Two Strings to your Bow, A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS, AS NOW PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN, WITH DISTINGUISHED APPLAUSE.
BY ROBERT JEPHSON, ESQ.
London: PRINTED FOR C. AND G. KEARSLEY, NO. 46, FLEET-STREET. 1791.
PRICE ONE SHILLING.
- Don Pedro, Father of Leonora, Mr. POWELL.
- Don Sancho, Father of Ferdinand, Mr. THOMPSON.
- Octavio, Lover to Clara, Mr. DAVIES.
- Ferdinand, Lover to Leonora, Mr. MACREADY.
- Borachio, Maſter of the Hotel, Mr. BERNARD.
- Lazarillo, Servant to Octavio, and to Clara as Don Felix, Mr. MUNDEN.
Porters, Waiters, &c.
- Donna Clara, in Man's Clothes as Felix, Mrs. HARLOWE.
- Leonora, Miſtreſs of Ferdinand, Miſs STEWART.
- A Maid Servant, Miſs BRANGIN.
TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW.
ACT I. DON PEDRO's Houſe.
HERE's my hand. Is it a bargain?
Certainly—we'll have the wedding to-night. The young couple are ſo much in love, they will be glad to diſpenſe with ceremony— it really looks as if Heaven had a hand in this match, for if young Felix had not died ſo com⯑modiouſly at Salamanca, we could never have been brothers-in-law.
Bleſs me, your honour! is poor Don Felix dead then? He was a merry young gen⯑tleman—I'm ſorry for it with all my ſoul.
Ay, he is as dead as King Philip the Second—but did you know Don Felix?
As well as any hogſhead in my cellar—I have kept a tavern three years at Salamanca, and he was my conſtant cuſtomer. I knew his ſiſter too, a brave mettled damſel, that made no more of clapping on a pair of breeches, and ſtraddling a horſe-back, than if ſhe had never been laced in ſtays, or encumber'd with a petticoat.
Well, now ſhe may give a more free ſcope to her frolics, for ſhe has no brother left to reſtrain her. We ſent for you, Borachio, to provide the wedding-dinner. Let things be as they ſhould be.
Never trouble your head about it. I'll ſet you out ſuch a repaſt—the firſt courſe ſhall be as ſubſtantial as the bridegroom, and the ſecond as delicate as the bride—then for wines and a deſert. I don't care if you aſk all the Benedictines to ſit in judgment upon their flavour and freſhneſs.
Sir, there's a ſervant of a ſtrange gen⯑tleman, who has a meſſage for you.
What does he want with me?
He will not tell his buſineſs to any one but your worſhip. He has been fooling with me till I am tired of him.
Bid him come in.
Can you gueſs what buſineſs a ſtranger can have with you?
Ay, I ſuppoſe the old buſineſs— ſome needy ſpendthrift who has loſt his purſe at the gaming-table, and wants to try if I am fool enough to take a liking to him, and lend him as much more upon his no ſecurity.
I have the honour to be, gentlemen, with the moſt profound reſpect, your honour's moſt faithful, obſequious, and obedient humble ſervant.
This fellow begins his ſpeech like the concluſion of a letter.
Have you any buſineſs with me, friend?
May I take the liberty to aſk your honour a queſtion?
Ay, what is it?
Pray, who may that pretty, plump, cherry-cheeked, round-hipped, buxom, genteel, light-paſtern'd, black-eyed damſel be?
What buſineſs is it of your's? ſhe's my daughter's maid.
I wiſh your honour much joy of her.
What does the fellow mean? To your buſineſs, friend— Who are you? What do you want with me? Who do you belong to?
Softly, ſoftly, Sir: three queſtions in a breath are too much for a poor man like me to anſwer all at once.
I don't know what to make of this fellow—I believe he is none of the wiſeſt.
I ſhould rather ſuſpect he was none of the honeſteſt.
Are you married, my pretty laſs?
What would the fellow beat? What's your buſineſs, I ſay?
Sir, to anſwer your queſtions—in the firſt place, I am my maſter's ſervant.
And my pretty one, as I was going to tell you, if the Don had not interrupted me—
Who the devil is your maſter?
He's a ſtrange gentleman, Sir, who has a ſtrong inclination to pay your Worſhip a viſit.
And now as to the little affair be⯑tween us—
Who is this ſtrange gentleman? What buſineſs has he with me?
Sir, he is the noble Don Felix de Silva,  of Salamanca, who waits below to have the ſu⯑preme felicity of kiſſing your honour's hand, and has ſent me before to make his compliments to you.
Well, my dear, have you thought of the propoſal? Do you think me ſhocking?
Mind me, fellow—what is this you ſay?
Sir, if you are curious to know par⯑ticulars about me, I am Lazarillo, of Valencia, as honeſt a little fellow, though I ſay it, that ſhould not ſay it, as ever rode before a port⯑manteau.
What I pride myſelf for, more than any other good qualities, is, that I am the adorer, and faithful ſlave of your divine and inſurmountable beauty.
Turn this way, booby—you are either drunk or mad—Why, Don Felix of Sala⯑manca is dead.
You may get another maſter, honeſt friend, for poor Don Felix has no occaſion for you.
This is ſtrange news. It muſt be a very ſudden death—perhaps it was only his ghoſt that hired me, but I never ſaw any thing ſo like a living creature; he gave me a rap over the ſhoulders juſt now, that I thought felt very na⯑tural. If he is really a ghoſt, he won't dare to pretend he's alive, and tell a lie before ſo much good company.
What do you think of this raſcal? Is he a knave or a fool?
To my thinking, he's a brewing of both.
To my poor thinking, he's crazy.
'Fore Heaven, brother-in-law that is to be, if Don Felix ſhould be alive, we two ſhould make but a ſilly figure.
Truly, gentlemen, this is but indiffe⯑rent treatment for a ſtranger, to tell a poor ſer⯑vant like me that his maſter was dead.
So he is, I ſay.
And I ſay that he is not only alive, but in good health, ſound as a biſcuit, and ſprightly as a bottle of champaigne—and at this moment is ready to come in, and give you proof poſitive by your own eye-ſight.
What, Don Felix?
Ay, Don Felix.
Ay, De Silva.
Ay, of Salamanca.
I would recommend to you, friend, to loſe a little blood, and have your head ſhaved— you are mad.
This is enough to make me ſo; I ſay he is below at this moment waiting in the par⯑lour.
I'll break your head, you raſcal.
