Lady, Tub, D. Tur. Clay, Puppy, Wispe, Preamble,
O, Here's the Squire! you slipp'd us finely, Son!
These Manners to your Mother, will com-
But in another Age, not this: Well, Tripoly,
Your Father, good Sir Peter, (rest his Bones)
Would not ha' done this: Where's my Huisher Martin?
And your fair Mrs. Awdrey?
I not see 'em,
No Creature, but the Four Wise Masters here,
Of Finsbury Hundred, came to cry their Constable,
Who, they do say, is lost.
My Husband lost?
And my fond Daughter lost? I fear me too.
Where is your Gentleman, Madam? Poor John Clay,
Thou hast lost thy Awdrey.
I ha' lost my Wits,
My little Wits, good Mother; I am distracted.
And I have lost my Mistris Dido Wispe,
Who frowns upon her Puppy, Hannibal.
Loss! loss on every side! a publick loss!
Loss o' my Master! loss of his Daughter! loss
Of Favour, Friends, my Mistris! loss of all!
What Cry is this?
My Man speaks of some loss.
My Master is found: Good luck, and't be thy will,
Light on us all.
O Husband, are you alive?
They said you were lost.
Where's Justice Bramble's Clerk?
Had he the Money that I sent for?
Two Hours ago, two Fifty Pounds in Silver,
And Awdrey too.
Why Awdrey? who sent for her?
You, Master Turfe, the Fellow said.
I am cozen'd, robb'd, undone: Your Man's a Thief,
And run away with my Daughter, Mr. Bramble,
And with my Money.
Neighbour Turfe, have patience,
I can assure you that your Daughter is safe,
But for the Monies, I know nothing of.
Tur. My Money is my Daughter, and my Daughter
She is my Money, Madam.
I do wonder
Your Ladyship comes to know any thing
In these affairs. Lad. Yes, Justice Bramble,
I met the Maiden i' the Fields by chance,
I' the Squire's Company, my Son: How he
Lighted upon her, himself best can tell.
I intercepted her, as coming hither,
To her Father, who sent for her, by Miles Metaphor,
Justice Preamble's Clerk. And had your Ladyship
Not hindred it, I had paid fine Mr. Justice,
For his young Warrant, and new Purs'yvant,
He serv'd it by this morning.
Know you that, Sir?
You told me, Squire, a quite other Tale,
But I believ'd you not, which made me send
Awdrey another way, by my Pol-martin:
And take my Journey back to Kentish-town,
Where we found John Clay hidden i' the Barn,
To scape the Hue and Cry: and here he is.
John Clay agen! nay, then — set c*ck a hoop:
I ha' lost no Daughter, nor no Money, Justice.
shall pay. I'll look to you now, John.
Vaith, out it must, as good at night as morning.
I am e'en as vull as a Piper's Bag, with Joy;
Or a great Gun upon Carnation-day!
I could weep Lyons Tears to see you, John.
'Tis but two vifty pounds I ha' ventur'd for you:
But now I ha' you, you shall pay whole hundred.
Run from your Burroughs, Son! Faith, e'en be hang'd.
An' you once earth your self, John, i' the Barn,
I ha' no Daughter vor you: Who did verret 'un?
My Ladies Son, the Squire here, vetch'd
had put us all in such a vright,
We thought the Devil was i' the Barn; and no body
Durst venture o' 'un.
I am now resolv'd
Who shall ha' my Daughter.
He best deserves her.
Here comes the Vicar. Chanon Hugh, we ha' vound
John Clay agen! the matter's all come round.