7/10/2007

Harvard Classics

Harvard Classics, Volume XVIII

—

John Dryden—All For Love

—

Richard Brinsley Sheridan—The School for Scandal

—

Oliver Goldsmith—She Stoops to Conquer

—

Percy Bysshe Shelley—The Cenci

—

Robert Browning—A Blot in the ’Scutcheon

—

Lord Byron—Manfred

—

John Dryden— All For Love

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

The age of Elizabeth, memorable for so many reasons in the history of England, was especially brilliant in literature, and, within literature, in the drama. With some falling off in spontaneity, the impulse to great dramatic production lasted till the Long Parliament closed the theaters in 1642; and when they were reopened at the Restoration, in 1660, the stage only too faithfully reflected the debased moral tone of the court society of Charles II.

John Dryden (1631-1700), the great representative figure in the literature of the latter part of the seventeenth century, exemplifies in his work most of the main tendencies of the time. He came into notice with a poem on the death of Cromwell in 1658, and two years later was composing couplets expressing his loyalty to the returned king. He married Lady Elizabeth Howard, the daughter of a royalist house, and for practically all the rest of his life remained an adherent of the Tory Party. In 1663 he began writing for the stage, and during the next thirty years he attempted nearly all the current forms of drama. His "Annus Mirabilis" (1666), celebrating the English naval victories over the Dutch, brought him in 1670 the Poet Laureateship. He had, meantime, begun the writing of those admirable critical essays, represented in the present series by his Preface to the "Fables" and his Dedication to the translation of Virgil. In these he shows himself not only a critic of sound and penetrating judgment, but the first master of modern English prose style.

With "Absalom and Achitophel," a satire on the Whig leader, Shaftesbury, Dryden entered a new phase, and achieved what is regarded as "the finest of all political satires." This was followed by "The Medal," again directed against the Whigs, and this by "Mac Flecknoe," a fierce attack on his enemy and rival Shadwell. The Government rewarded his services by a lucrative appointment.

After triumphing in the three fields of drama, criticism, and satire, Dryden appears next as a religious poet in his "Religio Laici," an exposition of the doctrines of the Church of England from a layman's point of view. In the same year that the Catholic James II. ascended the throne, Dryden joined the Roman Church, and two years later defended his new religion in "The Hind and the Panther," an allegorical debate between two animals standing respectively for Catholicism and Anglicanism.

The Revolution of 1688 put an end to Dryden's prosperity; and after a short return to dramatic composition, he turned to translation as a means of supporting himself. He had already done something in this line; and after a series of translations from Juvenal, Persius, and Ovid, he undertook, at the age of sixty-three, the enormous task of turning the entire works of Virgil into English verse. How he succeeded in this, readers of the "Aeneid" in a companion volume of these classics can judge for themselves. Dryden's production closes with the collection of narrative poems called "Fables," published in 1700, in which year he died and was buried in the Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey.

Dryden lived in an age of reaction against excessive religious idealism, and both his character and his works are marked by the somewhat unheroic traits of such a period. But he was, on the whole, an honest man, open minded, genial, candid, and modest; the wielder of a style, both in verse and prose, unmatched for clearness, vigor, and sanity.

Three types of comedy appeared in England in the time of Dryden-the comedy of humors, the comedy of intrigue, and the comedy of manners-and in all he did work that classed him with the ablest of his contemporaries. He developed the somewhat bombastic type of drama known as the heroic play, and brought it to its height in his "Conquest of Granada"; then, becoming dissatisfied with this form, he cultivated the French classic tragedy on the model of Racine. This he modified by combining with the regularity of the French treatment of dramatic action a richness of characterization in which he showed himself a disciple of Shakespeare, and of this mixed type his best example is "All for Love." Here he has the daring to challenge comparison with his master, and the greatest testimony to his achievement is the fact that, as Professor Noyes has said, "fresh from Shakespeare's ' Antony and Cleopatra,' we can still read with intense pleasure Dryden's version of the story."

DEDICATION

To the Right Honourable, Thomas, Earl of Danby, Viscount Latimer, and Baron Osborne of Kiveton, in Yorkshire; Lord High Treasurer of England, one of His Majesty's Most Honourable Privy Council, and Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

My Lord,

The gratitude of poets is so troublesome a virtue to great men, that you are often in danger of your own benefits: for you are threatened with some epistle, and not suffered to do good in quiet, or to compound for their silence whom you have obliged. Yet, I confess, I neither am or ought to be surprised at this indulgence; for your lordship has the same right to favour poetry, which the great and noble have ever had-

Carmen amat, quisquis carmine digna gerit.

There is somewhat of a tie in nature betwixt those who are born for worthy actions, and those who can transmit them to posterity; and though ours be much the inferior part, it comes at least within the verge of alliance; nor are we unprofitable members of the commonwealth, when we animate others to those virtues, which we copy and describe from you.

It is indeed their interest, who endeavour the subversion of governments, to discourage poets and historians; for the best which can happen to them, is to be forgotten. But such who, under kings, are the fathers of their country, and by a just and prudent ordering of affairs preserve it, have the same reason to cherish the chroniclers of their actions, as they have to lay up in safety the deeds and evidences of their estates; for such records are their undoubted titles to the love and reverence of after ages. Your lordship's administration has already taken up a considerable part of the English annals; and many of its most happy years are owing to it. His Majesty, the most knowing judge of men, and the best master, has acknowledged the ease and benefit he receives in the incomes of his treasury, which you found not only disordered, but exhausted. All things were in the confusion of a chaos, without form or method, if not reduced beyond it, even to annihilation; so that you had not only to separate the jarring elements, but (if that boldness of expression might be allowed me) to create them. Your enemies had so embroiled the management of your office, that they looked on your advancement as the instrument of your ruin. And as if the clogging of the revenue, and the confusion of accounts, which you found in your entrance, were not sufficient, they added their own weight of malice to the public calamity, by forestalling the credit which should cure it. Your friends on the other side were only capable of pitying, but not of aiding you; no further help or counsel was remaining to you, but what was founded on yourself; and that indeed was your security; for your diligence, your constancy, and your prudence, wrought most surely within, when they were not disturbed by any outward motion. The highest virtue is best to be trusted with itself; for assistance only can be given by a genius superior to that which it assists; and it is the noblest kind of debt, when we are only obliged to God and nature. This then, my lord, is your just commendation, and that you have wrought out yourself a way to glory, by those very means that were designed for your destruction: You have not only restored but advanced the revenues of your master, without grievance to the subject; and, as if that were little yet, the debts of the exchequer, which lay heaviest both on the crown, and on private persons, have by your conduct been established in a certainty of satisfaction. An action so much the more great and honourable, because the case was without the ordinary relief of laws; above the hopes of the afflicted and beyond the narrowness of the treasury to redress, had it been managed by a less able hand. It is certainly the happiest, and most unenvied part of all your fortune, to do good to many, while you do injury to none; to receive at once the prayers of the subject, and the praises of the prince; and, by the care of your conduct, to give him means of exerting the chiefest (if any be the chiefest) of his royal virtues, his distributive justice to the deserving, and his bounty and compassion to the wanting. The disposition of princes towards their people cannot be better discovered than in the choice of their ministers; who, like the animal spirits betwixt the soul and body, participate somewhat of both natures, and make the communication which is betwixt them. A king, who is just and moderate in his nature, who rules according to the laws, whom God has made happy by forming the temper of his soul to the constitution of his government, and who makes us happy, by assuming over us no other sovereignty than that wherein our welfare and liberty consists; a prince, I say, of so excellent a character, and so suitable to the wishes of all good men, could not better have conveyed himself into his people's apprehensions, than in your lordship's person; who so lively express the same virtues, that you seem not so much a copy, as an emanation of him. Moderation is doubtless an establishment of greatness; but there is a steadiness of temper which is likewise requisite in a minister of state; so equal a mixture of both virtues, that he may stand like an isthmus betwixt the two encroaching seas of arbitrary power, and lawless anarchy. The undertaking would be difficult to any but an extraordinary genius, to stand at the line, and to divide the limits; to pay what is due to the great representative of the nation, and neither to enhance, nor to yield up, the undoubted prerogatives of the crown. These, my lord, are the proper virtues of a noble Englishman, as indeed they are properly English virtues; no people in the world being capable of using them, but we who have the happiness to be born under so equal, and so well-poised a government;-a government which has all the advantages of liberty beyond a commonwealth, and all the marks of kingly sovereignty, without the danger of a tyranny. Both my nature, as I am an Englishman, and my reason, as I am a man, have bred in me a loathing to that specious name of a republic; that mock appearance of a liberty, where all who have not part in the government, are slaves; and slaves they are of a viler note, than such as are subjects to an absolute dominion. For no Christian monarchy is so absolute, but it is circumscribed with laws; but when the executive power is in the law-makers, there is no further check upon them; and the people must suffer without a remedy, because they are oppressed by their representatives. If I must serve, the number of my masters, who were born my equals, would but add to the ignominy of my bondage. The nature of our government, above all others, is exactly suited both to the situation of our country, and the temper of the natives; an island being more proper for commerce and for defence, than for extending its dominions on the Continent; for what the valour of its inhabitants might gain, by reason of its remoteness, and the casualties of the seas, it could not so easily preserve: And, therefore, neither the arbitrary power of One, in a monarchy, nor of Many, in a commonwealth, could make us greater than we are. It is true, that vaster and more frequent taxes might be gathered, when the consent of the people was not asked or needed; but this were only by conquering abroad, to be poor at home; and the examples of our neighbours teach us, that they are not always the happiest subjects, whose kings extend their dominions farthest. Since therefore we cannot win by an offensive war, at least, a land war, the model of our government seems naturally contrived for the defensive part; and the consent of a people is easily obtained to contribute to that power which must protect it. Felices nimium, bona si sua norint, Angligenae! And yet there are not wanting malcontents among us, who, surfeiting themselves on too much happiness, would persuade the people that they might be happier by a change. It was indeed the policy of their old forefather, when himself was fallen from the station of glory, to seduce mankind into the same rebellion with him, by telling him he might yet be freer than he was; that is more free than his nature would allow, or, if I may so say, than God could make him. We have already all the liberty which freeborn subjects can enjoy, and all beyond it is but licence. But if it be liberty of conscience which they pretend, the moderation of our church is such, that its practice extends not to the severity of persecution; and its discipline is withal so easy, that it allows more freedom to dissenters than any of the sects would allow to it. In the meantime, what right can be pretended by these men to attempt innovation in church or state— Who made them the trustees, or to speak a little nearer their own language, the keepers of the liberty of England— If their call be extraordinary, let them convince us by working miracles; for ordinary vocation they can have none, to disturb the government under which they were born, and which protects them. He who has often changed his party, and always has made his interest the rule of it, gives little evidence of his sincerity for the public good; it is manifest he changes but for himself, and takes the people for tools to work his fortune. Yet the experience of all ages might let him know, that they who trouble the waters first, have seldom the benefit of the fishing; as they who began the late rebellion enjoyed not the fruit of their undertaking, but were crushed themselves by the usurpation of their own instrument. Neither is it enough for them to answer, that they only intend a reformation of the government, but not the subversion of it: on such pretence all insurrections have been founded; it is striking at the root of power, which is obedience. Every remonstrance of private men has the seed of treason in it; and discourses, which are couched in ambiguous terms, are therefore the more dangerous, because they do all the mischief of open sedition, yet are safe from the punishment of the laws. These, my lord, are considerations, which I should not pass so lightly over, had I room to manage them as they deserve; for no man can be so inconsiderable in a nation, as not to have a share in the welfare of it; and if he be a true Englishman, he must at the same time be fired with indignation, and revenge himself as he can on the disturbers of his country. And to whom could I more fitly apply myself than to your lordship, who have not only an inborn, but an hereditary loyalty— The memorable constancy and sufferings of your father, almost to the ruin of his estate, for the royal cause, were an earnest of that which such a parent and such an institution would produce in the person of a son. But so unhappy an occasion of manifesting your own zeal, in suffering for his present majesty, the providence of God, and the prudence of your administration, will, I hope, prevent; that, as your father's fortune waited on the unhappiness of his sovereign, so your own may participate of the better fate which attends his son. The relation which you have by alliance to the noble family of your lady, serves to confirm to you both this happy augury. For what can deserve a greater place in the English chronicle, than the loyalty and courage, the actions and death, of the general of an army, fighting for his prince and country— The honour and gallantry of the Earl of Lindsey is so illustrious a subject, that it is fit to adorn an heroic poem; for he was the protomartyr of the cause, and the type of his unfortunate royal master.

Yet after all, my lord, if I may speak my thoughts, you are happy rather to us than to yourself; for the multiplicity, the cares, and the vexations of your employment, have betrayed you from yourself, and given you up into the possession of the public. You are robbed of your privacy and friends, and scarce any hour of your life you can call your own. Those, who envy your fortune, if they wanted not good-nature, might more justly pity it; and when they see you watched by a crowd of suitors, whose importunity it is impossible to avoid, would conclude, with reason, that you have lost much more in true content, than you have gained by dignity; and that a private gentleman is better attended by a single servant, than your lordship with so clamorous a train. Pardon me, my lord, if I speak like a philosopher on this subject; the fortune which makes a man uneasy, cannot make him happy; and a wise man must think himself uneasy, when few of his actions are in his choice.

This last consideration has brought me to another, and a very seasonable one for your relief; which is, that while I pity your want of leisure, I have impertinently detained you so long a time. I have put off my own business, which was my dedication, till it is so late, that I am now ashamed to begin it; and therefore I will say nothing of the poem, which I present to you, because I know not if you are like to have an hour, which, with a good conscience, you may throw away in perusing it; and for the author, I have only to beg the continuance of your protection to him, who is,

My Lord,

Your Lordship's most obliged,

Most humble, and

Most obedient, servant,

John Dryden.

PREFACE

The death of Antony and Cleopatra is a subject which has been treated by the greatest wits of our nation, after Shakespeare; and by all so variously, that their example has given me the confidence to try myself in this bow of Ulysses amongst the crowd of suitors, and, withal, to take my own measures, in aiming at the mark. I doubt not but the same motive has prevailed with all of us in this attempt; I mean the excellency of the moral: For the chief persons represented were famous patterns of unlawful love; and their end accordingly was unfortunate. All reasonable men have long since concluded, that the hero of the poem ought not to be a character of perfect virtue, for then he could not, without injustice, be made unhappy; nor yet altogether wicked, because he could not then be pitied. I have therefore steered the middle course; and have drawn the character of Antony as favourably as Plutarch, Appian, and Dion Cassius would give me leave; the like I have observed in Cleopatra. That which is wanting to work up the pity to a greater height, was not afforded me by the story; for the crimes of love, which they both committed, were not occasioned by any necessity, or fatal ignorance, but were wholly voluntary; since our passions are, or ought to be, within our power. The fabric of the play is regular enough, as to the inferior parts of it; and the unities of time, place, and action, more exactly observed, than perhaps the English theatre requires. Particularly, the action is so much one, that it is the only one of the kind without episode, or underplot; every scene in the tragedy conducing to the main design, and every act concluding with a turn of it. The greatest error in the contrivance seems to be in the person of Octavia; for, though I might use the privilege of a poet, to introduce her into Alexandria, yet I had not enough considered, that the compassion she moved to herself and children was destructive to that which I reserved for Antony and Cleopatra; whose mutual love being founded upon vice, must lessen the favour of the audience to them, when virtue and innocence were oppressed by it. And, though I justified Antony in some measure, by making Octavia's departure to proceed wholly from herself; yet the force of the first machine still remained; and the dividing of pity, like the cutting of a river into many channels, abated the strength of the natural stream. But this is an objection which none of my critics have urged against me; and therefore I might have let it pass, if I could have resolved to have been partial to myself. The faults my enemies have found are rather cavils concerning little and not essential decencies; which a master of the ceremonies may decide betwixt us. The French poets, I confess, are strict observers of these punctilios: They would not, for example, have suffered Cleopatra and Octavia to have met; or, if they had met, there must have only passed betwixt them some cold civilities, but no eagerness of repartee, for fear of offending against the greatness of their characters, and the modesty of their sex. This objection I foresaw, and at the same time contemned; for I judged it both natural and probable, that Octavia, proud of her new-gained conquest, would search out Cleopatra to triumph over her; and that Cleopatra, thus attacked, was not of a spirit to shun the encounter: And it is not unlikely, that two exasperated rivals should use such satire as I have put into their mouths; for, after all, though the one were a Roman, and the other a queen, they were both women. It is true, some actions, though natural, are not fit to be represented; and broad obscenities in words ought in good manners to be avoided: expressions therefore are a modest clothing of our thoughts, as breeches and petticoats are of our bodies. If I have kept myself within the bounds of modesty, all beyond, it is but nicety and affectation; which is no more but modesty depraved into a vice. They betray themselves who are too quick of apprehension in such cases, and leave all reasonable men to imagine worse of them, than of the poet.

Honest Montaigne goes yet further: Nous ne sommes que ceremonie; la ceremonie nous emporte, et laissons la substance des choses. Nous nous tenons aux branches, et abandonnons le tronc et le corps. Nous avons appris aux dames de rougir, oyans seulement nommer ce qu'elles ne craignent aucunement a faire: Nous n'osons appeller a droit nos membres, et ne craignons pas de les employer a toute sorte de debauche. La ceremonie nous defend d'exprimer par paroles les choses licites et naturelles, et nous l'en croyons; la raison nous defend de n'en faire point d'illicites et mauvaises, et personne ne l'en croit. My comfort is, that by this opinion my enemies are but sucking critics, who would fain be nibbling ere their teeth are come.

Yet, in this nicety of manners does the excellency of French poetry consist. Their heroes are the most civil people breathing; but their good breeding seldom extends to a word of sense; all their wit is in their ceremony; they want the genius which animates our stage; and therefore it is but necessary, when they cannot please, that they should take care not to offend. But as the civilest man in the company is commonly the dullest, so these authors, while they are afraid to make you laugh or cry, out of pure good manners make you sleep. They are so careful not to exasperate a critic, that they never leave him any work; so busy with the broom, and make so clean a riddance that there is little left either for censure or for praise: For no part of a poem is worth our discommending, where the whole is insipid; as when we have once tasted of palled wine, we stay not to examine it glass by glass. But while they affect to shine in trifles, they are often careless in essentials. Thus, their Hippolytus is so scrupulous in point of decency, that he will rather expose himself to death, than accuse his stepmother to his father; and my critics I am sure will commend him for it. But we of grosser apprehensions are apt to think that this excess of generosity is not practicable, but with fools and madmen. This was good manners with a vengeance; and the audience is like to be much concerned at the misfortunes of this admirable hero. But take Hippolytus out of his poetic fit, and I suppose he would think it a wiser part to set the saddle on the right horse, and choose rather to live with the reputation of a plain-spoken, honest man, than to die with the infamy of an incestuous villain. In the meantime we may take notice, that where the poet ought to have preserved the character as it was delivered to us by antiquity, when he should have given us the picture of a rough young man, of the Amazonian strain, a jolly huntsman, and both by his profession and his early rising a mortal enemy to love, he has chosen to give him the turn of gallantry, sent him to travel from Athens to Paris, taught him to make love, and transformed the Hippolytus of Euripides into Monsieur Hippolyte. I should not have troubled myself thus far with French poets, but that I find our Chedreux critics wholly form their judgments by them. But for my part, I desire to be tried by the laws of my own country; for it seems unjust to me, that the French should prescribe here, till they have conquered. Our little sonneteers, who follow them, have too narrow souls to judge of poetry. Poets themselves are the most proper, though I conclude not the only critics. But till some genius, as universal as Aristotle, shall arise, one who can penetrate into all arts and sciences, without the practice of them, I shall think it reasonable, that the judgment of an artificer in his own art should be preferable to the opinion of another man; at least where he is not bribed by interest, or prejudiced by malice. And this, I suppose, is manifest by plain inductions: For, first, the crowd cannot be presumed to have more than a gross instinct of what pleases or displeases them: Every man will grant me this; but then, by a particular kindness to himself, he draws his own stake first, and will be distinguished from the multitude, of which other men may think him one. But, if I come closer to those who are allowed for witty men, either by the advantage of their quality, or by common fame, and affirm that neither are they qualified to decide sovereignly concerning poetry, I shall yet have a strong party of my opinion; for most of them severally will exclude the rest, either from the number of witty men, or at least of able judges. But here again they are all indulgent to themselves; and every one who believes himself a wit, that is, every man, will pretend at the same time to a right of judging. But to press it yet further, there are many witty men, but few poets; neither have all poets a taste of tragedy. And this is the rock on which they are daily splitting. Poetry, which is a picture of nature, must generally please; but it is not to be understood that all parts of it must please every man; therefore is not tragedy to be judged by a witty man, whose taste is only confined to comedy. Nor is every man, who loves tragedy, a sufficient judge of it; he must understand the excellences of it too, or he will only prove a blind admirer, not a critic. From hence it comes that so many satires on poets, and censures of their writings, fly abroad. Men of pleasant conversation (at least esteemed so), and endued with a trifling kind of fancy, perhaps helped out with some smattering of Latin, are ambitious to distinguish themselves from the herd of gentlemen, by their poetry-

Rarus enim ferme sensus communis in illa Fortuna.

And is not this a wretched affectation, not to be contented with what fortune has done for them, and sit down quietly with their estates, but they must call their wits in question, and needlessly expose their nakedness to public view— Not considering that they are not to expect the same approbation from sober men, which they have found from their flatterers after the third bottle. If a little glittering in discourse has passed them on us for witty men, where was the necessity of undeceiving the world— Would a man who has an ill title to an estate, but yet is in possession of it; would he bring it of his own accord, to be tried at Westminster— We who write, if we want the talent, yet have the excuse that we do it for a poor subsistence; but what can be urged in their defence, who, not having the vocation of poverty to scribble, out of mere wantonness take pains to make themselves ridiculous— Horace was certainly in the right, where he said, "That no man is satisfied with his own condition." A poet is not pleased, because he is not rich; and the rich are discontented, because the poets will not admit them of their number. Thus the case is hard with writers: If they succeed not, they must starve; and if they do, some malicious satire is prepared to level them, for daring to please without their leave. But while they are so eager to destroy the fame of others, their ambition is manifest in their concernment; some poem of their own is to be produced, and the slaves are to be laid flat with their faces on the ground, that the monarch may appear in the greater majesty.

Dionysius and Nero had the same longings, but with all their power they could never bring their business well about. 'Tis true, they proclaimed themselves poets by sound of trumpet; and poets they were, upon pain of death to any man who durst call them otherwise. The audience had a fine time on't, you may imagine; they sat in a bodily fear, and looked as demurely as they could: for it was a hanging matter to laugh unseasonably; and the tyrants were suspicious, as they had reason, that their subjects had them in the wind; so, every man, in his own defence, set as good a face upon the business as he could. It was known beforehand that the monarchs were to be crowned laureates; but when the show was over, and an honest man was suffered to depart quietly, he took out his laughter which he had stifled, with a firm resolution never more to see an emperor's play, though he had been ten years a-making it. In the meantime the true poets were they who made the best markets: for they had wit enough to yield the prize with a good grace, and not contend with him who had thirty legions. They were sure to be rewarded, if they confessed themselves bad writers, and that was somewhat better than to be martyrs for their reputation. Lucan's example was enough to teach them manners; and after he was put to death, for overcoming Nero, the emperor carried it without dispute for the best poet in his dominions. No man was ambitious of that grinning honour; for if he heard the malicious trumpeter proclaiming his name before his betters, he knew there was but one way with him. Maecenas took another course, and we know he was more than a great man, for he was witty too: But finding himself far gone in poetry, which Seneca assures us was not his talent, he thought it his best way to be well with Virgil and with Horace; that at least he might be a poet at the second hand; and we see how happily it has succeeded with him; for his own bad poetry is forgotten, and their panegyrics of him still remain. But they who should be our patrons are for no such expensive ways to fame; they have much of the poetry of Maecenas, but little of his liberality. They are for prosecuting Horace and Virgil, in the persons of their successors; for such is every man who has any part of their soul and fire, though in a less degree. Some of their little zanies yet go further; for they are persecutors even of Horace himself, as far as they are able, by their ignorant and vile imitations of him; by making an unjust use of his authority, and turning his artillery against his friends. But how would he disdain to be copied by such hands! I dare answer for him, he would be more uneasy in their company, than he was with Crispinus, their forefather, in the Holy Way; and would no more have allowed them a place amongst the critics, than he would Demetrius the mimic, and Tigellius the buffoon;

____________________ Demetri, teque, Tigelli,

Discipulorum inter jubeo plorare cathedras.

With what scorn would he look down on such miserable translators, who make doggerel of his Latin, mistake his meaning, misapply his censures, and often contradict their own— He is fixed as a landmark to set out the bounds of poetry-

____________________ Saxum antiquum, ingens,-

Limes agro positus, litem ut discerneret arvis.

But other arms than theirs, and other sinews are required, to raise the weight of such an author; and when they would toss him against enemies-

Genua labant, gelidus concrevit frigore sanguis.

Tum lapis ipse viri, vacuum per inane volatus,

Nec spatium evasit totum, nec pertulit ictum.

For my part, I would wish no other revenge, either for myself, or the rest of the poets, from this rhyming judge of the twelve-penny gallery, this legitimate son of Sternhold, than that he would subscribe his name to his censure, or (not to tax him beyond his learning) set his mark: For, should he own himself publicly, and come from behind the lion's skin, they whom he condemns would be thankful to him, they whom he praises would choose to be condemned; and the magistrates, whom he has elected, would modestly withdraw from their employment, to avoid the scandal of his nomination. The sharpness of his satire, next to himself, falls most heavily on his friends, and they ought never to forgive him for commending them perpetually the wrong way, and sometimes by contraries. If he have a friend, whose hastiness in writing is his greatest fault, Horace would have taught him to have minced the matter, and to have called it readiness of thought, and a flowing fancy; for friendship will allow a man to christen an imperfection by the name of some neighbour virtue-

Vellem in amicitia sic erraremus; et isti

Errori nomen virtus posuisset honestum.

But he would never allowed him to have called a slow man hasty, or a hasty writer a slow drudge, as Juvenal explains it-

____________________ Canibus pigris, scabieque vestusta

Laevibus, et siccae lambentibus ora lucernae,

Nomen erit, Pardus, Tigris, Leo; si quid adhuc est

Quod fremit in terris violentius.

Yet Lucretius laughs at a foolish lover, even for excusing the imperfections of his mistress-

Nigra ‹melichroos› est, immunda et foetida ‹akosmos›

Balba loqui non quit, ‹traylizei›; muta pudens est, etc.

But to drive it ad Aethiopem cygnum is not to be endured. I leave him to interpret this by the benefit of his French version on the other side, and without further considering him, than I have the rest of my illiterate censors, whom I have disdained to answer, because they are not qualified for judges. It remains that I acquiant the reader, that I have endeavoured in this play to follow the practice of the ancients, who, as Mr. Rymer has judiciously observed, are and ought to be our masters. Horace likewise gives it for a rule in his art of poetry-

____________________ Vos exemplaria Graeca

Nocturna versate manu, versate diurna.

Yet, though their models are regular, they are too little for English tragedy; which requires to be built in a larger compass. I could give an instance in the Oedipus Tyrannus, which was the masterpiece of Sophocles; but I reserve it for a more fit occasion, which I hope to have hereafter. In my style, I have professed to imitate the divine Shakespeare; which that I might perform more freely, I have disencumbered myself from rhyme. Not that I condemn my former way, but that this is more proper to my present purpose. I hope I need not to explain myself, that I have not copied my author servilely: Words and phrases must of necessity receive a change in succeeding ages; but it is almost a miracle that much of his language remains so pure; and that he who began dramatic poetry amongst us, untaught by any, and as Ben Jonson tells us, without learning, should by the force of his own genius perform so much, that in a manner he has left no praise for any who come after him. The occasion is fair, and the subject would be pleasant to handle the difference of styles betwixt him and Fletcher, and wherein, and how far they are both to be imitated. But since I must not be over-confident of my own performance after him, it will be prudence in me to be silent. Yet, I hope, I may affirm, and without vanity, that, by imitating him, I have excelled myself throughout the play; and particularly, that I prefer the scene betwixt Antony and Ventidius in the first act, to anything which I have written in this kind.

PROLOGUE

What flocks of critics hover here to-day,

As vultures wait on armies for their prey,

All gaping for the carcase of a play!

With croaking notes they bode some dire event,

And follow dying poets by the scent.

Ours gives himself for gone; y' have watched your time:

He fights this day unarmed,-without his rhyme;-

And brings a tale which often has been told;

As sad as Dido's; and almost as old.

His hero, whom you wits his bully call,

Bates of his mettle, and scarce rants at all;

He's somewhat lewd; but a well-meaning mind;

Weeps much; fights little; but is wond'rous kind.

In short, a pattern, and companion fit,

For all the keeping Tonies of the pit.

I could name more: a wife, and mistress too;

Both (to be plain) too good for most of you:

The wife well-natured, and the mistress true.

Now, poets, if your fame has been his care,

Allow him all the candour you can spare.

A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day;

Like Hectors in at every petty fray.

Let those find fault whose wit's so very small,

They've need to show that they can think at all;

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow;

He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

Fops may have leave to level all they can;

As pigmies would be glad to lop a man.

Half-wits are fleas; so little and so light,

We scarce could know they live, but that they bite.

But, as the rich, when tired with daily feasts,

For change, become their next poor tenant's guests;

Drink hearty draughts of ale from plain brown bowls,

And snatch the homely rasher from the coals:

So you, retiring from much better cheer,

For once, may venture to do penance here.

And since that plenteous autumn now is past,

Whose grapes and peaches have indulged your taste,

Take in good part, from our poor poet's board,

Such rivelled fruits as winter can afford.

ALL FOR LOVE

or

THE WORLD WELL LOST

A TRAGEDY

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

MARK ANTONY.

VENTIDIUS, his General.

DOLABELLA, his Friend.

ALEXAS, the Queen's Eunuch.

SERAPION, Priest of Isis.

MYRIS, another Priest.

Servants to Antony.

CLEOPATRA, Queen of Egypt.

OCTAVIA, Antony 's Wife.

CHARMION, Cleopatra's Maid.

IRAS, Cleopatra's Maid.

Antony 's two little Daughters.

SCENE.- Alexandria.

Act I

Scene I. -The Temple of Isis

Enter SERAPION, MYRIS, Priests of Isis

SERAPION. Portents and prodigies have grown so frequent,

That they have lost their name. Our fruitful Nile

Flowed ere the wonted season, with a torrent

So unexpected, and so wondrous fierce,

That the wild deluge overtook the haste

Even of the hinds that watched it: Men and beasts

Were borne above the tops of trees, that grew

On the utmost margin of the water-mark.

Then, with so swift an ebb the flood drove backward,

It slipt from underneath the scaly herd:

Here monstrous phocae panted on the shore;

Forsaken dolphins there with their broad tails,

Lay lashing the departing waves: hard by them,

Sea horses floundering in the slimy mud,

Tossed up their heads, and dashed the ooze about them.

Enter ALEXAS behind them

MYRIS. Avert these omens, Heaven!

SERAPION. Last night, between the hours of twelve and one,

In a lone aisle of the temple while I walked,

A whirlwind rose, that, with a violent blast,

Shook all the dome: the doors around me clapt;

The iron wicket, that defends the vault,

Where the long race of Ptolemies is laid,

Burst open, and disclosed the mighty dead.

›From out each monument, in order placed,

An armed ghost starts up: the boy-king last

Reared his inglorious head. A peal of groans

Then followed, and a lamentable voice

Cried, Egypt is no more! My blood ran back,

My shaking knees against each other knocked;

On the cold pavement down I fell entranced,

And so unfinished left the horrid scene.

ALEXAS. And dreamed you this— or did invent the story,

[Showing himself.]

To frighten our Egyptian boys withal,

And train them up, betimes, in fear of priesthood—

SERAPION. My lord, I saw you not,

Nor meant my words should reach you ears; but what

I uttered was most true.

