Stand. Stay, madam, you need not shun my sight; for, if you are perfect woman, you have confidence to outface a crime, and bear the charge of guilt without a blush.

Lure. The charge of guilt! What, making a fool of you? I've done it, and glory in the act : the height of female justice were to make you all hang or drown: dissembling to the prejudice of men is virtue; and every look, or sign, or smile, or tear, that can deceive, is meritorious.

Stand. Very pretty principles, truly! If there be truth in woman, 'tis now in thee. Come, madam, you know that you're discovered, and, being sensible that you cannot escape, you would now turn to bay. That ring, madam, proclaims you guilty.

Lure. O, monster, villain! perfidious villain! Has he told you?

Stand. I'll tell it you, and loudly, too.

Lure. O, name it not!-Yet, speak it out; 'tis so just a punishment for putting faith in man, that I will bear it all; and let credulous maids, that trust their honour to the tongues of men, thus hear the shame proclaimed. Speak now, what his busy scandal, and your improving malice, both dare utter.

Stand. Your falsehood can't be reached by malice nor by satire; your actions are the justest libel on your fame; your words, your looks, your tears, I did believe in spite of common fame. Nay, 'gainst mine own eyes, I still maintained your truth. I imagined Wildair's boasting of your favours to be the pure result of his own vanity at last he urged your taking presents of him; as a convincing proof of which, you yesterday, from him, received that ring,which ring, that I might be sure he gave it, I lent him for that purpose.

Lure. Ha! you lent it him for that purpose! Stand. Yes, yes, madam, I lent it him for that purpose- -No denying it-I know it well, for I have worn it long, and desire you now, madam, to restore it to the just owner.

Lure. The just owner! Think, sir, think but of what importance 'tis to own it: if you have love and honour in your soul, 'tis then most justly yours; if not, you are a robber, and have stolen it basely. Stand. Ha!-your words, like meeting flints, have struck a light to shew me something strange -But tell me instantly, is not your real name Manly?

Lure. Answer me first: did not you receive this ring about twelve years ago? Stand. I did.

Lure. And were not you about that time entertained two nights at the house of sir Oliver Manly, in Oxfordshire?

Stand. I was, I was. [Runs to her, and embraces her.] The blest remembrance fires my soul with transport-I know the rest— -you are the charming she, and I the happy man.

Lure. How has blind fortune stumbled on the right! But, where have you wandered since?— Twas cruel to forsake me.

Stand. The particulars of my fortune are too tedious now: but, to discharge myself from the stain of dishonour, I must tell you, that immediately upon my return to the university, my elder brother and I quarrelled: my father, to prevent farther mischief, posts me away to travel: I wrote to you from London, but fear the letter came not to your hands.

Lure. I never had the least account of you by letter or otherwise.

Stand. Three years I lived abroad, and at my return found you were gone out of the kingdom, though none could tell me whither: missing you thus, I went to Flanders, served my king till the peace commenced; then, fortunately going on board at Amsterdam, one ship transported us both to England. At the first sight I loved, though ignorant of the hidden cause- -You may remember, madam, that, talking once of marriage, I told you I was engaged; to your dear self I

meant.

Lure. Then, men are still most generous and brave-and, to reward your truth, an estate of three thousand pounds a-year waits your acceptance; and, if I can satisfy you in my past conduct, and the reasons that engaged me to deceive all men, I shall expect the honourable performance of your promise, and that you will stay with me in England.

Stand. Stay! Nor fame nor glory e'er shall part us more. My honour can be nowhere more concerned than here.

Enter WILDAIR, ANGELICA, and both CLIN

Dug. Monsieur Mirabell! I'm heartily glad to

see you.

Old Mir. Honest Mr Dugard! by the blood of the Mirabells, I'm your most humble servant.

Dug. Why, sir, you've cast your skin, sure; you're brisk and gay; lusty health about you; no sign of age but your silver hairs.

strong as Hercules, life and spirit in abundance. Before Gad, I don't wonder at these men of quality, that their own wives can't serve them. A Louis-d'or a head! 'Tis enough to stock the whole nation with bastards, 'tis faith. Mr Dugard, I leave you with your sister. [Exit OLD MIR. Dug. Well, sister, I need not ask you how you

you're almost grown out of my remembrance.

Dug. Your son's come home, sir.

Old Mir. Come home! Bob come home! By the blood of the Mirabells, Mr Dugard, what say ye? Ori. Mr Mirabell returned, sir!

Dug. He's certainly come, and you may see him within this hour or two.

Old Mir. Swear it, Mr Dugard; presently swear it.

Ori. Why, truly, brother, I look pretty well, thank nature and my toilet; I have 'scaped the jaundice, green-sickness, and the small-pox; I eat three meals a day, am very merry, when up, and sleep soundly, when I'm down.

Dug. But, sister, you remember, that upon my going abroad, you would chuse this old gentleman for your guardian; he's no more related to our family, than Prester John, and I have no rea son to think you mistrusted my management of your fortune: therefore, pray be so kind as to tell me, without reservation, the true cause of

messenger.

Old Mir. A fine gentleman! But is the rogue like me, still?

Dug. Why, yes, sir; he's very like his mother, and as like you as most modern sons are to their fathers.

Old Mir. Why, sir, don't you think that I begat him?

Dug. Why, yes, sir; you married his mother, and he inherits your estate. He's very like you, upon my word.

Ori. And pray, brother, what's become of his honest companion, Duretete?

Dug. Who, the captain? the very same, he went abroad; he's the only Frenchman I ever knew, that could not change. Your son, Mr Mirabell, is more obliged to nature for that fellow's composition, than for his own for he's more happy in Duretete's folly, than his own wit. In short, they are as inseparable as finger and thumb; but the first instance in the world, I believe, of opposition in friendship.

