And thanks them from his soul for every bright
Indulgent tear which they have shed to-night.
Sorrow in virtue's cause proclaims a mind,
And gives to beauty graces more refined.
Oh, who could bear the loveliest form of art,
A cherub's face, without a feeling heart!
'Tis there alone, whatever charms we boast,
Though men may flatter, and though men may
Tis there alone they find the joy sincere, [toast,
The wife, the parent, and the friend are there.
All else, the veriest rakes themselves must own,
Are but the paltry play-things of the town;
The painted clouds, which, glittering, tempt the
chace,

Then melt in air, and mock the vain embrace.
Well then; the rivate virtues, 'tis confess'd,
Are the soft inmates of the female breast.
But then, they fill so full that crowded space,
That the poor public seldom finds a place.
And I suspect there's many a fair one here,
Who pour'd her sorrows on Horatia's bier;"

That still retains so much of flesh and blood
She'd fairly hang the brother, if she could.
Why, ladies, to be sure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he must stand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his sire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead.
Like other culprit youths he wanted grace;
But could have no self-interest in the case.
Had she been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answer'd some convenient end:
But a mere sister, whom he loved-to take
Her life away, and for his country's sake!
Faith, ladies, you may pardon him; indeed
There's very little fear the crime should spread.
True patriots are but rare among the men,
And really might be useful now and then.
Then do not check, by your disapprobation,
A spirit which might rule the British nation,
And still might rule--would you but set the
fashion.

And though of homely fare we make the feast, Yet you will find variety at least.

There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got,

And for the thinking party there's a plot.
We've something too to gratify ill-nature,
(If there be any here)-and that is satire.
Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so
mild,

Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.
As asses thistles, poets mumble wit,
And dare not bite for fear of being bit.
They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.
Since the Plain Dealer's scenes of manly rage,
Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
This time, the poet owns the bold essay,
Yet hopes there's no ill manners in his play:
And he declares by me, he has design'd
Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.
And, should th' ensuing scenes not chance to
hit,

He offers but this one excuse-'twas writ
Before your late encouragement of wit.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

VALENTINE, in his Chamber, reading; JEREMY waiting. Several Books upon the Table.

Val. Jeremy! Jer. Sir.

Val. Here, take away! I'll walk a turn, and digest what I have read."

Jer. You'll grow devilish fat upon this paper diet. [Aside, and taking away the books. Val. And d'ye hear? go you to breakfastThere's a page doubled down in Epictetus, that is a feast for an emperor.

Jer. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts?

Val. Read, read, sirrah, and refine your appetite; learn to live upon instruction; feast your mind, and mortify your flesh. Read, and take your nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of understanding. So Epictetus advises.

Jer. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that Epictetus?

Val. A very rich man-not worth a groat. Jer. Humph! and so he has made a very fine feast, where there is nothing to be eaten. Val. Yes.

Jer. Sir, you're a gentleman, and probably understand this fine feeding: but, if you please, I had rather be at board-wages. Does your Epictetus, or your Seneca here, or any of these poor rich rogues, teach you how to pay your debts without money? Will they shut up the mouths of your creditors? Will Plato be bail for you? or Diogenes, because he understands confinement, and lived in a tub, go to prison for you? 'Slife, Sir, what do you mean, to mew yourself up here with three or four musty books, in commendation of starving and poverty.

Val. Why, sirrah, I have no money, you know it; and therefore resolve to rail at all that have: and in that I but follow the examples of the wisest and wittiest men in all ages-these poets and philosophers, whom you hate, for just such another reason; because they abound in sense, and you are a fool.

Jer. Ay, Sir, I am a fool, and I know it: and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit. But I was always a fool, when I told you what your expenses would bring you to: your coaches, your liveries, your treats, and your balls; your being in love with a lady that did not care a farthing for you in your prosperity, and keeping company with wits, that cared for nothing but your prosperity, and now you are poor, hate you as much as they do one another.

