_Adeline._ Fie! Gregory; be content, be content. Think that we are happy in this forest, in having thus escaped the enemy's fire, and be grateful in the change. _Gregory._ Why, we are out of the fire, to be sure; but, make the best on't we can, we are still in the frying-pan. And starving is one of those blessings for which people are not very apt to be thankful. But we have escaped killing; so I'll e'en be content, as long as there is comfort in comparison. I stumbled over a fat trumpeter in the field, stript and plunder'd, with his skin full of bullets. Well, I am thankful yet--mine is a marvellous happy lot, to be better than a dead trumpeter! _Adeline._ Truce now, Gregory; and consider how we can best dispose ourselves here, till the morning. _Gregory._ Nay, there's no need of much consideration; there's little distinction of apartments here, madam: we shall both sleep on the ground floor--and our lodgings will be pure and airy, I warrant them. _Adeline._ Peace, fool! nor let thy grosser mind, half fears, half levity, thus trifle with my feelings! I have borne me up against affliction, till my o'ercharged bosom can contain no longer. _Gregory._ O the father! look if my poor dear lady be not a weeping!--why, madam--Lady Adeline--dear madam! I am but a fool as you say; but I'm as honest and as faithful as the greatest knave of them all:--and haven't I sighed, sobbed, fasted, fought, and run away, to show you that I would stand by you to the last? and haven't I---- _Adeline._ Pr'ythee, no more, Gregory! bear with, my pettishness--for, now and then, the tongue of disappointment will needs let fall some of the acid drops which misery sprinkles the heart withal. _Gregory._ Now must I play the comforter. Why, lord, madam, I think, when a body comes to be used to it a little, this forest must be a sweet, dingy, retired, gloomy, pleasant sort of a place;--besides, what's one night? sleeping bears it out--and I'll warrant us we'll find such snug delicious beds of dry leaves, that-- [_Hard shower_.] 'Sbud! no!--I lie--it rains like all the dogs and cats in the kingdom--there won't be a dry twig left, large enough to shelter a cock-chafer--we shall both be sopped here, like two toasts in a tankard-- [_Thunder._ _Adeline._ Why, why should fortune sport with a weak woman thus! why, fickle goddess, wanton as boys in giddy cruelty, torture a silly fly before you kill it? _Gregory._ 'Faith, madam, for that matter, I am but a blue-bottle of fortune's myself; and, though sorrow is dry, they say, this is a sort of soaking it does not care to be moistened with. If it would rain good barrels of ale, now, sorrow would not so much mind being out in the storm. [_Thunder again._] No; sorrow would be disappointed there too: this rumbling is enough to flatten the finest beer shower, a man would wish to take a whet in.--Lud! lud! madam! let's get out ou't, if there's a hollow tree to be found. [_Thunder._