cotillon— I believe I could have forgiven even that—but to be monkey-led for a night!—to run the gauntlet through a string of amorous palming puppies!—to show paces like a managed filly!—Oh, Jack, there never can be but one man in the world whom a truly modest and delicate woman ought to pair with in a country-dance; and, even then, the rest of the couples should be her great-uncles and aunts!

Abs. Ay, to be sure!—grandfathers and grandmothers!

Faulk. If there be but one vicious mind in the set, ’twill spread like a contagion—the action of their pulse beats to the lascivious movement of the jig—their quivering, warm-breathed sighs impregnate the very air—the atmosphere becomes electrical to love, and each amorous spark darts through every link of the chain!—I must leave you—I own I am somewhat flurried—and that confounded looby has perceived it.

[Going.

Abs. Nay, but stay, Faulkland, and thank Mr. Acres for his good news.

Faulk. Damn his news!

[Exit.

Abs. Ha! ha! ha! poor Faulkland five minutes since—“nothing on earth could give him a moment’s uneasiness!”

Acres. The gentleman wa’n’t angry at my praising his mistress, was he?

Abs. A little jealous, I believe, Bob.

Acres. You don’t say so? Ha! ha! jealous of me—that’s a good joke.

Abs. There’s nothing strange in that, Bob! let me tell you, that sprightly grace and insinuating manner of yours will do some mischief among the girls here.

Acres. Ah! you joke—ha! ha! mischief—ha! ha! but you know I am not my own property, my dear Lydia has forestalled me. She could never a bide me in the country, because I used to dress so badly—but odds frogs and tambours! I shan’t take matters so here, now ancient madam has no voice in it: I’ll make my old clothes know who’s master. I shall straightway cashier the hunting-frock, and render my leather breeches incapable. My hair has been in training some time.

Abs. Indeed!

Acres. Ay—and tho’ff the side curls are a little restive, my hind-part takes it very kindly.

Abs. Oh, you’ll polish, I doubt not.

Acres. Absolutely I propose so—then if I can find out this Ensign Beverley, odds triggers and flints! I’ll make him know the difference o’t.

Abs. Spoke like a man! But pray, Bob, I observe you have got an odd kind of a new method of swearing—

Acres. Ha! ha! you’ve taken notice of it—’tis genteel, isn’t it!—I didn’t invent it myself though; but a commander in our militia, a great scholar, I assure you, says that there is no meaning in the common oaths, and that nothing but their antiquity makes them respectable; because, he says, the ancients would never stick to an oath or two, but would say, by Jove! or by Bacchus! or by Mars! or by Venus! or by Pallas, according to the sentiment: so that to swear with propriety, says my little major, the oath should be an echo to the sense; and this we call the oath referential, or sentimental swearing—ha! ha! ’tis genteel, isn’t it.