Pray, gentlemen, observe this cap-this is the
cap of honour; it dubs a man a gentleman, in the
drawing of a trigger; and he, that has the good
fortune to be born six foot high, was born to be a
-Sir, will you give me leave to try this
great man.-
upon your

head?

Cost. Is there no harm in't? won't the cap me?

cap

list

Kite. No, no, no more than I can.-Come, let me see how it becomes you.

Cost. Are you sure there is no conjuration in it? no gunpowder plot upon me?

Kite. No, no, friend; don't fear, man.

Cost. My mind misgives me plaguily.-Let me see it-[Going to put it on.] It smells woundily of sweat and brimstone.-Smell, Tummas.

Tho. Ay, wauns does it.

Cost. Pray, serjeant, what writing is this upon the face of it?

Kite. The crown, or the bed of honour.

Cost. Pray now, what may be that same bed of honour ?

Kite. Oh! a mighty large bed! bigger by half than the great bed at Ware-ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.

Cost. My wife and I would do well to lie in't, for we don't care for feeling one another- -But do folk sleep sound in this same bed of honour?

Kite. Sound! ay, so sound that they never wake.
Cost. Wauns! I wish again that my wife lay there.
Kite. Say you so! then I find, brother-

Cost. Brother! hold there, friend; I am no kindred to you that I know of yet.-Lookye, serjeant, no coaxing, no wheedling, d'ye see-If I have a mind to list, why so if not, why 'tis not so therefore take your cap and your brothership back again, for I am not disposed at this present writing.-No coaxing, no brothering me, 'faith.

Kite. I coax! I wheedle! I'm above it, sir: I have served twenty campaignsBut, sir, you talk well, and I must own that you are a man, every inch of you; a pretty, young, sprightly fellow!I love a fellow with a spirit; but I scorn to coax; 'tis base; though I must say, that never in life have I seen a man better built. How firm and strong he treads! he steps like a castle! but I scorn to wheedle any man-Come, honest lad! will you take share of a pot?

my

Cost. Nay, for that matter, I'll spend my penny with the best he that wears a head; that is, begging your pardon, sir, and in a fair way.

Kite. Give me your hand then; and now, gentlemen, I have no more to say but this-here's a purse of gold, and there is a tub of humming ale at my quarters 'tis the king's money, and the king's drink -he's a generous king, and loves his subjects-I hope, gentlemen, you won't refuse the king's health. All Mob. No, no, no.

Kite. Huzza, then! huzza for the king, and the honour of Shropshire !

All Mob. Huzza!
Kite. Beat drum.

[Exeunt, shouting,-Drum beating the Grenadier's March.

Enter PLUME, in a Riding Habit.

Plume. By the Grenadier's March, that should be my drum, and by that shout, it should beat with success. Let me see-four o'clock-[Looking on his Watch.] At ten yesterday morning I left Londonan hundred and twenty miles in thirty hours is pretty smart riding, but nothing to the fatigue of recruiting.

Enter KITE.

Kite. Welcome to Shrewsbury, noble captain!

from the banks of the Danube to the Severn side, noble captain! you're welcome.

Plume. A very elegant reception, indeed, Mr Kite. I find you are fairly entered into your recruiting strain-Pray what success?

Kite. I've been here a week, and I've recruited five.

Plume. Five! pray what are they?

Kite. I have listed the strong man of Kent, the king of the gipsies, a Scotch pedlar, a scoundrel attorney, and a Welsh parson.

Plume. An attorney! Wert thou mad? list a lawyer! Discharge him, discharge him, this minute. Kite. Why, sir?

Plume. Because I will have nobody in my company that can write: a fellow that can write, can draw petitions-I say this minute discharge him. Kite. And what shall I do with the parson? Plume. Can he write?

Kite. Hum? he plays rarely upon the fiddle. Plume. Keep him, by all means-But how stands the country affected? were the people pleased with the news of my coming to town?

Kite. Sir, the mob are so pleased with your honour, and the justices and better sort of people are so delighted with me, that we shall soon do your businessBut, sir, you have got a recruit here, that you little think of.

Plume. Who?

Kite. One that you beat up for the last time you were in the country. You remember your old friend Molly, at the Castle?

Plume. She's not with child, I hope?

Kite. She was brought to-bed yesterday.
Plume. Kite, you must father the child.

Kite. And so her friends will oblige me to marry the mother.

Plume. If they should, we'll take her with us;

she can wash you know, and make a bed upon occa

sion.

Kite. Ay, or unmake it upon occasion. honour knows that I am married already. Plume. To how many 7?

But your

Kite. I can't tell readily-I have set them down here upon the back of the muster-roll. [Draws it out.] Let me see-Imprimis, Mrs Shely Snikereyes; she sell potatoes upon Ormond key, in DublinPeggy Guzzle, the brandy woman at the Horse Guards, at Whitehall-Dolly Waggon, the carrier's daughter, at Hull-Mademoiselle Van Bottomflat, at the Buss-then Jenny Oakum, the ship-carpenter's widow, at Portsmouth; but I don't reckon upon her, for she was married at the same time to two lieutenants of marines, and a man of war's boatswain.

Plume. A full company-you have named fivecome, make them half a dozen-Kite, is the child a boy or a girl?

Kite. A chopping boy.

Plume. Then set the mother down in your list, and the boy in mine; enter him a grenadier, by the name of Francis Kite, absent upon furlough-I'll allow you a man's pay for his subsistence; and now, go comfort the wench in the straw.

Kite. I shall, sir.

Plume. But hold, have you made any use of your fortune-teller's habit since you arrived?

Kite. Yes, yes, sir; and my fame's all about the country for the most faithful fortune-teller that ever told a lie-I was obliged to let my landlord into the secret, for the convenience of keeping it so; but he is an honest fellow, and will be faithful to any roguery that is trusted to him. This device, sir, will get you men, and me money, which, I think, is all we want at present-But yonder comes your friend,

Mr Worthy Has your mands?

honour any further com

Plume. None at present. [Exit KITE.] 'Tis indeed the picture of Worthy, but the life is de parted.

Enter WORTHY.

What, arms across, Worthy! methinks you should hold them open when a friend's so near.--The man has got the vapours in his ears, I believe. I must expel this melancholy spirit,

Spleen, thou worst of fiends below,

Fly, I conjure thee, by this magic blow.

[Slaps WORTHY on the Shoulder.

Wor. Plume! my dear captain! welcome. Safe and sound returned?

Plume. I escaped safe from Germany, and sound, I hope, from London: you see I have lost neither leg, arm, nor nose. Then for my inside, 'tis neither troubled with sympathies nor antipathies; and I have an excellent stomach for roast beef.

Wor. Thou art a happy fellow; once I was so. Plume. What ails thee, man? no inundations nor earthquakes in Wales, I hope? Has your father rose from the dead, and reassumed his estate?

Wor. No.

Plume. Then you are married, surely?

Wor. No.

Plume. Then you are mad, or turning quaker?
Wor. Come, I must out with it-

-Your once gaya

roving friend, is dwindled into an obsequious, thoughtful, romantic, constant coxcomb.

Plume. And pray, what is all this for ?

Wor. For a woman.

Plume. Shake hands, brother. If you go to that,