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Iago. Why, but you are now well enough: how came you thus recovered?

Caf. It has pleafed the devil Drunkennefs to give place to the devil Wrath; one imperfectnefs fhews me another, to make me frankly despise myself.

Iago. Come, you are too fevere a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country ftands, I could heartily with this had not befallen; but fince it is as it is, mend it for your own good.

Caf. I will ask him for my place again -he fhall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, fuch an answer would stop them all. To be now a fenfible man, by and by a fool, and prefently a beast! Every inordinate cup is unblefs'd, and the ingredient is a devil.

Iago. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well us'd; exclaim no more against it. And, good Lieutenant, I think you think I love you.

Caf. I have well approv'd it, Sir.-I drunk!

lago. You, or any man living, may be drunk at fome time, man. I tell you what you fhall do. Our general's wife is now the general. Confets yourself freely to her: importune her help, to put you in your place again. She is of fo free, fo kind, fo apt, fo bleffed a difpofition, fhe holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than he is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband, entreat her to plinter; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love fhall grow ftronger than it was before.

Caf. You advise me well.

lago. I proteft, in the fincerity of love and honeft kindness.

Caf. I think it freely; and, betimes in the morning, I will befeech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me.

lago. You are in the right. Good night, Lieutenant: I must to the watch.

Caf. Good night, honeft Iago.

Shakespeare.

$26. A Dialogue between MERCURY and a modern fine Lady.

Mrs. Modih. Indeed, Mr. Mercury, I cannot have the pleafure of waiting upon you now. I am engaged, abfolutely engaged.

Mercury. I know you have an amiable affectionate husband, and feveral fine chil

dren: but you need not be told, that neither conjugal attachments, maternal affections, nor even the care of a kingdom's welfare or a nation's glory, can excufe a perfon who has received a fummons to the realms of death. If the grim meffenger was not as peremptory as unwelcome, Charon would not get a paffenger (except now and then an hypochondriacal Englishman) once in a century. You must be content to leave your husband and family, and pass the Styx.

Mrs. Modifh. I did not mean to infi on any engagement with my husband and children; I never thought myself engaged to them. I had no engagements but fuch as were common to women of my rank. Look on my chimney-piece, and you will fee I was engaged to the play on Mondays, balls on Tuesdays, the opera on Saturdays, and to card affemblies the rest of the week, for two months to come; and it would be the rudeft thing in the world not to keep my appointments. If you will stay for me till the fummer feafon, I will wait on you with all my heart. Perhaps the Elysian fields may be lefs deteftable than the coun try in our world. Pray, have you a fine Vauxhall and Ranelagh? I think I should not diflike drinking the Lethe waters, when you have a full feafon.

Mercury. Surely you could not like to drink the waters of oblivion, who have made pleafure the bufinefs, end, and aim of your life! It is good to drown cares : but who would wash away the remembrance of a life of gaiety and pleasure ?

Mrs. Modifh, Diverfion was indeed the bufinefs of my life; but as to pleasure, I have enjoyed none fince the novelty of my amufements was gone off. Can one be pleafed with feeing the fame thing over and over again? Late hours and fatigue gave me the vapours, fpoiled the natural chearfulness of my temper, and even in youth wore away my youthful vivacity,

Mercury. If this way of life did not give you pleafure, why did you continue in it? I fuppofe you did not think it was very meritorious?

Mrs. Modifh. I was too much engaged to think at all: fo far indeed my manner of life was agreeable enough. My friends always told me diverfions were neceffary, and my doctor affured me diffipation was good for my fpirits; my husband infifted that it was not; and you know that one loves to oblige one's friends, comply with one's doctor, and contradict one's hulband;

and

and befides, I was ambitious to be thought du bon ton *.

Mercury. Bon ton! what's that, Madam? Pray define it.

Mrs. Modifh. Oh, Sir, excufe me; it is one of the privileges of the bon ton never to define or be defined. It is the child and the parent of jargon. It is-I can never tell you what it is; but I will try to tell you what it is not. In converfation it is not wit; in manners it is not politenefs; in behaviour it is not addrefs; but it is a little like them all. It can only belong to people of a certain rank, who live in a certain manner, with certain perfons who have not certain virtues, and who have certain vices, and who inhabit a certain part of the town. Like a place by courtefy, it gets an higher rank than the person can claim, but which thofe who have a legal title to precedency dare not difpute, for fear of being thought not to understand the rules of politeness. Now, Sir, I have told as much as I know of it, though I have admired and aimed at it all my life.

you

Mercury. Then, Madam, you have wafted your time, faded your beauty, and de. itroyed your health, for the laudable purposes of contradicting your husband, and being this fomething and this nothing called the bon ton ?

