_1 Rob._ Marry, the matter is, with the oaf in the cellar; the fool shakes as though he were in an ague; we may e'en turn him adrift any how, for he will no how turn to our profit. He's cowardly and poor; he can neither rob, nor be robbed. _Adeline._ Oh! 'tis my man: I pray you conduct him hither. _1 Rob._ I'll trundle him in; but you will make nothing of him. I have been trying to talk him into service, and make him fit for our party; but there are some manner of men 'tis impossible to work any good upon. [_Exit._ _Adeline._ Poor simpleton! 'tis Gregory, who, in pure zeal, and honest attachment, has followed me. _Enter GREGORY._ _Gregory._ Mercy on us! this is the great cock captain of the whole brood of banditti! 'Tis all over! and I have been shut up, these two hours, like a calf for killing. Lord! lord! if calves did but know the reason for their being stalled, as I have been, they'd so fall away with fear, that veal would not be worth the taking to market. _Gondi._ Why, how now, man? _Gregory._ Oh lud! I am a poor fellow, sir; that shall be a longtime getting rich, and would fain not die till I am so. Take my life, sir, and you take all;--I carry it about me, as a snail does his house:--and, truly, sir, you'll find that time has a mortgage upon it of forty-two years, and the furniture, of late, is so worn with ill usage, that the remainder of the lease is not worth your acceptance:--if, sweet, noble, sir, you would but---- [_During this Speech, GREGORY has been gradually raising his Eyes from the Ground, till he fixes them on GONDIBERT'S Face._ Eh!--Oh!--O, the father!--No!--Yes--Oh lud--Oh lord! _Gondi._ Why, dost not know me, Gregory? _Gregory._ Huzza!--He's found! [_Capering._] Dear my lord, I never was happier since I was born, at the sight of you. _Gondi._ Trust me, I think so, Gregory. Come, love; Let's in for calmer conference. Follow, good Gregory. [_Exeunt ADELINE and GONDIBERT._ _Gregory._ Here's a simple change in a man's fortune! Now might I, when I say 'tis he--were it not as plain 'tis he as a nose is a nose--swear that my eyes were putting a lie in my mouth, in very spite of my teeth.--Oh, the quiet, comfortable days that I shall see again! Mercy on me! 'Tis enough to make a coward tremble, to think on the battles my valour has been put to. Nothing, now again, but old fare, old rubbing of spoons, and a cup of old sherry, behind the old pantry door, to comfort my nose, in a cold frosty morning. SONG. "Moderation and Alteration." _In an old quiet parish, on a brown healthy old moor,_ _Stands my master's old gate, whose old threshold is wore_ _With many an old friend, who for liquor would roar,_ _And I uncork'd the old sherry--that I had tasted before._ _But it was in Moderation, &c._