Sir John. Without doubt I might trust your majesty very safely; but, in general, though the honour of kings ought to be more sacred, the humour of kings is like that of other men; and, when they please to change their mind, who shall dare to call their honour in question?

King. Sir John. you are in the right; and I am glad to see you maintain that noble freedom of spirit: I wish all my subjects were as independent on me as you resolve to be; I should then hear more truth and less flattery. But come, what news? How does my lady and your son Richard?

Sir John. I thank your majesty; Margery is very well, and so is Dick.

King. I hope you have brought her up to town with you?

Sir John. She has displeased me, of late, very much.

King. In what?

Sir John. You shall hear. When I was only plain John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, a farmer's son, in the neighbourhood, made love to my daughter. He was a worthy, honest man. He loved my daughter sincerely; and, to all appearance, her affections were placed on him. I approved of the match, and gave him my consent. But when your majesty's bounty had raised my fortune and condition, my daughter, Kate, became Miss Kitty: She grew a fine girl, and was presently taken notice of by the young gentlemen of the country. Amongst the rest, sir Timothy Flash, a young, rakish, extravagant knight, made his addresses to her; his title, his dress, his equipage, dazzled her eyes and her understanding; and fond, I suppose, of being made a lady, she despises and forsakes her first lover, the honest farmer, and is determined to marry this mad, wrong-headed knight.

King. And is this the occasion of your displeasure? I should think you had rather cause to rejoice that she was so prudent. What! do you think it no advantage to your daughter, nor honour to yourself, to be allied to so great a man?

Sir John. It may be an honour to be allied to a great man, when a great man is a man of honour; but that is not always the case. Besides, nothing that is unjust, can be either prudent or honourable: And the breaking her faith and promise with a man that loved, and every way deserved her, merely for the sake of a little vanity, or self-interest, is an action that I am ashamed my daughter could be guilty of.

King. Why, you are the most extraordinary man I ever knew: I have heard of fathers quarrelling with their children for marrying foolishly for love; but you are so singular as to blame your's for marrying wisely for interest.

Sir John. Why, I may differ a little from the common practice of my neighbours- -But, I hope your majesty does not, therefore, think me to blame?

King. No: Singularity in the right is never a crime. If you are satisfied your actions are just, let the world blush that they are singular.

Sir John. Nay, and I am, perhaps, not so regardless of interest as your majesty may apprehend. It is very possible a knight, or even a lord, may be poor as well as a farmer. No offence, I hope? [Turning to the courtiers. Cour. No, no, no. Impertinent fellow ! [Aside.

King. Well, sir John, I shall be glad to hear more of this affair another time; but tell me how you like London? Your son Richard, I remember, gave a very satirical description of it; I hope you are better entertained.

Sir John. So well, that I assure your majesty, I am in admiration and wonder all day long. King. Ay! well, let us hear what it is you admire and wonder at.

Sir John. Almost every thing I see or hear of. When I see the splendour and magnificence in which some noblemen appear, I admire their riches; but when I hear of their debts, and their mortgages, I wonder at their folly. When I hear of a dinner costing an hundred pounds, I am surprised that one man should have so many friends to entertain; but when I am told, that it was made only for five or six squeamish lords, or piddling ladies, that eat not perhaps an ounce a-piece, I am quite astonished. When I hear of an estate of twenty or thirty thousand a year, I envy the man that has it in his power to do so much good, and wonder how he disposes of it; but when I am told of the necessary expences of a gentleman in horses and whores, and eating and drinking, and dressing and gaming, I am surprised that the poor man is able to live. In short, when I consider our publick credit, our honour, our courage, our freedom, our publick spirit, I am surprised, amazed, astonished, and confounded.

1st Cour. Is not this bold, sir?

Sir John. Perhaps it may; but I suppose his majesty would not have an Englishman a coward?

King. Far from it. Let the generous spirit of freedom reign unchecked: To speak his mind, is the undoubted right of every Briton; and be it the glory of my reign, that all my subjects enjoy that honest liberty. Tis my wish to redress all grievances; to right all wrongs: But kings, alas! are but fallible men; errors in government will happen, as well as failings in private life, and ought to be candidly imputed. And let me ask you one question, sir John. Do you really think you could honestly withstand all the temptations that wealth and power would lay before you?

Sir John. I will not boast before your majesty; perhaps I could not. Yet give me leave to say, the man, whom wealth or power can make a villain, is sure unworthy of possessing either. King. Suppose self-interest, too, should clash with publick duty?

Sir John. Suppose it should: 'Tis always a man's duty to be just; and doubly his with whom the public trust their rights and liber

ties.

