Hast. Well, and what then?

Mar. She's mine, you rogue you.

Such fire, such mo

tion, such eyes, such lips-but, egad! she would not let

me kiss them though.

Hast. But are you so sure, so very sure of her?

Mar. Why, man, she talked of shewing me her work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern.

Hast. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her honour?

Mar. Pshaw! pshaw! we all know the honour of the bar-maid of an inn. I don't intend to rob her, take my word for it; there's nothing in this house, I shan't honestly pay for.

Hast. I believe the girl has virtue.

Mar. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that would attempt to corrupt it.

Hast. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to lock up? It's in safety?

Mar. Yes, yes; it's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety? Ah, numskull! I have taken better precautions for you, than you did yourself→→→ I have

Hast. What?

Mar. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you. Hast. To the landlady!

Mar. The landlady.

Hast. You did!

Mar. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcom. ing, you know.

Hast. Yes; she'll bring it forth with a witness.

Mar. Wasn't I right? I believe you'll allow that I acted prudently upon this occasion.

Hast. [Aside.] He must not see my uneasiness.

Mar. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure nothing has happened?

Hast. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge?

Mar. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha! ha! ha!

Hast. He! he! he! They're safe however.
Mar. As a guinea in a miser's purse.

Hast. [Aside.] So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we must set off without it. [To him.] Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he! he! he! may you be as successful for yourself as you have been for me.

[Exit. Mar. Thank ye, George! I ask no more. Ha! ha! ha!

Enter HARDCASTLE.

Hard. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no longer; and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm, [To him,] Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. [Bowing low.

Mar. Sir, your humble servant. [Aside.] What's to be the wonder now?

Hard. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you think so?

Mar. I do, from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome whereever he goes.

Hard. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though

I say nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure you.

Mar. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. [To the side scene.] Here, let one of my servants come up. [To him.] My positive directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my deficiencies below.

Hard. Then they had your orders for what they do! I'm satisfied!

Mar. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of themselves.

Enter SERVANT, drunk.

Mar. You, Jeremy! come forward, sirrah! What were my orders? Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good of the house?

Hard. [Aside.] I begin to lose my patience.

Jer. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever! Though I am but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, sir, dam'me! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, but a good supper will not sit upon --hiccup --upon my conscience, sir.

Mar. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in a beerbarrel.

Hard. Zounds! he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any longer. Mr. Marlow, sir, I have submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, and I see no

likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly.

Mar. Leave your house!-Sure you jest, my good friend! What, when I'm doing what I can to please you? Hard. I tell you, sir, you don't please me; so I desire you'll leave my house.

Mar. Sure you cannot be serious? at this time o'night, and such a night? You only mean to banter me.

Hard. I tell you, sir, I'm serious! and, now that my passions are roused, I say, this house is mine, sir; this house is mine, and I command you to leave it directly.

Mar. Ha! ha! ha! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I assure you. [In a serious tone.] This your house, fellow! It's my house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right have you to bid me to leave this house, sir! I never met with such impudence, curse me, never in my whole life before.

Hard. Nor I, confound me, if ever I did. To come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, "This house is mine, sir.” By all that's impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha! ha! ha! Pray, sir [bantering,] as you take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the furniture? There's a pair of silver candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed bellows; perhaps you may take a fancy to them?

Mar. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your bill, and let's make no more words about it,

Hard. There are a set of prints too. What think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apartment?

Mar. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and your infernal house directly.

Hard. Then there's a mahogany table, that you may see your own face in.

Mar. My bill, I say.

Hard. I had forgot the great chair, for your own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal.

Mar. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more on't.

Hard. Young man, young man! from your father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well-bred, modest man as a visiter here; but now I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be down here presently, and shall hear more of it.

[Exit. Mar. How's this! Sure I have not mistaken the house! Every thing looks like an inn. The servants cry, coming. The attendance is awkward; the bar-maid too to attend us. But she's here, and will further inform me. Whither so fast, child? A word with you.

Enter Miss HARDCASTLE.

Miss Hard. Let it be short then, I'm in a hurry. [Aside.] I believe he begins to find out his mistake, but it's too soon quite to undeceive him.

Mar. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what may your business in this house be? Miss Hard. A relation of the family, sir.

Mar. What, a poor relation?

Miss Hard. Yes, sir; a poor relation appointed to keep the keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them.

Mar. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn.
Miss Hard. Inn! O la!-What brought that in your