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do for your mistress; her agents must have genius and parts: I don't suppose, in the whole bills of mortality, there is so general and extensive a dealer as my friend Mrs. Mechlin.

Jen. Why, to be sure, we have plenty of customers; and for various kinds of commodities it would be pretty difficult, I fancy to

Sim. Commodities ! Your humble servant, sweet Mrs. Jane; Yes, yes, you have various kinds of commodities, indeed.

Jen. Mt. Simon, I don't understand you; I suppose it is no secret in what sort of goods our dealing confifts.

Sim. No, no, they are pretty well known.

Jen. And to be sure, though now and then, to oblige a customer, my mistress does condescend to smuggle a little

Sim. Keep it up, Mrs. Jane.

Fen. Yet there are no people in the Liberty of Westminster that live in more credit than we do.

Sim. Bravo.

Fen. The very best of quality are not ashamed to visit my mistress.

Sim. They have reason.
Jen. Respected by the neighbours.
Sim. I know it.
Fen. Punctual in her payments.
Sim. To a moment.
Jen. Regular hours.
Sim. Doubtless.
Jen. Never misses the farmant on Sundays.
Sim. I own it.

Jen. Not an oath comes out of her mouth, unless, now and then, when the poor gentlewoman happens to be overtaken in liquor. Sim. Granted.

Jen.

you are!

Jen. Not at all given to lying, but like other tradesfolks, in the way of her business.

Sim. Very well.

Jen. Very well! then pray, sir, what would you insinuate ?

Look you, Mr. Simon, don't go to cast reflections upon us; don't think to blast the reputation of our

Sim. Hark ye, Jenny, are you serious ?
Jen. Serious! Äy, marry am I.
Sim. The devil

Jen. Upon my word, Mr. Simon, you should not give your tongue such a licence ; let me tell. you, these airs don't become you at all

. Sim. Heyday! why where the deuce have I got, sure I have mistaken the house; is not this Mrs. Mechlin's ? Jen. That's pretty well known.

Sim. The commodious, convenient Mrs. Mechlin, at the sign of the Star, in the parish of St, Paul's, Covent-Garden ?

Jen. Bravo.
Sim. That commercial caterpillar ?
Fen. I know it.
Sim. That murderer of manufactures ?
Jen. Doubtless.
Sim. That walking warehouse ??
Jen. Granted.

Sim. That carries about a greater cargo of contraband goods under her petticoats than a Calais cutter ?

Jen. Very well.
Sim. That engrosser and seducer of virgins ?
Fen. Keep it up, Master Simon.
Sim. That foreltaller of Bagnios ?
Jen. Incomparable fine.

Sim.

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your favour.

Sim. That canting, cozening, money-lending, match-making, pawnbroking—[Loud knocking.

Jen. Mighty well, fir: here comes my mistress, she shall thank you for the pretty piąure you have been pleased to draw. Sim. Nay, but dear Jenny Fen. She shall be told how highly she stands in Sim. But my sweet girl- [Knock again. Jen. Let me go, Mr. Simon, don't you hear ?

Sim, And can you have the heart to ruin me at once !

Jen. Hands off.

Sim. A peace, a peace, my dear Mrs. Jane, and di&tate the articles. Enter Mrs. Mechlin (followed by a hackney coach

man, with several bundles) in a capuchin, a bonnet, and her clothes pinned up.

Mrs. Mech. So, husly, what must I ftay all day in the streets ? who have we here! the devil's in the wenches, I think--one of your fellows I supposeOh, is it you! how fares it, Simon ?

Jen. Madam, you should not have waited a minute, but Mr. SimonSim. Hush, hush !

you

barbarous jade Jen. Knowing your knock, and eager to open the door, flew up stairs, fell over the landing, place, and quite barr’d up the way.

Sim. Yes, and I am afraid I have put out my ankle. Thanks, Jenny; you shall be no loser,

you slut,

Mrs. Mech. Poor Simon. -Oh, Lord have mercy upon me, what a round have 1 taken!

Is the wench petrified; why don't you reach me a chair, don't you see I'm tired to death ?

Fen.

Jen. Indeed, ma'am, you'll kill yourself.

Sim. Upon my word, ma'am Mechlin, you should take a litile care of yourself; indeed you labour too hard.

Mrs. Mech. Ay, Simon, and for little or nga thing: only vi&uals and cloaths, more cost than worlhip.--Why does not the wench take the things from the fellow ? Well, what's your fare?

Coachm. Mistress, it's honestly worth half a

crown.

Mrs. Mech. Give him a couple of shillings and

send him away.

Coachm. I hope you'll tip me the tester to drink ?

Mrs. Mech. Them there fellows are never contented ; drink! stand fartber off; why you smell already as strong as a beer-barrel.

Coachm. Mistress, that's because I have already been drinking

Mrs. Mech. And are not you ashamed, you fot, to be eternally guzzling? You had better buy yoų some cloaths.

Coachm. No, mistress, my honour won't let me do that.

Mrs. Mech. Your honour! and pray how does that hinder you?

Coachm. Why, when a good gentlewoman like you, cries, Here, coachman, here's something to drink.

Mrs. Mech. Well !

Coachm. Would it be honour in me to lay it out in any thing else? No, mistress, my conscience won't let me, because why, it's the will of the donor, you know.

Mrs. Mech. Did you ever hear such a block, head ?

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Coachm.

Coachm. No, no, mistress; tho' I am a poor man, I won't forfeit my honour; my cattle, tho'f I love 'em, poor beastesses, are not more dearer to me than that.

Mrs. Mech. Yes, you and your horses give pretty strong proofs of your love and your ho. nour; for you have no cloaths on your back, and they have no flesh. Well, Jenny, give him the fix-pence, there, there, lay it out as you will.

Coachm. It will be to your health, mistress ; it Shall melt at the Mews, before I go home; I shall be careful to clear my conscience.

Mrs. Mech. I don't doubt it.
Coachm. You need.not. Mistress, your servant.

[Exit Coachman. Mrs. Mech. Has there been any body here, Jenny ?

Jen. The gentleman, ma'am, about the Gloucestershire living.

Mrs. Mech. He was, Oh oh! What I suppose his ftomach's come down. Does he like the in. cumbrance? will he marry the party ?

Jen. Why that article seems to go a little against him.

Mrs. Mech. Does it so ? then let him retire to his Cumberland curacy: that's a fine keen air, it will soon give him an appetite. He'll stick to his honour 100, till his caffock is wore to a rag.

Jen. Why, indeed, ma'am, it seems pretty rusty already.

Mrs. Mech. Devilish squeamish, I think; a good fat living, and a fine woman into the bargain ! You told him a friend of the lady's will take the child off her hands ?

Jen. Yes, madam.
Mrs. Mech. So that the affair will be a secret to

all

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