your example; my tongue fticks to my mouth too. Mrs. M. Heavens! in my benefactor do I behold a parent? Prim. You do; and but for the curs'd circumftance of changing names, we should have known each other long ago. But now I hold you to my heart. You alfo, my little grand-daughter-zooks! I must give you a kifs for your likenefs to your mother (kies her). Sir H. So muft I (kiffes ber).-I beg pardon, but I always copy Mr. Primitive. Prim. For you, Mr. Marchmont, I was once coming forward to throttle you; but when I recollected I deferved the fame punishment, I pitied and forgave you. Henceforth I'll be a friend to you, a father to your wife, a grandfather to your daughter-and what's more, with your leave, I'll be a grandfather to Sir Harry. Sir H. Ay do; pray let me be one of the family: I've long had a predilection for matrimony; and, from what we've juft witneffed, I'm fure it will produce agitation in abundance. March. Then, Sir, if I'm to be confulted, I can only fay, you faved me once from ruin, and I know no man that fo well deferves my daughter. Prim. So he did me; and I know no man that fo well deferves my grand-daughter.-And now, what does the fay? Rofa. That to deferve him, who has so served you and my dearest father, will be the future ftudy of my life. Sir H. (taking her hand and kiffing it.) Then, thus I feal the bargain-and now, I only beg one thing-after marriage don't let us be too happy you you must now and then differ with me to keep me alive, for there is only one place in which I dread a difference, and that is here. You who can save, or kill us with a breath, Stamp our existence, don't put Life to death; Impatient now, we wait your dread commands; So let us live, for Life is in your hands. THE END. EPILOGUE, Written by JAMES COBB, Efq and spoken by Mr. MUNDEN in the Character of PRIMITIVE. ALL things are chang'd fince I was laft in town, And horfes, like their mafters, dock their tails. Horfes, boots, coats, and waistcoats-all are crops. Our Our beaux and belles, November's fogs deride; There, while I chat, around my focial fire; Printed by A. Strahan, Printers-Street, London. |