_Town._ Barbarous man! I could forgive thee, if thou hadst poison'd my father, debauch'd my sister, kill'd my lapdog; but to murder my reputation!

[_Weeps._

_Foss._ Nay, I beseech thee, forgive me.

[_Kneels._

_Town._ I do: but upon condition your jealous fit never returns. To a jealous man a whisper is evidence, and a dream demonstration. A civil letter makes him thoughtful, an innocent visit mad. I shall try you, Mr. Fossile; for don't think I'll be deny'd company.

_Foss._ Nay, prithee, my dear; I own I have abused thee. But lest my marriage, and this simple story should take air in the neighbourhood, to morrow we will retire into the country together, till the secret is blown over. I am call'd to a patient. In less than half an hour I'll be with you again, my dear.

[_Exit Fossile._

_Town._ Plotwell's letter had like to have ruin'd me. 'Twas a neglect in me, not to intrust him with the secret of my marriage. A jealous bridegroom! every poison has its antidote; as credulity is the cause, so it shall be the cure of his jealousy. To morrow I must be spirited away into the country; I'll immediately let Plotwell know of my distress: and this little time with opportunity, even on his wedding-day, shall finish him a compleat husband. Intrigue a.s.sist me! and I'll act a revenge that might have been worthy the most celebrated wife in Boccace.

Enter PLOTWELL and CLINKET.

Hah! Plotwell! which way got he hither? I must caution him to be upon his guard.

_Plot._ Madam, I am agreeably surpriz'd to find you here.

_Town._ Me, Sir? you are certainly mistaken, for I don't remember I ever saw you before.

_Plot._ Madam, I beg your pardon. How like a truth sounds a lye from the tongue of a fine woman.

[_Aside._

_Clink._ This, Madam, is Mr. Plotwell; a Gentleman who is so infinitely obliging, as to introduce my play on the theatre, by fathering the unworthy issue of my muse, at the reading it this morning.

_Plot._ I should be proud, madam, to be a real father to any of your productions.

_Clink._ Mighty just. Ha, ha, ha. You know, Mr. Plotwell, that both a parrot and a player can utter human sounds, but we allow neither of them to be a judge of wit. Yet some of those people have had the a.s.surance to deny almost all my performances the privilege of being acted. Ah! what a _Gout de travers_ rules the understanding of the illiterate!

_Plot._ There are some, madam, that nauseate the smell of a rose.

[_Whenever Plotwell and Townley endeavour to talk, she interrupts them._

_Clink._ If this piece be not rais'd to the sublime, let me henceforth be stigmatiz'd as a reptile in the dust of mediocrity. I am persuaded, Sir, your adopted child will do you no dishonour.

_Town._ Pray, madam, what is the subject?

_Clink._ Oh! beyond every thing. So adapted for tragical machines! so proper to excite the pa.s.sions! not in the least enc.u.mber'd with episodes! the vraysemblance and the miraculous are linkt together with such propriety.

_Town._ But the subject, madam?

_Clink._ The universal Deluge, I chose that of Deucalion and Pyrrha, because neither our stage nor actors are hallow'd enough for sacred story.

_Plot._ But, madam----

[_To Townley._

_Clink._ What just occasion for n.o.ble description! these players are exceeding dilatory.

--In the mean time, Sir, shall I be oblig'd to you and this lady for the rehearsal of a scene that I have been just touching up with some lively strokes.

_Town._ I dare a.s.sure you, madam, it will be a pleasure to us both. I'll take this occasion to inform you of my present circ.u.mstances.

[_To Plotwell._

_Clink._ Imagine Deucalion and Pyrrha in their boat. They pa.s.s by a promontory, where stands prince Haemon a former lover of Pyrrah's, ready to be swallowed up by the devouring flood. She presses her husband to take him into the boat. Your part, Sir, is Haemon; the lady personates Pyrrha; and I represent Deucalion. To you, Sir.

[_Gives Plotwell the ma.n.u.script._

_Plot._ What ho, there sculler!

[_reads._

_Town._ ----Haemon!

_Plot._ ----Yes, 'tis Haemon!

_Town._

Thou seest me now sail'd from my former lodgings, Beneath a husband's ark; yet fain I would reward Thy proffer'd love. But Haemon, ah, I fear Tomorrow's eve will hide me in the country.

_Clink._ Not a syllable in the part! wrong, all wrong!

_Plot._

Through all the town, with diligent enquiries, I sought my Pyrrha----

_Clink._ Beyond all patience! the part, Sir, lies before you; you are never to perplex the drama with speeches extempore.

_Plot._ Madam, 'tis what the top players often do.

_Town._ Though love denies, companion bids me save thee.

[_Plotwell kisses her._

_Clink._ Fye, Mr. Plotwell; this is against all the decorum of the stage; I will no more allow the libertinism of lip-embraces than the barbarity of killing on the stage; your best tragedians, like the ladies of quality in a visit, never turn beyond the back-part of the cheek to a salute, as thus Mr. Plotwell.

[_Kisses Plotwell._

_Plot._ I don't find in Aristotle any precept against killing.

_Clink._ Yet I would not stand upon the brink of an indecorum.

_Plot._ True, madam, the finishing stroke of love and revenge should never shock the eyes of an audience. But I look upon a kiss in a comedy to be upon a par with a box on the ear in a tragedy, which is frequently given and taken by your best authors.