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Dan. Marry, and I will. [Kisses her.] Gadzooks, she kisses rarely! An’ please you, mistress, and, seeing my mother will have it so, I don't much care if I kiss you again, forsooth. [Kisses her again.

Luc. Well, how do you like me now?

Dan. Like you! Marry, I don't know. You have bewitched me, I think. I was never so in my born days before.

Wid. You must marry this fine woman, Daniel.

Dan. Hey-day! marry her! I was never married in all my life. What must I do with her then, mother?

Wid. You must live with her, eat and drink with her, go to bed with her, and sleep with her.

Dan. Nay, marry, if I must go to bed with her, I shall never sleep, that's certain : she'll break me of my rest, quite and clean, I can tell


before-hand. As for eating and drinking with her, why, I have a good stomach, and can play my part in any company. But how do you think I can go to bed to a woman I don't know?

Well. You shall know her better.
Dan. Say you so, Sir?
Well. Kiss her again. [Daniel kisses Lucy.

Dan, Nay, kissing, I find, will make us presently acquainted. We'll steal into a corner to practise a little; and then I shall be able to do

any thing.
Well. The young man mends apace.
Wid. Pray don't baulk him.
Dan. Mather, mother, if you'll stay in the room


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by me, and promise not to leave me, I don't care, for once, if I venture to go to bed with her.

Wid. There's a good child; go in, and put on thy best clothes. Pluck up a spirit; I'll stay in the room by thee.

She won't hurt thee, I warrant thee. Dan. Nay, as to that matter, I am not afraid of her. I'll give her as good as she brings. I have a Rowland for her Oliver, and so thou may tell her.

[Exit. Wid. Mrs. Lucy, we sha'n't stay for you: you are in readiness, I suppose.

Well. She is always ready to do what I would have her, I must say that for my sister.

Wid. 'Twill be her own another day, Mr. Well. don ; we'll marry them out of hand, and then Well. And then, Mrs. Lackitt, look to yourself.



Oro. You grant I have good reason to suspect All the professions you can make to me.

Blan. Indeed you have.

« Oro. The dog that sold me did profess as much As you can do-But yet, I know not why" Whether it is because I'm fallen so low, And have no more to fear-That is not it: " I am a slave no longer than I please. “ 'Tis something nobler-Being just myself, " I am inclining to think others so: “ 'Tis that prevails upon me to believe you.

Blan. You may believe me.

« Oro. I do believe you. “ From what I know of you, you are no fool: “ Fools only are the knaves, and live by tricks: “ Wise men may thrive without them, and be honest.

Blan, They won't all take your counsel. [ Aside.

Oro. You know my story, and” you say you are A friend to my misfortunes: that's a name Will teach you what you owe yourself and me,

Blan. I'll study to deserve to be your friend. When once our noble governor arrives, With him you will not need my interest : He is too generous not to feel your wrongs. But be assur'd I will employ my pow'r, And find the means to send you home again. Oro. I thank you, Sir-My honest, wretched friends!

Their chains are heavy: they have hardly found
So kind a master. May I ask you, Sir,
What is become of them? Perhaps I should not.
You will forgive a stranger.

Blan. I'll enquire,
And use my best endeavours, where they are,
To have them gently us’d.

Oro. Once more I thank you.
You offer every cordial that can keep
My hopes alive, to wait a better day.
What friendly care can do, you have apply'd :
But, oh! I have a grief admits no cure.

Blan. You do not know, Sir

Oro. Can you raise the dead?
Pursue and overtake the wings of time,
And bring about again the hours, the days,
The years that made me happy?

Blan. That is not to be done.
Oro. No, there is nothing to be done for me.

[Kneeling and kissing the earth.
Thou god ador'd! thou ever-glorious sun!
If she be yet on earth, send me a beam
Of thy all-seeing pow'r to light me to her ;
Or, if thy sister goddess has preferr'd
Her beauty to the skies, to be a star,
Oh, tell me where she shines, that I may stand
Whole nights, and gaze upon her.

Blan. I am rude, and interrupt you.

Oro. I am troublesome : But pray, give me your pardon. My swoll'n heart Bursts out its passage, and I must complain, (Oh, can you think of nothing dearer to me! Dearer than liberty, my country, friends, Much dearer than my life?) that I have lost The tend'rest, best belov'd, and loving wife.

Blan. Alas, I pity you!

Oro. Do, pity me :
Pity's akin to love; and every thought
Of that soft kind is welcome to my soul.
I would be pity'd here.

Blan. I dare not ask
More than you please to tell me: but if you

Think it convenient to let me know
Your story, I dare promise you to bear
A part in your distress, if not assist you.

Oro. Thou honest-hearted man! I wanted such,
Just such a friend as thou art, that would sit
Still as the night, and let me talk whole days
Of my Imoinda. Oh, I'll tell thee all
From first to last! and, pray, observe me well.

Blan. I will, most heedfully.

Oro. There was a stranger in my father's court, Valu'd and honour'd much. He was a white, The first I ever saw of your complexion. He chang'd his god for ours, and so grew great, Of many virtues, and so fam'd in arms, He still commanded all my father's wars. I was bred under him. One fatal day, The armies joining, he before me stepp'd, Receiving in his breast a poison'd dart Levell'd at me. He dy'd within my arms. I've tir'd you already.

Blan. Pray, go on.

Oro. He left an only daughter, whom he brought An infant to Angola. When I came Back to the court, a happy conqueror, Humanity oblig'd me to condole With this sad virgin, for a father's loss; Lost for my safety. I presented her With all the slaves of battle, to atone Her father's ghost. But, when I saw her face,

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