SCENE IX.--LUCKLESS, HARRIOT.


_Luck_. Dear Harriot!

_Har_. I was going to the playhouse to look after you--I am
frightened out of my wits--I have left my mother at home with the
strangest sort of man, who is inquiring after you: he has raised a mob
before the door by the oddity of his appearance; his dress is like
nothing I ever saw, and he talks of kings, and Bantam, and the
strangest stuff.

_Luck_. What the devil can he be?

_Har_. One of your old acquaintance, I suppose, in disguise--one
of his majesty's officers with his commission in his pocket, I warrant
him.

_Luck_. Well, but have you your part perfect?

_Har_. I had, unless this fellow hath frightened it out of my
head again; but I am afraid I shall play it wretchedly.

_Luck_. Why so?

_Har_. I shall never have assurance enough to go through with it,
especially if they should hiss me.

_Luck_. Oh! your mask will keep you in countenance, and as for