MISS HARDCASTLE. Is Marlow.
MISS NEVILLE. Indeed!
MISS HARDCASTLE. The son of Sir Charles Marlow.
MISS NEVILLE. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my
admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him
when we lived in town.
MISS HARDCASTLE. Never.
MISS NEVILLE. He’s a very singular character, I assure you. Among
women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his
acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of
another stamp: you understand me.
MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to
manage him. What shall I do? Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust
to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear?
has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual?
MISS NEVILLE. I have just come from one of our agreeable
tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting
off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection.
MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks
him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she
has the sole management of it, I’m not surprised to see her unwilling
to let it go out of the family.
MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels,
is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be
but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However,
I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once
dreams that my affections are fixed upon another.
MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost
love him for hating you so.
MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I’m sure
would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt’s
bell rings for our afternoon’s walk round the improvements. Allons!
Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical.
MISS HARDCASTLE. “Would it were bed-time, and all were well.”
[Exeunt.]
SCENE--An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and
tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the
rest, a mallet in his hand.
OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!
FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The ’squire is
going to knock himself down for a song.
OMNES. Ay, a song, a song!
TONY. Then I’ll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this
alehouse, the Three Pigeons.