ACT I.

SCENE I.-A Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS.

Car. This constancy of your's will establish an immortal reputation among the women.

Vil. If it would establish me with IsabellaCar. Follow her, follow her: Troy town was won at last. Vil. I have followed her these seven years, and now bat live in hopes.

Car. But live in hopes! Why, hope is the ready road, the lover's baiting-place; and, for aught you know, but one stage short of the possession of your mistress.

Vil. But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making than her's; and proceed rather from my wishes, than any encouragement she has given me. Car. That I can't tell: the sex is very various; there are no certain measures to be prescribed or followed, in making our approaches to the women. All that we have to do, I think, is to attempt them in the weakest part. Press them but hard, and they will all fall under the necessity of a surrender at last. That favour comes at once; and, sometimes, when we least expect it.

Vil. I shall be glad to find it so. I'm going to visit her.

Car. What interest a brother-in-law can have with her, depend upon.

Vil. I know your interest, and I thank you. Car. You are prevented; see, the mourner comes: She weeps, as seven years were seven hours;

So fresh, unfading is the memory
Of my poor brother's, Biron's, death;
I leave you to your opportunity. [Exit Vil.
Though I have taken care to root her from our house,
I would transplant her into Villeroy's.
There is an evil fate that waits upon her,
To which I wish him wedded-only him:
His upstart family, with haughty brow,
(Though Villeroy and myself are seeming friends)
Looks down upon our house; his sister too,
Whose hand I ask'd, and was with scorn refus'd,
Lives in my breast, and fires me to revenge.
They bend this way.

[Exit.

Perhaps, at last, she seeks my father's doors;
They shall be shut, and he prepared to give
The beggar and her brat a cold reception.
That boy's an adder in my path:-they come;
I'll stand apart, and watch their motions.
Enter VILLEROY and ISABELLA, with her Child.
Isa. Why do you follow me? you know I am
A bankrupt every way; too far engaged
Ever to make return: I own you have been
More than a brother to me, my friend:
And, at a time when friends are found no more,
A friend to my misfortunes.

Vil. I must be

Always your friend.

Isa. I have known, and found you Truly my friend: and would I could be your's; But the unfortunate cannot be friends: Pray begone,

Take warning, and be happy.

Vil. Happiness!

There's none for me without you.
What serve the goods of fortune for? To raise
My hopes, that you, at last, will share them with me.
Isa. I must not hear you.

Vil. Thus, at this awful distance, I have served
A seven years' bondage. Do I call it bondage,
When I can never wish to be redeem'd?
No, let me rather linger out a life

Of expectation, that you may be mine,
Than be restored to the indifference
Of seeing you, without this pleasing pain:
I've lost myself, and never would be found,
But in these arms.

Isa. Oh, I have heard all this!

But must no more-the charmer is no more:
My buried husband rises in the face

Of my dear boy, and chides me for my stay:
Canst thou forgive me, child?

Vil. What can I say?

The arguments that make against my hopes
Prevail upon my heart, and fix me more;
When yet a virgin, free, and undisposed,
I loved, but saw you only with mine eyes;
I could not reach the beauties of your soul:
I have since lived in contemplation,
And long experience of your growing goodness:
What then was passion, is my judgment now,
Through all the several changes of your life,
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you.

Isa. Nay then I must begone. If you are my friend,

If you regard my little interest,
No more of this.

I'm going to my father; he needs not an excuse
To use me ill pray leave me to the trial.

Vil. I'm only born to be what you would have me,
The creature of your power, and must obey,
In every thing obey you. I am going;
But all good fortune go along with you.
Isa. I shall need all your wishes.
Lock'd! and fast!

Where is the charity that used to stand
In our forefathers' hospitable days

At great men's doors,

Like the good angel of the family,
With open arms taking the needy in,

(Knocks.)

To feed and clothe, to comfort and relieve them? Now even their gates are shut against their poor. (She knocks again.)

Enter SAMPSON. Sump. Well, what's to do now, I trow? You knock as loud as if you were invited; and that's more than I heard of; but I can tell you, you may look twice about for a welcome in a great man's family, before you find it, unless you bring it along with you.

Isa. I hope I bring my welcome along with me: Is your lord at home?

