Three Hours after Marriage

Exit.

Dramatis Personæ.

Three Hours after

MARRIAGE:

A

COMEDY.

Foss.   I now proclaim a solemn suspension of arms between medicine and diseases. Let distempers suspend their malignant influence, and powders, pills, and potions their operations. Be this day sacred to my love. I had rather hold this hand of thine, than a dutchess by the pulse.

Town.   And I this, than a hand of matadores.

Foss.   Who knows but your relations may dispute my title to your person? come, my dear, the seal of the matrimonial bond is consummation.

Town.   Alas! what will become of me!

Foss.   Why are thy eyes fix'd on the ground? why so slow? and why this trembling?

Town.   Ah! heedless creature that I was, to quit all my relations, and trust myself alone in the hands of a strange man.

Foss.   Courage, thou best of my curiosities. Know that in husband, is comprehended all relations; in me thou seest a fond father.

Town.   Old enough o' my conscience.
[Aside.

Foss.   You may, you must trust yourself with me.

Town.   Do with me as you please: Yet sure you cannot so soon forget the office of the church. Marriage is not to be undertaken wantonly, like brute beasts. If you will transgress, the sin be upon your own head.

Foss.   Great indeed is thy virtue, and laudable is thy modesty. Thou art a virgin, and I a philosopher; but learn, that no animal action, quatenus animal, is unbecoming of either of us. But hold! where am I going? Prithee, my dear, of what age art thou?

Town.   Almost three and twenty.

Foss.   And I almost at my grand climacterick. What occasion have I for a double-night at these years? She may be an Alcmena, but alas! I am no thunderer.
[Aside

Town.   You seem somewhat disturb'd; I hope you are well, Mr. Fossile.

Foss.   What business have I in the bed-chamber, when the symptoms of age are upon me? Yet hold, this is the famous corroborative of Crollius; in this vial are included sons and daughters. Oh, for a draught of the aqua magnanimitatis for a vehicle! fifty drops of liquid laudanum for her dose would but just put us upon a par. Laudanum would settle the present ataxy of her animal spirits, and prevent her being too watchful.
[aside

Enter a Servant.

Serv.   Sir, your pistachoe-porridge is ready.
[Exit.

Foss.   Now I think of it, my dear; Venus, which is in the first degree of Capricorn, does not culminate till ten; an hour if astrology is not fallible, successful in generation.

Town.   I am all obedience, Sir.

Foss.   How shall I reward thee for so much Goodness? let our wedding as yet be a secret in the family. In the mean time I'll introduce my niece Phœbe Clinket to your acquaintance: but alas, the poor girl has a procidence of the pineal gland, which has occasioned a rupture in her understanding. I took her into my house to regulate my oeconomy; but instead of puddings, she makes pastorals; or when she should be raising paste, is raising some ghost in a new tragedy. In short, my house is haunted by all the underling players, broken booksellers, half-voic'd singing-masters, and disabled dancing-masters in town. In a former will I had left her my estate; but I now resolve that heirs of my own begetting shall inherit. Yonder she comes in her usual occupation. Let us mark her a while.

Enter Clinket and her maid bearing a writing-desk on her back. Clinket writing, her head dress stain'd with ink, and pens stuck in her hair.

Maid.   I had as good carry a raree-show about the streets. Oh! how my back akes!

Clink.   What are the labours of the back to those of the brain? thou scandal to the muses. I have now lost a thought worth a folio, by thy impertinance.

Maid.   Have not I got a crick in my back already, that will make me good for nothing, with lifting your great books?

Clink.   Folio's, call them, and not great books, thou monster of impropriety: But have patience, and I will remember the three gallery-tickets I promis'd thee at my new tragedy.

Maid.   I shall never get my head-cloaths clear-starch'd at this rate.

Clink.   Thou destroyer of learning, thou worse than a book-worm; thou hast put me beyond all patience. Remember how my lyrick ode bound about a tallow-candle; thy wrapping up snuff in an epigram; nay, the unworthy usage of my hymn to Apollo, filthy creature! read me the last lines I writ upon the deluge, and take care to pronounce them as I taught you.

Maid.   Swell'd with a dropsy, sickly nature lies,
And melting in a diabetes, dies.
[Reads with an affected tone.

Clink.   Still without cadence!

