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you think me whimsical, as you have often told me; but you must excuse my being a little over-delicate in this particular.

AIR.

My heart's my own, my will is free,
And so shall be my voice;
No mortal man shall wed with me,
Till first he's made my choice.

Let parents rule, cry nature's laws,
And children still obey:

And is there then no saving clause
Against tyrannic sway?

Luc. Well, but my dear, mad girl

Ros. Lucinda, don't talk to me-Was your father to go to London; meet there by accident with an old fellow as wrong-headed as himself; and in a fit of absurd friendship, agree to marry you to that old fellow's son, whom you had never seen, without consulting your inclinations, or allowing you a negative, in case he should not prove agreeable

Luc. Why, I should think it a little hard, I confess -yet, when I see you in the character of a chambermaid

Ros. It is the only character, my dear, in which I could hope to lie concealed; and, I can tell you, I was reduced to the last extremity, when, in consequence of our old boarding-school friendship, I applied to you to receive me in this capacity; for we expected the parties the very next week. [Both c.]

Luc. But had not you a message from your intended spouse, to let you know he was as little inclined to such ill-concerted nuptials as you were ?

Ros. More than so; he wrote to advise me, by all means, to contrive some method of breaking them off; for he had rather return to his dear studies at Oxford: and, after that, what hopes could I have of being happy with him?

Luc. Then you are not at all uneasy at the strange rout you must have occasioned at home? I warrant, during this month you have been absent

Ros. Oh! don't mention it, my dear; I have had so many admirers since I commenced abigail, that I am

quite charmed with my situation-But hold, who stalks yonder in the yard, that the dogs are so glad to see? [Looking R.

Luc. Daddy Hawthorn, as I live! He is come to pay my father a visit; and never more luckily, for he always forces him abroad. By the way, what will you do with yourself while I step into the house to see after my trusty messenger, Hodge?

Ros. No matter; I'll sit down in that arbour, and listen to the singing of the birds: you know I am fond of melancholy amusements.

Luc. So it seems, indeed; sure, Rosetta, none of your admirers had power to touch your heart! you are not in love, I hope?

Ros. In love! that's pleasant: who do you suppose I should be in love with, pray?

Luc. Why, let me see-What do you think of Thomas, our gardener? [Looking L.] There he is at the other end of the walk. He's a pretty young man, and the servants say, he's always writing verses on you.

Ros. Indeed, Lucinda, you are very silly.

Luc. Indeed, Rosetta, that blush makes you look very handsome.

Ros. Blush! I am sure I don't blush.

Luc. Ha, ha, ha!

Ros. Pshaw! Lucinda, how can you be so ridiculous ?

Luc. Well, don't be angry, and I have done-But suppose you did like him, how could you help yourself? [Exeunt LUCINDA, L. ROSETTA, R. U. E. Enter YOUNG MEADOWS, L. U. E. with a Wateringpot-sets it down, c.

Young M. (c.) Let me see-on the fifteenth of June, at half an hour past five in the morning-[Taking out a Pocket-book]-I left my father's house unknown to any one, having made free with a coat and jacket of our gardener's that fitted me, by way of a disguise; so says my pocket-book: and chance directing me to this village, on the twentieth of the same month I procured a recommendation to the worshipful Justice Woodcock, to be the superintendant of his pumpkins and cabbages, because I would let my father see, I chose to run any

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Footm. Behold a blade, who knows his trade
In chamber, hall, and entry;

And what though here I now appear,
I've serv'd the best of gentry.
A footman would you have,

I can dress, and comb, and shave;
For I a handy lad am:

On a message I can go,

And slip a billet-doux,

With your humble servant, madam.

Cookm. (R.) Who wants a good cook, my hand they must cross;

For plain wholesome dishes I'm ne'er at a loss;

And what are your soups, your ragouts, and your sauce, Compar'd to the beef of old England,

Compar'd to old English roast beef?

Cart. (R.) If you want a young man, with a true
honest heart,

Who knows how to manage a plough and a cart,
Here's one for your purpose, come take me and try;
You'll say you ne'er met with a better nor I.

Ge ho, Dobbin, &c.
Chorus. My masters and mistresses, hither repair;
What servants you want you'll find in our fair ;
Men and maids fit for all sorts of stations there be,
And, as for the wages, we shan't disagee.

[Rustic Dance.

END OF ACT I.

gathering a few roses, here, if you please to take them in with you.

Ros. (R. C.) Thank you, Mr. Thomas, but all my lady's flower-pots are full.

Young M. Will you accept of them yourself, then? [Catching hold of her, both c.] What's the matter? you look as if you were angry with me.

Ros. Pray let go my hand.

Young M. Nay, pr'ythee, why is this? you shan't go, I have something to say to you.

Ros. Well, but I must go, I will go; I desire, Mr.

Thomas

AIR.

Gentle youth, ah, tell me why
Still you force me thus to fly ?
Cease, oh! cease to persevere;
Speak not what must not hear;
To my heart its ease restore;

Go, and never see me more. [Exit, R.

Young M. [Looking after her.] This girl is a riddle-That she loves me, I think there is no room to doubt; she takes a thousand opportunities to let me see it and yet, when I speak to her, she will hardly give me an answer; and, if I attempt the smallest familiarity, is gone in an instant-I feel my passion grow for her every day more and more violent- -Well, would I marry her?-would I make a mistress of her if I could?-Two things, called prudence and honour, forbid either. What am I pursuing, then? A shadow. Sure my evil genius laid this snare in my way. However, there is one comfort, it is in my power to fly from it; if so, why do I hesitate? I am distracted, unable to determine any thing.

AIR.

Still in hopes to get the better

Of my stubborn flame I try;
Swear this moment to forget her,
And the next my oath deny.

Now, prepar'd with scorn to treat her,
Ev'ry charm in thought I brave,

Boast my freedom, fly to meet her,
And confess myself a slave.

[Exit, L.

SCENE II.-A Gothic Hall, with painted windows, in Justice Woodcock's House.

Enter HAWTHORN, L. with a fouling-piece in his hand, and a net with birds at his girdle.

AIR.

There was a jolly miller once
Liv'd on the river Dee;

He work'd and sung from morn till night;
No lark more blithe than he.
And this the burthen of his song,

For ever used to be

I care for nobody, not I,

If no one cares for me.

House! here, house! what all gadding, all abroad! house, I say, hilli-ho, ho!

Jus. W. [Without, R.] Here's a noise, here's a racket! William, Robert, Hodge! why does not somebody answer? Odds my life, I believe the fellows have lost their hearing!

Enter JUSTICE WOODCOCK, R.

Oh, master Hawthorn! I guessed it was some such mad-cap-are you there?

Haw. (c.) Am I here? Yes: and, if you had been where I was three hours ago, you would find the good effects of it by this time: but you have got the lazy, unwholesome, London fashion of lying abed in a morning, and there's gout for you-why, sir, I have not been in bed five minutes after sunrise these thirty years, am generally up before it; and I never took a dose of physic but once in my life, and that was in compliment to a cousin of mine, an apothecary, that had just set up business.

Jus. W. (R. C.) Well but, master Hawthorn, let me tell you, you know nothing of the matter; for, I say, sleep is necessary for a man; ay, and I'll maintain it.

Haw. What, when I maintain the contrary ?-Look you, neighbour Woodcock, you are a rich man, a man of worship, a justice of peace, and all that; but learn to know the respect that is due to the sound from the

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