hopes of thee. G. Phil. Thanks to your example; you have taught me to be cautious in this wide world: love your neighbour, but don't pull down your hedge. Old Phil. I profess it is a wise saying; I never heard it before; it is a wise saying; and shews how cautious we should be of too much confidence in friendship. G. Phil. Very true. Old Phil. Friendship has nothing to do with trade. G. Phil. It only draws a man in to lend money. Old Phil. Ay, ay. G. Phil. There was your neighbour's son, Dick Worthy, who was always cramming his head with Greek and Latin at school; he wanted to borrow Old Phil. Ay, ay; let him draw bills of exchange G. Phil. So I told him: I went to see him at his garret, in the Minories, and there I found him in all his misery; and a fine scene it was. There was his wife in a corner of the room, at a washing-tub, up to the elbows in suds; a solitary pork-steak was dangling by a bit of pack-thread, before a melancholy fire; himself seated at a three-legg'd table, writing a pamphlet against the German war; a child upon his left knee, his right leg employed in rocking a cradle with a brattling in it: and so there was business enough for them all ;-his wife rubbing away, (mimics a washer-woman) and he writing on, "The king of Prussia shall have no more subsidies; Saxony shall be indemnified; he shan't have a foot in Silesia. There is a sweet little baby:" (to the child on his knee) then he rock'd the cradle "hush ho! hush, ho!" then he twisted the griskin,—(snaps his fingers.) "hush ho! The Russians shall have Prussia." (Writes.) The wife (washes and sings) he-" There's a dear." Round goes the griskin again—(snaps his fingers.)" and Canada must be restor'd." (Writes.) And so you have a picture of the whole family. Old Phil. Ha, ha! What becomes of his Greek and Latin now? Fine words butter no parsnips.He had no money from you, I suppose, George? G. Phil. Oh, no! charity begins at home, says I. Old Phil. And it was wisely said. I have an excellent saying when any man wants to borrow of me; I am ready with my joke;-" a fool and his money are soon parted"-ha, ha, ha! G. Phil. Ha, ha!-An old skin-flint. (Aside.) Old Phil. Ay, ay; a fool and his money are soon parted, ha, ha, ha! G. Phil. Now if I can wring a handsome sum out of him, it will prove the truth of what he says. (Aside.) And yet trade has its inconveniences: great houses stopping payment Old Phil. Hey! what! you look chagrined. Nothing of that sort has happened to thee, I hope? G. Phil. A great house at Cadiz, Don John de Alvarada-The Spanish galleons not making quick returns, and so my bills are come back. Old Phil. Ay! (Shakes his head.) G. Phil. I have indeed a remittance from Messina. That voyage yields me thirty per cent. profit; but this blow coming upon me— Old Phil. Why, this is unlucky: how much money? G.Phil. Three-and-twenty hundred. Old Phil. George, too many eggs in one basket. I'll tell thee, George, I expect Sir Jasper Wilding here presently, to conclude the treaty of marriage I have on foot for thee; then hush this up, and say nothing of it, and in a day or two you pay these bills with his daughter's portion. G. Phil. The old rogue! (Aside.) That will never do, I shall be blown upon 'change. Alvarada will pay in time he has opened his affairs; he appears a good man. Old Phil. Does he? G. Phil. A great fortune left; will pay in time; Old Phil. Let me see; suppose I lend this money. Old Phil. How much is your remittance from G. Phil. Seven hundred and fifty. [fifty. [ACT I. Old Phil. I will venture to lend the money. You taking them up for honour of the drawer. must allow me commission upon those bills, for G. Phil. Agreed. Old Phil. Lawful interest, while I am out of my money. G. Phil. I subscribe. monies from Alvarada, when he makes a payment. Old Phil. Your own bond. have a draft on the bank. Old Phil. But stay, I had forgot; I must sell all means, sir. Old Phil. Step and get me a check. G. Phil. A fool and his money are soon parted. (Aside.) Old Phil. What with commission, lawful inte- Quill. Sir Jasper Wilding, sir, and his daughter. Enter SIR JASPER, singing, and MARIA. indeed. Old Phil. The like compliment to you, Sir Jasper. Miss Maria, I kiss your fair hand. Mar. Sir, your most obedient. Sir Jasp. Ay, ay; I ha' brought un to zee you; my girl-I ben't asham'd of my girl. Mar. That's more than I can say (Aside.) of my father. Old Phil. Truly, she is a blooming young lady, in her. Sir Jasper, and I verily shall like to take an interest Sir Jasp. I ha' brought her to zee ye, and zo your zon may ha' her as soon as he will. Old Phil. Why, she looks three and a half per cent. better than when I saw her last. shall be above par: he rates me like a lottery ticket. Mar. Then there is hopes that, in a little time, I (Aside.) Old Phil. Ay, ay; I doubt not, Sir Jasper; Miss has the appearance of a very sensible, discreet young lady; and to deal freely, without that, lad, and I have often heard him declare, no consishe would not do for my son. George is a shrewd deration should ever prevail on him to marry a fool. Mar. Ay, you have told me so before, old gentleman; I have my cue from my brother, and if I then am not a notable girl. (Aside.) don't soon give master George a surfeit of me, why Enter GEORGE PHILPOT. G. Phil. A good clever old cuff this, after my own heart. I think I'll have his daughter, if it is only for the pleasure of hunting with him. (Aside.) Sir