THE COMMISSARY. RAP A C T I.. SCENE I. Mrs. MECHLIN's Houfe. (Loud knocking at the Door.) Enter JENNY. AP, rap, rap, up ftairs and down, from morning to night if this fame Commiffary stays much longer amongst us, my mistress must e'en hire a porter. Who's there? (Simon without.) Sim. Is Mrs. Merchlin at home? Jen. No. (opens the Door.) Os, what is it you, Simon? Enter Simon. Sim. At your fervice, fweet Mrs. Jane. Jen. Why you knock with authority; and what are your commands, Mafter Simon ? Sim. I come, Madam, to receive thofe of your miftrefs. What, Jenny, has the any great affair on the anvil? Her fuminons is moft exceedingly preffing; and I 3 you you need not be told, Child, that a man of my confequence does not trouble himself about trifles. Jen. Oh, Sir, I know very well you principal actors don't perform every night. Sim. Mighty well, Ma'am, but notwithstanding your ironical fneer, it is not every man that will 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 extensive a dealer as my friend Mrs. Mechlin. Jen. Why, to be fure, 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. Mr. 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. fen. And to be fure, though now and then, to oblige a cuftomer, my iniftress does condescend to fmuggle a little Sim. Keep it up, Mrs. Jane. Jen. Yet there are no people in the Liberty of Westminfter that live in more credit than we do. Sim. Bravo. Jex. The very beft of quality is not afham'd to visit my mistress, Sim They have reafon. Jen. Refpected by the neighbours. 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, unless, 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 bufinefs. Sim. Very well. Jen. Very well! then pray, Sir, 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? Sim. The devil you are! Jen. Upon my word, Mr. Simon, you fhou'd not give your tongue fuch a licence; let me tell you, these are airs that don't become you at all. Sim. Hey-day! why where the deuce have I got, fure I have mistaken 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 ftar, in the parish of St. Paul's? Jen. Bravo! Sim. That commercial caterpillar ? Jen. I know it. Sim. That murderer of manufactures ? Jen. Doubtless. Sim. That walking warehoufe? 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 feducer of virgins ? Jen. Keep it up, mafter Simon, Sim. That foreftaller of Bagnios ? Jen. Incomparable fine. Sim. That canting, cozening, money-lending, matchmaking, pawnbroking-[Loud knocking.] Jen. Mighty well, Sir; here comes my miftrefs, fhe fhall thank you for the pretty picture you have been pleased to draw. Sim. Nay, but dear Jenny Jen. She fhall be told how highly fhe ftands in your favour. I 4 Sim Sim. But my fweet girl [Knock again.] Sim. A peace, a peace, my dear Mrs. Jane, and dic tate the articles. Enter Mrs. Mechlin, followed by a backney coachman, with feveral bundles, in a capuchin, a bonnet, and ber cloaths pinned up. Mrs. Mech. So, huffy, what must I flay all day in the Atreets? who have we here ! the devil's in the wenches. I think one of your fellows I fuppofe-Oh, is it you! how fares it, Simon? Jen. Madam, you fhould not have waited a minute, but Mr. Simon Sim. Hush, huh! you barbarous jade 33 Jen. Knowing your knock, and eager to open the door, flew up ftairs, 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 fhail be no lofer, you flut. Mrs. Mech. Poor Simon--Oh, Lord have mercy upon me, what a round have I taken!Is the wench petrified why don't you reach me a chair, don't you fee I'm tired to death? Jen. Indeed, ma'am, you'll kill yourself. Sim. Upon my word, ma'am Mechlin, you shou'd 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 coft 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? |