Maid.   Swell'd with a dropsy——

Clink.   Hold. I conceive——
The roaring seas o'er the tall woods have broke,
And whales now perch upon the sturdy oak.
Roaring? stay. Rumbling, roaring, rustling, no; raging seas. [Writing.
The raging seas o'er the tall woods have broke,
Now perch, thou whale, upon the sturdy oak.
Sturdy oak? no; steady, strong, strapping, stiff. Stiff? no, stiff is too short.

Fossile and Townley come forward.

What feast for fish! Oh too luxurious treat!
When hungry dolphins feed on butchers meat.

Foss.   Niece, why niece, niece? oh, Melpomene, thou goddess of tragedy, suspend thy influence for a moment, and suffer my niece to give me a rational answer. This lady is a friend of mine; her present circumstances oblige her to take sanctuary in my house; treat her with the utmost civility. Let the tea-table be made ready.

Clink.   Madam, excuse this absence of mind; my animal spirits had deserted the avenues of my senses, and retired to the recesses of the brain, to contemplate a beautiful idea. I could not force the vagrant creatures back again into their posts, to move those parts of the body that express civility.

Town.   A rare affected creature this! if I mistake not, flattery will make her an useful tool for my purpose.
[Aside.
[Exeunt Townley, Clinket, and Maid.

Foss.   Her jewels, her strong box, and all her things left behind! if her uncle should discover her marriage, he may lay an embargo upon her goods.——I'll send for them.

Enter a boy with a letter.

Boy.   This is the ho-ho-house.

Foss.   Child, whom dost thou want?

Boy.   Mistress Townley's ma-ma-maid.

Foss.   What is your business?

Boy.   A l-l-letter.

Foss.   Who sent this letter?

Boy.   O-o-one.

Foss.   Give it me, child. An honest boy. Give it me, and I'll deliver it myself. A very honest boy.

Boy.   So.
[Exit boy.

Foss.   There are now no more secrets between us. Man and wife are one.

In the name of Beelzebub, what is this? encouragement! happy to-night! same person! good offices! whom hast thou married, poor Fossile? couldst thou not still divert thyself with the spoils of quarries and coal-pits, thy serpents and thy salamanders, but thou must have a living monster too! 'sdeath! what a jest shall I be to our club! is there no rope among my curiosities? shall I turn her out of doors, and proclaim my infamy; or lock her up and bear my misfortunes? lock her up! impossible. One may shut up volatile spirits, pen up the air, confine bears, lyons and tygers, nay, keep even your gold: but a wanton wife, who can keep?

Enter Townley.

Town.   Mrs. Clinket's play is to be read this morning at the tea-table: will you come and divert yourself, Sir?

Foss.   No: I want to be alone.

Town.   I hope my company is not troublesome already. I am as yet a bride; not a wife. [sighs.] What means this sudden change? [Aside.] Consider, Mr. Fossile, you want your natural rest: the bed would refresh you. Let me sit by you.

Foss.   My head akes, and the bed always makes it worse.

Town.   Is it hereabouts?
[rubbing his temples.

Foss.   Too sure.
[Turns from her.

Town.   Why so fretful, Mr. Fossile?

Foss.   No, I'll dissemble my passion, and pump her. [Aside.] Excess of joy, my dear, for my good fortune overcomes me. I am somewhat vertiginous, I can hardly stand.

Town.   I hope I was ordain'd for thy support.

Foss.   My disorder now begins to dissipate: it was only a little flatulency, occasion'd by something hard of digestion. But pray, my dear, did your uncle shut you up so close from the conversation of mankind?

Town.   Sarsnet and Shock were my only company.

Foss.   A very prudent young woman this Sarsnet; she was undoubtedly a good and faithful friend in your solitude.

Town.   When it was her interest; but I made no intimacies with my chamber-maid.

Foss.   But was there no lover offer'd his service to a lady in distress.

Town.   Tongue, be upon thy guard: these questions must be design'd to trap me. [Aside.] A woman of my condition can't well escape importunity.

Foss.   What was the name of that disagreeable fellow, who, you told me, teaz'd you so?

Town.   His name? I think he had a thousand names. In one letter he was Myrtillo, in another Corydon, Alexis, and I don't know what.

Enter Sarsnet in haste to her mistress: He runs and embraces her with great earnestness.

Foss.   Dear Mrs. Sarsnet, how am I oblig'd to thee for thy services: thou hast made me happy beyond expression.——I shall find another letter upon her.
[Aside.

