Scene I. A Barber's Shop.

Humphry in new clothes, reading a newspaper.—Toupee shaving him.

Humphry. Pray now, master barber, what does Constitution mean? I hears so many people a quarrelling about it,—I wish I cou'd get somebody to give me the exclamation of it; here it is among the news too. It's spelt C, O, N, con—S, T, I, sti—consti—T, U, tu—constitu—T, I, ti—constituti—O, N, on—con-sti-tu-ti-on,—but your city folks calls it Constitushon; they've got such a queer pronouncication.

Toupee. Vat you please, sare?

Humphry. Yes, it pleases me well enough; I only want to know what it magnifies.

Toupee. Je ne vous entens pas, monsieur.

Humphry. Why, what outlandish dialogue is that you're a talking? I can't understand your lingo as well as the Schoolmaster's, with his monstrous memorandums, and his ignorant mouses.

Toupee. You be 'quainted with monsieur de Schoolmastare, monsieur?

Humphry. Yes, mounsieur; he and the consumptive old gentleman, old what's his name, was a wrangling about that confounded name that I was axing you about;—caw—con—[Looks at the paper.] aye, Constitution.

Toupee. Dat Constitution is no bon;—de Schoolmastare vas strike me for dat. By gar, I get de satisfaction!

Humphry. He talks as crooked as a Guinea niger.

[Aside.

Toupee. He vas call me—ah, le diable!—block; dis—[Points to his head.] blockhead, oui, blockhead.

Humphry. If you've got a mind, I'll lather him for you.

Toupee. Yes; den I vill lader you for nothing.

Humphry. You lather me for nothing?—I'll lather you for less yet, you barber-looking—

Toupee. No, no; me lader you so.

[LathersHumphry'sface.

Humphry. Oh, with soap-suds, you mean:—I ax pardon, mounsieur; I thought how you was a going for to lather me without soap-suds or razor, as the old proverb is.

Toupee. Dat is no possible, monsieur.

Humphry. I believe not; you shou'd be shav'd as clean as a whistle, if you was; 'faith should you.

Toupee. Yes, I will shave you very clean;—here is de bon razor for shave de beard. [Draws the razor over the back of Humphry's hand, to shew him it can cut a hair.]

Humphry. [Bellowing out.] You ill-looking, lousy, beard-combing, head-shaving rascal! Did you ever know any body for to have a beard upon their hand?

Toupee. You be von big 'merican brute, sur mon Âme!

Humphry. You lie, as the saying is. What a mouth he makes whenever he goes for to talk his gibberage!—He screws it up for all the world like a pickled oyster. I must have a care I don't get some of that snuff out of his nose.

Toupee. You please for taste de snuff?

Humphry. I don't care if I smell some. [Takes a pinch of snuff, which makes him sneeze, while Toupee is shaving him; by which he gets his face cut.]

Toupee. Prenez garde À vous!

Humphry. The devil take the snuff and you!

[Going.

Toupee. S'il vous plaÎt, monsieur, you vill please for take de—de—vat is dat—de lettre—de shallange to monsieur de Schoolmastare, for fight me?

Humphry. Yes, that I will, with the most carefullest manner;—he shall have it in the greatest pleasure.

[ToupeegivesapapertoHumphry.

Toupee. Dat is de bon civility,—I vill be your—a—very good friend.

Humphry. Thank 'e kindly, Mounsieur.

[Exeunt,severally.

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Young Loveyet and Humphry.

Loveyet. Not find where he lives?

Humphry. No;—you're the most unluckiest gentleman for making of blunders,—didn't you tell me how your father liv'd in number two hundred and fifty, in Queen-Street, in the three-story brick house?

Loveyet. I did; is not that the house?

Humphry. No—why, your father don't live there.

Loveyet. Did you enquire for Mr. Loveyet?

Humphry. Yes, I saw Mr. Loveyet.

Loveyet. The devil is in the fellow, I believe. Did you give him my letter?

Humphry. Yes, but I didn't want to.

Loveyet. Why not?

Humphry. Becase I wanted for to carry it to your father.

Loveyet. What makes you think Mr. Loveyet is not my father?

Humphry. Somebody told me so that's got a good right to know; I've his own words for it.

Loveyet. My father tell you so?

Humphry. The young man is crazy, I believe.—I say Mr. Loveyet said you wasn't his son; so I suppose he can't be your father by that.

