Double falshood: or, the distrest lovers. A play, as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. Written originally by W. Shakespeare; and now revised and adapted to the stage by Mr. Theobald, ... Theobald, Mr. (Lewis), 1688-1744. 83 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2007 January 004803137 T34858 CW111703747 K036934.000 CW3311703747 ECLL 0328001500

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 Double falshood: or, the distrest lovers. A play, as it is acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. Written originally by W. Shakespeare; and now revised and adapted to the stage by Mr. Theobald, ... Theobald, Mr. (Lewis), 1688-1744. Shakespeare, William, 1564-1616. [16],64p. ; 8⁰. printed by J. Watts, London : 1728. Probably written originally by James Shirley. With a half-title. A variant has the press figure 4 on p.58. Reproduction of original from the British Library. English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT34858. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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 eng

Double Falſhood; OR, The DISTREST LOVERS.

A

[Price 1 s. and 6 d.]

GEORGE R.

GEORGE the Second, by the Grace of God, King of Great-Britain, France and Ireland; Defender of the Faith, &c. To all to whom theſe Preſents ſhall come, Greeting. Whereas our Truſty, and Well-beloved Lewis Theobald, of our City of London, Gent. hath, by his Petition, humbly repreſented to Us, That He having, at a conſiderable Expence, Purchaſed the Manuſcript Copy of an Original Play of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, called, Double Falſhood; Or, the Diſtreſt Lovers; and, with great Labour and Pains, Reviſed, and Adapted the ſame to the Stage; has humbly beſought Us, to grant him Our Royal Privilege, and Licence, for the ſole Printing and Publiſhing thereof, for the Term of Fourteen Years: We, being willing to give all due Encouragement to this his Undertaking, are graciouſly pleaſed to condeſcend to his Requeſt: and do therefore, by theſe Preſents, ſo far as may be agreeable to the Statute in that Behalf made and provided, for Us, Our Heirs, and Succeſſors, grant unto Him, the ſaid Lewis Theobald, his Executors, Adminiſtrators, and Aſſigns, Our Royal Licence, for the ſole Printing and Publiſhing the ſaid Play, in ſuch Size and Manner, as He and They ſhall think fit, for the Term of Fourteen Years, to be computed from the Date hereof; ſtrictly forbidding all our Subjects within our Kingdoms and Dominions, to Reprint the ſame, either in the like, or in any other Size, or Manner whatſoever; or to Import, Buy, Vend, Utter or Diſtribute any Copies thereof, Reprinted beyond the Seas, during the aforeſaid Term of Fourteen Years, without the Conſent, or Approbation of the ſaid Lewis Theobald, his Heirs, Executors, and Aſſigns, under his, or their Hands and Seals firſt had, and obtained; as they will anſwer the contrary at their Peril▪—Whereof the Commiſſioners, and other Officers of our Cuſtoms, the Maſter, Warden, and Company of Stationers, are to take Notice, that the ſame may be entred in the Regiſter of the ſaid Company, and that due Obedience be rendred thereunto. Given at Our Court at St. James's, the Fifth Day of December, 1727; in the Firſt Year of Our Reign.

By His Majeſty's Command, HOLLES NEWCASTLE.

Double Falſhood; OR, The DISTREST LOVERS.

A PLAY, As it is Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE.

Written Originally by W. SHAKESPEARE; And now Reviſed and Adapted to the Stage By Mr. THEOBALD, the Author of Shakeſpeare Reſtor'd.

—Quod optanti Divûm promittere nemo Auderet, volvenda Dies, en! attulit ultrò. Virg.

LONDON: Printed by J. WATTS, at the Printing-Office in Wild-Court near Lincolns-Inn Fields. M DCC XXVIII.

To the Right HONOURABLE George Dodington, Eſq SIR,

NOTHING can more ſtrongly ſecond the Pleaſure I feel, from the UniverſalApplauſe which crowns this Orphan Play, than this Other which I take in preſuming to ſhelter it under Your Name. I bear ſo dear an Affection to the Writings and Memory of SHAKESPEARE, that, as it is my good Fortune to retrieve this Remnant of his Pen from Obſcurity, ſo it is my greateſt Ambition that this Piece ſhould be received into the Protection of ſuch a Patron: And, I hope, Future Times, when they mean to pay Shakeſpeare the beſt Compliment, will remember to ſay, Mr. DODINGTON was that Friend to his Remains, which his own SOUTHAMPTON was to his living Merit.

It is from the fine Diſcernment of our Patrons, that we can generally beſt promiſe Ourſelves the good Opinion of the Publick. You are not only a diſtinguiſh'd Friend of the Muſes, but moſt intimately allied to them: And from hence it is I flatter Myſelf, that if You ſhall think fit to pronounce this Piece genuine, it will ſilence the Cenſures of thoſe Unbelievers, who think it impoſſible a Manuſcript of Shakeſpeare could ſo long have lain dormant; and who are blindly paying Me a greater Compliment than either They deſign, or I can merit, while they cannot but confeſs Themſelves pleaſed, yet would fain inſinuate that they are impoſed upon. I ſhould eſteem it ſome Sort of Virtue, were I able to commit ſo agreeable a Cheat.

But pardon Me, Sir, for a Digreſſion that perverts the very Rule of Dedications. I own, I have my Reaſons for it. As, SIR, your known Integrity, and Honour engages the warmeſt Wiſhes of all good Men for your Proſperity, ſo your known Diſtinction in polite Letters, and your generous Encouragement of Thoſe who pretend to them, obliges us to conſider your Advancement as our own perſonal Intereſt, and as a good Omen, at leaſt, if not as the ſureſt Means of the future flouriſhing Condition of thoſe Humane Arts amongſt us, which We profeſs, and which You adorn. But neither Your Modeſty, nor my Inability will ſuffer me to enter upon that Subject. Permit me therefore, SIR, to convert Panegyrick into a moſt ardent Wiſh, that You would look with a Tender Eye on this dear Relick, and that you would believe me, with the moſt unfeigned Zeal and Reſpect,

SIR, Your moſt Devoted and Obedient Humble Servant, LEW. THEOBALD. Great Ruſſell-ſtree, 21ſt December, 1727.
PREFACE OF THE EDITOR.

THE Succeſs, which this Play has met with from the Town in the Repreſentation, (to ſay nothing of the Reception it found from thoſe Great Judges, to whom I have had the Honour of communicating it in Manuſcript;) has almoſt made the Purpoſe of a Preface unneceſſary: And therefore what I have to ſay, is deſign'd rather to wipe out a flying Objection to two, than to labour at proving it the Production of Shakeſpeare. It has been alledg'd as incredible, that ſuch a Curioſity ſhould be ſtifled and loſt to the World for above a Century. To This my Anſwer is ſhort; that tho' it never till now made its Appearance on the Stage, yet one of the Manuſcript Copies, which I have, is of above Sixty Years Standing, in the Handwriting of Mr. Downes, the famous Old Prompter; and, as I am credibly inform'd, was early in the Poſſeſſion of the celebrated Mr. Betterton, and by Him deſign'd to have been uſher'd into the World. What Accident prevented This Purpoſe of his, I do not pretend to know: Or thro' what hands it had ſucceſſively paſs'd before that Period of Time. There is a Tradition (which I have from the Noble Perſon, who ſupply'd me with One of my Copies) that it was given by our Author, as a Preſent of Value, to a Natural Daughter of his, for whoſe Sake he wrote it, in the Time of his Retirement from the Stage. Two other Copies I have, (one of which I was glad to purchaſe at a very good Rate,) which may not, perhaps, be quite ſo Old as the Former; but One of Them is much more perfect, and has fewer Flaws and Interruptions in the Senſe.

Another Objection has been ſtarted, (which would carry much more Weight with it, were it Fact;) that the Tale of this Play, being built upon a Novel in Don Quixot, Chronology is againſt Us, and Shakeſpeare could not be the Author. But it happens, that Don Quixot was publiſh'd in the Year 1611, and Shakeſpeare did not dye till April 1616, a ſufficient Interval of Time for All that We want granted.

Others again, to depreciate the Affair, as they thought, have been pleaſed to urge, that tho' the Play may have ſome Reſemblances of Shakeſpeare, yet the Colouring, Diction, and Characters, come nearer to the Style and Manner of FLETCHER. This, I think, is far from deſerving any Anſwer; I ſubmit it to the Determination of better Judgments; tho' my Partiality for Shakeſpeare makes me wiſh, that Every Thing which is good, or pleaſing, in our Tongue, had been owing to his Pen.

As to the Performance of the reſpective Actors concern'd in this Play, my applauding It here would be altogether ſuperfluous. The Publick has diſtinguiſh'd and given them a Praiſe, much beyond Any that can flow from my Pen. But I have ſome particular Acknowledgments to make to the Managers of this Company, for which I am glad to embrace ſo fair an Opportunity.

I came to Them at this Juncture as an Editor, not an Author, and have met with ſo much Candour, and handſome Treatment from Them, that I am willing to believe, the Complaint, which has ſo commonly obtain'd, of their Diſregard and ill Behaviour to Writers, has been more ſeverely urg'd, than it is juſtly grounded. They muſt certainly be too good Judges of their own Intereſt, not to know that a Theatre cannot always ſubſiſt on old Stock, but that the Town requires Novelty at their Hands. On the other Hand, they muſt be ſo far Judges of their own Art and Profeſſion, as to know that all the Compoſitions, which are offer'd them, would never go down with Audiences of ſo nice and delicate a Taſte, as in this Age frequent the Theatres. It would be very hard upon ſuch a Community, where ſo many Intereſts are concern'd, and ſo much Merit in their Buſineſs allow'd, if they had not a Priviledge of refuſing ſome crude Pieces, too imperfect for the Entertainment of the Publick I would not be thought to inferr, that they have never diſcourag'd what They might, perhaps, afterwards wiſh they had receiv'd. They do not, I believe, ſet up for ſuch a Conſtant Infallibility. But if We do but fairly conſider out of above Four Thouſand Plays extant, how ſmall a Number will now ſtand the Teſt: if We do but conſider too, how often a raw Performance has been extoll'd by the Partiality of private Friendſhip; and what a Clamour of Injury has been rais'd from that Quarter, upon ſuch Performance meeting a Repulſe; we may pretty eaſily account for the Grounds upon which they proceeded in diſcountenancing ſome Plays, and the harſh Things that are thrown out upon their giving a Repulſe to others.

But I ſhould beg Pardon for interfering in this Queſtion, in which I am properly neither Party, nor Judge. I am only throwing out a private Opinion, without Intereſt or Prejudice, and if I am right in the Notion, Valeat quantum valere poteſt.

PROLOGUE. Written by PHILIP FROWDE, Eſq And Spoken by Mr. WILKS. AS in ſome Region, where indulgent Skies Enrich the Soil, a thouſand Plants ariſe Frequent and bold; a thouſand Landskips meet Our raviſht View, irregularly ſweet: We gaze, divided, now on Theſe, now Thoſe; While All one beauteous Wilderneſs compoſe. Such SHAKESPEARE's Genius was:—Let Britons boaſt The glorious Birth, and, eager, ſtrive who moſt Shall celebrate his Verſe; for while we raiſe Trophies of Fame to him, ourſelves we praiſe▪ Diſplay the Talents of a Britiſh Mind, Where All is great, free, open, unconfin'd. Be it our Pride, to reach his daring Flight; And reliſh Beauties, he alone could write. Moſt modern Authors, fearful to aſpire, With Imitation cramp their genial Fire; The well-ſchemed Plan keep ſtrict before their Eyes, Dwell on Proportions, trifling Decencies; While noble Nature all neglected lies. Nature, that claims Precedency of Place, Perfection's Baſis, and eſſential Grace! Nature ſo intimately SHAKESPEARE knew, From her firſt Springs his Sentiments he drew; Moſt greatly wild they flow; and, when moſt wild, yet true. While Theſe, ſecure in what the Criticks teach, Of ſervile Laws ſtill dread the dangerous Breach; His vaſt, unbounded, Soul diſdain'd their Rule, Above the Precepts of the Pedant School! Oh! could the Bard, reviſiting our Light, Receive theſe Honours done his Shade To-night, How would he bleſs the Scene this Age diſplays, Tranſcending his Eliza's golden Days! When great AUGUSTUS fills the Britiſh Throne, And his lov'd Conſort makes the Muſe her own. How would he joy, to ſee fair Merit's Claim Thus anſwer'd in his own reviving Fame! How cry with Pride—" Oblivion I forgive; " This my laſt Child to lateſt Times ſhall live: " Loſt to the World, well for the Birth it ſtay'd; " To this auſpicious Aera well delay'd.
EPILOGUE. Written by a Friend. Spoken by Mrs. OLDFIELD. WELL, Heaven defend us from theſe ancient Plays, Theſe Moral Bards of good Queen Beſs's Days! They write from Virtue's Laws, and think no further; But draw a Rape as dreadful as a Murther. You modern Wits, more deeply vers'd in Nature, Can tip the wink, to tell us, you know better; As who ſhou'd ſay—" 'Tis no ſuch killing Matter— " We've heard old Stories told, and yet ne'er wonder'd, " Of many a Prude, that has endur'd a Hundred: " And Violante grieves, or we're miſtaken, " Not, becauſe raviſht; but becauſe—forſaken.— Had this been written to the modern Stage, Her Manners had been copy'd from the Age. Then, tho' ſhe had been once a little wrong, She ſtill had had the Grace to've held her Tongue; And after all, with downcaſt Looks, been led Like any Virgin to the Bridal Bed. There, if the good Man queſtion'd her Miſ-doing, She'd ſtop him ſhort—" Pray, who made you ſo knowing? " What, doubt my Virtue!—What's your baſe Intention? " Sir, that's a Point above your Comprehenſion.— Well, Heav'n be prais'd, the Virtue of our Times Secures us from our Gothick Grandſires Crimes. Rapes, Magick, new Opinions, which before Have fill'd our Chronicles, are now no more: And this reforming Age may juſtly boaſt, That dreadful Sin Polygamy is loſt. So far from multiplying Wives, 'tis known Our Husbands find, they've Work enough with one.— Then, as for Rapes, thoſe dangerous days are paſt; Our Dapper Sparks are ſeldom in ſuch haſte. In SHAKESPEARE's Age the Engliſh Youth inſpir'd, Lov'd, as they fought, by him and Beauty fir'd. 'Tis yours to crown the Bard, whoſe Magick Strain Cou'd charm the Heroes of that glorious Reign, Which humbled to the Duſt the Pride of Spain.
Dramatis Perſonae. MEN▪ Mr. Corey. Mr. Mills. Mr. Wilks. Mr. Harper. Mr. Griffin. Mr. Booth. Mr. Oates. Mr. Bridgwater▪ Mr. Norris. Mr. Ray. WOMEN. Mrs. Porter. Mrs. Booth. SCENE, the Province of Andaluſia in Spain.
DOUBLE FALSHOOD; OR, The DISTREST LOVERS.
ACT I. SCENE I. SCENE, A Royal Palace. Duke Angelo, Roderick, and Courtiers. RODERICK. MY gracious Father, this unwonted Strain Viſits my Heart with Sadneſs. Duke. —Why, my Son? Making my Death familiar to my Tongue Digs not my Grave one Jot before the Date. I've worn the Garland of my Honours long, And would not leave it wither'd to thy Brow, But flouriſhing and green; worthy the Man, 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 Who, with my Dukedoms, heirs my better Glories. Roder. This Praiſe, which is my Pride, ſpreads me with Bluſhes. Duke. Think not, that I can flatter thee, my Roderick; Or let the Scale of Love o'er-poize my Judgment. Like a fair Glaſs of Retroſpection, Thou Reflect'ſt the Virtues of my early Youth; Making my old Blood mend its Pace with Tranſport: While fond Henriquez, thy irregular Brother, Sets the large Credit of his Name at Stake, A Truant to my Wiſhes, and his Birth. His Taints of Wildneſs hurt our nicer Honour, And call for ſwift Reclaim. Roder. —I truſt, my Brother Will, by the Vantage of his cooler Wiſdom, E'er-while redeem the hot Eſcapes of Youth, And court Opinion with a golden Conduct. Duke. Be Thou a Prophet in that kind Suggeſtion! But I, by Fears weighing his unweigh'd Courſe, Interpret for the Future from the Paſt. And ſtrange Miſgivings, why he hath of late By Importunity, and ſtrain'd Petition, Wreſted our Leave of Abſence from the Court, Awake Suſpicion. Thou art inward with him; And, haply, from the boſom'd Truſt can'ſt ſhape Some formal Cauſe to qualify my Doubts. Roder. Why he hath preſs'd this Abſence, Sir, I know not; But have his Letters of a modern Date, Wherein by Julio, good Camillo's Son, (Who, as he ſays, ſhall follow hard upon; And whom I with the growing Hour expect:) He doth ſollicit the Return of Gold To purchaſe certain Horſe, that like him well. This Julio he encounter'd firſt in France, And lovingly commends him to my Favour; Wiſhing, I would detain him ſome few Days, To know the Value of his well-placed Truſt. Duke. O, do it, Roderick; and aſſay to mould him An honeſt Spy upon thy Brother's Riots. Make us acquainted when the Youth arrives; We'll ſee this Julio, and he ſhall from Us Receive the ſecret Loan his Friend requires. Bring him to Court. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Proſpect of a Village at a Diſtance. Enters Camillo with a Letter. Cam.