Keep your temper. Stay, let us ſee this impoſtor, who calls himſelf Don Felix. Bid him walk up ſtairs.
Ay, ay, you're right—let's ſee this reſurrection.
In a twinkling.
This is ſome ſham, ſome cheat; but I think we ſhan't be eaſily impoſed upon.
Let me alone, let me alone, he muſt riſe early, brother, who makes a fool of Don Pedro.
Signior Don Pedro, after the many po⯑lite letters I have received from you, I could little expect ſuch extraordinary treatment, to be kept half an hour cooling my heels among mu⯑leteers and lacquies.
Sir, I humbly aſk your pardon. But may I take the liberty to crave your name or title?
My name, Sir, is Don Felix de Silva.
Ha, what's this; why this is Don⯑na Clara, the ſiſter of Felix: let's ſee what will [...]e the end of this.
I'm ſtruck dumb with amazement; Sir, I rejoice to ſee you ſafe and ſound, which, indeed, is a little extraordinary, conſidering we had heard you was dead and buried.
I wiſh, with all my heart, he was under ground.
It was reported, I know, that I was dead; but in fact, I only received a fleſh wound in a quarrel; a fainting fit ſucceeded the loſs of blood, and gave occaſion to the report of my death: but the moment I recovered ſtrength enough to travel, I mounted my horſe, and ſet out to pay my reſpects, and keep my engage⯑ment.
I really don't know what to ſay to it: you have the appearance of a gentleman; but I have had ſuch aſſurances that Don Felix was dead, that, unleſs I have ſome ſtrong proofs to the contrary—you'll pardon me, Sir,—I mean  no harm—but, truly, in a matter of this con⯑ſequence, a little caution, you know—
Sir, you're perfectly right; but here are proofs—here are no leſs than four letters. This is from the Governor of the Bank—you know the hand and ſeal, I ſuppoſe.
Sir, will you permit me to congratulate you upon your recovery, and your arrival in Granada?
Ha! confuſion! my old hoſt of Salamanca—he'll certainly know and will diſ⯑cover me. I think I recollect you, friend.
I believe you may, your honour; my face is no ſtranger at Salamanca; Joſeph Bora⯑chio is as well known as the high road to Madrid.
True, true, I know I was acquainted with you—hark! a word—don't betray me, and this purſe has a twin brother as like it—
Never fear, Madam: there's ſomething ſo engaging in your countenance, and ſo per⯑ſuaſive in your manner, that I would as ſoon pull down my ſign as diſcover you.
I am, for want of a better, the maſter of the Eagle, hard by: and will be bold to ſay, that, for good treatment, ſoft beds, wholeſome food, and old wine, Joſeph Borachio will not give the wall to any publican in Granada.
Get your beſt apartments ready, and I'll order my baggage there.
Why, certainly theſe letters are ad⯑dreſſed to Don Felix; but there are ways you know of getting another man's letters—at the ſame time, Sir—
Nay, Sir, if you ſtill doubt, here's my old acquaintance Joſeph Borachio, he knows  me; I ſuppoſe you'll take his word, though you ſeem a little ſuſpicious of mine.
Lord, Sir, I'll give my oath to him.
I tell twenty lies every bill I bring up for half a dollar, and the devil's in my conſci⯑ence if I can't tell one for a purſe full of dou⯑bloons.
Sir, I aſk a thouſand pardons: my doubts are vaniſhed; you certainly are Don Felix.
What do you think of this brother-in-law that was to be?
Why I think 'tis a little unlucky, that the dead ſhould get out of their graves to prevent our being relations.
Did you ſend for me, father?
I did ſend for you, my dear; but matters are a little changed within this half hour.
Is that young lady your daughter, Don Pedro?
Ay, Sir, that is my daughter.
This then is the young lady I muſt pay my addreſſes to—I hope, Madam, the conſent of our families to my happineſs, has made no un⯑favourable impreſſion againſt the perſon of your humble ſervant.
What can I ſay to him—Yes, Sir—No, Sir—
An odd reception!—Yes, Sir—No, Sir—Pray, Sir,
how am I to underſtand the Lady?
She's a little baſhful at preſent— ſhe'll be more intelligible by and by—ſhe is not much acquainted with you yet—ſhe'll come to preſently.
I hope ſo—this gentleman
I ſuppoſe, is a friend of the family—a near relation.
A friend of the family certainly, but no other way a relation, than as I am to call this Lady my wife.
Right! ſtick to that—don't give up your pretenſions—my boy has ſpirit—that young coxcomb won't carry it ſo ſwimmingly.
How's this? I don't underſtand you, Sir—your wife?—What, does that Lady intend to have two huſbands?
Young gentleman, pray come with me; here has been a ſmall miſtake. Your ſup⯑poſed death—but I'll explain every thing to you within—depend upon it I ſhall fulfil my engage⯑ments.
But hark'ee, Sir, I ſuppoſe you are a cavalier of honour, and don't imagine that the affections of a young Lady are thrown into the bargain when the old folks are pleaſed to ſtrike up a contract—you'll aſk Donna Leonora's con⯑ſent, I hope.
I don't know that. People of faſhion never embarraſs themſelves with ſuch vulgar ideas. Lawyers do all that's neceſſary on ſuch occaſions; if the conveyances are right, affection and that old ſtuff, follow of courſe you know.
This fellow ought to have been a Sovereign Prince by his notions of matrimony, he'll take the wife, let who will chooſe the wo⯑man. As Kings are obliged to wed for the good of their ſubjects, this libertine takes a helpmate for the benefit of his creditors. I ſuppoſe he'd marry a mermaid if there was a good fiſhing bank entail'd upon her.
Sir, I have not been ſo unſucceſsful in gallantry, as to apprehend that the Lady will object to me.
Sir, I perceive you have a very favour⯑able opinion of yourſelf; but it would be more to the purpoſe if you could perſuade the Lady to have the ſame partiality. But, Sir, a word in your ear. You and I muſt talk of this matter in another place; you underſtand me.
Bravo! well ſaid—he's a chip of the old block—Don Pedro, or brother-in-law that was to be, you and I muſt talk of this matter in another place—you underſtand me.
Oh Lord! Oh Lord!
But, charming Leonora, theſe gallants are ſo warm they have not allowed you an oppor⯑tunity to ſpeak for yourſelf. What do you ſay to me, fair creature?
I ſay that I look at you with horror, and that my evil genius ſent you here to deſtroy my happineſs.
