SCENE II.

_The Inn._

_Enter_ AIMWELL, _dressed, and_ ARCHER.

_Aim._ And was she the daughter of the house?

_Arch._ The Landlord is so blind as to think so; but, I dare swear, she has better blood in her veins.

_Aim._ Why dost think so?

_Arch._ Because the baggage has a pert _je-ne-scai-quoi_; she reads plays, keeps a monkey, and is troubled with vapours.

_Aim._ By which discoveries, I guess that you know more of her.

_Arch._ Not yet, 'faith: the lady gives herself airs, forsooth; nothing under a gentleman.

_Aim._ Let me take her in hand.

_Arch._ Say one word more o'that, and I'll declare myself, spoil your sport there, and every where else: lookye, Aimwell, every man in his own sphere.

_Aim._ Right; and therefore you must pimp for your master.

_Arch._ In the usual forms, good sir, after I have served myself.--But to our business--You are so well dressed, Tom, and make so handsome a figure, that I fancy you may do execution in a country church; the exterior part strikes first, and you're in the right to make that impression favourable.

_Aim._ There's something in that which may turn to advantage: the appearance of a stranger in a country church draws as many gazers as a blazing star; no sooner he comes into the cathedral, but a train of whispers runs buzzing round the congregation in a moment:--Who is he? whence comes he? do you know him?--Then I, sir, tip the verger half a crown; he pockets the simony, and inducts me into the best pew in the church; I pull out my snuff-box, turn myself round, bow to the Bishop or the Dean, if he be the commanding officer; single out a beauty, rivet both my eyes to hers, set my nose a-bleeding by the strength of imagination, and show the whole church my concern, by my endeavouring to hide it: after the sermon, the whole town gives me to her for a lover; and, by persuading the lady that I am dying for her, the tables are turned, and she, in good earnest, falls in love with me.

_Arch._ There's nothing in this, Tom, without a precedent; but, instead of riveting your eyes to a beauty, try to fix them upon a fortune; that's our business at present.

_Aim._ Pshaw! no woman can be a beauty without a fortune.--Let me alone for a marksman.

_Arch._ Tom!

_Aim._ Ay!

_Arch._ When were you at church before, pray?

_Aim._ Um--I was there at the coronation.

_Arch._ And how can you expect a blessing by going to church now?

_Aim._ Blessing? nay, Frank, I ask but for a wife! [_Exit._

_Arch._ Truly, the man is not very unreasonable in his demands. [_Exit, at the opposite Door._

_Enter_ BONIFACE _and_ CHERRY.

_Bon._ Well, daughter, as the saying is, have you brought Martin to confess?

_Cher._ Pray, father, don't put me upon getting any thing out of a man; I'm but young, you know, father, and don't understand wheedling.

_Bon._ Young! why, you jade, as the saying is, can any woman wheedle that is not young? Your mother was useless at five and twenty! Would you make your mother a whore, and me a cuckold, as the saying is? I tell you, silence confesses it, and his master spends his money so freely, and is so much a gentleman every manner of way, that he must be a highwayman.

_Enter_ GIBBET, _in a Cloak_.

_Gib._ Landlord! Landlord! is the coast clear?

_Bon._ O, Mr. Gibbet, what's the news?

_Gib._ No matter; ask no questions; all fair and honourable. Here, my dear Cherry. [_Gives her a Bag._] Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as ever hanged or saved a rogue; lay them by with the rest. And here--three wedding, or mourning rings--'tis much the same, you know----Here, two silver hilted swords; I took those from fellows that never show any part of their swords but the hilts: here is a diamond necklace, which the lady hid in the privatest part in the coach, but I found it out: this gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's wife; it was left in her hands by a person of quality; there's the arms upon the case.

_Cher._ But who had you the money from?

_Gib._ Ah! poor woman! I pitied her--from a poor lady, just eloped from her husband; she had made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as hard as she could drive: she told me of her husband's barbarous usage, and so, faith, I left her half a crown. But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry; I have a present for you.

_Cher._ What is't?

_Gib._ A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a lady's under petticoat pocket.

_Cher._ What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think, that I paint?

_Gib._ Why, you jade, your betters do; I am sure, the lady that I took it from had a coronet upon her handkerchief.----Here, take my cloak, and go, secure the premises.

_Cher._ I will secure them. [_Exit._

_Bon._ But, harkye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot?

_Gib._ They'll be here to-night.

_Bon._ D'ye know of any other gentlemen o' the pad on this road?

_Gib._ No.

_Bon._ I fancy, that I have two that lodge in the house just now.

_Gib._ The devil! how d'ye smoak them?

_Bon._ Why, the one is gone to church.

_Gib._ To church! that's suspicious, I must confess.

_Bon._ And the other is now in his master's chamber: he pretends to be a servant to the other; we'll call him out, and pump him a little.

_Gib._ With all my heart.

_Bon._ Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin!

_Enter_ ARCHER, _brushing a Hat, and singing_.

_Gib._ The roads are consumed deep; I'm as dirty as Old Brentford at Christmas.----A good pretty fellow--Who's servant are you, friend?

_Arch._ My master's.

_Gib._ Really!

_Arch._ Really.

_Gib._ That's much--The fellow has been at the bar, by his evasions:--But pray, sir, what is your master's name?

Arch. _Tall, all, dall._ [Sings, and brushes the Hat.] This is the most obstinate spot----

_Gib._ I ask you his name?

_Arch._ Name, sir,--_Tall, all, dall_--I never asked him his name in my life. _Tall, all, dall._

_Bon._ What think you now?

_Gib._ Plain, plain; he talks now as if he were before a judge: but pray, friend, which way does your master travel?