ALEXAS. A foolish dream,

Bred from the fumes of indigested feasts,

And holy luxury.

SERAPION. I know my duty:

This goes no further.

ALEXAS. 'Tis not fit it should;

Nor would the times now bear it, were it true.

All southern, from yon hills, the Roman camp

Hangs o'er us black and threatening like a storm

Just breaking on our heads.

SERAPION. Our faint Egyptians pray for Antony;

But in their servile hearts they own Octavius.

MYRIS. Why then does Antony dream out his hours,

And tempts not fortune for a noble day,

Which might redeem what Actium lost—

ALEXAS. He thinks 'tis past recovery.

SERAPION. Yet the foe

Seems not to press the siege.

ALEXAS. Oh, there's the wonder.

Maecenas and Agrippa, who can most

With Caesar, are his foes. His wife Octavia,

Driven from his house, solicits her revenge;

And Dolabella, who was once his friend,

Upon some private grudge, now seeks his ruin:

Yet still war seems on either side to sleep.

SERAPION. 'Tis strange that Antony, for some days past,

Has not beheld the face of Cleopatra;

But here, in Isis ' temple, lives retired,

And makes his heart a prey to black despair.

ALEXAS. 'Tis true; and we much fear he hopes by absence

To cure his mind of love.

SERAPION. If he be vanquished,

Or make his peace, Egypt is doomed to be

A Roman province; and our plenteous harvests

Must then redeem the scarceness of their soil.

While Antony stood firm, our Alexandria

Rivalled proud Rome (dominion's other seat),

And fortune striding, like a vast Colossus,

Could fix an equal foot of empire here.

ALEXAS. Had I my wish, these tyrants of all nature,

Who lord it o'er mankind, rhould perish,-perish,

Each by the other's sword; But, since our will

Is lamely followed by our power, we must

Depend on one; with him to rise or fall.

SERAPION. How stands the queen affected—

ALEXAS. Oh, she dotes,

She dotes, Serapion, on this vanquished man,

And winds herself about his mighty ruins;

Whom would she yet forsake, yet yield him up,

This hunted prey, to his pursuer's hands,

She might preserve us all: but 'tis in vain-

This changes my designs, this blasts my counsels,

And makes me use all means to keep him here.

Whom I could wish divided from her arms,

Far as the earth's deep centre. Well, you know

The state of things; no more of your ill omens

And black prognostics; labour to confirm

The people's hearts.

Enter VENTIDIUS, talking aside with a Gentleman of ANTONY'S

SERAPION. These Romans will o'erhear us.

But who's that stranger— By his warlike port,

His fierce demeanour, and erected look,

He's of no vulgar note.

ALEXAS. Oh, 'tis Ventidius,

Our emperor's great lieutenant in the East,

Who first showed Rome that Parthia could be conquered.

When Antony returned from Syria last,

He left this man to guard the Roman frontiers.

SERAPION. You seem to know him well.

ALEXAS. Too well. I saw him at Cilicia first,

When Cleopatra there met Antony:

A mortal foe was to us, and Egypt.

But,-let me witness to the worth I hate,-

A braver Roman never drew a sword;

Firm to his prince, but as a friend, not slave,

He ne'er was of his pleasures; but presides

O'er all his cooler hours, and morning counsels:

In short the plainness, fierceness, rugged virtue,

Of an old true-stampt Roman lives in him.

His coming bodes I know not what of ill

To our affairs. Withdraw to mark him better;

And I'll acquaint you why I sought you here,

And what's our present work.

[They withdraw to a corner of the stage; and VENTIDIUS,

with the other, comes forward to the front.]

VENTIDIUS. Not see him; say you—

I say, I must, and will.

GENTLEMAN. He has commanded,

On pain of death, none should approach his presence.

VENTIDIUS. I bring him news will raise his drooping spirits,

Give him new life.

GENTLEMAN. He sees not Cleopatra.

VENTIDIUS. Would he had never seen her!

GENTLEMAN. He eats not, drinks not, sleeps not, has no use

Of anything, but thought; or if he talks,

'Tis to himself, and then 'tis perfect raving:

Then he defies the world, and bids it pass,

Sometimes he gnaws his lips, and curses loud

The boy Octavius; then he draws his mouth

Into a scornful smile, and cries, "Take all,

The world's not worth my care."

VENTIDIUS. Just, just his nature.

Virtue's his path; but sometimes 'tis too narrow

For his vast soul; and then he starts out wide,

And bounds into a vice, that bears him far

›From his first course, and plunges him in ills:

But, when his danger makes him find his faults,

Quick to observe, and full of sharp remorse,

He censures eagerly his own misdeeds,

Judging himself with malice to himself,

And not forgiving what as man he did,

Because his other parts are more than man.-

He must not thus be lost.

[ALEXAS and the Priests come forward.]

ALEXAS. You have your full instructions, now advance,

Proclaim your orders loudly.

SERAPION. Romans, Egyptians, hear the queen's command.

Thus Cleopatra bids: Let labour cease;

To pomp and triumphs give this happy day,

That gave the world a lord: 'tis Antony 's.

Live, Antony; and Cleopatra live!

Be this the general voice sent up to heaven,

And every public place repeat this echo.

VENTIDIUS. Fine pageantry!

[Aside.]

SERAPION. Set out before your doors

The images of all your sleeping fathers,

With laurels crowned; with laurels wreath your posts,

And strew with flowers the pavement; let the priests

Do present sacrifice; pour out the wine,

And call the gods to join with you in gladness.

VENTIDIUS. Curse on the tongue that bids this general joy!

Can they be friends of Antony, who revel

When Antony 's in danger— Hide, for shame,

You Romans, your great grandsires' images,

For fear their souls should animate their marbles,

To blush at their degenerate progeny.

ALEXAS. A love, which knows no bounds, to Antony,

Would mark the day with honours, when all heaven

Laboured for him, when each propitious star

Stood wakeful in his orb, to watch that hour

And shed his better influence. Her own birthday

Our queen neglected like a vulgar fate,

That passed obscurely by.

VENTIDIUS. Would it had slept,

Divided far from his; till some remote

And future age had called it out, to ruin

Some other prince, not him!

ALEXAS. Your emperor,

Though grown unkind, would be more gentle, than

To upbraid my queen for loving him too well.

VENTIDIUS. Does the mute sacrifice upbraid the priest!

He knows him not his executioner.

Oh, she has decked his ruin with her love,

Led him in golden bands to gaudy slaughter,

And made perdition pleasing: She has left him

The blank of what he was.

I tell thee, eunuch, she has quite unmanned him.

Can any Roman see, and know him now,

Thus altered from the lord of half mankind,

Unbent, unsinewed, made a woman's toy,

Shrunk from the vast extent of all his honours,

And crampt within a corner of the world—

O Antony!

Thou bravest soldier, and thou best of friends!

Bounteous as nature; next to nature's God!

Couldst thou but make new worlds, so wouldst thou give them,

As bounty were thy being! rough in battle,

As the first Romans when they went to war;

Yet after victory more pitiful

Than all their praying virgins left at home!

ALEXAS. Would you could add, to those more shining virtues,

His truth to her who loves him.

VENTIDIUS. Would I could not!

But wherefore waste I precious hours with thee!

Thou art her darling mischief, her chief engine,

Antony 's other fate. Go, tell thy queen,

Ventidius is arrived, to end her charms.

Let your Egyptian timbrels play alone,

Nor mix effeminate sounds with Roman trumpets,

You dare not fight for Antony; go pray

And keep your cowards' holiday in temples.

[Exeunt ALEXAS, SERAPION.]

Re-enter the Gentleman of M. ANTONY

2 Gent. The emperor approaches, and commands,

On pain of death, that none presume to stay.

1 Gent. I dare not disobey him.

[Going out with the other.]

VENTIDIUS. Well, I dare.

But I'll observe him first unseen, and find

Which way his humour drives: The rest I'll venture.

[Withdraws.]

Enter ANTONY, walking with a disturbed motion before

he speaks

ANTONY. They tell me, 'tis my birthday, and I'll keep it

With double pomp of sadness.

'Tis what the day deserves, which gave me breath.

Why was I raised the meteor of the world,

Hung in the skies, and blazing as I travelled,

'Till all my fires were spent; and then cast downward,

To be trod out by Caesar—

VENTIDIUS. [aside.] On my soul,

'Tis mournful, wondrous mournful!

ANTONY. Count thy gains.

Now, Antony, wouldst thou be born for this—

Glutton of fortune, thy devouring youth

Has starved thy wanting age.

VENTIDIUS. How sorrow shakes him!

[Aside.]

So, now the tempest tears him up by the roots,

And on the ground extends the noble ruin.

[ANTONY having thrown himself down.]

Lie there, thou shadow of an emperor;

The place thou pressest on thy mother earth

Is all thy empire now: now it contains thee;

Some few days hence, and then 'twill be too large,

When thou'rt contracted in thy narrow urn,

Shrunk to a few ashes; then Octavia

(For Cleopatra will not live to see it),

Octavia then will have thee all her own,

And bear thee in her widowed hand to Caesar;

Caesar will weep, the crocodile will weep,

To see his rival of the universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I'll think no more on't.

ANTONY. Give me some music, look that it be sad.

I'll soothe my melancholy, till I swell,

And burst myself with sighing.-

[Soft music.]

'Tis somewhat to my humour; stay, I fancy

I'm now turned wild, a commoner of nature;

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady forest's sylvan scene,

Stretched at my length beneath some blasted oak,

I lean my head upon the mossy bark,

And look just of a piece as I grew from it;

My uncombed locks, matted like mistletoe,

Hang o'er my hoary face; a murm'ring brook

Runs at my foot.

VENTIDIUS. Methinks I fancy

Myself there too.

ANTONY. The herd come jumping by me,

And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,

And take me for their fellow-citizen.

More of this image, more; it lulls my thoughts.

[Soft music again.]

VENTIDIUS. I must disturb him; I can hold no longer.

[Stands before him.]

ANTONY. [starting up]. Art thou Ventidius—

VENTIDIUS. Are you Antony—

I'm liker what I was, than you to him

I left you last.

ANTONY. I'm angry.

VENTIDIUS. So am I.

ANTONY. I would be private: leave me.

VENTIDIUS. Sir, I love you,

And therefore will not leave you.

ANTONY. Will not leave me!

Where have you learnt that answer— Who am I—

VENTIDIUS. My emperor; the man I love next Heaven:

If I said more, I think 'twere scare a sin:

You're all that's good, and god-like.

ANTONY. All that's wretched.

You will not leave me then—

VENTIDIUS. 'Twas too presuming

To say I would not; but I dare not leave you:

And, 'tis unkind in you to chide me hence

So soon, when I so far have come to see you.

ANTONY. Now thou hast seen me, art thou satisfied—

For, if a friend, thou hast beheld enough;

And, if a foe, too much.

VENTIDIUS. Look, emperor, this is no common dew.

[Weeping.]

I have not wept this forty years; but now

My mother comes afresh into my eyes;

I cannot help her softness.

ANTONY. By heavens, he weeps! poor good old man, he weeps!

The big round drops course one another down

The furrows of his cheeks.-Stop them, Ventidius,

Or I shall blush to death, they set my shame,

That caused them, full before me.

VENTIDIUS. I'll do my best.

ANTONY. Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends:

See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not

For my own griefs, but thine.-Nay, father!

VENTIDIUS. Emperor.

ANTONY. Emperor! Why, that's the style of victory;

The conqu'ring soldier, red with unfelt wounds,

Salutes his general so; but never more

Shall that sound reach my ears.

VENTIDIUS. I warrant you.

ANTONY. Actium, Actium! Oh!-

VENTIDIUS. It sits too near you.

ANTONY. Here, here it lies a lump of lead by day,

And, in my short, distracted, nightly slumbers,

The hag that rides my dreams.-

VENTIDIUS. Out with it; give it vent.

ANTONY. Urge not my shame.

I lost a battle,-

VENTIDIUS. So has Julius done.

ANTONY. Thou favour'st me, and speak'st not half thou think'st;

For Julius fought it out, and lost it fairly.

But Antony-

VENTIDIUS. Nay, stop not.

ANTONY. Antony-

Well, thou wilt have it,-like a coward, fled,

Fled while his soldiers fought; fled first, Ventidius.

Thou long'st to curse me, and I give thee leave.

I know thou cam'st prepared to rail.

VENTIDIUS. I did.

ANTONY. I'll help thee.-I have been a man, Ventidius.

VENTIDIUS. Yes, and a brave one! but-

ANTONY. I know thy meaning.

But I have lost my reason, have disgraced

The name of soldier, with inglorious ease.

In the full vintage of my flowing honours,

Sat still, and saw it prest by other hands.

Fortune came smiling to my youth, and wooed it,

And purple greatness met my ripened years.

When first I came to empire, I was borne

On tides of people, crowding to my triumphs;

The wish of nations, and the willing world

Received me as its pledge of future peace;

I was so great, so happy, so beloved,

Fate could not ruin me; till I took pains,

And worked against my fortune, child her from me,

And returned her loose; yet still she came again.

My careless days, and my luxurious nights,

At length have wearied her, and now she's gone,

Gone, gone, divorced for ever. Help me, soldier,

To curse this madman, this industrious fool,

Who laboured to be wretched: Pr'ythee, curse me.

VENTIDIUS. No.

ANTONY. Why—

VENTIDIUS. You are too sensible already

Of what you've done, too conscious of your failings;

And, like a scorpion, whipt by others first

To fury, sting yourself in mad revenge.

I would bring balm, and pour it in your wounds,

Cure your distempered mind, and heal your fortunes.

ANTONY. I know thou would'st.

VENTIDIUS. I will.

ANTONY. Ha, ha, ha, ha!

VENTIDIUS. You laugh.

ANTONY. I do, to see officious love.

Give cordials to the dead.

VENTIDIUS. You would be lost, then—

ANTONY. I am.

VENTIDIUS. I say you are not. Try your fortune.

ANTONY. I have, to the utmost. Dost thou think me desperate,

Without just cause— No, when I found all lost

Beyond repair, I hid me from the world,

And learnt to scorn it here; which now I do

So heartily, I think it is not worth

The cost of keeping.

VENTIDIUS. Caesar thinks not so;

He'll thank you for the gift he could not take.

You would be killed like Tully, would you— do,

Hold out your throat to Caesar, and die tamely.

ANTONY. No, I can kill myself; and so resolve.

VENTIDIUS. I can die with you too, when time shall serve;

But fortune calls upon us now to live,

To fight, to conquer.

ANTONY. Sure thou dream'st, Ventidius.

VENTIDIUS. No; 'tis you dream; you sleep away your hours

In desperate sloth, miscalled philosophy.

Up, up, for honour's sake; twelve legions wait you,

And long to call you chief: By painful journeys

I led them, patient both of heat and hunger,

Down form the Parthian marches to the Nile.

'Twill do you good to see their sunburnt faces,

Their scarred cheeks, and chopt hands: there's virtue in them.

They'll sell those mangled limbs at dearer rates

Than yon trim bands can buy.

ANTONY. Where left you them—

VENTIDIUS. I said in Lower Syria.

ANTONY. Bring them hither;

There may be life in these.

VENTIDIUS. They will not come.

ANTONY. Why didst thou mock my hopes with promised aids,

To double my despair— They're mutinous.

VENTIDIUS. Most firm and loyal.

ANTONY. Yet they will not march

To succour me. O trifler!

VENTIDIUS. They petition

You would make haste to head them.

ANTONY. I'm besieged.

VENTIDIUS. There's but one way shut up: How came I hither—

ANTONY. I will not stir.

VENTIDIUS. They would perhaps desire

A better reason.

ANTONY. I have never used

My soldiers to demand a reason of

My actions. Why did they refuse to march—

VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

ANTONY. What was't they said—

VENTIDIUS. They said they would not fight for Cleopatra.

Why should they fight indeed, to make her conquer,

And make you more a slave— to gain you kingdoms,

Which, for a kiss, at your next midnight feast,

You'll sell to her— Then she new-names her jewels,

And calls this diamond such or such a tax;

Each pendant in her ear shall be a province.

ANTONY. Ventidius, I allow your tongue free licence

On all my other faults; but, on your life,

No word of Cleopatra: she deserves

More worlds than I can lose.

VENTIDIUS. Behold, you Powers,

To whom you have intrusted humankind!

See Europe, Afric, Asia, put in balance,

And all weighed down by one light, worthless woman!

I think the gods are Antonies, and give,

Like prodigals, this nether world away

To none but wasteful hands.

ANTONY. You grow presumptuous.

VENTIDIUS. I take the privilege of plain love to speak.

ANTONY. Plain love! plain arrogance, plain insolence!

Thy men are cowards; thou, an envious traitor;

Who, under seeming honesty, hast vented

The burden of thy rank, o'erflowing gall.

O that thou wert my equal; great in arms

As the first Caesar was, that I might kill thee

Without a stain to honour!

VENTIDIUS. You may kill me;

You have done more already,-called me traitor.

ANTONY. Art thou not one—

VENTIDIUS. For showing you yourself,

Which none else durst have done— but had I been

That name, which I disdain to speak again,

I needed not have sought your abject fortunes,

Come to partake your fate, to die with you.

What hindered me to have led my conquering eagles

To fill Octavius' bands— I could have been

A traitor then, a glorious, happy traitor,

And not have been so called.

ANTONY. Forgive me, soldier;

I've been too passionate.

VENTIDIUS. You thought me false;

Thought my old age betrayed you: Kill me, sir,

Pray, kill me; yet you need not, your unkindness

Has left your sword no work.

ANTONY. I did not think so;

I said it in my rage: Pr'ythee, forgive me.

Why didst thou tempt my anger, by discovery

Of what I would not hear—

VENTIDIUS. No prince but you

Could merit that sincerity I used,

Nor durst another man have ventured it;

But you, ere love misled your wandering eyes,

Were sure the chief and best of human race,

Framed in the very pride and boast of nature;

So perfect, that the gods, who formed you, wondered

At their own skill, and cried-A lucky hit

Has mended our design. Their envy hindered,

Else you had been immortal, and a pattern,

When Heaven would work for ostentation's sake

To copy out again.

ANTONY. But Cleopatra-

Go on; for I can bear it now.

VENTIDIUS. No more.

ANTONY. Thou dar'st not trust my passion, but thou may'st;

Thou only lov'st, the rest have flattered me.

VENTIDIUS. Heaven's blessing on your heart for that kind word!

May I believe you love me— Speak again.

ANTONY. Indeed I do. Speak this, and this, and this.

[Hugging him.]

Thy praises were unjust; but, I'll deserve them,

And yet mend all. Do with me what thou wilt;

Lead me to victory! thou know'st the way.

VENTIDIUS. And, will you leave this-

ANTONY. Pr'ythee, do not curse her,

And I will leave her; though, Heaven knows, I love

Beyond life, conquest, empire, all, but honour;

But I will leave her.

VENTIDIUS. That's my royal master;

And, shall we fight—

ANTONY. I warrant thee, old soldier.

Thou shalt behold me once again in iron;

And at the head of our old troops, that beat

The Parthians, cry aloud-Come, follow me!

VENTIDIUS. Oh, now I hear my emperor! in that word

Octavius fell. Gods, let me see that day,

And, if I have ten years behind, take all:

I'll thank you for the exchange.

ANTONY. O Cleopatra!

VENTIDIUS. Again—

ANTONY. I've done: In that last sigh she went.

Caesar shall know what 'tis to force a lover

›From all he holds most dear.

VENTIDIUS. Methinks, you breathe

Another soul: Your looks are more divine;

You speak a hero, and you move a god.

ANTONY. Oh, thou hast fired me; my soul's up in arms,

And mans each part about me: Once again,

That noble eagerness of fight has seized me;

That eagerness with which I darted upward

To Cassius' camp: In vain the steepy hill

Opposed my way; in vain a war of spears

Sung round my head, and planted on my shield;

I won the trenches, while my foremost men

Lagged on the plain below.

VENTIDIUS. Ye gods, ye gods,

For such another honour!

ANTONY. Come on, my soldier!

Our hearts and arms are still the same: I long

Once more to meet our foes; that thou and I,

Like Time and Death, marching before our troops,

May taste fate to them; mow them out a passage,

And, entering where the foremost squadrons yield,

Begin the noble harvest of the field.

[Exeunt.]

Act II

Scene I

Enter CLEOPATRA, IRAS, and ALEXAS

CLEOPATRA. What shall I do, or whither shall I turn—

Ventidius has o'ercome, and he will go.

ALEXAS. He goes to fight for you.

CLEOPATRA. Then he would see me, ere he went to fight:

Flatter me not: If once he goes, he's lost,

And all my hopes destroyed.

ALEXAS. Does this weak passion

Become a mighty queen—

CLEOPATRA. I am no queen:

Is this to be a queen, to be besieged

By yon insulting Roman, and to wait

Each hour the victor's chain— These ills are small:

For Antony is lost, and I can mourn

For nothing else but him. Now come, Octavius,

I have no more to lose! prepare thy bands;

I'm fit to be a captive: Antony

Has taught my mind the fortune of a slave.

IRAS. Call reason to assist you.

CLEOPATRA. I have none,

And none would have: My love's a noble madness,

Which shows the cause deserved it. Moderate sorrow

Fits vulgar love, and for a vulgar man:

But I have loved with such transcendent passion,

I soared, at first, quite out of reason's view,

And now am lost above it. No, I'm proud

'Tis thus: Would Antony could see me now

Think you he would not sigh, though he must leave me—

Sure he would sigh; for he is noble-natured,

And bears a tender heart: I know him well.

Ah, no, I know him not; I knew him once,

But now 'tis past.

IRAS. Let it be past with you:

Forget him, madam.

CLEOPATRA. Never, never, Iras.

He once was mine; and once, though now 'tis gone,

Leaves a faint image of possession still.

ALEXAS. Think him inconstant, cruel, and ungrateful.

CLEOPATRA. I cannot: If I could, those thoughts were vain.

Faithless, ungrateful, cruel, though he be,

I still must love him.

Enter CHARMION

Now, what news, my Charmion—

Will he be kind— and will he not forsake me—

Am I to live, or die—-nay, do I live—

Or am I dead— for when he gave his answer,

Fate took the word, and then I lived or died.

CHARMION. I found him, madam-

CLEOPATRA. A long speech preparing—

If thou bring'st comfort, haste, and give it me,

For never was more need.

IRAS. I know he loves you.

CLEOPATRA. Had he been kind, her eyes had told me so,

Before her tongue could speak it: Now she studies,

To soften what he said; but give me death,

Just as he sent it, Charmion, undisguised,

And in the words he spoke.

CHARMION. I found him, then,

Encompassed round, I think, with iron statues;

So mute, so motionless his soldiers stood,

While awfully he cast his eyes about,

And every leader's hopes or fears surveyed:

Methought he looked resolved, and yet not pleased.

When he beheld me struggling in the crowd,

He blushed, and bade make way.

ALEXAS. There's comfort yet.

CHARMION. Ventidius fixed his eyes upon my passage

Severely, as he meant to frown me back,

And sullenly gave place: I told my message,

Just as you gave it, broken and disordered;

I numbered in it all your sighs and tears,

And while I moved your pitiful request,

That you but only begged a last farewell,

He fetched an inward groan; and every time

I named you, sighed, as if his heart were breaking,

But, shunned my eyes, and guiltily looked down:

He seemed not now that awful Antony,

Who shook and armed assembly with his nod;

But, making show as he would rub his eyes,

Disguised and blotted out a falling tear.

CLEOPATRA. Did he then weep— And was I worth a tear—

If what thou hast to say be not as pleasing,

Tell me no more, but let me die contented.

CHARMION. He bid me say,-He knew himself so well,

He could deny you nothing, if he saw you;

And therefore-

CLEOPATRA. Thou wouldst say, he would not see me—

CHARMION. And therefore begged you not to use a power,

Which he could ill resist; yet he should ever

Respect you, as he ought.

CLEOPATRA. Is that a word

For Antony to use to Cleopatra—

O that faint word, RESPECT! how I disdain it!

Disdain myself, for loving after it!

He should have kept that word for cold Octavia.

Respect is for a wife: Am I that thing,

That dull, insipid lump, without desires,

And without power to give them—

ALEXAS. You misjudge;

You see through love, and that deludes your sight;

As, what is straight, seems crooked through the water:

But I, who bear my reason undisturbed,

Can see this Antony, this dreaded man,

A fearful slave, who fain would run away,

And shuns his master's eyes: If you pursue him,

My life on't, he still drags a chain along.

That needs must clog his flight.

CLEOPATRA. Could I believe thee!-

ALEXAS. By every circumstance I know he loves.

True, he's hard prest, by interest and by honour;

Yet he but doubts, and parleys, and casts out

Many a long look for succour.

CLEOPATRA. He sends word,

He fears to see my face.

ALEXAS. And would you more—

He shows his weakness who declines the combat,

And you must urge your fortune. Could he speak

More plainly— To my ears, the message sounds-

Come to my rescue, Cleopatra, come;

Come, free me from Ventidius; from my tyrant:

See me, and give me a pretence to leave him!-

I hear his trumpets. This way he must pass.

Please you, retire a while; I'll work him first,

That he may bend more easy.

CLEOPATRA. You shall rule me;

But all, I fear, in vain.

[Exit with CHARMION and IRAS.]

ALEXAS. I fear so too;

Though I concealed my thoughts, to make her bold;

But 'tis our utmost means, and fate befriend it!

[Withdraws.]

Enter Lictors with Fasces; one bearing the Eagle; then enter

ANTONY with VENTIDIUS, followed by other Commanders

ANTONY. Octavius is the minion of blind chance,

But holds from virtue nothing.

VENTIDIUS. Has he courage—

ANTONY. But just enough to season him from coward.

Oh, 'tis the coldest youth upon a charge,

The most deliberate fighter! if he ventures

(As in Illyria once, they say, he did,

To storm a town), 'tis when he cannot choose;

When all the world have fixt their eyes upon him;

And then he lives on that for seven years after;

But, at a close revenge he never fails.

VENTIDIUS. I heard you challenged him.

ANTONY. I did, Ventidius.

What think'st thou was his answer— 'Twas so tame!-

He said, he had more ways than one to die;

I had not.

VENTIDIUS. Poor!

ANTONY. He has more ways than one;

But he would choose them all before that one.

VENTIDIUS. He first would choose an ague, or a fever.

ANTONY. No; it must be an ague, not a fever;

He Has not warmth enough to die by that.

VENTIDIUS. Or old age and a bed.

ANTONY. Ay, there's his choice,

He would live, like a lamp, to the last wink,

And crawl the utmost verge of life.

O Hercules! Why should a man like this,

Who dares not trust his fate for one great action,

Be all the care of Heaven— Why should he lord it

O'er fourscore thousand men, of whom each one

Is braver than himself—

VENTIDIUS. You conquered for him:

Philippi knows it; there you shared with him

That empire, which your sword made all your own.

ANTONY. Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings

I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring,

And now he mounts above me.

Good heavens, is this,-is this the man who braves me—

Who bids my age make way— Drives me before him,

To the world's ridge, and sweeps me off like rubbish—

VENTIDIUS. Sir, we lose time; the troops are mounted all.

ANTONY. Then give the word to march:

I long to leave this prison of a town,

To join thy legions; and, in open field,

Once more to show my face. Lead, my deliverer.

Enter ALEXAS

ALEXAS. Great emperor,

In mighty arms renowned above mankind,

But, in soft pity to the opprest, a god;

This message sends the mournful Cleopatra

To her departing lord.

VENTIDIUS. Smooth sycophant!

ALEXAS. A thousand wishes, and ten thousand prayers,

Millions of blessings wait you to the wars;

Millions of sighs and tears she sends you too,

And would have sent

As many dear embraces to your arms,

As many parting kisses to your lips;

But those, she fears, have wearied you already.

VENTIDIUS. [aside.] False crocodile!

ALEXAS. And yet she begs not now, you would not leave her;

That were a wish too mighty for her hopes,

Too presuming

For her low fortune, and your ebbing love;

That were a wish for her more prosperous days,

Her blooming beauty, and your growing kindness.

ANTONY. [aside.] Well, I must man it out:-What would the queen—

ALEXAS. First, to these noble warriors, who attend

Your daring courage in the chase of fame,-

Too daring, and too dangerous for her quiet,-

She humbly recommends all she holds dear,

All her own cares and fears,-the care of you.

VENTIDIUS. Yes, witness Actium.

ANTONY. Let him speak, Ventidius.

ALEXAS. You, when his matchless valour bears him forward,

With ardour too heroic, on his foes,

Fall down, as she would do, before his feet;

Lie in his way, and stop the paths of death:

Tell him, this god is not invulnerable;

That absent Cleopatra bleeds in him;

And, that you may remember her petition,

She begs you wear these trifles, as a pawn,

Which, at your wished return, she will redeem

[Gives jewels to the Commanders.]

With all the wealth of Egypt:

This to the great Ventidius she presents,

Whom she can never count her enemy,

Because he loves her lord.

VENTIDIUS. Tell her, I'll none on't;

I'm not ashamed of honest poverty;

Not all the diamonds of the east can bribe

Ventidius from his faith. I hope to see

These and the rest of all her sparkling store,

Where they shall more deservingly be placed.

ANTONY. And who must wear them then—

VENTIDIUS. The wronged Octavia.

ANTONY. You might have spared that word.

VENTIDIUS. And he that bribe.

ANTONY. But have I no remembrance—

ALEXAS. Yes, a dear one;

Your slave the queen-

ANTONY. My mistress.

ALEXAS. Then your mistress;

Your mistress would, she says, have sent her soul,

But that you had long since; she humbly begs

This ruby bracelet, set with bleeding hearts,

The emblems of her own, may bind your arm.

[Presenting a bracelet.]

VENTIDIUS. Now, my best lord,-in honour's name, I ask you,

For manhood's sake, and for your own dear safety,-

Touch not these poisoned gifts,

Infected by the sender; touch them not;

Myriads of bluest plagues lie underneath them,

And more than aconite has dipt the silk.

ANTONY. Nay, now you grow too cynical, Ventidius:

A lady's favours may be worn with honour.

What, to refuse her bracelet! On my soul,

When I lie pensive in my tent alone,

'Twill pass the wakeful hours of winter nights,

To tell these pretty beads upon my arm,

To count for every one a soft embrace,

A melting kiss at such and such a time:

And now and then the fury of her love,

When--And what harm's in this—

ALEXAS. None, none, my lord,

But what's to her, that now 'tis past for ever.

ANTONY. [going to tie it.]

We soldiers are so awkward-help me tie it.

ALEXAS. In faith, my lord, we courtiers too are awkward

In these affairs: so are all men indeed:

Even I, who am not one. But shall I speak—

ANTONY. Yes, freely.

ALEXAS. Then, my lord, fair hands alone

Are fit to tie it; she, who sent it can.

VENTIDIUS. Hell, death! this eunuch pander ruins you.

You will not see her—

[ALEXAS whispers an ATTENDANT, who goes out.]

ANTONY. But to take my leave.

VENTIDIUS. Then I have washed an Aethiop. You're undone;

Y' are in the toils; y' are taken; y' are destroyed:

Her eyes do Caesar's work.

ANTONY. You fear too soon.

I'm constant to myself: I know my strength;

And yet she shall not think me barbarous neither,

Born in the depths of Afric: I am a Roman,

Bred in the rules of soft humanity.

A guest, and kindly used, should bid farewell.

VENTIDIUS. You do not know

How weak you are to her, how much an infant:

You are not proof against a smile, or glance:

A sigh will quite disarm you.

ANTONY. See, she comes!

Now you shall find your error.-Gods, I thank you:

I formed the danger greater than it was,

And now 'tis near, 'tis lessened.

VENTIDIUS. Mark the end yet.

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

ANTONY. Well, madam, we are met.

CLEOPATRA. Is this a meeting—

Then, we must part—

ANTONY. We must.

CLEOPATRA. Who says we must—

ANTONY. Our own hard fates.