What will become of me! I ſhall have a quarrel with that old ruffian in ſpite of me. I'll after him, and try what can be done with my daughter by coaxing: if that fails, I muſt even have recourſe to the old fatherly expe⯑dients of locking up, and a diet of bread and water.
Hold a moment—for Heaven's ſake, no harſhneſs. Leave your daughter to me, a little time, and my attention, may, perhaps, bring her to reaſon. But in the interim, Sir, as I have oc⯑caſion for ſome ready caſh, and my letters of cre⯑dit  are upon you, I muſt trouble you for 200 piſtoles.
With pleaſure, Sir, I have not ſo much caſh about me, but if you will take the trouble juſt to ſtep into the next ſtreet—
I am much obliged to you, and will take the liberty to ſend my ſervant. I can de⯑pend upon his honeſty.
Well, I know not how this will end for other folks, but it has had a very promiſing beginning for me already—a hundred piſtoles for keeping a ſecret, which I could not get a Maravedi for diſcovering. Then there can be no fault found with my charges or my entertain⯑ment, though I ſerve up crows for partridges, and a delicate ram-cat for a fricaſee of rabbits. But here comes my Adventurer.
Borachio! a word with you! as you know who I am, 'tis to no purpoſe to make a ſe⯑cret of any part of my hiſtory: My brother, you know, is dead, died at Salamanca; but you don't yet underſtand why I have aſſumed his ſex and character.
I ſhall be glad to learn it, my ſweet young Lady; eſpecially if I can be of any ſervice to you.
My poor brother made too free with ſome choice wine at a vento near Salamanca. Octavio, my lover, happen'd to be of the party; a quarrel enſued between my brother's company and a ſet of ſtrangers, who had juſt arrived at the ſame place; in the fray my brother was run through the body, and left dead on the ſpot; the officers of juſtice had orders to ſearch for, and ſeize all who were preſent as principals in the murder; to avoid the purſuit, Octavio, as I was informed, fled hither; and with the wardrobe, credentials, and the name of my brother, here I have followed him.
Ay, Madam, you was always a young Lady of ſpirit, and egad! I love ſpirit: and though I was never to touch a piſtole of the other purſe you was pleaſed to promiſe me, I would no more tell your ſecret than I would tell my gueſts my own ſecret, how I turn Alicant into Burgundy, and ſour cyder into champagne of the firſt growth of France.
I rely upon you—But I wiſh to ſee my apartment; pray enquire for my ſervant, and bid him come to me immediately. I order'd him to wait for me near the Prado.
May I aſk where you pick'd up that fellow.
I found him in my journey. He's an odd mixture of ſimplicity and cunning; but I have no reaſon to ſuſpect his honeſty, and that's the qua⯑lity for which at preſent I have moſt occaſion.
My maſter deſired me to wait for him in the ſtreet, but I ſee no ſign of him—'tis twelve by the clock, but by my guts at leaſt four. There is no watch, clock, or pendulum in the city, that points to the dining hour with more certainty than the mechaniſm of my bowels: I feel a craving that muſt be ſatisfied. Odzooks! what a delicate flavour of roaſt, boil'd, and bak'd, iſſues from theſe purlieus! The very ſmell is enough to create an appetite. Ay, that way lies the kitchen—I know it by the attrac⯑tion of the odour. I'll down—but hold, not a ſous, by Fortune; my purſe is as empty as my belly.
Come along, you drunken raſcal!
Not a ſtep further without payment.
Why, ſcoundrel! would you have your hire before you earn it?
Ay, that I would—as I'd like to make ſure of my ſtraw before I was to ſleep on it—Pay me directly, or here I ſtick as faſt as a mule up to the girths in the mire.
Carry in the portmanteau—there's the door, carry in the portmanteau—'tis not three yards, you ſot you.
Sot in your teeth—pay me.
What's this! egad, I may get ſome⯑thing by it—it has an omen of dinner—I ſmell  beef in it.
Why, you drunken, ſtaggering, ſputtering beaſt of burden, with two legs and no conſcience, how dare you prate ſo ſaucily to a gentleman? Reel off, or I'll teach you manners.
So I find I'm to have no payment. The Corregidor ſhall hear of it.
A good ſmart fellow—that looks like a Servant; if he has no maſter I'll hire him.
Come hither, friend—do you know me?
No, Sir. I only know that you are a gentleman—that is, I don't know you are a gentleman, but I have a ſtrong ſuſpicion of it. You look for all the world as if you would not let a man who wanted his dinner, and had an excellent ſtomach, go without it.
Are you acquainted with the tavern?
I think I am very well acquainted with it. The cellars are full of old wine, the larder full of butchers meat and poultry—'twould make a man's mouth water but to look at them. Sir, does your honour ſmell nothing?
Lord bleſs me, Sir! why there are ſuch ſteams from ſavoury pies, ſuch a fumette from plump partridges and roaſting pigs, that I think I can diſtinguiſh them as eaſily as I know a roſe from a pink, or jonquil from a cauliflower.
Are you at preſent in ſervice? have you any maſter?
I'll tell a bouncing lie, and diſown my maſter. No, Sir.
You ſeem to be a ready intelligent fel⯑low—Will you be my ſervant?
Will I eat when I'm hungry? Will I ſleep when I'm weary? Can your honour doubt it? command me, Sir, from one extremity of the kingdom to the other; give but me as much as will keep cold air out of my ſtomach, and I can never tire in your ſervice. Then, as for wages, to be ſure my laſt maſter was a very princely ſort of a gentleman—he gave me, Sir—
No matter what—I ſhan't be more dif⯑ficult to pleaſe, or leſs generous to reward, than he was. What's your name?
I will employ you immediately. Go to the poſt-houſe—take this piſtole—inquire if there are any letters for Don Octavio of Salamanca, and bring them here to me.
Well done, Lazarillo; between two ſtools they ſay a certain part of a man comes to the ground; but 'tis hard, indeed, if I don't take care of myſelf between two maſters.
So, my gentleman, is this your atten⯑tion to my commands? I ordered you to wait for me at the Prado: I might have look'd for you, it ſeems, till morning, if by mere ac⯑cident I had not found you here.
By your honour's leave, I waited for you till my very bowels began to yearn; ſuch a craving came upon me, that had pikes, piſtols,  and petteraroes oppoſed my paſſage, I could not avoid entering the houſe in hopes of—
No prating. Go directly, order my baggage to be brought hither, then run to the poſt, and inquire if there are any letters for Don Felix, or Donna Clara, of Salamanca, and bring them to me directly.