Mrs. Modifh. What would you have had me do?

Mercury. I will follow your mode of inftructing: I will tell you what I would not have had you do. I would not have had you facrifice your time, your reason, and your duties to fafhion and folly. I would not have had you neglect your hufband's happiness, and your children's education.

Mrs. Modifh. As to my daughters' education I fpared no expence: they had a dancing-mafter, mufic-mafter, and draw ing-matter, and a French governess to teach them behaviour and the French language.

Mercury. So their religion, fentiments, and manners, were to be learnt from a dancing-mafter, mufic-mafter, and a chamber-maid! perhaps they might prepare them to catch the bon ton. Your daughters must have been fo educated as to fit them to be wives without conjugal affection, and mothers without maternal care. I am forry for the fort of life they are commencing,

• Du bon ton is a cant phrafe in the modern French language, for the fashionable air of converfation and manners,

and for that which you have juft concluded. Minos is a four old gentleman, without the leaft fmattering of the bon ton; and I am in a fright for you. The best thing I can advife you is, to do in this world as you did in the other, keep happiness in your view, but never take the road that leads to it. Remain on this fide Styx; wander about without end or aim; look into the Elysian fields, but never attempt to enter into them, left Minos fhould push you into Tartarus: for duties neglected may bring on a fentence not much lefs fevere than crimes committed. Dialogues of the Dead.

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27. Scene between the Jews SHYLOCK and TUBAL; in which the latter alternately torments and pleases the former, by giving him an Account of the Extravagance of his Daughter JESSICA, and the Misfortunes of ANTONIO.

Shy. How now, Tubal? What news from Genoa? haft thou heard of my daughter?

Tub. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

Shy. Why there, there, there! a diamond gone that coft me two thousand ducats in Francfort! The curfe never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now.

Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels! I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear! O would the were hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them; and I know not what spent in the fearch: lofs upon lofs! the thief gone with fo much, and fo much to find the thief; and no fatisfaction, no revenge; no ill luck ftirring but what lights on my fhoulders; no fighs, but o' my breathing; no tears, but o' my fhedding!

Tub. Yes, other men have ill luck too; Antonio, as I heard in Genoa

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BOOK THE

Shy. Thou ftick'ft a dagger in me; I fhall never fee my gold again: fourscore ducats at a fitting! fourfcore ducats!

Tub. There came divers of Antonio's
creditors in my company to Venice, that
fwear he cannot but break.

Shy. I am glad of it: I'll plague him,
I'll torture him: I am glad of it.

Tab. One of them fhewed me a ring
that he had of your daughter for a mon-
key.

Shy. Out upon her! thou tortureft me, Tubal! it was my ruby, I had it of Leah when I was a batchelor; I would not have given it for a wildernefs of monkies.

Tub. But Antonio is certainly undone.
Shy. Nay, that's true, that's very true:
go fee me an officer, befpeak him a fort-
night before. I will have the heart of
him, if he forfeit; for were he out of
Venice, I can make what merchandize I
will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at
our fynagogue; go, good Tubal; at our
fynagogue, Tubal.
Shakespeare.

$28. Humorous Scene between Prince
HENRY and FALSTAFF, in which the
Prince detects FALSTAFF's monstrous
Lies.

P. Henry. Welcome, Jack!
haft thou been?

Where

Fal. A plague of all cowards, I fay, and a vengeance, too, marry and amen! Give me a cup of fack, boy-ere I lead this life long, I'll few nether focks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards! give me a cup of fack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks.]-You rogue, here's lime in this fack too. There is nothing but roguery to be found in villainous man; yet a coward is worse than a cup of fack with lime in it. A yillainous coward!-Go thy ways, old Jack; die when thou wilt, if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a fhotten herring. There live not three good men unhang'd in England, and one of them is fat, and grows old, Heaven help the while! A bad world! I fay-A plague of all cowards! I fay ftill.

P. Henry. How now, Woolfack! what mutter you?

Fal. A king's fon! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy fubjects afore thee like a flock of wild geefe, I'll never wear hair on my face more! You Prince of Wales !

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FOURTH.

P. Henry. Why, what's the matter? Fal. Are you not a coward? anfwes me that.

me coward, I'll ftab thee.
P. Henry. Ye fat paunch, an'

Fal.

ye call

hang'd ere I'll call thee coward; but I
I call thee coward! I'll fee thee
as faft as thou canft. You are ftrait enough
would give a thousand pound I could run
in the fhoulders; you care not who fees
friends? a plague upon fuch backing!
your back, Call you that backing of your
give me them that will face me give me
a cup of fack: I am a rogue if I drank
to-day.

wip'd fince thou drank'st last.
P. Henry. O villain! thy lips are scarce

A plague of all cowards! ftill, fay I.
Fal. All's one for that. [He drinks.]
P. Henry. What's the matter?

of us have ta'en a thousand pound this
Fal. What's the matter! here be four
morning.

