Host. Here's a pretty kettle of fish you have brought upon us! We are like to have a funeral at our own expense.

Love. My dear, I am not to blame. He was brought hither by the stage coach, and Betty had put him to bed before I was stirring.

Host. And what induced Tom Whipwell to bring such guests to my house, when there are so many ale-houses on the road, proper for their reception.

(Enter Betty.)

Betty. The wounded man begs you for mercy-sake to let him have a little tea.

Host. Tea, indeed! Nothing will serve his delicate stomach, then, but tea. Tea costs money, tell him.

Betty. I am sure, madam, you will lose nothing by serving the gentleman, for I know he is one by the delicacy of his skin. Host. His skin! Yes, I suppose that is all we are like to have for his reckoning. I desire no such gentlemen should ever call at the Dragon. But there is a carriage at the door. Run, Lovepoor, and lead them into the best parlor. Law! how neglectful you are, Mr. Lovepoor; here is the gentleman now. (Enter a Stranger, in a great-cloak.)

Betty, go and tell the murdered man to pack up and be off, and make ready something for this gentleman's supper. Stranger. What murdered man do you speak of? Host. O, sir, only a poor wretch who was knocked down and robbed on the high road a few hours ago.

Stran. Are there no hopes of his recovery.

Sur. I defy all the surgeons in London to do him any good.
Stran. Pray, sir, what are his wounds?

Sur. Why, do you know any thing of wounds?
Stran. Sir, I have a slight acquaintance with surgery.

Sur. A slight acquaintance-ha! ha! ha! I believe it is

a slight one, indeed. I suppose, sir, you have traveled.
Stran. No, sir.

Sur. Have practiced in the hospitals, perhaps?
Stran. No, sir.

Sur. Whence, then, sir, if I may be so bold as to inquire, have you got your knowledge in surgery?

Stran. Sir, I do not pretend to much, but the little I know I have acquired from books.

Sur. Books! I suppose, then, you have read Galen and Hippocrates.

Stran. No, sir, neither.

Sur. How, understand surgery and not read Galen and Hippocrates!

Stran. Sir, I believe there are many surgeons who have never read these authors.

Sur. I believe so too, more shame for them; but thanks to my education, I have them by heart and very seldom go with. out them both in my pocket.

Stran. They are pretty large books, though, to carry in the pocket.

Sur. Aye, I presume I know how large they are, better than you do. I suppose you understand physic too, as well as surgery. (A general laugh.)

Stran. Rather better.

Sur. Aye, like enough. (Winking.) Why, I know a little. of physic too.

Love. I wish I knew half as much; I'd never wear an apron again.

Sur. Why, I believe, landlord, there are few men, though I say it, who handle a fever better.

Stran. I am thoroughly convinced, sir, of your great learning and skill, but I will thank you to let me know your opinion of the patient's case, above stairs.

Sur. Sir, (with much solemnity,) his case is that of a dead man. The contusion on his head has perforated the internal membrane of the occiput, and divellicated that radical, small, minute, invisible nerve, which coheres to the pericranium— Stran. That will do, sir. You have convinced me that you

are

Sur. Are what, sir?

Stran. A quack, whose aim it is to impose upon the ignorant and unfortunate.

Sur. And what are you, sir?

Stran. Dr. Bland, president of the college of physicians, and surgeon to Lord Dixby, who has just been robbed, and lies ill in this house. One of his servants, who escaped when the robbery was committed, brought me the information. Your servant, sir. (Speaking to the Surgeon, who is making towards the door.) Now, landlord, conduct me to your guest. (Exit with landlord.)

Host. Betty, John, Samuel, where are you all? Have you no ears or no consciences, not to tend the sick better? See what the gentleman wants. But any one may die for all you; you have no more feeling than my husband. If a man lived a

fortnight in his house without spending a penny, he would never put him in mind of it. See whether the gentleman drinks tea or coffee for supper. (Exit Servant.)

(Enter Mr. Lovepoor.)

Love. My dear, this wounded traveler must be a greater man than we took him for. Some servants in livery have just ar rived, and inquired for him.

Host. God forbid that I should not discharge the duty of a Christian, since the poor gentleman is brought to our house. I have a natural antipathy to vagabonds, but can pity the misfortunes of a Christian as soon as another.

Love. If the traveler be a gentleman, though he have no money about him now, we shall most likely be paid hereafter; so you may begin to score as soon as you please.

Host. Hold your simple tongue, and don't pretend to instruct me in my business. I am sure I am sorry for the gentleman's misfortune with all my heart, and I hope the villains who have used him so barbarously, will be hanged. Let us go and see what he wants. God forbid he should want any thing in my house. (Exeunt.)