Yes, here to this Hotel.
Zounds! what ſhall I do with my other maſter?
The poſt-office is but in the next ſtreet; if you ſhould miſs your way returning, inquire for me.
For you! and pray, who are you, Sir?
Joſeph Borachio, the maſter of the Ea⯑gle: every body knows me.
So, Sir, you are the maſter of this houſe?
Then you are a happy man. I had a reſpect for the roundneſs of your belly, and the illumination of your noſe, the firſt glimpſe I had of you; but now my reſpect is increaſed to adoration. If you leave money for maſſes for your ſoul, take my advice, get the Fathers, in⯑ſtead of praying you out of Purgatory into Paradiſe, to pray you back into your own kitchen. In my opinion, no Paradiſe can be ſuperior to it.
If this be true that Felix is ſtill alive, I need conceal myſelf no longer: you ſay you ſaw him?
Saw him! yes, Sir; ſaw him and con⯑verſed with him.
A very ſudden recovery! but, ſince 'tis ſo, I have no buſineſs here; I'll juſt ſend for my letters, and then back to Salamanca. Bo⯑rachio!
Let me have horſes ready, I ſhall ſet out this evening.
This evening! why your honour has had no time to refreſh yourſelf. Our roads of late are none of the ſafeſt after ſunſet. Why, Sir, not above a week ago, a calaſh of mine with a young cavalier and his new married bride, were at⯑tacked on the road by ſix of the moſt deſperate banditti that ever cried ſtand to a traveller.
Too true, Sir. Two of my beſt mules were ſhot dead at the firſt diſcharge of their car⯑bines; they wounded the gentleman, ſtunn'd my drivers, and rifled the poor young lady in a ter⯑rible manner. In truth, your honour had better not think of venturing till morning, when you have the day fairly before you.
No, hang it! ſuch fellows ſeldom attack a ſingle traveller; beſides, if your horſes are good, I think I could out-gallop them.
I'll anſwer for the horſes, better never came out of Andaluſia: they have ſtraw up to their withers, and barley they may bury their ears in: poor dumb beaſts, I take as much care of them, and love them as well as if they were my fellow Chriſtians.
What noiſe is that? Away, landlord, and order the horſes.
This way, this way, my lads—what the deuce, my laſt maſters here ſtill!
Fall back, raſcals, and wait for me in the paſſage.
I ſhall ſet out for Salamanca preſently.
Before dinner, Sir?
Mercy on me! no pity on my ſtomach. Truly, Sir, I am but a bad traveller on an empty belly; I get ſuch whims and vertigoes, the wind plays ſuch vagaries in the hollow crannies of my entrails, that you will have more trouble with me than if I was a ſick baboon, or a breeding lady of quality.
I ſent you to the poſt; where are my letters? quick, quick—what are you fumbling about?
Patience, Sir, a little patience. I thought I put them into this pocket—no, they are not there—then they muſt be in the other pocket.
The letters are ſo unwilling to come out for fear they ſhould be obliged to bear wit⯑neſs againſt me; I have mixed the letters of both my maſters, and curſe me if I know which I ought to give him.
You tedious booby! where are my let⯑ters?
Here, Sir, here are three of them; but they are not all for your honour. I'll tell you, Sir, how I came by them. As I was going to the poſt, I met an old fellow ſervant who happen'd to be in a great hurry upon another errand, and he  deſired me to aſk for his maſter's letters, and keep them for him; one of them belongs to him, but which I don't know, for to tell you the truth, Sir, my parents found I had ſuch fine natural parts, they would not throw away money in having me taught any thing, ſo reading was left out among ſome other little accompliſhments in my educa⯑tion.
Let me ſee them. I'll take my own, and give you back what belongs to your friend's maſter.
What's this? To Donna Clara—in Granada!
Have you found the letter, Sir, that belongs to my comrade?
Who is your comrade?
An old fellow-ſervant of mine; a very honeſt fellow, I have known him from a boy, when he was not this high, pleaſe your honour.
His name, puppy!
His name, Sir—his name—Lopez, Sir—
Where does this Lopez live?
Starve me if I can tell, Sir.
How then could you know where to carry him the letter?
Oh, for that matter, Sir, I'll tell your honour that in a moment.
Well, out with it.
Deuce take it! I am ſtung to the bone I believe.
What's the matter?
A muſkito, Sir, a little peeviſh, whiz⯑zing, blood-ſucking vermin!
Where, I ſay, were you to meet Lopez?
I aſk pardon, Sir—in the Piazza.
What am I to think of this?
Dear Fortune, get me out of this puz⯑zle—
Won't your honour give me my comrade's letter?
No, I have occaſion for it; I muſt open it.
Open another gentleman's letter! Why Sir, 'tis reckoned one of the moſt unmannerly pieces of friendſhip a gentleman can be guilty of.
Peace, I ſay—I am too much intereſted to mind forms at preſent.
Your ſudden departure from Salamanca has occaſioned the greateſt conſternation among your friends. They have made all poſſible enquiries, and have diſcovered that you left this town in your brother's clothes, and the ge⯑neral opinion is, that you are gone in purſuit of Octavio, who was known to pay his ad⯑dreſſes to you at Salamanca. I ſhall not fail to communicate any further intelligence of your affairs which comes to my knowledge, and I remain with great reſpect,
He little cares what may happen to me from his curioſity.
Clara fled from Salamanca, and in pur⯑ſuit of me! Find this Lopez inſtantly, bring him here, and I'll reward him for his intelligence.
Yes, Sir, give me the letter that belongs to him. But how am I to account for its being open'd? This may bring an imputation upon my honour, about which I am amazingly punctilious.
Your honour, Mungrel! ſay the letter was open'd by miſtake, and inſtantly find Lopez.
Find Lopez! 'gad if I do I ſhall be a lucky fellow, for I know no ſuch perſon. Laza⯑rillo, thou haſt a head-piece never fails thee at a pinch: if I could but read and write, I'd turn author, and invent tales and ſtory-books. But what the deuce ſhall I ſay about opening the letter? let me ſee! is there no way to diſguiſe it? I remember my mother uſed to make wafers with bread and water. I have a few crumbs in my pocket, and with a little mouth-moiſten⯑ing, I don't ſee why it ſhould not anſwer; here goes for an experiment.