King. I think so; nay, he, who cannot scorn the narrow interest of his own poor self, to serve his country, and defend her rights, deserves not the protection of a country to defend his own; at least, should not be trusted with the rights of other men.

Sir John. I wish no such were ever trusted. King. I wish so, too: But how are kings to know the hearts of men?

Sir John. Tis difficult indeed; yet something might be done.

King. What?

Sir John. The man whom a king employs, or a nation trusts, should be thoroughly tried. Examine his private character: Mark how he lives: Is he luxurious, or proud, or ambitious, or extravagant? avoid him: The soul of that man is mean; necessity will press him, and public fraud must pay his private debts. But if you find a man with a clear head, sound judgemnt, and a right honest heart-that is the man to serve both you and his country.

King. You're right; and such by me shall ever be distinguished. 'Tis both my duty and my interest to promote them. To such, if I give wealth, it will enrich the public; to such, if I give power, the nation will be mighty; to such, if I give honour, I shall raise my own. But surely, sir John, your's is not the language, nor the sentiments of a common miller; how, in a cottage, could you gain this superior wisdom?

Sir John. Wisdom is not confined to palaces; nor always to be bought with gold. I read often, and think sometimes; and he who does that, may gain some knowledge, even in a cottage. As for any thing superior, I pretend not to it. What I have said, I hope, is plain good sense; at least 'tis honest, and well meant.

King. Sir John, I think so; and, to convince you how much I esteem your plain-dealing and sincerity of heart, receive this ring as a mark of my favour.

Sir John. I thank your majesty.

King. Don't thank me now; at present I have business that must be dispatched, and will desire you to leave me; before 'tis long I'll see you again.

Sir John. I wish your majesty a good night. [Erit. King. Well, my lords, what do you think of this miller?

1st Cour. He talks well: what he is in the bot-tom, I don't know.

2d Cour. I'm afraid not sound.

3d Cour. I fancy he's set on by somebody to impose upon your majesty with this fair shew of honesty.

1st Cour. Or is not he some cunning knav e that wants to work himself into your majesty's favour?

King. I have a fancy come into my head to try him; which I'll communicate to you, and put in execution immediately. An hour hence, my lords, I shall expect to see you at sir John's.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I-A tavern.

I know her very well; how could I be so stupid not to think of her? Greenwood, do you know

GREENWOOD.

Sir Tim. Honest Bacchus, how dost thou do? Land. Sir, I am very glad to see you; pray, when did you come to town?

Sir Tim. Yesterday; and on an affair that I shall want a little of your assistance in.

Land. Any thing in my power, you know, you may command.

Sir Tim. You must know then, I have an intrigue with a young lady, that's just come to town with her father, and want an agreeable house to meet her at; can you recommend one to me?

Land. I can recommend you, sir, to the most convenient woman in all London. What think you of Mrs Wheedle?

Sir Tim. The best woman in all the world:

VOL. III.

lodges?

MISS KITTY and MRS STARCH. Kitty. But pray, Mrs Starch, does all new fashions come up first at court?

Mrs Starch. O, dear madam, yes. They do nothing else there but study new fashions. That's what the court is for: And we milliners, and tailors, and barbers, and mantua-makers, go there to learn fashions for the good of the public.

Kitty. But, madam; was not you saying just now, that it was the fashion for the ladies to paint themselves?

Mrs Starch. Yes.

Kitty. Well, that is pure; then one may be as handsome as ever one will, you know. And if it was not for a few freckles, I believe I should be very well; should not I, Mrs Starch? Mrs Starch. Indeed, madam, you are very handsome.

Kitty. Nay, don't flatter me now; do you really think I am handsome?

Mrs Starch. Upon my word, you are. What a shape is there! What a genteel air! What a sparkling eve!

Kitty. Indeed, I doubt you flatter me. Not but I have an eye, and can make use of it too, as well as the best of them, if I please.

But pray, Mrs Starch, which do you think the most genteel walk now? To trip it away o this manner, or to swim smoothly along thus? Mrs Starch. They both become you extreme

ly.

Kitty. Do they really? I'm glad you think so, for, indeed, I believe you are a very good judge. And, now I think on't, I'll have your opinion in something else. What do you think it is that makes a fine lady?

Mrs Starch. Why, madam, a fine person, fine wit, fine airs, and fine clothes.

Kitty. Well, you have told me already that I'm very handsome, you know, so that's one thing; but, as for wit, what's that? I don't know what that is, Mrs Starch.

Mrs Starch. O madam, wit is, as one may say -the-the being very witty; that iscomical as it were; doing something to make every body laugh.

