Ger. Come, fairest, why do you frown?
Hip. Because I am angry.

Ger. I am come on purpose to please you, then ; do not receive me so unkindly.

Hip. I tell you, I do not use to receive men.— There has not been a man in the house before, but my cousin, this twelvemonth, I'd have you to know.

Ger. Then you ought to bid me the more welcome, I'd have you to know.

Hip. What do you mock me too? I know I am but a home-bred simple girl; but I thought you gallants of the town had been better bred than to mock a poor girl in her father's own house. I have beard, indeed, 'tis a part of good breeding to mock people behind their backs, but not to their faces.

Ger. [Aside.] Pretty creature! she has not only the beauty, but the innocency of an angel.-[ To HIPPOLITA.] Mock you, dear miss! no, I only repeated the words because they were yours, sweet miss; what we like we imitate.

Hip. Dear miss! sweet miss! how came you and I so well acquainted? this is one of your confident tricks, too, as I have been told; you'll be acquainted with a woman in the time you can help her over a bench in the playhouse, or to her coach. But I need not wonder at your confidence, since you could come in at the great gallery window just But, pray, who shall pay for the glass you have broken?

now.

Ger. Pretty creature! your father might have made the window bigger then, since he has so fine a daughter, and will not allow people to come in at the door to her.

Hip. A pleasant man !-well, 'tis harder playing the hypocrite with him, I see, than with my aunt or father; and if dissimulation were not very natural to a woman, I'm sure I could not use it at this time: but the mask of simplicity and innocency is as useful to an intriguing woman as the mask of religion to a statesman, they say. [Aside.

Ger. Why do you look away, dearest miss? Hip. Because you quarrelled with me just now for frowning upon you, and I cannot help it, if I look upon you.

Ger. O let me see that face at any rate. Hip. Would you have me frown upon you? for I shall be sure to do't.

Ger. Come, I'll stand fair: you have done your worst to my heart already.

Hip. Now I dare not look upon him, lest I should not be able to keep my word.

[4side.

Hip. Ih-h-like this man strangely, I was going to say loved him. Courage then, Hippolita ! make use of the only opportunity thou canst have to enfranchise thyself. Women formerly (they say) never knew how to make use of their time till it was past; but let it not be said so of a young woman of this age.-My damned aunt will be stirring presently:-well, then, courage, I say, Hippolita-thou art full fourteen years old,-shift for thyself. [Aside.

Ger. So! I have looked upon her so long, till I am grown bashful too. Love and modesty come together like money and covetousness, and the more we have, the less we can show it. I dare not look her in the face now, nor speak a word.

[Aside.

Hip What, sir, methinks you look away now! Ger. Because you would not look upon me, miss. Hip. Nay, I hope you can't look me in the face, since you have done so rude a thing as to come in at the window upon me. Come, come, when once we women find the men bashful, then we take heart. Now I can look upon you as long as you will; let's see if you can frown upon me

now.

Ger. Lovely innocency! no, you may swear I can't frown upon you, miss.

Hip. So! I knew you were ashamed of what you have done. Well, since you are ashamed, and because you did not come of your own head, but was sent by my cousin, you say—

Ger. Which I wonder at.

[Aside.

Hip. For all these reasons, I do forgive you. Ger. In token of your forgiveness then, dearest miss, let me have the honour to kiss your hand.

Hip. Nay, there 'tis; you men are like our little shock-dogs, if we don't keep you off from us, but use you a little kindly, you grow so fiddling and so troublesome, there is no enduring you.

Ger. O dear miss! if I am like your shock-dog, let it be in his privileges.

Hip. Why, I'd have you to know he does not lie with me.

Ger. 'Tis well guessed, miss, for one so innocent. Hip. No, I always kick him off from the bed, and never will let him come near it; for of late, indeed, (I do not know what's the reason,) I don't much care for my shock-dog, nor my babies.

Ger. O then, miss, I may have hopes! for after the shock-dog and the babies, 'tis the man's turn to be beloved.

Hip. Why, could you be so good-natured as to come after my shock-dog in my love? it may be, indeed, rather than after one of your brother

men.

Ger. Hah, ha, ha!-poor creature! a wonder of innocency! [Aside. Hip. But I see you are humble, because you would kiss my hand.

Ger. No, I am ambitious therefore.

Hip. [Aside.] Well, all this fooling but loses time, I must make better use of it. [To GERRARD.] I could let you kiss my hand, but then I'm afraid you would take hold of me and carry me away. Ger. Indeed I would not.

Hip. Come, I know you would.

Ger. Truly I would not.

Hip. You would you would! I know you would.

Ger. I'll swear I wo' not-by

Hip. Nay, don't swear, for you'll be the apter to do it then. [Aside.] I would not have him forswear it neither ;-he does not like me, sure, well enough to carry me away.

