John. 'Tis because you already feel that there's more fire, more spirit, in one glass of wine, than in all the muses. Rim. Insult and ridicule my verses as you please, Mr. John, but fill out a bumper. I can never be angry with any one who pays attention to my good friend here. (patting his stomach.) Sounds hollow, doesn't it, Mr. Johngreat need of attention-never less proud, Mr. John, than when I'm quite empty. You carry arms that disarm me. John. (Uncorking a bottle, he fills a glass, and presents to Rimaldo.) See how the rogues sparkle and glitter.

Rim. They are weapons which often kill reason. (drinks the wine.)

John. So much the better: poets have thereby an enemy the less.

Rim. I dare say the wine is excellent, Mr. John, but I can never judge well by the first glass. (John fills the glass again; he drinks.) Indeed, it appears nectar itselfbut I shall judge better by a third glass. (John fills the glass, he drinks again.) No, I am not mistaken; 'tis more inspiring than even the spring of Helicon.

John. Come then, Mr. Poet, since 'tis so inspiring, let's have some of your inspirations. Rhyme us now something pretty on the subject.

Rim. As to pretty, I can't say, but at least it shall come from the heart. Fill the glasses, if you please, once more: I am never fully inspired under four glasses.. (he drinks again.) Now to reflect a moment-humph- I have it. (Sings)

To exchange friendly healths the heart's always inclin'd-
Let's exchange them, kind Sir, then, with three hearty cheers.
As we drink, at each glass the wine better we find,
And the glass in proportion too little appears.

John. Ha, ha, ha! Not much amiss. Ah, Mr. Rimaldo, love and wine--nothing like them.

Rim. As to wine, I perfectly agree with you; but for love, I have entirely forsworn it: the blind god strewed my path of life with cypress and thorns, which jolly Bacchus has kindly changed into roses, while Apollo has inspired me to exalt the one and decry the other. Hear me, Mr. John, and profit by the moral. [he sings.]

Love's vot❜ry once, I'm now his foe.
Now wine I seek, and shun the lass:
Love promis'd joy, he gave me woe.
Bliss unalloy'd lives in the glass.

Fill the glasses if you please, Mr. John, and repeat the same at the end of every verse; on no account omit this ceremony.

John. [drawing another cork.] 'Twere best then to uncork another bottle, we know not how many verses there may be.

Rim. [singing again.]

To brave love's darts, to brave his fire,

I

among wisdom's maxims class;
But, as my highest joy, desire

Both day and night to ply the glass.
See from love's bow an arrow dart,

See heart-aches follow in a mass:
The cork see from the bottle part,
And pleasure flows into the glass.

John. Upon my word the song is excellent, and sung with taste. But, Mr. Poet, if I am not much mistaken, I have heard it before.

Rim. What, from Fabricio, I suppose-a rascal! and I dare say he claimed it for his own as well as the inscription.

John. You know Mr. Fabricio, then?

Rim. Know him! a scoundrel, that I do, and a little too much of him; an unprincipled ne'er be good, who not only claims my songs and verses as his own, but who cheated me this very morning out of a five-pound note that

John. This very morning! what, I suppose you were the gentleman who sent for him to the Plough?

Rim. No, it was'nt I that sent for him, though I did indeed see him there. But how came you to know anything about his going to the Plough? I thought the whole matter had been a secret.

John. A secret indeed! as if any thing that passes in the house was a secret from we gentlemen of the lace! But come, for the history of the five-pound note.

Rim. Ah, Mr. John, there are secrets which must be secrets still, even from you gentlemen of the lace.

John. [aside] Oho, but they shan't be secrets long though. The wine already begins to mount a little towards his upper regions; a few glasses more and he'll become more communicative. Mr. Francis wanted to sift him it should seem-I'll e'en sift too; the profit of any thing that's to be sifted out of him may as well be mine as Francis's. [Rimaldo has all this time been eating and drinking very eagerly.] You seem to find the beef good,

Mr. Rimaldo.

Rim. Excellent indeed, and I think the song has given mè an appetite.

John. And the beef I suppose will make you thirsty, so as we begin to see the bottom of these bottles, you'll perhaps have no objection, Mr. Poet, to exchange the empty for full ones.

Rim. None in the least, Mr. John: next to an empty purse and an empty stomach, I don't know any thing that I've less fancy for than an empty bottle.