How comes the Duke to take ſuch Notice of my Son, that he muſt needs have him in Court, and I muſt ſend him upon the View of his Letter?—Horſemanſhip! What Horſemanſhip has Julio? I think, he can no more but gallop a Hackney, unleſs he practiſed Riding in France. It may be, he did ſo; for he was there a good Continuance. But I have not heard him ſpeak much of his Horſemanſhip. That's no Matter: if he be not a good Horſeman, all's one in ſuch a Caſe, he muſt bear. Princes are abſolute; they may do what they will in any Thing, ſave what they cannot do.

Enters Julio.

O, come on, Sir; read this Paper: no more Ado, but read it: It muſt not be anſwer'd by my Hand, nor yours, but, in Groſs, by your Perſon; your ſole Perſon. Read aloud.

 Jul.

'Pleaſe you, to let me firſt o'erlook it, Sir.

 Cam.

I was this other day in a Spleen againſt your new Suits: I do now think, ſome Fate was the Taylour that hath fitted them: for, this Hour, they are for the Palace of the Duke.—Your Father's Houſe is too duſty.

 Jul.

Hem!—to Court? Which is the better, to ſerve a Miſtreſs, or a Duke? I am ſued to be his Slave, and I ſue to be Leonora's. [Aſide.

Cam.

You ſhall find your Horſemanſhip much praiſed there; Are you ſo good a Horſeman?

 Jul. I have been, E'er now, commended for my Seat, or mock'd. Cam.

Take one Commendation with another, every Third's a Mock.—Affect not therefore to be praiſed. Here's a deal of Command and Entreaty mixt; there's no denying; you muſt go, peremptorily he inforces That.

 Jul.

What Fortune ſoever my Going ſhall encounter, cannot be good Fortune; What I part withal unſeaſons any other Goodneſs. [Aſide.

Cam.

You muſt needs go; he rather conjures, than importunes.

 Jul.

No moving of my Love-Suit to him now?— [Aſide.

Cam.

Great Fortunes have grown out of leſs Grounds.

 Jul.

What may her Father think of me, who expects to be ſollicited this very Night? [Aſide.

Cam.

Thoſe ſcatter'd Pieces of Virtue, which are in him, the Court will ſolder together, varniſh, and rectify.

 Jul.

He will ſurely think I deal too ſlightly, or unmannerly, or fooliſhly, indeed; nay, diſhoneſtly; to bear him in hand with my Father's Conſent, who yet hath not been touch'd with ſo much as a Requeſt to it. [Aſide.

Cam.

Well, Sir, have you read it over?

 Jul.

Yes, Sir.

 Cam.

And conſider'd it?

 Jul.

As I can.

 Cam.

If you are courted by good Fortune, you muſt go.

 Jul.

So it pleaſe You, Sir.

 Cam.

By any Means, and to morrow: Is it not there the Limit of his Requeſt?

 Jul.

It is, Sir.

 Cam.

I muſt bethink me of ſome Neceſſaries, without which you might be unfurniſh'd: And my Supplies ſhall at all Convenience follow You. Come to my Cloſet by and by; I would there ſpeak with You.

 [Exit Camillo. Manet Julio ſolus. Jul. I do not ſee that Fervour in the Maid, Which Youth and Love ſhould kindle. She conſents, As 'twere to feed without an Appetite; Tells me, She is content; and plays the Coy one, Like Thoſe that ſubtly make their Words their Ward, Keeping Addreſs at Diſtance. This Affection Is ſuch a feign'd One, as will break untouch'd; Dye froſty, e'er it can be thaw'd; while mine, Like to a Clime beneath Hyperion's Eye, Burns with one conſtant Heat. I'll ſtrait go to her; Pray her to regard my Honour: but She greets me.— Enter Leonora, and Maid. See, how her Beauty doth inrich the Place! O, add the Muſick of thy charming Tongue, Sweet as the Lark that wakens up the Morn, And make me think it Paradiſe indeed. I was about to ſeek thee, Leonora, And chide thy Coldneſs, Love. Leon. —What ſays your Father? Jul. I have not mov'd him yet. Leon. —Then do not, Julio. Jul. Not move him? Was it not your own Command, That his Conſent ſhould ratify our Loves? Leon. Perhaps, it was: but now I've chang'd my Mind. You purchaſe at too dear a Rate, that puts You To wooe me and your Father too: Beſides, As He, perchance, may ſay, you ſhall not have me; You, who are ſo obedient, muſt diſcharge me Out of your Fancy: Then, you know, 'twill prove My Shame and Sorrow, meeting ſuch Repulſe, To wear the Willow in my Prime of Youth. Jul. Oh! do not rack me with theſe ill-placed Doubts; Nor think, tho' Age has in my Father's Breaſt Put out Love's Flame, he therefore has not Eyes, Or is in Judgment blind. You wrong your Beauties, Venus will frown if you diſprize her Gifts, That have a Face would make a frozen Hermit Leap from his Cell, and burn his Beads to kiſs it; Eyes, that are nothing but continual Births Of new Deſires in Thoſe that view their Beams. You cannot have a Cauſe to doubt. Leon. —Why, Julio? When you that dare not chuſe without your Father, And, where you love, you dare not vouch it; muſt not, Though you have Eyes, ſee with 'em;—can I, think you, Somewhat, perhaps, infected with your Suit, Sit down content to ſay, You would, but dare not? Jul. Urge not Suſpicions of what cannot be; You deal unkindly; mis-becomingly, I'm loth to ſay: For All that waits on you, Is graced, and graces.—No Impediment Shall bar my Wiſhes, but ſuch grave Delays As Reaſon preſſes Patience with; which blunt not, But rather whet our Loves. Be patient, Sweet. Leon Patient! What elſe? My Flames are in the Flint. Haply, to loſe a Husband I may weep; Never, to get One: When I cry for Bondage, Let Freedom quit me. Jul. —From what a Spirit comes This? I now perceive too plain, you care not for me. Duke, I obey thy Summons, be its Tenour Whate'er it will: If War, I come thy Souldier: Or if to waſte my ſilken Hours at Court, The Slave of Faſhion, I with willing Soul Embrace the lazy Baniſhment for Life; Since Leonora has pronounc'd my Doom. Leon. What do you mean? Why talk you of the Duke? Wherefore of War, or Court, or Baniſhment? Jul. How this new Note is grown of me, I know not; But the Duke writes for Me. Coming to move My Father in our Bus'neſs, I did find him Reading this Letter; whoſe Contents require My inſtant Service, and Repair to Court. Leon. Now I perceive the Birth of theſe Delays; Why Leonora was not worth your Suit. Repair to Court? Ay, there you ſhall, perhaps, (Rather, paſt Doubt;) behold ſome choicer Beauty, Rich in her Charms, train'd to the Arts of Soothing, Shall prompt you to a Spirit of Hardineſs, To ſay, So pleaſe you, Father, I have choſen This Miſtreſs for my own.— Jul. —Still you miſtake me: Ever your Servant I profeſs my ſelf; And will not blot me with a Change, for all That Sea and Land inherit. Leon. But when go you? Jul. To morrow, Love; ſo runs the Duke's Command; Stinting our Farewell-kiſſes, cutting off The Forms of Parting, and the Interchange Of thouſand precious Vows, with Haſte too rude. Lovers have Things of Moment to debate, More than a Prince, or dreaming Stateſman, know: Such Ceremonies wait on Cupid's Throne. Why heav'd that Sigh? Leon. O Julio, let me whiſper What, but for Parting, I ſhould bluſh to tell thee: My Heart beats thick with Fears, leſt the gay Scene, The Splendors of a Court, ſhould from thy Breaſt Baniſh my Image, kill my Int'reſt in thee, And I be left, the Scoff of Maids, to drop A Widow's Tear for thy departed Faith. Jul. O let Aſſurance, ſtrong as Words can bind, Tell thy pleas'd Soul, I will be wond'rous faithful; True, as the Sun is to his Race of Light, As Shade to Darkneſs, as Deſire to Beauty: And when I ſwerve, let Wretchedneſs o'ertake me, Great as e'er Falſhood met, or Change can merit. Leon. Enough; I'm ſatisfied: and will remain Yours, with a firm and untir'd Conſtancy. Make not your Abſence long: Old Men are wav'ring; And ſway'd by Int'reſt more than Promiſe giv'n. Should ſome freſh Offer ſtart, when you're away, I may be preſt to Something, which muſt put My Faith, or my Obedience, to the Rack. Jul. Fear not, but I with ſwifteſt Wing of Time Will labour my Return. And in my Abſence, My noble Friend, and now our honour'd Gueſt, The Lord Henriquez, will in my behalf Hang at your Father's Ear, and with kind Hints, Pour'd from a friendly Tongue, ſecure my Claim; And play the Lover for thy abſent Julio. Leon. Is there no Inſtance of a Friend turn'd falſe? Take Heed of That: No Love by Proxy, Julio. My Father— Enters Don Bernard. D. Bern.

What, Julio, in publick? This Wooeing is too urgent. Is your Father yet moved in the Suit, who muſt be the prime Unfolder of this Buſineſs?

 Jul. I have not yet, indeed, at full poſſeſs'd My Father, whom it is my Service follows; But only that I have a Wife in Chaſe. D. Bern.

Chaſe!—Let Chaſe alone: No Matter for That.—You may halt after her, whom you profeſs to purſue, and catch her too; Marry, not unleſs your Father let you ſlip.—Briefly, I deſire you, (for ſhe tells me, my Inſtructions ſhall be both Eyes and Feet to her;) no farther to inſiſt in your Requiring, 'till, as I have formerly ſaid, Camillo make known to Me, that his good Liking goes along with Us; which but once breath'd, all is done; 'till when, the Buſineſs has no Life, and cannot find a Beginning.

 Jul. Sir, I will know his Mind, e'er I taſte Sleep: At Morn, you ſhall be learn'd in his Deſire. I take my Leave.—O virtuous Leonora, Repoſe, ſweet as thy Beauties, ſeal thy Eyes; Once more, adieu. I have thy Promiſe, Love; Remember, and be faithful. [Ex. Julio. D. Bern.

His Father is as unſettled, as he is wayward, in his Diſpoſition. If I thought young Julio's Temper were not mended by the Mettal of his Mother, I ſhould be ſomething crazy in giving my Conſent to this Match: And, to tell you true, if my Eyes might be the Directors to your Mind, I could in this Town look upon Twenty Men of more delicate Choice. I ſpeak not This altogether to unbend your Affections to him: But the Meaning of what I ſay is, that you ſet ſuch Price upon yourſelf to him, as Many, and much his Betters, would buy you at; (and reckon thoſe Virtues in you at the rate of their Scarcity;) to which if he come not up, you remain for a better Mart.