P. Henry. Where is it, Jack? where is it?

Fal. Where is it! taken from us, it is: a hundred upon four of us.

P. Henry. What! a hundred, man ? fword with a dozen of them two hours toFal. I am a rogue if I were not at halfeight times thruft through the doublet, four gether. I have escaped by miracle. I am through the hofe, my buckler cut through and through, my fword hack'd like a handfaw, ecce fignum! I never dealt better fince I was a man: all would not do. A plague of all cowards!

P. Henry. What, fought you with them

all?

a bunch of radish; if there were not two or
Fal. All! I know not what ye call all;
three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I
but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am
am no two-legg'd creature.

murder'd fome of them!
P. Henry. Pray Heav'n you have not

have pepper'd two of them; two, I am
fure, I have paid; two rogues in buckram
Fal. Nay, that's paft praying for. I
fuits. I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a
knoweft my old ward: here I lay, and thus
lie, fpit in my face, call me horse. Thou
let drive at me.
I bore my point: four rogues in buckram

two even now.
P. Henry.
What, four! thou faidft but

Thefe four came all a-front, and mainly.
Fal. Four, Hal, I told thee four.—
thruft at me: I made no more ado, but

took

took all their seven points in my target, thus.

P. Henry. Seven! why they were but four even now.

Fal. In buckram?

P. Henry. Ay, four, in buckram fuits. Fal. Seven by these hilts, or I am a villain elfe. Doft thou hear me, Hal?

P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do fo, for it is worth the liftening to. These nine in buckram, that I told thee ofP. Henry. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken, began to give me ground; but I follow'd me clofe, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought-feven of the eleven I paid.

P. Henry. O monstrous! eleven buckram men grown out of two.

Fal. But as the devil would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and let drive at me; (for it was fo dark, Hal, that thou couldst not fee thy hand.)

P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them, grofs as a mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou obfcene greasy tallow-catch

Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth the truth?

And,

can fhew it you here in the house. Falftaff, you carry'd your guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and ftill ran and roar'd, as ever I heard bull-calf. What a flave art thou, to hack thy fword as thou haft done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canft thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent fhame ?

Fal. Ha ha! ha!-D'ye think I did not know you ?-By the Lord, I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear ye, my mafter, was it for me to kill the heir-apparent? fhould I turn upon the true prince? why, thou knoweft I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware inftinct; the lion will not touch the true prince; inftinct is a great matter. I was a coward on inftinct, I grant you: and I thall think the better of myfelf and thee during my life; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. What, fhall we be merry? fhall we have a play extempore?

P. Henry. Content!-and the argument fhall be, thy running away. Fal. Ah!-no more of that, Hal, if thou loveft me. Shakespeare.

P. Henry. Why, how couldft thou know thefe men in Kendal-green, when it was fo$29. Scene in which MOODY gives

dark thou couldst not fee thy hand? Come, tell us your reafon: what fay'st thou to this? Come, your reafon, Jack, your reason.

Fal. What upon compulfion !-No: were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulfion! Give you a reafon on compulsion! If reafons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reafon upon compulfion.

P. Henry. I'll be no longer guilty of this fin. This fanguine coward, this bedpreffer, this horfe-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh

Fal. Away, you ftarveling, you elf. fkin, you dry'd neat's tongue, you stock-fish! O, for breath to utter! what is like thee? you taylor's yard, you sheath, you bow-case, you vile standing tuck

P. Henry. Well, breath a while, and then to't again; and when thou haft tir'd thyfelf in bafe comparifons, hear me fpeak but this :-Poins and I faw you four fet on four; you bound them, and were mafters of their wealth: mark now, how a plain tale fhall put you down. Then did we two fet on you four, and with a word out-fac'd you from your prize, and have it; yea, and

MANLY an Account of the Journey to
LONDON.

Manly. Honeft John!

Moody. Meafter Manly! I am glad I ha' fun ye.-Well, and how d'ye do, Meafter?

Manly. I am glad to fee you in London. I hope all the good family are well.

Mocdy. Thanks be prais'd, your honour, they are all in pretty good heart; thof' we have had a power of croffes upo' the road.

Manly. What has been the matter, John? Moody. Why, we came up in fuch a hurry, you mun think, that our tackle was not fo tight as it should be.

Manly. Come, tell us all-Pray, how do they travel?