[He gets his hand into Sarsnet's pocket, as searching for a letter.

[Whenever Sarsnet goes to whisper her mistress, he gets between them.

Enter Ptisan.

Ptis.     Mrs. Colloquintida complains still of a dejection of appetite; she says that the genevre is too cold for her stomach.

Foss.   Give her a quieting draught; but let us not interrupt one another. Good Mr. Ptisan, we are upon business.
[Fossile gets between Sarsnet and Townley.

Ptis.   The colonel's spitting is quite suppress'd.

Foss.   Give him a quieting draught. Come to morrow, Mr. Ptisan; I can see no body till then.

Ptis.   Lady Varnish finds no benefit of the waters; for the pimple on the tip of her nose still continues.

Foss.   Give her a quieting draught.

Ptis.   Mrs. Prudentia's tympany grows bigger and bigger. What, no pearl cordial! must I quiet them all?

Foss.   Give them all quieting draughts, I say, or blister them all, as you please. Your servant Mr. Ptisan.

Ptis.   But then lady Giddy's vapours. She calls her chamber-maids nymphs; for she fancies herself Diana, and her husband Acteon.

Foss.   I can attend no patient till to morrow. Give her a quieting draught, I say.

[Whenever Fossile goes to conduct Ptisan to the door, Sarsnet and Townley attempt to whisper; Fossile gets between them, and Ptisan takes that opportunity of coming back.

Ptis.   Then, sir, there is miss Chitty of the boarding-school has taken in no natural sustenance for this week, but a halfpeny worth of charcoal, and one of her mittens.

Foss.   Sarsnet, do you wait on Mr Ptisan to the door. To morrow let my patients know I'll visit round.
[A knocking at the door.

Ptis.   Oh, Sir; here is a servant of the countess of Hippokekoana. The emetick has over-wrought and she is in convulsions.

Foss.   This is unfortunate. Then I must go. Mr. Ptisan, my dear, has some business with me in private. Retire into my closet a moment, and divert yourself with the pictures. There lies your way, madam.
[To Sarsnet.
[Exit Townley at one door and Sarsnet at the other.

Mr. Ptisan, pray, do you run before, and tell them I am just coming.
[Exit Ptisan.

All my distresses come on the neck of one another. Should this fellow get to my bride before I have bedded her, in a collection of cuckolds, what a rarity should I make! what shall I do? I'll lock her up. Lock up my bride? my pace and my honour demand it, and it shall be so. [Locks the door.] Thomas, Thomas!

Enter footman.

I dream't last night I was robb'd. The town is over-run with rogues. Who knows but the rascal that sent the letter may be now in the house? [Aside.] Look up the chimney, search all the dark closets, the coal hole, the flower-pots, and forget not the empty butt in the cellar. Keep a strict watch at the door, and let no body in till my return.
[Exit footman. A noise at the closet-door.

(within.) Who's there?——I'm lock'd in. Murder! fire!

Foss.   Dear madam, I beg your pardon.

[Unlocks the door. Enter Townley.]

'Tis well you call'd. I am so apt to lock this door; an action meerly mechanical, not spontaneous.

Town.   Your conduct, Mr. Fossile, for this quarter of an hour has been somewhat mysterious. It has suggested to me what I almost blush to name; your locking me up, confirms this suspicion. Pray speak plainly, what has caused this alteration?
[Fossile shews her the letter.

Is this all?
[Gives him the letter back.

Foss.   (reads) Either I mistake the encouragement I have had. What encouragement?

Town.   From my uncle,——if I must be your interpreter.

Foss.   Or I am to be happy to night.

Town.   To be married.——If there can be happiness in that state.

Foss.   I hope the same person.

Town.   Parson. Only a word mis-pell'd.——Here's jealousy for you!

Foss.   Will compleat her good offices. A she-parson, I find!

Town.   He is a Welshman. And the Welsh always say her instead of his.

Foss.   I stand to articles.

Town.   Of jointure.

Foss.   The ring is a fine one, and I shall have the pleasure of putting it on my self.

Town.   Who should put on the wedding-ring but the bridegroom.

Foss.   I beseech thee, pardon thy dear husband. Love and jealousy are often companions, and excess of both had quite obnubilated the eyes of my understanding.