Val. Well! and now I am poor, I have an opportunity to be revenged on them all; I'll pursue Angelica with more love than ever, and appear more notoriously her admirer in this restraint, than when I openly rivalled the rich fops that made court to her. So shall my poverty be a mortification to her pride, and perhaps make her compassionate the love, which has principally reduced my fortune. And for the wits, I'm sure I am in a condition to be even with them.

Jer. Nay, your condition is pretty even with theirs, that's the truth on't.

Val. I'll take some of their trade out of their hands.

Jer. Now Heaven of mercy continue the tax upon paper!-You don't mean to write?

Val. Yes, I do; I'll write a play.

Jer. Hem!-Sir, if you please to give me a small certificate of three lines-only to certify to those whom it may concern, That the bearer hereof, Jeremy Fetch by name, has for the space of seven years truly and faithfully served Valentine Legend, Esquire; and that he is not now turned away for any misdemeanour, but does voluntarily dismiss his master from any future authority over him

Val. No, sirrah; you shall live with me still. Jer. Sir it's impossible-I may die with you, starve with you, or be damned with your works; but to live, even three days, the life of a play, no more expect it, than to be canonized for a Muse after my decease.

Val. You are witty, you rogue; I shall want your help-I'll have you learn to make couplets, to tag the ends of acts. D'ye hear? get the maids to crambo in an evening, and learn the knack of rhyming; you may arrive at the height of a song set by an unknown hand, or a chocolatehouse lampoon.

Jer. But, Sir, is this the way to recover your father's favour? Why Sir Sampson will be irreconcilable. If your younger brother should come from sea, he'd never look upon you again. You're undone, Sir; you're ruined: you wont dave a friend left, if you turn poet-Ah, confound that Will's coffee-house, it has ruined more young men than the Royal Oak lottery?—Nothing thrives that belongs to it. The man of the house would have been an alderman by this time with half the trade, if he had set up in the city.For my part, I never sit at the door, that I don't get double the stomach that I do at a horserace. The air upon Banstead Downs is nothing to it for a whetter; yet I never see it, but the spirit of famine appears to me-sometimes like a

Val. Very well, Sir; can you proceed? Jer. Sometimes like a bilked bookseller, with a meagre, terrified countenance, that look as if he had written for himself, or were resolved to turn author, and bring the rest of his brethren into the same condition. And lastly, in the form of a worn-out punk, with verses, in her hand, which her vanity had preferred to settlements, without a whole tatter to her tail, but as ragged as one of the Muses; or as if she was carrying her linen to the paper-mill, to be converted into folio books of warning to all young inaids, not to prefer poetry to good sense; or lying in the arms of a needy wit, before the embraces of a wealthy fool.

Enter SCANDAL.

Scand. What Jeremy holding forth? Val. The rogue has (with all the wit he could muster up) been declaiming against wit. Scand. Ay? Why then I'm afraid Jeremy has wit for wherever it is, it's always contriving its own ruin.

Jer. Why so I have been telling my master, Sir, Mr. Scandal, for Heaven's sake, Sir, try if you can dissuade him from turning poet.

Scand. Poet! He shall turn soldier first, and rather depend upon the outside of his head than the lining! Why, has not your poverty made you enemies enough? must you show your wit to get

more?

Jer. Ay, more indeed: for who cares for any body that has more wit than himself?

Scand. Jeremy speaks like an oracle. Don't you see how worthless great men and dull rich rogues avoid a witty man of small fortune? Why, he looks like a writ of inquiry into their titles and estates; and seems commissioned by Heaven to seize the better half.

Val. Therefore I would rail in my writings, and be revenged.

Scand. Rail! at whom! the whole world? Impotent and vain! Who would die a martyr to sense in a country where the religion is folly? You may stand at bay for a while; but when the full cry is against you, you sha'n't have fair play for your life. If you can't be fairly run down by the hounds, you will be treacherously shot by the huntsmen. No, turn pimp, flatterer, quack, lawyer, parson, be chaplain to an atheist, or stallion to an old woman, any thing but poet. A modern poet is worse, more servile, timorous, and fawning, than any I have named: without you could retrieve the ancient honours of the name, recall the stage of Athens, and be allowed the force of an open, honest satire.