CLEOPATRA. We make those fates ourselves.

ANTONY. Yes, we have made them; we have loved each other,

Into our mutual ruin.

CLEOPATRA. The gods have seen my joys with envious eyes;

I have no friends in heaven; and all the world,

As 'twere the business of mankind to part us,

Is armed against my love: even you yourself

Join with the rest; you, you are armed against me.

ANTONY. I will be justified in all I do

To late posterity, and therefore hear me.

If I mix a lie

With any truth, reproach me freely with it;

Else, favour me with silence.

CLEOPATRA. You command me,

And I am dumb.

VENTIDIUS. I like this well; he shows authority.

ANTONY. That I derive my ruin

›From you alone--

CLEOPATRA. O heavens! I ruin you!

ANTONY. You promised me your silence, and you break it

Ere I have scarce begun.

CLEOPATRA. Well, I obey you.

ANTONY. When I beheld you first, it was in Egypt.

Ere Caesar saw your eyes, you gave me love,

And were too young to know it; that I settled

Your father in his throne, was for your sake;

I left the acknowledgment for time to ripen.

Caesar stept in, and, with a greedy hand,

Plucked the green fruit, ere the first blush of red,

Yet cleaving to the bough. He was my lord,

And was, beside, too great for me to rival;

But, I deserved you first, though he enjoyed you.

When, after, I beheld you in Cilicia,

An enemy to Rome, I pardoned you.

CLEOPATRA. I cleared myself--

ANTONY. Again you break your promise.

I loved you still, and took your weak excuses,

Took you into my bosom, stained by Caesar,

And not half mine: I went to Egypt with you,

And hid me from the business of the world,

Shut out inquiring nations from my sight,

To give whole years to you.

VENTIDIUS. Yes, to your shame be't spoken.

[Aside.]

ANTONY. How I loved.

Witness, ye days and nights, and all ye hours,

That danced away with down upon your feet,

As all your business were to count my passion!

One day passed by, and nothing saw but love;

Another came, and still 'twas only love:

The suns were wearied out with looking on,

And I untired with loving.

I saw you every day, and all the day;

And every day was still but as the first,

So eager was I still to see you more.

VENTIDIUS. 'Tis all too true.

ANTONY. Fulvia, my wife, grew jealous,

(As she indeed had reason) raised a war

In Italy, to call me back.

VENTIDIUS. But yet

You went not.

ANTONY. While within your arms I lay,

The world fell mouldering from my hands each hour,

And left me scarce a grasp-I thank your love for't.

VENTIDIUS. Well pushed: that last was home.

CLEOPATRA. Yet may I speak—

ANTONY. If I have urged a falsehood, yes; else, not.

Your silence says, I have not. Fulvia died,

(Pardon, you gods, with my unkindness died);

To set the world at peace, I took Octavia,

This Caesar's sister; in her pride of youth,

And flower of beauty, did I wed that lady,

Whom blushing I must praise, because I left her.

You called; my love obeyed the fatal summons:

This raised the Roman arms; the cause was yours.

I would have fought by land, where I was stronger;

You hindered it: yet, when I fought at sea,

Forsook me fighting; and (O stain to honour!

O lasting shame!) I knew not that I fled;

But fled to follow you.

VENTIDIUS. What haste she made to hoist her purple sails!

And, to appear magnificent in flight,

Drew half our strength away.

ANTONY. All this you caused.

And, would you multiply more ruins on me—

This honest man, my best, my only friend,

Has gathered up the shipwreck of my fortunes;

Twelve legions I have left, my last recruits.

And you have watched the news, and bring your eyes

To seize them too. If you have aught to answer,

Now speak, you have free leave.

ALEXAS. [aside.] She stands confounded:

Despair is in her eyes.

VENTIDIUS. Now lay a sigh in the way to stop his passage:

Prepare a tear, and bid it for his legions;

'Tis like they shall be sold.

CLEOPATRA. How shall I plead my cause, when you, my judge,

Already have condemned me— Shall I bring

The love you bore me for my advocate—

That now is turned against me, that destroys me;

For love, once past, is, at the best, forgotten;

But oftener sours to hate: 'twill please my lord

To ruin me, and therefore I'll be guilty.

But, could I once have thought it would have pleased you,

That you would pry, with narrow searching eyes,

Into my faults, severe to my destruction,

And watching all advantages with care,

That serve to make me wretched— Speak, my lord,

For I end here. Though I deserved this usage,

Was it like you to give it—

ANTONY. Oh, you wrong me,

To think I sought this parting, or desired

To accuse you more than what will clear myself,

And justify this breach.

CLEOPATRA. Thus low I thank you;

And, since my innocence will not offend,

I shall not blush to own it.

VENTIDIUS. After this,

I think she'll blush at nothing.

CLEOPATRA. You seem grieved

(And therein you are kind) that Caesar first

Enjoyed my love, though you deserved it better:

I grieve for that, my lord, much more than you;

For, had I first been yours, it would have saved

My second choice: I never had been his,

And ne'er had been but yours. But Caesar first,

You say, possessed my love. Not so, my lord:

He first possessed my person; you, my love:

Caesar loved me; but I loved Antony.

If I endured him after, 'twas because

I judged it due to the first name of men;

And, half constrained, I gave, as to a tyrant,

What he would take by force.

VENTIDIUS. O Syren! Syren!

Yet grant that all the love she boasts were true,

Has she not ruined you— I still urge that,

The fatal consequence.

CLEOPATRA. The consequence indeed-

For I dare challenge him, my greatest foe,

To say it was designed: 'tis true, I loved you,

And kept you far from an uneasy wife,-

Such Fulvia was.

Yes, but he'll say, you left Octavia for me;-

And, can you blame me to receive that love,

Which quitted such desert, for worthless me—

How often have I wished some other Caesar,

Great as the first, and as the second young,

Would court my love, to be refused for you!

VENTIDIUS. Words, words; but Actium, sir; remember Actium.

CLEOPATRA. Even there, I dare his malice. True, I counselled

To fight at sea; but I betrayed you not.

I fled, but not to the enemy. 'Twas fear;

Would I had been a man, not to have feared!

For none would then have envied me your friendship,

Who envy me your love.

ANTONY. We are both unhappy:

If nothing else, yet our ill fortune parts us.

Speak; would you have me perish by my stay—

CLEOPATRA. If, as a friend, you ask my judgment, go;

If, as a lover, stay. If you must perish-

'Tis a hard word-but stay.

VENTIDIUS. See now the effects of her so boasted love!

She strives to drag you down to ruin with her;

But, could she 'scape without you, oh, how soon

Would she let go her hold, and haste to shore,

And never look behind!

CLEOPATRA. Then judge my love by this.

[Giving ANTONY a writing.]

Could I have borne

A life or death, a happiness or woe,

›From yours divided, this had given me means.

ANTONY. By Hercules, the writing of Octavius!

I know it well: 'tis that proscribing hand,

Young as it was, that led the way to mine,

And left me but the second place in murder.-

See, see, Ventidius! here he offers Egypt,

And joins all Syria to it, as a present;

So, in requital, she forsake my fortunes,

And join her arms with his.

CLEOPATRA. And yet you leave me!

You leave me, Antony; and yet I love you,

Indeed I do: I have refused a kingdom;

That is a trifle;

For I could part with life, with anything,

But only you. Oh, let me die but with you!

Is that a hard request—

ANTONY. Next living with you,

'Tis all that Heaven can give.

ALEXAS. He melts; we conquer.

[Aside.]

CLEOPATRA. No; you shall go: your interest calls you hence;

Yes; your dear interest pulls too strong, for these

Weak arms to hold you here.

[Takes his hand.]

Go; leave me, soldier

(For you're no more a lover): leave me dying:

Push me, all pale and panting, from your bosom,

And, when your march begins, let one run after,

Breathless almost for joy, and cry-She's dead.

The soldiers shout; you then, perhaps, may sigh,

And muster all your Roman gravity:

Ventidius chides; and straight your brow clears up,

As I had never been.

ANTONY. Gods, 'tis too much; too much for man to bear.

CLEOPATRA. What is't for me then,

A weak, forsaken woman, and a lover—-

Here let me breathe my last: envy me not

This minute in your arms: I'll die apace,

As fast as e'er I can, and end your trouble.

ANTONY. Die! rather let me perish; loosened nature

Leap from its hinges, sink the props of heaven,

And fall the skies, to crush the nether world!

My eyes, my soul, my all!

[Embraces her.]

VENTIDIUS. And what's this toy,

In balance with your fortune, honour, fame—

ANTONY. What is't, Ventidius—-it outweighs them all;

Why, we have more than conquered Caesar now:

My queen's not only innocent, but loves me.

This, this is she, who drags me down to ruin!

"But, could she 'scape without me, with what haste

Would she let slip her hold, and make to shore,

And never look behind!"

Down on thy knees, blasphemer as thou art,

And ask forgiveness of wronged innocence.

VENTIDIUS. I'll rather die, than take it. Will you go—

ANTONY. Go! whither— Go from all that's excellent—

Faith, honour, virtue, all good things forbid,

That I should go from her, who sets my love

Above the price of kingdoms! Give, you gods,

Give to your boy, your Caesar,

This rattle of a globe to play withal,

This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off:

I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

CLEOPATRA. She's wholly yours. My heart's so full of joy,

That I shall do some wild extravagance

Of love, in public; and the foolish world,

Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.

VENTIDIUS. O women! women! women! all the gods

Have not such power of doing good to man,

As you of doing harm.

[Exit.]

ANTONY. Our men are armed:-

Unbar the gate that looks to Caesar's camp:

I would revenge the treachery he meant me;

And long security makes conquest easy.

I'm eager to return before I go;

For, all the pleasures I have known beat thick

On my remembrance.-How I long for night!

That both the sweets of mutual love may try,

And triumph once o'er Caesar ere we die.

[Exeunt.]

Act III

Scene I

At one door enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and ALEXAS,

a Train of EGYPTIANS: at the other ANTONY and ROMANS.

The entrance on both sides is prepared by music; the

trumpets first sounding on Antony 's part: then answered

by timbrels, etc., on CLEOPATRA'S. CHARMION and IRAS

hold a laurel wreath betwixt them. A Dance of EGYPTIANS.

After the ceremony, CLEOPATRA crowns ANTONY.

ANTONY. I thought how those white arms would fold me in,

And strain me close, and melt me into love;

So pleased with that sweet image, I sprung forwards,

And added all my strength to every blow.

CLEOPATRA. Come to me, come, my soldier, to my arms!

You've been too long away from my embraces;

But, when I have you fast, and all my own,

With broken murmurs, and with amorous sighs,

I'll say, you were unkind, and punish you,

And mark you red with many an eager kiss.

ANTONY. My brighter Venus!

CLEOPATRA. O my greater Mars!

ANTONY. Thou join'st us well, my love!

Suppose me come from the Phlegraean plains,

Where gasping giants lay, cleft by my sword,

And mountain-tops paired off each other blow,

To bury those I slew. Receive me, goddess!

Let Caesar spread his subtle nets; like Vulcan,

In thy embraces I would be beheld

By heaven and earth at once;

And make their envy what they meant their sport

Let those, who took us, blush; I would love on,

With awful state, regardless of their frowns,

As their superior gods.

There's no satiety of love in thee:

Enjoyed, thou still art new; perpetual spring

Is in thy arms; the ripened fruit but falls,

And blossoms rise to fill its empty place;

And I grow rich by giving.

Enter VENTIDIUS, and stands apart

ALEXAS. Oh, now the danger's past, your general comes!

He joins not in your joys, nor minds your triumphs;

But, with contracted brows, looks frowning on,

As envying your success.

ANTONY. Now, on my soul, he loves me; truly loves me:

He never flattered me in any vice,

But awes me with his virtue: even this minute,

Methinks, he has a right of chiding me.

Lead to the temple: I'll avoid his presence;

It checks too strong upon me.

[Exeunt the rest.]

[As ANTONY is going, VENTIDIUS pulls him by the robe.]

VENTIDIUS. Emperor!

ANTONY. 'Tis the old argument; I pr'ythee, spare me.

[Looking back.]

VENTIDIUS. But this one hearing, emperor.

ANTONY. Let go

My robe; or, by my father Hercules-

VENTIDIUS. By Hercules' father, that's yet greater,

I bring you somewhat you would wish to know.

ANTONY. Thou see'st we are observed; attend me here,

And I'll return.

[Exit.]

VENTIDIUS. I am waning in his favour, yet I love him;

I love this man, who runs to meet his ruin;

And sure the gods, like me, are fond of him:

His virtues lie so mingled with his crimes,

As would confound their choice to punish one,

And not reward the other.

Enter ANTONY

ANTONY. We can conquer,

You see, without your aid.

We have dislodged their troops;

They look on us at distance, and, like curs

Scaped from the lion's paws, they bay far off,

And lick their wounds, and faintly threaten war.

Five thousand Romans, with their faces upward,

Lie breathless on the plain.

VENTIDIUS. 'Tis well; and he,

Who lost them, could have spared ten thousand more.

Yet if, by this advantage, you could gain

An easier peace, while Caesar doubts the chance

Of arms-

ANTONY. Oh, think not on't, Ventidius!

The boy pursues my ruin, he'll no peace;

His malice is considerable in advantage.

Oh, he's the coolest murderer! so staunch,

He kills, and keeps his temper.

VENTIDIUS. Have you no friend

In all his army, who has power to move him—

Maecenas, or Agrippa, might do much.

ANTONY. They're both too deep in Caesar's interests.

We'll work it out by dint of sword, or perish.

VENTIDIUS. Fain I would find some other.

ANTONY. Thank thy love.

Some four or five such victories as this

Will save thy further pains.

VENTIDIUS. Expect no more; Caesar is on his guard:

I know, sir, you have conquered against odds;

But still you draw supplies from one poor town,

And of Egyptians: he has all the world,

And, at his beck, nations come pouring in,

To fill the gaps you make. Pray, think again.

ANTONY. Why dost thou drive me from myself, to search

For foreign aids—-to hunt my memory,

And range all o'er a waste and barren place,

To find a friend— The wretched have no friends.

Yet I had one, the bravest youth of Rome,

Whom Caesar loves beyond the love of women:

He could resolve his mind, as fire does wax,

›From that hard rugged image melt him down,

And mould him in what softer form he pleased.

VENTIDIUS. Him would I see; that man, of all the world;

Just such a one we want.

ANTONY. He loved me too;

I was his soul; he lived not but in me:

We were so closed within each other's breasts,

The rivets were not found, that joined us first.

That does not reach us yet: we were so mixt,

As meeting streams, both to ourselves were lost;

We were one mass; we could not give or take,

But from the same; for he was I, I he.

VENTIDIUS. He moves as I would wish him.

[Aside.]

ANTONY. After this,

I need not tell his name;-'twas Dolabella.

VENTIDIUS. He's now in Caesar's camp.

ANTONY. No matter where,

Since he's no longer mine. He took unkindly,

That I forbade him Cleopatra's sight,

Because I feared he loved her: he confessed,

He had a warmth, which, for my sake, he stifled;

For 'twere impossible that two, so one,

Should not have loved the same. When he departed,

He took no leave; and that confirmed my thoughts.

VENTIDIUS. It argues, that he loved you more than her,

Else he had stayed; but he perceived you jealous,

And would not grieve his friend: I know he loves you.

ANTONY. I should have seen him, then, ere now.

VENTIDIUS. Perhaps

He has thus long been labouring for your peace.

ANTONY. Would he were here!

VENTIDIUS. Would you believe he loved you—

I read your answer in your eyes, you would.

Not to conceal it longer, he has sent

A messenger from Caesar's camp, with letters.

ANTONY. Let him appear.

VENTIDIUS. I'll bring him instantly.

[Exit VENTIDIUS, and re-enters immediately with DOLABELLA.]

ANTONY. 'Tis he himself! himself, by holy friendship!

[Runs to embrace him.]

Art thou returned at last, my better half—

Come, give me all myself!

Let me not live,

If the young bridegroom, longing for his night,

Was ever half so fond.

DOLABELLA. I must be silent, for my soul is busy

About a nobler work; she's new come home,

Like a long-absent man, and wanders o'er

Each room, a stranger to her own, to look

If all be safe.

ANTONY. Thou hast what's left of me;

For I am now so sunk from what I was,

Thou find'st me at my lowest water-mark.

The rivers that ran in, and raised my fortunes,

Are all dried up, or take another course:

What I have left is from my native spring;

I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate,

And lifts me to my banks.

DOLABELLA. Still you are lord of all the world to me.

ANTONY. Why, then I yet am so; for thou art all.

If I had any joy when thou wert absent,

I grudged it to myself; methought I robbed

Thee of thy part. But, O my Dolabella!

Thou has beheld me other than I am.

Hast thou not seen my morning chambers filled

With sceptred slaves, who waited to salute me—

With eastern monarchs, who forgot the sun,

To worship my uprising—-menial kings

Ran coursing up and down my palace-yard,

Stood silent in my presence, watched my eyes,

And, at my least command, all started out,

Like racers to the goal.

DOLABELLA. Slaves to your fortune.

ANTONY. Fortune is Caesar's now; and what am I—

VENTIDIUS. What you have made yourself; I will not flatter.

ANTONY. Is this friendly done—

DOLABELLA. Yes; when his end is so, I must join with him;

Indeed I must, and yet you must not chide;

Why am I else your friend—

ANTONY. Take heed, young man,

How thou upbraid'st my love: The queen has eyes,

And thou too hast a soul. Canst thou remember,

When, swelled with hatred, thou beheld'st her first,

As accessary to thy brother's death—

DOLABELLA. Spare my remembrance; 'twas a guilty day,

And still the blush hangs here.

ANTONY. To clear herself,

For sending him no aid, she came from Egypt.

Her galley down the silver Cydnus rowed,

The tackling silk, the streamers waved with gold;

The gentle winds were lodged in purple sails:

Her nymphs, like Nereids, round her couch were placed;

Where she, another sea-born Venus, lay.

DOLABELLA. No more; I would not hear it.

ANTONY. Oh, you must!

She lay, and leant her cheek upon her hand,

And cast a look so languishingly sweet,

As if, secure of all beholders' hearts,

Neglecting, she could take them: boys, like Cupids,

Stood fanning, with their painted wings, the winds.

That played about her face. But if she smiled

A darting glory seemed to blaze abroad,

That men's desiring eyes were never wearied,

But hung upon the object: To soft flutes

The silver oars kept time; and while they played,

The hearing gave new pleasure to the sight;

And both to thought. 'Twas heaven, or somewhat more;

For she so charmed all hearts, that gazing crowds

Stood panting on the shore, and wanted breath

To give their welcome voice.

Then, Dolabella, where was then thy soul—

Was not thy fury quite disarmed with wonder—

Didst thou not shrink behind me from those eyes

And whisper in my ear-Oh, tell her not

That I accused her with my brother's death—

DOLABELLA. And should my weakness be a plea for yours—

Mine was an age when love might be excused,

When kindly warmth, and when my springing youth

Made it a debt to nature. Yours-

VENTIDIUS. Speak boldly.

Yours, he would say, in your declining age,

When no more heat was left but what you forced,

When all the sap was needful for the trunk,

When it went down, then you constrained the course,

And robbed from nature, to supply desire;

In you (I would not use so harsh a word)

'Tis but plain dotage.

ANTONY. Ha!

DOLABELLA. 'Twas urged too home.-

But yet the loss was private, that I made;

'Twas but myself I lost: I lost no legions;

I had no world to lose, no people's love.

ANTONY. This from a friend—

DOLABELLA. Yes, Antony, a true one;

A friend so tender, that each word I speak

Stabs my own heart, before it reach your ear.

Oh, judge me not less kind, because I chide!

To Caesar I excuse you.

ANTONY. O ye gods!

Have I then lived to be excused to Caesar—

DOLABELLA. As to your equal.

ANTONY. Well, he's but my equal:

While I wear this he never shall be more.

DOLABELLA. I bring conditions from him.

ANTONY. Are they noble—

Methinks thou shouldst not bring them else; yet he

Is full of deep dissembling; knows no honour

Divided from his interest. Fate mistook him;

For nature meant him for an usurer:

He's fit indeed to buy, not conquer kingdoms.

VENTIDIUS. Then, granting this,

What power was theirs, who wrought so hard a temper

To honourable terms—

ANTONY. I was my Dolabella, or some god.

DOLABELLA. Nor I, nor yet Maecenas, nor Agrippa:

They were your enemies; and I, a friend,

Too weak alone; yet 'twas a Roman's deed.

ANTONY. 'Twas like a Roman done: show me that man,

Who has preserved my life, my love, my honour;

Let me but see his face.

VENTIDIUS. That task is mine,

And, Heaven, thou know'st how pleasing.

[Exit VENTIDIUS.]

DOLABELLA. You'll remember

To whom you stand obliged—

ANTONY. When I forget it

Be thou unkind, and that's my greatest curse.

My queen shall thank him too,

DOLABELLA. I fear she will not.

ANTONY. But she shall do it: The queen, my Dolabella!

Hast thou not still some grudgings of thy fever—

DOLABELLA. I would not see her lost.

ANTONY. When I forsake her,

Leave me my better stars! for she has truth

Beyond her beauty. Caesar tempted her,

At no less price than kingdoms, to betray me;

But she resisted all: and yet thou chidest me

For loving her too well. Could I do so—

DOLABELLA. Yes; there's my reason.

Re-enter VENTIDIUS, with OCTAVIA,

leading ANTONY'S two little DAUGHTERS

ANTONY. Where—-Octavia there!

[Starting back.]

VENTIDIUS. What, is she poison to you—-a disease—

Look on her, view her well, and those she brings:

Are they all strangers to your eyes— has nature

No secret call, no whisper they are yours—

DOLABELLA. For shame, my lord, if not for love, receive them

With kinder eyes. If you confess a man,

Meet them, embrace them, bid them welcome to you.

Your arms should open, even without your knowledge,

To clasp them in; your feet should turn to wings,

To bear you to them; and your eyes dart out

And aim a kiss, ere you could reach the lips.

ANTONY. I stood amazed, to think how they came hither.

VENTIDIUS. I sent for them; I brought them in unknown

To Cleopatra's guards.

DOLABELLA. Yet, are you cold—

OCTAVIA. Thus long I have attended for my welcome;

Which, as a stranger, sure I might expect.

Who am I—

ANTONY. Caesar's sister.

OCTAVIA. That's unkind.

Had I been nothing more than Caesar's sister,

Know, I had still remained in Caesar's camp:

But your Octavia, your much injured wife,

Though banished from your bed, driven from your house,

In spite of Caesar's sister, still is yours.

'Tis true, I have a heart disdains your coldness,

And prompts me not to seek what you should offer;

But a wife's virtue still surmounts that pride.

I come to claim you as my own; to show

My duty first; to ask, nay beg, your kindness:

Your hand, my lord; 'tis mine, and I will have it.

[Taking his hand.]

VENTIDIUS. Do, take it; thou deserv'st it.

DOLABELLA. On my soul,

And so she does: she's neither too submissive,

Nor yet too haughty; but so just a mean

Shows, as it ought, a wife and Roman too.

ANTONY. I fear, Octavia, you have begged my life.

OCTAVIA. Begged it, my lord—

ANTONY. Yes, begged it, my ambassadress;

Poorly and basely begged it of your brother.

OCTAVIA. Poorly and basely I could never beg:

Nor could my brother grant.

ANTONY. Shall I, who, to my kneeling slave, could say,

Rise up, and be a king; shall I fall down

And cry,-Forgive me, Caesar! Shall I set

A man, my equal, in the place of Jove,

As he could give me being— No; that word,

Forgive, would choke me up,

And die upon my tongue.

DOLABELLA. You shall not need it.

ANTONY. I will not need it. Come, you've all betrayed me,-

My friend too!-to receive some vile conditions.

My wife has bought me, with her prayers and tears;

And now I must become her branded slave.

In every peevish mood, she will upbraid

The life she gave: if I but look awry,

She cries-I'll tell my brother.

OCTAVIA. My hard fortune

Subjects me still to your unkind mistakes.

But the conditions I have brought are such,

Your need not blush to take: I love your honour,

Because 'tis mine; it never shall be said,

Octavia's husband was her brother's slave.

Sir, you are free; free, even from her you loathe;

For, though my brother bargains for your love,

Makes me the price and cement of your peace,

I have a soul like yours; I cannot take

Your love as alms, nor beg what I deserve.

I'll tell my brother we are reconciled;

He shall draw back his troops, and you shall march

To rule the East: I may be dropt at Athens;

No matter where. I never will complain,

But only keep the barren name of wife,

And rid you of the trouble.

VENTIDIUS. Was ever such a strife of sullen honour! [Apart]

Both scorn to be obliged.

DOLABELLA. Oh, she has touched him in the tenderest part;[Apart]

See how he reddens with despite and shame,

To be outdone in generosity!

VENTIDIUS. See how he winks! how he dries up a tear, [Apart]

That fain would fall!

ANTONY. Octavia, I have heard you, and must praise

The greatness of your soul;

But cannot yield to what you have proposed:

For I can ne'er be conquered but by love;

And you do all for duty. You would free me,

And would be dropt at Athens; was't not so—

OCTAVIA. It was, my lord.

ANTONY. Then I must be obliged

To one who loves me not; who, to herself,

May call me thankless and ungrateful man:-

I'll not endure it; no.

VENTIDIUS. I am glad it pinches there.

[Aside.]

OCTAVIA. Would you triumph o'er poor Octavia's virtue—

That pride was all I had to bear me up;

That you might think you owed me for your life,

And owed it to my duty, not my love.

I have been injured, and my haughty soul

Could brook but ill the man who slights my bed.

ANTONY. Therefore you love me not.

OCTAVIA. Therefore, my lord,

I should not love you.

ANTONY. Therefore you would leave me—

OCTAVIA. And therefore I should leave you-if I could.

DOLABELLA. Her soul's too great, after such injuries,

To say she loves; and yet she lets you see it.

Her modesty and silence plead her cause.

ANTONY. O Dolabella, which way shall I turn—

I find a secret yielding in my soul;

But Cleopatra, who would die with me,

Must she be left— Pity pleads for Octavia;

But does it not plead more for Cleopatra—

VENTIDIUS. Justice and pity both plead for Octavia;

For Cleopatra, neither.

One would be ruined with you; but she first

Had ruined you: The other, you have ruined,

And yet she would preserve you.

In everything their merits are unequal.

ANTONY. O my distracted soul!

OCTAVIA. Sweet Heaven compose it!-

Come, come, my lord, if I can pardon you,

Methinks you should accept it. Look on these;

Are they not yours— or stand they thus neglected,

As they are mine— Go to him, children, go;

Kneel to him, take him by the hand, speak to him;

For you may speak, and he may own you too,

Without a blush; and so he cannot all

His children: go, I say, and pull him to me,

And pull him to yourselves, from that bad woman.

You, Agrippina, hang upon his arms;

And you, Antonia, clasp about his waist:

If he will shake you off, if he will dash you

Against the pavement, you must bear it, children;

For you are mine, and I was born to suffer.

[Here the CHILDREN go to him, etc.]

VENTIDIUS. Was ever sight so moving—-Emperor!

DOLABELLA. Friend!

OCTAVIA. Husband!

BOTH CHILDREN. Father!

ANTONY. I am vanquished: take me,

Octavia; take me, children; share me all.

[Embracing them.]

I've been a thriftless debtor to your loves,

And run out much, in riot, from your stock;

But all shall be amended.

OCTAVIA. O blest hour!

DOLABELLA. O happy change!

VENTIDIUS. My joy stops at my tongue;

But it has found two channels here for one,

And bubbles out above.

ANTONY. [to OCTAVIA]

This is thy triumph; lead me where thou wilt;

Even to thy brother's camp.

OCTAVIA. All there are yours.

Enter ALEXAS hastily

ALEXAS. The queen, my mistress, sir, and yours-

ANTONY. 'Tis past.-

Octavia, you shall stay this night: To-morrow,

Caesar and we are one.

[Exit leading OCTAVIA; DOLABELLA and the CHILDREN follow.]

VENTIDIUS. There's news for you; run, my officious eunuch,

Be sure to be the first; haste forward:

Haste, my dear eunuch, haste.

[Exit.]

ALEXAS. This downright fighting fool, this thick-skulled hero,

This blunt, unthinking instrument of death,

With plain dull virtue has outgone my wit.

Pleasure forsook my earliest infancy;

The luxury of others robbed my cradle,

And ravished thence the promise of a man.

Cast out from nature, disinherited

Of what her meanest children claim by kind,

Yet greatness kept me from contempt: that's gone.

Had Cleopatra followed my advice,

Then he had been betrayed who now forsakes.

She dies for love; but she has known its joys:

Gods, is this just, that I, who know no joys,

Must die, because she loves—

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, IRAS, and Train

O madam, I have seen what blasts my eyes!

Octavia's here.

CLEOPATRA. Peace with that raven's note.

I know it too; and now am in

The pangs of death.

ALEXAS. You are no more a queen;

Egypt is lost.

CLEOPATRA. What tell'st thou me of Egypt—

My life, my soul is lost! Octavia has him!-

O fatal name to Cleopatra's love!

My kisses, my embraces now are hers;

While I-But thou hast seen my rival; speak,

Does she deserve this blessing— Is she fair—

Bright as a goddess— and is all perfection

Confined to her— It is. Poor I was made

Of that coarse matter, which, when she was finished,

The gods threw by for rubbish.

ALEXAS. She is indeed a very miracle.

CLEOPATRA. Death to my hopes, a miracle!

ALEXAS. A miracle;

[Bowing.]

I mean of goodness; for in beauty, madam,

You make all wonders cease.

CLEOPATRA. I was too rash:

Take this in part of recompense. But, oh!

[Giving a ring.]

I fear thou flatterest me.

CHARMION. She comes! she's here!

IRAS. Fly, madam, Caesar's sister!

CLEOPATRA. Were she the sister of the thunderer Jove,

And bore her brother's lightning in her eyes,

Thus would I face my rival.

[Meets OCTAVIA with VENTIDIUS. OCTAVIA bears up

to her. Their Trains come up on either side.]

OCTAVIA. I need not ask if you are Cleopatra;

Your haughty carriage-

CLEOPATRA. Shows I am a queen:

Nor need I ask you, who you are.

OCTAVIA. A Roman:

A name, that makes and can unmake a queen.

CLEOPATRA. Your lord, the man who serves me, is a Roman.

OCTAVIA. He was a Roman, till he lost that name,

To be a slave in Egypt; but I come

To free him thence.

CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace, my lover's Juno.

When he grew weary of that household clog,

He chose my easier bonds.

OCTAVIA. I wonder not

Your bonds are easy: you have long been practised

In that lascivious art: He's not the first

For whom you spread your snares: Let Caesar witness.

CLEOPATRA. I loved not Caesar; 'twas but gratitude

I paid his love: The worst your malice can,

Is but to say the greatest of mankind

Has been my slave. The next, but far above him

In my esteem, is he whom law calls yours,

But whom his love made mine.

OCTAVIA. I would view nearer.

[Coming up close to her.]

That face, which has so long usurped my right,

To find the inevitable charms, that catch

Mankind so sure, that ruined my dear lord.

CLEOPATRA. Oh, you do well to search; for had you known

But half these charms, you had not lost his heart.

OCTAVIA. Far be their knowledge from a Roman lady,

Far from a modest wife! Shame of our sex,

Dost thou not blush to own those black endearments,

That make sin pleasing—

CLEOPATRA. You may blush, who want them.

If bounteous nature, if indulgent Heaven

Have given me charms to please the bravest man,

Should I not thank them— Should I be ashamed,

And not be proud— I am, that he has loved me;

And, when I love not him, Heaven change this face

For one like that.

OCTAVIA. Thou lov'st him not so well.

CLEOPATRA. I love him better, and deserve him more.

OCTAVIA. You do not; cannot: You have been his ruin.