Town.   Barbarous man! I could forgive thee, if thou hadst poison'd my father, debauch'd my sister, kill'd my lapdog; but to murder my reputation!
[Weeps

Foss.   Nay, I beseech thee, forgive me.
[Kneels.

Town.   I do: but upon condition your jealous fit never returns. To a jealous man a whisper is evidence, and a dream demonstration. A civil letter makes him thoughtful, an innocent visit mad. I shall try you, Mr. Fossile; for don't think I'll be deny'd company.

Foss.   Nay, prithee, my dear; I own I have abused thee. But lest my marriage, and this simple story should take air in the neighbourhood, to morrow we will retire into the country together, till the secret is blown over. I am call'd to a patient. In less than half an hour I'll be with you again, my dear.
[Exit Fossile.

Town.   Plotwell's letter had like to have ruin'd me. 'Twas a neglect in me, not to intrust him with the secret of my marriage. A jealous bridegroom! every poison has its antidote; as credulity is the cause, so it shall be the cure of his jealousy. To morrow I must be spirited away into the country; I'll immediately let Plotwell know of my distress: and this little time with opportunity, even on his wedding-day, shall finish him a compleat husband. Intrigue assist me! and I'll act a revenge that might have been worthy the most celebrated wife in Boccace.

Enter Plotwell and Clinket.

Hah! Plotwell! which way got he hither? I must caution him to be upon his guard.

Plot.   Madam, I am agreeably surpriz'd to find you here.

Town.   Me, Sir? you are certainly mistaken, for I don't remember I ever saw you before.

Plot.   Madam, I beg your pardon. How like a truth sounds a lye from the tongue of a fine woman.
[Aside.

Clink.   This, Madam, is Mr. Plotwell; a Gentleman who is so infinitely obliging, as to introduce my play on the theatre, by fathering the unworthy issue of my muse, at the reading it this morning.

Plot.   I should be proud, madam, to be a real father to any of your productions.

Clink.   Mighty just. Ha, ha, ha. You know, Mr. Plotwell, that both a parrot and a player can utter human sounds, but we allow neither of them to be a judge of wit. Yet some of those people have had the assurance to deny almost all my performances the privilege of being acted. Ah! what a Goût de travers rules the understanding of the illiterate!

Plot.   There are some, madam, that nauseate the smell of a rose.

[Whenever Plotwell and Townley endeavour to talk, she interrupts them.

Clink.   If this piece be not rais'd to the sublime, let me henceforth be stigmatiz'd as a reptile in the dust of mediocrity. I am persuaded, Sir, your adopted child will do you no dishonour.

Town.   Pray, madam, what is the subject?

Clink.   Oh! beyond every thing. So adapted for tragical machines! so proper to excite the passions! not in the least encumber'd with episodes! the vraysemblance and the miraculous are linkt together with such propriety.

Town.   But the subject, madam?

Clink.   The universal Deluge, I chose that of Deucalion and Pyrrha, because neither our stage nor actors are hallow'd enough for sacred story.

Plot.   But, madam——
[To Townley.

Clink.   What just occasion for noble description! these players are exceeding dilatory.

—In the mean time, Sir, shall I be oblig'd to you and this lady for the rehearsal of a scene that I have been just touching up with some lively strokes.

Town.   I dare assure you, madam, it will be a pleasure to us both. I'll take this occasion to inform you of my present circumstances.
[To Plotwell.

Clink.   Imagine Deucalion and Pyrrha in their boat. They pass by a promontory, where stands prince Hæmon a former lover of Pyrrah's, ready to be swallowed up by the devouring flood. She presses her husband to take him into the boat. Your part, Sir, is Hæmon; the lady personates Pyrrha; and I represent Deucalion. To you, Sir.
[Gives Plotwell the manuscript.

Plot.   What ho, there sculler!
[reads.

Town.   ——Hæmon!

Plot.   ———Yes, 'tis Hæmon!

Town.   Thou seest me now sail'd from my former lodgings,
Beneath a husband's ark; yet fain I would reward
Thy proffer'd love. But Hæmon, ah, I fear
Tomorrow's eve will hide me in the country.

Clink.   Not a syllable in the part! wrong, all wrong!

Plot.   Through all the town, with diligent enquiries,
I sought my Pyrrha——

Clink.   Beyond all patience! the part, Sir, lies before you; you are never to perplex the drama with speeches extempore.

Plot.   Madam, 'tis what the top players often do.

