_Cher._ Pray, father, don't put me upon getting any thing out of a man; I'm but young, you know, father, and don't understand wheedling. _Bon._ Young! why, you jade, as the saying is, can any woman wheedle that is not young? Your mother was useless at five and twenty! Would you make your mother a whore, and me a cuckold, as the saying is? I tell you, silence confesses it, and his master spends his money so freely, and is so much a gentleman every manner of way, that he must be a highwayman. _Enter_ GIBBET, _in a Cloak_. _Gib._ Landlord! Landlord! is the coast clear? _Bon._ O, Mr. Gibbet, what's the news? _Gib._ No matter; ask no questions; all fair and honourable. Here, my dear Cherry. [_Gives her a Bag._] Two hundred sterling pounds, as good as ever hanged or saved a rogue; lay them by with the rest. And here--three wedding, or mourning rings--'tis much the same, you know----Here, two silver hilted swords; I took those from fellows that never show any part of their swords but the hilts: here is a diamond necklace, which the lady hid in the privatest part in the coach, but I found it out: this gold watch I took from a pawnbroker's wife; it was left in her hands by a person of quality; there's the arms upon the case. _Cher._ But who had you the money from? _Gib._ Ah! poor woman! I pitied her--from a poor lady, just eloped from her husband; she had made up her cargo, and was bound for Ireland, as hard as she could drive: she told me of her husband's barbarous usage, and so, faith, I left her half a crown. But I had almost forgot, my dear Cherry; I have a present for you. _Cher._ What is't? _Gib._ A pot of ceruse, my child, that I took out of a lady's under petticoat pocket. _Cher._ What, Mr. Gibbet, do you think, that I paint? _Gib._ Why, you jade, your betters do; I am sure, the lady that I took it from had a coronet upon her handkerchief.----Here, take my cloak, and go, secure the premises. _Cher._ I will secure them. [_Exit._ _Bon._ But, harkye, where's Hounslow and Bagshot? _Gib._ They'll be here to-night. _Bon._ D'ye know of any other gentlemen o' the pad on this road? _Gib._ No. _Bon._ I fancy, that I have two that lodge in the house just now. _Gib._ The devil! how d'ye smoak them? _Bon._ Why, the one is gone to church. _Gib._ To church! that's suspicious, I must confess. _Bon._ And the other is now in his master's chamber: he pretends to be a servant to the other; we'll call him out, and pump him a little. _Gib._ With all my heart. _Bon._ Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin! _Enter_ ARCHER, _brushing a Hat, and singing_. _Gib._ The roads are consumed deep; I'm as dirty as Old Brentford at Christmas.----A good pretty fellow--Who's servant are you, friend? _Arch._ My master's. _Gib._ Really! _Arch._ Really. _Gib._ That's much--The fellow has been at the bar, by his evasions:--But pray, sir, what is your master's name? Arch. _Tall, all, dall._ [Sings, and brushes the Hat.] This is the most obstinate spot----