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But straining too high your foot makes a stumble,
And into a passing mud cart down you tumble ;
But 'scape just with life, blaming poverty's snares,
That found you a lodging up five pair of stairs !




Bates. Mr. Thomas, I am glad to see you: upon my word, you look charmingly---you wear well Mr. Thomas.

Tho. Which is a wonder, considering how times go, Mr. Bates—they'll wear and tear me too, if I don't take care of myself; my old master has taken the nearest way to wear himself out, and all that belongs to him.

Bates. Why surely this strange story about town is not true, that the old gentleman has fallen in love?

Tho. You never saw such an altered man in your born days! he's grown young again ; he frisks, and prances, and runs about, as if he had a new pair of legs—he has left off his brown camlet surtout, which he wore all the summer,

and with his hat under his arm, he goes open-breasted, and he dresses, and powders, and smirks, so that you would take him for the mad Frenchman in Bedlam--something wrong in his upper story-Would


think it?--he wants me to wear a cue? Bates. Then he is far


indeed ! Tho. As sure as you are there, Mr. Bates, a cue!had sad work about it-I made a compromise with him to wear these ruffled shirts which he gave me; but they stand in my way-I am not so listless with them—though I have tied up my hands for him, I won't tie up my head, that I am resolved.

Bates. This it is to be in love, Thomas !

Tho. He may make free with himself, he shan't make a fool of me—he has got his head into a bag, but I won't have a pig-tail tacked to mine--and so I told him

-we have Bates. What did


tell him ? Tho. That as I and my father, and his father before me, had worn their own hair as heaven had sent it, I thought myself rather too old to set up for a monkey at my time of life, and wear a pig-tail-he, he, he !—he took it.

Bates. With a wry face, for it was wormwood.

Tho. Yes, he was frumped, and called me old blockhead, and would.not speak to me the rest of the day—but the next day he was at it again—he then put me into a passion—and I could not help telling him, that I was an Englishman born, and had my prerogative as well as he; and that as long as I had breath in my body I was for liberty, and a straight head of hair.

Bates. Well said, Thomas—he could not answer that.

Tho. The poorest man in England is a match for the greatest, if he will but stick to the laws of the land, and the statute books, as they are delivered down to us from our forefathers.

Bates. You are right—we must lay our wits together, and drive the widow out of your old master's head.

Tho. With all my heart—nothing can be more meritorious— marry at his years ! what a terrible account would he make of it, Mr. Bates ! Let me see—on the debtor side sixty-fiveand per contra creditor, a buxom widow of twenty-three !

Bates. And so he would, Mr. Thomas—what have you got in your

hand ? Tho. A pamphlet, my old gentleman takes in—he has left off buying histories and religious pieces by numbers, as he used to do: and since he has got this widow in his head, he reads nothing but Cupid's Revels, Call to Marriage, Love in the Suds, and such like tender compositions.

(Exit THOMAS. Bates. There he comes, with all his folly about him.Whit. (Without.) Where is he? where is my good friend ?

Enter WHITTLE. Ha ! here he is—give me your

hand. Bates. I am glad to see you in such spirits, my old gentle


Whit. Not so old neither. No man ought to be called old, friend Bates, if he is in health, spirits, and

Bates. In his senses—which I should rather doubt, as I never saw you half so frolicsome in


life. Whit. Never too old to learn, friend; and if I don't make use of my own philosophy now, I may wear it out in twenty years. I have been always bantered as of too grave a cast. You know, when I studied at Lincoln's Inn, they used to call me Young Wisdom.

Bates. And if they should call you Old Folly, it will be a much worse name.

Whit. No young jackanapes dares to call me so, while I have this friend at my side.

(Touches his sword. Bates. A hero, too! What, in the name of common sense, has come to you, my friend ? High spirits, quick honor, a long sword, and a bag! You want nothing but to be terribly in love, and then you may sally forth Knight of the Woful Countenance. Ha, ha, ha!

Whit. Mr. Bates, the ladies, who are the best judges of countenances, are not of your opinion; and unless you'll be a little serious, I must beg pardon for giving you this trouble, and I'll open my mind to some more attentive friend.

Bates. Well, come; unlock, then, you wild, handsome, vigorous, young dog, you—I will please you, if I can.

Whit. I believe you never saw me look better, Frank, did


Bates. O yes, rather better forty years ago.
Whit. What! when I was at Merchant Tailors' School ?
Bates. At Lincoln's Inn, Tom.

Whit. It can't be I never disguise my age; and next February I shall be fifty-four.

Bates. Fifty-four! Why, I am sixty, and you always licked me at school—though I believe I could do as much for you now; and, ecod! I believe you deserve it too.

Whit. I tell you I am in my fifty-fifth year.

Bates. O, you are— let me see we were together at Cambridge, Anno Domini twenty-five, which is near fifty years ago. You came to the college, indeed, surprisingly young ; and, what is more surprising, by this calculation you went to school before you was born,—you was always a forward child.

Whit. I see there is no talking or consulting with you in this humor; and so, Mr. Bates, when you are in a temper to show less of your wit, and more of your friendship, I shall consult with

you. Bates. Fare you well, my old boy-young fellow, I mean. When

you have done sowing your wild oats, and have been blistered into your right senses ;


have half killed yourself with being a beau, and return to your woollen caps, flannel waistcoats, worsted stockings, cork soles, and galoches, I am at your service again. So, bon jour to you, Monsieur Fifty-four. Ha, ha!

(Exit. Whit. He has certainly heard of my affair. But he is old and peevish; he wants spirits and strength of constitution to conceive my happiness. I am in love with the widow, and must have her. Every man knows his own wants. Let the world laugh, and my friends stare !-let 'em call me imprudent and mad, if they please ! I live in good times, and among people of fashion; so none of my neighbors, thank Heaven, can have the assurance to laugh at me.


Ir sick of home and luxuries,

You want a new sensation,
And sigh for the unwonted ease

Of unaccommodation-

would taste as amateur,
And vagabond beginner,
The painful pleasures of the poor,

Get up a pic-nic dinner.
Presto !-'tis done!-away you start,

All frolic, fun, and laughter;

The servants and provision cart

As gaily trotting after.
The spot is reach'd—when all exclaim,

With many a joyous antic --
“ How sweet a scene! I'm glad we came !

How rural! how romantic !!!

Half starved with hunger, parch'd with thirst,

All haste to spread the dishes, When, lo! 'tis found the ale had burst

Among the loaves and fishes! Over the pie a sudden hop

The grasshoppers are skipping ; Each roll 's a sponge, each loaf a mop,

And all the meat is dripping !

Bristling with broken glass, you find

Some cakes among the bottles-
Which those may eat who do not mind

Excoriated throttles !
The biscuits now are wiped and dried,

When squalling voices utter-
" Look! look! a toad has got astride

Our only pot of butter !!!

Your solids in a liquid state,

Your cooling liquids heated,
And ev'ry promis'd joy by fate

Most fatally defeated.
All, save the serving-men, are soured

They smirk--the cunning sinners-
Having, before they came, devoured

Most comfortable dinners !

Still you assume, in very spite,

A grim and gloomy sadness ; Pretend to laugh-affect delight,

And scorn all show of sadness !

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