Town.   Though love denies, companion bids me save thee.
[Plotwell kisses her.

Clink.   Fye, Mr. Plotwell; this is against all the decorum of the stage; I will no more allow the libertinism of lip-embraces than the barbarity of killing on the stage; your best tragedians, like the ladies of quality in a visit, never turn beyond the back-part of the cheek to a salute, as thus Mr. Plotwell.
[Kisses Plotwell.

Plot.   I don't find in Aristotle any precept against killing.

Clink.   Yet I would not stand upon the brink of an indecorum.

Plot.   True, madam, the finishing stroke of love and revenge should never shock the eyes of an audience. But I look upon a kiss in a comedy to be upon a par with a box on the ear in a tragedy, which is frequently given and taken by your best authors.

Clink.   Mighty just! for a lady can no more put up a kiss than a gentleman a box on the ear.
Take my muse, Sir, into your protection [Gives him her play] the players I see are here. Your personating the author will infallibly introduce my play on the stage, and spite of their prejudice, make the theatre ring with applause, and teach even that injudicious Canaille to know their own interest.
Exit.

ACT II.

Plotwell, Townley, Clinket, with Sir Tremendous and two Players, discovered seated round a Table.

Plot.   Gentlemen, this lady who smiles on my performances, has permitted me to introduce you and my tragedy to her tea-table.

Clink.   Gentlemen, you do me honour.

1st Play.   Suffer us, Sir, to recommend to your acquaintance, the famous Sir Tremendous, the greatest critick of our age.

Plot.   Sir Tremendous, I rejoice at your presence; though no lady that has an antipathy, so sweats at a cat as some authors at a critick. Sir Tremendous, madam, is a Gentleman who can instruct the town to dislike what has pleased them, and to be pleased with what they disliked.

Sir Trem.   Alas! what signifies one good palate when the taste of the whole town is viciated. There is not in all this Sodom of ignorance ten righteous criticks, who do not judge things backward,

Clink.   I perfectly agree with Sir Tremendous: your modern tragedies are such egregious stuff, they neither move terror nor pity.

Plot.   Yes, madam, the pity of the audience on the first night, and the terror of the author for the third. Sir Tremendous's plays indeed have rais'd a sublimer passion, astonishment.

Clink.   I perceive here will be a wit-combat between these beaux-esprits. Prue, be sure you set down all the similes.

Prue retires to the back part of the stage with pen and ink.

Sir Trem.   The subjects of most modern plays are as ill chosen as——

Plotw.   The patrons of their dedications.
[Clink. makes signs to Prue.

Sir Trem.   Their plots as shallow——

Plotw.   As those of bad poets against new plays

Sir Trem.   Their episodes as little of a piece to the main action, as——

Clink.   A black gown with a pink-colour'd petticoat. Mark that, Prue.
[Aside.

Sir Trem.   Their sentiments are so very delicate—

Plotw.   That like whipt syllabub they are lost before they are tasted.

Sir Trem.   Their diction so low, that—that—

Plotw.   Why, that their friends are forced to call it simplicity.

1st Play.   Sir to the play if you please.

2d Play.   We have a rehearsal this morning.

Sir Trem.   And then their thefts are so open——

Plotw.   that the very French taylors can discover them.

Sir Trem.   O what felony from the ancients! what petty larceny from the moderns! there is the famous Ephigenia of Racine, he stole his Agamemnon from Seneca, who stole it from Euripides, who stole it from Homer, who stole it from all the ancients before him. In short there is nothing so execrable as our most taking tragedies.

1st Play.   O! but the immortal Shakespeare, Sir.

Sir Trem.   He had no judgnent.

2d Play.   The famous ben Johmson!

Clink.   Dry.

1st Play.   The tender Otway!

Sir Trem.   Incorrect.

2d Play.   Etheridge!

Clink.   Mere chit-chat.

1st Play.   Dryden!

Sir Trem.   Nothing but a knack of versifying.

Clink.   Ah! dear Sir Tremendous, there is that delicatesse in your sentiments!

Sir Trem.   Ah madam! there is that justness in your notions!

Clink.   I am so much charm'd with your manly penetration!

Sir Trem.   I with your profound capacity!

Clink.   That I am not able—

Sir Trem.   That it is impossible—

Clink.   To conceive—

Sir Trem.   To express—

Clink.   With what delight I embrace—

Sir Trem.   With what pleasure I enter into—

Clink.   Your ideas, most learned Sir Tremendous!