Who made him cheap at Rome, but Cleopatra—

Who made him scorned abroad, but Cleopatra—

At Actium, who betrayed him— Cleopatra.

Who made his children orphans, and poor me

A wretched widow— only Cleopatra.

CLEOPATRA. Yet she, who loves him best, is Cleopatra.

If you have suffered, I have suffered more.

You bear the specious title of a wife,

To gild your cause, and draw the pitying world

To favour it: the world condemns poor me.

For I have lost my honour, lost my fame,

And stained the glory of my royal house,

And all to bear the branded name of mistress.

There wants but life, and that too I would lose

For him I love.

OCTAVIA. Be't so, then; take thy wish.

[Exit with her Train.]

CLEOPATRA. And 'tis my wish,

Now he is lost for whom alone I lived.

My sight grows dim, and every object dances,

And swims before me, in the maze of death.

My spirits, while they were opposed, kept up;

They could not sink beneath a rival's scorn!

But now she's gone, they faint.

ALEXAS. Mine have had leisure

To recollect their strength, and furnish counsel,

To ruin her, who else must ruin you.

CLEOPATRA. Vain promiser!

Lead me, my Charmion; nay, your hand too, Iras.

My grief has weight enough to sink you both.

Conduct me to some solitary chamber,

And draw the curtains round;

Then leave me to myself, to take alone

My fill of grief:

There I till death will his unkindness weep;

As harmless infants moan themselves asleep.

[Exeunt.]

Act IV

Scene I

Enter ANTONY and DOLABELLA

DOLABELLA. Why would you shift it from yourself on me—

Can you not tell her, you must part—

ANTONY. I cannot.

I could pull out an eye, and bid it go,

And t'other should not weep. O Dolabella,

How many deaths are in this word, DEPART!

I dare not trust my tongue to tell her so:

One look of hers would thaw me into tears,

And I should melt, till I were lost again.

DOLABELLA. Then let Ventidius;

He's rough by nature.

ANTONY. Oh, he'll speak too harshly;

He'll kill her with the news: Thou, only thou.

DOLABELLA. Nature has cast me in so soft a mould,

That but to hear a story, feigned for pleasure,

Of some sad lover's death, moistens my eyes,

And robs me of my manhood. I should speak

So faintly, with such fear to grieve her heart,

She'd not believe it earnest.

ANTONY. Therefore,-therefore

Thou only, thou art fit: Think thyself me;

And when thou speak'st (but let it first be long),

Take off the edge from every sharper sound,

And let our parting be as gently made,

As other loves begin: Wilt thou do this—

DOLABELLA. What you have said so sinks into my soul,

That, if I must speak, I shall speak just so.

ANTONY. I leave you then to your sad task: Farewell.

I sent her word to meet you.

[Goes to the door, and comes back.]

I forgot;

Let her be told, I'll make her peace with mine,

Her crown and dignity shall be preserved,

If I have power with Caesar.-Oh, be sure

To think on that.

DOLABELLA. Fear not, I will remember.

[ANTONY goes again to the door, and comes back.]

ANTONY. And tell her, too, how much I was constrained;

I did not this, but with extremest force.

Desire her not to hate my memory,

For I still cherish hers:-insist on that.

DOLABELLA. Trust me. I'll not forget it.

ANTONY. Then that's all.

[Goes out, and returns again.]

Wilt thou forgive my fondness this once more—

Tell her, though we shall never meet again,

If I should hear she took another love,

The news would break my heart.-Now I must go;

For every time I have returned, I feel

My soul more tender; and my next command

Would be, to bid her stay, and ruin both.

[Exit.]

DOLABELLA. Men are but children of a larger growth;

Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,

And full as craving too, and full as vain;

And yet the soul, shut up in her dark room,

Viewing so clear abroad, at home sees nothing:

But, like a mole in earth, busy and blind,

Works all her folly up, and casts it outward

To the world's open view: Thus I discovered,

And blamed the love of ruined Antony:

Yet wish that I were he, to be so ruined.

Enter VENTIDIUS above

VENTIDIUS. Alone, and talking to himself— concerned too—

Perhaps my guess is right; he loved her once,

And may pursue it still.

DOLABELLA. O friendship! friendship!

Ill canst thou answer this; and reason, worse:

Unfaithful in the attempt; hopeless to win;

And if I win, undone: mere madness all.

And yet the occasion's fair. What injury

To him, to wear the robe which he throws by!

VENTIDIUS. None, none at all. This happens as I wish,

To ruin her yet more with Antony.

Enter CLEOPATRA talking with ALEXAS;

CHARMION, IRAS on the other side.

DOLABELLA. She comes! What charms have sorrow on that face!

Sorrow seems pleased to dwell with so much sweetness;

Yet, now and then, a melancholy smile

Breaks loose, like lightning in a winter's night,

And shows a moment's day.

VENTIDIUS. If she should love him too! her eunuch there—

That porc'pisce bodes ill weather. Draw, draw nearer,

Sweet devil, that I may hear.

ALEXAS. Believe me; try

[DOLABELLA goes over to CHARMION and IRAS;

seems to talk with them.]

To make him jealous; jealousy is like

A polished glass held to the lips when life's in doubt;

If there be breath, 'twill catch the damp, and show it.

CLEOPATRA. I grant you, jealousy's a proof of love,

But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine;

It puts out the disease, and makes it show,

But has no power to cure.

ALEXAS. 'Tis your last remedy, and strongest too:

And then this Dolabella, who so fit

To practise on— He's handsome, valiant, young,

And looks as he were laid for nature's bait,

To catch weak women's eyes.

He stands already more than half suspected

Of loving you: the least kind word or glance,

You give this youth, will kindle him with love:

Then, like a burning vessel set adrift,

You'll send him down amain before the wind,

To fire the heart of jealous Antony.

CLEOPATRA. Can I do this— Ah, no, my love's so true,

That I can neither hide it where it is,

Nor show it where it is not. Nature meant me

A wife; a silly, harmless, household dove,

Fond without art, and kind without deceit;

But Fortune, that has made a mistress of me,

Has thrust me out to the wide world, unfurnished

Of falsehood to be happy.

ALEXAS. Force yourself.

The event will be, your lover will return,

Doubly desirous to possess the good

Which once he feared to lose.

CLEOPATRA. I must attempt it;

But oh, with what regret!

[Exit ALEXAS. She comes up to DOLABELLA.]

VENTIDIUS. So, now the scene draws near; they're in my reach.

CLEOPATRA. [to DOLABELLA.]

Discoursing with my women! might not I

Share in your entertainment—

CHARMION. You have been

The subject of it, madam.

CLEOPATRA. How! and how!

IRAS. Such praises of your beauty!

CLEOPATRA. Mere poetry.

Your Roman wits, your Gallus and Tibullus,

Have taught you this from Cytheris and Delia.

DOLABELLA. Those Roman wits have never been in Egypt;

Cytheris and Delia else had been unsung:

I, who have seen-had I been born a poet,

Should choose a nobler name.

CLEOPATRA. You flatter me.

But, 'tis your nation's vice: All of your country

Are flatterers, and all false. Your friend's like you.

I'm sure, he sent you not to speak these words.

DOLABELLA. No, madam; yet he sent me-

CLEOPATRA. Well, he sent you-

DOLABELLA. Of a less pleasing errand.

CLEOPATRA. How less pleasing—

Less to yourself, or me—

DOLABELLA. Madam, to both;

For you must mourn, and I must grieve to cause it.

CLEOPATRA. You, Charmion, and your fellow, stand at distance.-

Hold up, my spirits. [Aside.]-Well, now your mournful matter;

For I'm prepared, perhaps can guess it too.

DOLABELLA. I wish you would; for 'tis a thankless office,

To tell ill news: And I, of all your sex,

Most fear displeasing you.

CLEOPATRA. Of all your sex,

I soonest could forgive you, if you should.

VENTIDIUS. Most delicate advances! Women! women!

Dear, damned, inconstant sex!

CLEOPATRA. In the first place,

I am to be forsaken; is't not so—

DOLABELLA. I wish I could not answer to that question.

CLEOPATRA. Then pass it o'er, because it troubles you:

I should have been more grieved another time.

Next I'm to lose my kingdom-Farewell, Egypt!

Yet, is there ary more—

DOLABELLA. Madam, I fear

Your too deep sense of grief has turned your reason.

CLEOPATRA. No, no, I'm not run mad; I can bear fortune:

And love may be expelled by other love,

As poisons are by poisons.

DOLABELLA. You o'erjoy me, madam,

To find your griefs so moderately borne.

You've heard the worst; all are not false like him.

CLEOPATRA. No; Heaven forbid they should.

DOLABELLA. Some men are constant.

CLEOPATRA. And constancy deserves reward, that's certain.

DOLABELLA. Deserves it not; but give it leave to hope.

VENTIDIUS. I'll swear, thou hast my leave. I have enough:

But how to manage this! Well, I'll consider.

[Exit.]

DOLABELLA. I came prepared

To tell you heavy news; news, which I thought

Would fright the blood from your pale cheeks to hear:

But you have met it with a cheerfulness,

That makes my task more easy; and my tongue,

Which on another's message was employed,

Would gladly speak its own.

CLEOPATRA. Hold, Dolabella.

First tell me, were you chosen by my lord—

Or sought you this employment—

DOLABELLA. He picked me out; and, as his bosom friend,

He charged me with his words.

CLEOPATRA. The message then

I know was tender, and each accent smooth,

To mollify that rugged word, DEPART.

DOLABELLA. Oh, you mistake: He chose the harshest words;

With fiery eyes, and contracted brows,

He coined his face in the severest stamp;

And fury shook his fabric, like an earthquake;

He heaved for vent, and burst like bellowing Aetna,

In sounds scarce human-"Hence away for ever,

Let her begone, the blot of my renown,

And bane of all my hopes!"

[All the time of this speech, CLEOPATRA seems more

and more concerned, till she sinks quite down.]

"Let her be driven, as far as men can think,

›From man's commerce! she'll poison to the centre."

CLEOPATRA. Oh, I can bear no more!

DOLABELLA. Help, help!-O wretch! O cursed, cursed wretch!

What have I done!

CHARMION. Help, chafe her temples, Iras.

IRAS. Bend, bend her forward quickly.

CHARMION. Heaven be praised,

She comes again.

CLEOPATRA. Oh, let him not approach me.

Why have you brought me back to this loathed being;

The abode of falsehood, violated vows,

And injured love— For pity, let me go;

For, if there be a place of long repose,

I'm sure I want it. My disdainful lord

Can never break that quiet; nor awake

The sleeping soul, with hollowing in my tomb

Such words as fright her hence.-Unkind, unkind!

DOLABELLA. Believe me, 'tis against myself I speak;

[Kneeling.]

That sure desires belief; I injured him:

My friend ne'er spoke those words. Oh, had you seen

How often he came back, and every time

With something more obliging and more kind,

To add to what he said; what dear farewells;

How almost vanquished by his love he parted,

And leaned to what unwillingly he left!

I, traitor as I was, for love of you

(But what can you not do, who made me false—)

I forged that lie; for whose forgiveness kneels

This self-accused, self-punished criminal.

CLEOPATRA. With how much ease believe we what we wish!

Rise, Dolabella; if you have been guilty,

I have contributed, and too much love

Has made me guilty too.

The advance of kindness, which I made, was feigned,

To call back fleeting love by jealousy;

But 'twould not last. Oh, rather let me lose,

Than so ignobly trifle with his heart.

DOLABELLA. I find your breast fenced round from human reach,

Transparent as a rock of solid crystal;

Seen through, but never pierced. My friend, my friend,

What endless treasure hast thou thrown away;

And scattered, like an infant, in the ocean,

Vain sums of wealth, which none can gather thence!

CLEOPATRA. Could you not beg

An hour's admittance to his private ear—

Like one, who wanders through long barren wilds

And yet foreknows no hospitable inn

Is near to succour hunger, eats his fill,

Before his painful march;

So would I feed a while my famished eyes

Before we part; for I have far to go,

If death be far, and never must return.

VENTIDIUS with OCTAVIA, behind

VENTIDIUS. From hence you may discover-oh, sweet, sweet!

Would you indeed— The pretty hand in earnest—

DOLABELLA. I will, for this reward.

[Takes her hand.]

Draw it not back.

'Tis all I e'er will beg.

VENTIDIUS. They turn upon us.

OCTAVIA. What quick eyes has guilt!

VENTIDIUS. Seem not to have observed them, and go on.

[They enter.]

DOLABELLA. Saw you the emperor, Ventidius—

VENTIDIUS. No.

I sought him; but I heard that he was private,

None with him but Hipparchus, his freedman.

DOLABELLA. Know you his business—

VENTIDIUS. Giving him instructions,

And letters to his brother Caesar.

DOLABELLA. Well,

He must be found.

[Exeunt DOLABELLA and CLEOPATRA.]

OCTAVIA. Most glorious impudence!

VENTIDIUS. She looked, methought,

As she would say-Take your old man, Octavia;

Thank you, I'm better here.-

Well, but what use

Make we of this discovery—

OCTAVIA. Let it die.

VENTIDIUS. I pity Dolabella; but she's dangerous:

Her eyes have power beyond Thessalian charms,

To draw the moon from heaven; for eloquence,

The sea-green Syrens taught her voice their flattery;

And, while she speaks, night steals upon the day,

Unmarked of those that hear. Then she's so charming,

Age buds at sight of her, and swells to youth:

The holy priests gaze on her when she smiles;

And with heaved hands, forgetting gravity,

They bless her wanton eyes: Even I, who hate her,

With a malignant joy behold such beauty;

And, while I curse, desire it. Antony

Must needs have some remains of passion still,

Which may ferment into a worse relapse,

If now not fully cured. I know, this minute,

With Caesar he's endeavouring her peace.

OCTAVIA. You have prevailed:-But for a further purpose

[Walks off.]

I'll prove how he will relish this discovery.

What, make a strumpet's peace! it swells my heart:

It must not, shall not be.

VENTIDIUS. His guards appear.

Let me begin, and you shall second me.

Enter ANTONY

ANTONY. Octavia, I was looking you, my love:

What, are your letters ready— I have given

My last instructions.

OCTAVIA. Mine, my lord, are written.

ANTONY. Ventidius.

[Drawing him aside.]

VENTIDIUS. My lord—

ANTONY. A word in private.-

When saw you Dolabella—

VENTIDIUS. Now, my lord,

He parted hence; and Cleopatra with him.

ANTONY. Speak softly.-'Twas by my command he went,

To bear my last farewell.

VENTIDIUS. It looked indeed

[Aloud.]

Like your farewell.

ANTONY. More softly.-My farewell—

What secret meaning have you in those words

Of-My farewell— He did it by my order.

VENTIDIUS. Then he obeyed your order. I suppose

[Aloud.]

You bid him do it with all gentleness,

All kindness, and all-love.

ANTONY. How she mourned,

The poor forsaken creature!

VENTIDIUS. She took it as she ought; she bore your parting

As she did Caesar's, as she would another's,

Were a new love to come.

ANTONY. Thou dost belie her;

[Aloud.]

Most basely, and maliciously belie her.

VENTIDIUS. I thought not to displease you; I have done.

OCTAVIA. You seemed disturbed, my Lord.

[Coming up.]

ANTONY. A very trifle.

Retire, my love.

VENTIDIUS. It was indeed a trifle.

He sent-

ANTONY. No more. Look how thou disobey'st me;

[Angrily.]

Thy life shall answer it.

OCTAVIA. Then 'tis no trifle.

VENTIDIUS. [to OCTAVIA.]

'Tis less; a very nothing: You too saw it,

As well as I, and therefore 'tis no secret.

ANTONY. She saw it!

VENTIDIUS. Yes: She saw young Dolabella-

ANTONY. Young Dolabella!

VENTIDIUS. Young, I think him young,

And handsome too; and so do others think him.

But what of that— He went by your command,

Indeed 'tis probable, with some kind message;

For she received it graciously; she smiled;

And then he grew familiar with her hand,

Squeezed it, and worried it with ravenous kisses;

She blushed, and sighed, and smiled, and blushed again;

At last she took occasion to talk softly,

And brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his;

At which, he whispered kisses back on hers;

And then she cried aloud-That constancy

Should be rewarded.

OCTAVIA. This I saw and heard.

ANTONY. What woman was it, whom you heard and saw

So playful with my friend—

Not Cleopatra—

VENTIDIUS. Even she, my lord.

ANTONY. My Cleopatra—

VENTIDIUS. Your Cleopatra;

Dolabella's Cleopatra; every man's Cleopatra.

ANTONY. Thou liest.

VENTIDIUS. I do not lie, my lord.

Is this so strange— Should mistresses be left,

And not provide against a time of change—

You know she's not much used to lonely nights.

ANTONY. I'll think no more on't.

I know 'tis false, and see the plot betwixt you.-

You needed not have gone this way, Octavia.

What harms it you that Cleopatra's just—

She's mine no more. I see, and I forgive:

Urge it no further, love.

OCTAVIA. Are you concerned,

That she's found false—

ANTONY. I should be, were it so;

For, though 'tis past, I would not that the world

Should tax my former choice, that I loved one

Of so light note; but I forgive you both.

VENTIDIUS. What has my age deserved, that you should think

I would abuse your ears with perjury—

If Heaven be true, she's false.

ANTONY. Though heaven and earth

Should witness it, I'll not believe her tainted.

VENTIDIUS. I'll bring you, then, a witness

›From hell, to prove her so.-Nay, go not back;

[Seeing ALEXAS just entering, and starting back.]

For stay you must and shall.

ALEXAS. What means my lord—

VENTIDIUS. To make you do what most you hate,-speak truth.

You are of Cleopatra's private counsel,

Of her bed-counsel, her lascivious hours;

Are conscious of each nightly change she makes,

And watch her, as Chaldaeans do the moon,

Can tell what signs she passes through, what day.

ALEXAS. My noble lord!

VENTIDIUS. My most illustrious pander,

No fine set speech, no cadence, no turned periods,

But a plain homespun truth, is what I ask.

I did, myself, o'erhear your queen make love

To Dolabella. Speak; for I will know,

By your confession, what more passed betwixt them;

How near the business draws to your employment;

And when the happy hour.

ANTONY. Speak truth, Alexas; whether it offend

Or please Ventidius, care not: Justify

Thy injured queen from malice: Dare his worst.

OCTAVIA. [aside.] See how he gives him courage! how he fears

To find her false! and shuts his eyes to truth,

Willing to be misled!

ALEXAS. As far as love may plead for woman's frailty,

Urged by desert and greatness of the lover,

So far, divine Octavia, may my queen

Stand even excused to you for loving him

Who is your lord: so far, from brave Ventidius,

May her past actions hope a fair report.

ANTONY. 'Tis well, and truly spoken: mark, Ventidius.

ALEXAS. To you, most noble emperor, her strong passion

Stands not excused, but wholly justified.

Her beauty's charms alone, without her crown,

›From Ind and Meroe drew the distant vows

Of sighing kings; and at her feet were laid

The sceptres of the earth, exposed on heaps,

To choose where she would reign:

She thought a Roman only could deserve her,

And, of all Romans, only Antony;

And, to be less than wife to you, disdained

Their lawful passion.

ANTONY. 'Tis but truth.

ALEXAS. And yet, though love, and your unmatched desert,

Have drawn her from the due regard of honour,

At last Heaven opened her unwilling eyes

To see the wrongs she offered fair Octavia,

Whose holy bed she lawlessly usurped.

The sad effects of this improsperous war

Confirmed those pious thoughts.

VENTIDIUS. [aside.] Oh, wheel you there—

Observe him now; the man begins to mend,

And talk substantial reason.-Fear not, eunuch;

The emperor has given thee leave to speak.

ALEXAS. Else had I never dared to offend his ears

With what the last necessity has urged

On my forsaken mistress; yet I must not

Presume to say, her heart is wholly altered.

ANTONY. No, dare not for thy life, I charge thee dare not

Pronounce that fatal word!

OCTAVIA. Must I bear this— Good Heaven, afford me patience.

[Aside.]

VENTIDIUS. On, sweet eunuch; my dear half-man, proceed.

ALEXAS. Yet Dolabella

Has loved her long; he, next my god-like lord,

Deserves her best; and should she meet his passion,

Rejected, as she is, by him she loved--

ANTONY. Hence from my sight! for I can bear no more:

Let furies drag thee quick to hell; let all

The longer damned have rest; each torturing hand

Do thou employ, till Cleopatra comes;

Then join thou too, and help to torture her!

[Exit ALEXAS, thrust out by ANTONY.]

OCTAVIA. 'Tis not well.

Indeed, my lord, 'tis much unkind to me,

To show this passion, this extreme concernment,

For an abandoned, faithless prostitute.

ANTONY. Octavia, leave me; I am much disordered:

Leave me, I say.

OCTAVIA. My lord!

ANTONY. I bid you leave me.

VENTIDIUS. Obey him, madam: best withdraw a while,

And see how this will work.

OCTAVIA. Wherein have I offended you, my lord,

That I am bid to leave you— Am I false,

Or infamous— Am I a Cleopatra—

Were I she,

Base as she is, you would not bid me leave you;

But hang upon my neck, take slight excuses,

And fawn upon my falsehood.

ANTONY. 'Tis too much.

Too much, Octavia; I am pressed with sorrows

Too heavy to be borne; and you add more:

I would retire, and recollect what's left

Of man within, to aid me.

OCTAVIA. You would mourn,

In private, for your love, who has betrayed you.

You did but half return to me: your kindness

Lingered behind with her, I hear, my lord,

You make conditions for her,

And would include her treaty. Wondrous proofs

Of love to me!

ANTONY. Are you my friend, Ventidius—

Or are you turned a Dolabella too,

And let this fury loose—

VENTIDIUS. Oh, be advised,

Sweet madam, and retire.

OCTAVIA. Yes, I will go; but never to return.

You shall no more be haunted with this Fury.

My lord, my lord, love will not always last,

When urged with long unkindness and disdain:

Take her again, whom you prefer to me;

She stays but to be called. Poor cozened man!

Let a feigned parting give her back your heart,

Which a feigned love first got; for injured me,

Though my just sense of wrongs forbid my stay,

My duty shall be yours.

To the dear pledges of our former love

My tenderness and care shall be transferred,

And they shall cheer, by turns, my widowed nights:

So, take my last farewell; for I despair

To have you whole, and scorn to take you half.

[Exit.]

VENTIDIUS. I combat Heaven, which blasts my best designs;

My last attempt must be to win her back;

But oh! I fear in vain.

[Exit.]

ANTONY. Why was I framed with this plain, honest heart,

Which knows not to disguise its griefs and weakness,

But bears its workings outward to the world—

I should have kept the mighty anguish in,

And forced a smile at Cleopatra's falsehood:

Octavia had believed it, and had stayed.

But I am made a shallow-forded stream,

Seen to the bottom: all my clearness scorned,

And all my faults exposed.-See where he comes,

Enter DOLLABELLA

Who has profaned the sacred name of friend,

And worn it into vileness!

With how secure a brow, and specious form,

He gilds the secret villain! Sure that face

Was meant for honesty; but Heaven mismatched it,

And furnished treason out with nature's pomp,

To make its work more easy.

DOLABELLA. O my friend!

ANTONY. Well, Dolabella, you performed my message—

DOLABELLA. I did, unwillingly.

ANTONY. Unwillingly—

Was it so hard for you to bear our parting—

You should have wished it.

DOLABELLA. Why—

ANTONY. Because you love me.

And she received my message with as true,

With as unfeigned a sorrow as you brought it—

DOLABELLA. She loves you, even to madness.

ANTONY. Oh, I know it.

You, Dolabella, do not better know

How much she loves me. And should I

Forsake this beauty— This all-perfect creature—

DOLABELLA. I could not, were she mine.

ANTONY. And yet you first

Persuaded me: How come you altered since—

DOLABELLA. I said at first I was not fit to go:

I could not hear her sighs, and see her tears,

But pity must prevail: And so, perhaps,

It may again with you; for I have promised,

That she should take her last farewell: And, see,

She comes to claim my word.

Enter CLEOPATRA

ANTONY. False Dolabella!

DOLABELLA. What's false, my lord—

ANTONY. Why, Dolabella's false,

And Cleopatra's false; both false and faithless.

Draw near, you well-joined wickedness, you serpents,

Whom I have in my kindly bosom warmed,

Till I am stung to death.

DOLABELLA. My lord, have I

Deserved to be thus used—

CLEOPATRA. Can Heaven prepare

A newer torment— Can it find a curse

Beyond our separation—

ANTONY. Yes, if fate

Be just, much greater: Heaven should be ingenious

In punishing such crimes. The rolling stone,

And gnawing vulture, were slight pains, invented

When Jove was young, and no examples known

Of mighty ills; but you have ripened sin,

To such a monstrous growth, 'twill pose the gods

To find an equal torture. Two, two such!-

Oh, there's no further name,-two such! to me,

To me, who locked my soul within your breasts,

Had no desires, no joys, no life, but you;

When half the globe was mine, I gave it you

In dowry with my heart; I had no use,

No fruit of all, but you: A friend and mistress

Was what the world could give. O Cleopatra!

O Dolabella! how could you betray

This tender heart, which with an infant fondness

Lay lulled betwixt your bosoms, and there slept,

Secure of injured faith—

DOLABELLA. If she has wronged you,

Heaven, hell, and you revenge it.

ANTONY. If she has wronged me!

Thou wouldst evade thy part of guilt; but swear

Thou lov'st not her.

DOLABELLA. Not so as I love you.

ANTONY. Not so— Swear, swear, I say, thou dost not love her.

DOLABELLA. No more than friendship will allow.

ANTONY. No more—

Friendship allows thee nothing: Thou art perjured-

And yet thou didst not swear thou lov'st her not;

But not so much, no more. O trifling hypocrite,

Who dar'st not own to her, thou dost not love,

Nor own to me, thou dost! Ventidius heard it;

Octavia saw it.

CLEOPATRA. They are enemies.

ANTONY. Alexas is not so: He, he confessed it;

He, who, next hell, best knew it, he avowed it.

Why do I seek a proof beyond yourself—

[To DOLABELLA.]

You, whom I sent to bear my last farewell,

Returned, to plead her stay.

DOLABELLA. What shall I answer—

If to have loved be guilt, then I have sinned;

But if to have repented of that love

Can wash away my crime, I have repented.

Yet, if I have offended past forgiveness,

Let not her suffer: She is innocent.

CLEOPATRA. Ah, what will not a woman do, who loves—

What means will she refuse, to keep that heart,

Where all her joys are placed— 'Twas I encouraged,

'Twas I blew up the fire that scorched his soul,

To make you jealous, and by that regain you.

But all in vain; I could not counterfeit:

In spite of all the dams my love broke o'er,

And drowned by heart again: fate took the occasion;

And thus one minute's feigning has destroyed

My whole life's truth.

ANTONY. Thin cobweb arts of falsehood;

Seen, and broke through at first.

DOLABELLA. Forgive your mistress.

CLEOPATRA. Forgive your friend.

ANTONY. You have convinced yourselves.

You plead each other's cause: What witness have you,

That you but meant to raise my jealousy—

CLEOPATRA. Ourselves, and Heaven.

ANTONY. Guilt witnesses for guilt. Hence, love and friendship!

You have no longer place in human breasts,

These two have driven you out: Avoid my sight!

I would not kill the man whom I have loved,

And cannot hurt the woman; but avoid me:

I do not know how long I can be tame;

For, if I stay one minute more, to think

How I am wronged, my justice and revenge

Will cry so loud within me, that my pity

Will not be heard for either.

DOLABELLA. Heaven has but

Our sorrow for our sins; and then delights

To pardon erring man: Sweet mercy seems

Its darling attribute, which limits justice;

As if there were degrees in infinite,

And infinite would rather want perfection

Than punish to extent.

ANTONY. I can forgive

A foe; but not a mistress and a friend.

Treason is there in its most horrid shape,

Where trust is greatest; and the soul resigned,

Is stabbed by its own guards: I'll hear no more;

Hence from my sight for ever!

CLEOPATRA. How— for ever!

I cannot go one moment from your sight,

And must I go for ever—

My joys, my only joys, are centred here:

What place have I to go to— My own kingdom—

That I have lost for you: Or to the Romans—

They hate me for your sake: Or must I wander

The wide world o'er, a helpless, banished woman,

Banished for love of you; banished from you—

Ay, there's the banishment! Oh, hear me; hear me,

With strictest justice: For I beg no favour;

And if I have offended you, then kill me,

But do not banish me.

ANTONY. I must not hear you.

I have a fool within me takes your part;

But honour stops my ears.

CLEOPATRA. For pity hear me!

Would you cast off a slave who followed you—

Who crouched beneath your spurn—-He has no pity!

See, if he gives one tear to my departure;

One look, one kind farewell: O iron heart!

Let all the gods look down, and judge betwixt us,

If he did ever love!

ANTONY. No more: Alexas!

DOLABELLA. A perjured villain!

ANTONY. [to CLEOPATRA.] Your Alexas; yours.

CLEOPATRA. Oh, 'twas his plot; his ruinous design,

To engage you in my love by jealousy.

Hear him; confront him with me; let him speak.

ANTONY. I have; I have.

CLEOPATRA. And if he clear me not-

ANTONY. Your creature! one, who hangs upon your smiles!

Watches your eye, to say or to unsay,

Whate'er you please! I am not to be moved.

CLEOPATRA. Then must we part— Farewell, my cruel lord!

The appearance is against me; and I go,

Unjustified, for ever from your sight.

How I have loved, you know; how yet I love,

My only comfort is, I know myself:

I love you more, even now you are unkind,

Then when you loved me most; so well, so truly

I'll never strive against it; but die pleased,

To think you once were mine.

ANTONY. Good heaven, they weep at parting!

Must I weep too— that calls them innocent.

I must not weep; and yet I must, to think

That I must not forgive.-

Live, but live wretched; 'tis but just you should,

Who made me so: Live from each other's sight:

Let me not hear you meet. Set all the earth,

And all the seas, betwixt your sundered loves:

View nothing common but the sun and skies.

Now, all take several ways;

And each your own sad fate, with mine, deplore;

That you were false, and I could trust no more.

[Exeunt severally.]

Act V

Scene I

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

CHARMION. Be juster, Heaven; such virtue punished thus,

Will make us think that chance rules all above,

And shuffles, with a random hand, the lots,

Which man is forced to draw.

CLEOPATRA. I could tear out these eyes, that gained his heart,

And had not power to keep it. O the curse

Of doting on, even when I find it dotage!

Bear witness, gods, you heard him bid me go;

You, whom he mocked with imprecating vows

Of promised faith!-I'll die; I will not bear it.

You may hold me-

[She pulls out her dagger, and they hold her.]

But I can keep my breath; I can die inward,

And choke this love.

Enter ALEXAS

IRAS. Help, O Alexas, help!

The queen grows desperate; her soul struggles in her

With all the agonies of love and rage,

And strives to force its passage.

CLEOPATRA. Let me go.

Art thou there, traitor!-O,

O for a little breath, to vent my rage,

Give, give me way, and let me loose upon him.

ALEXAS. Yes, I deserve it, for my ill-timed truth.

Was it for me to prop

The ruins of a falling majesty—

To place myself beneath the mighty flaw,

Thus to be crushed, and pounded into atoms,

By its o'erwhelming weight— 'Tis too presuming

For subjects to preserve that wilful power,

Which courts its own destruction.

CLEOPATRA. I would reason

More calmly with you. Did not you o'errule,

And force my plain, direct, and open love,

Into these crooked paths of jealousy—

Now, what's the event— Octavia is removed;

But Cleopatra's banished. Thou, thou villain,

Hast pushed my boat to open sea; to prove,

At my sad cost, if thou canst steer it back.

It cannot be; I'm lost too far; I'm ruined:

Hence, thou impostor, traitor, monster, devil!-

I can no more: Thou, and my griefs, have sunk

Me down so low, that I want voice to curse thee.