 Leon.

My Obedience, Sir, is chain'd to your Advice.

 D. Bern.

'Tis well ſaid, and wiſely. I fear, your Lover is a little Folly-tainted; which, ſhortly after it proves ſo, you will repent.

 Leon.

Sir, I confeſs, I approve him of all the Men I know; but that Approbation is nothing, 'till ſeaſon'd by your Conſent.

 D. Bern.

We ſhall hear ſoon what his Father will do, and ſo proceed accordingly. I have no great Heart to the Buſineſs, neither will I with any Violence oppoſe it: But leave it to that Power which rules in theſe Conjunctions, and there's an End. Come; haſte We homeward, Girl.

 [Exeunt.
SCENE III. Enter Henriquez, and Servants with Lights. Henr. Bear the Lights cloſe:—Where is the Muſick, Sirs? Serv. Coming, my Lord. Henr. Let 'em not come too near. This Maid, For whom my Sighs ride on the Night's chill Vapour, Is born moſt humbly, tho' ſhe be as fair As Nature's richeſt Mould and Skill can make her, Mended with ſtrong Imagination. But what of That? Th' Obſcureneſs of her Birth Cannot eclipſe the Luſtre of her Eyes, Which make her all One Light.—Strike up, my Maſters; But touch the Strings with a religious Softneſs; Teach Sound to languiſh thro' the Night's dull Ear, 'Till Melancholy ſtart from her lazy Couch, And Careleſsneſs grow Convert to Attention. [Muſick plays. She drives me into Wonder, when I ſometimes Hear her diſcourſe; The Court, whereof Report, And Gueſs alone inform her, ſhe will rave at, As if ſhe there ſev'n Reigns had ſl •• der'd Time. Then, when ſhe reaſons on her Country State, Health, Virtue, Plainneſs, and Simplicity, On Beauties true in Title, ſcorning Art, Freedom as well to do, as think, what's good; My Heart grows ſick of Birth and empty Rank, And I become a Villager in Wiſh. Play on;—She ſleeps too ſound:—Be ſtill, and vaniſh: A Gleam of Day breaks ſudden from her Window: O Taper, graced by that midnight Hand! Violante appears above at her Window. Viol. Who is't, that wooes at this late Hour? What are you? Henr. One, who for your dear Sake— Viol. Watches the ſtarleſs Night! My Lord Henriquez, or my Ear deceives me. You've had my Anſwer, and 'tis more than ſtrange You'll combat theſe Repulſes. Good my Lord, Be Friend to your own Health; and give me Leave, Securing my poor Fame, nothing to pity What Pangs you ſwear you ſuffer. 'Tis impoſſible To plant your choice Affections in my Shade, At leaſt, for them to grow there. Henr. —Why, Violante? Viol. Alas! Sir, there are Reaſons numberleſs To bar your Aims. Be warn'd to Hours more wholeſom; For, Theſe you watch in vain. I have read Stories, (I fear, too true ones;) how young Lords, like you, Have thus beſung mean Windows, rhymed their Sufferings Ev'n to th'Abuſe of Things Divine, ſet up Plain Girls, like me, the Idols of their Worſhip, Then left them to bewail their eaſie Faith, And ſtand the World's Contempt. Henr. —Your Memory, Too faithful to the Wrongs of few loſt Maids, Makes Fear too general. Viol. —Let us be homely, And let us too be chaſt, doing you Lords no Wrong; But crediting your Oaths with ſuch a Spirit, As you profeſs them: ſo no Party truſted Shall make a loſing Bargain. Home, my Lord, What you can ſay, is moſt unſeaſonable; what ſing, Moſt abſonant and harſh: Nay, your Perfume, Which I ſmell hither, cheers not my Senſe Like our Field-violet's Breath. Henr. —Why, this Diſmiſſion Does more invite my Staying. Viol. —Men of your Temper Make ev'ry Thing their Bramble. But I wrong That which I am preſerving, my Maid's Name, To hold ſo long Diſcourſe. Your Virtues guide you T'effect ſome nobler Purpoſe! [Ex. Violante. Henr. Stay, bright Maid! Come back, and leave me with a fairer Hope. She's gone:—Who am I, that am thus contemn'd? The ſecond Son to a Prince?—Yes; well; What then? Why, your great Birth forbids you to deſcend To a low Alliance:—Her's is the ſelf-ſame Stuff, Whereof we Dukes are made; but Clay more pure! And take away my Title, which is acquir'd Not by my ſelf, but thrown by Fortune on Me, Or by the Merit of ſome Anceſtour Of ſingular Quality, She doth inherit Deſerts t'outweigh me.—I muſt ſtoop to gain her; Throw all my gay Compariſons aſide, And turn my proud Additions out of Service, Rather than keep them to become my Maſters. The Dignities we wear, are Gifts of Pride; And laugh'd at by the Wiſe, as meer Outſide. [Exit.
End of the Firſt Act.
ACT II. SCENE I. SCENE, The Proſpect of a Village. Enter Fabian and Lopez; Henriquez on the Oppoſite Side. Lop.

SOFT, ſoft you, Neighbour; who comes here? Pray you, ſlink aſide.

 Henr.

Ha! Is it come to this? Oh the Devil, the Devil, the Devil!

 Fab.

Lo you now! for Want of the diſcreet Ladle of a cool Underſtanding, will this Fellow's Brains boil over.

 Henr. To have enjoy'd her, I would have given—What? All that at preſent I could boaſt my own, And the Reverſion of the World to boot, Had the Inheritance been mine:—And now, (Juſt Doom of guilty Joys!) I grieve as much That I have rifled all the Stores of Beauty, Thoſe Charms of Innocence and artleſs Love, As juſt before I was devour'd with Sorrow, That ſhe refus'd my Vows, and ſhut the Door Upon my ardent Longings. Lop.

Love! Love!—Downright Love! I ſee by the Fooliſhneſs of it.

 Henr.

Now then to Recollection—Was't not ſo? A Promiſe firſt of Marriage—Not a Promiſe only, for 'twas bound with Surety of a thouſand Oaths;—and thoſe not light ones neither.—Yet I remember too, thoſe Oaths could not prevail; th' unpractis'd Maid trembled to meet my Love: By Force alone I ſnatch'd th' imperfect Joy, which now torments my Memory. Not Love, but brutal Violence prevail'd; to which the Time, and Place, and Opportunity, were Acceſſaries moſt diſhonourable. Shame, Shame upon it!

 Fab.

What a Heap of Stuff's this—I fancy, this Fellow's Head would make a good Pedlar's Pack, Neighbour.

 Henr.

Hold, let me be ſevere to my Self, but not unjuſt.—Was it a Rape then? No. Her Shrieks, her Exclamations then had drove me from her. True, ſhe did not conſent; as true, ſhe did reſiſt; but ſtill in Silence all.—'Twas but the Coyneſs of a modeſt Bride, not the Reſentment of a raviſht Maid. And is the Man yet born, who would not riſque the Guilt, to meet the Joy?—The Guilt! that's true—but then the Danger; the Tears, the Clamours of the ruin'd Maid, purſuing me to Court. That, that, I fear will (as it already does my Conſcience) ſomething ſhatter my Honour. What's to be done? But now I have no Choice. Fair Leonora reigns confeſt the Tyrant Queen of my revolted Heart, and Violante ſeems a ſhort Uſurper there.—Julio's already by my Arts remov'd.—O Friendſhip, how wilt thou anſwer That? Oh, that a Man could reaſon down this Feaver of the Blood, or ſooth with Words the Tumult in his Heart! Then, Julio, I might be, indeed, thy Friend. They, they only ſhould condemn me, who born devoid of Paſſion ne'er have prov'd the fierce Diſputes 'twixt Virtue and Deſire. While they, who have, like me,

The looſe Eſcapes of youthful Nature known. Muſt wink at mine, indulgent to their own. [Exit Henriquez. Lop.

This Man is certainly mad, and may be miſchievous. Pr'ythee, Neighbour, let's follow him; but at ſome Diſtance, for fear of the worſt.

 [Exeunt, after Henr.
SCENE II. An Apartment. Enters Violante alone. Viol. Whom ſhall I look upon without a Bluſh? There's not a Maid, whoſe Eye with Virgin Gaze Pierces not to my Guilt. What will't avail me, To ſay I was not willing; Nothing; but that I publiſh my Diſhonour, And wound my Fame anew.—O Miſery, To ſeem to all one's Neighbours rich, yet know One's Self neceſſitous and wretched. Enter Maid, and afterwards Gerald with a Letter. Maid. Madam, here's Gerald, Lord Henriquez' Servant; He brings a Letter to you. Viol. A Letter to me! How I tremble now! Your Lord's for Court, good Gerald, is he not? Ger. Not ſo, Lady. Viol. O my preſaging Heart! When goes he then? Ger. His Buſineſs now ſteers him ſome other Courſe. Viol. Whither, I pray you?—How my Fears torment me! Ger. Some two Months Progreſs. Viol. —Whither, whither, Sir, I do beſeech you? Good Heav'ns, I loſe all Patience. Did he deliberate this? or was the Buſineſs But then conceiv'd, when it was born? Ger.

Lady, I know not That; nor is it in the Command I have to wait your Anſwer. For the peruſing the Letter I commend you to your Leiſure.

 [Exit Gerald. Viol. To Hearts like mine Suſpence is Miſery. Wax, render up thy Truſt: Be the Contents Proſp'rous, or fatal, they are all my Due. Reads.] Our Prudence ſhould now teach us to forget, what our Indiſcretion has committed. I have already made one Step towards this Wiſdom, by prevailing on Myſelf to bid you Farewell. O, Wretched and betray'd! Loſt Violante! Heart-wounded with a thouſand perjur'd Vows, Poiſon'd with ſtudied Language, and bequeath'd To Deſperation. I am now become The Tomb of my own Honour: a dark Manſion, For Death alone to dwell in. I invite thee, Conſuming Deſolation, to this Temple, Now fit to be thy Spoil: the ruin'd Fabrick, Which cannot be repair'd, at once o'er-throw. What muſt I do?—But That's not worth my Thought: I will commend to Hazard all the Time That I ſhall ſpend hereafter: Farewel, my Father, Whom I'll no more offend: and Men, adieu, Whom I'll no more believe: and Maids, adieu, Whom I'll no longer ſhame. The Way I go, As yet I know not.—Sorrow be my Guide. [Exit Violante.
SCENE III. Proſpect of a Village, before Don Bernard's Houſe. Enters Henriquez. Henr. Where were the Eyes, the Voice, the various Charms, Each beauteous Particle, each nameleſs Grace, Parents of glowing Love? All Theſe in Her, It ſeems, were not: but a Diſeaſe in Me, That fancied Graces in her.—Who ne'er beheld More than a Hawthorne, ſhall have Cauſe to ſay The Cedar's a tall Tree; and ſcorn the Shade, The lov'd Buſh once had lent him. Soft! mine Honour Begins to ſicken in this black Reflection. How can it be, that with my Honour ſafe I ſhould purſue Leonora for my Wife? That were accumulating Injuries, To Violante firſt, and now to Julio; To her a perjur'd Wretch, to him perfidious; And to myſelf in ſtrongeſt Terms accus'd Of murth'ring Honour wilfully, without which My Dog's the Creature of the nobler Kind.— But Pleaſure is too ſtrong for Reaſon's Curb; And Conſcience ſinks o'er-power'd with Beauty's Sweets. Come, Leonora, Authreſs of my Crime, Appear, and vindicate thy Empire here; Aid me to drive this ling'ring Honour hence, And I am wholly thine. Enter to him, Don Bernard and Leonora. D. Bern. Fye, my good Lord; why would you wait without? If you ſuſpect your Welcome, I have brought My Leonora to aſſure you of it. [Henr. ſalutes Leon. Henr. O Kiſs, ſweet as the Odours of the Spring, But cold as Dews that dwell on Morning Flow'rs! Say, Leonora, has your Father conquer'd? Shall Duty then at laſt obtain the Prize, Which you refus'd to Love? And ſhall Henriquez Owe all his Happineſs to good Bernardo? Ah! no; I read my Ruin in your Eyes: That Sorrow, louder than a thouſand Tongues, Pronounces my Deſpair. D. Bern. —Come, Leonora, You are not now to learn, this noble Lord, (Whom but to name, reſtores my failing Age,) Has with a Lover's Eye beheld your Beauty; Thro' which his Heart ſpeaks more than Language can; It offers Joy and Happineſs to You, And Honour to our Houſe. Imagine then The Birth and Qualities of him that loves you; Which when you know, you cannot rate too dear. Leon. My Father, on my Knees I do beſeech you To pauſe one Moment on your Daughter's Ruin. I vow, my Heart ev'n bleeds, that I muſt thank you For your paſt Tenderneſs; and yet diſtruſt That which is yet behind. Conſider, Sir, Whoe'er's th' Occaſion of another's Fault, Cannot himſelf be innocent. O, give not The cenſuring World Occaſion to reproach Your harſh Commands; or to my Charge lay That Which moſt I fear, the Fault of Diſobedience. D. Bern.

Pr'ythee, fear neither the One, nor the Other: I tell thee, Girl, there's more Fear than Danger. For my own part, as ſoon as Thou art married to this noble Lord, my Fears will be over.

 Leon. Sir, I ſhould be the vaineſt of my Sex, Not to eſteem myſelf unworthy far Of this high Honour. Once there was a Time, When to have heard my Lord Henriquez' Vows, Might have ſubdued my unexperienc'd Heart, And made me wholly his.—But That's now paſt: And my firm-plighted Faith by your Conſent Was long ſince given to the injur'd Julio. D. Bern.

Why then, by my Conſent e'en take it back again. Thou, like a ſimple Wench, haſt given thy Affections to a Fellow, that does not care a Farthing for them. One, that has left thee for a Jaunt to Court; as who ſhould ſay, I'll get a Place now; 'tis Time enough to marry, when I'm turn'd out of it.