Ger. Dear miss, let me kiss your hand. Hip. I am sure you would carry me away if I should.

Ger. Be not afraid of it.

Hip. [Aside.] Nay, I am afraid of the contrary. Either he dislikes me, and therefore will not be troubled with me, or what is as bad, he loves me and is dull, or fearful to displease me.

Ger. Trust me, sweetest! I can use no violence

to you.

Hip. Nay, I am sure you would carry me away; what should you come in at the window for, if you did not mean to steal me?

Ger. If I should endeavour it, you might cry out, and I should be prevented.

Hip. [Aside.] Dull, dull man of the town! are all like thee? He is as dull as a country squire at questions and commands.-[To GERRARD.] No, if I should cry out never so loud, this is quite at the further end of the house, and there nobody could hear me.

Ger. I will not give you the occasion, dearest. Hip. [Aside.] Well, I will quicken thy sense, if it be possible.-[To GERRARD.] Nay, I know you come to steal me away; because I am an heiress, and have twelve hundred pounds a year, lately left me by my mother's brother, which my father cannot meddle with, and which is the chiefest reason (I suppose) why he keeps me up so close. Ger. Ha!

Hip. So this has made him consider. O money! powerful money! how the ugly, old, crooked, straight, handsome young women are beholden to thee! [Aside.

Ger. Twelve hundred pounds a year!

Hip. Besides, I have been told my fortune, and the woman said I should be stolen away, because she says 'tis the fate of heiresses to be stolen away.

Ger. Twelve hundred pounds a-year! [Aside. Hip. Nay, more, she described the man to me that was to do it, and he was as like you as could be. Have you any brothers?

Ger. My soul! my life! 'tis you have charms powerful as numberless, especially those of your innocency irresistible, and do surprise the wariest heart. Such mine was, while I could call it mine, but now 'tis yours for ever.

Hip. Well, well, get you gone then. I'll keep it safe for your sake.

Ger. Nay, you must go with me, sweetest. Hip. Well, I see you will part with the jewel; but you will have the keeping of the cabinet to which you commit it.

Ger. Come, come, my dearest, let us be gone : Fortune as well as women must be taken in the humour.

As they are going out, PRUE runs hastily to them. Prue. O miss, miss! your father, it seems, is just now arrived, and is here coming in upon you. Hip. My father!

Enter DON DIEGO and Mrs. CAUTION. Don. My daughter and a man ! Mrs. Caut. A man! a man in the house! Ger. Ha! what mean these?-a Spaniard ! Hip. What shall I do? Stay-Nay, pray stir not from me; but lead me about, as if you led me [Leads her about.

a corant.

Don. Is this your government, sister? and this your innocent charge, that hath not seen the face of a man this twelvemonth? en hora mala ! Mrs. Caut. O, sure, it is not a man! it cannot be a man! [Puts on her spectacles. Don. It cannot be a man! if he be not a man, he's a devil. He has her lovingly by the hand too, valga me el cielo !

Hip. Do not seem to mind them, but dance on, or lead me about still.

Ger. What d'ye mean by it. [Apart to HIPPOLITA. Don. Hey, they are frolic, a-dancing!

Mrs. Caut. Indeed, they are dancing, I think.— Why, niece!

Don. Nay, hold a little: I'll make 'em dance in the devil's name; but it shall not be, la gailliarda. [Draws his sword.

Mrs. Caut. O niece! why niece!

[CAUTION holds him.

Ger. Do you hear her? what do you mean?

[Apart to HIPPOLITA, Hip. Take no notice of them; but walk about still, and sing a little, sing a corant.

Ger. I can't sing: but I'll hum, if you will. Don. Are you so merry? well I'll be with you: en hora mala!

Mrs. Caut. O niece, niece! why niece! ohDon. Why, daughter, my dainty daughter! My shame! my ruin! my plague!

[Struggling, gets from CAUTION, goes towards them with his sword drawn.

Hip. Mind him not, but dance and sing on.

Ger. A pretty time to dance and sing, indeed, when I have a Spaniard with a naked Toledo at my tail! No, pray excuse me, miss, from fooling any longer.

Hip. [Turning about.] O, my father, my father poor father! you are welcome; pray give me your blessing.

Don. My blessing, en hora mala!

Hip. What am I not your daughter, sir?
Don. My daughter! mi mal muerte !

Hip. My name's Hippolita, sir: I don't own your Spanish names. But, pray father, why do you frighten one so? you know I don't love to see a sword: what do you mean to do with that ugly thing out?

Don. I'll show you. Trayidor! ladron! demi houra thou diest. [Runs at GERRARD,

Ger. Not if I can help it, good Don. But by the names you give me, I find you mistake your man: I suppose some Spaniard has affronted you. [Draws.