Gadzooks! it has ſlipp'd down my throat—it would not go againſt nature. My mouth's like the hole of a till, whatever goes in falls to the bottom. I'll take more care this time. There it is—
I think it will do. After all, what ſignifies how a letter's ſealed, provided he likes the contents of it?
Was you at the poſt? did you get my letter?
Yes, Sir—there it is—
Why this letter has been open'd.
I ſay it has, and here it has been patch'd up again with a piece of bread.
Egad, that's very extraordinary.
Confeſs, villain, what trick has been play'd with my letter—the truth inſtantly, or—
Hold, Sir, have a little patience, and I'll tell the truth: if you frighten me, I ſhall never be able to tell it.
Quick then, this moment.
Then, Sir, it was I open'd it.
Impudent varlet! for what purpoſe?
A miſtake, nothing but a miſtake as I am a Chriſtian: I thought it was directed to me, and I open'd it.
And read it?
No, Sir, no, upon my veracity, I read nothing but the firſt word, and finding it was not for me, I clapp'd in a wafer directly juſt as your honour ſees it.
You are ſure no other perſon ſaw it?
Sure of it! I'll take my oath. As I am an honeſt man, as I hope to die in my bed—if your honour has a book about you, I'll ſwear by it. Any other perſon! no, no—Lord, Sir, I was never ſo much griev'd in my life as when it was open'd, I gave myſelf a great knock in the head for vexation. I believe you may ſee the mark of it here juſt over my left eye-brow.
There's ſomething in that letter does not pleaſe him. I ſhall have enough to do to manage my two maſters.
There are the keys of my baggage, get my things ready for dreſſing.
Is your maſter at home?
Do you expect him back to din⯑ner?
O yes, by all means, Sir.
Give him this purſe when he re⯑turns, with my compliments—there are two hun⯑dred piſtoles in it.—I ſhall wait upon him myſelf in the evening.
Yes, Sir—but curſe me if I know which of my maſters 'tis intended for. I'll offer it to the firſt of them I ſee, and if it does not belong to him I ſuppoſe he won't take it.
Have you found Lopez?
No, Sir, not yet, but I have found a better thing for you.
A better thing! what's that?
Only a purſe—full of money. I believe there are two hundred piſtoles in it.
I ſuppoſe it was left by my banker.
You expected money, Sir?
Yes, I left a letter of credit with him.
Oh, then there can be no doubt it was left for you, Sir. Give it to your maſter, ſays he—yes, Sir, ſays I; ſo there's the money.
Hold! lock up this money till I want it—take care, put it up ſafely, for I ſhall ſoon have occaſion for it. But go find Lopez, and bring him to me immediately.
Go find Lopez, and bring him o me immediately—but where ſhall I find him, is another matter—I'll go look for what I am ſure of finding, a good dinner. What a  fortunate fellow was I not to make any miſtake about the money!—If a man takes care in great matters, ſmall things will take care of themſelves —or if they ſhould go wrong, if the guſts of ill-look ſhould make his veſſel drive a little, honeſty is a ſheet-anchor, and always brings him up to his birth again.
ACT II. SCENE I.—DON PEDRO's Houſe.
I HAVE told you my ſtory; I rely upon your honour, you will not diſcover me.
Don't fear me. You have relieved me from ſuch anxiety by your friendly confidence, that I would rather die than betray you; nay, what is ſtill more, I would rather loſe my lover.
Of that there can be no danger: let matters proceed to the utmoſt, the diſcovery of my ſex puts an end, at once, to any impediment from my claim to you.
But may I not tell Ferdinand?
No. Pray indulge me; a ſecret burns in a ſingle breaſt; it is juſt poſſible that two may keep it, but if 'tis known to a third, I might as well tell it to the Cryer, and have it pro⯑claimed at the Great Door of every Church in Granada.
Well, you ſhall be obey'd; depend upon it I will be faithful to you. Men give themſelves ſtrange airs about our ſex: we are ſo unaccuſ⯑tomed, they ſay, to be truſted, that our vanity of a confidence ſhews we are unworthy of it.
No matter what they ſay; I think half of their ſuperiority lies in their beards and their doublets. Since I have worn man's apparel, I find many ſtrange inclinations coming upon me; I begin to ſtrut, to ſwagger, to look big, to run my head into quarrels, and the Lord knows what, though I am at the bottom as errant a  coward as a Turkey-cock—he briſtles and ſwells if you retreat from him, but his creſt falls, and his tail drops, if you advance one ſtep to meet him.
My father calls me; farewell, dear Cla⯑ra! ſhould you want my aſſiſtance you know you may command me.
So, Sir, I have found you. Do you know me, Sir?
I have ſo many acquaintances whom I ſhould wiſh not to know, that I don't like to anſwer that queſtion ſuddenly.
Do you take me for a ſharper, young⯑ſter?
Sharpers wear good clothes.
And puppies wear long ſwords, What means that piece of ſteel dangling there by thy effeminate ſide? Is thy ſoft hand too weak to touch it? Death! to be rivall'd by a puppet, by a thing made of cream! Why, thou com⯑pound of fringe, lace, and powder, dareſt thou pretend to win a Lady's affections? Anſwer, ſtripling, can'ſt thou fight for a Lady?
He's a terrible fellow! I quake every inch of me; but I muſt put a good face upon it—I'll try what ſpeaking big will do—
Why, yes, Captain Terrible! do you ſuppoſe I am to be daunted by your bluſtering? Bleſs me! if a long ſtride, a fierce brow, and a loud voice, were mortal, which of us ſhould live to twenty? I'd have you to know, damn me—
Draw your ſword, draw your ſword,  thou amphibious thing! If you have the ſpirit of a man, let me ſee how you will prove it—
Oh Lord! what will become of me! hold, hold, for Heaven's ſake! What, will nothing but fighting ſatisfy you?—I'll do any thing in reaſon—don't be ſo haſty.
Oh, thou egregious daſtard! you won't fight, then?
No, by no means. I'll ſettle this matter in another way—what will become of me?
Thy hand ſhakes ſo thou wilt not be able to ſign a paper, though it were ready for thee; therefore, obſerve what I ſay to you.
And if thou dareſt to diſobey, or mur⯑mur at the ſmalleſt article.
Firſt then, own thou art coward.
Unworthy of Leonora.
Return inſtantly to Salamanca.
Ha, Leonora! Not till I have chaſtiſed you for your inſolence.
Heavens! what do I ſee! fighting! for ſhame, Ferdinand! draw your ſword on a— ſtranger.
Don't hold me.
