All. Ha, ha, ha!

Puff. Shall I ease you of your trophy, sir?

Capt. Take it, Puff, as a small recompence for thy fidelity; thou can'st better use it than its owner.

Puff. I wish your honour had a patent to take such trifles from every pretty gentleman that could spare 'em; I would set up the largest cutler's shop in the kingdom.

Biddy. I'm afraid the town will be ill-natured enough to think I have been a little coquetish in my behaviour; but I hope, as I have been constant to the captain, I shall be excused diverting myself with pretenders.

Ladies, to fops and braggarts ne'er be kind,
No charms can warm 'em, and no virtues bind;
Each lover's merit by his conduct prove,

Who fails in honour, will be false in love.

[Exeunt.

THE QUAKER.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-An irregular Hill carried quite to the back of the Stage, so situated that LUBIN, who comes from it during the Symphony of the Duet, is sometimes seen and sometimes concealed by the Trees. A Cottage on one side, near the front.

LUBIN and CICELY.

AIR and DUET.

Lub. 'Midst thrushes, blackbirds, nightingales,
Whose songs are echo'd from the vales,
Trudging along through thick and thin,
Thank Fate, at last I've reach'd the door.
How pleased they'll be to let me in!

I've walk'd amain,

And yet ne'er leaving her before,

Hast'ning to see my love again,

I thought each furlong half-a-score.-
They're long, methinks-

Cice. [at the window.]

-Who's there, I trow?

Lub. Look out, good mother, don't you know?

'Tis Lubin. How does Gillian do?

And Hodge, and Margery, and Sue?

Cice. Not a whit better, sir, for you.

Lub. Why, what's the matter? why d'ye frown?
Cice. You shall know all when I come down.
What is the meaning of all this?

Lub.

Cice.

Oh, here she comes.—

Enter CICELY.

Well, what's amiss?

Who are you, making all this stir?
If to come in you mean,

You may as well be jogging, sir,
While yet your boots are green.

Lub. I'm perfectly like one astound,
I know not, I declare,

Whether I'm walking on the ground,
Or flying in the air.

This treatment is enough to quite
Bereave one of one's wits.

Cice. Good lack-a-day! and do you bite,
Pray, ever, in these fits?

Lub. But you are jesting

I tell you we know nothing at all about you.

Lub. You don't! why then may happen my name 'en't Lubin Blackthorn, and 'tis likely I did not set out six months ago to see my father down in the west, and ask his consent to my marriage with your daughter Gillian; and I warrant you I did not stay till my father died, to take possession of his farm and every thing that belonged to him; nay, you'll want to make me believe presently that I 'en't come now to settle affairs, and take her back into the country with me.

Cice. Don't make a fool of yourself, young man :