Sir Trem.   Your sentiments, most divine Mrs. Clinket.

2d Play.   The play, for heaven's sake, the play.

[A tea-table brought in.]

Clink.   This finish'd drama is too good for an age like this.

Plotw.   The Universal Deluge, or the tragedy of Deucalion and Pyrrha.
[Reads

Clink.   Mr. Plotwell, I will not be deny'd the pleasure of reading it, you will pardon me.

1st Play.   The deluge! the subject seems to be too recherche.

Clink.   A subject untouch'd either by ancients or moderns, in which are terror and pity in perfection.

1st Play.   The stage will never bear it. Can you suppose, Sir, that a box of ladies will sit three hours to see a rainy day, and a feather in a storm; make your best of it, I know it can be nothing else.

2d Play.   If you please, madam, let us hear how it opens.

Clink.   [reads.]   The scene opens and discovers the heavens cloudy. A prodigious shower of rain. At a distance appears the top of the mountain Parnassus; all the fields beneath are over-flowed; there are seen cattle and men swimming. The tops of steeples rise above the flood, with men and women perching on their weathercocks——

Sir Trem.   Begging your pardon, Sir, I believe it can be proved, that weather-cocks are of a modern invention. Besides, if stones were dissolved, as a late philosopher hath proved, how could steeples stand?

Plot.   I don't insist upon trifles. Strike it out.

Clink.   Strike it out! consider what you do. In this they strike at the very foundation of the drama. Don't almost all the persons of your second act start out of stones that Deucalion and Pyrrha threw behind them? This cavil is levell'd at the whole system of the reparation of human race.

1st Play.   Then the shower is absurd.

Clink.   Why should not this gentleman rain, as well as other authors snow and thunder?—— —— [reads.] Enter Deucalion in a sort of waterman's habit, leading his wife Pyrrha to a boat—Her first distress is about her going back to fetch a casket of jewels. Mind, how he imitates your great authors. The first speech has all the fire of Lee.

Tho' heav'n wrings all the sponges of the sky,
And pours down clouds, at once each cloud a sea.
Not the spring tides——

Sir Trem.   There were no spring tides in the Mediteranean, and consequently Deucalion could not make that simile.

Clink.   A man of Deucalion's quality might have travelled beyond the Mediteranean, and so your objection is answered. Observe, Sir Tremendous, the tenderness of Otway, in this answer of Pyrrha.

          ————— Why do the stays
Taper my waist, but for thy circling arms?

Sir Trem.   Ah! Anachronisms! Stays are a modern habit, and the whole scene is monstrous, and against the rules of tragedy.

Plot.   I submit Sir,—out with it.

Clink.   Were the play mine, you should gash my flesh, mangle my face, any thing sooner than scratch my play.

Plot.   Blot and insert wherever you please——I submit myself to your judgment.

Plotwell rises and discourses apart with Townley.

Sir Trem.   Madam, nonsense and I have been at variance from my cradle, it sets my understanding on edge.

2d Play.   Indeed, madam, with submission, and I think I have some experience of the stage, this play will hardly take.

Clink.   The worst lines of it would be sufficiently clapt, if it had been writ by a known author, or recommended by one.

Sir Trem.   Between you and I, madam, who understand better things, this gentleman knows nothing of poetry.

1st Play.   The gentleman may be an honest man, but he is a damn'd writer, and it neither can take, nor ought to take.

Sir Trem.   If you are the gentleman's friend, and value his reputation, advise him to burn it.

Clink.   What struggles has an unknown author to vanquish prejudice! Suppose this play acts but six nights, his next may play twenty. Encourage a young author, I know it will be your interest.

2d Play.   I would sooner give five hundred pounds than bring some plays on the stage; an audience little considers whether 'tis the author or the actor that is hiss'd, our character suffers.

1st Play.   Damn our character—We shall lose money by it.

Clink.   I'll deposit a sum myself upon the success of it. Well, since it is to be play'd—I will prevail upon him to strike out some few things.—Take the play, Sir Tremendous.

Sir Tremendous reads in a muttering tone.

Sir Trem.   Absurd to the last degree [strikes out.] palpable nonsense! [strikes out.]

Clink.   What all those lines! spare those for a lady's sake, for those indeed, I gave him.