Hold him faſt, Madam—you can't do him a greater kindneſs.
Thou miſerable coward! thou egregi⯑ous daſtard! thou poltron! by what name ſhall I call thee?
Do you hear him, Leonora?
Hold him faſt, Madam—I am quite in a fever with my rage at him. Madam, that fel⯑low never ſhould pretend to you: he was juſt ready to ſign a paper I had prepared for him, renouncing all right and title to you.
By Heaven, you injure me.
He had juſt conſented to leave this city, and was actually upon his knees to me for mercy.
Can I bear this?
Patience, dear Ferdinand.
When ſeeing you coming, he pluck'd up a little ſpirit, becauſe he knew you would prevent us, and drawing out his unwilling ſword, which hung dangling like a dead weight by his ſide there, he began to flouriſh it about juſt as I do now, Madam.
Nothing ſhall reſtrain me—looſe me, or by my wrongs, I ſhall think you are confederate with him.
Ay, ay, threaten the Lady: you know ſhe can't hurt you. Go, call me one of the waiters, get a bottle or two of courage, and then ſee if you dare meet me. Adieu, Ferdinand— conſider, you owe your life to that Lady; and, Madam, in return for my mercy, once more remember your engagement.
So, Madam, I ſee why you were ſo anxious to prevent me from chaſtiſing that cox⯑comb. It was not your love of me, but your fears for him—ungrateful woman!
Dear Ferdinand, rely upon it you are miſtaken—don't truſt appearances.
No, don't truſt my ſenſes, don't be⯑lieve my ears!—
No matter, nothing that can ſhake my faith to you, or injure your honour.
Incomparable ſex! we are their fools ſo often, they think nothing too groſs to paſs upon us—it is not above an hour ſince you firſt ſaw him, and then it was with abhorrence—'Sdeath! Weathercocks, wind, and feathers, are nothing. Woman, woman, is the true type of mutability —and to be falſe to me for ſuch a thing as that —I could cut ſuch a man out of a ſugar'd cake— I believe a confectioner made him.
Have you done yet?
No, nor ever ſhall till you ſatisfy me.
Then you can never be ſatisfied—not juſt now I mean, but you ſhall in proper time.
So it is very well, if you will let it be ſo.
Then you will not tell me?
No, I cannot.
Then adieu—you ſhall ſee me no more, but you ſhall hear of me. I'll find your Narciſ⯑ſus, that precious flower-pot. I'll make him an example. All the wrongs I have ſuffered from you ſhall be revenged on him. My name ſhall be as terrible to all future coxcombs as broad day-light to a decay'd beauty, or a wet Sunday to a powder'd citizen.
I never was in ſuch perplexity; I like his anger as a proof of his paſſion, though I tremble for the conſequence. Clara will avoid him for her own ſake; and if ſhe ſhould find no other way to eſcape his fury, ſhe has it always in her power to make a diſcovery, from  which honour muſt prevent me, without her permiſſion.
I have often heard that gentlemen, that is, fine gentlemen, had no conſcience; but I believe the truth is, they have no ſtomachs: they ſeem to think of every thing but eating, and, for my part, I think of nothing elſe. But here comes one of my maſters.
Has Don Pedro been here to enquire for me?
Truly, Sir, I can't tell.
Was he here?
Ay, that he was certainly.
Did he leave nothing with you for me?
Not that I know of.
What, no money?
Ay, money.—I expected a purſe with 200 piſtoles.
I believe I have made a ſmall miſtake. The purſe belongs to this maſter, and I gave it to the other.
Are you certain you ex⯑pected a purſe with 200 piſtoles?
Certain—yes—what does the fellow ſtare at?
You are ſure they were not for another gentleman that ſhall be nameleſs?
Is the booby drunk?
It muſt be with wind then. Why, Sir, I did receive a purſe with the ſum you mention, and from Don Pedro, but whether it was intended for you is a point that requires ſome conſideration.
What did Don Pedro ſay to you?
I'll tell you, Sir. Friend, ſays Don Pedro, there are 200 piſtoles for your maſter.
Well, dolt-head! and who is your maſ⯑ter?
There's the point now—there's the puzzle. Ah, Sir, there are many things you would not find it eaſy to explain, though you was educated at Salamanca, and are no doubt a great ſcholar.
Give me the money, fool; and no more of you impertinence.
There it is, Sir. Heaven do you good with it; I think I know ſome people who would be glad of juſt that ſum, eſpecially if they thought they had a right to it.
No more—I expect Don Pedro. Bid Bora⯑chio get a good dinner; and here take this letter of credit, lock it up carefully, I ſhall have oc⯑caſion for a good deal of caſh, and this way 'tis moſt portable: be careful of it, and make no miſtakes; I expect dinner to be ready as ſoon as I return.
You ſhall not wait a moment. This is the pleaſanteſt order I have yet received from either of my maſters. Here comes Borachio—I'll try if my hoſt underſtands any thing of a table.
Signor Borachio, or Maſter Borachio, or Don Joſeph de Borachio, you come moſt opportunely. We muſt have a dinner immediately.
Name your hour. I am always pre⯑pared; two hours hence, an hour, half an hour; —my cooks are the readieſt fellows—
Ay, but this muſt not be one of your every-day dinners, the firſt thing comes to hand, toſs'd up and warm'd over again, neither hot nor cold, like a day in the beginning of April—that's villanous.
Do you think I have kept the firſt tavern in the city ſo long, not to know how to pleaſe a gentleman?
Some gentlemen are eaſily pleas'd; other gentlemen are hard to be pleas'd; now I'm of the latter order.
A gentleman's gentleman; that is, my maſter's maſter in moſt things, but in the buſineſs of his eating, abſolute and uncontrollable: But come, Maſter Borachio, let us have your idea of a dinner.
Two courſes, to be ſure.
Two courſes and a deſſert.
Five in the firſt, and ſeven in the ſecond.
Why, in the middle I would have a rich ſavoury ſoup.
Made with craw-fiſh—Good!
At the top, two delicate while trout, juſt freſh from the river.
Good! Excellent! go on, go on.
At the bottom a roaſt duck.
A duck! a ſcavenger! an unclean bird! a waddling glutton; his bill is a ſhovel, and his body but a dirt-cart: away with your duck—let me have a roaſt turkey, plump and full-breaſted, his craw full with marrow.
You ſhall have it.
Now for the ſide-diſhes.
At one ſide ſtew'd veniſon, at the other an Engliſh plum-pudding.
