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Sir THOMAS.

What, is Juliet appriz'd? Here, Robin, John, run and call my niece hither this moment. That giddy baggage will blab all in an instant.

BEVER.

You are mistaken; fhe is wiser than you are aware of.

Enter Juliet.

Sir THOMAS.

Oh, Juliet! you know what has happen'd.

I do, Sir.

JULIET.

Sir THOMAS,

Have you reveal'd this unfortunate secret.
JULIET.

To no mortal, Sir Thomas.

Sir THOMAS.

Come, give me your hand. Mr. Bever, child, for my fake, has renounced the stage, and the whole republic of letters; in return I owe him your hand.

JULIET.

My hand! what, to a poet hooted, hiffed, and exploded! You must pardon me, Sir.

Sir THOMAS.

Juliet, a trifle: the moft they can fay of him, is, that he is a little wanting in wit; and he has so many brother writers to keep him in countenance, that now-a-days that is no reflection at all. JULIET.

Then, Sir, your engagement to Mr. Ruft.

Sir THOMAS.

I have found out the rafcal; he has been more impertinently fevere on my play, than all the reft, put together; fo that I am determined he shall be none of the man.

Enter

Enter Ruf.

RUST.

Are you fo, Sir? what, then, I am to be facrificed, in order to preserve the fecret that you are a blockhead? But you are out in your politics; before night it fhall be known in all the coffeehouses in town.

Sir THOMAS.

For Heaven's fake, Mr. Ruft!

RUST.

And to-morrow I will paragraph you in every news-paper; you fhall no longer impofe on the world; I will unmafk you; the lion's skin shall hide you no longer.

Sir THOMAS.

Juliet! Mr. Bever! what can I do?

BEVER.

Sir Thomas, let me manage this matter. Harkee, old gentleman, a word in your ear: you remember what you have in your pocket?

Hey! how! what?

RUST.

BEVER.

The curiofity that has coft you so much pains.

RUST.

What, my Æneas! my precious relict of Troy!

BEVER.

You must give up that, or the lady.

How, Mr. Bever!

JULIET.

BEVER.

Never fear; I am fure of my man.

RUST.

Let me confider-As to the girl, girls are plenty enough; I can marry whenever I will: but my paper, my phoenix, that fprings fresh from the flames, that can never be match'd.Take her.

BEVER.

And, as you love your own fecret, be careful

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JULIET.

You join me, Sir, to an unfortunate bard; but, to procure your peace—

Sir THOMAS.

You oblige me for ever. Now the fecret dies with us four. My fault. Lowe him much:

Be it your care to shew it;

And blefs the man, tho' I have damn'd the poet.

Exeunt Omnes.

FINIS.

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