the female part of it, I'll be sworn; so I'll just give him a decent opportunity, and be back immediately. [Exit SUSAN.

Soph. If it should be a messenger from Constant; yet I dare not expect it. The pangs of disappointment are too severe a penance for the indulgence of hope.

AIR 4th.

The flow'r enamour'd of the sun,

At his departure hangs her head and weeps,
And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps
Sad vigils, like a cloister'd nun,

Till his reviving ray appears,
Waking her beauty as he dries her tears.

Enter SUSAN.

Sus. I knew I was right, madam.

Soph. What have you got there?

Sus. Read madam, read; 'tis from Captain Constant.

Soph. Who told you so?

Sus. The man who brought it.

Soph. And what have you done with him?

(Opens the letter, and reads.) Sus. Why, madam, I was some time in doubt whether I should put him into the pantry to assist Robin in scrubbing the plate, or lock him up with old Deborah

to make conserves; but concluding, that like the rest of the male creatures, he must have a natural partiality for our sex- -Bless me, what's the matter? why you look as melancholy as if you had been reading a tragedy. I hope the captain is'nt false

hearted?

Soph. Let me see the messenger.

Sus. Yes, madam; he's certainly false-hearted after all!

Soph. What am I to think of this? 'tis not Constant's hand, and the contents are absolute nonsense; yet this is about the time I expected him.

Enter SUSAN and TODDY.

Sus. This, sir, is my lady.

Soph. Leave me, Susan.

Sus. What, with a strange man, madam? I can't think of that.

Soph. Well, well, shut the door then. You brought this letter from Captain Constant?

Tod. Yes, madam.

Soph. Pray is it his writing, sir?

Tod. His writing? you know his writing, ma'am, I presume?

Soph. Perfectly.

Tod. Why then, madam, honestly to confess the

truth, tho' he swore me to secrecy, it is not his writing. My master, madam, owing to a trifling accidentSoph. Accident! oh, heav'ns!

Tod. The mere fortune of war: the loss of an arm, upon such occasions—

Soph. Loss of an arm?

Tod. Very true, madam: in following the enemy too vigorously, a masqued battery opened upon us, and at the first discharge my master lost his right arm; but take comfort, madam; don't be distress'd; he has got as handsome a wooden one.

Soph. A wooden one?

Tod. Yes, madam, and he moves it so naturally, that you'd hardly know it from flesh and blood. I was, as I said before, sworn to secrecy, but there's an openness in my disposition: I have my faults, but I never could tell a lie in my life.

Soph. But his intellects, sir?

Tod. Madam!

Sus. What does the man gape at? Is your master

in his right senses?

Tod. An excellent hint.

(Aside.)

Soph. You understand me, is he perfectly rational?

Tod. He's in love, madam.

Soph. But is he in his perfect senses?

Tod. As much so as most gentlemen in that unfor

tunate situation: for an instance, he call'd me to him this morning, and looking as I thought rather wildly, Toddy, says he, sit down and write. He then dictated to me, verbatim, the letter I brought; then suddenly starting up, and hitting his forehead with his wooden hand, at the same time catching me by the throat with the other, False, cruel, perjur'd fair! says he; you shall now pay dear for all your treachery. With that, madam, he squeez'd me by the throat, till he almost stopt my windpipe, when, finding by the hoarseness of my voice and the roughness of my chin, I was not a false perjur'd fair, he begged my pardon, I must own, in a very gentlemanly manner, and bade me hasten here with the letter.

Soph. Poor Constant!

Sus. Poor gentleman!

Tod. Poor gentleman indeed.

Sop. Well, sir, if you'll contrive to make yourself comfortable in the kitchen, I'll write an answer.

Tod. The kitchen! lord, madam, I'm a man of so humble a spirit, I should'nt have been offended if you had mentioned the cellar.

Soph. (To SUSAN.) You'll see him taken care of. (Exeunt SUSAN and TODDY.) Poor Constant! and is it thus, after so long a absence, we are to meet.

"Twould be better to feel the pangs of expectation

still, than to see thee thus return'd.

Scene, a Room in an Inn.

CONSTANT and CARELESS sitting at a table.
AIR 5th. (Duet.)

I.

[Exit.

Another glass, 'tis friendship's due,
Here's to all friends the world around,
But chiefly him, whose ardent soul
Can glow beneath the northern pole,
As o'er the salt wave, homeward bound,
He wafts an anxious thought of you.

II.

Another still, and then we'll part:
Here's to the girl thou lov'st most dear,
Who, when no chiding tongue is nigh,
Breathing for thee the midnight sigh,
Her glowing cheek wet with a tear,
In fancy folds thee to her heart.

Carel. So this scoundrel attorney is in quiet possession of your estate?

Cons. Even so; as my father declined in bodily