SCENE I.—_View of the Country_.

_Enter_ GRAYLING _and_ COLLINS. R.

_Gray_. Softly, master Collins, softly,—come, there is life in you yet, man.

_Col_. To be thrown from a horse after my experience—

_Gray_. Oh, the best man may be thrown, and the best horse throw too; but come, you have no bones broken. Had any man but myself, Ned Grayling, shoed your horse, I should have said something had been amiss with his irons—but that couldn’t be.

_Col_. No matter, I can now make my way homeward: but, hark’ye, not a word about this accident, not a syllable, or I shall never be able to sit in a saddle again, without first hearing a lecture from my wife and Lucy.

_Gray_. Lucy—aye, master Collins, she has a tender heart I warrant—I could work at my forge all day in the hottest June, so that Lucy would but smile, when—

_Col_. There must be no more of this. You know I have told you more than a hundred times that Lucy cannot love you.

_Gray_. How do you know that?

_Col_. She has said so, and do you suppose she would speak any thing but truth?

_Gray_. Why, perhaps she would, and perhaps she wouldn’t. I tell you, master Collins, my heart’s set upon the girl—if she refuse me—why I know the end on’t.—Ned Grayling, once the sober and industrious smith, will become an outcast and a vagabond.

_Col_. This is all folly—a stout able fellow turning whimperer.

_Gray_. Stout, able,—yes, I was, and might be so again; but thoughts will sometimes come across me, and I feel—I tell you once more, master Collins, my heart is set upon the girl.

_Col_. You’ll get the better of this, think no more of her: nothing so easy.

_Gray_. There are some matters very, _very_ easy. It is easy for you, a man well in trade, with children flourishing about you, and all the world looking with a sunny face upon you—it is easy for you to say to a man like me, “You are poor and friendless—you have placed your affections on a being, to sweeten the bitterness of your lot, to cheer and bless you on the road of life, yet she can never be yours—think no more of her,” this is easy—“nothing so easy.”

_Col_. Farewell, good fellow, I meant not to insult or offend you. If you can obtain my niece’s consent, why, to prove that I love honesty, for its own sake, I’ll give you whatever help my means afford. If, however, the girl refuses, strive to forget her. Believe me, there is scarcely a more pitiable object than a man following with spaniel-like humility, the woman who despises him.

[_Exit_ L.

_Gray_. Despises!—did she ever say,—no! no! she couldn’t, yet when I met her last, though she uttered not a sound, her eyes looked hate—as they flashed upon me, I felt humbled—a wretch! a very worm.

_Enter_ GILBERT R. (_singing_.) “_A merry little plough Boy_.”

_Gil_. Well, now master’s gone out, I think I have a little time to see my Jenny—master and mistress have no compassion for us lovers—always work, work; they think once a week is quite enough for lovers to see one another, and unfortunately my fellow servant is in love as well as I am; and being obliged to keep house, I could only get out once a fortnight, if it wasn’t for Lucy.

_Gray_. (_starting_.) Lucy! who said any thing about Lucy?

_Gil_. I did! It’s a good Christian name, isn’t it? and no treason in it.

_Gray_. No, no, but you startled me.

_Gil_. I should like to know what right a man has to be startled when I say Lucy—why one would think you were married, and it was the name of your wife.

_Gray_. Lucy my wife, no, no.

_Gil_. No, I should think not indeed.

_Gray_. And why should you think? but I’m wrong to be so passionate—think no more of it, good Gilbert.

_Gil_. A cool way of settling matters: you first fly at a man like a dragon—make his heart jump like a tennis ball—and then say, think nothing of it, good Gilbert.

_Gray_. I confess I am very foolish.

_Gil_. Oh, spare your confession: people will judge for themselves.

_Gray_. (_aside_.) I am almost ashamed to do it, yet I will.

_Gil_. Why, what’s the matter? you are looking at me as if, like a highwayman, you were considering which pocket I carried my money in.

_Gray_. Pray, good Gilbert, tell me, do you know whether Miss Lucy has any admirers?

_Gil_. Admirers! to be sure she has.

_Gray_. She has!

_Gil_. Hundreds—don’t the whole town admire her? don’t all our customers say pretty things to her? don’t I admire her? and hav’n’t I seen you looking at her?

_Gray_. Looking at her!—how?

_Gil_. How, why like a dog that had once been well kicked, and was afraid of being known a second time.

_Gray_. Villain! do you make mirth of my sufferings? am I sport for fools? answer my question, or I’ll shake your soul out on the wind—tell me—

_Gil_. If the fox had never ventured where he had no business, he’d have kept his tail.

_Gray_. What mean you?

_Gil_. If you had minded your own affairs, you’d not have lost your temper.

_Gray_. Answer—

_Gil_. Not a word; if you are inclined to ask questions, a little farther on there’s a finger post—when you have read one side, you know you can walk round to the other.

_Gray_. I shall but make my agitation the more apparent. Never till this moment did I feel the fulness of my passion. Come, rouse man, stand no longer like a coward, eying the game, but take the dice, and at one bold throw, decide your fate.

[_Exit_ L.

_Gil_. Aye, it’s all no use, master Grayling; Lucy Fairlove is no match for you. No, no, if I mistake not there’s another, smoother faced young man has been asking if any body’s at home at the heart of Lucy—but mum—I’m sworn to secrecy,—and now for Jenny! dear me, I’ve been loitering so long, and have so much to say to her—then I’ve so much to do—for the Judges are coming down to-morrow to make a clear place of the prison—and then there’s—but stop, whilst I am running to Jenny, I can think of these matters by the way.

[_Exit_ L.