have fear'd
Each shaking Bough, and started at the Wind,
And trembled at the Rushing of the Leaves;
My Fancy would have fram'd a thousand Shapes;
But now it seems a Palace,
Delightful as the Poets feign
The Elizian Fields; Here do I expect
To meet my Love, my faithful, dear Palante.
Why does he stay thus long? when last we
Parted, each Hour he said wou'd seem a Year,
Till we were met again, and yet I'm here
Before him; I'll rest a while, for come I
Know he will.

[Goes and sits down.

Pal. This Clerimont, this is the happy Place,
Where I shall meet the Sum of all my Joys,
And be possest of such a vast Treasure
As wou'd enrich a Monarch to receive;
And thou, my Friend, must give her to my Arms.

Luc. 'Tis my Palante's Voice. [Comes forward.

Pal. My Life, my Soul, what here before me? still
Thou prevent'st me in the Race of Love, and
Makest all my Endeavours poor in Competition
With thy large Favours——
But I forget, Dearest; bid my Friend here welcome,
This is he whom I dare trust, next my own
Heart, with Secrets.

Luc. I must admire him that loves Palante;
Friendship's a noble Name, 'tis Love refin'd;
'Tis something more than Love, 'tis what I wou'd
Shew to my Palante.

Cler. It is indeed a Beauty of the Mind, a Sacred Name,
In which so brightly shines that Heavenly Love,
That makes th' immortal Beings taste each others Joy;
'Tis the very Cement of Souls. Friendship's
A Sacred Name, and he who truly knows
The Meaning of the Word, is worthy of Estimation.
No Pains he'll spare, no Difficulties start,
But hazard all for th' Int'rest of his Friend.

Pal. Ay! Now methinks I'm Emperor of the World,
With my inestimable Wealth about me:
To such a Mistress, such a Friend, what can be
Added more to make me happy?——
Oh! thou darksome Grove, that wont to be call'd
The Seat of Melancholy, and Shelter
For the discontented Souls! sure thou'rt wrong'd!
Thou seem'st to me a Place of Solace and Content?
A Paradise! that gives me more than Courts
Cou'd ever do: Blest be then thy fair Shades,
Let Birds of Musick always chant it here;
No croaking Raven, or ill-boding Owl,
Make here their baleful Habitation:
But may'st thou be a Grove for Loves fair Queen
To sport in, for under thy blest Shade two faithful
Lovers meet——Why is my Lucasia sad?

Luc. I know not, but I long to quit this Place,
My Thoughts seem to divine of Treachery,
But whence I know not; no Creature's conscious
To our meeting here but Laura; I have always
Found her honest, and yet I would she did not know it.

Pal. 'Tis only Fear assaults thy tender Mind;
But come, my Friend, let's to the Cell adjoining
To this Grove, and there the Priest
Shall make us one for ever.

[Exeunt.

Lar. Come, set your Face in order, for I expect young Sancho here immediately, he arriv'd in Town last Night, and Sent me Word but now, he'd be here in an instant.

Lav. But, Sir.

Lar. Sir me no Sirs, for I'm resolv'd you shall be married to Night.

Serv. Sir, here's a Gentleman to wait on you calls himself Don Sancho.

Lar. Odso, shew him up; now, you Baggage, you shall see the Pink of Learning, one that can travel thro' the whole World in an Afternoon, and sup in Palermo at Night, ha! you shall; you'll be as wise as the Sibyls in a Month's Time, with such a Husband, and will bring forth a Race of Politicians that shall set the World together by the Ears, then patch it up again in the supping of a poach'd Egg.

Lar. Save you, Sir.

Sanc. You don't think me damn'd, Sir, that you bestow that Salutation upon me?

Lar. By no Means, Sir, 'tis only my Way of expressing a hearty Welcome.

Sanc. Sir, your humble Servant: Is this your fair Daughter, Sir?

Lar. Yes, Sir.

Sanc. She's very handsome, Faith.

Lar. She's as Heaven made her.

Sanc. Then she shou'd be naked; the Taylor shou'd have no Hand in her—I suppose you know my business, shall we be married instantly?

Lar. Won't to-morrow serve, Sir? I wou'd first hear a little of your Proceedings in the University; came you from Salamanca now, Sir?

Sanc. From Salamanca! What do you see in my Face that shou'd make you judge me such a Coxcomb?

Lar. Your Father writ me word, that his Son that was to marry my Daughter, was a Scholar, wholly given up to Books.

Sanc. My Father was an errant Ass for his Pains, I ne'er read a Book in my Life but what I was beat to, and those I forgot as soon as I left School: A Scholar! he lies in his Throat that told you so.

Lav. In my Conscience, Sir, you may believe him; I dare swear he never saw a Book except the Chronicle chain'd in his Father's Hall.

Lar. Hold your Tongue, Hussy; how now?

Sanc. Sir, I understand a Horse, a Hawk, or Hound, as well as any Man living; nay, I understand Men too; I know now that you are an old covetous Hunks, by the sett of your Hat now; but no Matter for that, your Daughter is the better Fortune.

Lav. The Fool has hit right upon my Father, we shall have rare Sport presently.

Sanc. I have studied Men, Sir——I know each Man's inward Principle by his out-side Habit.

Lav. Does your profound Knowledge reach to Women too, Sir?

Lar. You will be prating——

Sanc. Look you, Sir, observe the Management of my Hat now——This is your bullying Gamester.

[Three Corners short Pinch.

Lar. What the Devil have we here! z'death this can never be Don Sancho's Son?

Lav. This is indeed the Pink of Learning, Sir—I shall be as wise as the Sybils with such a Husband; ha, ha, ha.

Sanc. Your Beaus wear their Hats [Offering to put it on.] no, hold, thus, Sir; [Clapping it under his Arm.] your conceited Wit, thus, [Putting it on over the left Eye.] and your travell'd Wit thus [Over the right Eye without a Pinch.] your Country 'Squire, thus, [Putting it behind his Wig.]

Lar. I wonder how an Ass wears it, I'm sure thou art one; I am amaz'd! this must be some Trick certainly. [Aside.

Lav. What think you now, Sir, shall we get a Race of Politicians? In my Conscience this falls out as well as I could wish. Oh that I could but once see Francisco. [Aside.

Lar. Huzzy, hold your Tongue, or——or——

[Holds up his Cane.

This may be some of your Contrivance, for ought I know. This is a very great Blockhead; Ounds, I—I—I—have a good Mind to add one Fashion more to your Hat, and knock it down to your Crown.

Sanc. Evermore, Sir, when you see a Man wear his Hat thus, [Pulling it down on both Sides.] he's a Projector, a Projector, Sir, or a Member of the Society of the Reformation of