stand godmother, for I think I know what's what, when I see it as well as another.

Sid. No doubt you do, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. [Cries, turns up her eyes, and acts a most friendly hypocrisy.] I do, indeed, sir. I am very sorry for Miss Constantia. I never thought she would have taken such courses—for in truth I love her as if she was my own sister; and though all the servants say that she is breeding—yet, for my part, I don't believe it; but—one must speak according to one's conscience, you know, sir.

Sid. O! I see you do.

Bet. [Going and returning.] I do indeed, sir: and so your servant, sir—but—I hope your worship won't mention my name in this business;—or that you had any item from me.

Sid. I shall not, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. For, indeed, sir, I am no busybody, nor do I love fending nor proving; and, I assure you, sir, I hate all tittling and tattling, and gossiping and backbiting, and taking away a person's good name.

Sid. I observe you do, Mrs. Betty.

Set. I do indeed, sir. I am the farthest from it in the world.

Sid. I dare say you are.

Bet. I am indeed, sir, and so your humble servant.

Sid. Your servant, Mrs. Betty.

Bet. [Aside, in great exultation.] So! I see he believes every word I say,—that's charming. I'll do her business for her I am resolved. [Exit.

Sid. What can this ridiculous creature mean by her dark walk,—her private spark, her kissing, and all her slanderous insinuations against Constantia, whose conduct is as unblamable as innocence itself? I see envy is as malignant in a paltry waiting wench, as in the vainest or most ambitious lady of the court.—It is always an infallible mark of the basest nature; and merit in the lowest, as well as in the highest station, must feel the shaft of envy's constant agents—falsehood and slander.

Enter SAM.

Sam. Sir, Mr. Egerton and Miss Constantia desire to speak with you in the china room.

Sid. Very well, Sam. [Exit Sam.] I will not see them.—What is to be done? inform his father of his intended marriage,—no—that must not be;— for the overbearing nature and ambitious policy of Sir Pertinax would exceed all bounds of moderation; for he is of a sharp, shrewd, unforgiving nature.—He has banished one son already, only for daring to differ from his judgment concerning the merits of a Scotch and an English historian.— But this young man must not marry Constantia.—Would his mother were here! She, I suppose, knows nothing of his indiscretion:—but she shall, the moment she comes hither. I know it will offend him; no matter: it is our duty to offend,—when that offence saves the man we love from a precipitate action, which the world must condemn, and his own heart, perhaps, upon reflection, for ever repent: yes,—I must discharge the duty of my function, and of a friend,—though I am sure to lose the man, whom I intend to serve. [Exit.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II. SCENE I.

Enter CONSTANTIA and EGERTON.

Con. Mr. Sidney is not here, sir.

Eger. I assure you I left him, and begged he would stay till I returned.

Con. His prudence, you see, sir, has made him retire; therefore we had better defer the subject till he is present; in the mean time, sir, I hope you will permit me to mention an affair that has greatly alarmed and perplexed me: I suppose you guess what it is.

Eger. I do not, upon my word.

Con. That is a little strange.—You know, sir, that you and Mr. Sidney did me the honour of breakfasting with me this morning in my little study.

Eger. We had that happiness, madam.

Con. Just after you left me, upon opening my book of accompts, which lay in the drawer of the reading desk, to my great surprise, I there found this case of jewels, containing a most elegant pair of ear-rings, a necklace of great value, and two bank bills in this pocket book, the mystery of which, sir, I presume you can explain.

Eger. I can.

Con. They were of your conveying then?

Eger. They were, madam.

Con. I assure you they startled and alarmed me.

Eger. I hope it was a kind alarm;—such as blushing virtue feels, when, with her hand, she gives her heart and last consent.

Con. It was not indeed, sir.

Eger. Do not say so, Constantia: come—be kind at once;—my peace and worldly bliss depend upon this moment.

Con. What would you have me do?

Eger. What love and virtue dictate.

Con. O! sir, experience but too severely proves, that such unequal matches as ours, never produce aught but contempt and anger in parents, censure from the world, and a long train of sorrow and repentance in the wretched parties,—which is but too often entailed upon their hapless issue.

Eger. But that, Constantia, can not be our case: my fortune is independent and ample,—equal to luxury and splendid folly. I have a right to choose the partner of my heart,

Con. But I have not, sir.—I am a dependant on my lady,—a poor, forsaken, helpless orphan—your benevolent mother found me—took me to her bosom—and there supplied my parental loss—with every tender care— indulgent dalliance, and with all the sweet persuasion that maternal fondness, religious precept, polished manners, and hourly example could administer—she fostered me: [weeps.] and shall I now turn viper,—and with black ingratitude sting the tender heart that thus hath cherished me? shall I seduce her house's heir, and kill her peace?—No—though I loved to the mad extreme of female fondness; though every worldly bliss that woman's vanity or man's ambition could desire, followed the indulgence of my love—and all the contempt and misery of this life, the denial of that indulgence—I would discharge my duty to my benefactress—my earthly guardian, my more than parent.

Eger. My dear Constantia, your prudence, your gratitude, and the cruel virtue of your self-denial, do but increase my love, my admiration, and my misery.

Con. Sir, I must beg you will give me leave to return these bills and jewels.

Eger. Pray do not mention them:—sure my kindness and esteem may be indulged so far without suspicion or reproach.—I beg you will accept of them,—nay—I insist.

Con. I have done, sir: my station here is to obey.—I know, sir, they are gifts of a virtuous mind—and mine shall convert them to the tenderest, and most grateful use.

Eger. Hark! I hear a coach:—it is my father.—Dear girl, retire and compose yourself.—I will send Sidney and my lady to you, and by their judgment we will be directed: will that satisfy you?

Con. I can have no will but my lady's.—With your leave I will retire; I would not see her in this confusion.

Eger. Dear girl, adieu! and think of love, of happiness, and the man who never can be blest without you. [Exit Constantia.

Enter SAM.

Sam. Sir Pertinax and