 Henr. So, ſurely, it ſhould ſeem, moſt lovely Maid; Julio, alas, feels nothing of my Paſſion: His Love is but th' Amuſement of an Hour, A ſhort Relief from Buſineſs, or Ambition, The Sport of Youth, and Faſhion of the Age. O! had he known the Hopes, the Doubts, the Ardours, Or half the fond Varieties of Paſſion, That play the Tyrant with my tortur'd Soul; He had not left Thee to purſue his Fortune: To practiſe Cringes in a ſlaviſh Circle, And barter real Bliſs for unſure Honour. Leon. Oh, the oppoſing Wind, Should'ring the Tide, makes here a fearful Billow: I needs muſt periſh in it.—Oh, my Lord, Is it then poſſible, you can forget What's due to your great Name, and princely Birth, To Friendſhip's holy Law, to Faith repos'd, To Truth, to Honour, and poor injur'd Julio? O think, my Lord, how much this Julio loves you; Recall his Services, his well-try'd Faith; Think too, this very Hour, where-e'er he be, Your Favour is the Envy of the Court, And ſecret Triumph of his grateful Heart. Poor Julio, how ſecurely thou depend'ſt Upon the Faith and Honour of thy Maſter; Miſtaken Youth! this very Hour he robs thee Of all thy Heart holds dear.—'Tis ſo Henriquez Repays the Merits of unhappy Julio. [Weeps. Henr. My ſlumb'ring Honour catches the Alarm. I was to blame to parley with her thus: Sh'as ſhown me to myſelf. It troubles me. [Aſide. D. Bern.

Mad; Mad. Stark mad, by this Light.

 Leon. I but begin to be ſo.—I conjure you, By all the tender Intereſts of Nature, By the chaſte Love 'twixt you, and my dear Mother▪ (O holy Heav'n, that ſhe were living now!) Forgive and pity me.—Oh, Sir, remember, I've heard my Mother ſay a thouſand Times, Her Father would have forced her Virgin Choice; But when the Conflict was 'twixt Love and Duty, Which ſhould be firſt obey'd, my Mother quickly Paid up her Vows to Love, and married You. You thought this well, and ſhe was praiſed for This; For this her Name was honour'd, Diſobedience Was ne'er imputed to her, her firm Love Conquer'd whate'er oppos'd it, and ſhe proſper'd Long Time your Wife. My Caſe is now the ſame; You are the Father, which You then condemn'd; I, what my Mother was; but not ſo happy.— D. Bern.

Go to, you're a Fool. No doubt, You have old Stories enough to undo you.—What, you can't throw yourſelf away but by Precedent, ha?—You will needs be married to One, that will None of You? You will be happy no Body's way but your own, forſooth.—But, d'ye mark me, ſpare your Tongue for the future; (and That's uſing you hardly too, to bid you ſpare what you have a great deal too much of:) Go, go your ways, and d'ye hear, get ready within theſe Two days to be married to a Huſband you don't deſerve;—Do it, or, by my dead Father's Soul, you are no Acquaintance of mine.

 Henr. She weeps: Be gentler to her, good Bernardo. Leon. Then Woe the Day.—I'm circled round with Fire; No Way for my Eſcape, but thro' the Flames. Oh, can I e'er reſolve to live without A Father's Bleſſing, or abandon Julio? With other Maids, the Choice were not ſo hard; Int'reſt, that rules the World, has made at laſt A Merchandize of Hearts: and Virgins now Chuſe as they're bid, and wed without Eſteem. By nobler Springs ſhall my Affections move; Nor own a Maſter, but the Man I love. [Exit Leonora. D. Bern.

Go thy ways, Contradiction.—Follow her, my Lord; follow her, in the very Heat. This Obſtinacy muſt be combated by Importunity as obſtinate.

[Exit Henriquez after her.

The Girl ſays right; her Mother was juſt ſuch Another. I remember, Two of Us courted her at the ſame Time. She lov'd neither of Us, but She choſe me purely to ſpight that ſurly Old Blockhead my Father-in-Law. Who comes here, Camillo? Now the refuſing Part will lie on my Side.—

 Enters Camillo. Cam.

My worthy Neighbour, I am much in Fortune's Favour to find You thus alone. I have a Suit to You.

 D. Bern.

Pleaſe to name it, Sir.

 Cam.

Sir, I have long held You in ſingular Eſteem: and what I ſhall now ſay, will be a Proof of it. You know, Sir, I have but one Son.

 D. Bern.

Ay, Sir.

 Cam.

And the Fortune I am bleſt withal, You pretty well know what it is.

 D. Bern.

'Tis a fair One, Sir.

 Cam.

Such as it is, the whole Reverſion is my Son's. He is now engaged in his Attendance on our Maſter, the Duke. But e'er he went, he left with me the Secret of his Heart, his Love for your fair Daughter. For your Conſent, he ſaid, 'twas ready: I took a Night, indeed, to think upon it, and now have brought you mine; and am come to bind the Contract with half my Fortune in preſent, the Whole ſome time hence, and, in the mean while, my hearty Bleſſing. Ha? What ſay You to't, Don Bernard?

D. Bern.

Why, really, Neighbour,—I muſt own, I have heard Something of this Matter.—

 Cam.

Heard Something of it? No doubt, you have.

 D. Bern.

Yes, now I recollect it well.

 Cam.

Was it ſo long ago then?

 D. Bern.

Very long ago, Neighbour.—On Tueſday laſt.

 Cam.

What, am I mock'd in this Buſineſs, Don Bernard?

D. Bern.

Not mock'd, good Camillo, not mock'd: But in Love-matters, you know, there are Abundance of Changes in half an Hour. Time, Time, Neighbour, plays Tricks with all of us.

 Cam.

Time, Sir! What tell you me of Time? Come, I ſee how this goes. Can a little Time take a Man by the Shoulder, and ſhake off his Honour? Let me tell you, Neighbour, it muſt either be a ſtrong Wind, or a very mellow Honeſty that drops ſo eaſily. Time, quoth'a?

 D. Bern.

Look'ee, Camillo; will you pleaſe to put your Indignation in your Pocket for half a Moment, while I tell you the whole Truth of the Matter. My Daughter, you muſt know, is ſuch a tender Soul, ſhe cannot poſſibly ſee a Duke's younger Son without falling deſperately in Love with him. Now, you know, Neighbour, when Greatneſs rides Poſt after a Man of my Years, 'tis both Prudence, and good Breeding, to let one's ſelf be overtaken by it. And who can help all This? I profeſs, it was not my ſeeking, Neighbour.

 Cam.

I profeſs, a Fox might earth in the Hollowneſs of your Heart, Neighbour, and there's an End. If I were to give a bad Conſcience its true Likeneſs, it ſhould be drawn after a very near Neighbour to a certain poor Neighbour of yours.—Neighbour! with a Pox.

 D. Bern.

Nay, you are ſo nimble with me, you will hear Nothing.

 Cam.

Sir, if I muſt ſpeak Nothing, I will hear Nothing. As for what you have to ſay, if it comes from your Heart, 'tis a Lye before you ſpeak it.—I'll to Leonora; and if I find her in the ſame Story, why, I ſhall believe your Wife was true to You, and your Daughter is your own. Fare you well.

 [Exit, as into D. Bernard's Houſe. D. Bern.

Ay, but two Words muſt go to that Bargain. It happens, that I am at preſent of Opinion my Daughter ſhall receive no more Company to day at leaſt, no ſuch Viſits as yours.