Moody. Why, i'the awld coach, Meafter; and 'cause my Lady loves to do things handfome, to be fure, fhe would have a couple of cart-horfes clapt to the four old geldings, that neighbours might fee fhe went up to London in her coach and fix; and fo Giles Joulter, the ploughman, rides poftilion.

Manly. And when do you expect them here, John ?

Moody. Why, we were in hopes to ha'

come

come yesterday, an' it had no' been that th'awld weazle-belly horfe tired: and then we were fo cruelly loaden, that the two forewheels came crafh dawn at once, in Waggonrut-lane, and there we lost four hours 'fore we could fet things to rights again.

Manly. So they bring all their baggage with the coach, then?

Moody. Ay, ay, and good store on't there is-Why, my lady's gear alone were as much as filled four portmantel trunks, befides the great deal box that heavy Ralph and the monkey fit upon behind. Manly. Ha, ha, ha!-And, pray, how many are they within the coach?

Moody. Why there's my lady and his worship, and the younk 'fquoire, and Mifs Jenny, and the fat lap-dog, and my lady's maid Mrs. Handy, and Doll Tripe the cook, that's all-only Doll puked a little with riding backward; fo they hoifted her into the coach-box, and then her ftomach was easy.

Manly. Ha, ha, ha!

Moody. Then you mun think, Meafter, there was fome ftowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; children are apt to be famish'd upo' the road; fo we had fuch cargoes of plumb-cake, and baskets of tongues, and bifcuits, and cheese, and cold boil'd beef and then, in cafe of sickness, bottles of cherry-brandy, plague-water, fack, tent, and ftrong beer fo plenty, as made th' awld coach crack again. Mercy upon them! and fend them all well to town, I fay.

Manly. Ay, and well out on't again, John. Moody. Meafter! you're a wife mon; and, for that matter, fo am I-Whoam's whoam, I fay: I am fure we ha' got but little good e'er fin' we turn'd our backs on't. Nothing but mifchief! fome devil's trick or other plagued us aw th' day lung. Crack, goes one thing! bawnce, goes another! Woa! fays Roger-Then, lowfe! we are all fet faft in a flough. Whaw! cries Mifs: Scream! go the maids; and bawl juft as thof' they were ftuck. And fo, mercy on us! this was the trade from morning to night.

Manly. Ha, ha, ha!

Meady. But I mun hie me whoam; the coach will be coming every hour naw.

Manly. Well, honeft John-Moo.ly. Dear Meafter Manly! the goodnefs of goodness blefs and preferve you! 30. Directions for the Management of

Wit.

If you have wit (which I am not fure

that I wish you, unless you have at the fame time at least an equal portion of judgment to keep it in good order) wear it, like your fword, in the fcabbard, and do

not blandish it to the terror of the whole company. Wit is a fhining quality, that every body admires; moft people aim at it, all people fear it, and few love it, unless in themselves:-a man must have a good fhare of wit himself, to endure a great thare in another. When wit exerts itself in fatire, it is a moft malignant diftemper: wit, it is true, may be fhewn in fatire, but fatire does not conftitute wit, as many imagine. A man of wit ought to find a thousand better occafions of thewing it.

Abstain, therefore, most carefully from fatire; which, though it fall on no particular perfon in company, and momentarily, from the malignancy of the human heart, pleafes all; yet, upon reflection, it fright ens all too. Every one thinks it may be his turn next; and will hate you for what he finds you could fay of him, more than be obliged to you for what you do not fay. Fear and hatred are next-door neighhours; the more wit you have, the more good-nature and politeness you must shew, to induce people to pardon your fuperiority; for that is no easy matter.

Appear to have rather lefs than more wit than you really have. A wife man will live at least as much within his wit as his income. Content yourself with good fenfe and reafon, which at the long run are ever fure to please every body who has either: if wit comes into the bargain, welcome it, but never invite it. Bear this truth always in your mind, that you may be admired for your wit, if you have any; but that nothing but good fenfe and good qua lities can make you be beloved. Thefe are fubftantial every day's wear; whereas wit is a holiday-fuit, which people put on chiefly to be stared at.

There is a fpecies of minor wit, which is much ufed, and much more abused; I mean raillery. It is a molt mischievous and dangerous weapon, when in unskilful and clumfy hands; and it is much fater` to let it quite alone than to play with it; and yet almost every body do play with it, though they fee daily the quarrels and heart-burnings that it occafions.

The injuftice of a bad man is sooner forgiven than the infults of a witty one; the former only hurts one's liberty and property; but the latter hurts and mortifies that fecret pride which no human breast is free from. I will allow, that there is a

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