XVII.-Cibber and Vanburgh.

LADY GRACE LADY TOWNLY. §

Lady Townly. Oh, my dear Lady Grace! how could you leave me so unmercifully alone all this while ?

Lady Grace. I thought my Lord had been with you.

Lady T. Why, yes-and therefore I wanted your relief; for he has been in such a fluster here

Lady G. Bless me! for what?

Lady T. Only our usual breakfast; we have each of us had our dish of matrimonial comfort this morning we have been charming company.

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Lady G. I am mighty glad of it: sure it must be a vast happiness when man and wife can give themselves the same turn of conversation!

Lady T. Oh, the prettiest thing in the world!

Lady G. Now I should be afraid, that where two people are every day together so, they must often be in want of some. thing to talk upon.

Lady T. Oh, my dear, you are the most mistaken in the world! Married people have things to talk of, child, that never entered into the imagination of others. Why, here's my Lord and I, now, we have not been married above two short years, you know, and we have already eight or ten things constantly in bank, that whenever we want company, we can take up any one of them for two hours together, and the subject never the flatter; nay, if we have occasion for it, it will be as fresh next day too, as it was the first hour it entertained us.

Lady G. Certainly that must be vastly pretty.

Lady T. Oh, there's no life like it! Why, t'other day, for example, when you dined abroad, my Lord and I, after a pretty cheerful tête a tête meal, sat us down by the fireside, in an easy, indolent, pick-tooth kind of way, for about a quarter of an hour, as if we had not thought of any others being in the room. At last, stretching himself and yawning-My dear, says he-aw-you came home very late last night.-'Twas but just turned of two, says I.—I was in bed-aw-by eleven, says he. So you are every night, says I.-Well, says he, I am amazed you can sit up so late. How can you be amazed, says I, at a thing that happens so often!-Upon which we entered into a conversation and though this is a point that has entertained us above fifty times already, we always find so many pretty new things to say upon it, that I believe it will last as long as we live.

Lady G. But pray, in such sort of family-dialogues, (though extremely well for passing the time,) dosen't there now and then enter some little witty sort of bitterness?

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Lady T. Oh, yes! which does not do amiss at all. A smart repartee, with a zest of recrimination at the head of it, makes the prettiest sherbet. Ay, ay, if we did not mix a little of the acid with it, a matrimonial society would be so luscious, that nothing but a sentimental old prude would be able to bear it.

Lady G. Well, certainly you have the most elegant tasteLady T. Though to tell you the truth, my dear, I rather think we squeezed a little too much lemon into it this bout; for it grew so sour at last, that, I think, I almost told him he was a fool; and he again, talked something oddly of-turning me out of doors.

Lady G. Oh! have a care of that.

Lady T.

for it.

Lady G.

Nay, if he should, I may thank my own wise father
How so?

Lady T. Why, when my good Lord first opened his honorable trenches before me, my unaccountable papa, in whose hands I then was, gave me up at discretion.

Lady G.

How do you mean?

Lady T. He said, the wives of this age were come to that pass, that he would not desire even his own daughter should be trusted with pin-money; so that my whole train of separate inclinations are left entirely at the mercy of a husband's odd hu

mors.

Lady G. Why, that, indeed, is enough to make a woman of spirit look about her.

Lady T. Nay, but to be serious, my dear, what would you really have a woman do in my case?

Lady G. Why, if I had a sober husband, as you have, I would make myself the happiest wife in the world, by being as

sober as he.

Lady T. Oh, you wicked thing! how can you teaze one at this rate, when you know he is so very sober, that (except giving me money) there is not one thing in the world he can do to please me? And I, at the same time, partly by nature, and partly perhaps by keeping the best company, do with my soul love almost every thing he hates. I doat upon assemblies; my heart bounds at a ball; and at an opera, I expire. Then, I love play to distraction; cards enchant me, and dice put me out of my little wits-dear, dear hazard!—Oh, what a flow of spirits it gives one !-Do you never play at hazard, child?

Lady G. Oh, never! I don't think it sits well upon women; there's something so masculine, so much the air of a rake in it. You see how it makes the men swear; and when a woman is thrown into the same passion-why

Lady T. That's very true; one is a little put to it, sometimes, not to make use of the same words to express it.

Lady G. Well-and, upon ill-luck, pray what words are you really forced to make use of?

Lady T. Why, upon a very hard case, indeed, when a sad, wrong word, is rising just to one's tongue's end, I give a great gulp, and swallow it.

Lady G. Well-and is it not enough to make you forswear play as long as you live?

Lady T. Oh, yes; I have often forsworn it.

Lady G. Seriously?

Lady T. Solemnly, a thousand times; but then one is constantly forsworn.