Samp. My lord at home!

Isa. Count Baldwin lives here still?

Samp. Ay, ay; Count Baldwin does live here; and I am his porter; but what's that to the purpose, good woman, of my lord's being at home?

Isa. Why, don't you know me, friend? Samp. Not I, not I, mistress; I may have seen you before, or so; but men of employment must forget their acquaintance; especially such as we are never to be the better for. (Going to shut the door.)

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Handsomer words would become you, and mend your manners, Sampson: do you know who you prate to?

Isa. I am glad you know me, nurse. Nurse. Marry, heav'n forbid! madam, that I hould ever forget you, or my little jewel: pray

go in. (Isabella goes in with her child.) Now, my blessing go along with you, wherever you go, or whatever you are about. Fie! Sampson, how could'st thou be such a Saracen? A Turk would have been a better Christian, than to have done so barbarously by so good a lady.

Samp. Why, look you, nurse, I know you of old: by your good will, you would have a finger in everybody's pie; but mark the end on't! if I am called to account about it, I know what I have to

say.

Nurse. Marry come up here! say your pleasure, and spare not. Refuse his eldest son's widow and poor child the comfort of seeing him? She does not trouble him so often.

Samp. Not that I am against it, nurse, but we are but servants, you know; we must have no likings, but our lord's, and must do as we are ordered. But what is the business, nurse? You have been in the family before I came into the world: what's the reason, pray, that this daughter-in-law, who has so good a report in everybody's mouth, is so little set by by my lord?

Nurse. Why, I tell you, Sampson, more or less; I'll tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding or diminishing.

Samp. Ay, marry, nurse!

:

Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have loved best, if he had as many as king Pyramus of Troy this Biron, as I was saying, was a lovely sweet gentleman; and, indeed, nobody could blame his father for loving him; he was a son for the king of Spain, heaven bless him! for I was his nurse. But now I come to the point, Sampson; this Biron, without asking the advice of his friends, hand over head, as young men will have their vagaries, not having the fear of his father before his eyes, as I may say, wilfully marries this Isabella.

Samp. How, wilfully! he should have had her consent, methinks.

Nurse. No, wilfully marries her; and, which was worse, after she had settled all her fortune upon a nunnery, which she broke out of to run away with him. They say they had the church's forgiveness, but I had rather it had been his father's.

Samp. Why, in good truth, I think our young master was not in the wrong, but in marrying without a portion.

Nurse. That was the quarrel, I believe, Sampson: upon this, my old lord would never see him; disinherited him; took his younger brother, Carlos, into favour, whom he never cared for before; and, at last, forced Biron to go to the siege of Candy, where he was killed.

Samp. Alack-a-day, poor gentleman!

she had been the cause of his going there. Nurse. For which my old lord hates her, as if

Samp. Alas, poor lady! she has suffered for it; she has lived a great while a widow.

Nurse. A great while, indeed, for a young woman, Sampson.

Samp. Gad so! here they come; I won't venture to be seen. (They retire.)

Enter COUNT BALDWIN, followed by ISABELLA and her Child.

C. Bald. Whoever of your friends directed you, Misguided and abused you there's your way: What could you expect from me?

Isa. Oh! I have nothing to expect on earth!
But misery is very apt to talk:
I thought I might be heard.

C. Bald. What can you say?
Is there in eloquence, can there be in words
A recompensing pow'r, a remedy,
A reparation of the injuries,

The great calamities, that you have brought
On me and mine? You have destroyed those hopes

I fondly raised, through my declining life, To rest my age upon; and most undone me. Isa. I have undone myself too.

C. Bald. Speak it again;

Say still you are undone ; and I will hear you, With pleasure hear you.

Isa. Would my ruin please you?

C. Bald. Beyond all other pleasures.

Isa. Then you are pleased, for I am most undone.

C. Bald. I pray'd but for revenge, and heav'n has heard,

And sent it to my wishes: these grey hairs
Would have gone down in sorrow to the grave,
Which you have dag for me, without the thought,
The thought of leaving you more wretched here.
Isa. Indeed I am most wretched.

