Button. For all the world like a magpie; he fteals for the mere pleasure of hiding.

Rack. Well observed, little Bill.

Button. Why, he wanted to bring me into his plot: yes; he made proposals for me to marry Mifs after his purpose was served

Sir Chr. How!

Button. But he was out in his man! let him give his caft cloaths to his coachman; Billy Button can afford a new fuit of his own.

Rack. I don't doubt it at all.

Button. Fellow! I am almoft refolved never to fet another stitch for him as long as I live.

--

Sir Chr. Right, Button, right. But where is Mifs Kitty? Come hither, my chicken! Faith, I am heartily glad you are rid of this fcoundrel? and if fuch a crippled old fellow as I was worthy your notice-But, hold, Kate! there is another chap I muft guard you against

Mifs Lin. Another, Sir! who?
Sir Chr. Why, this gentleman.
Rack, Me?

Sir Chr. Ay, you: Come, come, major, don't think you can impofe upon a cunning old sportsman like me.

Rack. Upon my foul, Sir Chriftopher, you make me blush.

Sir Chr. Oh, you are devilish modeft, I know! But to come to the trial at once. I have fome reason to believe, major, you are fond of this girl; and, that her want of fortune mayn't plead your excufe, I don't think I can better begin my plan of reforming than by a compliment paid to her virtue: Then, take her, and with her two thousand guineas in hand.

Mrs Lin. How, Sir!

Sir Chr.

Sir Chr. And expect another good fpell, when Monfieur le Fevre fets me free from the gout. Button. Please your worship, I'll accept her with half.

L Cath. Gi me leave, Sir Chriftopher, to throw in the wedow's mite on the happy occafion: The bride's garment, and her dinner, fhall be furnished by me.

Sir Chr. Cock-a-leeky foup!

L. Cath. Sheep's head finged, and haggies in plenty.

Sir Chr. Well faid, Lady Catharine,

Mifs Lin. How, Sir, fhall I acknowledge this goodness?

Sir Chr. By faying nothing about it.—Well, Sir! we wait your answer.

Rack. I think the lady might firft be confulted: I fhould be forry a fresh profecution fhould follow fo faft on the heels of the

Sir Chr. Come, come, no trifling! your refolution at once.

Rack. I receive, then, your offer with pleasure.
Sir Chr. Mifs!

Mifs Lin. Sir, there is a little account to be first fettled between this gentleman and an old unhappy acquaintance of mine.

Sir Chr. Who?

Mifs Lin. The major can guess-the unhappy Mifs Prim.

Sir Chr. You fee, major, your old fins are rifing in judgment.

Rack. I believe, madam, I can fatisfy that. Mifs Lin. I fha'n't give you the troubleBut firft, let me return you all my most grateful thanks for your kind intentions towards me:

I

know

know your generous motives, and feel their value, I hope, as I ought; but might I be permitted to chufe, I beg to remain in the station I am: My little talents have hitherto received the publick protection, nor, whilft I continue to deferve, am I the leaft afraid of lofing, my patrons.

Exeunt.

EPILOGUR

CONFIDING in the juftice of the place,
To you The Maid of Bath fubmits her cafe:
Wronged, and defeated of three feveral fpoufes,
She lays her damages for nine full houses.
Well, Sirs, you've heard the parties, pro and con.
Do the pro's carry it? fhall the fuit go on?
Speak hearts for us! to them we make appeal:
Tell us not what you think, but what you feel:
Afk us, Why bring a private cause to view?
We answer with a figh-because 'tis true:
For tho' invention is our Poet's trade,
Here he but copies parts which others played.
For on a ramble, late one starry night,
With Afmodeo, his familiar fprite,
High on the wing, by his conductor's fide,
This guilty fcene the indignant Bard defcried;
Soaring in air, his ready pen he drew,
And dafh'd the glowing fatire as he flew :

For in these rank luxuriant times, there needs

Some ftrong bold hand to pluck the noxious weeds.

The rake of fixty, crippled hand and knee,

Who fins on claret, and repents on tea;

The witlefs macaroni, who purloins

A few cant words, which fome pert gambler coins;
The undomeftick Amazonian dame,
Staunch to her coterie, in despite of Fame;
These are the victims of our Poet's plan :
But most, that monfter-an unfeeling man.
When fuch a foe provokes him to the fight,
Tho' maim'd, out fallies the puiffant knight;
Like Withrington, maintains the glorious ftrife,
And only yields his laurels with his life.