ALEXAS. Suppose some shipwrecked seaman near the shore,

Dropping and faint, with climbing up the cliff,

If, from above, some charitable hand

Pull him to safety, hazarding himself,

To draw the other's weight; would he look back,

And curse him for his pains— The case is yours;

But one step more, and you have gained the height.

CLEOPATRA. Sunk, never more to rise.

ALEXAS. Octavia's gone, and Dolabella banished.

Believe me, madam, Antony is yours.

His heart was never lost, but started off

To jealousy, love's last retreat and covert;

Where it lies hid in shades, watchful in silence,

And listening for the sound that calls it back.

Some other, any man ('tis so advanced),

May perfect this unfinished work, which I

(Unhappy only to myself) have left

So easy to his hand.

CLEOPATRA. Look well thou do't; else-

ALEXAS. Else, what your silence threatens.-Antony

Is mounted up the Pharos; from whose turret,

He stands surveying our Egyptian galleys,

Engaged with Caesar's fleet. Now death or conquest!

If the first happen, fate acquits my promise;

If we o'ercome, the conqueror is yours.

[A distant shout within.]

CHARMION. Have comfort, madam: Did you mark that shout—

[Second shout nearer.]

IRAS. Hark! they redouble it.

ALEXAS. 'Tis from the port.

The loudness shows it near: Good news, kind heavens!

CLEOPATRA. Osiris make it so!

Enter SERAPION

SERAPION. Where, where's the queen—

ALEXAS. How frightfully the holy coward stares

As if not yet recovered of the assault,

When all his gods, and, what's more dear to him,

His offerings, were at stake.

SERAPION. O horror, horror!

Egypt has been; our latest hour has come:

The queen of nations, from her ancient seat,

Is sunk for ever in the dark abyss:

Time has unrolled her glories to the last,

And now closed up the volume.

CLEOPATRA. Be more plain:

Say, whence thou comest; though fate is in thy face,

Which from the haggard eyes looks wildly out,

And threatens ere thou speakest.

SERAPION. I came from Pharos;

›From viewing (spare me, and imagine it)

Our land's last hope, your navy-

CLEOPATRA. Vanquished—

SERAPION. No:

They fought not.

CLEOPATRA. Then they fled.

SERAPION. Nor that. I saw,

With Antony, your well-appointed fleet

Row out; and thrice he waved his hand on high,

And thrice with cheerful cries they shouted back:

'Twas then false Fortune, like a fawning strumpet,

About to leave the bankrupt prodigal,

With a dissembled smile would kiss at parting,

And flatter to the last; the well-timed oars,

Now dipt from every bank, now smoothly run

To meet the foe; and soon indeed they met,

But not as foes. In few, we saw their caps

On either side thrown up; the Egyptian galleys,

Received like friends, passed through, and fell behind

The Roman rear: And now, they all come forward,

And ride within the port.

CLEOPATRA. Enough, Serapion:

I've heard my doom.-This needed not, you gods:

When I lost Antony, your work was done;

'Tis but superfluous malice.-Where's my lord—

How bears he this last blow—

SERAPION. His fury cannot be expressed by words:

Thrice he attempted headlong to have fallen

Full on his foes, and aimed at Caesar's galley:

Withheld, he raves on you; cries,-He's betrayed.

Should he now find you-

ALEXAS. Shun him; seek your safety,

Till you can clear your innocence.

CLEOPATRA. I'll stay.

ALEXAS. You must not; haste you to your monument,

While I make speed to Caesar.

CLEOPATRA. Caesar! No,

I have no business with him.

ALEXAS. I can work him

To spare your life, and let this madman perish.

CLEOPATRA. Base fawning wretch! wouldst thou betray him too—

Hence from my sight! I will not hear a traitor;

'Twas thy design brought all this ruin on us.-

Serapion, thou art honest; counsel me:

But haste, each moment's precious.

SERAPION. Retire; you must not yet see Antony.

He who began this mischief,

'Tis just he tempt the danger; let him clear you:

And, since he offered you his servile tongue,

To gain a poor precarious life from Caesar,

Let him expose that fawning eloquence,

And speak to Antony.

ALEXAS. O heavens! I dare not;

I meet my certain death.

CLEOPATRA. Slave, thou deservest it.-

Not that I fear my lord, will I avoid him;

I know him noble: when he banished me,

And thought me false, he scorned to take my life;

But I'll be justified, and then die with him.

ALEXAS. O pity me, and let me follow you.

CLEOPATRA. To death, if thou stir hence. Speak, if thou canst,

Now for thy life, which basely thou wouldst save;

While mine I prize at-this! Come, good Serapion.

[Exeunt CLEOPATRA, SERAPION, CHARMION, and IRAS.]

ALEXAS. O that I less could fear to lose this being,

Which, like a snowball in my coward hand,

The more 'tis grasped, the faster melts away.

Poor reason! what a wretched aid art thou!

For still, in spite of thee,

These two long lovers, soul and body, dread

Their final separation. Let me think:

What can I say, to save myself from death—

No matter what becomes of Cleopatra.

ANTONY. Which way— where—

[Within.]

VENTIDIUS. This leads to the monument.

[Within.]

ALEXAS. Ah me! I hear him; yet I'm unprepared:

My gift of lying's gone;

And this court-devil, which I so oft have raised,

Forsakes me at my need. I dare not stay;

Yet cannot far go hence.

[Exit.]

Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS

ANTONY. O happy Caesar! thou hast men to lead:

Think not 'tis thou hast conquered Antony;

But Rome has conquered Egypt. I'm betrayed.

VENTIDIUS. Curse on this treacherous train!

Their soil and heaven infect them all with baseness:

And their young souls come tainted to the world

With the first breath they draw.

ANTONY. The original villain sure no god created;

He was a bastard of the sun, by Nile,

Aped into man; with all his mother's mud

Crusted about his soul.

VENTIDIUS. The nation is

One universal traitor; and their queen

The very spirit and extract of them all.

ANTONY. Is there yet left

A possibility of aid from valour—

Is there one god unsworn to my destruction—

The least unmortgaged hope— for, if there be,

Methinks I cannot fall beneath the fate

Of such a boy as Caesar.

The world's one half is yet in Antony;

And from each limb of it, that's hewed away,

The soul comes back to me.

VENTIDIUS. There yet remain

Three legions in the town. The last assault

Lopt off the rest; if death be your design,-

As I must wish it now,-these are sufficient

To make a heap about us of dead foes,

An honest pile for burial.

ANTONY. They are enough.

We'll not divide our stars; but, side by side,

Fight emulous, and with malicious eyes

Survey each other's acts: So every death

Thou giv'st, I'll take on me, as a just debt,

And pay thee back a soul.

VENTIDIUS. Now you shall see I love you. Not a word

Of chiding more. By my few hours of life,

I am so pleased with this brave Roman fate,

That I would not be Caesar, to outlive you.

When we put off this flesh, and mount together,

I shall be shown to all the ethereal crowd,-

Lo, this is he who died with Antony!

ANTONY. Who knows, but we may pierce through all their troops,

And reach my veterans yet— 'tis worth the 'tempting,

To o'erleap this gulf of fate,

And leave our wandering destinies behind.

Enter ALEXAS, trembling

VENTIDIUS. See, see, that villain!

See Cleopatra stamped upon that face,

With all her cunning, all her arts of falsehood!

How she looks out through those dissembling eyes!

How he sets his countenance for deceit,

And promises a lie, before he speaks!

Let me despatch him first.

[Drawing.]

ALEXAS. O spare me, spare me!

ANTONY. Hold; he's not worth your killing.-On thy life,

Which thou may'st keep, because I scorn to take it,

No syllable to justify thy queen;

Save thy base tongue its office.

ALEXAS. Sir, she is gone.

Where she shall never be molested more

By love, or you.

ANTONY. Fled to her Dolabella!

Die, traitor! I revoke my promise! die!

[Going to kill him.]

ALEXAS. O hold! she is not fled.

ANTONY. She is: my eyes

Are open to her falsehood; my whole life

Has been a golden dream of love and friendship;

But, now I wake, I'm like a merchant, roused

›From soft repose, to see his vessel sinking,

And all his wealth cast over. Ungrateful woman!

Who followed me, but as the swallow summer,

Hatching her young ones in my kindly beams,

Singing her flatteries to my morning wake:

But, now my winter comes, she spreads her wings,

And seeks the spring of Caesar.

ALEXAS. Think not so;

Her fortunes have, in all things, mixed with yours.

Had she betrayed her naval force to Rome,

How easily might she have gone to Caesar,

Secure by such a bribe!

VENTIDIUS. She sent it first,

To be more welcome after.

ANTONY. 'Tis too plain;

Else would she have appeared, to clear herself.

ALEXAS. Too fatally she has: she could not bear

To be accused by you; but shut herself

Within her monument; looked down and sighed;

While, from her unchanged face, the silent tears

Dropt, as they had not leave, but stole their parting.

Some indistinguished words she only murmured;

At last, she raised her eyes; and, with such looks

As dying Lucrece cast-

ANTONY. My heart forebodes-

VENTIDIUS. All for the best:-Go on.

ALEXAS. She snatched her poniard,

And, ere we could prevent the fatal blow,

Plunged it within her breast; then turned to me:

Go, bear my lord, said she, my last farewell;

And ask him, if he yet suspect my faith.

More she was saying, but death rushed betwixt.

She half pronounced your name with her last breath,

And buried half within her.

VENTIDIUS. Heaven be praised!

ANTONY. Then art thou innocent, my poor dear love,

And art thou dead—

O those two words! their sound should be divided:

Hadst thou been false, and died; or hadst thou lived,

And hadst been true-But innocence and death!

This shows not well above. Then what am I,

The murderer of this truth, this innocence!

Thoughts cannot form themselves in words so horrid

As can express my guilt!

VENTIDIUS. Is't come to this— The gods have been too gracious;

And thus you thank them for it!

ANTONY. [to ALEXAS.] Why stayest thou here—

Is it for thee to spy upon my soul,

And see its inward mourning— Get thee hence;

Thou art not worthy to behold, what now

Becomes a Roman emperor to perform.

ALEXAS. He loves her still:

His grief betrays it. Good! the joy to find

She's yet alive, completes the reconcilement.

I've saved myself, and her. But, oh! the Romans!

Fate comes too fast upon my wit,

Hunts me too hard, and meets me at each double.

[Aside.]

[Exit.]

VENTIDIUS. Would she had died a little sooner, though!

Before Octavia went, you might have treated:

Now 'twill look tame, and would not be received.

Come, rouse yourself, and let's die warm together.

ANTONY. I will not fight: there's no more work for war.

The business of my angry hours is done.

VENTIDIUS. Caesar is at your gates.

ANTONY. Why, let him enter;

He's welcome now.

VENTIDIUS. What lethargy has crept into your soul—

ANTONY. 'Tis but a scorn of life, and just desire

To free myself from bondage.

VENTIDIUS. Do it bravely.

ANTONY. I will; but not by fighting. O Ventidius!

What should I fight for now—-my queen is dead.

I was but great for her; my power, my empire,

Were but my merchandise to buy her love;

And conquered kings, my factors. Now she's dead,

Let Caesar take the world,-

An empty circle, since the jewel's gone

Which made it worth my strife: my being's nauseous;

For all the bribes of life are gone away.

VENTIDIUS. Would you be taken—

ANTONY. Yes, I would be taken;

But, as a Roman ought,-dead, my Ventidius:

For I'll convey my soul from Caesar's reach,

And lay down life myself. 'Tis time the world

Should have a lord, and know whom to obey.

We two have kept its homage in suspense,

And bent the globe, on whose each side we trod,

Till it was dented inwards. Let him walk

Alone upon't: I'm weary of my part.

My torch is out; and the world stands before me,

Like a black desert at the approach of night:

I'll lay me down, and stray no farther on.

VENTIDIUS. I could be grieved,

But that I'll not outlive you: choose your death;

For, I have seen him in such various shapes,

I care not which I take: I'm only troubled,

The life I bear is worn to such a rag,

'Tis scarce worth giving. I could wish, indeed,

We threw it from us with a better grace;

That, like two lions taken in the toils,

We might at last thrust out our paws, and wound

The hunters that inclose us.

ANTONY. I have thought on it.

Ventidius, you must live.

VENTIDIUS. I must not, sir.

ANTONY. Wilt thou not live, to speak some good of me—

To stand by my fair fame, and guard the approaches

›From the ill tongues of men—

VENTIDIUS. Who shall guard mine,

For living after you—

ANTONY. Say, I command it.

VENTIDIUS. If we die well, our deaths will speak themselves

And need no living witness.

ANTONY. Thou hast loved me,

And fain I would reward thee. I must die;

Kill me, and take the merit of my death,

To make thee friends with Caesar.

VENTIDIUS. Thank your kindness.

You said I loved you; and in recompense,

You bid me turn a traitor: Did I think

You would have used me thus—-that I should die

With a hard thought of you—

ANTONY. Forgive me, Roman.

Since I have heard of Cleopatra's death,

My reason bears no rule upon my tongue,

But lets my thoughts break all at random out.

I've thought better; do not deny me twice.

VENTIDIUS. By Heaven I will not.

Let it not be to outlive you.

ANTONY. Kill me first,

And then die thou; for 'tis but just thou serve

Thy friend, before thyself.

VENTIDIUS. Give me your hand.

We soon shall meet again. Now, farewell, emperor!-

[Embrace.]

Methinks that word's too cold to be my last:

Since death sweeps all distinctions, farewell, friend!

That's all-

I will not make a business of a trifle;

And yet I cannot look on you, and kill you;

Pray turn your face.

ANTONY. I do: strike home, be sure.

VENTIDIUS. Home as my sword will reach.

[Kills himself.]

ANTONY. Oh, thou mistak'st;

That wound was not of thine; give it me back:

Thou robb'st me of my death.

VENTIDIUS. I do indeed;

But think 'tis the first time I e'er deceived you,

If that may plead my pardon.-And you, gods,

Forgive me, if you will; for I die perjured,

Rather than kill my friend.

[Dies.]

ANTONY. Farewell! Ever my leader, even in death!

My queen and thou have got the start of me,

And I'm the lag of honour.-Gone so soon—

Is Death no more— he used him carelessly,

With a familiar kindness: ere he knocked,

Ran to the door, and took him in his arms,

As who should say-You're welcome at all hours,

A friend need give no warning. Books had spoiled him;

For all the learned are cowards by profession.

'Tis not worth

My further thought; for death, for aught I know,

Is but to think no more. Here's to be satisfied.

[Falls on his sword.]

I've missed my heart. O unperforming hand!

Thou never couldst have erred in a worse time.

My fortune jades me to the last; and death,

Like a great man, takes state, and makes me wait

For my admittance.-

[Trampling within.]

Some, perhaps, from Caesar:

If he should find me living, and suspect

That I played booty with my life! I'll mend

My work, ere they can reach me.

[Rises upon his knees.]

Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMION, and IRAS

CLEOPATRA. Where is my lord— where is he—

CHARMION. There he lies,

And dead Ventidius by him.

CLEOPATRA. My tears were prophets; I am come too late.

O that accursed Alexas!

[Runs to him.]

ANTONY. Art thou living—

Or am I dead before I knew, and thou

The first kind ghost that meets me—

CLEOPATRA. Help me seat him.

Send quickly, send for help!

[They place him in a chair.]

ANTONY. I am answered.

We live both. Sit thee down, my Cleopatra:

I'll make the most I can of life, to stay

A moment more with thee.

CLEOPATRA. How is it with you—

ANTONY. 'Tis as with a man

Removing in a hurry; all packed up,

But one dear jewel that his haste forgot;

And he, for that, returns upon the spur:

So I come back for thee.

CLEOPATRA. Too long, ye heavens, you have been cruel to me:

Now show your mended faith, and give me back

His fleeting life!

ANTONY. It will not be, my love;

I keep my soul by force.

Say but, thou art not false.

CLEOPATRA. 'Tis now too late

To say I'm true: I'll prove it, and die with you.

Unknown to me, Alexas feigned my death:

Which, when I knew, I hasted to prevent

This fatal consequence. My fleet betrayed

Both you and me.

ANTONY. And Dolabella-

CLEOPATRA. Scarce

Esteemed before he loved; but hated now.

ANTONY. Enough: my life's not long enough for more.

Thou say'st, thou wilt come after: I believe thee;

For I can now believe whate'er thou sayest,

That we may part more kindly.

CLEOPATRA. I will come:

Doubt not, my life, I'll come, and quickly too:

Caesar shall triumph o'er no part of thee.

ANTONY. But grieve not, while thou stayest,

My last disastrous times:

Think we have had a clear and glorious day

And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm,

Just till our close of evening. Ten years' love,

And not a moment lost, but all improved

To the utmost joys,-what ages have we lived—

And now to die each other's; and, so dying,

While hand in hand we walk in groves below,

Whole troops of lovers' ghosts shall flock about us,

And all the train be ours.

CLEOPATRA. Your words are like the notes of dying swans,

Too sweet to last. Were there so many hours

For your unkindness, and not one for love—

ANTONY. No, not a minute.-This one kiss-more worth

Than all I leave to Caesar.

[Dies.]

CLEOPATRA. O tell me so again,

And take ten thousand kisses for that word.

My lord, my lord! speak, if you yet have being;

Sign to me, if you cannot speak; or cast

One look! Do anything that shows you live.

IRAS. He's gone too far to hear you;

And this you see, a lump of senseless clay,

The leavings of a soul.

CHARMION. Remember, madam,

He charged you not to grieve.

CLEOPATRA. And I'll obey him.

I have not loved a Roman, not to know

What should become his wife; his wife, my Charmion!

For 'tis to that high title I aspire;

And now I'll not die less. Let dull Octavia

Survive, to mourn him dead: My nobler fate

Shall knit our spousals with a tie, too strong

For Roman laws to break.

IRAS. Will you then die—

CLEOPATRA. Why shouldst thou make that question—

IRAS. Caesar is merciful.

CLEOPATRA. Let him be so

To those that want his mercy: My poor lord

Made no such covenant with him, to spare me

When he was dead. Yield me to Caesar's pride—

What! to be led in triumph through the streets,

A spectacle to base plebeian eyes;

While some dejected friend of Antony's,

Close in a corner, shakes his head, and mutters

A secret curse on her who ruined him!

I'll none of that.

CHARMION. Whatever you resolve,

I'll follow, even to death.

IRAS. I only feared

For you; but more should fear to live without you.

CLEOPATRA. Why, now, 'tis as it should be. Quick, my friends,

Despatch; ere this, the town's in Caesar's hands:

My lord looks down concerned, and fears my stay,

Lest I should be surprised;

Keep him not waiting for his love too long.

You, Charmion, bring my crown and richest jewels;

With them, the wreath of victory I made

(Vain augury!) for him, who now lies dead:

You, Iras, bring the cure of all our ills.

IRAS. The aspics, madam—

CLEOPATRA. Must I bid you twice—

[Exit CHARMION and IRAS.]

'Tis sweet to die, when they would force life on me,

To rush into the dark abode of death,

And seize him first; if he be like my love,

He is not frightful, sure.

We're now alone, in secrecy and silence;

And is not this like lovers— I may kiss

These pale, cold lips; Octavia does not see me:

And, oh! 'tis better far to have him thus,

Than see him in her arms.-Oh, welcome, welcome!

Enter CHARMION and IRAS

CHARMION. What must be done—

CLEOPATRA. Short ceremony, friends;

But yet it must be decent. First, this laurel

Shall crown my hero's head: he fell not basely,

Nor left his shield behind him.-Only thou

Couldst triumph o'er thyself; and thou alone

Wert worthy so to triumph.

CHARMION. To what end

These ensigns of your pomp and royalty—

CLEOPATRA. Dull, that thou art! why 'tis to meet my love;

As when I saw him first, on Cydnus' bank,

All sparkling, like a goddess: so adorned,

I'll find him once again; my second spousals

Shall match my first in glory. Haste, haste, both,

And dress the bride of Antony.

CHARMION. 'Tis done.

CLEOPATRA. Now seat me by my lord. I claim this place,

For I must conquer Caesar too, like him,

And win my share of the world.-Hail, you dear relics

Of my immortal love!

O let no impious hand remove you hence:

But rest for ever here! Let Egypt give

His death that peace, which it denied his life.-

Reach me the casket.

IRAS. Underneath the fruit

The aspic lies.

CLEOPATRA. Welcome, thou kind deceiver!

[Putting aside the leaves.]

Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,

Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,

Even steal us from ourselves; discharging so

Death's dreadful office, better than himself;

Touching our limbs so gently into slumber,

That Death stands by, deceived by his own image,

And thinks himself but sleep.

SERAPION. The queen, where is she—

[Within.]

The town is yielded, Caesar's at the gates.

CLEOPATRA. He comes too late to invade the rights of death!

Haste, bare my arm, and rouse the serpent's fury.

[Holds out her arm, and draws it back.]

Coward flesh,

Wouldst thou conspire with Caesar to betray me,

As thou wert none of mine— I'll force thee to it,

And not be sent by him,

But bring, myself, my soul to Antony.

[Turns aside, and then shows her arm bloody.]

Take hence; the work is done.

SERAPION. Break ope the door,

[Within.]

And guard the traitor well.

CHARMION. The next is ours.

IRAS. Now, Charmion, to be worthy

Of our great queen and mistress.

[They apply the aspics.]

CLEOPATRA. Already, death, I feel thee in my veins:

I go with such a will to find my lord,

That we shall quickly meet.

A heavy numbness creeps through every limb,

And now 'tis at my head: My eyelids fall,

And my dear love is vanquished in a mist.

Where shall I find him, where— O turn me to him,

And lay me on his breast!-Caesar, thy worst;

Now part us, if thou canst.

[Dies.]

[IRAS sinks down at her feet, and dies;

CHARMION stands behind her chair, as dressing her head.]

Enter SERAPION, two PRIESTS, ALEXAS bound, EGYPTIANS

PRIEST. Behold, Serapion,

What havoc death has made!

SERAPION. 'Twas what I feared.-

Charmion, is this well done—

CHARMION. Yes, 'tis well done, and like a queen, the last

Of her great race: I follow her.

[Sinks down: dies.]

ALEXAS. 'Tis true,

She has done well: Much better thus to die,

Than live to make a holiday in Rome.

SERAPION. See how the lovers sit in state together,

As they were giving laws to half mankind!

The impression of a smile, left in her face,

Shows she died pleased with him for whom she lived,

And went to charm him in another world.

Caesar's just entering: grief has now no leisure.

Secure that villain, as our pledge of safety,

To grace the imperial triumph.-Sleep, blest pair,

Secure from human chance, long ages out,

While all the storms of fate fly o'er your tomb;

And fame to late posterity shall tell,

No lovers lived so great, or died so well.

[Exeunt.]

EPILOGUE

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail,

Have one sure refuge left-and that's to rail.

Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thundered through the pit;

And this is all their equipage of wit.

We wonder how the devil this difference grows

Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:

For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,

'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.

The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;

And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot:

For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,

He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;

Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,

If pink or purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;

Nor likes your wit just as you like his plays;

He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please,

Would quietly sue out his WRIT OF EASE.

Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,

By the fair sex he begs to stand or fall.

Let Caesar's power the men's ambition move,

But grace you him who lost the world for love!

Yet if some antiquated lady say,

The last age is not copied in his play;

Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.

Let not the young and beauteous join with those;

For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,

Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;

'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

Richard Brinsley Sheridan— The School for Scandal

Introductory Note

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, statesman and dramatist, was born in Dublin on Oct. 30, 1751. He belonged to a highly talented family, his grandfather, Thomas Sheridan, being a prominent Jacobite and a historian, and his father, also Thomas Sheridan, a distinguished actor, theatrical manager, and author.

Sheridan was educated for the bar, but the success of his comedy, “The Rivals,” led him into close relations with the theatre. “The Rivals” was followed by “St. Patrick’s Day,” a farce; “The Duenna,” a comic opera; “A Trip to Scarborough,” an adaptation from Vanbrugh; “The School for Scandal” (1777); and a patriotic melodrama. “Pizarro.” He was manager of Drury Lane Theatre, which he twice had a chief part in rebuilding; and though he had periods of marked prosperity in his management, and exercised a powerful influence on the stage history of his time, his theatrical activities frequently involved him in grave financial difficulties.

In 1780 Sheridan entered Parliament, and for over thirty years he took a highly distinguished part in politics. He held cabinet office a number of times, and was regarded as the most brilliant and effective orator of his day. His most famous speeches dealt with the prosecution of Warren Hastings; the French Revolution, in connection with which he urged the policy of letting the French manage their own government, but of resisting their attempts to spread their principles by conquest; the war with the American colonies, by his opposition to which he earned the gratitude of Congress; and the liberty of the press, of which he was an uncompromising champion. Throughout his career he was an honest and intrepid advocate of liberal ideas.

In “The School for Scandal” Sheridan carried the comedy of manners to the highest point it has reached in England. In the permanence of its hold on the public it is surpassed only by the plays of Shakespeare; and in characters like Joseph Surface, Sir Peter, and Lady Teazle, and in the scandal scene and the auction scene the author added to the lasting glories of the English stage.

Sheridan died in 1816, and was buried with great pomp in Westminster Abbey.

A Portrait

Addressed to Mrs. Crewe, with the Comedy of the School for Scandal, By R. B. Sheridan, Esq.

TELL me, ye prim adepts in Scandal’s school,

Who rail by precept, and detract by rule,

Lives there no character, so tried, so known,

So decked with grace, and so unlike your own,

That even you assist her fame to raise,

Approve by envy, and by silence praise!

Attend!—a model shall attract your view—

Daughters of calumny, I summon you!

You shall decide if this a portrait prove,

Or fond creation of the Muse and Love.

Attend, ye virgin critics, shrewd and sage,

Ye matron censors of this childish age,

Whose peering eye and wrinkled front declare

A fixed antipathy to young and fair;

By cunning, cautious; or by nature, cold,

In maiden madness, virulently bold!—

Attend, ye skilled to coin the precious tale,

Creating proof, where innuendos fail!

Whose practised memories, cruelly exact,

Omit no circumstance, except the fact!—

Attend, all ye who boast,—or old or young,—

The living libel of a slanderous tongue!

So shall my theme as far contrasted be,

As saints by fiends, or hymns by calumny.

Come, gentle Amoret (for ’neath that name

In worthier verse is sung thy beauty’s fame);

Come—for but thee who seeks the Muse— and while

Celestial blushes check thy conscious smile,

With timid grace, and hesitating eye,

The perfect model, which I boast, supply:—

Vain Muse! couldst thou the humblest sketch create

Of her, or slightest charm couldst imitate—

Could thy blest strain in kindred colours trace

The faintest wonder of her form and face—

Poets would study the immortal line,

And Reynolds own his art subdued by thine;

That art, which well might added lustre give

To Nature’s best, and Heaven’s superlative:

On Granby ’s cheek might bid new glories rise,

Or point a purer beam from Devon ’s eyes!

Hard is the task to shape that beauty’s praise,

Whose judgment scorns the homage flattery pays!

But praising Amoret we cannot err,

No tongue o’ervalues Heaven, or flatters her!

Yet she by Fate’s perverseness—she alone

Would doubt our truth, nor deem such praise her own.

Adorning fashion, unadorned by dress,

Simple from taste, and not from carelessness;

Discreet in gesture, in deportment mild,

Not stiff with prudence, nor uncouthly wild:

No state has Amoret; no studied mien;

She frowns no goddess, and she moves no queen.

The softer charm that in her manner lies

Is framed to captivate, yet not surprise;

It justly suits the expression of her face,—

’Tis less than dignity, and more than grace!

On her pure cheek the native hue is such,

That, formed by Heaven to be admired so much,

The hand divine, with a less partial care,

Might well have fixed a fainter crimson there,

And bade the gentle inmate of her breast—

Inshrinèd Modesty—supply the rest.

But who the peril of her lips shall paint—

Strip them of smiles—still, still all words are faint.

But moving Love himself appears to teach

Their action, though denied to rule her speech;

And thou who seest her speak, and dost not hear,

Mourn not her distant accents ’scape thine ear;

Viewing those lips, thou still may’st make pretence

To judge of what she says, and swear ’tis sense:

Clothed with such grace, with such expression fraught,

They move in meaning, and they pause in thought!

But dost thou farther watch, with charmed surprise,

The mild irresolution of her eyes,

Curious to mark how frequent they repose,

In brief eclipse and momentary close—

Ah! seest thou not an ambushed Cupid there,

Too timorous of his charge, with jealous care

Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light,

Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight—

Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet,

In pardoning dimples hope a safe retreat.

What though her peaceful breast should ne’er allow

Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow,

By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,

More fatal still the mercy of her smiles!

Thus lovely, thus adorned, possessing all

Of bright or fair that can to woman fall,

The height of vanity might well be thought

Prerogative in her, and Nature’s fault.

Yet gentle Amoret, in mind supreme

As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme;

And, half mistrustful of her beauty’s store,

She barbs with wit those darts too keen before:—

Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,

Though, Greville, or the Muse, should deign to teach,

Fond to improve, nor timorous to discern

How far it is a woman’s grace to learn;

In Millar’s dialect she would not prove

Apollo’s priestess, but Apollo’s love,

Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,

The timid blush, and mild submitted tone:

Whate’er she says, though sense appear throughout,

Displays the tender hue of female doubt;

Decked with that charm, how lovely wit appears,

How graceful science, when that robe she wears!

Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,

As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined:

A taste for mirth, by contemplation schooled,

A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,

A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;

An awe of talent, which she owns with pride!

Peace, idle Muse! no more thy strain prolong,

But yield a theme, thy warmest praises wrong;

Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise

Thy feeble verse, behold th’ acknowledged praise

Has spread conviction through the envious train,

And cast a fatal gloom o’er Scandal’s reign!

And lo! each pallid hag, with blistered tongue,

Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung—

Owns all the colours just—the outline true;

Thee my inspirer, and my model— CREWE!

Prologue

Written by Mr. Garrick

A School for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,

Needs there a school this modish art to teach you—

No need of lessons now, the knowing think;

We might as well be taught to eat and drink.

Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours

Distress our fair ones—let them read the papers;

Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;

Crave what you will—there’s quantum sufficit.

“Lord!” cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,

And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),

Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing

Strong tea and scandal—“Bless me, how refreshing!

Give me the papers, Lisp—how bold and free! [Sips.

Last night Lord L. [Sips] was caught with Lady D.

For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.

If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,

We hope she’ll DRAW, or we’ll UNDRAW the curtain.

Fine satire, poz—in public all abuse it,

But by ourselves [Sips], our praise we can’t refuse it.

Now, Lisp, read you—there, at that dash and star:”

“Yes, ma’am—A certain lord had best beware,

Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square;

For, should he Lady W. find willing,

Wormwood is bitter”—“Oh! that’s me! the villain!

Throw it behind the fire, and never more

Let that vile paper come within my door.”

Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;

To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart.

Is our young bard so young, to think that he

Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny—

Knows he the world so little, and its trade—

Alas! the devil’s sooner raised than laid.

So strong, so swift, the monster there’s no gagging:

Cut Scandal’s head off, still the tongue is wagging.

Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestowed,

Again our young Don Quixote takes the road:

To show his gratitude he draws his pen,

And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in his den.

For your applause all perils fie would through—

He’ll fight—that’s write—a cavalliero true,

Till every drop of blood—that’s ink—is spilt for you.

Dramatis Personae

As Originally Acted at Drury-Lane Theatre in 1777

SIR PETER TEAZLE Mr. King

SIR OLIVER SURFACE Mr. Yates

SIR HARRY BUMPER Mr. Gawdry

SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE Mr. Dodd

JOSEPH SURFACE Mr. Palmer

CHARLES SURFACE Mr. Smith

CARELESS Mr. Farren

SNAKE Mr. Parker

CRABTREE Mr. Parsons

ROWLEY Mr. Aickin

MOSES Mr. Baddeley

TRIP Mr. Lamask

LADY TEAZLE Mrs. Abington

LADY SNEERWELL Miss Sherry

MRS. CANDOUR Miss Pope

MARIA Miss P. Hopkins

Gentlemen, Maid, and Servants

SCENE: London

ACT I

SCENE I. -LADY SNEERWELL'S House

LADY SNEERWELL at her dressing table with LAPPET;

MISS VERJUICE drinking chocolate

LADY SNEERWELL. The Paragraphs you say were all inserted:

VERJUICE. They were Madam-and as I copied them myself in a feigned

Hand there can be no suspicion whence they came.

