eld but what arose from the
excellency of her performances. Mrs. Roger's conduct might be censured
by some for the earnestness of her passion towards Mr. Wilks, but
in the polite world the fair sex has always been privileged from
scandal."]

So when Nance was cast for the distraught Andromache there was
trouble. Rogers demanded the part, and on being refused set about to
make things as unpleasant as possible for her detested rival. Friends
of the disappointed actress packed Drury Lane when the "Distressed
Mother" was performed, and the appearance of Oldfield was made the
signal for a riot. Royal messengers and guards were sent to put an end
to the disorder, but the play had to be stopped for that night.

Colley, who had ever an eye to the pounds, shillings and pence, was
disgusted at what he chose to call an exhibition of low malevolence.
"We have been forced," he says, "to dismiss an audience of a hundred
and fifty pounds, from a disturbance spirited up by obscure people,
who never gave any better reason for it, than that it was their fancy
to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another, in
their several pretentious to the chief part in a new tragedy. But as
this tumult seem'd only to be the Wantonness of _English_ Liberty, I
shall not presume to lay any further censure upon it."

Finally the combined charms of Oldfield and the "Distressed Mother"
triumphed, and young beaux who had helped to swell the riot were
glad to come back meekly to Drury Lane and extol the attractions of
Andromache. In the play itself Nance must have been all that the
troublous part suggested, but it was when she tripped on gaily and
gave the humorous epilogue that the house found her most delightful.
She, who could reign so imperially in tragedy, had glided back to her
better-loved kingdom of comedy, and what cared her captivated hearers
if this self-same epilogue made an inharmonious ending to a serious
play. It was quite enough that Andromache, with all her sufferings
dispelled, should say melodiously:

"I hope you'll own, that with becoming art,
I've play'd my game, and topp'd the widow's part.
My spouse, poor man, could not live out the play,
But dy'd commodiously on wedding-day,[A]
While I his relict, made at one bold fling,
Myself a princess, and young Sty a King.
You, ladies, who protract a lover's pain,
And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain;
Which of you all would not on marriage ve