Kitty. O, is that all? nay, then, I can be as witty as any body, for I am very comical. Well, but what's the next? fine airs: O, let me alone for fine airs; I have airs enough, if I can but get lovers to practise them upon. And then, fine clothes; why, these are very fine clothes, I think; don't you think so, Mrs Starch? Mrs Starch. Yes, madam.

Enter SIR JOHN, observing them.

Kitty. And is not this a very pretty cap, too! Does not it become me?

Mrs Starch. Yes, madam.

Kitty. But don't you think this hoop a little too big?

Sir John. No, no; too big! no. Not above six or seven yards round.

Mrs Starch. Indeed, sir, 'tis within the circumference of the mode a great deal.

Sir John. That it may be, but I'm sure it's be yond the circumference of modesty a great deal.

Kitty. Lord, papa, can't you dress yourself as you've a mind, and let us alone? How should you know any thing of womens' fashions? Come, let us go into the next room.

[Exeunt MISS KITTY and MRS STARCH. Enter JOE with GREENWOOD. Joe. Sir, here's one that you'll be very glad to

see.

Sir John. Who is it?-What, honest Greenwood! May I believe my eyes?

Green. Sir, I am very glad to see you; I hope all your family are well,

Sir John. Very well. But, for Heaven's sake, what has brought thee to London? What's the meaning of this livery? I don't understand thee.

Green. I don't wonder that you are surprised; but I will explain myself. You know the faithful, honest love I bear your daughter; and you are sensible, since the addresses of sir Timothy

Flash, how much her falsehood has grieved me; yet more for her sake, even than my own: my own unhappiness I could endure with patience, but the thoughts of seeing her reduced to shame and misery, I cannot bear.

Sir John. What dost thou mean? Green. I very much suspect his designs upon her are not honourable.

Sir John. Not honourable! he dare not wrong me so! But, go on.

Green. Immediately after you had left the country, hearing that he was hastening to London after you, and wanted a servant, I went and offered myself, resolving, by a strict watch on all his actions, to prevent, if possible, the ruin of her I cannot but love, how ill soever I have been treated. Not knowing me to be his rival, he brought me along with him. We arrived in London yesterday, and I am now sent by him to give your daughter privately this letter.

Sir John. What can it tend to? I know not what to think; but if I find he dares to mean me wrong, by this good hand

Green. Then let me tell ye, he means you villainous wrong. The ruin of your daughter is contrived; I heard the plot; and this very letter is to put it in execution.

Sir John. What shall I do?

Green. Leave all to me. I'll deliver the letter, and, by her behaviour, we shall know better how to take our measures. But how shall I see

Kitty. Good lack! is it you? What new whim have you got in your head now, pray?

Green. No new whim in my head, but an old one in my heart, which, I am afraid, will not be easily removed.

Kitty. Indeed, young man, I am sorry for it; but you have had my answer already, and I wonder you should trouble me again.

Green. And is it thus you receive me! Is this the reward of all my faithful love?

Kitty. Can I help your being in love? I'm sure I don't desire it; I wish you would not teaze me with your impertinent love any more.

Green. Why, then, did you encourage it? For, give me leave to say, you once did love me.

Kitty. Perhaps I might, when I thought myself but your equal; but now, I think, you cannot, in modesty, pretend to me any longer.

Green. Vain, foolish girl! for Heaven's sake, what alteration do you find in yourself for the better? In what, I wonder, does the fine lady differ from the miller's daughter? Have you more wit, more sense, or more virtue, than you had before? Or are you in any thing altered from your former self, except in pride, folly, and affectation?

Kitty. Sir, let me tell you, these are liberties that don't become you at all. Miller's daughter! Green. Come, come, Kitty; for shame! lay aside these foolish airs of the fine lady; return to yourself, and let me ask you one serious question: Do you really think sir Timothy designs to marry you?

Kitty. You are very impertinent to ask me such a question; but, to silence your presumption for ever-I'm sure he designs it.

Green. I'm glad she thinks so, however. [Aside.]. Nay, then, I do not expect you will resign the flattering prospect of wealth and grandear, to live in a cottage on a little farm. 'Tis true, I shall be independent of all the world; my farm, however small, will be my own, uninortgaged.

Kitty. Psha! can you buy me fine clothes? Can you keep me a coach? Can you make me a lady? If not, I advise you to go down again to your pitiful farm, and marry somebody suitable to your rank.

SONG.

Adieu to your cart and your plough; I scorn to milk your cow.