LADY SNEERWELL. Did you circulate the Report of Lady Brittle's

Intrigue with Captain Boastall—

VERJUICE. Madam by this Time Lady Brittle is the Talk of half the

Town-and I doubt not in a week the Men will toast her as a Demirep.

LADY SNEERWELL. What have you done as to the insinuation as to

a certain Baronet's Lady and a certain Cook.

VERJUICE. That is in as fine a Train as your Ladyship could wish.

I told the story yesterday to my own maid with directions to

communicate it directly to my Hairdresser. He I am informed

has a Brother who courts a Milliners' Prentice in Pallmall

whose mistress has a first cousin whose sister is Feme [Femme]

de Chambre to Mrs. Clackit-so that in the common course of Things

it must reach Mrs. Clackit's Ears within four-and-twenty hours

and then you know the Business is as good as done.

LADY SNEERWELL. Why truly Mrs. Clackit has a very pretty Talent-

a great deal of industry-yet-yes-been tolerably successful

in her way-To my knowledge she has been the cause of breaking off

six matches[,] of three sons being disinherited and four Daughters

being turned out of Doors. Of three several Elopements, as many

close confinements-nine separate maintenances and two Divorces.-

nay I have more than once traced her causing a Tete-a-Tete in the

Town and Country Magazine-when the Parties perhaps had never seen

each other's Faces before in the course of their Lives.

VERJUICE. She certainly has Talents.

LADY SNEERWELL. But her manner is gross.

VERJUICE. 'Tis very true. She generally designs well[,] has

a free tongue and a bold invention-but her colouring is too dark

and her outline often extravagant-She wants that delicacy of

Tint-and mellowness of sneer-which distinguish your Ladyship's

Scandal.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah you are Partial Verjuice.

VERJUICE. Not in the least-everybody allows that Lady Sneerwell

can do more with a word or a Look than many can with the most

laboured Detail even when they happen to have a little truth

on their side to support it.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes my dear Verjuice. I am no Hypocrite to deny

the satisfaction I reap from the Success of my Efforts. Wounded

myself, in the early part of my Life by the envenomed Tongue of

Slander I confess I have since known no Pleasure equal to the

reducing others to the Level of my own injured Reputation.

VERJUICE. Nothing can be more natural-But my dear Lady Sneerwell

There is one affair in which you have lately employed me, wherein,

I confess I am at a Loss to guess your motives.

LADY SNEERWELL. I conceive you mean with respect to my neighbour,

Sir Peter Teazle, and his Family-Lappet.-And has my conduct

in this matter really appeared to you so mysterious—

[Exit MAID.]

VERJUICE. Entirely so.

LADY SNEERWELL. [VERJUICE.—] An old Batchelor as Sir Peter was[,]

having taken a young wife from out of the Country-as Lady Teazle

is-are certainly fair subjects for a little mischievous raillery-

but here are two young men-to whom Sir Peter has acted as a kind

of Guardian since their Father's death, the eldest possessing

the most amiable Character and universally well spoken of[,]

the youngest the most dissipated and extravagant young Fellow

in the Kingdom, without Friends or caracter-the former one

an avowed admirer of yours and apparently your Favourite[,]

the latter attached to Maria Sir Peter's ward-and confessedly

beloved by her. Now on the face of these circumstances it is

utterly unaccountable to me why you a young Widow with no great

jointure-should not close with the passion of a man of such

character and expectations as Mr. Surface-and more so why you

should be so uncommonly earnest to destroy the mutual Attachment

subsisting between his Brother Charles and Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Then at once to unravel this mistery-I must

inform you that Love has no share whatever in the intercourse

between Mr. Surface and me.

VERJUICE. No!

LADY SNEERWELL. His real attachment is to Maria or her Fortune-

but finding in his Brother a favoured Rival, He has been obliged

to mask his Pretensions-and profit by my Assistance.

VERJUICE. Yet still I am more puzzled why you should interest

yourself in his success.

LADY SNEERWELL. Heavens! how dull you are! cannot you surmise

the weakness which I hitherto, thro' shame have concealed even

from you-must I confess that Charles-that Libertine, that

extravagant, that Bankrupt in Fortune and Reputation-that He

it is for whom I am thus anxious and malicious and to gain whom

I would sacrifice-everything--

VERJUICE. Now indeed-your conduct appears consistent and I

no longer wonder at your enmity to Maria, but how came you and

Surface so confidential—

LADY SNEERWELL. For our mutual interest-but I have found out

him a long time since[,] altho' He has contrived to deceive

everybody beside-I know him to be artful selfish and malicious-

while with Sir Peter, and indeed with all his acquaintance,

He passes for a youthful Miracle of Prudence-good sense

and Benevolence.

VERJUICE. Yes yes-I know Sir Peter vows He has not his equal

in England; and, above all, He praises him as a MAN OF SENTIMENT.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and with the assistance of his sentiments

and hypocrisy he has brought Sir Peter entirely in his interests

with respect to Maria and is now I believe attempting to flatter

Lady Teazle into the same good opinion towards him-while poor

Charles has no Friend in the House-though I fear he has a powerful

one in Maria's Heart, against whom we must direct our schemes.

SERVANT. Mr. Surface.

LADY SNEERWELL. Shew him up. He generally calls about this Time.

I don't wonder at People's giving him to me for a Lover.

Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. My dear Lady Sneerwell, how do you do to-day-your most

obedient.

LADY SNEERWELL. Miss Verjuice has just been arraigning me on our

mutual attachment now; but I have informed her of our real views

and the Purposes for which our Geniuses at present co-operate.

You know how useful she has been to us-and believe me the confidence

is not ill-placed.

SURFACE. Madam, it is impossible for me to suspect that a Lady of

Miss Verjuice's sensibility and discernment--

LADY SNEERWELL. Well-well-no compliments now-but tell me when

you saw your mistress or what is more material to me your Brother.

SURFACE. I have not seen either since I saw you-but I can inform

you that they are at present at Variance-some of your stories have

taken good effect on Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ah! my dear Verjuice the merit of this belongs

to you. But do your Brother's Distresses encrease—

SURFACE. Every hour. I am told He had another execution in his

house yesterday-in short his Dissipation and extravagance exceed

anything I have ever heard of.

LADY SNEERWELL. Poor Charles!

SURFACE. True Madam-notwithstanding his Vices one can't help

feeling for him-ah poor Charles! I'm sure I wish it was in

my Power to be of any essential Service to him-for the man

who does not share in the Distresses of a Brother-even though

merited by his own misconduct-deserves--

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud you are going to be moral, and forget

that you are among Friends.

SURFACE. Egad, that's true-I'll keep that sentiment till I see

Sir Peter. However it is certainly a charity to rescue Maria from

such a Libertine who-if He is to be reclaim'd, can be so only by a

Person of your Ladyship's superior accomplishments and understanding.

VERJUICE. 'Twould be a Hazardous experiment.

SURFACE. But-Madam-let me caution you to place no more confidence

in our Friend Snake the Libeller-I have lately detected him

in frequent conference with old Rowland [Rowley] who was formerly

my Father's Steward and has never been a friend of mine.

LADY SNEERWELL. I'm not disappointed in Snake, I never suspected

the fellow to have virtue enough to be faithful even to his own

Villany.

Enter MARIA

Maria my dear-how do you do-what's the matter—

MARIA. O here is that disagreeable lover of mine, Sir Benjamin

Backbite, has just call'd at my guardian's with his odious

Uncle Crabtree-so I slipt out and ran hither to avoid them.

LADY SNEERWELL. Is that all—

VERJUICE. Lady Sneerwell-I'll go and write the Letter I mention'd

to you.

SURFACE. If my Brother Charles had been of the Party, madam,

perhaps you would not have been so much alarmed.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay now-you are severe for I dare swear the Truth

of the matter is Maria heard YOU were here-but my dear-what has

Sir Benjamin done that you should avoid him so--

MARIA. Oh He has done nothing-but his conversation is a perpetual

Libel on all his Acquaintance.

SURFACE. Aye and the worst of it is there is no advantage in not

knowing Them, for He'll abuse a stranger just as soon as his best

Friend-and Crabtree is as bad.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay but we should make allowance[-]Sir Benjamin

is a wit and a poet.

MARIA. For my Part-I own madam-wit loses its respect with me,

when I see it in company with malice.-What do you think,

Mr. Surface—

SURFACE. Certainly, Madam, to smile at the jest which plants

a Thorn on another's Breast is to become a principal in the mischief.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pshaw-there's no possibility of being witty

without a little [ill] nature-the malice of a good thing

is the Barb that makes it stick.-What's your opinion, Mr. Surface—

SURFACE. Certainly madam-that conversation where the Spirit of

Raillery is suppressed will ever appear tedious and insipid-

MARIA. Well I'll not debate how far Scandal may be allowable-

but in a man I am sure it is always contemtable.-We have Pride,

envy, Rivalship, and a Thousand motives to depreciate each other-

but the male-slanderer must have the cowardice of a woman before

He can traduce one.

LADY SNEERWELL. I wish my Cousin Verjuice hadn't left us-she

should embrace you.

SURFACE. Ah! she's an old maid and is privileged of course.

Enter SERVANT

Madam Mrs. Candour is below and if your Ladyship's at leisure will

leave her carriage.

LADY SNEERWELL. Beg her to walk in. Now, Maria[,] however here is

a Character to your Taste, for tho' Mrs. Candour is a little

talkative everybody allows her to be the best-natured and best sort

of woman.

MARIA. Yes with a very gross affectation of good Nature and

Benevolence-she does more mischief than the Direct malice of

old Crabtree.

SURFACE. Efaith 'tis very true Lady Sneerwell-Whenever I hear

the current running again the characters of my Friends, I never

think them in such Danger as when Candour undertakes their Defence.

LADY SNEERWELL. Hush here she is--

Enter MRS. CANDOUR

MRS. CANDOUR. My dear Lady Sneerwell how have you been this Century.

I have never seen you tho' I have heard of you very often.-

Mr. Surface-the World says scandalous things of you-but indeed

it is no matter what the world says, for I think one hears nothing

else but scandal.

SURFACE. Just so, indeed, Ma'am.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah Maria Child-what[!] is the whole affair off

between you and Charles— His extravagance; I presume-The Town

talks of nothing else--

MARIA. I am very sorry, Ma'am, the Town has so little to do.

MRS. CANDOUR. True, true, Child; but there's no stopping people's

Tongues. I own I was hurt to hear it-as I indeed was to learn

from the same quarter that your guardian, Sir Peter[,] and Lady

Teazle have not agreed lately so well as could be wish'd.

MARIA. 'Tis strangely impertinent for people to busy themselves so.

MRS. CANDOUR. Very true, Child; but what's to be done— People will

talk-there's no preventing it.-why it was but yesterday I was told

that Miss Gadabout had eloped with Sir Filagree Flirt. But, Lord!

there is no minding what one hears; tho' to be sure I had this from

very good authority.

MARIA. Such reports are highly scandalous.

MRS. CANDOUR. So they are Child-shameful! shameful! but the world

is so censorious no character escapes. Lord, now! who would have

suspected your friend, Miss Prim, of an indiscretion Yet such is the

ill-nature of people, that they say her unkle stopped her last week

just as she was stepping into a Postchaise with her Dancing-master.

MARIA. I'll answer for't there are no grounds for the Report.

MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, no foundation in the world I dare swear[;]

no more probably than for the story circulated last month,

of Mrs. Festino's affair with Colonel Cassino-tho' to be sure

that matter was never rightly clear'd up.

SURFACE. The license of invention some people take is monstrous

indeed.

MARIA. 'Tis so but in my opinion, those who report such things

are equally culpable.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure they are[;] Tale Bearers are as bad as

the Tale makers-'tis an old observation and a very true one-but

what's to be done as I said before-how will you prevent People from

talking-to-day, Mrs. Clackitt assured me, Mr. and Mrs. Honeymoon

were at last become mere man and wife-like [the rest of their]

acquaintance-she likewise hinted that a certain widow in the next

street had got rid of her Dropsy and recovered her shape in a most

surprising manner-at the same [time] Miss Tattle, who was by

affirm'd, that Lord Boffalo had discover'd his Lady at a house of

no extraordinary Fame-and that Sir Harry Bouquet and Tom Saunter

were to measure swords on a similar Provocation. but-Lord! do you

think I would report these Things-No, no[!] Tale Bearers as I said

before are just as bad as the talemakers.

SURFACE. Ah! Mrs. Candour, if everybody had your Forbearance and

good nature-

MRS. CANDOUR. I confess Mr. Surface I cannot bear to hear People

traduced behind their Backs[;] and when ugly circumstances come out

against our acquaintances I own I always love to think the best-by

the bye I hope 'tis not true that your Brother is absolutely ruin'd-

SURFACE. I am afraid his circumstances are very bad indeed, Ma'am-

MRS. CANDOUR. Ah! I heard so-but you must tell him to keep up

his Spirits-everybody almost is in the same way-Lord Spindle,

Sir Thomas Splint, Captain Quinze, and Mr. Nickit-all up, I hear,

within this week; so, if Charles is undone, He'll find half his

Acquaintance ruin'd too, and that, you know, is a consolation-

SURFACE. Doubtless, Ma'am-a very great one.

Enter SERVANT

SERVANT. Mr. Crabtree and Sir Benjamin Backbite.

LADY SNEERWELL. Soh! Maria, you see your lover pursues you-

Positively you shan't escape.

Enter CRABTREE and SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE

CRABTREE. Lady Sneerwell, I kiss your hand. Mrs. Candour I don't

believe you are acquainted with my Nephew Sir Benjamin Backbite-

Egad, Ma'am, He has a pretty wit-and is a pretty Poet too isn't He

Lady Sneerwell—

SIR BENJAMIN. O fie, Uncle!

CRABTREE. Nay egad it's true-I back him at a Rebus or a Charade

against the best Rhymer in the Kingdom-has your Ladyship heard

the Epigram he wrote last week on Lady Frizzle's Feather catching

Fire-Do Benjamin repeat it-or the Charade you made last Night

extempore at Mrs. Drowzie's conversazione-Come now your first

is the Name of a Fish, your second a great naval commander-and

SIR BENJAMIN. Dear Uncle-now-prithee--

CRABTREE. Efaith, Ma'am-'twould surprise you to hear how ready

he is at all these Things.

LADY SNEERWELL. I wonder Sir Benjamin you never publish anything.

SIR BENJAMIN. To say truth, Ma'am, 'tis very vulgar to Print and

as my little Productions are mostly Satires and Lampoons I find

they circulate more by giving copies in confidence to the Friends

of the Parties-however I have some love-Elegies, which, when

favoured with this lady's smile I mean to give to the Public.

[Pointing to MARIA.]

CRABTREE. 'Fore Heaven, ma'am, they'll immortalize you-you'll

be handed down to Posterity, like Petrarch's Laura, or Waller's

Sacharissa.

SIR BENJAMIN. Yes Madam I think you will like them-when you shall

see in a beautiful Quarto Page how a neat rivulet of Text shall

meander thro' a meadow of margin-'fore Gad, they will be the most

elegant Things of their kind-

CRABTREE. But Ladies, have you heard the news—

MRS. CANDOUR. What, Sir, do you mean the Report of--

CRABTREE. No ma'am that's not it.-Miss Nicely is going to be

married to her own Footman.

MRS. CANDOUR. Impossible!

CRABTREE. Ask Sir Benjamin.

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Tis very true, Ma'am-everything is fixed and the

wedding Livery bespoke.

CRABTREE. Yes and they say there were pressing reasons for't.

MRS. CANDOUR. It cannot be-and I wonder any one should believe

such a story of so prudent a Lady as Miss Nicely.

SIR BENJAMIN. O Lud! ma'am, that's the very reason 'twas believed

at once. She has always been so cautious and so reserved, that

everybody was sure there was some reason for it at bottom.

LADY SNEERWELL. Yes a Tale of Scandal is as fatal to the Reputation

of a prudent Lady of her stamp as a Fever is generally to those

of the strongest Constitutions, but there is a sort of puny sickly

Reputation, that is always ailing yet will outlive the robuster

characters of a hundred Prudes.

SIR BENJAMIN. True Madam there are Valetudinarians in Reputation

as well as constitution-who being conscious of their weak Part,

avoid the least breath of air, and supply their want of Stamina

by care and circumspection-

MRS. CANDOUR. Well but this may be all mistake-You know,

Sir Benjamin very trifling circumstances often give rise to

the most injurious Tales.

CRABTREE. That they do I'll be sworn Ma'am-did you ever hear

how Miss Shepherd came to lose her Lover and her Character

last summer at Tunbridge-Sir Benjamin you remember it-

SIR BENJAMIN. O to be sure the most whimsical circumstance-

LADY SNEERWELL. How was it Pray-

CRABTREE. Why one evening at Mrs. Ponto's Assembly-the conversation

happened to turn on the difficulty of breeding Nova-Scotia Sheep

in this country-says a young Lady in company[, "]I have known

instances of it[-]for Miss Letitia Shepherd, a first cousin of mine,

had a Nova-Scotia Sheep that produced her Twins.["-"]What!["] cries

the old Dowager Lady Dundizzy (who you know is as deaf as a Post),

["]has Miss Letitia Shepherd had twins["]-This Mistake-as you may

imagine, threw the whole company into a fit of Laughing-However

'twas the next morning everywhere reported and in a few Days believed

by the whole Town, that Miss Letitia Shepherd had actually been

brought to Bed of a fine Boy and Girl-and in less than a week

there were People who could name the Father, and the Farm House

where the Babies were put out to Nurse.

LADY SNEERWELL. Strange indeed!

CRABTREE. Matter of Fact, I assure you-O Lud! Mr. Surface pray

is it true that your uncle Sir Oliver is coming home-

SURFACE. Not that I know of indeed Sir.

CRABTREE. He has been in the East Indies a long time-you can

scarcely remember him-I believe-sad comfort on his arrival

to hear how your Brother has gone on!

SURFACE. Charles has been imprudent Sir to be sure[;] but I hope

no Busy people have already prejudiced Sir Oliver against him-

He may reform-

SIR BENJAMIN. To be sure He may-for my Part I never believed him

to be so utterly void of Principle as People say-and tho'

he has lost all his Friends I am told nobody is better spoken of-

by the Jews.

CRABTREE. That's true egad nephew-if the Old Jewry was a Ward

I believe Charles would be an alderman-no man more popular there,

'fore Gad I hear He pays as many annuities as the Irish Tontine

and that whenever He's sick they have Prayers for the recovery

of his Health in the synagogue-

SIR BENJAMIN. Yet no man lives in greater Splendour:-they tell me

when He entertains his Friends-He can sit down to dinner with

a dozen of his own Securities, have a score Tradesmen waiting

in the Anti-Chamber, and an officer behind every guest's Chair.

SURFACE. This may be entertainment to you Gentlemen but you pay

very little regard to the Feelings of a Brother.

MARIA. Their malice is intolerable-Lady Sneerwell I must wish you

a good morning-I'm not very well.

[Exit MARIA.]

MRS. CANDOUR. O dear she chang'd colour very much!

LADY SNEERWELL. Do Mrs. Candour follow her-she may want assistance.

MRS. CANDOUR. That I will with all my soul ma'am.-Poor dear Girl-

who knows-what her situation may be!

[Exit MRS. CANDOUR.]

LADY SNEERWELL. 'Twas nothing but that she could not bear to hear

Charles reflected on notwithstanding their difference.

SIR BENJAMIN. The young Lady's Penchant is obvious.

CRABTREE. But Benjamin-you mustn't give up the Pursuit for that-

follow her and put her into good humour-repeat her some of your

verses-come, I'll assist you-

SIR BENJAMIN. Mr. Surface I did not mean to hurt you-but depend

on't your Brother is utterly undone-

[Going.]

CRABTREE. O Lud! aye-undone-as ever man was-can't raise a guinea.

SIR BENJAMIN. And everything sold-I'm told-that was movable-

[Going.]

CRABTREE. I was at his house-not a thing left but some empty

Bottles that were overlooked and the Family Pictures, which

I believe are framed in the Wainscot.

[Going.]

SIR BENJAMIN. And I'm very sorry to hear also some bad stories

against him.

[Going.]

CRABTREE. O He has done many mean things-that's certain!

SIR BENJAMIN. But however as He is your Brother--

[Going.]

CRABTREE. We'll tell you all another opportunity.

[Exeunt.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! 'tis very hard for them to leave

a subject they have not quite run down.

SURFACE. And I believe the Abuse was no more acceptable to your

Ladyship than Maria.

LADY SNEERWELL. I doubt her Affections are farther engaged than

we imagin'd but the Family are to be here this Evening so you may

as well dine where you are and we shall have an opportunity of

observing farther-in the meantime, I'll go and plot Mischief

and you shall study Sentiments.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.-SIR PETER'S House

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. When an old Bachelor takes a young Wife-what is He

to expect-'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest

of men-and I have been the most miserable Dog ever since that ever

committed wedlock. We tift a little going to church-and came to

a Quarrel before the Bells had done ringing-I was more than once

nearly chok'd with gall during the Honeymoon-and had lost all comfort

in Life before my Friends had done wishing me Joy-yet I chose with

caution-a girl bred wholly in the country-who never knew luxury

beyond one silk gown-nor dissipation above the annual Gala of a

Race-Ball-Yet she now plays her Part in all the extravagant Fopperies

of the Fashion and the Town, with as ready a Grace as if she had never

seen a Bush nor a grass Plot out of Grosvenor-Square! I am sneered at

by my old acquaintance-paragraphed-in the news Papers-

She dissipates my Fortune, and contradicts all my Humours-

yet the worst of it is I doubt I love her or I should never bear

all this. However I'll never be weak enough to own it.

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Sir Peter, your servant:-how is 't with you Sir-

SIR PETER. Very bad-Master Rowley-very bad[.] I meet with nothing

but crosses and vexations-

ROWLEY. What can have happened to trouble you since yesterday—

SIR PETER. A good-question to a married man-

ROWLEY. Nay I'm sure your Lady Sir Peter can't be the cause of your

uneasiness.

SIR PETER. Why has anybody told you she was dead[—]

ROWLEY. Come, come, Sir Peter, you love her, notwithstanding your

tempers do not exactly agree.

SIR PETER. But the Fault is entirely hers, Master Rowley-I am

myself, the sweetest temper'd man alive, and hate a teasing temper;

and so I tell her a hundred Times a day-

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR PETER. Aye and what is very extraordinary in all our disputes

she is always in the wrong! But Lady Sneerwell, and the Set she meets

at her House, encourage the perverseness of her Disposition-then

to complete my vexations-Maria-my Ward-whom I ought to have

the Power of a Father over, is determined to turn Rebel too and

absolutely refuses the man whom I have long resolved on for her

husband-meaning I suppose, to bestow herself on his profligate

Brother.

ROWLEY. You know Sir Peter I have always taken the Liberty to differ

with you on the subject of these two young Gentlemen-I only wish

you may not be deceived in your opinion of the elder. For Charles,

my life on't! He will retrieve his errors yet-their worthy Father,

once my honour'd master, was at his years nearly as wild a spark.

SIR PETER. You are wrong, Master Rowley-on their Father's Death

you know I acted as a kind of Guardian to them both-till their uncle

Sir Oliver's Eastern Bounty gave them an early independence. Of

course no person could have more opportunities of judging of their

Hearts-and I was never mistaken in my life. Joseph is indeed a model

for the young men of the Age-He is a man of Sentiment-and acts up

to the Sentiments he professes-but for the other[,] take my word

for't [if] he had any grain of Virtue by descent-he has dissipated it

with the rest of his inheritance. Ah! my old Friend, Sir Oliver will

be deeply mortified when he finds how Part of his Bounty has been

misapplied.

ROWLEY. I am sorry to find you so violent against the young man

because this may be the most critical Period of his Fortune.

I came hither with news that will surprise you.

SIR PETER. What! let me hear-

ROWLEY. Sir Oliver is arrived and at this moment in Town.

SIR PETER. How!-you astonish me-I thought you did not expect him

this month!-

ROWLEY. I did not-but his Passage has been remarkably quick.

SIR PETER. Egad I shall rejoice to see my old Friend-'Tis sixteen

years since we met-We have had many a Day together-but does he still

enjoin us not to inform his Nephews of his Arrival—

ROWLEY. Most strictly-He means, before He makes it known to make

some trial of their Dispositions and we have already planned something

for the purpose.

SIR PETER. Ah there needs no art to discover their merits-however

he shall have his way-but pray does he know I am married!

ROWLEY. Yes and will soon wish you joy.

SIR PETER. You may tell him 'tis too late-ah Oliver will laugh

at me-we used to rail at matrimony together-but He has been steady

to his Text-well He must be at my house tho'-I'll instantly give

orders for his Reception-but Master Rowley-don't drop a word that

Lady Teazle and I ever disagree.

ROWLEY. By no means.

SIR PETER. For I should never be able to stand Noll's jokes; so I'd

have him think that we are a very happy couple.

ROWLEY. I understand you-but then you must be very careful not

to differ while He's in the House with you.

SIR PETER. Egad-and so we must-that's impossible. Ah! Master

Rowley when an old Batchelor marries a young wife-He deserves-

no the crime carries the Punishment along with it.

[Exeunt.]

END OF THE FIRST ACT

ACT II

SCENE I.-SIR PETER and LADY TEAZLE

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle-Lady Teazle I'll not bear it.

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter-Sir Peter you-may scold or smile, according

to your Humour[,] but I ought to have my own way in everything,

and what's more I will too-what! tho' I was educated in the country

I know very well that women of Fashion in London are accountable

to nobody after they are married.

SIR PETER. Very well! ma'am very well! so a husband is to have

no influence, no authority—

LADY TEAZLE. Authority! no, to be sure-if you wanted authority

over me, you should have adopted me and not married me[:] I am sure

you were old enough.

SIR PETER. Old enough-aye there it is-well-well-Lady Teazle,

tho' my life may be made unhappy by your Temper-I'll not be ruined

by your extravagance-

LADY TEAZLE. My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant

than a woman of Fashion ought to be.

SIR PETER. No no Madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such

unmeaning Luxury-'Slife to spend as much to furnish your Dressing

Room with Flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the Pantheon

into a Greenhouse, and give a Fete Champetre at Christmas.

LADY TEAZLE. Lord! Sir Peter am I to blame because Flowers are dear

in cold weather— You should find fault with the Climate, and not

with me. For my Part I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year

round-and that Roses grew under one's Feet!

SIR PETER. Oons! Madam-if you had been born to those Fopperies

I shouldn't wonder at your talking thus;-but you forget what your

situation was when I married you-

LADY TEAZLE. No, no, I don't-'twas a very disagreeable one or

I should never nave married you.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler

Style-the daughter of a plain country Squire. Recollect Lady Teazle

when I saw you first-sitting at your tambour in a pretty figured

linen gown-with a Bunch of Keys at your side, and your apartment

hung round with Fruits in worsted, of your own working-

LADY TEAZLE. O horrible!-horrible!-don't put me in mind of it!

SIR PETER. Yes, yes Madam and your daily occupation to inspect

the Dairy, superintend the Poultry, make extracts from the Family

Receipt-book, and comb your aunt Deborah's Lap Dog.

LADY TEAZLE. Abominable!

SIR PETER. Yes Madam-and what were your evening amusements—

to draw Patterns for Ruffles, which you hadn't the materials to make-

play Pope Joan with the Curate-to read a sermon to your Aunt-

or be stuck down to an old Spinet to strum your father to sleep

after a Fox Chase.

LADY TEAZLE. Scandalous-Sir Peter not a word of it true-

SIR PETER. Yes, Madam-These were the recreations I took you from-

and now-no one more extravagantly in the Fashion-Every Fopery

adopted-a head-dress to o'er top Lady Pagoda with feathers pendant

horizontal and perpendicular-you forget[,] Lady Teazle-when a little

wired gauze with a few Beads made you a fly Cap not much bigger than

a blew-bottle, and your Hair was comb'd smooth over a Roll-

LADY TEAZLE. Shocking! horrible Roll!!

SIR PETER. But now-you must have your coach-Vis-a-vis, and three

powder'd Footmen before your Chair-and in the summer a pair of

white cobs to draw you to Kensington Gardens-no recollection when y

ou were content to ride double, behind the Butler, on a docked

Coach-Horse—

LADY TEAZLE. Horrid!-I swear I never did.

SIR PETER. This, madam, was your situation-and what have I not done

for you— I have made you woman of Fashion of Fortune of Rank-

in short I have made you my wife.

LADY TEAZLE. Well then and there is but one thing more you can make

me to add to the obligation.

SIR PETER. What's that pray—

LADY TEAZLE. Your widow.-

SIR PETER. Thank you Madam-but don't flatter yourself for though

your ill-conduct may disturb my Peace it shall never break my Heart

I promise you-however I am equally obliged to you for the Hint.

LADY TEAZLE. Then why will you endeavour to make yourself so

disagreeable to me-and thwart me in every little elegant expense.

SIR PETER. 'Slife-Madam I pray, had you any of these elegant

expenses when you married me—

LADY TEAZLE. Lud Sir Peter would you have me be out of the Fashion—

SIR PETER. The Fashion indeed!-what had you to do with the Fashion

before you married me—

LADY TEAZLE. For my Part-I should think you would like to have

your wife thought a woman of Taste-

SIR PETER. Aye there again-Taste! Zounds Madam you had no Taste

when you married me-

LADY TEAZLE. That's very true indeed Sir Peter! after having married

you I should never pretend to Taste again I allow.

SIR PETER. So-so then-Madam-if these are your Sentiments pray how

came I to be honour'd with your Hand—

LADY TEAZLE. Shall I tell you the Truth—

SIR PETER. If it's not too great a Favour.

LADY TEAZLE. Why the Fact is I was tired of all those agreeable

Recreations which you have so good naturally [naturedly] Described-

and having a Spirit to spend and enjoy a Fortune-I determined

to marry the first rich man that would have me.

SIR PETER. A very honest confession-truly-but pray madam was there

no one else you might have tried to ensnare but me.

LADY TEAZLE. O lud-I drew my net at several but you were the only

one I could catch.

SIR PETER. This is plain dealing indeed-

LADY TEAZLE. But now Sir Peter if we have finish'd our daily Jangle

I presume I may go to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's—

SIR PETER. Aye-there's another Precious circumstance-a charming

set of acquaintance-you have made there!

LADY TEAZLE. Nay Sir Peter they are People of Rank and Fortune-

and remarkably tenacious of reputation.

SIR PETER. Yes egad they are tenacious of Reputation with

a vengeance, for they don't chuse anybody should have a Character

but themselves! Such a crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on hurdles

who has done less mischief than these utterers of forged Tales,

coiners of Scandal, and clippers of Reputation.

LADY TEAZLE. What would you restrain the freedom of speech—

SIR PETER. Aye they have made you just as bad [as] any one

of the Society.

LADY TEAZLE. Why-I believe I do bear a Part with a tolerable Grace-

But I vow I bear no malice against the People I abuse, when I say

an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure Good Humour-and I take it

for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me,

but Sir Peter you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.

SIR PETER. Well well I'll call in, just to look after my own

character.

LADY TEAZLE. Then, indeed, you must make Haste after me, or you'll

be too late-so good bye to ye.

SIR PETER. So-I have gain'd much by my intended expostulation-

yet with what a charming air she contradicts every thing I say-

and how pleasingly she shows her contempt of my authority-Well

tho' I can't make her love me, there is certainly a great satisfaction

in quarrelling with her; and I think she never appears to such

advantage as when she is doing everything in her Power to plague me.

[Exit.]

