A

New Way to Pay Old Debts.

ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Village.

WELLBORN discovered, with a large rough Stick, in
tattered_apparel, knocking at the Alehouse door,
L. S. E. TAPWELL and FROTH come from the House.
Well. [Goes to R.] No credit, nor no liquor?
Tap. (c.) Not a suck, sir:

Nor the remainder of a single can,

Left by a drunken porter.

Froth. (L.) Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, sir:

"Tis verity, I assure you.

Well. Verity, you brache!

[Crosses to c.

The devil turned precision? Rogue, what am I?

Tap. (R.) Troth, durst I trust you with a looking

glass,

To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me,

And take the name yourself.

Well. (c.) How? dog!

[Raising his cudgel.

Tap. Advance your Plymouth cloak,

There dwells, and within call, if it please your worship,

A potent monarch, call'd the constable,

That does command a citadel, call'd the stocks;

Such as with great dexterity will hale

Your threadbare, tatter'd

Well. Rascal ! slave!

Froth. No rage, sir.

Tap. At his own peril! Do not put yourself
In too much heat, there being no water near
To quench your thirst; and other drink, I take it,
You must no more remember; not in a dream, sir.

Well. Why thou unthankful villain, dar'st thou talk

thus !

Is not thy house, and all thou hast, my gift?

Tap. I find it not in chalk; and Timothy Tapwell Does keep no other register.

Well. Am not I he

Whose riots fed and cloth'd thee? Wert thou not
Born on my father's land, and proud to be
A drudge in his house?

Tap. What I was, sir, it skills not;

What you are is apparent: but, since you
Talk of father, in my hope it will torment you,
I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father,
Old Sir John Wellborn,

My quondam master, was a man of worship;

Bore the whole sway of the shire, kept a great house,
Reliev'd the poor, and so forth; but he dying,
And his estate coming to you,

Late master Francis, but now forlorn Wellborn-
Well. Slave, stop! or I shall lose myself.
Froth. Very hardly;

You cannot out of your way.

Tap. You were then a lord of acres, the prime gallant,

And I your under butler.

O you'd merry time of't; hawks and hounds,
With choice of running horses: mistresses,
And other such extravagancies: which
Your uncle, Sir Giles Överreach, observing,
Resolving not to lose the opportunity,
On statutes, mortgages, and binding bonds,
Awhile supplied your folly, and, having got
Your land, then left you.

Well. Some curate hath penn'd this invective, mongrel,

And you have studied it.

Tap. I've not done yet;

Your land gone, and your credit not worth a token,
You grew the common borrower; no man 'scap'd you;
Where poor Tim Tapwell, with a little stock,
Some forty pounds or so, bought a small cottage;
Humbled myself to marriage with my. Froth here-
Well. Hear me, ungrateful hell-hound! Did not I
Make purses for you? Then you lick'd my boots,
And thought your holiday cloak too coarse to clean 'em.
"Twas I, that, when I heard thee swear, if ever

Thou could'st arrive at forty pounds, thou would'st
Live like an emperor, 'twas I that gave it
In ready gold. Deny this, wretch!
Tap. I must, sir!

For, from the tavern to the taphouse, all,
On forfeiture of their licenses, stand bound
Ne'er to remember who their best guests were,
If they grew poor, like you.

Well. They're well rewarded,

That beggar themselves to make such rascals rich.
Thou viper, thankless viper!

But, since you're grown forgetful, I will help
Your memory, and beat you into remembrance:
Not leave one bone unbroken.

Tap. O! O! O!

Froth. Help, help!

[Beats him over to L.

Enter ALLWORTH, R.

Allw. Hold, for my sake, hold;

[Catches WELLBORN's arm.

Deny me, Frank? They are not worth your anger. Well. For once, thou hast redeem'd them from this

sceptre.

But let 'em vanish ;

[Shaking his cudgel.

Nay, if you grumble, I revoke my pardon.

[WELL. and ALLw. talk apart.

Froth. This comes of your prating husband.

Tap. Patience, Froth;

There's law to cure our bruises.

[Exeunt TAP. and FROTH into the Alehouse, L. S. E. Well. (L.) Sent to your mother?

Allw. (R.) My lady, Frank, my patroness, my all! She's such a mourner for my father's death,

And, in her love to him, so favours me,

I cannot pay too much observance to her :
There are few such stepdames.

Well. 'Tis a noble widow,

And keeps her reputation pure and clear.
But, 'pr'ythee, tell me,

Has she no suitors?

Allw. (R.) E'en the best of the shire, Frank,

My lord excepted: such as sue and send,

And send and sue again: but to no purpose.

Their frequent visits have not gain'd her presence;

Yet she's so far from sullenness and pride,

That, I dare undertake, you shall meet from her
A liberal entertainment.

Well. (L.) I doubt it not. Now, Allworth, listen to

me,

And mark my counsel: I am bound to give it.
Thy father was my friend; and that affection
I bore to him, in right descends to thee;

I will not have the least affront stick on thee,
If I with any danger can prevent it.

Allw. I thank your noble care: but, pray you, in what

Do I run the hazard?

Well. Art thou not in love?

Put it not off with wonder.

Allw. In love?

Well. You think you walk in clouds, but are transpa

rent.

I've heard all, and the choice that you have made;
And, with my finger, can point out the north star
By which the loadstone of your folly's guided;
And to confirm this true, what think you of
Fair Margaret, the only child and heir

Of cormorant Overreach? Dost blush and start,
To hear her only nam'd? Blush at your want
Of wit and reason.

Allw. Howe'er you have discover'd my intents,
You know my aims are lawful; and, if ever
The queen of flowers, the boast of spring, the rose,
Sprang from an envious briar, I may infer
There's such disparity in their conditions,
Between the goddess of my soul, the daughter,
And the base churl, her father.

Well. Grant this true,

As I believe it, canst thou ever hope

To enjoy a quiet bed with her, whose father
Ruin'd thy state?

Allw. And your's too.

Well. I confess it, Allworth.

Or can'st thou think, if self-love blind thee not,

That Sir Giles Overreach, who, to make her great

In swelling titles, without touch of conscience,

Will cut his neighbour's throat, and, I hope, his own

too,

Will e'er consent to make her thine? Give o'er,