:

Old Mir. Very well; will he be home to dinner, think ye?

Ori. Look'e, brother, you were going a rambling, and 'twas proper, lest I should go a rambling too, that somebody should take care of me. Old monsieur Mirabell is an honest gentleman, was our father's friend, and has a young lady in his house, whose company I like, and who has chosen him for her guardian, as well as I.

Dug. Who, mademoiselle Bisarre ?

without scandal or reproach; we make much of Ori. The same; we live merrily together, the old gentleman between us, and he takes care of us; we eat what we like; go to bed, when we please; rise, when we will; all the week we dance and sing, and, upon Sundays, go first to church, and then to the play. Now, brother, besides these motives for chusing this gentleman for my guardian, perhaps I had some private rea

sons.

Dug. Not so private as you imagine, sister; your love to young Mirabell's no secret, I can assure you, but so public, that all your friends are ashamed on't.

Ori. O' my word, then, my friends are very bashful; though I'm afraid, sir, that those people are not ashamed enough at their own crimes, who have so many blushes to spare for the faults of their neighhours.

Dug. Aye, but, sister, the people say

Ori. Pshaw, hang the people! they'll talk treason, and prophane their Maker; must we, therefore, infer, that our king is a tyrant, and re

Old Mir. A Louis-d'or a head! well said, Bob; by the blood of the Mirabells, Bob's improved. But, Mr Dugard, was it so civil of Bob to visit Monsieur Rousseau before his own natural father? Eh! harkee, Oriana, what think you, now, of a fellow, that can eat and drink ye a whole Louis-d'or at a sitting? He must be as VOL. II.

enquiry is a tavern, and their informer, claret: they think as they drink, and swallow reputations like loches; a lady's health goes briskly round with the glass, but her honour is lost in the toast.

Dug. Aye, but, sister, there is still something--

Ori. If there be something, brother, 'tis none 2 X

of the people's something; marriage is my thing, and I'll stick to't.

Dug. Marriage! Young Mirabell marry! He'll build churches sooner. Take heed, sister, though your honour stood proof to his homebred assaults: you must keep a stricter guard for the future: he has now got the foreign air, and the Italian softness; his wit's improved by converse; his behaviour finished by observation; and his assurance confirmed by success. Sister, I can assure, you, he has made his conquests; and 'tis a plague upon your sex, to be the soonest deceived by those very men, that you know have been false to others.

Ori. Then why will you tell me of his conquests? for, I must confess, there is no title to a woman's favour so engaging as the repute of a handsome dissimulation; there is something of a pride to see a fellow lie at our feet, that has triumphed over so many; and then, I don't know, we fancy he must have something extraordinary about him to please us, and that we have something engaging about us to secure him; so we can't be quiet till we put ourselves upon the lay of being both disappointed.

Dug. But then, sister, he's as fickle

Ori. For God's sake, brother, tell me no more of his faults; for, if you do, I shall run mad for him: : say no more, sir; let me but get him into the bands of matrimony, I'll spoil his wandering, I warrant him; I'll do his business that way, never fear.

SCENE II.—A tavern, discovering young MIRABELL and DURETETE rising from table.

Mir. Welcome to Paris once more, my dear captain; we have eat heartily, drank roundly, paid plentifully, and let it go for once. I liked every thing but our women, they looked so lean and tawdry, poor creatures! 'tis a sure sign the army is not paid. Give me the plump Venetian, brisk and sanguine, that smiles upon me like the glowing sun, and meets my lips like sparkling wine, her person shining as the glass, and spirit like the foaming liquor.

Dur. Ah, Mirabell! Italy I grant you; but for our women here in France, they are such thin brawn-fallen jades, a man may as well make a bed-fellow of a cane chair.

Mir. France! A light unseasoned country, nothing but feathers, foppery, and fashions; we're fine indeed, so are our coach-horses: men say we're courtiers; men abuse us; that we are wise and politic, non credo seigneur: that our women have wit; parrots, mere parrots. Assurance and a good memory sets them up: there's nothing on this side the Alps worth my humble service t'ye-Ha, Poma la Santa! Italy for my money; their customs, gardens, buildings, paint

Ori. Then, why will you part with him? Dug. He has gained so insufferably on my good humour, that he's grown too familiar; but the fellow's cunning, and may be serviceable to you in your affair with Mirabell.

comes.

Enter PETIT.

Well, sir, have you been at Rousseau's?

Here he

Pet. Yes, sir; and who should I find there, but Mr Mirabell and the captain, hatching as warmly over a tub of ice, as two hen-pheasants over a brood-they would not let me bespeak any thing, for they had dined before I came.

Dug. Come, sir, you shall serve my sister; I shall still continue kind to you; and, if your lady recommends your diligence upon trial, I'll use my interest to advance you; you have sense enough to expect preferment. Here, sirrah,

Dur. Aye, these are your fathers for you, that understand the necessities of young men; not like our musty dads, who, because they cannot fish themselves, would muddy the water, and spoil the sport of them that can. But now you talk of the plump, what d'ye think of a Dutch woman?

Mir. A Dutch woman's too compact; nay, every thing among them is so. A Dutch man is thick; a Dutch woman is squab; a Dutch horse is round; a Dutch dog is short; a Dutch ship is broad-bottomed: and, in short, one would swear the whole product of the country were cast in the same mould with their cheeses.

Dur. Aye, but, Mirabell, you have forgot the English ladies.

Mir. The women of England were excellent, did they not take such insufferable pains to ruin