Your turkeys and geese, Your butter and cheese, Are much below me now. If ever I wed,

I'll hold up my head, And be a fine lady, I vow.

And so, sir, your very humble servant.

Green. Nay, madam, you shall not leave me yet; I have something more to say before we part. Suppose this worthy, honourable knight, instead of marriage, should only have a base design upon your virtue?

Kitty. He scorns it: No, he loves me, and I know will marry me.

Green. Dear Kitty, be not deceived; I know he will not.

Kitty. You know nothing of the matter.
Green. Read that, and be convinced.

'My dear angel,

[She reads.

'I could no longer stay in the country, when you was not there to make it agreeable. I came to town yesterday; and beg, if possible, you will, this evening, make me happy with your company. I will meet you at a relation's; my ser

Kitty. Well, and what is there in this to convince me of his ill intentions?

Green. Enough, I think. If his designs are honourable, why are they not open? Why does he not come to your father's house, and make his proposals? Why are you to be met in the dark, at a stranger's?

Kitty. Let me see I'll meet you at a rela'tion's; my servant will conduct you;' indeed I don't know what to think of that.

Green. I'll tell you, madam; that pretended relation is a notorious bawd.

Kitty. 'Tis false; you have contrived this story to abuse me.

Green. No, Kitty, so well I love you, that, if I thought his designs were just, I could rejoice in your happiness, though at the expence of my

Own.

Kitty. You strangely surprise me! I wish I knew the truth.

Green. To convince you of my truth, here is a direction to the house in his own hand, which he himself gave me, lest I should mistake: Whither, if you still doubt my sincerity, and think proper to go, I am ready to be your conductor.

Kitty. And is this the end of all his designs? have I been courted only to my ruin? my eyes are now too clearly opened. What have I been doing?

Green. If you are but so convinced of your danger, as to avoid it, I am satisfied.

Enter SIR JOHN.

Sir John. What do I hear? Are you reconciled, then?

Kitty. My dear father! I have been cheated and abused.

Sir John. I hope your virtue is untouched?
Kitty. That I will always preserve.

Sir John. Then I forgive you any thing. But how shall we be revenged on this scoundrel knight?

Kitty. Contrive but that, and I am easy.

Green. As his base designs have not been executed, I think, if we could expose and laugh at him, it would be sufficient punishment.

Sir John. If it could be done severely. Kitty. I think it may. I believe I have found out a way to be revenged on him; come with me into the next room, and we'll put it in execution.

Enter a Servant.

you.

Enter SIR JOHN and the KING, disguised as a collegiate.

Sir John. No compliments, I tell ye, but come to the point: What is your business?

King. As I appear to you in the habit of a collegiate, you may fancy I am some queer pedantic fellow; but I assure you, I am a person of some birth, and had a liberal education. I have seen the world, and kept the best company. But living a little too freely, and having spent the greatest part of my fortune on women and wine, I was persuaded, by a certain nobleman, to take orders, and he would give me a living, which he said was coming into his hands. I was just closing with the proposal, when the spiteful incumbent recovered, and I was disappointed.

Sir John. Well, and what's all this to me? King. Why, sir, there is a living now fallen, which is in the king's gift, and I hear you have so good an interest with his majesty, that I am persuaded a word from you, in my favour, would be of great service to me.

Sir John. And what must that word be, pray?
King. Nay, that I leave to you.

Sir John. You are in the right; and I'll tell you what it shall be. That you, being a senseless, idle-headed fellow, and having ruined yourself by your own folly and extravagance, you therefore think yourself highly qualified to teach mankind their duty. Will that do?

King. You are in jest, sir.

Sir John. Upon my word, but I am in earnest. I think he that recommends a profligate wretch to the most serious function in life, merely for the sake of a joke, gives as bad a proof of his morals, as he does of his wit.

You

King. Sir, I honour your plain-dealing. exactly answer the character I have heard of your uncommon sincerity; and, to let you see that I am capable of something, I have wrote a poem in praise of that virtue, which I beg leave to present to you, and hope you will receive it kindly. [Gives him the poem. Sir John. Sir, I am not used to these things: I don't understand them at all; but let's see[SIR JOHN reads.]— A poem in praise of the incomparable sincerity and uncommon honesty of the worthy sir John Cockle,' &c.-Enough, enough!-a poem in praise of sincerity, with a fulsome compliment in the very title, is extraordinary indeed! Sir, I am obliged to you for your kind intentions; your wit and your poetry may be very fine, for aught I know; but a little more common sense, I believe, could do you no harm.

King. He is not to be flattered, I find; but I'll try what bribery will do. That, I'm afraid,