I lost with Biron all the joys of life:
But now its last supporting means are gone.
All the kind helps that heav'n in pity raised,
In charitable pity to our wants,

At last have left us: now bereft of all,
But this last trial of a cruel father,

To save us both from sinking. Oh, my child!
Kneel with me, knock at nature in his heart:
Let the resemblance of a once-loved son
Speak in this little one, who never wrong'd you,
And plead the fatherless and widow's cause.
Oh! if you ever hope to be forgiven,
As you will need to be forgiven too,

Forget our faults, that heaven may pardon your's. C. Bald. How dare you mention heav'n? Call to mind

Your perjured vows; your plighted, broken faith
To heav'n, and all things holy; were you not
Devoted, wedded to a life recluse,

The sacred habit on, profess'd and sworn,
A votary for ever? Can you think

The sacrilegious wretch, that robs the shrine,
Is thunder-proof?

Isa. There, there, began my woes.
Oh! had I never seen my Biron's face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fall'n,
But still continued innocent and free

Of a bad world, which only he had pow'r
To reconcile, and make me try again.
C. Bald. Your own inconstancy
Reconciled you to the world:

He had no hand to bring you back again,
But what you gave him. Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind; and what he did
Was first inspired by you.

Isa. Not for myself, for I am past the hopes
Of being heard, but for this innocent;
And then I never will disturb you more.

C. Bald. I almost pity the unhappy child:

Bat being your's

Isa. Look on him as your son's;
And let his part in him answer for mine.

Oh! save, defend him, save him from the wrongs
That fall upon the poor!

C. Bald. It touches me,

And I will save him. But to keep him safe, Never come near him more.

Isa. What! take him from me? No, we must never part; 'tis the last hold Of comfort I have left; and when he fails All goes along with him: Oh! could you be The tyrant to divorce life from my life? I live but in my child.

No, let me pray in vain, and beg my bread From door to door, to feed his daily wants, Rather than always lose him.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS, meeting. Vil. My friend, I fear to ask-but IsabellaThe lovely widow's tears, her orphan's cries, Thy father must feel for them? No; I read, I read their cold reception in thine eyes. Thou pitiest them, though Baldwin-but I spare him For Carlos' sake; thou art no son of his. There needs not this to endear thee more to me. (Embrace.)

Car. My Villeroy, the fatherless, the widow,
Are terms not understood within these gates.
You must forgive him; sir, he thinks this woman
Is Biron's fate, that hurried him to death:
I must not think on't, lest my friendship stagger.
My friend's, my sister's mutual advantage,
Have reconciled my bosom to its task.

Vil. Advantage! think not I intend to raise
An interest from Isabella's wrongs.
Your father may have interested ends
In her undoing; but my heart has none;
Her happiness must be my interest,
And that I would restore.

Car. Why, so I mean.

These hardships, that my father lays upon her,
I'm sorry for, and wish I could prevent;

But he will have his way. Since there's no hope
From her prosperity, her change of fortune
May alter the condition of her thoughts,
And make for you.

Vil. She is above her fortune.

Car. Try her again. Women commonly love
According to the circumstances they are in.
Vil. Common women may.

No, though I live but in the hopes of her,
And languish for th' enjoyment of those hopes;
I'd rather pine in a consuming want

Of what I wish, than have the blessing mine,
From any reason but consenting love.
Oh! let me never have it to remember,

I could betray her coldly to comply:

When a clear gen'rous choice bestows her on me, I know to value the unequall'd gift:

I would not have it, but to value it.

Car. Take your own way; remember, what I offer'd

Came from a friend.

Vil. I understand it so.

I'll serve her for herself, without the thought Of a reward.

[Exit.

Car. Agree that point between you. If you marry her any way, you do my business. I know him: what his generous soul intends Ripens my plots. I'll first to Isabella.

I must keep up appearances with her too.

SCENE II.-A House.

[Exit.

ISABELLA and Nurse discovered. Isabella's Son at play.

Isa. Sooner or later, all things pass away, And are no more. The beggar and the king, With equal steps, tread forward to their end;

Swallows distinction first, that made us foes;
Then all alike lie down in peace together.
When will that hour of peace arrive for me?
In heav'n I shall find it. Not in heaven,
If my old tyrant father can dispose

Of things above. But there his interest May be as poor as mine, and want a friend As much as I do here.