[Exit John with the empty bottles. A good hearty kind of fellow this Mr. John. He hinted that he was deep in the secrets of the family; perhaps he knows more concerning the letter I brought here. I'm not quite easy about that matter-I dare say there was some damned rascality in it-I'll first ply Mr. John well with his own good liquor, then he'll grow communicative, and I may have it all out.

[Re-enter JOHN.]

John. Mr. Poet, I've been thinking that we may as well adjourn to the butler's pantry, where we shall be in no danger of interruption. We shan't be quite so near the clouds where you poets usually roam, but we shall be nearer the cellar, which, in your present disposition, may perhaps please you altogether as well.

Rim. At all times, and under all circumstances, Mr. John, I prefer the cellar teeming with good wine, to the clouds impregnated only with miserable water, so I'll follow you with pleasure.

John. [aside] Now for the history of the five-pound

note.

Rim. [aside] Now for the contents of the letter.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II. EMILY's Dressing-room.

EMILY sitting at a table, folding a letter.

Em. 'Tis done; this is the last intercourse that ever shall take place between the traitor and his too easy dupe. I have bade him an eternal adieu; my heart is more tranquil; and if a momentary weakness should hereafter shake my resolution, in recalling to mind his perfidy, his deep hypocrisy, every sentiment but profound indignation will instantly be suppressed.

[Enter Lucy hastily.]

Lu. Madam, Madam, the farmer's little girl has just brought this letter: I refused to take it at first, and ordered her to carry it back, but she said she dared not, for Mr. Clermont was so sad and so melancholy, that she verily believed he would kill himself, if Miss Emily would not read the letter.

Em. Oh! hypocrite, hypocrite! but, Lucy, I think I will see what he says-We'll see how far he dares to carry his deep dissimulation. [she reads.]

"What can have retarded you so long, my dearest Emily? You flattered me with hopes that I should see you this evening, and I have great need of such consolation. The generous sentiments you profess for me, alone support me under the indignities I have received from Mr. and Mrs. Harley. If you cannot grant me a few moments' conversation, oh tell me at least what detains you: believe that my heart is wholly depressed with a sadness which your presence alone can dissipate, believe that one look from you can alone console your faithful and devoted

CLERMONT."

Lu. How dare the wretch suppose that he shall ever again see one, who has found him so false and perfidious?

Em. Yes, Lucy, I will see him, to his face will I reproach him with his falsehood, his treachery. I will bid him return and seek consolation in the bosom of his Mathilda ; she can better dissipate the sadness to which his heart is a prey, than the too-credulous Emily.-Yes, from my own lips he shall know how much I despise, detest him.

[Enter Mr. FRANCIS.]

Mr. F. Still weeping, my lovely Emily-to see you thus afflicted wounds me most sensibly; Oh endeavour to No. 1. N. Br. Th. VOL. I.

I

tranquillise your mind. [Aside.] I dare not yet tell her of the hopes I entertain, lest they should prove fallacious. [To her] If compelled by your sense of rectitude to renounce an union, in the thoughts of which you had placed your whole happiness, yet increase not your affliction by any fears of having another husband imposed upon you. Rely on me, I will be your protector in all cases, nor permit you to be oppressed, even by Mr. Harley himself.

Em. Oh generous, generous man!

[Enter Mr. HARLEY.]

Mr. H. In tears still, child? You may well weep for shame at the sentiments you have entertained for Mr. Clermont. But your fault shall be forgiven, if you will accept the husband I have promised Mrs. Harley to propose to you.

Em. Never, Sir. I know well who this husband is, and never will I give my hand to a man whom my heart despises. If you have failed in the resolution which as a man, and as a father, you should have opposed against the importunities of an imperious wife, of an over-bearing mother-in-law, I will at least never forget what I owe both to you and to myself, and here I solemnly declare that I never will be the wife of Sir James O'Ryan.

Mr. H. [Aside.] I can't say I am very sorry for that; but, to satisfy Mrs. Harley, I must say something more. [To Emily.] It seems then, Miss Emily, that you are determined not to accept a husband of my recommending. Remember, this is the second you have refused. But if you will be so perverse, and consult nothing but your own fancies, not a single sixpence of my fortune shall ever be your's. Of your mother's fortune, I well know you cannot be deprived.

Mr. F. And mine, which is ample, shall stand in the place of her father's.

Mr. H. How, cousin, dare you encourage the disobedience of a child?

Mr. F. No; but I would endeavour to make a relation, whom I esteem, feel the duty of a parent. I would take from Emily every inducement to be guilty of so much treachery, as to contract a marriage contrary to her inclinations.