a castigation; but on recollection, a cit would but sully my arms. I forgive him.

Sir Jac. That's right: as a token of amity, and to celebrate our feast, let us call in the fiddles. Now, if the major had but his shoes, he might join in a country dance.

Maj. Sir Jacob, no shoes; a major must be never out of his boots; always ready for action. Mrs. Sneak will find me lightsome enough.

Sneak. What, are all the vomen engaged?

Enter BEVER and YOUNGER.

Young. No, Dick, you must pardon me.
Bev. Nay, but to satisfy your curiosity.
Young. I tell you, I have not a jot.
Bev. Why, then, to gratify me.

Young. At rather too great an expense. Bev. To a fellow of your observation and turn, I should think, now, such a scene a most delicate

treat.

Young. Delicate! Palling, nauseous, to a dreadful degree. To a lover, indeed, the charms of the niece may palliate the uncle's fulsome formality.

Bev. The uncle ! ay; but then, you know, he is only one of the group.

Young. That's true; but the figures are all finished alike. A manicre, a tiresome sameness throughout.

I am sure

Bev. There you will excuse me; there is no want of Variety. Young. No! then let us have a detail. Come, Dick, give us a bill of the play.

Bev. First, you know, there's Juliet's uncle. Young. What, Sir Thomas Lofty! the modern Midas, or, rather (as fifty dedications will tell you), the Pollio, the Atticus, the patron of genius, the protector of arts, the paragon of poets, decider of merit, chief justice of taste, and sworn appraiser to Apollo and the tuneful Nine. Ha, ha! Oh, the tedious, insipid, insufferable coxcomb!

Bev, Nay, now, Frank, you are too extravagant. He is universally allowed to have taste, sharp-judging Adriel, the muse's friend, himself

a muse.

Sir Pet. Matter! why, I am invited to dinner on a barbicu, and the villains have forgot my bottle of chian.

Young. Unpardonable.

Sir Pet. Ay, this country has spoiled them; this same christening will ruin the colonies.Well, dear Bever, rare news, boy! our fleet is arrived from the West. Bev. It is?

on to the next.

Bev. The ingenious and erudite Mr. Rust. Young. What, old Martin the medal-Monger? Bev. The same, and my rival in Juliet. Young. Rival! what, Rust? why, she's too modern for him, by a couple of centuries. Martin! why he likes no heads but upon coins. Married! the mummy! Why, 'tis not above a fortnight ago, that I saw him making love to the figure without a nose in Somerset-gardens: 1 caught him stroaking the marble plaits of her gown, and asked him if he was not ashamed to take such liberties with ladies in public?

Bev. What an inconstant old scoundrel it is! Young. Oh, a Dorimont. But how came this about! what could occasion the change? was it in the power of flesh and blood to seduce this adorer of virtù from his marble and porphyry?

Bev. Juliet has done it; and, what will surprise you, his taste was a bawd to the business. Young. Pr'ythee explain.

Bev. Juliet met him last week at her uncle's: he was a little pleased with the Greek of her profile; but, on a closer inquiry, he found the turn-up of her nose to exactly resemble the bust of the princess Pompæa.

Young. The chaste moiety of the amiable Nero?

Bev. Have you a large importation, Sir Peter? Sir Pet. Nine; but seven in excellent order: the captain assures me they greatly gained ground on the voyage.

Bev. How do you dispose of them?

Sir Pet. Four to Cornhill, three to Almack's, and the two sickly ones I shall send to my borough in Yorkshire.

Young. Ay! what, have the provincials a relish for turtle?

Sir Pet. Sir, it is amazing how this country improves in turtle and turnpikes; to which (give me leave to say) we, from our part of the world, have not a little contributed. Why, formerly, sir, a brace of bucks on the mayor's annual day was thought a pretty moderate blessing. But, we, sir, have polished their palates: Why, sir, not the meanest member in my corporation but can distinguish the pash from the pee. Young. Indeed!

Sir Pet. Ay, and sever the green from the shell with the skill of the ablest anatomist. Young. And are they fond of it?

