s drunk with _Plague-Water_. [_Feels
his Pockets._] Ah Lard! Mr. _Shrimp_, where's my Hundred Pound Bill?

Sir _Har_. The Lady you ha' been with, I guess, has pickt your Pocket, and
these Fellows are to share it with her.

_Tot_. She pick my Pocket! why she had a Furbelow-Scarf on.

Sir _Har_. Come, come, I'll reimburse you, and send you back into the
Country; you are not sharp enough for the Profession design'd you; where
you may boast among your ignorant Acquaintance, that you have a perfect
Knowledge o' the Town, for you have met with two very great Rogues, got
drunk at a Tavern, been at a common Brothel, and have had your Pocket
pickt of a Hundred Pounds. [_To_ Knapsack.] For you, Friend, the
_Collonel_ will take care of you; [_To_ Shrimp.] and for you, Rascal----

_Bram_. I profess, Sir _Harry_, a Couple of promising Youths; a Boy shou'd
n't be trusted with so much Money; these Persons have seen the World, and
know how to employ it----Gentlemen, if your Masters discard you, I'll
entertain you. [_Aside_.] I find by their Phis'nomies they'll be rising
Men; and tho' they came sneaking into the World, like other People, and
paid a Tax for their Births, they'll go out of it a more sublime way, and
cheat the Church of their Burials.

_Col_. Punish'd they shall be, but 'tis now unseasonable; this Day I'd
wish an universal _Jubilee_----What say you to a Dance, good People, my
Lady's Servants are all musical.

_A DANCE._

Col. _The Wav'ring Nymph, with Pride and Envy sir'd,
Ranges the World, to be by all admir'd;
Thro' distant Courts, and Climes, she bears her way,
And like the Sun, wou'd course 'em in a Day;
At length Fatigu'd, she finds those Trifles vain,
Meer empty Joys, repeated o'er again:
But when by Nature urg'd, weak Fancy fails,
And Reason dictating, sound Sense prevails;
Wisely she takes the Lover to her Arms,
And owns her self subdu'd by Love's more potent Charms._

The EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. _Bradshaw_.

_Poets of late so scurrilous are grown,
Instead of Courting, they abuse the Town:
And when an_ Epilogue _entirely pleases,
In thundering Jests, it takes the House to pieces;
The_ Pit _smiles when the_ Gallery_'s misus'd,
The_ Gallery _sniggers when the_ Pit_'s abus'd_;
Side-Boxes _wou'd with Ladies Foibles play, }
But they themselves stand Buff to all we say, }
For nothing strikes them Dead, but_--Please to pay: }
_The_ Up