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

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

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

Jen. Mt. Simon, I don't understand you; I fuppofe it is no fecret in what fort of goods our dealing confifts.

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

Jen. And to be fure, though now and then, to oblige a customer, my mistress does condefcend to fmuggle a little

Sim. Keep it up, Mrs. Jane.

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

Jen. The very best of quality are not ashamed to vifit my miftrefs.

Sim. They have reason.

Jen. Refpected by the neighbours.

Sim. I know it.

Jen. Punctual in her payments.

Sim. To a moment.

Jen. Regular hours.

Sim. Doubtlefs.

Jen. Never miffes the farmant on Sundays.
Sim. I own it.

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

Sim. Granted.

Jen.

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, fir, what would you infinuate? Look you, Mr. Simon, don't go to caft reflections upon us; don't think to blaft the reputation of our

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

Sim. The devil you are!

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

Sim. Heyday! why where the deuce have I got, fure I have miftaken the houfe; is not this Mrs. Mechlin's?

Jen. That's pretty well known.

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

Jen. Bravo.

Sim. That commercial caterpillar ?

Jen. 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 engroffer and seducer of virgins ?

Jen. Keep it up, Mafter Simon.

Sim. That foreftaller of Bagnios?

Jen. Incomparable fine.

A 3

Sim

Sim. That canting, cozening, money-lending, match-making, pawnbroking- [Loud knocking.: Jen. Mighty well, fir: here comes my mistress, fhe fhall thank you for the pretty picture you have been pleased to draw.

Sim. Nay, but dear Jenny

fen. She fhall be told how highly she stands in your favour.

Sim. But my fweet 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 dictate the articles.

Enter Mrs. MECHLIN (followed by a hackney coachman, with feveral bundles) in a capuchin, a bonnet, and her clothes pinned up.

Mrs. Mech. So, huffy, what muft I flay all day in the streets? who have we here! the devil's in the wenches, I think-one of your fellows I suppose Oh, is it you! how fares it, Simon?

Jen. Madam, you should not have waited a minute, but Mr. Simon

Sim. Hufh, hush! you barbarous jade

Jen. Knowing your knock, and eager to open the door, flew up ftairs, fell over the landingplace, 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 lofer, you flut.

Mrs. Mech. Poor Simon. -Oh, -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 fee I'm tired to death?

Jen.

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

Sim. Upon my word, ma'am Mechlin, you fhould take a little care of yourfelf; indeed you labour too hard.

Mrs. Mech. Ay, Simon, and for little or nothing: only victuals and cloaths, more cost than worship.-Why does not the wench take the things from the fellow? Well, what's your fare? Coachm. Miftrefs, it's honeftly worth half a

crown.

Mrs. Mech. Give him a couple of fhillings and fend him away.

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

Mrs. Mech. Them there fellows are never contented; drink! ftand farther off; why you fmell already as ftrong as a beer-barrel.

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

Mrs. Mech. And are not you afhamed, you fot, to be eternally guzzling? You had better buy you fome 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 fomething to drink.

Mrs. Mech. Well!

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

Mrs. Mech. Did you ever hear fuch a block,

head ?

[blocks in formation]

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

Mrs. Mech. Yes, you and your horfes give pretty ftrong proofs of your love and your honour; for you have no cloaths on your back, and they have no flefh. Well, Jenny, give him the fix-pence, there, there, lay it out as you will.

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

Mrs. Mech. I don't doubt it. Coachm. You need not. Miftrefs, your fervant. [Exit Coachman. Mrs. Mech. Has there been any body here, Jenny ?

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs. Mech. Devilish fqueamish, 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 fecret to

all

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