Sir Pet. Oh, that the consumption will tell you. The stated allowance is six pounds to an aldermen, and five to each of their wives.

Bev. A plentiful provision.

Sir Pet. But there was never known any waste. The mayor, recorder, and rector, are permitted to eat as much as they please.

Young. The entertainment is pretty expen

sive

Sir Pet. Land-carriage and all. But I contrived to smuggle the last that I sent them.

Bev. Smuggle! I don't understand you. Sir Pet. Why, sir, the rascally coachman had always charged me five pounds for the carriage. Damned dear! Now, my cook going at the same time into the country, I made him clap a capuchin upon the turtle, and for thirty shillings put him an inside passenger in the Doncaster fly.

Young. A happy expedient!

Bev. Oh, Sir Peter has infinite humour. Sir Pet. Yes: but the frolic had like to have proved fatal.

Young. How so?

Sir Pet. The maid at the Rummer, at Hatfield popped her head into the coach, to know if the company would have any breakfast: ecod, the turtle, sir, laid hold of her nose, and slapped

Young. Oh, an absolute Rabelais! Bev. What, I reckon, Sir Peter, you are going to the squire?

Sir Pet. Yes; I extremely admire Sir Thomas: you know this is his day of assembly; I suppose you will be there? I can tell you, you are a wonderful favourite.

Bev. Am I?

Sir Pet. He says your natural genius is fine; and, when polished by his cultivation, will surprise and astonish the world.

Bev. I hope, sir, I shall have your voice with the public?

Sir Pet. Mine! O fie Mr. Bever!

Bev. Come, come, you are no inconsiderable patron.

Sir Pet. He, he, he! Can't say but I love to encourage the arts.

Beo. And have contributed largely yourself.
Young. What, is sir Peter an author?

Sir Pet. O fie! what, me? a mere dabbler; have blotted my fingers, 'tis true. Some sounets, that have not been thought wanting in salt. Bev. And your epigrams.

Sir Pet. Not entirely without point. Bev. But come, sir Peter, the love of the arts is not the sole cause of your visits to the house you are going to.

Sir Pet. I don't understand you.

Beo. Miss Juliet, the niece.

Sir Pet. O fie! what chance have I there? Indeep, if lady Pepperpot should happen to pop off

Bev. I don't know that. You are, Sir Peter, a dangerous man: and, were I a father or uncle, I should not be a little shy of your visits.

Sir Pet. Psha! dear Bever, you banter ! Bev. And unless I am extremely out in my guess, that lady

Sir Pet. Hey! what, what, dear Bever?
Bev. But if you should betray me-

Bev. Poetic, but true. Now only conceive, Sir Peter, such a plantation of perfection to be devoured by by that caterpillar, Rust.

Sir Pet. A liquorish grub! Are pine-apples for such muckworms as he? I'll send him a jar of citrons and ginger, and poison the pipkin. Bev. No, no.

Sir Pet. Or invite him to dinner, and mix rat's-bane along with his curry.

Bev. Not so precipitate: I think we may de feat him without any danger.

Sir Pet. How, how?

Bev. I have a thought-but we must settle the plan with the lady. Could not you give her the hint that I should be glad to see her a moment.

Sir Pet. I'll do it directly.

Bev. But don't let Sir Thomas perceive you. Sir Pet. Never fear. You'll follow?

Bev. The instant I have settled matters with her; but fix the old fellow, so that she may not be missed.

Sir Pet. I'll nail him, I warrant; I have his opinion to beg on this manuscript.

Bev. Your own?

Sir Pet. No.

Bev. Oh, oh? what something new from the doctor, your chaplain?

Sir Pet. He! no, no. O Lord, he's eloped! Bev. How!

Sir Pet. Gone. You know he was to dedecate his volume of fables to me: so I gave him thirty pounds to get my arms engraved, to prefix (by way of print) to the frontispiece; and, O grief of griefs! the doctor has moved off with the money. I'll send you Miss Juliet. [Exit.

Bev. There, now, is a special protector? the arts I think, can't but flourish under such a Mæcenas.

Young. Heaven visits with a taste the wealthy

Sir Pet. Indeed!