Loveyet. I forgot that the letter would probably produce this misunderstanding. [Aside.]—He is the only one I know, whom I have a right to call my father.

Humphry. May be you're the old fellow's bastard, and if you're a bastard, you can't be a son, you know: aye, that's the catch, I suppose.

Loveyet. Your new clothes make you quite smart, Mr. Cubb.

Humphry. Yes, don't I look quite smart, with these here new clothes? they're all new, I'll insure you—only a little the worse for wear; I bought 'em at the vandue option, at the Fly-Market.

Loveyet. But how came you by that patch on one side of your face, and that large crop of beard on the other?

Humphry. Mounsieur, the outlandish barber, give me a small cut across the whiskers; but the best of all you ha'n't seen yet;—see here.

[Pullsoffhishat.

Loveyet. Aye, now you look something like—quite fierce—entirely the fine gentleman, upon my falsehood. A genteel dress is the very soul of a man, Mr. Cubb.

Humphry. Like enough, for I've got more soul to shew myself, now I cut such a dash; I've got a soul to see the shews at the play-house; and, I think, I've got a great deal more soul to spend a few shillings at the ale-house.

Loveyet. That's true; I'm glad you remind me of my promise.

Humphry. Not I, I didn't remind you,—I scorn it.

Loveyet. I dare say you do. [Gives him money.] There, drink my health with that.

Humphry. With all my heart—soul, I mean;—aye, here's soul enough—[Jingling the money.]—to buy the matter o' twenty mugs;—come, let's go at once.

Loveyet. I?—excuse me, sir; I have particular business elsewhere.—Sir, your most humble servant.

Humphry. Sir, I am your most humble sarvint too. [Bows awkwardly.]

[Exeunt,severally.

Scene III. Mr. Friendly's House.

Enter Harriet.

[Knocking at the door.] What an incessant knocking! Mr. Friendly's family are out, and between their company and my own, I expect to be engaged all day: I am fairly tired of these morning visits;—they are fashionable, and, therefore, agreeable, to those who can make propriety and happiness subservient to custom and false politeness; but, for my part—

Enter Servant.

Servant. Miss Airy is waiting in her carriage, madam.

Harriet. Admit her. [Exit Servant.] She is the only one I wish to see this morning.

Enter Maria.

Maria. My dear Harriet, I am rejoic'd to find you at home;—I this minute heard something, which I knew would make you happy; and that, I trust, is a good excuse for troubling you twice a day with my company.

Harriet. You wrong my friendship, Maria, if you think you can oblige me too often with your desirable company; 'tis true I was wishing for a little cessation of that torrent of formal visitors which is pouring in from morning till night; but far be it from Harriet to reckon her Maria among that number.

Maria. You are very good, my dear; but you must give me leave to be a little jealous that I am not the only one who is favoured with such a preference.

Harriet. Indeed, I do not know any one I have a particular desire to see this morning, except yourself.

Maria. You forget Mr. Loveyet, when you say so.

Harriet. Poh! I am not talking of men.

Maria. No; but it is very probable you are thinking of a man.

Harriet. And pray what reason have you to think, that my thoughts run upon such an improper subject?

Maria. Improper subject,—ha, ha, ha. So my very discreet, prudish little Harriet never lets man enter into her head; tho' it is pretty notorious somebody has enter'd into her heart long ago.

Harriet. Your discernment must be very subtle, if you know all that is in my heart.

Maria. I only judge of your heart, by your tongue; and the abundance of the former is generally inferred from the speech of the latter.—Yes, yes—that constant, hypocritical heart of yours is now throbbing with love, hope, curiosity, and—a thousand speechless sensations, the improper subject of which, I do not hesitate to declare, is odious man; and that man, the accomplished Mr. Loveyet.

Harriet. Pshaw,—how can you tantalize one so?

Maria. Well, well, it shall not be serv'd like Tantalus any more: he was doom'd to behold; and, beholding, to wish and languish for the tempting draught, in vain: but a better doom awaits the happy Harriet;—what she desires is not thus interdicted, but will soon be obtain'd, and—

Harriet. How strangely you talk, Maria.

Maria. Well, I will not keep you in suspense any longer. Old Mr. Loveyet has received a letter from his son, signifying his intention to leave the West-Indies shortly after its date, so you may expect to see him very soon. Then hey for a wedding, &c.

Harriet. Ha, ha; you are a droll girl.