An Engliſh plum-pudding! That's a diſh I am a ſtranger to. Now, Signor Borachio, to your ſecond courſe,
Roaſt lamb at the top, partridge at the bottom, jelly and omlette on one ſide, pig and ham at the other, and Olla Podrida in the middle.
All wrong, all wrong,—what ſhould be at the top you put at the bottom, and two diſhes of pork at the ſame ſide. It won't do—it will ne⯑ver do, I tell you.
How would you have it? I can order it no better.
It will never do. Mind, I don't find fault with the things, the things are good enough, very good, but half the merit of a ſervice conſiſts in the manner in which you put it on the table. Pig and ham at the ſame ſide! Why you might as well put a Hebrew Jew into the ſame ſtall at church with the Grand Inquiſitor. Mind me, do but mind me, ſee now, ſuppoſe this floor was the table.
Here's the top, and there's the bottom— put your partridge here
, your lamb there
, there's top and bottom. Your jelly in the middle
, Olla Podrida and pig at this ſide together
and the  omlette and ham at this—
There's a table laid out for you as it ſhould be —
Hey-day! what are you about on your knees there?
Shewing mine hoſt how to lay out your honour's dinner; I'm no novice at theſe matters— I'll venture a wager—there are the diſhes.
Get up, puppy—What's this? as I live, the letter of credit I left with him to put up for me, all torn to pieces!
Oh the devil! I was ſo full of the dinner, every thing elſe ſlipp'd out of my memory.
Upon my ſoul, Sir, I quite forgot it. I was ſo taken up about the main chance, I quite forgot the value of the paper.
Dolt! Ideot! A letter of credit for no leſs than four hundred piſtoles—what amends can you make for ſuch inconceivable ſtupidity?
The merit of a dinner conſiſts, you know, in the manner in which you put the things on the table. This is a confound⯑ed dear dinner, truly.
Plague upon it, it was your fault, and not mine; it never would have happen'd if you had ſerved up the courſe properly—pig and ham at the ſame ſide. Such a blunder was never heard of.
What can I do with this fellow?
The miſchief is not without remedy. You muſt take up the pieces, join them, and paſte them on a ſheet of paper. Your bankers won't refuſe it.
Hear you—do you underſtand, Don Pedro?
Perfectly. But in truth Sir, Borachio's ſtupidity was enough to drive every thing out of one's memory. He wanted, Sir—
Silence! take theſe fragments, and join them as Don Pedro directed you. Make haſte, and attend at dinner.
Yes, Sir. They'll make twenty miſ⯑takes if I am not preſent to direct them.
Really, young gentleman, nothing could be more a-propos than your arrival. A day's delay longer had loſt you your miſtreſs, and a good portion into the bargain. Have you ſeen any thing of Ferdinand, your rival, ſince?
Yes, and was upon the point of a moſt deſperate combat; but your daughter ſtepp'd in, and he ran to her for protection: but I frightened him ſoundly.
It muſt be ſome very great, ſome extra⯑ordinary provocation makes me draw, but when once my ſword is out, I'm never tir'd of fighting: 'tis as natural to me as the clothes on my back.
I don't doubt it, I don't doubt it. I was the ſame myſelf when I was young; but what with a little gout and rheumatiſm in my arms, and better than threeſcore years over my head, my appetite for the duello is ſomewhat abated; ſo do you hear, Felix, when your hand's in, if you would frighten Sancho a little for me it would not be amiſs. He left me when I ſaw him laſt with a menace, and ever ſince I think I have him before my eyes flouriſhing a long toledo.
Leave him to me, I can manage him as eaſily as his ſon; I would as ſoon fight two as one of them.
Don Sancho, beſides, was bred a ſol⯑dier. Commerce and money-dealing have been my buſineſs. To take a man in his own trade is a great diſadvantage.—I might as ſoon think of working miracles with St. Jago, or killing a man ſecundum artem with Dr. Fillgrave, the firſt phyſi⯑cian in Granada.
Right, Sir, right; leave it to me, and you ſhall never hear more of it.
'Tis not that I am afraid, only, being out of practice, I am a little unwilling.
I underſtand, I underſtand; I have felt juſt the ſame way, more than once.
To think at my time of life of fight⯑ing myſelf out of the world with cold iron, when fur and flannel can hardly keep me warm in it, would be a very abſurd piece of precipitation.
You are perfectly right.
Then do you conſider how difficult it is to bring an old man up to my years? As to your young people they die, and are born every hour; few of them come to maturity, and no great mat⯑ter—but a hale, healthy, ſtout old man as I am, is invaluable. Your young, puny, tender ſhrubs are not miſs'd from a plantation; but if the old tree falls, think what a length of time it requires to replace him: my eyes run over when I reflect upon it.
No wonder; there's ſomething very melancholy in the idea.
That all the care I took of myſelf ſhould be thrown away—never expoſing myſelf  to the night air; never fatiguing myſelf beyond a gentle perſpiration, ſo careful of my diet, ſo regu⯑lar in my hours, ſo chaſte in my amours; and after all this, in the evening of my days to have a long ſpado run through my guts, and look like a blue-breech'd fly with a corking-pin ſticking in it!
Say no more, ſay no more, depend upon it you ſhall come to no miſchief.
I am prodigiouſly oblig'd to you: I feel as if a great weight was taken off me. I really am prodigiouſly oblig'd to you.
Gentlemen, your dinner will be ready in leſs than half an hour.
Half an hour! can't you get it ſooner? to ſay the truth, I'm a little hungry.
What was order'd for you can't be ready ſooner.
Let us have any thing that's ready. Appetite's the beſt ſauce. What ſay you, Don Pedro?
Ay, ay—better than all the cooks in France. Let me have ſomething ſoft, that can be chew'd eaſily, ſome ſpoon-meat; for to tell the truth, my teeth are none of the ſtouteſt.
Then be pleaſed to ſtep into that room, and you ſhall have ſomething immediately.
I follow you, pray no ceremony.
Here, waiters! waiters! what, are the fellows deaf? I knew nothing would be done till I got among them.
Who calls! here—
What have you got there? where are you going?
To carry it to your maſter.
What is it?
I don't know, the cook made it, not I.
Put it down, I'll carry it myſelf.
It ſmells well—What is it? I'll try.
Like a good ſoldier, or a good ſurgeon, I never go without my arms and my in⯑ſtruments.
Excellent, faith—I'll try it again—better and better—but here it goes for maſter.
Curſed ill luck, here's my other maſter.