 [Exit D. Bernard, following him
SCENE IV. Changes to another Proſpect of Don Bernard's Houſe. Leonora, above. Leon. How tediouſly I've waited at the Window, Yet know not One that paſſes.—Should I truſt My Letter to a Stranger, whom I think To bear an honeſt Face, (in which ſometimes We fancy we are wond'rous skilful;) then I might be much deceiv'd. This late Example Of baſe Henriquez, bleeding in me now, From each good Aſpect takes away my Truſt: For his Face ſeem'd to promiſe Truth and Honour. Since Nature's Gifts in nobleſt Forms deceive, Be happy You, that want 'em!—Here comes One; I've ſeen him, tho' I know him not; He has An honeſt Face too—that's no Matter.—Sir,— Enters Citizen. Citiz. To me? Leon. As You were of a virtuous Matron born, (There is no Doubt, you are:) I do conjure you Grant me one Boon. Say, do you know me, Sir? Citiz. Ay, Leonora, and your worthy Father. Leon. I have not Time to preſs the Suit I've to you With many Words; nay, I ſhould want the Words, Tho' I had Leiſure: but for Love of Juſtice, And as you pity Miſery—But I wander Wide from my Subject. Know you Julio, Sir? Citiz. Yes, very well; and love him too, as well. Leon. Oh, there an Angel ſpake! Then I conjure you, Convey this Paper to him: and believe me, You do Heav'n Service in't, and ſhall have Cauſe Not to repent your Pains.—I know not what Your Fortune is;—Pardon me, gentle Sir, That I am bold to offer This. [Throws down a Purſe with Money. D. Bern. within.] Leonora.— Leon. I truſt to you; Heav'n put it in your Heart To work me ſome Relief. Citiz. Doubt it not, Lady. You have mov'd me ſo, That tho' a thouſand Dangers barr'd my way, I'd dare 'em all to ſerve you. [Exit Citizen. Leon. Thanks from a richer Hand than mine requite you! D. Bern. within.] Why, Daughter— Leon. I come:—Oh, Julio, feel but half my Grief, And Thou wilt outfly Time to bring Relief. [Exit Leonora from the Window.
End of the Second Act.
ACT III. SCENE I. SCENE, The Proſpect of a Village. Enter Julio with a Letter, and Citizen. Citiz. WHEN from the Window ſhe did bow and call, Her Paſſions ſhook her Voice; and from her Eyes Miſtemper and Diſtraction, with ſtrange Wildneſs Beſpoke Concern above a common Sorrow. Jul. Poor Leonora! Treacherous, damn'd Henriquez! She bids me fill my Memory with her Danger; I do, my Leonora; yes, I fill The Region of my Thought with nothing elſe; Lower, ſhe tells me here, that this Affair Shall yield a Teſtimony of her Love: And prays, her Letter may come ſafe and ſudden. This Pray'r the Heav'ns have heard, and I beſeech 'em, To hear all Pray'rs ſhe makes. Citiz. —Have Patience, Sir. Jul. O my good Friend, methinks, I am too patient. Is there a Treachery, like This in Baſeneſs, Recorded any where? It is the deepeſt: None but Itſelf can be its Parallel: And from a Friend, profeſs'd!—Friendſhip? Why, 'tis A Word for ever maim'd; in human Nature It was a Thing the nobleſt; and 'mong Beaſts, It ſtood not in mean Place: Things of fierce Nature Hold Amity and Concordance.—Such a Villany A Writer could not put down in his Scene, Without Taxation of his Auditory For Fiction moſt enormous. Citiz. —Theſe Upbraidings Cool Time, while they are vented. Jul. —I am counſel'd. For you, evermore, Thanks. You've done much for Us; So gently preſs'd to 't, that I may perſwade me You'll do a little more. Citiz. —Put me t'Employment That's honeſt, tho' not ſafe, with my beſt Spirits I'll give 't Accompliſhment. Jul. No more but This; For I muſt ſee Leonora: And to appear Like Julio, as I am, might haply ſpoil Some good Event enſuing. Let me crave Th' Exchange of Habit with you: ſome Diſguiſe, May bear Me to my Love, unmark'd, and ſecret. Citiz. You ſhall not want. Yonder's the Houſe before us: Make Haſte to reach it. Jul. —Still I thank you, Sir. O Leonora! ſtand but this rude Shock; Hold out thy Faith againſt the dread Aſſault Of this baſe Lord, the Service of my Life Shall be devoted to repay thy Conſtancy. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Don Bernard's Houſe. Enters Leonora. Leon. I've hoped to th' lateſt Minute Hope can give: 'He will not come: H'as not receiv'd my Letter: 'May be, ſome other View has from our Home Repeal'd his chang'd Eye: for what Buſineſs can Excuſe a Tardineſs thus willfull? None. Well then, it is not Buſineſs.—Oh! that Letter,— I ſay, is not deliver'd; or He's ſick; Or, O Suggeſtion, wherefore wilt Thou fright me? Julio does to Henriquez on meer Purpoſe, On plotted Purpoſe, yield me up; and He Hath choſe another Miſtreſs. All Preſumptions Make pow'rful to this Point: His own Protraction, Henriquez left behind;—That Strain lack'd Jealouſie, Therefore lack'd Love.—So ſure as Life ſhall empty It ſelf in Death, this new Surmiſe of mine Is a bold Certainty. 'Tis plain, and obvious, Henriquez would not, durſt not, thus infringe The Law of Friendſhip; thus provoke a Man, That bears a Sword, and wears his Flag of Youth As freſh as He: He durſt not: 'Tis Contrivance, Groſs-dawbing 'twixt them Both.—But I'm o'erheard. [Going. Enters Julio, diſguiſed. Jul. Stay, Leonora; Has this outward Veil Quite loſt me to thy Knowledge? Leon. —O my Julio! Thy Preſence ends the ſtern Debate of Doubt, And cures me of a thouſand heartſick Fears, Sprung from thy Abſence: yet awakes a Train Of other ſleeping Terrors. Do you weep? Jul. No, Leonora; when I weep, it muſt be The Subſtance of mine Eye. 'Would I could weep; For then mine Eye would drop upon my Heart, And ſwage the Fire there. Leon. —You are full poſſeſs'd How things go here. Firſt, welcome heartily; Welcome to th'Ending of my laſt good Hour: Now Summer Bliſs and gawdy Days are gone, My Leaſe in 'em 's expir'd. Jul. —Not ſo, Leonora. Leon. Yes, Julio, yes; an everlaſting Storm Is come upon me, which I can't bear out. I cannot ſtay much Talk; we have loſt Leiſure; And thus it is: Your Abſence hath giv'n Breeding To what my Letter hath declar'd, and is This Inſtant on th'effecting, Hark! the Muſick [Flouriſh within. Is now on tuning, which muſt celebrate This Bus'neſs ſo diſcordant.—Tell me then, What you will do. Jul. —I know not what: Adviſe me: I'll kill the Traytor. Leon. —O! take Heed: his Death Betters our Cauſe no whit. No killing, Julio. Jul. My Blood ſtands ſtill; and all my Faculties Are by Enchantment dull'd. You gracious Pow'rs, The Guardians of ſworn Faith, and ſuff'ring Virtue, Inſpire Prevention of this dreaded Miſchief! This Moment is our own; Let's uſe it, Love, And fly o'th' Inſtant from this Houſe of Woe. Leon. Alas! Impoſſible: My Steps are watch'd; There's no Eſcape for Me. You muſt ſtay too. Jul. What! ſtay, and ſee thee raviſh'd from my Arms? I'll force thy Paſſage. Wear I not a Sword? Ne'er on Man's Thigh rode better.—If I ſuffer The Traytor play his Part; if I not do Manhood and Juſtice, Honour; let me be deem'd A tame, pale, Coward, whom the Night-Owl's Hoot May turn to Aſpen-leaf: Some Man take This, Give Me a Diſtaff for it. Leon. —Patience, Julio; And truſt to Me: I have fore-thought the Means To diſappoint theſe Nuptials.—Hark! again; [Muſick within. Theſe are the Bells knoll for Us.—See, the Lights Move this Way, Julio. Quick, behind yon Arras, And take thy ſecret Stand.—Diſpute it not; I have my Reaſons, you anon ſhall know them:— There you may mark the Paſſages of the Night. Yet, more:—I charge you by the deareſt Tyes, What-e'er you ſee, or hear, what-e'er ſhall hap, In your Concealment reſt a ſilent Statue. Nay, hide thee ſtrait,—or,—ſee, I'm arm'd, and vow [Shews a Dagger. To fall a bleeding Sacrifice before Thee. [Thruſts him out, to the Arras. I dare not tell thee of my Purpoſe, Julio, Leſt it ſhould wrap thee in ſuch Agonies, Which my Love could not look on.— SCENE opens to a large Hall: An Altar prepared with Tapers. Enter at one Door Servants with Lights, Henriquez, Don Bernard, and Churchman. At another, Attendants to Leonora. Henriquez runs to her. Henr. Why, Leonora, wilt Thou with this Gloom Darken my Triumph; ſuff'ring Diſcontent, And wan Diſpleaſure, to ſubdue that Check Where Love ſhould ſit inthron'd? Behold your Slave; Nay, frown not; for each Hour of growing Time Shall task me to thy Service, 'till by Merit Of deareſt Love I blot the low-born Julio From thy fair Mind. Leon. —So I ſhall make it foul; This Counſel is corrupt. Henr. —Come, you will change.— Leon. Why would you make a Wife of ſuch a One, That is ſo apt to change? This foul Proceeding Still ſpeaks againſt itſelf, and vilifies The pureſt of your Judgment.—For your Birth's Sake I will not dart my hoarded Curſes at you, Nor give my Meanings Language: For the Love Of all good Things together, yet take heed, And ſpurn the Tempter back. D. Bern. I think, you're mad.—Perverſe, and fooliſh, Wretch! Leon. How may I be obedient, and wiſe too? Of my Obedience, Sir, I cannot ſtrip me; Nor can I then be wiſe: Grace againſt Grace! Ungracious, if I not obey a Father; Moſt perjur'd, if I do.—Yet, Lord, conſider, Or e'er too late, or e'er that Knot be ty'd, Which may with Violence damnable be broken, No other way diſſever'd: Yet conſider, You wed my Body, not my Heart, my Lord; No Part of my Affection. Sounds it well, That Julio's Love is Lord Henriquez' Wife; Have you an Ear for this harſh Sound? Henr. No Shot of Reaſon can come near the Place, Where my Love's fortified. The Day ſhall come, Wherein you'll chide this Backwardneſs, and bleſs Our Fervour in this Courſe. Leon. —No, no, Henriquez, When you ſhall find what Prophet you are prov'd, You'll propheſie no more. D. Bern. —Have done this Talking, If you will cleave to your Obedience, do't; If not, unbolt the Portal, and be gone; My Bleſſing ſtay behind you. Leon. —Sir, your Pardon: I will not ſwerve a Hair's Breadth from my Duty; It ſhall firſt coſt me dear. D. Bern. —Well then, to th' Point: Give me your Hand.—My honour'd Lord, receive My Daughter of Me,—(nay, no dragging back, But with my Curſes;)—whom I frankly give you, And wiſh you Joy and Honour. [As Don Bernard goes to give Leonora to Henriquez, Julio advances from the Arras, and ſteps between. Jul. —Hold, Don Bernard, Mine is the elder Claim. D. Bern. —What are you, Sir? Jul. A Wretch, that's almoſt loſt to his own Knowledge, Struck thro' with Injuries.— Henr. —Ha! Julio?—Hear you, Were you not ſent on our Commands to Court? Order'd to wait your fair Diſmiſſion thence? And have you dared, knowing you are our Vaſſal, To ſteal away unpriviledg'd, and leave My Buſineſs and your Duty unaccompliſh'd? Jul. Ungen'rous Lord! The Circumſtance of Things Should ſtop the Tongue of Queſtion.—You have wrong'd me; Wrong'd me ſo baſely, in ſo dear a Point, As ſtains the Cheek of Honour with a Bluſh; Cancells the Bonds of Service; bids Allegiance Throw to the Wind all high Reſpects of Birth, Title, and Eminence; and, in their Stead, Fills up the panting Heart with juſt Defiance. If you have Senſe of Shame, or Juſtice, Lord, Forego this bad Intent; or with your Sword Anſwer me like a Man, and I ſhall thank you. Julio once dead, Leonora may be thine; But, living, She's a Prize too rich to part with. Henr. Vain Man! the preſent Hour is fraught with Buſineſs Of richer Moment. Love ſhall firſt be ſerv'd: Then, if your Courage hold to claim it of me, I may have Leiſure to chaſtiſe this Boldneſs. Jul. Nay, then I'll ſeize my Right. Henr. —What, here, a Brawl? My Servants,—Turn this boiſt'rous Sworder forth; And ſee he come not to diſturb our Joys. Jul. Hold, Dogs!—Leonora,—Coward, baſe, Henriquez! [Julio is ſeiz'd, and drag'd out by the Servants. Henr. She dies upon Me; help! [Leonora ſwoons; as they endeavour to recover her, a Paper drops from her. D. Bern. —Throng not about her; But give her Air. Henr. —What Paper's That? let's ſee it. It is her own Hand-Writing. D. Bern. —Bow her Head: 'Tis but her Fright; ſhe will recover ſoon. What learn you by that Paper, good my Lord? Henr. That ſhe would do the Violence to herſelf, Which Nature hath anticipated on her. What Dagger means ſhe? Search her well, I pray you. D. Bern. Here is the Dagger.—Oh, the ſtubborn Sex, Raſh ev'n to Madneſs!— Henr. —Bear her to her Chamber: Life flows in her again.—Pray, bear her hence: And tend her, as you would the World's beſt Treaſure. [Women carry Leonora off. Don Bernard, this wild Tumult ſoon will ceaſe, The Cauſe remov'd; and all return to Calmneſs. Paſſions in Women are as ſhort in Working, As ſtrong in their Effect. Let the Prieſt wait: Come, go we in: My Soul is all on Fire; And burns impatient of this forc'd Delay. [Exeunt; and the Scene cloſes.
SCENE III. Proſpect of a Village at a Diſtance. Enters Roderick. Rod. Julio's Departure thus in ſecret from Me, With the long doubtful Abſence of my Brother, (Who cannot ſuffer, but my Father feels it;) Have truſted me with ſtrong Suſpicions, And Dreams, that will not let me ſleep, nor eat, Nor taſte thoſe Recreations Health demands: But, like a Whirlwind, hither have they ſnatch'd me, Perforce, to be reſolv'd. I know my Brother Had Julio's Father for his Hoſt: from him Enquiry may befriend me. Enters Camillo. Old Sir, I'm glad To 've met you thus: What ails the Man? Camillo,— Cam. Ha? Rod. Is't poſſible, you ſhould forget your Friends? Cam. Friends! What are Thoſe? Rod. —Why, Thoſe that love you, Sir. Cam. You're None of Thoſe, ſure, if you be Lord Roderick. Rod. Yes, I am that Lord Roderick, and I lie not, If I proteſt, I love you paſſing well. Cam. You lov'd my Son too paſſing well, I take it: One, that believ'd too ſuddenly his Court-Creed. Rod. All is not well. [aſide.]—Good old Man, do not rail. Cam. My Lord, my Lord, you've dealt diſhonourably. Rod. Good Sir, I am ſo far from doing Wrongs Of that baſe Strain, I underſtand you not. Cam. Indeed!—You know not neither, o' my Conſcience, How your moſt virtuous Brother, noble Henriquez, (You look ſo like him, Lord, you are the worſe for't; Rots upon ſuch Diſſemblers!) under colour Of buying Courſers, and I know not what, Bought my poor Boy out of Poſſeſſion Ev'n of his plighted Faith.—Was not this Honour? And This a conſtant Friend? Rod. —I dare not ſay ſo. Cam. Now you have robb'd him of his Love, take all; Make up your Malice, and diſpatch his Life too. Rod. If you would hear me, Sir,— Cam. —Your brave old Father Would have been torn in Pieces with wild Horſes, E'er he had done this Treachery. On my Conſcience, Had he but dreamt you Two durſt have committed This baſe, unmanly Crime,— Rod. Why, this is Madneſs.— Cam. I've done; I've eas'd my Heart; now you may talk. Rod. Then as I am a Gentleman, believe me, (For I will lie for no Man;) I'm ſo far From being guilty of the leaſt Suſpicion Of Sin that way, that fearing the long Abſence Of Julio and my Brother might beget Something to ſtart at, hither have I travell'd To know the Truth of you. Enters Violante behind. Viol. My Servant loiters; ſure, he means me well. Camillo, and a Stranger? Theſe may give me Some Comfort from their Talk. I'll ſtep aſide: And hear what Fame is ſtirring. [Violante retires. Rod. —Why this Wond'ring? Cam. Can there be one ſo near in Blood as you are To that Henriquez, and an honeſt Man? Rod. While he was good, I do confeſs my Nearneſs; But, ſince his Fall from Honour, he's to me As a ſtrange Face I ſaw but Yeſterday, And as ſoon loſt. Cam. —I ask your Pardon, Lord; I was too raſh and bold. Rod. —No Harm done, Sir. Cam. But is it poſſible, you ſhould not hear The Paſſage 'twixt Leonora and your Brother? Rod. None of All This. Enters Citizen. Cam. How now? Citiz. I bear you Tidings, Sir, which I could wiſh Some other Tongue deliver'd. Cam. —Whence, I pray you? Citiz. From your Son, Sir. Cam. Pr'ythee, where is he? Citiz. That's more than I know now, Sir. But This I can aſſure you, he has left The City raging mad; Heav'n comfort him! He came to that curſt Marriage—The Fiends take it!— Cam. Pr'ythee, be gone, and bid the Bell knoll for me: I have had one Foot in the Grave ſome Time. Nay, go, good Friend; thy News deſerve no Thanks. How does your Lordſhip? [Exit Citizen. Rod. —That's well ſaid, Old Man. I hope, all ſhall be well yet. Cam. —It had need; For 'tis a crooked World. Farewell, poor Boy!— Enters Don Bernard. D. Bern. This comes of forcing Women where they hate: It was my own Sin; and I am rewarded. Now I am like an aged Oak, alone, Left for all Tempeſts.—I would cry, but cannot: I'm dry'd to Death almoſt with theſe Vexations. Lord! what a heavy Load I have within me! My Heart,—my Heart,—my Heart— Cam. —Has this ill Weather Met with Thee too? D. Bern. —O Wench, that I were with thee! Cam. You do not come to mock at me now? D. Bern. Ha?— Cam. Do not diſſemble; Thou may'ſt find a Knave As bad as thou art, to undo thee too: I hope to ſee that Day before I dye yet. D. Bern. It needeth not, Camillo; I am Knave Sufficient to my ſelf. If thou wilt rail, Do it as bitterly as thou canſt think of; For I deſerve it. Draw thy Sword, and ſtrike me; And I will thank thee for't.—I've loſt my Daughter; She's ſtol'n away; and whither gone, I know not. Cam. She has a fair Bleſſing in being from you, Sir. I was too poor a Brother for your Greatneſs; You muſt be grafted into noble Stocks, And have your Titles rais'd. My State was laugh'd at: And my Alliance ſcorn'd. I've loſt a Son too; Which muſt not be put up ſo. [Offers to draw. Rod. —Hold; be counſel'd. You've equal Loſſes; urge no farther Anger. Heav'n, pleas'd now at your Love, may bring again, And, no Doubt, will, your Children to your Comforts: In which Adventure my Foot ſhall be foremoſt. And One more will I add, my Honour'd Father; Who has a Son to grieve for too, tho' tainted. Let your joint Sorrow be as Balm to heal Theſe Wounds of adverſe Fortune. D. Bern. Come, Camillo, Do not deny your Love, for Charity; I ask it of you. Let this noble Lord Make Brothers of Us, whom our own croſs Fates Could never join. What I have been, forget; What I intend to be, believe and nouriſh: I do confeſs my Wrongs; give me your Hand. Cam. Heav'n make thee honeſt;—there. Rod. —'Tis done like good Men. Now there reſts Nought, but that we part, and each Take ſev'ral Ways in Queſt of our loſt Friends: Some of my Train o'er the wild Rocks ſhall wait you. Our beſt Search ended, here we'll meet again, And tell the Fortunes of our ſeparate Travels. [Exeunt. Violante comes forward. Viol. I would, your Brother had but half your Virtue! Yet there remains a little Spark of Hope That lights me to ſome Comfort. The Match is croſs'd; The Parties ſeparate; and I again May come to ſee this Man that has betray'd me; And wound his Conſcience for it: Home again I will not go, whatever Fortune guides me; Tho' ev'ry Step I went, I trod upon Dangers as fearful and as pale as Death. No, no, Henriquez; I will follow thee Where there is Day. Time may beget a Wonder. Enters Servant. O, are you come? What News? Serv.