Val. You are as inveterate against poets, as if your character had been exposed upon the stage. -Nay, I am not violently bent upon the trade.[One Knocks.] Jeremy see who's there. [JEREMY goes to the door.]-But tell me what you would have me do.-What do the world say of me, and my forced confinement ?

Scand. The world behaves itself, as it uses to

JEREMY returns.

Val. How now?

half a dozen duns with as much dexterity as a Jer. Nothing new, Sir. I have despatched some hungry judge does causes at dinner-time.

Val. What answers have you given them? Scand. Patience, I suppose-the old receipt! with patience and forbearance, and other fair Jer. No, faith, Sir: I have put them off so long words, that I was forced to tell them in plain downright English

Val. What?

Jer. That they should be paid. Val. When?

Jer. To-morrow.

Val. And how the devil do you mean to keep your word?

Jer. Keep it? Not at all: it has been so very much stretched, that I reckon it will break by tomorrow, and nobody be surprised at the matter [Knocking.] Again! Sir, if you don't like my negotiation, will you be pleased to answer them yourself?

Val. See who they are. [Erit JEREMY.] By Secretaries of state, presidents of the council, and this, Scandal, you may see what it is to be great. generals of an army, lead just such a life as I do; have just such crowds of visitants in a morning, all soliciting of past promises; which are but a civiler sort of duns, that lay claim to voluntary debts. engaged their attendance, and promised more than Scand. And you, like a truly great man, having find evasions, than you would be with the honest you intended to perform, are more perplexed to means of keeping your word, and gratifying your

creditors.

Val. Scandal, learn to spare your friends, and do not provoke your enemies. This liberty of your tongue will one day bring confinement on your body.

Enter JEREMY.

Jer. O, Sir, there's Trapland the scrivener, with two suspicious fellows like lawful pads, that would knock a man down with pocket tipstaves!-And there's your father's steward! and the nurse with one of your children, from Twit'nam.

Val. Plague on her! could she find no other time to fling my sins in my face? Here! give her this, [Gives money.] and bid her trouble me no more; a thoughtless, two-handed whore! She knows my condition well enough, and might have overlaid the child a fortnight ago if she had any forecast in her. Scand. What, is it bouncing Margery, with my godson?

Jer. Yes, Sir.

Scand. My blessing to the boy, with this token [Gives money.] of my love. And, d'ye hear, bid Margery put more flocks in her bed, shift twice a week, ard not work so hard, that she may not smell so intolerably.—I shall take the air shortly.

Val. Scandal, don't spoil my boy's milk.-Bid Trapland come in.-If I can give that Cerberus a sop, I shall be at rest for one day.

[JEREMY goes out, and brings in TRAPLAND

Val. O Mr. Trapland? my old friend! welcome-Jeremy, a chair quickly: a bottle of sack and a toast-fly-a chair first.

Trap. A good morning to you, Mr. Valentine; and to you, Mr. Scandal.

Scand. The morning's a very good morning, If you don't spoil it.

Val. Come, sit you down; you know his way. Trap. [Sits.] There is a debt, Mr. Valentine, of fifteen hundred pounds, of pretty long stand

ing.

Val. I cannot talk about business with a thirsty palate. Sirrah, the sack.

Trap. And I desire to know what course you have taken for the payment.

Val. Faith, I am heartily glad to see you-my service to you! fill, fill, to honest Mr. Traplandfuller!

Trap. Hold, sweetheart-this is not our business. My service to you, Mr. Scandal. [Drinks.] -I have forborn as long

Val. T'other glass, and then we'll talk-Fill, Jeremy.