Where are you going?
Going, Sir—Sir, I was going—I was going to carry this in for your honour's dinner.
Carry in my dinner, before you knew I was come home!
Lord, Sir, I knew you was coming home. I happen'd juſt now to pop my head out of the window, and ſaw you walking down the ſtreet, ſo I thought you would like to have your dinner on the table the moment you came in.
What have you got there?
'Tis a kind of a fricaſee, very good I promiſe you.
Let me have ſoup—what, do you bring meat before ſoup, you blockhead!
Lord, Sir, nothing ſo common. In ſome parts of the world ſoup is the very laſt thing brought to the table.
That's not my cuſtom—carry that back, and order ſome ſoup immediately.
How unfortunate! to have ſearch'd ſo much, and to have heard nothing of Clara.
Now I may carry this to my firſt maſter.
Where is this man? Lazarillo!
Who calls? here I am.
Carry this to your maſter.
That I will—give it to me. I'll carry it to the firſt.
What do you want? here I am.
Here's a diſh for your maſter.
You're an honeſt fellow. Come, ſtir, ſtir, get the ſoup as faſt as poſſible.
If I can have the good fortune to ſerve them both without being diſcover'd—
Where is this ſtrange fellow, La⯑zarillo?
Who calls? here I am.
Do you attend one table, and we'll take care of the other.
Not at all, not at all, I'll take care of them both.
Patience, a little patience. Coming!
Maſter, what's your name, here's a pudding.
A pudding! What pudding?
An Engliſh plum-pudding.
Lay it down, lay it down.
This is a ſtranger, I muſt be civil to him. He looks like a Mulatto in the ſmall-pox. Let's try how he taſtes.
Excellent! Admirable! rich as marrow, and ſtrong as brandy.
This is meat and drink, no truſting outſides. This Leopard-like pudding is moſt divine, I can't part with it.
I muſt get another ſervant. This fel⯑low minds nothing. Where are you, raſcal?
There he is cramming himſelf inſtead of attending me.
In a mo⯑ment, in a moment.
What are you about there? Don't you ſee me?
I was juſt—taſting this pudding for you —I promiſe you, Sir—you'll like it.
Why, 'tis all gone.
It ſlips down ſo faſt, Sir, you can't tell the taſte of it till you eat a good deal.
Taſte that, and that, and that—
Hold, hold, Sir, for Heaven's ſake! take care, Sir, you have no right to more than one half of me, t'other half belongs to another gentleman—Oh! oh! oh!
What's this? beating my ſervant! looſe your hold, Sir! What right have you to ſtrike my ſervant? A blow to the fellow who receives my wages, is an affront to me. You muſt account with me for this.
By all my hopes, Oc⯑tavio!
If this comes to a duel, and one of them falls, I am for the ſurvivor.
You look ſurpris'd, Sir! What, is this doctrine new to you?
I am not much accuſtomed to menaces from thoſe lips; do you not know me, Octavio?
Is my voice a ſtranger to you? Muſt you have ſtronger proofs that I am Clara—if ſo, let this convince you.
O unexpected happineſs! Art thou, in⯑deed, my Clara? the ſame ſincere, faithful, gene⯑rous Clara I knew and loved at Salamanca?
The ſame, the very ſame, except that as you lov'd me when my brother lived, and I had little, I can now reward your diſintereſted paſ⯑ſion with my hand, my heart, and an eſtate large enough to gratify all our wiſhes, and to relieve the neceſſities of all who may want our aſſiſtance.
Words are too weak, my life muſt thank you.
We ſhall find time enough for proteſta⯑tions hereafter; however, we are both obliged to this fellow, though his blundering only brought us together.
Very true, Madam; I ſerved you both to the beſt of my power; but as you were to be man and wife, 'tis not ſtrange, you know, that I ſhould not always be able to obey one with⯑out offending the other.
O very well—a ſufficient apology; but Don Pedro's in the next room; I'll ſtep and explain what has happened, and ſend immediately for Leonora and Ferdinand.
May I take the liberty of offering my poor congratulations on this joyful occaſion? Will you believe it, Sir, I had a ſort of an inkling, a divining, that ſomething of this kind would happen; for I dreamt all laſt night of cats and dogs and a ſpread eagle.
Your dreams, I hope, go by contraries; and you ſhall be a witneſs of our harmony, for I intend to keep you in my ſervice.
I will be bold to ſay, Sir, you never took a wiſer reſolution. Mercy on me, Sir, you don't know half what I can do to ſerve you. I  was Major Domo to the firſt Grandee of Arragon, he was called Don Guzman Poderoſo, y Chilos, y Figureroz, y Palidos, y Fuſcados, y Dumpos: he was a great man, Sir, and had a great many names.
So I perceive.
He loſt his only daughter, a moſt beautiful young Lady, who broke her heart for the death of her lover, and a favourite ſquirrel.
A very ſuſceptible Lady, truly.
O yes, Sir, very ſurreptible. A cer⯑tain Duke, a particular friend of my maſter's, came to condole with him (for poor Grandee, he was quite uncomfortable) and ſpying me wiping my eyes in an outward room, with a Barcelona handkerchief, as he was taking leave of my maſter, ſays he, Don Dumpos, I am ſorry for your mis⯑fortune; but be of good heart, pray be comforted. If you had loſt your wife as well as your daughter, I ſhould hardly know how to pity you, while you poſſeſs ſuch a treaſure in a ſervant as the incomparable Lazarillo.
You have a ready invention.
Invention! Sir; I have no more in⯑vention than an oyſter; all memory and ſtrict truth, I proteſt to you.
Joy, joy, I give you joy, this diſcove⯑ry has ſaved us all a great deal of perplexity. Our only ſtrife now ſhall be, who will fill the greateſt quantity of bumpers to the felicity of this double Gemini of Turtles.
Brother-in-law that is to be, give me your hand: we will preſently drown all animo⯑ſities  in a bottle of honeſt Borachio's Bur⯑gundy.
Madam, your ingenuity has had already ſuch ample revenge for the rude language I uſed to you, that I hardly know how to offer an apology for the effects of my miſtaken anger.
I am afraid, if any apology were neceſ⯑ſary, I ought to make it, for I was certainly the offender; but all unkindneſs muſt give way here⯑after to eſteem and friendſhip.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4239 Two strings to your bow a farce in two acts as now performed at the Theatre Royal Covent Garden with distinguished applause By Robert Jephson Esq. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D576-6