None, but the worſt. Your Father makes mighty Offers yonder by a Cryer, to any One can bring you home again.

 Viol.

Art Thou corrupted?

 Serv.

No.

 Viol.

Wilt thou be honeſt?

 Serv.

I hope, you do not fear me.

 Viol. Indeed, I do not. Thou haſt an honeſt Face; And ſuch a Face, when it deceives, take heed, Is curſt of all Heav'n's Creatures. Serv. I'll hang firſt. Viol. Heav'n bleſs thee from that End!—I've heard a Man Say more than This; and yet that Man was falſe. Thou ••• not be ſo, I hope. Serv.

By my Life, Miſtreſs,—

 Viol. Swear not; I credit Thee. But pry'thee tho', Take Heed, thou doſt not fail: I do not doubt Thee: Yet I have truſted ſuch a ſerious Face, And been abuſed too. Serv.

If I fail your Truſt,—

 Viol. I do thee Wrong to hold thy Honeſty At Diſtance thus: Thou ſhalt know all my Fortunes. Get me a Shepherd's Habit. Serv.

Well; what elſe?

 Viol. And wait me in the Evening, where I told thee; There Thou ſhalt know my farther Ends. Take Heed— Serv.

D'ye fear me ſtill?

 Viol. —No; This is only Counſel: My Life and Death I have put equally Into thy Hand: Let not Rewards, nor Hopes, Be caſt into the Scale to turn thy Faith. Be honeſt but for Virtue's ſake, that's all; He, that has ſuch a Treaſure, cannot fall. [Exeunt.
The End of the Third Act.
ACT IV. SCENE I. SCENE, A Wide Plain, with a Proſpect of Mountains at a Diſtance. Enter Maſter of the Flocks, three or four Shepherds, and Violante in Boy's Cloaths. 1 Shep.

WELL, he's as ſweet a Man, Heav'n comfort him! as ever theſe Eyes look'd on.

 2 Shep.

If he have a Mother, I believe, Neighbours, ſhe's a Woe-woman for him at this Hour.

 Maſt.

Why ſhould he haunt theſe wild unpeopled Mountains, Where nothing dwells but Hunger, and ſharp Winds?

 1 Shep.

His Melancholy, Sir, that's the main Devil does it. Go to, I fear he has had too much foul Play offer'd him.

 Maſt.

How gets he Meat?

 2 Shep.

Why, now and then he takes our Victuals from us, tho' we deſire him to eat; and inſtead of a ſhort Grace, beats us well and ſoundly, and then falls to.

 Maſt.

Where lies He?

 1 Shep.

Ev'n where the Night o'ertakes him.

 2 Shep.

Now will I be hang'd, an'ſome fair-ſnouted skittiſh Woman, or other, be not at the End of this Madneſs.

 1 Shep.

Well, if he lodg'd within the Sound of us, I knew our Muſick would allure him. How attentively he ſtood, and how he fix'd his Eyes, when your Boy ſung his Love-Ditty. Oh, here he comes again.

 Maſt.

Let him alone; he wonders ſtrangely at us.

 1 Shep.

Not a Word, Sirs, to croſs him, as you love your Shoulders.

 2 Shep.

He ſeems much diſturb'd: I believe the mad Fit is upon him.

 Enters Julio. Jul. Horſemanſhip!—Hell—Riding ſhall be aboliſh'd: Turn the barb'd Steed looſe to his native Wildneſs; It is a Beaſt too noble to be made The Property of Man's Baſeneſs.—What a Letter Wrote he to's Brother? What a Man was I? Why, Perſeus did not know his Seat like me; The Parthian, that rides ſwift without the Rein, Match'd not my Grace and Firmneſs.—Shall this Lord Dye, when Men pray for him? Think you 'tis meet? 1 Shep.

I don't know what to ſay: Neither I, nor all the Confeſſors in Spain, can unriddle this wild Stuff.

 Jul. I muſt to Court! be uſher'd into Grace, By a large Liſt of Praiſes ready penn'd! O Devil! What a venomous World is this, When Commendations are the Baits to Ruin! All theſe good Words were Gyves and Fetters, Sir, To keep me bolted there: while the falſe Sender Play'd out the Game of Treach'ry.—Hold; come hither; You have an Aſpect, Sir, of wond'rous Wiſdom, And, as it ſeems, are travell'd deep in Knowledge; Have you e'er ſeen the Phaenix of the Earth, The Bird of Paradiſe? 2 Shep.

—In Troth, not I, Sir.

 Jul. I have; and known her Haunts, and where ſhe built Her ſpicy Neſt: 'till, like a credulous Fool, I ſhew'd the Treaſure to a Friend in Truſt, And he hath robb'd me of her.—Truſt no Friend: Keep thy Heart's Counſels cloſe.—Haſt thou a Miſtreſs? Give her not out in Words; nor let thy Pride Be wanton to diſplay her Charms to View; Love is contagious: and a Breath of Praiſe, Or a ſlight Glance, has kindled up its Flame, And turn'd a Friend a Traytor.—'Tis in Proof; And it has hurt my Brain. 1 Shep.

Marry, now there is ſome Moral in his Madneſs, and we may profit by it.

 Maſt. See, he grows cool, and penſive. Go towards him, Boy, but do not look that way. Viol.

Alas! I tremble—

 Jul. —Oh, my pretty Youth! Come hither, Child; Did not your Song imply Something of Love? 1 Shep.

Ha—ha—goes it there? Now if the Boy be witty, we ſhall trace ſomething.

 Viol.

Yes, Sir, it was the Subject.

 Jul. Sit here then: Come, ſhake not, good pretty Soul, Nor do not fear me; I'll not do thee Wrong. Viol.

Why do you look ſo on me?

 Jul. —I have Reaſons. It puzzles my Philoſophy, to think That the rude Blaſt, hot Sun, and daſhing Rains Have made no fiercer War upon thy Youth; Nor hurt the Bloom of that Vermilion Cheek. You weep too, do you not? Viol.

—Sometimes, I do.

 Jul. I weep ſometimes too. You're extremely young. Viol.

Indeed, I've ſeen more Sorrows far than Years.

 Jul. Yet all theſe have not broken your Complexion. You have a ſtrong Heart, and you are the happier. I warrant, you're a very loving Woman. Viol.

A Woman, Sir?—I fear, h'as found me out. [Aſide.

2 Shep.

He takes the Boy for a Woman.—Mad, again!

 Jul. You've met ſome Diſappointment; ſome foul Play Has croſs'd your Love.—I read it in your Face. Viol.

You read a Truth then.

 Jul. —Where can lie the Fault? Is't in the Man, or ſome diſſembling Knave, He put in Truſt? Ho! have I hit the Cauſe? Viol.

You're not far off.

 Jul. This World is full of Coz'ners, very full; Young Virgins muſt be wary in their Ways. I've known a Duke's Son do as great a Knavery. Will you be rul'd by me? Viol.

—Yes.

 Jul. —Kill Yourſelf. 'Twill be a Terror to the Villain's Conſcience, The longeſt Day he lives. Viol. —By no Means. What? Commit Self-murther! Jul. —Yes; I'll have it ſo. 1 Shep.

I fear, his Fit is returning. Take heed of all hands.—Sir,—do you want any thing?

 Jul. Thouly'ſt; thou can'ſt not hurt me: I am proof 'Gainſt farther Wrongs.—Steal cloſe behind me, Lady. I will avenge Thee. Viol. —Thank the Heav'ns, I'm free. Jul. O treach'rous, baſe Henriquez! have I caught thee? 2 Shep.

Help! help! good Neighbours; he will kill me elſe.

 [Julio ſeizes on the Shepherd; Violante runs out. Jul. Here Thou ſhalt pay thy Heart-blood for the Wrongs Thou'ſt heap'd upon this Head. Faith-breaker! Villain! I'll ſuck thy Life-blood. 1 Shep.

Good Sir, have Patience; this is no Henriquez.

[They reſcue the Shepherd. Jul. Well; let him ſlink to Court, and hide a Coward; Not all his Father's Guards ſhall ſhield him there. Or if he prove too ſtrong for Mortal Arm, I will ſollicit ev'ry Saint in Heav'n To lend me Vengeance.—I'll about it ſtrait.— The wrathful Elements ſhall wage this War; Furies ſhall haunt him; Vultures gnaw his Heart; And Nature pour forth all her Stores of Plagues, To join in Puniſhment of Truſt betray'd. [Exit Julio. 2 Shep.

Go thy Ways, and a Vengeance go with Thee!—Pray, feel my Noſe; is it faſt, Neighbours?

 1 Shep.

'Tis as well as may be.

 2 Shep.

He pull'd at it, as he would have drag'd a Bullock backward by the Tail.—An't had been ſome Men's Noſe that I know, Neighbours, who knows where it had been now? He has given me ſuch a deviliſh Daſh o'er the Mouth, that I feel, I ſhall never whiſtle to my Sheep again: Then they'll make Holy-day.

 1 Shep.

Come, ſhall we go? for, I fear, if the Youth return, our ſecond Courſe will be much more againſt our Stomachs.

 Maſt. Walk you afore; I will but give my Boy Some ſhort Inſtructions, and I'll follow ſtrait. We'll craſh a Cup together. 1 Shep.

Pray, do not linger.

 Maſt. I will not, Sirs;—This muſt not be a Boy; His Voice, Mein, Geſture, ev'ry Thing he does, Savour of ſoft and female Delicacy. He but puts on this Seeming, and his Garb Speaks him of ſuch a Rank, as well perſwades me, He plays the Swain, rather to cloak ſome Purpoſe, Than forced to't by a Need: I've waited long To mark the End he has in his Diſguiſe; But am not perfect in't. The Madman's Coil Has driv'n him ſhaking hence. Theſe Fears betray him. If he prove right, I'm happy. O, he's here. Enters Violante. Come hither, Boy; where did you leave the Flock, Child? Viol.

Grazing below, Sir.—What does he mean, to ſtroke One o'the Cheek ſo? I hope, I'm not betray'd.

 Maſt. Have you learnt the Whiſtle yet, and when to Fold? And how to make the Dog bring in the Strayers? Viol. Time, Sir, will furniſh me with all theſe Rules; My Will is able, but my Knowledge weak, Sir. Maſt. That's a good Child: Why doſt thou bluſh, my Boy? 'Tis certainly a Woman. [Aſide.] Speak, my Boy. Viol. Heav'n! how I tremble.—'Tis unuſual to me To find ſuch Kindneſs at a Maſter's Hand, That am a poor Boy, ev'ry way unable, Unleſs it be in Pray'rs, to merit it. Beſides, I've often heard old People ſay, Too much Indulgence makes Boys rude and ſawcy. Maſt. Are you ſo cunning!— Viol. —How his Eyesſhake Fire, And meaſure ev'ry Piece of Youth about me! [Aſide. The Ewes want Water, Sir: Shall I go drive 'em Down to the Ciſterns? Shall I make haſte, Sir? 'Would I were five Miles from him—How he gripes me! [Aſide. Maſt. Come, come, all this is not ſufficient, Child, To make a Fool of me.—This is a fine Hand, A delicate fine Hand,—Never change Colour; You underſtand me,—and a Woman's Hand. Viol. You're ſtrangely out: Yet if I were a Woman, I know, you are ſo honeſt and ſo good, That tho' I wore Diſguiſes for ſome Ends, You would not wrong me.— Maſt. —Come, you're made for Love; Will you comply? I'm madder with this Talk. There's Nothing you can ſay, can take my Edge off. Viol. Oh, do but quench theſe foul Affections in you, That, like baſe Thieves, have rob'd you of your Reaſon, And I will be a Woman; and begin So ſad a Story, that if there be aught Of humane in you, or a Soul that's gentle, You cannot chuſe but pity my loſt Youth. Maſt. No Stories now.— Viol. —Kill me directly, Sir; As you have any Goodneſs, take my Life. Rod. within. Hoa! Shepherd, will you hear, Sir? Maſt. What bawling Rogue is that, i'th' Devil's Name? Viol. Bleſſings upon him, whatſoe'er he be! [Runs out. Enters Roderick. Rod.

Good Even, my Friend; I thought, you all had been aſleep in this Country.

 Maſt.

You had lied then; for you were waking, when you thought ſo.

 Rod.

I thank you, Sir.

 Maſt.

I pray, be cover'd; 'tis not ſo much worth, Sir.

 Rod.

Was that thy Boy ran crying?

 Maſt.

Yes; what then?

 Rod.

Why doſt thou beat him ſo?

 Maſt.

To make him grow.

 Rod.

A pretty Med'cine! Thou can'ſt not tell me the Way to the next Nunnery?—

 Maſt.

How do you know That?—Yes, I can tell you; but the Queſtion is, whether I will or no; and, indeed, I will not. Fare you well.