Don. None but thee, ladron! and thou diest for 't.

Hip. Pish-you don't know a dancing-master you have not seen one these threescore years, I warrant.

Mrs. Caut. No matter: but he does not look like a dancing-master.

Don. Nay, nay, dancing-masters look like gentlemen enough, sister: but he's no dancing-master, by drawing a sword so briskly. Those tripping outsides of gentlemen, are like gentlemen enough in everything but in drawing a sword; and since he a gentleman, he shall die by mine.

Mrs. Caut. Hold! hold!--Pray, brother let's talk with him a little first; I warrant you I shall trap him; and if he confesses, you may kill him ; for those that confess, they say, ought to be hanged -Let's see

Ger. Foor Hippolita! I wish I had not had this occasion of admiring thy wit; I have increased my love, whilst I have lost my hopes; the common fate of poor lovers. [Aside.

Mrs. Caut. Come you are guilty, by that hanging down of your head. Speak: are you a dancingmaster? Speak, speak; a dancing master?

Ger. Yes, forsooth, I am a dancing master: ay,

Mrs. Caut. Nay, it may be, indeed; he might lend it to him for aught I know.

Don. Ay, ay: but ask him, sister, if he be a dancing-master, where.

Mrs. Caut. Pray, brother, let me alone with him, I know what to ask him, sure.

Don. What, will you be wiser than I? nay, then stand away. Come, if you are a dancing-master, where's your school? Adonde! adonde!

Mrs. Caut. Why, he'll say, may be, he has ne'er a one.

Don. Who asked you, nimble chaps? So you have put an excuse in his head.

Ger. Indeed, sir, 'tis no excuse: I have no school.

Mrs. Caut. Well; but who sent you? how came you hither?

Ger. There I am puzzled indeed. [Aside. Mrs. Caut. How came you hither, I say? howGer. Why, how, how should I come hither? Don. Ay, how should he come hither? Upon his legs.

Mrs. Caut. So, so! now you have put an excuse in his head too, that you have, so you have; but stay

Don. Nay, with your favour, mistress, I'll ask

him now.

Mrs. Caut. Y'facks, but you shan't! I'll ask him, and ask you no favour, that I will.

Don. Y'fackins, but you shan't ask him! if you go there too, look you, you prattle-box you I'll ask him.

Mrs. Caut. I will ask him, I say!-come:
Don. Where?

Mrs. Caut. What!

Don. Mine's a shrewd question.

Mrs. Caut. Mine's as shrewd as yours.

Don. Nay, then,' we shall have it. - Come, answer me; where's your lodging? come, come, sir.

Mrs. Caut. A shrewd question, indeed! at the Surgeons'-arms, I warrant you; for 'tis spring time, you know.

Don. Must you make lies for him?

Mrs. Caut. But come, sir; what's your name? -answer me to that; come.

Don. His name! why, 'tis an easy matter to tell you a false name, I hope.

Mrs. Caut. So! must you teach him to cheat us? Don. Why did you say my questions were not shrewd questions, then?

Mrs. Caut. And why would you not let me ask him the question, then? Brother, brother, ever while you live, for all your Spanish wisdom, let an old woman make discoveries: the young fellows cannot cheat us in anything, I'd have you to know. Set your old woman still to grope out an intrigue, because, you know, the mother found her daughter in the oven. A word to the wise, brother.

Don. Come, come, leave this tattling: he has dishonoured my family, debauched my daughter; and what if he could excuse himself? The Spanish proverb says, excuses neither satisfy creditors nor the injured. The wounds of honour must have blood and wounds, St. Jago, para mi!

Hip. My cousin sent him; because, as he said, he would have me recover my dancing a little before our wedding, having made a vow he would never marry a wife who could not dance a corant. I am sure I was unwilling; but he would have him come, saying I was to be his wife as soon as you came, and therefore expected obedience from me.

Don. Indeed, the venture is most his, and the shame would be most his; for I know here in England, 'tis not the custom for the father to be much concerned what the daughter does; but I will be a Spaniard still.

Hip. Did not you hear him say last night he would send me one this morning?

Mrs. Caut. No, not I, sure. If I had, he nad

never come here.

Hip. Indeed, aunt, you grow old I see; your memory fails you very much. Did not you hear him, Prue, say he would send him to me? Prue. Yes, I'll be sworn did I.

Hip. Look you there, aunt.

Mrs. Caut. I wonder I should not remember it. Don. Come, come, you are a doting old fool.

Mrs. Caut. So! So! the fault will be mine now. But pray, mistress, how did he come in? I am sure I had the keys of the doors, which, till your father came in, were not opened to-day.

Hip. He came in just after my father, I suppose.

Mrs. Caut. It might be, indeed, while the por.

ters brought in the things, and I was talking with

you.

