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RUST.
How! confess myself in the fault?

JULIET. Ay; for the best thing that a man can do, when he finds he can't be beloved, is to take care he is not heartily hated. There is no other alternative.

RUST. Madam, I sha'n't break my word with Sir Thomas.

JULIET. Nor I with myself. So there's an end of our conference. Sir, your very obedient.

RUST. Madam, I, I, don't that is, let me. But no matter. Your servant.

[Exit. JULIET. Ha, ha, ha!

Enter Bever from behind.

BEVER. Ha, ha, ha! Incomparable Juliet! How the old dotard trembled and tottered; he could not have been more inflam'd, had he been robb'd of his Otho.

JULIET. Ay; was ever goddess so familiarly used ? In my conscience, I began to be afraid that he would treat me as the Indians do their dirty divi. nitics; whenever they are deaf to their prayers, they beat and abuse them.

BEVER. But, after all, we are in an aukward situation,

JULIET.

JULIET. How so?

BEVER. I have my fears.

JULIET. So have not I.

BEVER. Your uncle has resolved that you should be married to Rust.

JULIET. Ay, he may decree; but it is I that must execute.

BEVER.
But suppose he has given his word.

JULIET.
Why then let him recal it again.

BEVER. But are you sure you shall have courage enough

JULIET. To say No? That requires much resolution, indeed.

BEVER.
Then I am at the height of my hopes.

JULIET. Your hopes! Your hopes and your fears are ill-founded alike.

BEVER.
Why, you are determined not to be his.

JULIET.
Well, and what then?

BEVER.
What then! why then you will be mine.

JULIÉT.
Indeed! and is that the natural consequence?
Whoever won't be his, must be your's. Is that
the logic of Oxford ?

BEVER. Madam, I did flatter myself

C

JULIET.

JULIET. Then you did very wrong, indeed, Mr. Bever: you should ever guard against flattering yourself; for of all dangerous parasites, self is the worst.

BEVER. I am astonish'd !

JULIET. Astonishid ! your are mad, I believe! Why, I have not known you a month. It is true, my uncle says your father is his friend ; your fortune, in time, will be easy; your figure is not remarkably faulty; and as to your understanding, paffable enough for a young fellow who has not seen much of the world: but when one talks of a husband-Lord, it's quite another sort of aHa, ha, ha! Poor Bever, how he stares! he stands like a statue!

BEVER. Statue, indeed, Madam; I am very near pctrified.

JULIET.
Even then you will make as good a husband as
Rust. But go, run, and join the assembly
within : be attentive to every word, motion, and
look of my uncle's; be dumb when he speaks,
admire all he says, laugh when he smirks, bow
when he sneezes; in short, fawn, flatter, and
cringe ; don't be afraid of over-loading his sto-
mach, for the knight has a noble digestion, and
you will find some there who will keep you in
countenance.

BEVER.
I fly. So then, Juliet, your intention was only

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JULIET. Don't plague me with impertinent questions : march! obey my directions. We must leave the

issue

issue to Chance; a greater friend to mankind than they are willing to own. Oh, if any thing new should occur, you may come into the drawing room for further instructions. [Exeunt severally.

SCENE, A ROOM IN SIR THOMAS LOFTY'S HOUSE. Sir Thomas, Ruf, Puf, Dactyl, and oibers, discovered

fitting

Sir THOMAS.
Nothing new to-day from Parnaffus ?

DACTYL.
Not that I hear.

Sir THOMAS.
Nothing critical, philosophical, or political?

PUFF.
Nothing.

Sir THOMAS. Then in this disette, this dearth of invention, give me leave, gentlemen, to distribute my stores. I have here in my hand a little, smart, satyrical epigram; new, and prettily pointed : in short, a production that Martial himself would not have blush'd to acknowledge.

RUST. Your own, Sir Thomas?

Sir THOMAS,
O fie! no; sent me this morning, anonymous

DACTYL.
Pray, Sir Thomas, let us have it.

ALL.
By all means; by all means.

C 2

Sir THOMAS.

Sir THOMAS.

To Pbillis.
Think't thou, fond Phillis, Strephon told thee true,
Angels are painted fair to look like you :
Another story all the town will tell;
Phillis paints fair-to look like an an-gel.

ALL.
Fine! fine! very fine !

DACTYL.
Such an ease and fimplicity.

PUFF.
The turn so unexpected and quick.

RUST.
The satire so poignant.

Sir THOMAS. Yes; I think it possesses, in an eminent degree, the three great epigrammatical requisites; brevity, familiarity, and severity. Phillis paints fair-to look like an an-gel.

DACTYL. Happy! Is the Phillis, the fubject, a secret?

Sir THOMAS. Oh, dear me! nothing personal; no; an im. promptu; a mere jeu d'esprit.

PUFF. Then, Sir Thomas, the secret is out ; it is your

,

Own.

DACTYL.
That was obvious enough.

PUFF.
Who is there else could have written it?

RUST.
True, true.

Sir THOMAS.

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