(Weeping.)

Nurse. Good madam, be comforted.
Isa. Do I deserve to be this outcast wretch,
Abandon'd thus, and lost? But 'tis my lot,
The will of heav'n, and I must not complain:
I will not for myself: let me bear all

The violence of your wrath; but spare my child;
Let not my sins be visited on bin.

They are; they must; a general ruin falls
On every thing about me: thou art lost,
Poor nurse, by being near me.

Nurse. I can work, or beg, to do you service.
Isa. Could I forget

What I have been, I might the better bear
What I am destined to. Wild, hurrying thoughts
Start every way from my distracted soul,
To find out hope, and only meet despair.
What answer have I?

Enter SAMPSON.

Samp. Why, truly, very little to the purpose: like a Jew as he is, he says you have had more already than the jewels are worth; he wishes you would rather think of redeeming them, than expect any more money upon them. [Exit.

Isa. So: poverty at home, and debts abroad!
My present fortune bad; my hopes yet worse!
What will become of me?

This ring is all I have left of value now;
'Twas given me by my husband; his first gift
Upon our marriage: I've always kept it
With my best care, the treasure next my life:
And now but part with it to support life,
Which only can be dearer. Take it, nurse,
'Twill stop the cries of hunger for a time;
Take care of it;

Manage it as the last remaining friend

That would relieve us. [Exit Nurse.] Heav'n can

only tell

Where we shall find another. My dear boy!
The labour of his birth was lighter to me
Than of my fondness now; my fears for him
Are more, than in that hour of hovering death,
They could be for myself. He minds me not;
His little sports have taken up his thoughts.
Oh, may they never feel the pangs of mine!
Thinking will make me mad; why must I think,
When no thought brings me comfort?

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Oh, madam! you are utterly ruined and undone; your creditors of all kinds are come in upon you; they have mustered up a regiment of rogues, that are come to plunder your house, and seize upon all you have in the world; they are below. What will you do, madam?

Isa. Do nothing! no, for I am born to suffer.
Enter CARLOS.

Car. Oh, sister! can I call you by that name,
And be the son of this inhuman man,
Inveterate to your ruin?

Do not think I am akin to his barbarity.
I must abhor my father's usage of you.
Can you think

Of any way that I may serve you in?
But what enrages most my sense of grief,
My sorrow for your wrongs, is, that my father,
Foreknowing well the storm that was to fall,
Has order'd me not to appear for you.

Isa. I thank your pity; my poor husband fell
For disobeying him; do not you stay
To venture his displeasure too for me.
Car. You must resolve on something.
Isa. Let my fate

Determine for me; I shall be prepared :
The worst that can befall me is to die.

[Exit.

Hark, they are coming: let the torrent roar :
It can but overwhelm me in its fall;
And life and death are now alike to me.

[Exeunt, the Nurse leading the Child.

SCENE III.-Anti-chamber in Isabella's house. CARLOS and VILLEROY, with Officers.

Vil. No farther violence

The debt in all is but four thousand crowns;
Were it ten times the sum, I think you know
My fortune very well can answer it.
You have my word for this: I'll see you paid.
Offi. That's as much as we can desire; so we
have the money, no matter whence it comes.
Vil. To-morrow you shall have it.

And now my sister comes to crown the work.

Car. Thus far all's well.

(Aside.) Isa. (Within.) Where are those rav'ning bloodhounds, that pursue

In a full cry, gaping to swallow me?

Enter ISABELLA, Nurse and Child.
I meet your rage,
and come to be devour'd;
Say, which way are you to dispose of me;
To dungeons, darkness, death?
Car. Have patience..

Isa. Patience!

Isa. Save me! How?

Car. By satisfying all your creditors.
Isa. Which way? for what?

Vil. Let me be understood,

And then condemn me: you have given me leave
To be your friend; and in that only name
I now appear before you. I could wish
There had been no occasion of a friend,
Because I know you hate to be obliged;
And still more loath to be obliged by me.
Isa. "Twas that I would avoid.

(A side.)

