he rogue, he has murdered my husband. Ah, my
poor Timothy! [_Crying._

_Clinch. sen._ Dem your Timothy!--your husband has murdered me, woman;
for he has carried away my fine Jubilee clothes.

_Mob._ Away with him----away with him to the Thames.

_Clinch. sen._ Oh, if I had but my swimming girdle now!

_Enter_ CONSTABLE.

_Const._ Hold, neighbours, I command the peace.

_Wife._ Oh, Mr. Constable, here's a rogue that has murdered my husband,
and robbed him of his clothes.

_Const._ Murder and robbery!--Then he must be a gentleman.----Hands off
there; he must not be abused.----Give an account of yourself. Are you a
gentleman?

_Clinch. sen._ No, sir, I'm a beau.

_Const._ A beau--Then you have killed nobody, I'm persuaded. How came
you by these clothes, sir?

_Clinch. sen._ You must know, sir, that walking along, sir, I don't know
how, sir, I can't tell where, sir,--and so the porter and I changed
clothes, sir.

_Const._ Very well. The man speaks reason, and like a gentleman.

_Wife._ But pray, Mr. Constable, ask him how he changed clothes with
him.

_Const._ Silence, woman, and don't disturb the court. Well, sir, how did
you change clothes?

_Clinch. sen._ Why, sir, he pulled off my coat, and I drew off his: so I
put on his coat, and he put on mine.

_Const._ Why, neighbour, I don't find that he's guilty: search him--and
if he carries no arms about him, we'll let him go.
[_They search his Pockets, and pull out his Pistols._

_Clinch. sen._ Oh, gemini! My Jubilee pistols!

_Const._ What, a case of pistols! Then the case is plain. Speak, what
are you, sir? Whence came you, and whither go you?

_Clinch. sen._ Sir, I came from Russel Street, and am going to the
Jubilee.

_Wife._ You shall go the gallows, you rogue.

_Const._ Away with him, away with him to Newgate, straight.

_Clinch. sen._ I shall go to the Jubilee now, indeed.

_Enter_ SIR. H. WILDAIR _and_ COLONEL STANDARD.

_Sir H._ In short, colonel, 'tis all nonsense--fight for a woman! Hard
by is the lady's house, if you please, we'll wait on her together: you
shall draw your sword--I'll draw my snuff-box: you shall produce your
wounds received in war--I'll relate mine by Cupid's dart: you shall
swear--I'll sigh: you shall sa, sa, and I'll coupee; and if she flies
not to my arms, like a hawk to its perch, my dancing-master deserves to
be damned.

_Colonel S._ With the gen