Jasp. Zon-in-law, gee us your hand. What say you? are you ready for my girl? G. Phil. Say grace as soon as you will, sir, I'll fall too. Sir Jasp. Well zaid; I like you: I like un, master Philpot, I like un: I'll tell you what, let un talk to her now. Old Phil. And so he shall. George, she is a bale of goods; speak her fair now, and then you'll be in cash. (Aside to G. Phil.) G. Phil. I think I had rather not speak to her now; I hate speaking to these modest women. Sir, sir, a word in your ear; had not I better break my mind, by advertising for her in a newspaper? (Aside to Old Phil.) Old Phil. Talk sense to her, George; she is a notable girl; and I'll give the draft upon the bank presently. (Aside to G. Phil.) Sir Jasp. Come along, master Philpot, come along: I bean't afraid of my girl; come along. [Exeunt Sir Jasp. and Old Phil. Mar. A pretty sort of a lover they have found for me. (Aside.) G. Phil. How shall I speak my mind to her? She is almost a stranger to me. (Aside.) Mar. Now I'll make the hideous thing hate me if I can. (Aside.) G. Phil. Ay, she is as sharp as a needle, I warrant her. (Aside.) Mar. Ah, you fright! You rival Mr. Beaufort! I'll give him an aversion to me, that's what I will; and so let him have the trouble of breaking off the match. Not a word yet: he is in a fine confusion: (Aside: looks foolish.) I think I may as well sit down, sir. G.Phil. Ma'am-I-I-I-(frighted) I'll hand you a chair, ma'am; there, ma'am. Bows awkwardly.) Mar. Sir, I thank you. G. Phil. I'll sit down too. (In confusion.) Mar. Heigho! G. Phil. Ma'am! Mar. Sir! G. Phil. I beg your pardon, ma'am. Mar. Oh! you are a sweet creature! (Aside.) G. Phil. The ice is broke now; I have begun, and so I'll go on. (Sits silent, foolish, and steals a look at her.) Mar. An agreeable interview this! (Aside.) G.Phil. Pray, ma'am, do you ever go to concerts? Mar. Concerts! what's that, sir? G. Phil. A music meeting. Mar. I have been at a Quaker's meeting, but never at a music meeting. G. Phil. Lord, ma'am, all the gay world goes to concerts! She notable! I'll take courage; she is nobody. (Aside.) Will you give me leave to present you a ticket for Willis's? Mar. (Looking simply and awkward.) A ticket! what's a ticket? G. Phil. There, ma'am, at your service. a ticket is. G. Phil. What a curtsey there is for the St. James's end of the town! I hate her! she seems to be an idiot! (Aside.) Mar. Here's a charming ticket he has given me! (Aside.) And is this a ticket, sir? G. Phil. Yes, ma'am. And is this a ticket? (Mimics her aside.) Mar. (Reads) For sale by the candle, the bllowing goods :-thirty chests straw hats-fifty tubs chip hats-pepper, sago, borax-ha, ha! Such a ticket! G. Phil. I—I—I have made a mistake, ma'am ; here, here is the right one. Mar. You need not mind it, sir; I never go to such places. G.Phil. No, ma'am! I don't know what to make of her. (Aside.) Was you ever at the White Conduit House? Mar. There's a question! (Aside.) Is that a nobleman's seat? Mar. I'm come of good people, sir; and have been properly educated, as a young girl ought to be. G. Phil. What a d-d fool she is! (Aside.) The burletta is an opera, ma'am. Mar. Opera, sir! I don't know what you mean by this usage, to affront me in this manner! G. Phil. Affront! I mean quite the reverse, ma'am ; I took you for a connoisseur. Mar. Who, me a connoisseur, sir! I desire you won't call me such names; I am sure I never so much as thought of such a thing! Sir, I won't be called a connoisseur-I won't-I-won't-I won't! (Bursts out a-crying.) G. Phil. Ma'am, I meant no offence. A connoisseur is a virtuoso. Mar. Don't virtuoso me! I am no virtuoso, sir, I would have you to know it! I am as virtuous a girl as any in England, and I will never be a virtuoso. (Cries bitterly.) G. Phil. But, ma'am, you mistake me quite. Mar. (In apassion, choking her tears, and sobbing.) Sir, I am come of as virtuous people as any in England. My family was always remarkable for virtue. My mamma (sobbing) was as good a woman as ever was born, and my aunt Bridget (sobbing) was a virtuous woman too! And there's my sister Sophy makes as good and as virtuous a wife as any at all! And so, sir, don't call me a virtuoso! I won't be brought here to be treated in this manner; I won't -I won't-I won't! (Cries bitterly.) G. Phil. The girl's a natural: so much the better. I'll marry her, and lock her up. (Aside.) Ma'am, upon my word, you misunderstand me. Mar. Sir, (drying her tears) I won't be called connoisseur by you nor any body; and I am no virtuoso, I'd have you to know that. G. Phil. Ma'am, connoisseur and virtuoso are words for a person of taste. Mar. Taste! (sobbing.) G. Phil. Yes, ma'am. Mar. And did you mean to say as how I am a person of taste? G. Phil. Undoubtedly. Mar. Sir, your most obedient humble servant. Oh! that's another thing; I have a taste, to be sure. G. Phil. I know you have, ma'am. O, you're a cursed ninny! (Aside.) Mar. Yes, I know I have; I can read tolerably, and I begin to write a little. G. Phil. Upon my word, you have made a great progress! What could old Square-Toes mean by passing her upon me for a sensible girl? And what a fool I was to be afraid to speak to her: I'll talk to her openly at once. (Aside.) Come, sit down, Miss. Pray, ma'am, are you inclined to maMar. Yes, sir. [trimony? G. Phil. Are you in love? G. Phil. These naturals are always amorous. (A side.) How should you like me? Mar, Of all things. |