 [Exit Maſter. Rod. What a brute Fellow's this! Are they all thus? My Brother Henriquez tells me by his Letters, The Miſtreſs of his Soul not far from hence Hath taken Sanctuary: from which he prays My Aid to bring her back.—From what Camillo Hinted, I wear ſome Doubts.—Here 'tis appointed That we ſhould meet; it muſt be here; 'tis ſo. He comes. Enters Henriquez. Now, Brother, what's this poſt-haſte Buſineſs You hurry me about?—Some wenching Matter— Henr. My Letter told you, Sir. Rod. 'Tis true, it tells me, that you've loſt a Miſtreſs Whom your Heart bleeds for; but the Means to win her From her cloſe Life, I take it, is not mention'd. You're ever in theſe Troubles.— Henr. —Noble Brother, • own, I have too freely giv'n a Scope To Youth's intemp'rate Heat, and raſh Deſires: But think not, that I would engage your Virtues To any Cauſe, wherein my conſtant Heart Attended not my Eye. 'Till now my Paſſions Reign'd in my Blood; ne'er pierc'd into my Mind; But I'm a Convert grown to pureſt Thoughts: And muſt in Anguiſh ſpend my Days to come, If I poſſeſs not her: So much I love. Rod. The Means?—She's in a Cloyſter, is ſhe not? Within whoſe Walls to enter as We are, Will never be: Few Men, but Fryars, come there; Which We ſhall never make. Henr. —If That would do it, I would make Any thing. Rod. —Are you ſo hot? I'll ſerve him, be it but to ſave his Honour. [Aſide. To feign a Corpſe—By th' Maſs, it ſhall be ſo. We muſt pretend, we do tranſport a Body As 'twere to's Funeral: and coming late by, Crave a Night's Leave to reſt the Herſe i'th' Convent That be our Courſe; for to ſuch Charity Strict Zeal and Cuſtom of the Houſe give Way. Henr. And, opportune, a vacant Herſe paſs'd by From Rites but new perform'd: This for a Price We'll hire, to put our Scheme in Act. Ho! Gerald— [Enter Gerald, whom Henriquez whiſpers; then Gerald goes out. Rod. When we're once lodg'd, the Means of 〈◊〉 Conveyance, By ſafe and ſecret Force, with Eaſe we'll compaſs▪ But, Brother, know my Terms.—If that your Miſtres Will to the World come back, and ſhe appear An Object worthy in our Father's Eye, Wooe her, and win her; but if his Conſent Keep not Pace with your Purpoſe— Henr. Doubt it not. I've look'd not with a common Eye; but choſe A noble Virgin, who to make her ſo, Has all the Gifts of Heav'n and Earth upon her. If ever Woman yet could be an Angel, She is the neareſt. Rhod. —Well; a Lover's Praiſe Feaſts not a Common Ear.—Now to our Plot; We ſhall bring Night in with Us. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. Enter Julio, and Two Gentlemen. Gent. Good Sir, compoſe yourſelf. Jul. —O Leonora, That Heav'n had made Thee ſtronger than a Woman, How happy had I been! Gent. —He's calm again: I'll take this Interval to work upon Him. Theſe wild and ſolitary Places, Sir, But feed your Pain; let better Reaſon guide you; And quit this forlorne State, that yields no Comfort. [Lute ſounds within. Jul. Ha! hark, a Sound from Heav'n! Do you hear Nothing? Gent. Yes, Sir; the Touch of ſome ſweet Inſtrument: Here's no Inhabitant. Jul. —No, no, the better. Gent. This is a ſtrange Place to hear Muſick in. Jul. I'm often viſited with theſe ſweet Airs. The Spirit of ſome hapleſs Man that dy'd, And left his Love hid in a faithleſs Woman, Sure haunts theſe Mountains. [Violante ſings within. Fond Echo! forego thy light Strain, And heedfully hear a laſt Maid; Go, tell the falſe Ear of the Swain How deeply his Vows have betray'd. Go, tell him, what Sorrows I bear; See, yet if his Heart feel my Woe: 'Tis now he muſt heal my Deſpair, Or Death will make Pity too ſlow. Gent. See, how his Soul ſtrives in him! This ſad Strain Has ſearch'd him to the Heart. Jul. Excellent Sorrow! You never lov'd? Gent. No. Jul. —Peace; and learn to grieve then. [Violante ſings within. Go, tell him, what Sorrows I bear; See, yet if his Heart feel my Woe: 'Tis now he muſt heal my Deſpair, Or Death will make Pity too ſlow. Is not this heav'nly? Gent. I never heard the Like, Sir. Jul. I'll tell you, my good Friends; but pray, ſay Nothing; I'm ſtrangely touch'd with This. The heav'nly Sound Diffuſes a ſweet Peace thro' all my Soul. But yet I wonder, what new, ſad, Companion Grief has brought hither to out-bid my Sorrows. Stand off, ſtand off, ſtand off—Friends, it appears. Enters Violante. Viol. How much more grateful are theſe craggy Mountains, And theſe wild Trees, than things of nobler Natures; For Theſe receive my Plaints, and mourn again In many Echoes to Me. All good People Are faln aſleep for ever. None are left, That have the Senſe, and Touch of Tenderneſs For Virtue's ſake: No, ſcarce their Memory: From whom I may expect Counſel in Fears, Eaſe to Complainings, or Redreſs of Wrongs. Jul. This is a moving Sorrow, but ſay nothing. Viol. What Dangers have I run, and to what Inſults Expos'd this Ruin of my ſelf? Oh! Miſchief On that Soul-ſpotted Hind, my vicious Maſter! Who would have thought, that ſuch poor Worms as They, (Whoſe beſt Feed is coarſe Bread; whoſe Bev'rage, Water;) Should have ſo much rank Blood? I ſhake all over, And bluſh to think what had become of me, If that good Man had not reliev'd me from him. Jul. Since ſhe is not Leonora, ſhe is heav'nly. When ſhe ſpeaks next, liſten as ſeriouſly, As Women do that have their Loves at Sea, What Wind blows ev'ry Morning.— Viol. I cannot get this falſe Man's Memory Out of my Mind. You Maidens, that ſhall live To hear my mournful Tale, when I am Aſhes, Be wiſe; and to an Oath no more give Credit, To Tears, to Vows, (falſe Both!) or any Thing A Man ſhall promiſe, than to Clouds, that now Bear ſuch a pleaſing Shape, and now are nothing. For they will cozen, (if They may be cozen'd,) The very Gods they worſhip.—Valour, Juſtice, Diſcretion, Honeſty, and all they covet, To make them ſeeming Saints, are but the Wiles By which theſe Syrens lure us to Deſtruction. Jul. Do not you weep now? I could drop myſelf Into a Fountain for her. Gent. She weeps extremely. Jul. —Let her weep; 'tis well: Her Heart will break elſe. Great Sorrows live in Tears. Viol. O falſe Henriquez!— Jul. —Ha! Viol. —And Oh, thou Fool, Forſ • ken Violante! whoſe Belief And childiſh Love have made Thee ſo—go, dye; • or there is nothing left Thee now to look for, That can bring Comfort, but a quiet Grave. There all the Miſeries I long have felt, 〈◊〉 Th ſe to come, ſhall ſweetly ſleep together. 〈◊〉 may guide that falſe Henriquez hither, 〈◊〉 weep Repentance o'er my pale, dead Coarſe, And cheer my wand'ring Spirit with thoſe lov'd Obſequies. [Going. Jul. Stay, Lady, ſtay: Can it be poſſible, That you are Violante? Viol. —That loſt Name, Spoken by One, that needs muſt know my Fortunes, Has taken much Fear from me. Who are you, Sir? For, ſure, I am that hopeleſs Violante. Jul. And I, as far from any earthly Comfort That I know yet, the much-wrong'd Julio! Viol. —Julio! Jul. I once was thought ſo.—If the curſt Henriquez Had Pow'r to change you to a Boy, why, Lady, Should not that Miſchief make me any thing, That have an equal Share in all the Miſeries His Crimes have flung upon Us? Viol. —Well I know it: And pardon Me, I could not know your Virtues, Before your Griefs. Methought, when laſt we met, The Accent of your Voice ſtruck on my Ear Like ſomething I had known, but Floods of Sorrow Drown'd the Remembrance. If you'll pleaſe to ſit, (Since I have found a ſuff'ring true Companion,) And give me Hearing, I will tell you ſomething Of Leonora, that may comfort you. Jul. Bleſſing upon Thee! Henceforth, I proteſt Never to leave Thee, if Heav'n ſay Amen. But, ſoft! let's ſhift our Ground, guide our ſad Steps To ſome remoter Gloom, where, undiſturb'd, We may compare our Woes; dwell on the Tale Of mutual Injuries, 'till our Eyes run o'er, And we infect each other, with freſh Sorrows.— Talk'd you of Comfort? 'Tis the Food of Fools, And We will None on't; but indulge Deſpair: So, worn with Griefs, ſteal to the Cave of Death, And in a Sigh give up our lateſt Breath. [Exeunt.
The End of the Fourth Act.
ACT V. SCENE I. SCENE, The Proſpect of the Mountains continued. Enter Roderick, Leonora veil'd, Henriquez, Attendants as Mourners. Rod. REST certain, Lady, Nothing ſhall betide you, But fair, and noble Uſage. Pardon me, That hitherto a Courſe of Violence Has ſnatch'd you from that Seat of Contemplation To which you gave your After-Life. Leon. Where am I? Rod. Not in the Nunnery; never bluſh, nor tremble; Your Honour has as fair a Guard, as when Within a Cloyſter. Know then, what is done, (Which, I preſume, you underſtand not truly,) Has this Uſe, to preſerve the Life of One Dying for Love of You: my Brother, and your Friend: Under which Colour we deſir'd to reſt Our Herſe one Night within your hallow'd Walls, Where we ſurpriz'd you. Leon. —Are you that Lord Roderick, So ſpoken of for Virtue, and fair Life, And dare you loſe theſe to be Advocate For ſuch a Brother, ſuch a ſinful Brother, Such an unfaithful, treacherous, brutal Brother? Rod. This is a fearful Charge.— [Looks at Henriquez. Leon. —If you would have me Think, you ſtill bear Reſpect for Virtue's Name; As you would wiſh, your Daughters, thus diſtreſs'd, Might find a Guard, protect me from Henriquez; And I am happy. Rod. —Come, Sir, make your Anſwer; For as I have a Soul, I am aſham'd on't. Henr. O Leonora, ſee! thus ſelf-condemn'd, I throw me at your Feet, and ſue for Mercy. If I have err'd, impute it to my Love; The Tyrant God that bows us to his Sway, Rebellious to the Laws of reas'ning Men; That will not have his Votaries Actions ſcann'd, But calls it Juſtice, when we moſt obey him. He but commanded, what your Eyes inſpir'd; Whoſe ſacred Beams, darted into my Soul, Have purg'd the Manſion from impure Deſires, And kindled in my Heart a Veſtal's Flame. Leon. Riſe, riſe, my Lord; this well-diſſembled Paſſion Has gain'd you nothing but a deeper Hate. Should I imagine, he can truly love me, That, like a Villain, murthers my Deſires? Or ſhould I drink that Wine, and think it Cordial, When I ſee Poyſon in't? Rod. —Draw this way, Lady; I am not perfect in your Story yet; But ſee you've had ſome Wrongs, that want Redreſs. Only you muſt have Patience to go with us To yon ſmall Lodge, which meets the Sight from hence, Where your Diſtreſs ſhall find the due Reſpect: 'Till when, your Griefs ſhall govern me as much, As Nearneſs and Affection to my Brother. Call my Attendants yours; and uſe them freely; For as I am a Gentleman, no Pow'r, Above your own Will, ſhall come near your Perſon. [As they are going out, Violante enters, and plucks Roderick by the Sleeve; the reſt go out.] Viol. Your Ear a Moment: Scorn not my tender Youth. Roder. Look to the Lady there.—I follow ſtrait. What ails this Boy? Why doſt thou ſingle me? Viol. The due Obſervance of your noble Virtue, Vow'd to this mourning Virgin, makes me bold To give it more Employment. Rod. —Art not Thou The ſurly Shepherd's Boy, that, when I call'd To know the Way, ran crying by me? Viol. Yes, Sir. And I thank Heav'n and you for helping me. Rod. How did I help thee, Boy? Viol. I do but ſeem ſo, Sir; and am indeed A Woman; one your Brother once has lov'd; Or, Heav'n forgive him elſe, he ly'd extremely. Rod. Weep not, good Maid; O this licentious Brother! But how came you a Wand'rer on theſe Mountains? Viol. That, as we paſs, an't pleaſe you, I'll diſcover. I will aſſure you, Sir, theſe barren Mountains Hold many Wonders of your Brother's making. Here wanders hapleſs Julio, worthy Man! Beſides himſelf with Wrongs— Rod. That once again.— Viol. Sir, I ſaid, Julio.—Sleep weigh'd down his Eyelids, Oppreſs'd with Watching, juſt as you approach'd us. Rod. O Brother! We ſhall ſound the Depths of Falſhood. If this be true, no more but guide me to him: I hope, a fair End will ſucceed all yet. If it be He, by your Leave, gentle Brother, I'll ſee him ſerv'd firſt.—Maid, you have o'erjoy'd me. Thou ſhalt have Right too: Make thy fair Appeal To the good Duke, and doubt not but thy Tears Shall be repaid with Intereſt from his Juſtice. Lead me to Julio. [Exeunt.
SCENE II. An Apartment in the Lodge. Enter Duke, Don Bernard, and Camillo. Cam.

Ay, then your Grace had had a Son more; He, a Daughter; and I, an Heir: But let it be as 'tis, I cannot mend it; one way or other, I ſhall 〈◊〉 it over, with rubbing to my Grave, and there's an End on't.

 Duke. Our Sorrows cannot help us, Gentlemen. Cam.

Hang me, Sir, if I ſhed one Tear more. By Jove, I've wept ſo long, I'm as blind as Juſtice. When I come to ſee my Hawks (which I held a Toy next to my Son;) if they be but Houſe-high, I muſt ſtand aiming at them like a Gunner.

 Duke. Why, he mourns like a Man. Don Bernard, you Are ſtill like April, full of Show'rs and Dews: And yet I blame you not: for I myſelf Feel the ſelf-ſame Affections.—Let them go; They're diſobedient Children. D. Bern. —Ay, my Lord; Yet they may turn again. Cam.

Let them e'en have their Swing: they're young and wanton; the next Storm we ſhall have them gallop homeward, whining as Pigs do in the Wind.