Sir Trem.   Such stuff! [strikes out.] abominable! [strikes out.] most execrable!

1st Play.   This thought must out.

2d Play.   Madam, with submission, this metaphor.

1st Play.   This whole speech.

Sir Trem.   The Fable!

Clink.   To you I answer,—

1st Play.   The characters!

Clink.   To you I answer—

Sir Trem.   The diction!

Clink.   And to you—Ah, hold, hold,—I'm butcher'd, I'm massacred. For mercy's sake! murder, murder! ah!
[faints.

Enter Fossile peeping at the door.

Foss.   My house turn'd to a stage! and my bride playing her part too! What will become of me? but I'll know the bottom of all this. [aside.] I am surprized to see so many patients here so early. What is your distemper, Sir?

1st Play.   The cholic, Sir, by a surfeit of green tea and damn'd verses.

Foss.   Your pulse is very high, madam. [To Townley.] You sympathize, I perceive, for yours is somewhat feverish. [To Plotwell.] But I believe I shall be able to put off the fit for this time. And as for you, niece, you have got the poetical itch, and are possess'd with nine devils, your nine muses; and thus I commit them and their works to the flames. [Takes up a heap of papers and flings them into the fire.]

Clink.   Ah! I am an undone woman.

Plot.   Has he burnt any bank-bills, or a new Mechlin head-dress?

Clink.   My works! my works!

1st Play.   Has he destroyed the writings of an estate, or your billet doux?

Clink.   A Pindarick ode! five similes! and half an epilogue!

2d Play.   Has he thrown a new fan or your pearl necklace into the flames?

Clink.   Worse, worse! The tag of the acts of a new comedy! a prologue sent by a person of quality three copies of recommendatory verses! and two Greek mottos!

Foss.   Gentlemen, if you please to walk out.

2d Play.   You shall have our positive answer concerning your tragedy, madam, in an hour or two.
[Exit Sir Tremendous, Plotwell and Players.

Foss.   Though this affair looks but ill; yet I will not be over-rash: What says Lybanius? 'A false accusation often recoils upon the accuser;' and I have suffered already by too great precipitation.
[Exit Fossile.

Enter Sarsnet.

Town.   A narrow escape, Sarsnet! Plotwells letter was intercepted and read by my husband.

Sars.   I tremble every joint of me. How came you off?

Town.   Invention flow'd, I ly'd, he believ'd. True wife, true husband!

Sars.   I have often warned you, madam, against this superfluity of gallants; you ought at least to have clear'd all mortgages upon your person before you leas'd it out for life. Then, besides Plotwell, you are every moment in danger of Underplot, who attends on Plotwell like his shadow; he is unlucky enough to stumble upon your husband, and then I'm sure his shatterbrains would undo us at once.

Town.   Thy wit and industry, Sarsnet, must help me out. To day is mine, to morrow is my husband's.

Sars.   But some speedy method must be thought of, to prevent your letters from falling into his hands.

Town.   I can put no confidence in my landlady Mrs. Chambers, since our quarrel at parting. So I have given orders to her maid to direct all letters and messages hither, and I have plac'd my own trusty servant Hugh at the door to receive them—but see, yonder comes my husband, I'll retire to my closet.
[Exit Townley and Sarsnet.

Enter Fossile.

Foss.   O marriage, thou bitterest of potions, and thou strongest of astringents. This Plotwell that I found talking with her must certainly be the person that sent the letter. But if I have a Bristol stone put upon me instead of a diamond, why should I by experiments spoil its lustre? She is handsome, that is certain. Could I but keep her to myself for the future! Cuckoldom is an accute case, it is quickly over; when it takes place, it admits of no remedy but palliatives.——Be it how it will, while my marriage is a secret——

Within.   Bless the noble doctor Fossile and his honourable lady. The city musick are come to wish him much joy of his marriage.
[A flourish of fiddles.

Foss.   Joy and marriage; never were two words so coupled.

Within.   Much happiness attend the learned doctor Fossile and his worthy and virtuous lady. The drums and trumpets of his majesty's guards are come to salute him——
[A flourish of Drums and Trumpets.

Foss.   Ah, Fossile! wretched Fossile! into what state hast thou brought thy self! thy disgrace proclaim'd by beat of drum! New married men are treated like those bit by a Tarantula, both must have musick: But where are the notes that can expell a wife!
Exit.