_Cam._ Oh, my lady's a politician. She told Tattleaid one day, that an old maid was the best guard for young ones, for they, like eunuchs in a seraglio, are vigilant out of envy of enjoyments they cannot themselves arrive at. But, as I was saying, I've sent my cousin Fardingale a song, which she and I are to practise to the spinet. The young ladies will be by; and I am to be left alone with Lady Harriot; then I design to make my grand attack, and to-day win or lose her. I know, sir, this is an opportunity you want. If you'll meet me at Tom's,[21] have a letter ready, I'll myself deliver it to your mistress, conduct you into the house, and tell her you are there--and find means to place you together. You must march under my command to-day, as I have many a one under yours. _Ld. H._ But 'faith, Tom, I shall not behave myself with half the resolution you have under mine, for to confess my weakness, though I know she loves me, though I know she is as steadfastly mine as her heart can make her; I know not how, I have so sublime an idea of her high value, and such a melting tenderness dissolves my whole frame when I am near her, that my tongue falters, my nerves shake, and my heart so alternately sinks and rises, that my premeditated resolves vanish into confusion, down-cast eyes, and broken utterance---- _Cam._ Ha! ha! ha! this in a campaigner too! Why, my lord, that's the condition Harriot would have me in, and then she thinks she could have me; but I, that know her better than she does herself, know she'd insult me, and lead me a two years' dance longer, and perhaps in the end turn me into the herd of the many neglected men of better sense, who have been ridiculous for her sake. But I shall make her no such sacrifice. 'Tis well my Lady Sharlot's a woman of so solid an understanding; I don't know another that would not use you ill for your high value. _Ld. H._ But, Tom, I must see your song you've sent your cousin Fardingale, as you call her. _Cam._ This is lucky enough [_Aside_]. No; hang it, my lord, a man makes so silly a figure when his verses are reading. Trim--thou hast not left off thy loving and thy rhyming; Trim's a critic, I remember him a servitor at Oxon [_Gives a paper to_ TRIM]. I give myself into his hands, because you shan't see 'em till I'm gone. My lord, your servant, you shan't stir. _Ld. H._ Nor you neither then. [_Struggling._] _Cam._ You will be obeyed. [_Exeunt._ LORD HARDY _waits on him down._ _Trim._ What's in this song? Ha! don't my eyes deceive me--a bill of three hundred pounds---- "MR. CASH, "Pray pay to Mr. William Trim, or bearer, the sum of three hundred pounds, and place it to the account of, "Sir, "Your humble servant, "THOMAS CAMPLEY."