 D. Bern Would I had my Daughter any way. Cam. Would'ſt thou have her with Bearn, Man, tell me that? D. Bern. I care not, if an honeſt Father got it. Cam. You might have had her ſo in this good Time, Had my Son had her: Now you may go ſeek Your Fool to ſtop a Gap with. Duke. You ſay, that Rod'rick charg'd you here ſhould wait him: He has o'erſlip'd the Time, at which his Letters Of Speed requeſt that I ſhould alſo meet him. I fear, ſome bad Event is uſher'd in By this Delay:—How now? Enters Gentleman. Gent. —So pleaſe your Grace, Lord Rod'rick makes Approach. Duke. —I thank thee, Fellow, For thy ſo timely News: Comes he alone? Gent. No, Sir, attended well: and in his Train Follows a Herſe with all due Rites of Mourning. [Exit Gent. Duke. Heav'n ſend, Henriquez live! Cam. —'Tis my poor Julio.— Enters Roderick, haſtily. Duke. O welcome, welcome, Welcome, good Rod'rick! Say, what News? Cam. Do you bring Joy or Grief, my Lord? For me, Come what can come, I'll live a Month or two If the Gout pleaſe; curſe my Phyſician once more, And then,— Under this Stone Lies Sev'nty One. Rod. Signior, you do expreſs a manly Patience. My noble Father, ſomething I have brought To eaſe your Sorrows: My Endeavours have not Been altogether barren in my Journey. Duke. It comes at need, Boy; but I hop'd it from thee. Enter Leonora veil'd, Henriquez behind, and Attendants. Rod. The Company I bring, will bear me Witneſs The buſieſt of my Time has been employ'd On this good Task. Don Bernard finds beneath This Veil his Daughter: You, my Royal Father, Behind that Lady find a wand'ring Son. How I met with them, and how brought them hither, More Leiſure muſt unfold. Henr. —My Father here! And Julio's! O Confuſion!—Low as Earth I bow me for your Pardon. [To the Duke. D. Bern. O my Girl! Thou bring'ſt new Life.— [Embraces Leonora. Duke. And you, my Son, reſtore me [To Roderick. One Comfort here that has been miſſing long. I hope, thy Follies thou haſt left abroad. [To Henriq. Cam.

Ay, ay; you've all Comforts but I; you have ruin'd me, kill'd my poor Boy; cheated and ruin'd him; and I have no Comfort.

 Rod. Be patient, Signior; Time may guide my Hand To work you Comfort too. Cam. I thank your Lordſhip; 'Would Grandſire Time had been ſo kind to 've done it; We might have joy'd together like good Fellows. But he's ſo full of Buſineſs, good Old Man, 'Tis Wonder, he could do the Good he has done. D. Bern. Nay, Child, be comforted. Theſe Tears diſtract me. Duke. Hear your good Father, Lady. Leon. —Willingly. Duke. The Voice of Parents is the Voice of Gods: For to their Children they are Heav'n's Lieutenants: Made Fathers, not for common Uſes meerly Of Procreation; (Beaſts and Birds would be As noble then as we are) but to ſteer The wanton Freight of Youth thro' Storms and Dangers, Which with full Sails they bear upon: and ſtreighten The moral Line of Life, they bend ſo often. For Theſe are We made Fathers; and for Theſe, May challenge Duty on our Children's Part. Obedience is the Sacrifice of Angels, Whoſe Form you carry. D. Bern. Hear the Duke, good Wench. Leon. I do moſt heedfully. My gracious Lord, [To the Duke. Let me be ſo unmanner'd to requeſt, He would not farther preſs me with Perſuaſions O'th' inſtant Hour: but have the gentle Patience To bury this keen Suit, 'till I ſhake Hands With my old Sorrows,— Cam. —Why doſt look at me? Alas! I cannot help thee. Leon. —And but weep A Farewell to my murther'd Julio,— Cam. Bleſſing be with thy Soul, whene'er it leaves Thee! Leon. For ſuch ſad Rites muſt be perform'd, my Lord, E'er I can love again. Maids, that have lov'd, If they be worth that noble Teſtimony, Wear their Loves here, my Lord; here, in their Hearts; Deep, deep within; not in their Eyes, or Accents; • uch may be ſlip'd away; or with two Tears Waſh'd out of all Remembrance: Mine, no Phyſick, • ut Time, or Death, can cure. Henr. You make your own Conditions, and I ſeal them Thus on your virtuous Hand. [Aſide. Cam. Well, Wench, thy Equal • all not be found in haſte; I give thee That: Thou art a right one, ev'ry Inch.—Thy Father (For, without Doubt, that Snuff never begot Thee,) Was ſome choice Fellow, ſome true Gentleman; I give thy Mother Thanks for't—there's no Harm done.— Would I were young again, and had but thee, A good Horſe under me, and a good Sword, And thus much for Inheritance.— [Violante offers, once or twice, to ſhew herſelf, but goes back. Duke. What Boy's That, Has offer'd twice or thrice to break upon us? I've noted him, and ſtill he falls back fearful. Rod. A little Boy, Sir, like a Shepherd? Duke. Yes. Rod. 'Tis your Page, Brother;—One that was ſo, late. Henr. My Page! What Page? Rod. —Ev'n ſo he ſays, your Page; And more, and worſe, you ſtole him from his Friends, And promis'd him Preferment. Henr. I, Preferment! Rod. And on ſome ſlight Occaſion let him ſlip Here on theſe Mountains, where he had been ſtarv'd, Had not my People found him, as we travell'd. This was not handſome, Brother. Henr. —You are merry. Rod. You'll find it ſober Truth. Duke. —If ſo, 'tis ill. Henr. 'Tis Fiction all, Sir;—Brother, you 〈◊〉 pleaſe To look ſome other Fool to put theſe Tricks on; They are too obvious:—Pleaſe your Grace, gi •• Leave T' admit the Boy; If he know me, and ſay, I ſtole him from his Friends, and caſt him off, Know me no more.—Brother, pray do not wr ••• me. Enters Violante. Rod. Here is the Boy. If he deny this to you, Then I have wrong'd you. Duke. —Hear me; What's thy Name, Boy? Viol. Florio, an't like your Grace. Duke. —A pretty Child. Where waſt thou born? Viol. —On t'other Side the Mountains. Duke. What are thy Friends? Viol. —A Father, Sir; but poor. Duke. How cameſt thou hither? how, to leave thy Father? Viol. That noble Gentleman pleas'd once to like me, [Pointing to Henriquez. And, not to lye, ſo much to doat upon me, That with his Promiſes he won my Youth, • nd Duty, from my Father: Him I follow'd. Rod. How ſay you now, Brother? Cam. —Ay, my Lord, how ſay You? Hen. As I have Life and Soul, 'tis all a Trick, Sir. • never ſaw the Boy before. Viol. —O Sir, • all not your Soul to witneſs in a Wrong: • nd 'tis not noble in you, to deſpiſe What you have made thus. If I lye, let Juſtice • urn all her Rods upon me. Duke. —Fye, Henriquez; • here is no Trace of Cunning in this Boy. Cam. A good Boy!—Be not fearful: Speak thy Mind, Child. • ature, ſure, meant thou ſhould'ſt have been a Wench; • nd then't had been no Marvel he had bobb'd thee. Duke. Why did he put thee from him? Viol. —That to me 〈◊〉 yet unknown, Sir; for my Faith, he could not; • never did deceive him: for my Service, He had no juſt Cauſe; what my Youth was able, My Will ſtill put in Act, to pleaſe my Maſter: I cannot ſteal; therefore that can be nothing To my Undoing: no, nor lye; my Breeding, Tho' it be plain, is honeſt. Duke. —Weep not, Child. Cam.

This Lord has abuſed Men, Women, 〈◊〉 Children already: What farther Plot he has, the D •• knows.

 Duke. If thou can'ſt bring a Witneſs of thy Wro •• (Elſe it would be Injuſtice to believe thee, He having ſworn againſt it;) thou ſhalt have, I bind it with my Honour, Satisfaction To thine own Wiſhes. Viol. —I deſire no more, Sir. I have a Witneſs, and a noble one, For Truth and Honeſty. Rod. —Go, bring him hither. [Exit Violante Henr. This lying Boy will take him to his Heels, And leave me ſlander'd. Rod. —No; I'll be his Voucher. Henr. Nay then 'tis plain, this is Confederacy. Rod. That he has been an Agent in your Service, Appears from this. Here is a Letter, Brother, (Produc'd, perforce, to give him Credit with me;) The Writing, yours; the Matter, Love; for ſo, He ſays, he can explain it. Cam. —Then, belike, A young He-bawd. Henr. —This Forgery confounds me! Duke. Read it, Roderick. Rod. Reads.]

Our Prudence ſhould now teach us 〈◊〉 forget, what our Indiſcretion has ••• mitted. I have already made one 〈◊〉 towards this Wiſdom—

 Henr. Hold, Sir.—My very Words to Violante. [Aſi •• Duke. Go on. Henr. —My gracious Father, give me Pardon; I do confeſs, I ſome ſuch Letter wrote (The Purport all too trivial for your Ear,) But how it reach'd this young Diſſembler's Hands, Is what I cannot ſolve. For on my Soul, And by the Honours of my Birth and Houſe, The Minion's Face 'till now I never ſaw. Rod. Run not too far in Debt on Proteſtation.— Why ſhould you do a Child this Wrong? Henr. —Go to; Your Friendſhips paſt warrant not this Abuſe: If you provoke me thus, I ſhall forget What you are to me. This is a meer Practice, And Villany to draw me into Scandal. Rod. No more; you are a Boy.—Here comes a Witneſs, • all prove you ſo: No more.— Enter Julio, diſguis'd; Violante, as a Woman. Henr. —Another Raſcal! Duke. Hold:— Henr. Ha! [Seeing Violante. Duke. What's here? Henr. By all my Sins, the injur'd Violante. [Aſide. Rod. Now, Sir, whoſe Practice breaks? Cam —Is this a Page? [To Henr. Rod. One that has done him Service, 〈◊〉 he has paid her for't; but broke his Covenant. Viol. My Lord, I come not now to wound your Spirit. 〈◊〉 pure Affection dead, which firſt betray'd me, 〈◊〉 Claim dye with it! Only let me not 〈◊〉 to the Grave with Infamy upon me: •• ect my Virtue, tho' it hurt your Faith; 〈◊〉 my laſt Breath ſhall ſpeak Henriquez noble. •• nr. What a fierce Conflict Shame, and wounded Honour, Raiſe in my Breaſt!—but Honour ſhall o'ercome.— She looks as beauteous, and as innocent, As when I wrong'd her.—Virtuous Violante! Too good for me! dare you ſtill love a Man, So faithleſs as I am?—I know you love me. Thus, thus, and thus, I print my vow'd Repentance: Let all Men read it here.—My gracious Father, Forgive, and make me rich with your Conſent, This is my Wife; no other would I chuſe, Were ſhe a Queen. Cam. Here's a new Change. Bernard looks dull upon't. Henr. And fair Leonora, from whoſe Virgin Arms I forc'd my wrong'd Friend Julio, O forgive me. Take home your holy Vows, and let him have 'em That has deſerv'd them. O that he were here! That I might own the Baſeneſs of my Wrong, And purpos'd Recompence. My Violante, You muſt again be widow'd: for I vow A ceaſeleſs Pilgrimage, ne'er to know Joy, 'Till I can give it to the injur'd Julio. Cam. This almoſt melts me:—But my poor 〈◊〉 Boy— Rod. I'll ſtop that Voyage, Brother.—Gentle Lady▪ What think you of this honeſt Man? Leon. Alas! My Thoughts, my Lord, were all employ'd within▪ He has a Face makes me remember ſomething I have thought well of; how he looks upon me! Poor Man, he weeps.—Ha! ſtay; it cannot be— He has his Eye, his Features, Shape, and Geſture.— 'Would, he would ſpeak. Jul. —Leonora,— [Throws off his Diſg ••• Leon. —Yes, 'tis He. O Ecſtacy of Joy!— [They embra •• Cam. Now, what's the Matter? Rod Let 'em alone; they're almoſt ſtarv'd 〈◊〉 Kiſſes. Cam. Stand forty Foot off; no Man trouble 'em. Much Good may't do your Hearts!—What is he, Lord, What is he? Rod. A certain Son of yours. Cam. —The Devil he is. Rod. If he be the Devil, that Devil muſt call you Father. Cam. By your Leave a little, ho,—Are you my Julio? Jul. My Duty tells me ſo, Sir, Still on my Knees.—But Love engroſs'd me all; O Leonora, do I once more hold thee? Cam. Nay, to't again: I will not hinder you a Kiſs, 'Tis he— [Leaps. Leon. The righteous Pow'rs at length have crown'd our Loves. Think, Julio, from the Storm that's now o'erblown, Tho' ſour Affliction combat Hope awhile, When Lovers ſwear true Faith, the liſt'ning Angels Stand on the golden Battlemen's of Heav'n, And waft their Vows to the Eternal Throne. Such were our Vows, and ſo are they repaid. Duke. E'en as you are, we'll join your Hands together. A Providence above our Pow'r rules all. Ask him Forgiveneſs, Boy. [To Henriquez. Jul. —He has it, Sir: The Fault was Love's, not his. Henr. —Brave, gen'rous Julio! I knew thy Nobleneſs of old, and priz'd it, 'Till Paſſiom made me blind—Once more, my Friend, Share in a Heart, that ne'er ſhall wrong thee more. And, Brother,— Rod. —This Embrace cuts off Excuſes. Duke. I muſt, in part, repair my Son's Offence: At your beſt Leiſure, Julio, know our Court. And, Violante, (for I know you now;) • have a Debt to pay: Your good old Father, Once, when I chas'd the Boar, preſerv'd my Life: For that good Deed, and for your Virtue's Sake, Tho' your Deſcent be low, call me your Father. A Match drawn out of Honeſty, and Goodneſs, Is Pedigree enough.—Are you all pleas'd? [Gives her to Henriquez Camil. All. Henr.D. Bern. —All, Sir, Jul. All. Duke. And I not leaſt. We'll now return to Cou •• (And that ſhort Travel, and your Loves compleated Shall, as I truſt, for Life reſtrain theſe Wand'rings) There, the Solemnity, and Grace▪ I'll do Your ſev'ral Nuptials, ſhall approve my Joy; And make griev'd Lovers, that your Story read, Wi •• , true Love's Wand'rings may like yours ſuc ••• [Curtain fa •••
FINIS