_Arch._ On horseback.

_Gib._ Very well again; an old offender--Right; but, I mean, does he go upwards or downwards?

_Arch._ Downwards, I fear, sir! _Tall, all._

_Gib._ I'm afraid thy fate will be a contrary way.

_Bon._ Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Martin, you're very arch--This gentleman is only travelling towards Chester, and would be glad of your company, that's all--Come, Captain, you'll stay to-night, I suppose; I'll show you a chamber----Come, Captain.

_Gib._ Farewell, friend----[_Exeunt_ GIBBET _and_ BONIFACE.

_Arch._ Captain, your servant----Captain! a pretty fellow! 'Sdeath, I wonder that the officers of the army don't conspire to beat all scoundrels in red but their own.

_Enter_ CHERRY.

_Cher._ Gone, and Martin here! I hope he did not listen: I would have the merit of the discovery all my own, because I would oblige him to love me. [_Aside._]--Mr. Martin, who was that man with my father?

_Arch._ Some recruiting sergeant, or whipped out trooper, I suppose.

_Cher._ All's safe, I find. [_Aside._

_Arch._ Come, my dear, have you conned over the catechism I taught you last night?

_Cher._ Come, question me.

_Arch._ What is love?

_Cher._ Love is I know not what, it comes I know not how, and goes I know not when.

_Arch._ Very well, an apt scholar. [_Chucks her under the Chin._] Where does love enter?

_Cher._ Into the eyes.

_Arch._ And where go out?

_Cher._ I won't tell you.

_Arch._ What are the objects of that passion?

_Cher._ Youth, beauty, and clean linen.

_Arch._ The reason?

_Cher._ The two first are fashionable in nature, and the third at court.

_Arch._ That's my dear--What are the signs and tokens of that passion?

_Cher._ A stealing look, a stammering tongue, words improbable, designs impossible, and actions impracticable.

_Arch._ That's my good child, kiss me.----What must a lover do to obtain his mistress?

_Cher._ He must adore the person that disdains him, he must bribe the chambermaid that betrays him, and court the footman that laughs at him!----He must, he must----

_Arch._ Nay, child, I must whip you if you don't mind your lesson; he must treat his----

_Cher._ O! ay, he must treat his enemies with respect, his friends with indifference, and all the world with contempt; he must suffer much, and fear more; he must desire much, and hope little; in short, he must embrace his ruin, and throw himself away.

_Arch._ Had ever man so hopeful a pupil as mine? Come, my dear, why is love called a riddle?

_Cher._ Because, being blind, he leads those that see; and, though a child, he governs a man.

_Arch._ Mighty well--And why is love pictured blind?

_Cher._ Because the painters, out of their weakness, or privilege of their art, chose to hide those eyes they could not draw.

_Arch._ That's my dear little scholar, kiss me again.--And why should love, that's a child, govern a man?

_Cher._ Because that a child is the end of love.

_Arch._ And so ends love's catechism----And now, my dear, we'll go in, and make my master's bed.

_Cher._ Hold, hold, Mr. Martin----You have taken a great deal of pains to instruct me, and what d'ye think I have learned by it?

_Arch._ What?

_Cher._ That your discourse and your habit are contradictions, and it would be nonsense in me to believe you a footman any longer.

_Arch._ 'Oons, what a witch it is!

_Cher._ Depend upon this, sir, nothing in that garb shall ever tempt me; for, though I was born to servitude, I hate it:--Own your condition, swear you love me, and then----

_Arch._ And then we shall go make my master's bed?

_Cher._ Yes.

_Arch._ You must know, then, that I am born a gentleman, my education was liberal; but I went to London a younger brother, fell into the hands of sharpers, who stripped me of my money; my friends disowned me, and now my necessity brings me to what you see.

_Cher._ Then take my hand--promise to marry me before you sleep, and I'll make you master of two thousand pounds.

_Arch._ How!

_Cher._ Two thousand pounds, that I have this minute in my own custody; so throw off your livery this instant, and I'll go find a parson.

_Arch._ What said you? A parson!

_Cher._ What! do you scruple?

_Arch._ Scruple! No, no, but--two thousand pounds, you say?

_Cher._ And better.

_Arch._ 'Sdeath, what shall I do?--But harkye, child, what need you make me master of yourself and money, when you may have the same pleasure out of me, and still keep your fortune in your own hands?

_Cher._ Then you won't marry me?

_Arch._ I would marry you, but----

_Cher._ O, sweet sir, I'm your humble servant; you're fairly caught: Would you persuade me that any gentleman, who could bear the scandal of wearing a livery, would refuse two thousand pounds, let the condition be what it would?--No, no, sir; but I hope you'll pardon the freedom I have taken, since it was only to inform myself of the respect that I ought to pay you. [_Going._

_Arch._ Fairly bit, by Jupiter!--Hold, hold! And have you actually two thousand pounds?

_Cher._ Sir, I have my secrets as well as you--when you please to be more open, I shall be more free; and, be assured, that I have discoveries that will match yours, be they what they will.--In the mean while, be satisfied that no discovery I make shall ever hurt you; but beware of my father----[_Exit._

_Arch._ So--we're like to have as many adventures in our inn, as Don Quixotte had in his--Let me see--two thousand pounds! if the wench would promise to die when the money were spent, egad, one would marry her; but the fortune may go off in a year or two, and the wife may live--Lord knows how long! then an innkeeper's daughter; ay, that's the devil--there my pride brings me off.

For whatsoe'er the sages charge on pride, The angels' fall, and twenty faults beside, On earth, I'm sure, 'mong us of mortal calling, Pride saves man oft, and woman too, from falling. [_Exit._

ACT THE THIRD.