SCENE II.-At LADY SNEERWELL'S

LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE,

and SURFACE

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay, positively, we will hear it.

SURFACE. Yes-yes the Epigram by all means.

SiR BENJAMIN. O plague on't unkle-'tis mere nonsense-

CRABTREE. No no; 'fore gad very clever for an extempore!

SIR BENJAMIN. But ladies you should be acquainted with

the circumstances. You must know that one day last week

as Lady Betty Curricle was taking the Dust in High Park,

in a sort of duodecimo Phaeton-she desired me to write

some verses on her Ponies-upon which I took out my Pocket-Book-

and in one moment produced-the following:-

'Sure never were seen two such beautiful Ponies;

Other Horses are Clowns-and these macaronies,

Nay to give 'em this Title, I'm sure isn't wrong,

Their Legs are so slim-and their Tails are so long.

CRABTREE. There Ladies-done in the smack of a whip and on Horseback

too.

SURFACE. A very Phoebus, mounted-indeed Sir Benjamin.

SIR BENJAMIN. Oh dear Sir-Trifles-Trifles.

Enter LADY TEAZLE and MARIA

MRS. CANDOUR. I must have a Copy-

LADY SNEERWELL. Lady Teazle-I hope we shall see Sir Peter—

LADY TEAZLE. I believe He'll wait on your Ladyship presently.

LADY SNEERWELL. Maria my love you look grave. Come, you sit down

to Piquet with Mr. Surface.

MARIA. I take very little Pleasure in cards-however, I'll do

as you Please.

LADY TEAZLE. I am surprised Mr. Surface should sit down her-

I thought He would have embraced this opportunity of speaking

to me before Sir Peter came-[Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. Now, I'll die but you are so scandalous I'll forswear

your society.

LADY TEAZLE. What's the matter, Mrs. Candour—

MRS. CANDOUR. They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion

to be handsome.

LADY SNEERWELL. Oh, surely she is a pretty woman…

[CRABTREE.] I am very glad you think so ma'am.

MRS. CANDOUR. She has a charming fresh Colour.

CRABTREE. Yes when it is fresh put on-

LADY TEAZLE. O fie! I'll swear her colour is natural-I have seen

it come and go-

CRABTREE. I dare swear you have, ma'am: it goes of a Night,

and comes again in the morning.

SIR BENJAMIN. True, uncle, it not only comes and goes but what's

more egad her maid can fetch and carry it-

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so!

But surely, now, her Sister, is or was very handsome.

CRABTREE. Who— Mrs. Stucco— O lud! she's six-and-fifty if she's

an hour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Now positively you wrong her[;] fifty-two,

or fifty-three is the utmost-and I don't think she looks more.

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one was

to see her Face.

LADY SNEERWELL. Well-well-if she does take some pains to repair

the ravages of Time-you must allow she effects it with great

ingenuity-and surely that's better than the careless manner

in which the widow Ocre chaulks her wrinkles.

SIR BENJAMIN. Nay now-you are severe upon the widow-come-come,

it isn't that she paints so ill-but when she has finished her Face

she joins it on so badly to her Neck, that she looks like a mended

Statue, in which the Connoisseur sees at once that the Head's modern

tho' the Trunk's antique--

CRABTREE. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Nephew!

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh but I vow I hate

you for it-what do you think of Miss Simper—

SIR BENJAMIN. Why, she has very pretty Teeth.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes and on that account, when she is neither speaking

nor laughing (which very seldom happens)-she never absolutely shuts

her mouth, but leaves it always on a-Jar, as it were--

MRS. CANDOUR. How can you be so ill-natured!

LADY TEAZLE. Nay, I allow even that's better than the Pains Mrs. Prim

takes to conceal her losses in Front-she draws her mouth till

it resembles the aperture of a Poor's-Box, and all her words appear

to slide out edgewise.

LADY SNEERWELL. Very well Lady Teazle I see you can be a little

severe.

LADY TEAZLE. In defence of a Friend it is but justice, but here comes

Sir Peter to spoil our Pleasantry.

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ladies, your obedient-Mercy on me-here is the whole set!

a character's dead at every word, I suppose.

MRS. CANDOUR. I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter-they have been

so censorious and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.

SIR PETER. That must be very distressing to you, Mrs. Candour I dare

swear.

MRS. CANDOUR. O they will allow good Qualities to nobody-not even

good nature to our Friend Mrs. Pursy.

LADY TEAZLE. What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Codrille's

[Quadrille's] last Night—

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay-her bulk is her misfortune and when she takes

such Pains to get rid of it you ought not to reflect on her.

MRS. CANDOUR. 'Tis very true, indeed.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey-

laces herself by pulleys and often in the hottest noon of summer

you may see her on a little squat Pony, with her hair plaited up

behind like a Drummer's and puffing round the Ring on a full trot.

MRS. CANDOUR. I thank you Lady Teazle for defending her.

SIR PETER. Yes, a good Defence, truly!

MRS. CANDOUR. But for Sir Benjamin, He is as censorious as

Miss Sallow.

CRABTREE. Yes and she is a curious Being to pretend to be

censorious-an awkward Gawky, without any one good Point

under Heaven!

LADY SNEERWELL. Positively you shall not be so very severe.

Miss Sallow is a Relation of mine by marriage, and, as for

her Person great allowance is to be made-for, let me tell you

a woman labours under many disadvantages who tries to pass

for a girl at six-and-thirty.

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho', surely she is handsome still-and for the

weakness in her eyes considering how much she reads by candle-light

it is not to be wonder'd at.

LADY SNEERWELL. True and then as to her manner-upon my word

I think it is particularly graceful considering she never had the

least Education[:] for you know her Mother was a Welch milliner,

and her Father a sugar-Baker at Bristow.-

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!

SIR PETER. Yes, damned good-natured! Her own relation!

mercy on me! [Aside.]

MRS. CANDOUR. For my Part I own I cannot bear to hear a friend

ill-spoken of—

SIR PETER. No, to be sure!

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah you are of a moral turn Mrs. Candour and can sit

for an hour to hear Lady Stucco talk sentiments.

LADY SNEERWELL. Nay I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the Dessert

after Dinner for she's just like the Spanish Fruit one cracks

for mottoes-made up of Paint and Proverb.

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, I never will join in ridiculing a Friend-

and so I constantly tell my cousin Ogle-and you all know what

pretensions she has to be critical in Beauty.

LADY TEAZLE. O to be sure she has herself the oddest countenance

that ever was seen-'tis a collection of Features from all the

different Countries of the globe.

SIR BENJAMIN. So she has indeed-an Irish Front--

CRABTREE. Caledonian Locks--

SIR BENJAMIN. Dutch Nose--

CRABTREE. Austrian Lips--

SIR BENJAMIN. Complexion of a Spaniard--

CRABTREE. And Teeth a la Chinoise--

SIR BENJAMIN. In short, her Face resembles a table d'hote at Spa-

where no two guests are of a nation--

CRABTREE. Or a Congress at the close of a general War-wherein all

the members even to her eyes appear to have a different interest

and her Nose and Chin are the only Parties likely to join issue.

MRS. CANDOUR. Ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Mercy on my Life[!] a Person they dine with twice a week!

[Aside.]

LADY SNEERWELL. Go-go-you are a couple of provoking Toads.

MRS. CANDOUR. Nay but I vow you shall not carry the Laugh off so-

for give me leave to say, that Mrs. Ogle--

SIR PETER. Madam-madam-I beg your Pardon-there's no stopping

these good Gentlemen's Tongues-but when I tell you Mrs. Candour

that the Lady they are abusing is a particular Friend of mine,

I hope you'll not take her Part.

LADY SNEERWELL. Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter-but you are

a cruel creature-too Phlegmatic yourself for a jest and too peevish

to allow wit in others.

SIR PETER. Ah Madam true wit is more nearly allow'd [allied—]

to good Nature than your Ladyship is aware of.

LADY SNEERWELL. True Sir Peter-I believe they are so near akin

that they can never be united.

SIR BENJAMIN. O rather Madam suppose them man and wife because

one seldom sees them together.

LADY TEAZLE. But Sir Peter is such an Enemy to Scandal I believe

He would have it put down by Parliament.

SIR PETER. 'Fore heaven! Madam, if they were to consider the

Sporting with Reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors-

and pass an Act for the Preservation of Fame-there are many would

thank them for the Bill.

LADY SNEERWELL. O Lud! Sir Peter would you deprive us of our

Privileges-

SIR PETER. Aye Madam-and then no person should be permitted to kill

characters or run down reputations, but qualified old Maids and

disappointed Widows.-

LADY SNEERWELL. Go, you monster-

MRS. CANDOUR. But sure you would not be quite so severe on those

who only report what they hear—

SIR PETER. Yes Madam, I would have Law Merchant for that too-

and in all cases of slander currency, whenever the Drawer of the Lie

was not to be found, the injured Party should have a right to come

on any of the indorsers.

CRABTREE. Well for my Part I believe there never was a Scandalous

Tale without some foundation.

LADY SNEERWELL. Come Ladies shall we sit down to Cards in the next

Room—

Enter SERVANT, whispers SIR PETER

SIR PETER. I'll be with them directly.-

[Exit SERVANT.]

I'll get away unperceived.

LADY SNEERWELL. Sir Peter you are not leaving us—

SIR PETER. Your Ladyship must excuse me-I'm called away by

particular Business-but I leave my Character behind me-

[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Well certainly Lady Teazle that lord of yours

is a strange being-I could tell you some stories of him would make

you laugh heartily if He wern't your Husband.

LADY TEAZLE. O pray don't mind that-come do let's hear 'em.

[join the rest of the Company going into the Next Room.]

SURFACE. Maria I see you have no satisfaction in this society.

MARIA. How is it possible I should— If to raise malicious smiles

at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us

be the province of wit or Humour, Heaven grant me a double Portion

of Dullness-

SURFACE. Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are-they have

no malice at heart-

MARIA. Then is their conduct still more contemptible[;] for in my

opinion-nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues

but a natural and ungovernable bitterness of Mind.

SURFACE. Undoubtedly Madam-and it has always been a sentiment

of mine-that to propagate a malicious Truth wantonly-is more

despicable than to falsify from Revenge, but can you Maria feel

thus [f]or others and be unkind to me alone-nay is hope to be denied

the tenderest Passion.-

MARIA. Why will you distress me by renewing this subject-

SURFACE. Ah! Maria! you would not treat me thus and oppose your

guardian's Sir Peter's wishes-but that I see that my Profligate

Brother is still a favour'd Rival.

MARIA. Ungenerously urged-but whatever my sentiments of that

unfortunate young man are, be assured I shall not feel more bound

to give him up because his Distresses have sunk him so low as

to deprive him of the regard even of a Brother.

SURFACE. Nay but Maria do not leave me with a Frown-by all that's

honest, I swear--Gad's Life here's Lady Teazle-you must not-

no you shall-for tho' I have the greatest Regard for Lady Teazle--

MARIA. Lady Teazle!

SURFACE. Yet were Sir Peter to suspect--

[Enter LADY TEAZLE, and comes forward]

LADY TEAZLE. What's this, Pray-do you take her for me!-Child you

are wanted in the next Room.-What's all this, pray-

SURFACE. O the most unlucky circumstance in Nature. Maria has

somehow suspected the tender concern I have for your happiness,

and threaten'd to acquaint Sir Peter with her suspicions-and I was

just endeavouring to reason with her when you came.

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed but you seem'd to adopt-a very tender mode

of reasoning-do you usually argue on your knees—

SURFACE. O she's a Child-and I thought a little Bombast--

but Lady Teazle when are you to give me your judgment on my Library

as you promised--

LADY TEAZLE. No-no I begin to think it would be imprudent-

and you know I admit you as a Lover no farther than Fashion requires.

SURFACE. True-a mere Platonic Cicisbeo, what every London wife

is entitled to.

LADY TEAZLE. Certainly one must not be out of the Fashion-however,

I have so much of my country Prejudices left-that-though Sir Peter's

ill humour may vex me ever so, it never shall provoke me to--

SURFACE. The only revenge in your Power-well I applaud your

moderation.

LADY TEAZLE. Go-you are an insinuating Hypocrite-but we shall be

miss'd-let us join the company.

SURFACE. True, but we had best not return together.

LADY TEAZLE. Well don't stay-for Maria shan't come to hear

any more of your Reasoning, I promise you-

[Exit.]

SURFACE. A curious Dilemma truly my Politics have run me into.

I wanted at first only to ingratiate myself with Lady Teazle that she

might not be my enemy with Maria-and I have I don't know how-

become her serious Lover, so that I stand a chance of Committing

a Crime I never meditated-and probably of losing Maria by the

Pursuit!-Sincerely I begin to wish I had never made such a Point

of gaining so very good a character, for it has led me into so many

curst Rogueries that I doubt I shall be exposed at last.

[Exit.]

SCENE III.-At SIR PETER'S

-ROWLEY and SIR OLIVER-

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! ha! and so my old Friend is married, hey—-

a young wife out of the country!-ha! ha! that he should have stood

Bluff to old Bachelor so long and sink into a Husband at last!

ROWLEY. But you must not rally him on the subject Sir Oliver-'tis

a tender Point I assure you though He has been married only seven

months.

SIR OLIVER. Ah then he has been just half a year on the stool

of Repentance-Poor Peter! But you say he has entirely given up

Charles-never sees him, hey—

ROWLEY. His Prejudice against him is astonishing-and I am sure

greatly increased by a jealousy of him with Lady Teazle-which

he has been industriously led into by a scandalous Society-

in the neighbourhood-who have contributed not a little to Charles's

ill name. Whereas the truth is[,] I believe[,] if the lady

is partial to either of them his Brother is the Favourite.

SIR OLIVER. Aye-I know-there are a set of malicious prating

prudent Gossips both male and Female, who murder characters to kill

time, and will rob a young Fellow of his good name before He has years

to know the value of it… but I am not to be prejudiced against

my nephew by such I promise you! No! no-if Charles has done nothing

false or mean, I shall compound for his extravagance.

ROWLEY. Then my life on't, you will reclaim him. Ah, Sir, it gives

me new vigour to find that your heart is not turned against him-

and that the son of my good old master has one friend however left-

SIR OLIVER. What! shall I forget Master Rowley-when I was at his

house myself-egad my Brother and I were neither of us very prudent

youths-and yet I believe you have not seen many better men than your

old master was[.]

ROWLEY. 'Tis this Reflection gives me assurance that Charles may yet

be a credit to his Family-but here comes Sir Peter--

SIR OLIVER. Egad so He does-mercy on me-He's greatly altered-

and seems to have a settled married look-one may read Husband

in his Face at this Distance.-

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Ha! Sir Oliver-my old Friend-welcome to England-

a thousand Times!

SIR OLIVER. Thank you-thank you-Sir Peter-and Efaith I am

as glad to find you well[,] believe me-

SIR PETER. Ah! 'tis a long time since we met-sixteen year I doubt

Sir Oliver-and many a cross accident in the Time-

SIR OLIVER. Aye I have had my share-but, what[!] I find you are

married-hey my old Boy-well-well it can't be help'd-and so I wish

you joy with all my heart-

SIR PETER. Thank you-thanks Sir Oliver.-Yes, I have entered into

the happy state but we'll not talk of that now.

SIR OLIVER. True true Sir Peter old Friends shouldn't begin

on grievances at first meeting. No, no-

ROWLEY. Take care pray Sir--

SIR OLIVER. Well-so one of my nephews I find is a wild Rogue-hey—

SIR PETER. Wild!-oh! my old Friend-I grieve for your disappointment

there-He's a lost young man indeed-however his Brother will make you

amends; Joseph is indeed what a youth should be-everybody in the

world speaks well of him-

SIR OLIVER. I am sorry to hear it-he has too good a character to be

an honest Fellow. Everybody speaks well of him! Psha! then He has

bow'd as low to Knaves and Fools as to the honest dignity of Virtue.

SIR PETER. What Sir Oliver do you blame him for not making Enemies—

SIR OLIVER. Yes-if He has merit enough to deserve them.

SIR PETER. Well-well-you'll be convinced when you know him-'tis

edification to hear him converse-he professes the noblest Sentiments.

SIR OLIVER. Ah plague on his Sentiments-if he salutes me with

a scrap sentence of morality in his mouth I shall be sick directly-

but however don't mistake me Sir Peter I don't mean to defend

Charles's Errors-but before I form my judgment of either of them,

I intend to make a trial of their Hearts-and my Friend Rowley

and I have planned something for the Purpose.

ROWLEY. And Sir Peter shall own he has been for once mistaken.

SIR PETER. My life on Joseph's Honour--

SIR OLIVER. Well come give us a bottle of good wine-and we'll

drink the Lads' Healths and tell you our scheme.

SIR PETER. Alons [Allons], then--

SIR OLIVER. But don't Sir Peter be so severe against your old

Friend's son.

SIR PETER. 'Tis his Vices and Follies have made me his Enemy.-

ROWLEY. Come-come-Sir Peter consider how early He was left

to his own guidance.

SIR OLIVER. Odds my Life-I am not sorry that He has run out

of the course a little-for my Part, I hate to see dry Prudence

clinging to the green juices of youth-'tis like ivy round

a sapling and spoils the growth of the Tree.

END OF THE SECOND ACT

ACT III

SCENE I.-At SIR PETER'S

SIR PETER, SIR OLIVER, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. Well, then, we will see the Fellows first and have our

wine afterwards.-but how is this, Master Rowley-I don't see

the Jet of your scheme.

ROWLEY. Why Sir-this Mr. Stanley whom I was speaking of, is nearly

related to them by their mother. He was once a merchant in Dublin-

but has been ruined by a series of undeserved misfortunes-and now

lately coming over to solicit the assistance of his friends here-

has been flyng [flung] into prison by some of his Creditors-

where he is now with two helpless Boys.-

SIR OLIVER. Aye and a worthy Fellow too I remember him. But what

is this to lead to-—

ROWLEY. You shall hear-He has applied by letter both to Mr. Surface

and Charles-from the former he has received nothing but evasive

promises of future service, while Charles has done all that his

extravagance has left him power to do-and He is at this time

endeavouring to raise a sum of money-part of which, in the midst of

his own distresses, I know He intends for the service of poor Stanley.

SIR OLIVER. Ah! he is my Brother's Son.

SIR PETER. Well, but how is Sir Oliver personally to--

ROWLEY. Why Sir I will inform Charles and his Brother that Stanley

has obtain'd permission to apply in person to his Friends-and as they

have neither of them ever seen him[,] let Sir Oliver assume his

character-and he will have a fair opportunity of judging at least

of the Benevolence of their Dispositions.

SIR PETER. Pshaw! this will prove nothing-I make no doubt Charles

is Coxcomb and thoughtless enough to give money to poor relations

if he had it-

SIR OLIVER. Then He shall never want it-. I have brought

a few Rupees home with me Sir Peter-and I only want to be sure

of bestowing them rightly.-

ROWLEY. Then Sir believe me you will find in the youngest Brother

one who in the midst of Folly and dissipation-has still, as our

immortal Bard expresses it,-

"a Tear for Pity and a Hand open as the day for melting Charity."

SIR PETER. Pish! What signifies his having an open Hand or Purse

either when He has nothing left to give!-but if you talk of humane

Sentiments-Joseph is the man-Well, well, make the trial, if you

please. But where is the fellow whom you brought for Sir Oliver

to examine, relative to Charles's affairs—

ROWLEY. Below waiting his commands, and no one can give him better

intelligence-This, Sir Oliver, is a friendly Jew, who to do him

justice, has done everything in his power to bring your nephew to

a proper sense of his extravagance.

SIR PETER. Pray let us have him in.

ROWLEY. Desire Mr. Moses to walk upstairs.

[Calls to SERVANT.]

SIR PETER. But Pray why should you suppose he will speak the truth—

ROWLEY. Oh, I have convinced him that he has no chance of recovering

certain Sums advanced to Charles but through the bounty of Sir Oliver,

who He knows is arrived; so that you may depend on his Fidelity to his

interest. I have also another evidence in my Power, one Snake, whom

I shall shortly produce to remove some of YOUR Prejudices[,] Sir

Peter[,] relative to Charles and Lady Teazle.

SIR PETER. I have heard too much on that subject.

ROWLEY. Here comes the honest Israelite.

Enter MOSES

-This is Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. Sir-I understand you have lately had great dealings

with my Nephew Charles.

MOSES. Yes Sir Oliver-I have done all I could for him, but He was

ruined before He came to me for Assistance.

SIR OLIVER. That was unlucky truly-for you have had no opportunity

of showing your Talents.

MOSES. None at all-I hadn't the Pleasure of knowing his Distresses

till he was some thousands worse than nothing, till it was impossible

to add to them.

SIR OLIVER. Unfortunate indeed! but I suppose you have done all

in your Power for him honest Moses—

MOSES. Yes he knows that-This very evening I was to have brought

him a gentleman from the city who does not know him and will

I believe advance some money.

SIR PETER. What[!] one Charles has never had money from before—

MOSES. Yes[-]Mr. Premium, of Crutched Friars.

SIR PETER. Egad, Sir Oliver a Thought strikes me!-Charles you say

does'nt know Mr. Premium—

MOSES. Not at all.

SIR PETER. Now then Sir Oliver you may have a better opportunity of

satisfying yourself than by an old romancing tale of a poor Relation-

go with my friend Moses and represent Mr. Premium and then I'll answer

for't you'll see your Nephew in all his glory.

SIR OLIVER. Egad I like this Idea better than the other, and I may

visit Joseph afterwards as old Stanley.

SIR PETER. True so you may.

ROWLEY. Well this is taking Charles rather at a disadvantage, to be

sure-however Moses-you understand Sir Peter and will be faithful--

MOSES. You may depend upon me-and this is near the Time I was

to have gone.

SIR OLIVER. I'll accompany you as soon as you please, Moses--

but hold-I have forgot one thing-how the plague shall I be able

to pass for a Jew—

MOSES. There's no need-the Principal is Christian.

SIR OLIVER. Is He-I'm very sorry to hear it-but then again-

an't I rather too smartly dressed to look like a money-Lender—

SIR PETER. Not at all; 'twould not be out of character, if you

went in your own carriage-would it, Moses!

MOSES. Not in the least.

SIR OLIVER. Well-but-how must I talk[—] there's certainly some

cant of usury and mode of treating that I ought to know.

SIR PETER. Oh, there's not much to learn-the great point as I

take it is to be exorbitant enough in your Demands hey Moses—

MOSES. Yes that's very great Point.

SIR OLIVER. I'll answer for't I'll not be wanting in that-I'll

ask him eight or ten per cent. on the loan-at least.

MOSES. You'll be found out directly-if you ask him no more than

that, you'll be discovered immediately.

SIR OLIVER. Hey!-what the Plague!-how much then—

MOSES. That depends upon the Circumstances-if he appears not

very anxious for the supply, you should require only forty or

fifty per cent.-but if you find him in great Distress, and want

the monies very bad-you may ask double.

SIR PETER. A good-[h]onest Trade you're learning, Sir Oliver-

SIR OLIVER. Truly, I think so-and not unprofitable-

MOSES. Then you know-you haven't the monies yourself, but are

forced to borrow them for him of a Friend.

SIR OLIVER. O I borrow it of a Friend do I—

MOSES. And your friend is an unconscion'd Dog-but you can't help it.

SIR OLIVER. My Friend's an unconscionable Dog, is he—

MOSES. Yes-and He himself hasn't the monies by him-but is forced

to sell stock-at a great loss-

SIR OLIVER. He is forced to sell stock is he-at a great loss,

is he-well that's very kind of him-

SIR PETER. Efaith, Sir Oliver-Mr. Premium I mean-you'll soon

be master of the Trade-but, Moses would have him inquire if the

borrower is a minor-

MOSES. O yes-

SIR PETER. And in that case his Conscience will direct him-

MOSES. To have the Bond in another Name to be sure.

SIR OLIVER. Well-well I shall be perfect-

SIR PETER. But hearkee wouldn't you have him also run out a little

against the annuity Bill-that would be in character I should think-

MOSES. Very much-

ROWLEY. And lament that a young man now must be at years

of discretion before He is suffered to ruin himself!

MOSES. Aye, great Pity!

SIR PETER. And abuse the Public for allowing merit to an act

whose only object is to snatch misfortune and imprudence from

the rapacious Relief of usury! and give the minor a chance of

inheriting his estate without being undone by coming into Possession.

SIR OLIVER. So-so-Moses shall give me further instructions

as we go together.

SIR PETER. You will not have much time[,] for your Nephew lives

hard bye-

SIR OLIVER. Oh Never-fear[:] my Tutor appears so able that tho'

Charles lived in the next street it must be my own Fault if I am

not a compleat Rogue before I turn the Corner-

[Exeunt SIR OLIVER and MOSES.]

SIR PETER. So-now I think Sir Oliver will be convinced-you shan't

follow them Rowley. You are partial and would have prepared Charles

for 'tother plot.

ROWLEY. No upon my word Sir Peter-

SIR PETER. Well, go bring me this Snake, and I'll hear what he has

to say presently. I see Maria, and want to speak with her.-

[Exit ROWLEY.]

I should be glad to be convinced my suspicions of Lady Teazle and

Charles were unjust-I have never yet opened my mind on this subject

to my Friend Joseph… I am determined. I will do it-He will

give me his opinion sincerely.-

Enter MARIA

So Child-has Mr. Surface returned with you-

MARIA. No Sir-He was engaged.

SIR PETER. Well-Maria-do you not reflect[,] the more you converse

with that amiable young man[,] what return his Partiality for you

deserves—

MARIA. Indeed Sir Peter-your frequent importunity on this subject

distresses me extremely-you compell me to Declare that I know no man

who has ever paid me a particular Attention whom I would not prefer

to Mr. Surface-

SIR PETER. Soh! Here's Perverseness-no-no-Maria, 'tis Charles

only whom you would prefer-'tis evident his Vices and Follies have

won your Heart.

MARIA. This is unkind Sir-You know I have obey'd you in neither

seeing nor corresponding with him-I have heard enough to convince

me that He is unworthy my regard-Yet I cannot think it culpable-

if while my understanding severely condemns his Vices, my Heart

suggests some Pity for his Distresses.

SIR PETER. Well well pity him as much as you please, but give your

Heart and Hand to a worthier object.

MARIA. Never to his Brother!

SIR PETER. Go-perverse and obstinate! but take care, Madam-

you have never yet known what the authority of a Guardian is-

don't compel me to inform you of it.-

MARIA. I can only say, you shall not have just Reason-'tis true,

by my Father's will I am for a short period bound to regard you

as his substitute, but I must cease to think you so when you would

compel me to be miserable.

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Was ever man so crossed as I am[—] everything conspiring

to fret me! I had not been involved in matrimony a fortnight[,]

before her Father-a hale and hearty man, died on purpose, I believe-

for the Pleasure of plaguing me with the care of his Daughter…

but here comes my Helpmate!-She appears in great good humour--

how happy I should be if I could teaze her into loving me tho'

but a little--

Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. Lud! Sir Peter I hope you haven't been quarrelling with

Maria— It isn't using me well to be ill humour'd when I am not bye-!

SIR PETER. Ah! Lady Teazle you might have the Power to make me

good humour'd at all times-

LADY TEAZLE. I am sure-I wish I had-for I want you to be in a

charming sweet temper at this moment-do be good humour'd now-

and let me have two hundred Pounds will you—

SIR PETER. Two hundred Pounds! what an't I to be in a good humour

without paying for it-but speak to me thus-and Efaith there's

nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it-but seal me a bond

for the repayment.

LADY TEAZLE. O no-there-my Note of Hand will do as well-

SIR PETER. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you

an independent settlement-I shall shortly surprise you-and you'll

not call me ungenerous-but shall we always live thus-hey—

LADY TEAZLE. If you-please-I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave

off quarrelling provided you'll own you were tired first-

SIR PETER. Well-then let our future contest be who shall be most

obliging.

LADY TEAZLE. I assure you Sir Peter Good Nature becomes you-

you look now as you did before we were married-when you used

to walk with me under the Elms, and tell me stories of what

a Gallant you were in your youth-and chuck me under the chin

you would-and ask me if I thought I could love an old Fellow

who would deny me nothing-didn't you—

SIR PETER. Yes-yes-and you were as kind and attentive--

LADY TEAZLE. Aye so I was-and would always take your Part, when

my acquaintance used to abuse you and turn you into ridicule-

SIR PETER. Indeed!

LADY TEAZLE. Aye-and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff

peevish old batchelor and laugh'd at me for thinking of marrying one

who might be my Father-I have always defended you-and said I didn't

think you so ugly by any means, and that you'd make a very good sort

of a husband-

SIR PETER. And you prophesied right-and we shall certainly now

be the happiest couple--

LADY TEAZLE. And never differ again.

SIR PETER. No never-tho' at the same time indeed-my dear Lady

Teazle-you must watch your Temper very narrowly-for in all our

little Quarrels-my dear-if you recollect my Love you always began

first-

LADY TEAZLE. I beg your Pardon-my dear Sir Peter-indeed-

you always gave the provocation.

SIR PETER. Now-see, my Love take care-contradicting isn't the way

to keep Friends.

LADY TEAZLE. Then don't you begin it my Love!

SIR PETER. There now-you are going on-you don't perceive[,]

my Life, that you are just doing the very thing my Love which

you know always makes me angry.

LADY TEAZLE. Nay-you know if you will be angry without any reason-

my Dear--

SIR PETER. There now you want to quarrel again.

LADY TEAZLE. No-I am sure I don't-but if you will be so peevish--

SIR PETER. There-now who begins first—

LADY TEAZLE. Why you to be sure-I said nothing[-]but there's

no bearing your Temper.

SIR PETER. No-no-my dear-the fault's in your own temper.

LADY TEAZLE. Aye you are just what my Cousin Sophy said you

would be-

SIR PETER. Your Cousin Sophy-is a forward impertinent Gipsey-

LADY TEAZLE. Go you great Bear-how dare you abuse my Relations-

SIR PETER. Now may all the Plagues of marriage be doubled on me,

if ever I try to be Friends with you any more--

LADY TEAZLE. So much the Better.

SIR PETER. No-no Madam 'tis evident you never cared a pin for me-

I was a madman to marry you-

LADY TEAZLE. And I am sure I was a Fooll to marry you-an old

dangling Batchelor, who was single of [at] fifty-only because

He never could meet with any one who would have him.

SIR PETER. Aye-aye-Madam-but you were pleased enough to listen

to me-you never had such an offer before-

LADY TEAZLE. No-didn't I refuse Sir Jeremy Terrier-who everybody

said would have been a better Match-for his estate is just as good

as yours-and he has broke his Neck since we have been married!

SIR PETER. I have done with you Madam! You are an unfeeling-

ungrateful-but there's an end of everything-I believe you capable

of anything that's bad-Yes, Madam-I now believe the Reports

relative to you and Charles-Madam-yes-Madam-you and Charles are-

not without grounds--

LADY TEAZLE. Take-care Sir Peter-you had better not insinuate any

such thing! I'll not be suspected without cause I promise you--

SIR PETER. Very-well-Madam-very well! a separate maintenance-

as soon as you Please. Yes Madam or a Divorce-I'll make an example

of myself for the Benefit of all old Batchelors-Let us separate,

Madam.

LADY TEAZLE. Agreed-agreed-and now-my dear Sir Peter we are

of a mind again, we may be the happiest couple-and never differ

again, you know-ha! ha!-Well you are going to be in a Passion

I see-and I shall only interrupt you-so, bye! bye! hey-

young Jockey try'd and countered.

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Plagues and tortures! She pretends to keep her temper,

can't I make her angry neither! O! I am the miserable fellow!

But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her Temper-No she may

break my Heart-but she shan't keep her Temper.

[Exit.]

SCENE II.-At CHARLES's House

Enter TRIP, MOSES, and SIR OLIVER

TRIP. Here Master Moses-if you'll stay a moment-I'll try whether

Mr.--what's the Gentleman's Name—

SIR OLIVER. Mr.--Moses-what IS my name--

MOSES. Mr. Premium--

TRIP. Premium-very well.