Trap. No more, in truth-I have forborn, I

say

Val. Sirrah, fill when I bid you. And how does your handsome daughter ?-A good husband to her. [Drinks. Trap. Thank you-I have been out of this money

Val. Drink first. Scandal, why do you not drink? [They drink. Trap. And, in short, I can be put off no longer. Val. I was much obliged to you for your supply: it did me signal service in my necessity. But you delight in doing good. Scandal, drink to me my friend Trapland's health. An honester man lives not, nor one more ready to serve his friend in distress; which I say to his face. Come, fill each man his glass.

Scand. What? I know Trapland has been a whore-master, and loves a wench still. You never knew a libertine that was not an honest fellow.

Trap. Fy, Mr. Scandal, you never knewScand. What don't I know? I know the buxom black widow in the Poultry-Eight hundred pounds a year, jointure, and twenty thousand pounds in money. Ahah! old Trap!

Val. Say you so? Come, we'll remember the widow: I know whereabouts you are; come, to

her.

Trap. No more, indeed.

Val. What! the widow's health?-Give it him -off with it. [They drink.]—A lovely girl, i'faith, black sparkling eyes, soft, pouting, ruby lips! Bet ter sealing there, than a bond for a million, ha!

Trap. No, no, there's no such thing; we'd better mind our business-You're a wag!

Val. No, faith, we'll mind the widow's business: fill again.-Pretty round heaving breasts, a Barbary shape, and a jut with her bum, would stir an anchorite; and the prettiest foot! Oh, if a man could but fasten his eyes on her feet as they steal in and out, and play at bo-peep under her petticoats-ha! Mr. Trapland.

land, if we must do our office, tell us.We have half a dozen gentlemen to arrest in Pall-mall and Covent-Garden; and if we don't make haste, the chairmen will be abroad, and block up the chocolate-houses; and then our labour 's lost.

Trap. That's true. Mr. Valentine, I love mirth; but business must be done; are you ready to

Jer. Sir, your father's steward says, he comes to make proposals concerning your debts.

Val. Bid him come in: Mr. Trapland, send away your officer; you shall have an answer presently.

Trap. Mr. Snap, stay within call.

[Exit OFFICER.

Enter Steward, who whispers Valentine.

Scand. Here's a dog now, a traitor in his wine! Sirrah, refund the sack: Jeremy, fetch him some warm water; or I'll rip up his stomach, and go the shortest way to his conscience.

Trap. Mr. Scandal, you are uncivil. I did not value your sack; but you cannot expect it again, when I have drunk it.

Scand. And how do you expect to have your money again, when a gentleman has spent it?

Val. You need say no more. I understand the conditions; they are very hard, but my necessity is pressing: agree to them. Take Mr. Trapland with you, and let him draw the writing-Mr. Trapland, you know this man; he shall satisfy you. Trap. Sincerely, I am loath to be thus pressing; but my necessity

Val. No apology, Mr. Scrivener; you shall be

paid.

Trap. I hope you forgive me, my business requires

[Exeunt TRAPLAND, Steward, and JEREMY. Scand. He begs pardon like a hangman at an

execution.

Val. But I have got a reprieve. Scand. I am surprised! does your father relent ?

Val. No; he has sent me the hardest conditions in the world. You have heard of a booby brother of mine, that was sent to sea three years ago? This brother, my father hears, is landed; whereupon he very affectionately sends me word, "If I will make a deed of conveyance of my right to his estate after his death to my younger brother, he will immediately furnish me with four thou sand pounds to pay my debts, and make my fortune.' This was once proposed before, and I refused it; but the present impatience of my creditors for their money, and my own impatience of confinement, and absence from Angelica, force

me to consent.

Scand. A very desperate demonstration of your love to Angelica! and I think she has never given you any assurance of hers.

Val. You know her temper; she never gave me any great reason either to hope or despair.

Enter OFFICER.

little reason to believe that a woman of this age, who has had an indifference for you in your pros perity, will fall in love with your ill-fortune. Besides, Angelica has a great fortune of her own; and great fortunes either expect another great fortune,

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