Maria. But my time is precious; I am just going to the widow Affable's:—about twelve months ago she paid me a visit, when, agreeably to the form in such cases made and provided, she beg'd I would be more sociable, and she would take it so kindly of me:—accordingly I shall step in en passant, to shew her my sociability and kindness, which I shall, perhaps, repeat at the end of another year.

Harriet. How can you be so cruel? The pleasure I experience in your society, makes me regret that any one should be deprived of it.

Maria. That is very strange:—I should imagine, if you priz'd my company so much, you would wish me to withhold it from others; because, the more I bless them with my presence, the less will come to your share, you know, my dear;—nor is it easy to conceive how you could be so fond of my sweet person, without being jealous at the partiality of others;—but, after all, good people, they say, are scarce; and my humble admirers shall find the saying verified in me; because they are not fully sensible of my superior value; but, since you prove the contrary, by extolling my conversation and friendship so much, I likewise shall observe a contrary conduct, and indulge you with a tÊte-À-tÊte frequently, my dear.—But I have fifty places to call at yet:—I am to wait on Miss Nancy Startup, Miss Biddy Dresswise, Miss Gaudy, Miss Titterwell, Mrs. Furbelow, Mrs. Neverhome, Mrs—et cÆtera, et cÆtera; which visits I mean to pay with all the formality and fashionable shortness in my power: from thence I shall proceed to Mademoiselle Mincit, the milliner; from thence to two or three score of shops in William-Street, to buy a prodigious number of important—

Harriet. Trifles.

Maria. You are right, my dear;—as I live, I would not be one of those officious "Nothing else, Ma'ms?" for all the goods from the North Church to Maiden-Lane.—Adieu,—I leave you to meditate on what I have told you.

Harriet. Farewell. [Exit Maria.] Now Maria is gone, I will see no more company.—If anything can be an excuse for a falsehood, the present occasion offers a very good one:—I feel my mind pretty much at ease, and I do not choose to have it disturbed by the impertinence of pretended friends.—Who is there?

Enter Servant.

Servant. Madam.

Harriet. Whoever calls to see me to-day, remember I am not at home.

Servant. Mr. Worthnought is here now, Madam; must I deny you to him?

Harriet. Undoubtedly. [Exit Servant.] I am disgusted with the repetition of that coxcomb's nonsense.—[Sighs.]—I wish Charles was here:—In spite of the false delicacy of that tyrant, Custom, which forbids us to speak the exquisite effusions of a susceptible heart, I can now speak boldly, while that heart dictates to the willing tongue what complacence it feels at the prospect of its Charles's return.

[Exit.

Scene IV. Another part of Mr. Friendly's House.

Worthnought, discovered solus.

Worthnought. Who comes here! He sha'n't see her, if I don't, 'foregad—Curse me, but he shall go away with a flea in his ear.

Enter Young Loveyet, followed by Humphry.

Humphry. Mr. Lovit—Mr. Lovit.—[Takes him aside.] As I was a going along, d'ye see, I see you pop in here, and so I follow'd you, to tell you, how old Mr. Lovit said he was intend for to go for to see the old fellow's daughter, to tell her something about the letter. Don't Mrs. Harriet live here?

Loveyet. I'll make haste, and supersede the design of his errand, if possible;—it would be a pity he should come before I had appriz'd Harriet I was not in the West-Indies. [Aside.]—I am obliged to you for your information.

[ToHumphry.

Humphry. Thank 'e, as the saying is. [Going,—Worthnought whispers with him.]—What's that to you?—How clumsy mounsieur has dress'd his calabash!—Powder'd over the face and eyes.

[Exit.

Worthnought. I wish I knew what he wanted with him;—perhaps it is something about me.

[Aside.

Loveyet. What Butterfly is this we have here!—I suppose it is the fop, Frankton mentioned.

[Aside.

Worthnought. Sir, I have the honour to be, with the profoundest respect and esteem, your most obedient, most devoted, and most obliged humble slave, foy d'Homme d'Honneur—Tol lol, &c.

[Sings.

Loveyet. A very pompous salutation, truly. [Aside.]—Your polite address does me too much honour, sir;—I cannot conceive how you can be my obliged slave, as I do not recollect I ever saw you before.

Worthnought. Why, sir, I'll tell you:—Your appearance, sir, bespeaks the gentleman of distinction, sir,—

Loveyet. My appearance;—superficial coxcomb!

[Aside.