Don. O, might he so, forsooth! you are a brave governante! Look you, you a duenna, voto !-and not know who comes in and out!

Mrs. Caut. So! 'tis my fault, I know.

Don. Your maid was in the room with you; was she not, child?

Hip. Yes, indeed, and indeed, father, all the

while.

Don. Well, child, I am satisfied then.-But I hope he does not use the dancing-master's tricks, of squeezing your hands, setting your legs and feet, by handling your thighs and seeing your legs.

Hip. No, indeed, father: I'd give him a box on the ear if he should.

Don. Poor innocent!-Well, I am contented you should learn to dance, since, for aught I know, you shall be married to-morrow, or the next day at farthest by that time you may recover a corant -a saraband I would say. And since your cousin, too, will have a dancing wife, it shall be so; and I'll see you dance myself. You shall be my charge these two days, and then I dare venture you in the hand of any dancing-master, even a saucy French dancing-master, look you.

Mrs. Caut. Well, have a care, though; for this man is not dressed like a dancing master.

Don. Go, go, you dote; are they not (for the most part) better dressed and prouder than many a good gentleman? you would be wiser than I, would you, querno?

Mrs. Caut. Well, I say, only look to't, look to't.

Don. Hey, hey! Come, friend, to your business; teach her her lesson over again; let's see. Hip. Come, master.

Don. Come, come, let's see your English method; I understand something of dancing myself

-come.

Hip. Come, master.

in.

not see me. When we have done, you shall come [She pulls the Dvor to. Prue. Indeed, little mistress, like the young kitten, you see you played with your prey till you had almost lost it.

Hip. 'Tis true, a good old mouser like you had taken it up, and run away with it presently. Ger. Let me adore you, dearest miss, and give you[Going to embrace her. Hip. No, no embracing, good master! that ought to be the last lesson you are to teach me, I have heard.

Ger. Though an aftergame be the more tedious and dangerous, 'tis won, miss, with the more honour and pleasure for all that, I repent we were put to't. The coming in of your father, as he did, was the most unlucky thing that ever befel me.

Hip. What then, you think I would have gone with you?

Ger. Yes; and you will go with me yet, I hope. -Courage, miss! we have yet an opportunity; and the gallery-window is yet open.

Hip. No, no; if I went, I would go for good and all: but now my father will soon come in again, and may quickly overtake us. Besides, now I

think on't, you are a stranger to me; I know not where you live, nor whither you might carry me. For aught I know, you might be a spirit, and carry me to Barbadoes.

Ger. No, dear miss, I would carry you to court, the playhouses, and Hyde-park

Hip. Nay, I know 'tis the trick of all you that spirit women away, to speak 'em mighty fair at first but when you have got 'em in your clutches, you carry 'em into Yorkshire, Wales, or Cornwali, which is as bad as to Barbadoes; and rather than be served so, I would be a prisoner in London still as I am.

Ger. I see the air of this town, without the pleasures of it, is enough to infect women with an aversion for the country. Well, miss, since it seems you have some diffidence in me, give me

[Apart to HIppolita,

Hip. No!

Don. Come, come, child.

Hip. Indeed I'm ashamed, father.

have honoured me with the character; and under that I may have your father's permission to see you, till you may better know me and my heart, and have a better opportunity to reward it. Hip. I am afraid to know your heart would

to marry me very suddenly to my cousin, who sent you hither.

Hip. Indeed I can't, father, before you: 'tis my first lesson, and I shall do it so ill.-Pray, good father, go into the next room for this once; and the next time my master comes, you shall see I shall be confident enough.

Don. Poor, foolish, innocent creature!-Well, well, I will, child. Who but a Spanish kind of a father could have so innocent a daughter in England? Well, I would fain see any one steal or debauch my daughter from me.

Hip. Nay, won't you go, father?

Don. Yes, yes, I go, child: we will a go but your maid. You can dance before your maid? Hip. Yes, yes, father: a maid at most times with her mistress is nobody.

[Exeunt DIEGO and Mrs. CAUTION.

Ger. He peeps yet at the door.
Hip. Nay, father, you peep; indeed you must

Ger. Pray, sweet miss, let us make the better use of our time if it be short. But how shall we do with that cousin of yours in the mean time? we must needs charm him.

Hip. Leave that to me.

Ger. But (what's worse) how shall I be able to act a dancing-master, who ever wanted inclination and patience to learn myself?

Hip. A dancing-school in half an hour will furnish you with terms of the art. Besides, Love (as I have heard say) supplies his scholars with all sorts of capacities they have need of, in spite of nature-but what has love to do with you?

Ger. Love, indeed, has made a grave gouty statesman fight duels, the soldier fly from his colours, a pedant a fine gentleman, nay, and the very lawyer a poet; and, therefore, may make me a dancing-master.

Hip. If he were your master.