Bev. True; but then to justify the dispensation,

From hence the poor are clothed, the hungry fed; Fortunes to booksellers, to authors bred.

Young. The distribution is, I own, a little unequal; and here comes a melancholy instancepoor Dick Dactyl, and his publisher, Puff.

Enter DACTYL and PUFF.

Puff. Why, then, Mr. Dactyl, carry them to somebody else; there are people enough in the trade. But I wonder you would meddle with poetry; you know it rarely pays for the paper.

Dac. And how can one help it, Mr. Puff? genius impels; and when a man is once listed in the service of the muses

Puff. Why, let him give them warning as soon as he can. A pretty sort of service indeed,

where there are neither wages nor vails! The muses! And what, I suppose this is the livery they give! Gadzooks, I had rather be a waiter at Ranelagh.

Bev. The poet and publisher are at variance! What is the matter, Mr. Dactyl?

Dac. As Gad shall judge me, Mr. Bever, as pretty a poem, and so polite! not a mortal can take any offence; all full of panegyric and praise.

Puff. A fine character he gives of his works! No offence! the greatest in the world, Mr. Dactyl. Panegyric and praise! and what will that do with the public? why, who the devil will give money to be told, that Mr. Such-a-one is a wiser or better man than himself? No, no ; 'tis quite clean out of nature. A good sousing satire now, well powdered with personal pepper, and seasoned with the spirit of party; that demolishes a conspicuous character, and sinks him below our own level; there, there, we are pleased! there we chuckle and grin, and toss the half-crowns on the counter.

Dac. Yes, and so get cropped for a libel. Puff. Cropped! ay, and the luckiest thing that can happen to you. Why, I would not give twopence for an author that is afraid of his ears. Writing, writing is (as I may say), Mr. Dactyl, a sort of warfare, where none can be victor that is the least afraid of a scar. Why, zooks, sir, I never got salt to my porridge till I mounted at the royal exchange!

Bev. Indeed!

Puff. No, no: that was the making of me. Then my name made a noise in the world. Talk of forked hills, and of Helicon! romantic and fabulous stuff! the true Castalian stream is a shower of eggs, and a pillory the poet's Par

nassus.

Duc. Ay, to you, indeed, it may answer; but what do we get for our pains?

Puff. Why, what the deuce would you get! food, fire, and fame. Why you would not grow fat! a corpulent poet is a monster, a prodigy! No, no spare diet is a spur to the fancy; high feeding would but founder your Pegasus. Dac. Why, you impudent, illiterate rascal! who is it you dare treat in this manner?

Puff. Hey-day, what is the matter now? Dac. And is this the return for all the obligations you owe me? But no matter-the world, the world shall know what you are, and how you have used me.

Puff. Do your worst; I despise you.

Dac They shall be told from what a dunghill you sprang. Gentlemen, if there be faith in a sinner, that fellow owes every shilling to me. Puff. To thee!

Duc. Ay, sirrah, to me. In what kind of way did I find you? when, where and what was your state? Gentlemen, his shop was a shed in Moorfields; his kitchen, a broken pipkin of charcoal; and his bedchamber under the counter. Puff. I never was fond of expense; I ever minded my trade.

Puff. His physic!

Dac. My physic! ay, my physic! Why, dare you deny it, you rascal! what have you forgot my powders for flatulent crudities ? Puff. No.

Dac. My cosmetic lozenge, and sugar plumbs? Puff. No.

Dac. My coral for cutting of teeth, my potions, my lotions, my pregnancy drops, with my paste for superfluous hairs?

Puff. No, no; have you done.

Dac. No, no, no! but I believe this will suffice for the present.

Puff. Now, would not any mortal believe that I owed my all to this fellow?

Bev. Why, indeed, Mr. Puff, the balance does seem in his favour.

Puff. In his favour! why you don't give any credit to him? a reptile, a bug, that owes his very being to me.

Dac. I, I, I!

Puff. You, you! What I suppose you forget your garret in Wine-office-court, when you furnished paragraphs for the Farthing post at twelvepence a dozen?

Dac. Fiction!