Worthnought. 'Tis true, my words were words of course; but I meant every word, sir, 'pon hanor.—"Cupid, Gad of saft persuasion, &c."

[Singsaffectedly,andtakessnuff.

Loveyet. Humph,—To whom, sir, am I indebted, for so much civility?

Worthnought. Dick Worthnought, esquire, at your service, sir.

Loveyet. The very fool.

[Aside.

Worthnought. And give me leave to add, sir, that I feel the highest felicity, that you have given me so good an opportunity of asking you, in my turn, for the favour of your name, sir.

Loveyet. My name is Loveyet, sir.—With what solemnity the coxcomb talks!

[Aside.

Worthnought. A native of this city, I presume, Mr. Loveyet.

Loveyet. I am, sir; but I have been absent for some years, and, as I was a youth when I left the city, I cannot be supposed to have retained much of the Yorker.

Worthnought. Pardon me, sir;—to a person of penetration, the Yorker is still conspicuous under the disguise of the foreigner; and I am proud to have the hanor of being your countryman, sir.

Loveyet. I fancy the honour is by no means reciprocal.

[Aside.

Worthnought. You are acquainted with Miss Harriet Trueman, I presume, Mr. Loveyet.

Loveyet. I was formerly acquainted with the lady.

Worthnought. You must know, sir, that your humble servant has the hanor and felicity of being that lady's very humble admirer.

Loveyet. I dare say she is admired by all who have the pleasure of knowing her.

Worthnought. Give me leave, sir,—I mean her lover.

Loveyet. Conceited ape!

[Aside.

Worthnought. You have no pretensions, sir, I presume.

Loveyet. Pretensions?

Worthnought. Aye, sir; I thought you might have a small penchant, as the French call it;—you apprehend me; but she don't intend to see company to-day. I am monstrously chagrin'd, sir, 'foregad, that I have it not in my power to introduce you to the divine mistress of my heart; but, as matters are circumstanc'd, I think it is not worth our while to stay.

Loveyet. I mean to see Miss Trueman before I shall think so.

Worthnought. Oh, fie, sir;—you wou'd not force a lady to give you her company against her inclination:—perhaps, indeed, she may appear to receive you with some warmth, and you may flatter yourself you have fairly made a canquest of her, and think Dick Worthnought esquire, is out-rival'd; but if so, you are most demnably bit, 'foregad, for she's as slippery as ice, tho' not quite so cold;—she is the very standard of true modern coquetry, the quintessence of the beau-monde, and the completest example of New-York levity, that New-York has the hanor to call its beautiful inhabitant: ha, ha,—she'll jilt you;—however, the dear creature, with all her amiable foibles, has been so profuse of her attention to me, that I should be ungrateful not to acknowledge the various favours she has hanor'd me with.

Loveyet. Consummate impudence! [Aside.]—Miss Trueman's character is well known, sir.

Worthnought. Miss Trueman's character! Demme, sir, do you mean to say anything against her character?

Loveyet. No;—and I will take care you shall not, with impunity.

Worthnought. You are the most unmannerly fellow I ever convers'd with, 'pan hanor.

Loveyet. And you the most contemptible puppy; or that fellow would be unmannerly enough to chastise you for your insolence.

Worthnought. That's a demnable rub, demme;—curse him, I'm afraid he isn't afraid of me, after all. [Aside.]—You wou'd find me as brave as yourself then; demme, but you wou'd.

Loveyet. I'll try you. [Offers to cane him, which makes him cry out.—Then enter Harriet, hastily.]

Harriet. Oh, dear!—what's the matter?

[SeeingCharles,sheshrieks.

Loveyet. My dearest,—my adorable Harriet!

Harriet. Is it possible? I did not dream that Mr. Loveyet was the person who wanted to see me.

Loveyet. And am I again blest with a sight of the dear object of all my wishes and affections!—I thank you, heaven; you have been bountiful, indeed! The rolling billows, under your propitious guidance, have at length wafted me to my native land, to love and my dear Harriet.

Worthnought. What the devil does he mean!

[Aside.

Harriet. Your unexpected appearance, and the unaccountable circumstance which attends it, have discomposed me in such a manner, that I cannot express, as I wish, how happy I am in your safe arrival.

Worthnought. Hah,—happy in his arrival! If so, she will not be very happy in his rival, I'm afraid.

[Aside.

Loveyet. I will explain the occasion of my charmer's fright immediately;—at present I can only tell you that your wou'd-be lover, here—

Harriet. My lover!

