MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole management of it, I’m not surprised to see her unwilling to let it go out of the family. MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed upon another. MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost love him for hating you so. MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I’m sure would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt’s bell rings for our afternoon’s walk round the improvements. Allons! Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. MISS HARDCASTLE. “Would it were bed-time, and all were well.” [Exeunt.] SCENE--An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mallet in his hand. OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo! FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The ’squire is going to knock himself down for a song. OMNES. Ay, a song, a song! TONY. Then I’ll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this alehouse, the Three Pigeons. SONG. Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain With grammar, and nonsense, and learning, Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives GENUS a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They’re all but a parcel of Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When methodist preachers come down, A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I’ll wager the rascals a crown, They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I’ll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here’s the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the GAY birds in the air, Here’s a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. OMNES. Bravo, bravo! FIRST FELLOW. The ’squire has got spunk in him. SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us nothing that’s low. THIRD FELLOW. O damn anything that’s low, I cannot bear it.