Vil. I'm most unhappy that my services Can be suspected to design upon you; I have no further ends than to redeem you From fortune's wrongs; to shew myself, at last, What I have long profess'd to be, your friend : Allow me that; and to convince you more, That I intend only your interest, Forgive what I have done, and in amends (If that can make you any, that can please you) I'll tear myself for ever from my hopes, Stifle this flaming passion in my soul, And mention my unlucky love no more. Isa. This generosity will ruin me. Vil. Nay, if the blessing of my looking on you Disturbs your peace, will do all I can

(Aside.)

To keep away, and never see you more. (Going.) Car. You must not go.

Vil. Could Isabella speak

Those few short words, I should be rooted here, And never move but upon her commands.

And to the living: 'tis a wilfulness

Not to give way to your necessities,

That force you to this marriage.

Nurse, What must become of this poor inno

cence?

(To the Child.)

Car. He wants a father to protect his youth,
And rear him up to virtue: you must bear
The fatare blame, and answer to the world,
When you refuse the easy, honest means
Of taking care of him.

Isa. Do not think I need

Your reasons, to confirm my gratitude.—
I have a soul that's truly sensible

Of your great worth, and busy to contrive,

If possible, to make you a return. (To Villeroy.) Vil. Oh, easily possible!

Isa. It cannot be your way: my pleasures are Buried, and cold in my dead husband's grave; And I should wrong the truth, myself, and you, To say that I can ever love again.

I owe this declaration to myself:

But as a proof that I owe all to you,

If, after what I have said, you can resolve

Vil. Next my Isabella,

Be near my heart: I am for ever yours. [Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.-Count Baldwin's House.
Enter COUNT BALDWIN and CARLOS.
C. Bald. Married to Villeroy, say'st thou?
Car. Yes, my lord.

Last night the priest perform'd his holy office,
And made them one.

C. Bald. Misfortune join them!
And may her violated vows pull down
A lasting curse, a constancy of sorrow
On both their heads,

Car. Soon he'll bate her;

Though warm and violent in his raptures now,
When full enjoyment palls his sicken'd sense,
And reason with satiety returns,

Her cold constrain'd acceptance of his hand
Will gall his pride, which (though of late o'er-
power'd

By stronger passions) will, as they grow weak,

going?

You cannot think it; 'tis impossible.

Vil. Impossible!

C. Bald. Now, Carlos, take example to thy aid; Let Biron's disobedience, and the curse

He took into his bosom, prove a warning,

grant;

I am so much obliged, that to consent

Would want a name to recommend the gift: Twould shew me poor, indebted, and compell'd, Designing, mercenary: and I know

You would not wish to think I could be bought.
Vil. Be bought! where is the price that can
pretend

To bargain for you? Not in fortune's power.
The joys of heaven, and love, must be bestow'd;
They are not to be sold, and cannot be deserv'd.
Isa. Some other time I'll hear you on this sub-
ject.

Vil Nay, then there is no time so fit for me.
(Following her.)
Since you consent to hear me, hear me now;
That you may grant: you are above

(Takes her hand.) The little forms which circumscribe your sex; We differ but in time, let that be mine.

Is a. You think fit

To get the better of me, and you shall; Since you will have it so-I will be yours. Vil. I take you at your word.

Isa. I give you all,

My hand and would I had a heart to give: But if it ever can return again,

Tis wholly yours.

Vil. Oh ecstacy of joy!

Leave that to me. If all my services,

If all that man can fondly say or do,
Can beget love, love shall be born again.
Oh, Carlos! now my friend, and brother too:
And, nurse, I have eternal thanks for thee.
[Exeunt Nurse and Child.

This night you must be mine,
Let me command in this, and all my life
Shall be devoted to you,

Firm and unshaken.

them,

I will be sure my interest will not suffer
By these his high, refined, fantastic notions
Of equity and right. What a paradox

Is man! My father here, who boasts his honour,
And even but now was warm in praise of justice,
Can steel his heart against the widow's tears,
And infant's wants: the widow and the infant
Of Birou; of his son, his fav'rite son.
'Tis ever thas, weak minds, who court opinion,
And dead to virtuous feeling, hide their wants
In pompous affectation. Now to Villeroy-
Ere this his friends, for he is much belov'd,
Crowd to his house, and with their nuptial songs
Awake the wedded pair: I'll join the throng,
And in my face, at least, bear joy and friendship.

[Exit