Loveyet. So he confidently call'd himself, and took such other insufferably vain and impudent freedoms with your name, that I attempted to give him a little wholesome admonition with this, if his effeminate cries had not brought my lovely Harriet in to prevent me; but the very attempt has proved him to be the basest of dastards. [While he is saying this, Worthnought makes several attempts to interrupt him.]

Harriet. [To Worthnought.] I am equally surpriz'd and incens'd, sir, that you would dare to take such freedoms with my name.

Loveyet. Be assured, Miss Harriet, if you condescend to grant your valuable company to such superficial gentry, they will ever prove themselves as unworthy of it as he has; but your goodness does not let you suspect the use which such characters make of the intimacy they are honour'd with, or you would spurn their unmeaning flattery, and ridiculous fopperies, with indignation.

Harriet. I ever till now consider'd him as a respectful, well-meaning person, as far as regarded myself; and as such, gave him a prudent share of my civilities; but I never thought either his intellects or his person sufficient to entitle him to a partial intimacy.

Worthnought. You cannot deny, madam, that I have repeatedly experienced the most flattering proofs of your partiality, that a lady (who values her reputation) can ever bestow on her admirer.

Harriet. Contemptible thing! An admirer, forsooth! Of what?—Your ideas are too mean and frothy to let you admire anything but my dress, or some other trifle as empty and superficial as the trifler I am speaking to. My demeanour towards you was nothing but the effect of cheerfulness and politeness; qualities which, I believe, are inherent in me, and of which, therefore, all with whom I am acquainted are the objects; but your present unmanly and insupportably impudent discourse, makes me despise myself almost as much as you, for allowing such a wretch even that small degree of attention which he so illy deserved.

Worthnought. You are very insulting, madam, 'pan hanor.—

Loveyet. How apt such fellows are to have honour in their mouths.

[Aside.

Worthnought. This is only a trick to conceal your inconstancy during his absence; but it is the nature of the sex to deceive us.

Harriet. 'Tis the nature of a fool to say so; and if that fool does not instantly quit the subject and the house together, I must request the favour of Mr. Loveyet to make him.

Loveyet. "As matters are circumstanced, Mr. Worthnought, I think it is not worth your while to stay."

Worthnought. Her unparallel'd rudeness shall not compel me to leave the house, till I please.

Loveyet. "Oh, fie, sir,—you would not force a lady to give you her company against her inclination."

Worthnought. You are very fond of echoing my words, it seems.

Loveyet. Yes, when I can apply them to your disappointment and disgrace.—"I am monstrously chagrin'd, sir, 'foregad, that I have it not in my power to introduce you to the divine mistress of my heart." Ha, ha, ha.

Worthnought. 'Tis very well,—I will have revenge;—if the laws of politeness (which I would rather die than infringe) did not forbid swearing before a lady [In a contemptuous tone.], curse me, but I would d——n you for a—

Loveyet. [Interrupting him.]—"You must know, sir, I have the hanor and felicity of being this lady's very humble admirer."—You have failed in your predictions, I think, sir.

Worthnought. Yes, and she shall soon pay for her duplicity; tho' I would not have you think that her ill usage mortifies me in the least: I never was in love with her, nor did I ever intend marriage, which is more than she can say; and, I believe, it is fortunate for us both, that you arriv'd when you did, or something might have happened, which would have obliged me to marry her, merely to prevent her from being miserable.—Ha, ha, ha. Tol lol, &c.

[Exit.

Harriet. What a superlative wretch!

Loveyet. He is too contemptible to cost you a thought, Harriet:—none but the puppy tribe, and a few splenetic old maids, will pay any attention to his slander; they, no doubt, will spread it with avidity;—but to be traduced by such, is to be praised.—Hah!—there comes my father;—I forgot to tell you I expected him here: I will try if he knows me.

Enter Old Loveyet.

Old Loveyet. Madam, your most obedient;—Sir, your servant.

Loveyet. [Bows.] I find he does not know me:—Nature, be still; for now I feel he is indeed my father.

Harriet. Mr. Loveyet, I am happy to see you.

Old Loveyet. She would not be quite so happy, if she knew my errand. [Aside.]—I have waited on you, madam, upon disagreeable business.

Harriet. How, sir?—I beg you will not leave me in suspense: What is it?

Old Loveyet. It is a matter of a delicate nature, madam, and therefore, must not be spoken at random.

Loveyet. Heaven avert any unfavourable event!

[Aside.

Harriet. Mr. Loveyet, your cautious innuendoes give me sensible uneasiness.

Loveyet. I will withdraw, Miss Trueman;—My love—friendship, I would say, though it wishes to afford you happiness, and participate in your troubles, does not presume to intrude on the private conversation Mr. Loveyet wishes.

Harriet. I dare say your presence is no restraint, sir.

Old Loveyet. I don't know that, madam: pray, who is the gentleman?

Harriet. The gentleman is my very particular friend, sir.

Old Loveyet. By my body, here is rare work going on.—[Aside.]—Well, madam, as the gentleman is your very particular friend; and as his love—friendship, I mean, is so great, that you dare to entrust all your secrets with him; I shall acquaint you, that, as you and my son have long entertained a partiality for each other, and being desirous to fulfill all my engagements, as well as to make him happy, I have wrote for him to come and conclude the marriage; but, for very good reasons, I have this day determined to forbid the bans; and Mr. Trueman says, he is very willing too.

Loveyet. Hah!—what can all this mean?

[Aside.

Old Loveyet. You must know, madam, your father has us'd me very ill; and—to be plain with you, madam, your familiarity with this person, convinces me you wou'd have play'd the fool with my son, without my breaking the match. Ugh, ugh.

Loveyet. The old gentleman imagines I am going to cut myself out, it seems.

[AsidetoHarriet.

Harriet. You do not know who this is, sir, or you would not put any improper constructions on the friendly freedom you have observ'd between us.

Loveyet. True; and, therefore, you need not be concerned at what he says.—Since he has made this unlucky resolution, he must not know who I am.

[AsidetoHarriet.

Old Loveyet. How well she dissembles!—Friendly freedom,—a pretty term that, for the wanton hussy. [Aside.]—I wish Charles was here now; he wou'd acknowledge his father's kindness in preventing a match, which, I am sure, would end in sorrow and disappointment.

Loveyet. I doubt that much.—This parent of mine is a singular character.

[AsidetoHarriet.

Harriet. It is necessary you should be made acquainted with some of his oddities: his most striking peculiarity is a desire to be thought younger than he is; and, I dare say, some remark of my father, respecting his age, is the only cause of his present ill humour.

Old Loveyet. Look how they whisper!—well, she is the most brazen coquette I ever knew!—Yes, yes, now her scandalous conduct is glaring enough. [Aside.]—I wish you and your very particular friend, a good day, madam.

[Exit.

Harriet. I think our troubles increase fast: how unlucky, that this dispute should happen at the very crisis of your arrival;—an event which we fondly expected would be attended with the most pleasing circumstances.

Loveyet. Those fond expectations, my lovely partner in trouble, shall soon be realized;—this is only the momentary caprice of old age.

Harriet. You must take care not to talk of age, before him.

Loveyet. Yes, my fair monitor; I shall think of that: and now permit me, in my turn, to give you a little advice.—In the first place, I would have you go to your father—fall at his feet—clasp your fair hands, thus—beseeching him in such terms as that gentle heart is so well form'd to dictate, and persuading him with the all-prevailing music of that tuneful voice, to recall his rigourous intention, nor doom such angelic goodness and beauty to despair, by persisting to oppose an alliance which alone can make you blest; and without which, the most faithful of lovers will be rendered the most wretched one on earth. I shall take a similar method with my old gentleman, and I think I can insure myself success.

Harriet. This is all very fine; but—to have the voluntary consent of the parent one loves,—how infinitely more agreeable! I would not offend mine, for the world: and yet—

Loveyet. And yet you will be obliged to offend him, by having me, eigh?

Harriet. Pshaw;—how strangely you misconstrue my meaning: I was going to observe, that I expect his obstinacy and pride will prove invincible, in spite of all the rhetoric you are pleased to ascribe to me.

Loveyet. Then we will employ a little rhetoric, against which another class of fathers are not quite so invincible.—Parsons are plenty, you know; and Gold and Silver are persuasive little words. Love inspires me with the spirit of prophecy, and tells me I shall soon with propriety call the loveliest of her sex, mine.

Harriet. You are very eloquent, Mr. Loveyet: I do not think the subject merits so many florid speeches.

Loveyet. Not merit them!—

Harriet. Harriet deserves not praise so great as thine.

[Exeunt.

End of the Third Act.