[Exit TRIP-taking snuff.]

SIR OLIVER. To judge by the Servants-one wouldn't believe the master

was ruin'd-but what-sure this was my Brother's House--

MOSES. Yes Sir Mr. Charles bought it of Mr. Joseph with the

Furniture, Pictures, &c.-just as the old Gentleman left it-

Sir Peter thought it a great peice of extravagance in him.

SIR OLIVER. In my mind the other's economy in selling it to him

was more reprehensible by half.--

Enter TRIP

TRIP. My Master[,] Gentlemen[,] says you must wait, he has company,

and can't speak with you yet.

SIR OLIVER. If he knew who it was wanted to see him, perhaps

he wouldn't have sent such a Message.

TRIP. Yes-yes-Sir-He knows you are here-I didn't forget

little Premium-no-no--

SIR OLIVER. Very well-and pray Sir what may be your Name—

TRIP. Trip Sir-my Name is Trip, at your Service.

SIR OLIVER. Well then Mr. Trip-I presume your master is seldom

without company--

TRIP. Very seldom Sir-the world says ill-natured things of him

but 'tis all malice-no man was ever better beloved-Sir he seldom

sits down to dinner without a dozen particular Friends--

SIR OLIVER. He's very happy indeed-you have a pleasant sort

of Place here I guess—

TRIP. Why yes-here are three or four of us pass our time agreeably

enough-but then our wages are sometimes a little in arrear-and not

very great either-but fifty Pounds a year and find our own Bags and

Bouquets--

SIR OLIVER. Bags and Bouquets!-Halters and Bastinadoes! [Aside.]

TRIP. But a propos Moses-have you been able to get me that little

Bill discounted—

SIR OLIVER. Wants to raise money too!-mercy on me! has his

distresses, I warrant[,] like a Lord-and affects Creditors and Duns!

[Aside.]

MOSES. 'Twas not be done, indeed--

TRIP. Good lack-you surprise me-My Friend Brush has indorsed it

and I thought when he put his name at the Back of a Bill 'twas

as good as cash.

MOSES. No 'twouldn't do.

TRIP. A small sum-but twenty Pound-harkee, Moses do you think

you could get it me by way of annuity—

SIR OLIVER. An annuity! ha! ha! a Footman raise money by annuity-

Well done Luxury egad! [Aside.]

MOSES. Who would you get to join with you—

TRIP. You know my Lord Applice-you have seen him however--

MOSES. Yes--

TRIP. You must have observed what an appearance he makes-nobody

dresses better, nobody throws off faster-very well this Gentleman

will stand my security.

MOSES. Well-but you must insure your Place.

TRIP. O with all my Heart-I'll insure my Place, and my Life too,

if you please.

SIR OLIVER. It's more than I would your neck--

MOSES. But is there nothing you could deposit—

TRIP. Why nothing capital of my master's wardrobe has drop'd

lately-but I could give you a mortgage on some of his winter

Cloaths with equity of redemption before November or-you shall

have the reversion-of the French velvet, or a post obit on the

Blue and Silver-these I should think Moses-with a few Pair of

Point Ruffles as a collateral security-hey, my little Fellow—

MOSES. Well well-we'll talk presently-we detain the Gentlemen--

SIR OLIVER. O pray don't let me interrupt Mr. Trip's Negotiation.

TRIP. Harkee-I heard the Bell-I believe, Gentlemen I can now

introduce you-don't forget the annuity little Moses.

SIR OLIVER. If the man be a shadow of his Master this is the Temple

of Dissipation indeed!

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.-CHARLES, CARELESS, etc., etc.

At Table with Wine

CHARLES. 'Fore Heaven, 'tis true!-there is the great Degeneracy

of the age-many of our acquaintance have Taste-Spirit, and

Politeness-but plague on't they won't drink--

CARELESS. It is so indeed-Charles-they give into all the

substantial Luxuries of the Table-and abstain from nothing but

wine and wit-Oh, certainly society suffers by it intolerably-

for now instead of the social spirit of Raillery that used

to mantle over a glass of bright Burgundy their conversation

is become just like the Spa water they drink which has all the

Pertness and flatulence of champaine without its spirit or Flavour.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. But what are they to do who love Play better than

wine--

CARELESS. True-there's Harry diets himself-for gaming and is now

under a hazard Regimen.

CHARLES. Then He'll have the worst of it-what you wouldn't train

a horse for the course by keeping him from corn-For my Part egad

I am never so successful as when I'm a little-merry-let me throw

on a Bottle of Champaine and I never lose-at least I never feel

my losses which is exactly the same thing.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Aye that may be-but it is as impossible to follow

wine and play as to unite Love and Politics.

CHARLES. Pshaw-you may do both-Caesar made Love and Laws

in a Breath-and was liked by the Senate as well as the Ladies-

but no man can pretend to be a Believer in Love, who is an abjurer

of wine-'tis the Test by which a Lover knows his own Heart-

fill a dozen Bumpers to a dozen Beauties, and she that floats

atop is the maid that has bewitched you.

CARELESS. Now then Charles-be honest and give us yours--

CHARLES. Why I have withheld her only in compassion to you-

if I toast her you should give a round of her Peers, which

is impossible! on earth!

CARELESS. O, then we'll find some canonized Vestals or heathen

Goddesses that will do I warrant--

CHARLES. Here then-Bumpers-you Rogues-Bumpers! Maria-Maria--

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Maria who—

CHARLES. Oh, damn the Surname 'tis too formal to be register'd

in Love's calendar-but now Careless beware-beware-we must have

Beauty's superlative.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nay Never study[,] Careless-we'll stand to the

Toast-tho' your mistress should want an eye-and you know you have

a song will excuse you--

CARELESS. Egad so I have-and I'll give him the song instead

of the Lady.--

SONG.-AND CHORUS-

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

Here's to the widow of fifty;

Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean,

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.

Chorus. Let the toast pass,-

Drink to the lass,

I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize;

Now to the maid who has none, sir;

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,

And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow:

Now to her that's as brown as a berry:

Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,

And now to the damsel that's merry.

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim,

Young or ancient, I care not a feather;

So fill a pint bumper quite up to the brim,

So fill up your glasses, nay, fill to the brim,

And let us e'en toast them together.

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c.

[Enter TRIP whispers CHARLES]

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Bravo Careless-Ther's Toast and Sentiment too.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. E' faith there's infinite charity in that song.--

CHARLES. Gentlemen, you must excuse me a little.-Careless,

take the Chair, will you—

CARELESS. Nay prithee, Charles-what now-this is one of your

Peerless Beauties I suppose-has dropped in by chance—

CHARLES. No-Faith-to tell you the Truth 'tis a Jew and a Broker

who are come by appointment.

CARELESS. O dam it let's have the Jew in.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Aye and the Broker too by all means--

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes yes the Jew and the Broker.

CHARLES. Egad with all my Heart-Trip-bid the Gentlemen walk in-

tho' there's one of them a Stranger I can tell you--

TRIP. What Sir-would you chuse Mr. Premium to come up with--

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes-yes Mr. Premium certainly.

CARELESS. To be sure-Mr. Premium-by all means Charles,

let us give them some generous Burgundy, and perhaps they'll

grow conscientious--

CHARLES. O, Hang 'em-no-wine does but draw forth a man's natural

qualities; and to make them drink would only be to whet their Knavery.

Enter TRIP, SIR OLIVER, and MOSES

CHARLES. So-honest Moses-walk in-walk in pray Mr. Premium-

that's the Gentleman's name isn't it Moses.

MOSES. Yes Sir.

CHARLES. Set chairs-Trim.-Sit down, Mr Premium.-Glasses Trim.-

sit down Moses.-Come, Mr. Premium I'll give you a sentiment-

Here's Success to Usury-Moses fill the Gentleman a bumper.

MOSES. Success to Usury!

CARELESS. Right Moses-Usury is Prudence and industry and deserves

to succeed--

SIR OLIVER. Then Here is-all the success it deserves!

[Drinks.]

CHARLES. Mr. Premium you and I are but strangers yet-but I hope

we shall be better acquainted by and bye--

SIR OLIVER. Yes Sir hope we shall-more intimately perhaps than

you'll wish. [Aside.]

CARELESS. No, no, that won't do! Mr. Premium, you have demurred

at the toast, and must drink it in a pint bumper.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. A pint bumper, at least.

MOSES. Oh, pray, sir, consider-Mr. Premium's a gentleman.

CARELESS. And therefore loves good wine.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Give Moses a quart glass-this is mutiny,

and a high contempt for the chair.

CARELESS. Here, now for't! I'll see justice done, to the last

drop of my bottle.

SIR OLIVER. Nay, pray, gentlemen-I did not expect this usage.

CHARLES. No, hang it, you shan't; Mr. Premium's a stranger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd! I wish I was well out of their company. [Aside.]

CARELESS. Plague on 'em then! if they won't drink, we'll not sit down

with them. Come, Harry, the dice are in the next room.-Charles,

you'll join us when you have finished your business with the

gentlemen—

CHARLES. I will! I will!-

[Exeunt SIR HARRY BUMPER and GENTLEMEN; CARELESS following.]

Careless.

CARELESS. [Returning.] Well!

CHARLES. Perhaps I may want you.

CARELESS. Oh, you know I am always ready: word, note, or bond,

'tis all the same to me.

[Exit.]

MOSES. Sir, this is Mr. Premium, a gentleman of the strictest

honour and secrecy; and always performs what he undertakes.

Mr. Premium, this is--

CHARLES. Psha! have done. Sir, my friend Moses is a very honest

fellow, but a little slow at expression: he'll be an hour giving

us our titles. Mr. Premium, the plain state of the matter is this:

I am an extravagant young fellow who wants to borrow money; you I

take to be a prudent old fellow, who have got money to lend. I am

blockhead enough to give fifty per cent. sooner than not have it!

and you, I presume, are rogue enough to take a hundred if you can

get it. Now, sir, you see we are acquainted at once, and may proceed

to business without further ceremony.

SIR OLIVER. Exceeding frank, upon my word. I see, sir, you are

not a man of many compliments.

CHARLES. Oh, no, sir! plain dealing in business I always think best.

SIR OLIVER. Sir, I like you the better for it. However, You are

mistaken in one thing; I have no money to lend, but I believe

I could procure some of a friend; but then he's an unconscionable dog.

Isn't he, Moses— And must sell stock to accommodate you. Mustn't he,

Moses!

MOSES. Yes, indeed! You know I always speak the truth, and scorn

to tell a lie!

CHARLES. Right. People that speak truth generally do. But these

are trifles, Mr. Premium. What! I know money isn't to be bought

without paying for't!

SIR OLIVER. Well, but what security could you give— You have

no land, I suppose—

CHARLES. Not a mole-hill, nor a twig, but what's in the bough pots

out of the window!

SIR OLIVER. Nor any stock, I presume—

CHARLES. Nothing but live stock-and that's only a few pointers

and ponies. But pray, Mr. Premium, are you acquainted at all

with any of my connections—

SIR OLIVER. Why, to say the truth, I am.

CHARLES. Then you must know that I have a devilish rich uncle

in the East Indies, Sir Oliver Surface, from whom I have the greatest

expectations—

SIR OLIVER. That you have a wealthy uncle, I have heard; but how your

expectations will turn out is more, I believe, than you can tell.

CHARLES. Oh, no!-there can be no doubt. They tell me I'm

a prodigious favourite, and that he talks of leaving me everything.

SIR OLIVER. Indeed! this is the first I've heard of it.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, 'tis just so. Moses knows 'tis true; don't you,

Moses—

MOSES. Oh, yes! I'll swear to't.

SIR OLIVER. Egad, they'll persuade me presently I'm at Bengal.

[Aside.]

CHARLES. Now I propose, Mr. Premium, if it's agreeable to you,

a post-obit on Sir Oliver's life: though at the same time the old

fellow has been so liberal to me, that I give you my word, I should

be very sorry to hear that anything had happened to him.

SIR OLIVER. Not more than I should, I assure you. But the bond you

mention happens to be just the worst security you could offer me-

for I might live to a hundred and never see the principal.

CHARLES. Oh, yes, you would! the moment Sir Oliver dies, you know,

you would come on me for the money.

SIR OLIVER. Then I believe I should be the most unwelcome dun

you ever had in your life.

CHARLES. What! I suppose you're afraid that Sir Oliver is too good

a life—

SIR OLIVER. No, indeed I am not; though I have heard he is as hale

and healthy as any man of his years in Christendom.

CHARLES. There again, now, you are misinformed. No, no,

the climate has hurt him considerably, poor uncle Oliver.

Yes, yes, he breaks apace, I'm told-and is so much altered

lately that his nearest relations would not know him.

SIR OLIVER. No! Ha! ha! ha! so much altered lately that his

nearest relations would not know him! Ha! ha! ha! egad-ha! ha! ha!

CHARLES. Ha! ha!-you're glad to hear that, little Premium—

SIR OLIVER. No, no, I'm not.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, you are-ha! ha! ha!-you know that mends your

chance.

SIR OLIVER. But I'm told Sir Oliver is coming over; nay, some say

he is actually arrived.

CHARLES. Psha! sure I must know better than you whether he's come or

not. No, no, rely on't he's at this moment at Calcutta. Isn't he,

Moses—

MOSES. Oh, yes, certainly.

SIR OLIVER. Very true, as you say, you must know better than I,

though I have it from pretty good authority. Haven't I, Moses—

MOSES. Yes, most undoubted!

SIR OLIVER. But, Sir, as I understand you want a few hundreds

immediately, is there nothing you could dispose of—

CHARLES. How do you mean—

SIR OLIVER. For instance, now, I have heard that your father left

behind him a great quantity of massy old plate.

CHARLES. O Lud! that's gone long ago. Moses can tell you how

better than I can.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Good lack! all the family race-cups and

corporation-bowls!-[Aloud.] Then it was also supposed that his

library was one of the most valuable and compact.

CHARLES. Yes, yes, so it was-vastly too much so for a private

gentleman. For my part, I was always of a communicative disposition,

so I thought it a shame to keep so much knowledge to myself.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Mercy upon me! learning that had run in the

family like an heir-loom!-[Aloud.] Pray, what has become of the

books—

CHARLES. You must inquire of the auctioneer, Master Premium, for

I don't believe even Moses can direct you.

MOSES. I know nothing of books.

SIR OLIVER. So, so, nothing of the family property left, I suppose—

CHARLES. Not much, indeed; unless you have a mind to the family

pictures. I have got a room full of ancestors above: and if you

have a taste for old paintings, egad, you shall have 'em a bargain!

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the devil! sure, you wouldn't sell your

forefathers, would you—

CHARLES. Every man of them, to the best bidder.

SIR OLIVER. What! your great-uncles and aunts—

CHARLES. Ay, and my great-grandfathers and grandmothers too.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Now I give him up!-[Aloud.] What the plague,

have you no bowels for your own kindred— Odd's life! do you take me

for Shylock in the play, that you would raise money of me on your own

flesh and blood—

CHARLES. Nay, my little broker, don't be angry: what need you care,

if you have your money's worth—

SIR OLIVER. Well, I'll be the purchaser: I think I can dispose of

the family canvas.-[Aside.] Oh, I'll never forgive him this! never!

Re-enter CARELESS

CARELESS. Come, Charles, what keeps you—

CHARLES. I can't come yet. I'faith, we are going to have a sale

above stairs; here's little Premium will buy all my ancestors!

CARELESS. Oh, burn your ancestors!

CHARLES. No, he may do that afterwards, if he pleases. Stay,

Careless, we want you: egad, you shall be auctioneer-so come

along with us.

CARELESS. Oh, have with you, if that's the case. I can handle

a hammer as well as a dice box! Going! going!

SIR OLIVER. Oh, the profligates! [Aside.]

CHARLES. Come, Moses, you shall be appraiser, if we want one.

Gad's life, little Premium, you don't seem to like the business—

SIR OLIVER. Oh, yes, I do, vastly! Ha! ha! ha! yes, yes, I think

it a rare joke to sell one's family by auction-ha! ha!-[Aside.]

Oh, the prodigal!

CHARLES. To be sure! when a man wants money, where the plague should

he get assistance, if he can't make free with his own relations—

[Exeunt.]

SIR OLIVER. I'll never forgive him; never! never!

END OF THE THIRD ACT

ACT IV

SCENE I.-A Picture Room in CHARLES SURFACE'S House

Enter CHARLES, SIR OLIVER, MOSES, and CARELESS

CHARLES. Walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in;-here they are, the family

of the Surfaces, up to the Conquest.

SIR OLIVER. And, in my opinion, a goodly collection.

CHARLES. Ay, ay, these are done in the true spirit of portrait-

painting; no volontiere grace or expression. Not like the works

of your modern Raphaels, who give you the strongest resemblance,

yet contrive to make your portrait independent of you; so that

you may sink the original and not hurt the picture. No, no;

the merit of these is the inveterate likeness-all stiff and

awkward as the originals, and like nothing in human nature besides.

SIR OLIVER. Ah! we shall never see such figures of men again.

CHARLES. I hope not. Well, you see, Master Premium, what a domestic

character I am; here I sit of an evening surrounded by my family. But

come, get to your pulpit, Mr. Auctioneer; here's an old gouty chair

of my grandfather's will answer the purpose.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, this will do. But, Charles, I haven't a hammer;

and what's an auctioneer without his hammer—

CHARLES. Egad, that's true. What parchment have we here— Oh,

our genealogy in full. [Taking pedigree down.] Here, Careless,

you shall have no common bit of mahogany, here's the family tree

for you, you rogue! This shall be your hammer, and now you may

knock down my ancestors with their own pedigree.

SIR OLIVER. What an unnatural rogue!-an ex post facto parricide!

[Aside.]

CARELESS. Yes, yes, here's a list of your generation indeed;-

faith, Charles, this is the most convenient thing you could have

found for the business, for 'twill not only serve as a hammer,

but a catalogue into the bargain. Come, begin-A-going, a-going,

a-going!

CHARLES. Bravo, Careless! Well, here's my great uncle, Sir Richard

Ravelin, a marvellous good general in his day, I assure you.

He served in all the Duke of Marlborough's wars, and got that cut

over his eye at the battle of Malplaquet. What say you, Mr. Premium—

look at him-there's a hero! not cut out of his feathers, as your

modern clipped captains are, but enveloped in wig and regimentals,

as a general should be. What do you bid—

SIR OLIVER. [Aside to Moses.] Bid him speak.

MOSES. Mr. Premium would have you speak.

CHARLES. Why, then, he shall have him for ten pounds, and I'm sure

that's not dear for a staff-officer.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Heaven deliver me! his famous uncle Richard

for ten pounds!-[Aloud.] Very well, sir, I take him at that.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down my uncle Richard.-Here, now,

is a maiden sister of his, my great-aunt Deborah, done by Kneller,

in his best manner, and esteemed a very formidable likeness.

There she is, you see, a shepherdess feeding her flock. You shall

have her for five pounds ten-the sheep are worth the money.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] Ah! poor Deborah! a woman who set such a value

on herself!-[Aloud.] Five pounds ten-she's mine.

CHARLES. Knock down my aunt Deborah! Here, now, are two that were

a sort of cousins of theirs.-You see, Moses, these pictures were done

some time ago, when beaux wore wigs, and the ladies their own hair.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, truly, head-dresses appear to have been a little

lower in those days.

CHARLES. Well, take that couple for the same.

MOSES. 'Tis a good bargain.

CHARLES. Careless!-This, now, is a grandfather of my mother's,

a learned judge, well known on the western circuit,-What do you

rate him at, Moses—

MOSES. Four guineas.

CHARLES. Four guineas! Gad's life, you don't bid me the price

of his wig.-Mr. Premium, you have more respect for the woolsack;

do let us knock his lordship down at fifteen.

SIR OLIVER. By all means.

CARELESS. Gone!

CHARLES. And there are two brothers of his, William and Walter Blunt,

Esquires, both members of Parliament, and noted speakers; and, what's

very extraordinary, I believe, this is the first time they were ever

bought or sold.

SIR OLIVER. That is very extraordinary, indeed! I'll take them at

your own price, for the honour of Parliament.

CARELESS. Well said, little Premium! I'll knock them down at forty.

CHARLES. Here's a jolly fellow-I don't know what relation, but

he was mayor of Norwich: take him at eight pounds.

SIR OLIVER. No, no; six will do for the mayor.

CHARLES. Come, make it guineas, and I'll throw you the two aldermen

here into the bargain.

SIR OLIVER. They're mine.

CHARLES. Careless, knock down the mayor and aldermen. But,

plague on't! we shall be all day retailing in this manner;

do let us deal wholesale: what say you, little Premium—

Give me three hundred pounds for the rest of the family in the lump.

CARELESS. Ay, ay, that will be the best way.

SIR OLIVER. Well, well, anything to accommodate you; they are mine.

But there is one portrait which you have always passed over.

CARELESS. What, that ill-looking little fellow over the settee—

SIR OLIVER. Yes, sir, I mean that; though I don't think him so

ill-looking a little fellow, by any means.

CHARLES. What, that— Oh; that's my uncle Oliver! 'Twas done

before he went to India.

CARELESS. Your uncle Oliver! Gad, then you'll never be friends,

Charles. That, now, to me, is as stern a looking rogue as ever

I saw; an unforgiving eye, and a damned disinheriting countenance!

an inveterate knave, depend on't. Don't you think so, little Premium—

SIR OLIVER. Upon my soul, Sir, I do not; I think it is as honest a

looking face as any in the room, dead or alive. But I suppose uncle

Oliver goes with the rest of the lumber—

CHARLES. No, hang it! I'll not part with poor Noll. The old fellow

has been very good to me, and, egad, I'll keep his picture while I've

a room to put it in.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] The rogue's my nephew after all!-[Aloud.]

But, sir, I have somehow taken a fancy to that picture.

CHARLES. I'm sorry for't, for you certainly will not have it.

Oons, haven't you got enough of them—

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] I forgive him everything!-[Aloud.] But,

Sir, when I take a whim in my head, I don't value money. I'll

give you as much for that as for all the rest.

CHARLES. Don't tease me, master broker; I tell you I'll not part

with it, and there's an end of it.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] How like his father the dog is.- [Aloud.]

Well, well, I have done.- [Aside.] I did not perceive it before,

but I think I never saw such a striking resemblance.- [Aloud.]

Here is a draught for your sum.

CHARLES. Why, 'tis for eight hundred pounds!

SIR OLIVER. You will not let Sir Oliver go—

CHARLES. Zounds! no! I tell you, once more.

SIR OLIVER. Then never mind the difference, we'll balance that

another time. But give me your hand on the bargain; you are an

honest fellow, Charles-I beg pardon, sir, for being so free.-

Come, Moses.

CHARLES. Egad, this is a whimsical old fellow!-But hark'ee,

Premium, you'll prepare lodgings for these gentlemen.

SIR OLIVER. Yes, yes, I'll send for them in a day or two.

CHARLES. But, hold; do now send a genteel conveyance for them,

for, I assure you, they were most of them used to ride in their

own carriages.

SIR OLIVER. I will, I will-for all but Oliver.

CHARLES. Ay, all but the little nabob.

SIR OLIVER. You're fixed on that—

CHARLES. Peremptorily.

SIR OLIVER. [Aside.] A dear extravagant rogue!-[Aloud.] Good day!

Come, Moses.-[Aside.] Let me hear now who dares call him profligate!

[Exit with MOSES.]

CARELESS. Why, this is the oddest genius of the sort I ever met with!

CHARLES. Egad, he's the prince of brokers, I think. I wonder how

the devil Moses got acquainted with so honest a fellow.-Ha! here's

Rowley.-Do, Careless, say I'll join the company in a few moments.

CARELESS. I will-but don't let that old blockhead persuade you

to squander any of that money on old musty debts, or any such

nonsense; for tradesmen, Charles, are the most exorbitant fellows.

CHARLES. Very true, and paying them is only encouraging them.

CARELESS. Nothing else.

CHARLES. Ay, ay, never fear.-

[Exit CARELESS.]

So! this was an odd old fellow, indeed. Let me see, two-thirds

of these five hundred and thirty odd pounds are mine by right.

Fore Heaven! I find one's ancestors are more valuable relations

than I took them for!-Ladies and gentlemen, your most obedient

and very grateful servant.

[Bows ceremoniously to the pictures.]

Enter ROWLEY

Ha! old Rowley! egad, you are just come in time to take leave

of your old acquaintance.

ROWLEY. Yes, I heard they were a-going. But I wonder you can

have such spirits under so many distresses.

CHARLES. Why, there's the point! my distresses are so many, that

I can't affort to part with my spirits; but I shall be rich and

splenetic, all in good time. However, I suppose you are surprised

that I am not more sorrowful at parting with so many near relations;

to be sure, 'tis very affecting; but you see they never move a muscle,

so why should I—

ROWLEY. There's no making you serious a moment.

CHARLES. Yes, faith, I am so now. Here, my honest Rowley, here,

get me this changed directly, and take a hundred pounds of it

immediately to old Stanley.

ROWLEY. A hundred pounds! Consider only--

CHARLES. Gad's life, don't talk about it! poor Stanley's wants

are pressing, and, if you don't make haste, we shall have some one

call that has a better right to the money.

ROWLEY. Ah! there's the point! I never will cease dunning you

with the old proverb--

CHARLES. BE JUST BEFORE YOU'RE GENEROUS.-Why, so I would if I could;

but Justice is an old hobbling beldame, and I can't get her to keep

pace with Generosity, for the soul of me.

ROWLEY. Yet, Charles, believe me, one hour's reflection--

CHARLES. Ay, ay, it's very true; but, hark'ee, Rowley, while I have,

by Heaven I'll give; so, damn your economy! and now for hazard.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.-The Parlour

Enter SIR OLIVER and MOSES

MOSES. Well sir, I think as Sir Peter said you have seen Mr. Charles

in high Glory-'tis great Pity He's so extravagant.

SIR OLIVER. True-but he would not sell my Picture-

MOSES. And loves wine and women so much-

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture.

MOSES. And game so deep-

SIR OLIVER. But He wouldn't sell my Picture. O-here's Rowley!

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. So-Sir Oliver-I find you have made a Purchase--

SIR OLIVER. Yes-yes-our young Rake has parted with his Ancestors

like old Tapestry-sold Judges and Generals by the foot-and maiden

Aunts as cheap as broken China.-

ROWLEY. And here has he commissioned me to re-deliver you Part

of the purchase-money-I mean tho' in your necessitous character

of old Stanley--

MOSES. Ah! there is the Pity of all! He is so damned charitable.

ROWLEY. And I left a Hosier and two Tailors in the Hall-who

I'm sure won't be paid, and this hundred would satisfy 'em.

SIR OLIVER. Well-well-I'll pay his debts and his Benevolences

too-I'll take care of old Stanley-myself- But now I am no more

a Broker, and you shall introduce me to the elder Brother

as Stanley--

ROWLEY. Not yet a while-Sir Peter I know means to call there about

this time.

Enter TRIP

TRIP. O Gentlemen-I beg Pardon for not showing you out-this way-

Moses, a word.

[Exit TRIP with MOSES.]

SIR OLIVER. There's a Fellow for you- Would you believe it that

Puppy intercepted the Jew, on our coming, and wanted to raise money

before he got to his master!

ROWLEY. Indeed!

SIR OLIVER. Yes-they are now planning an annuity Business-

Ah Master Rowley[,] in my Day Servants were content with the Follies

of their Masters when they were worn a little Thread Bare but now

they have their Vices like their Birth Day cloaths with the gloss on.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III.-A Library

SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. No letter from Lady Teazle—

SERVANT. No Sir-

SURFACE. I am surprised she hasn't sent if she is prevented from

coming-! Sir Peter certainly does not suspect me-yet I wish

I may not lose the Heiress, thro' the scrape I have drawn myself

in with the wife-However, Charles's imprudence and bad character

are great Points in my Favour.

SERVANT. Sir-I believe that must be Lady Teazle-

SURFACE. Hold[!] see-whether it is or not before you go to the

Door-I have a particular Message for you if it should be my Brother.

SERVANT. 'Tis her ladyship Sir-She always leaves her Chair at the

milliner's in the next Street.

SURFACE. Stay-stay-draw that Screen before the Window-that will

do-my opposite Neighbour is a maiden Lady of so curious a temper!-

[SERVANT draws the screen and exit.]

I have a difficult Hand to play in this Affair-Lady Teazle as lately

suspected my Views on Maria-but She must by no means be let into

that secret, at least till I have her more in my Power.

Enter LADY TEAZLE

LADY TEAZLE. What[!] Sentiment in soliloquy-have you been very

impatient now—-O Lud! don't pretend to look grave-I vow I couldn't

come before--

SURFACE. O Madam[,] Punctuality is a species of Constancy, a very

unfashionable quality in a Lady.

LADY TEAZLE. Upon my word you ought to pity me, do you now Sir Peter

is grown so ill-tempered to me of Late! and so jealous! of Charles too

that's the best of the story isn't it—

SURFACE. I am glad my scandalous Friends keep that up. [Aside.]

LADY TEAZLE. I am sure I wish He would let Maria marry him-

and then perhaps He would be convinced-don't you-Mr. Surface—

SURFACE. Indeed I do not.-[Aside.] O certainly I do-for then

my dear Lady Teazle would also be convinced how wrong her suspicions

were of my having any design on the silly Girl--

LADY TEAZLE. Well-well I'm inclined to believe you-besides

I really never could perceive why she should have so any admirers.

SURFACE. O for her Fortune-nothing else-

LADY TEAZLE. I believe so for tho' she is certainly very pretty-

yet she has no conversation in the world-and is so grave and

reserved-that I declare I think she'd have made an excellent wife

for Sir Peter.-

SURFACE. So she would.

LADY TEAZLE. Then-one never hears her speak ill of anybody-which

you know is mighty dull-

SURFACE. Yet she doesn't want understanding-

LADY TEAZLE. No more she does-yet one is always disapointed when

one hears [her] speak-For though her Eyes have no kind of meaning

in them-she very seldom talks Nonsense.

SURFACE. Nay-nay surely-she has very fine eyes-

LADY TEAZLE. Why so she has-tho' sometimes one fancies there's

a little sort of a squint-

SURFACE. A squint-O fie-Lady Teazle.

LADY TEAZLE. Yes yes-I vow now-come there is a left-handed Cupid

in one eye-that's the Truth on't.

SURFACE. Well-his aim is very direct however-but Lady Sneerwell

has quite corrupted you.

LADY TEAZLE. No indeed-I have not opinion enough of her to be taught

by her, and I know that she has lately rais'd many scandalous hints of

me-which you know one always hears from one common Friend, or other.

SURFACE. Why to say truth I believe you are not more obliged to her

than others of her acquaintance.

LADY TEAZLE. But isn't [it] provoking to hear the most ill-natured

Things said to one and there's my friend Lady Sneerwell has circulated

I don't know how many scandalous tales of me, and all without

any foundation, too; that's what vexes me.

SURFACE. Aye Madam to be sure that is the Provoking circumstance-

without Foundation-yes yes-there's the mortification indeed-

for when a slanderous story is believed against one-there certainly

is no comfort like the consciousness of having deserved it--

LADY TEAZLE. No to be sure-then I'd forgive their malice-

but to attack me, who am really so innocent-and who never say

an ill-natured thing of anybody-that is, of any Friend-!

and then Sir Peter too-to have him so peevish-and so suspicious-

when I know the integrity of my own Heart-indeed 'tis monstrous.

SURFACE. But my dear Lady Teazle 'tis your own fault if you suffer

it-when a Husband entertains a groundless suspicion of his Wife and

withdraws his confidence from her-the original compact is broke and

she owes it to the Honour of her sex to endeavour to outwit him-

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed-So that if He suspects me without cause

it follows that the best way of curing his jealousy is to give him

reason for't-

SURFACE. Undoubtedly-for your Husband [should] never be deceived

in you-and in that case it becomes you to be frail in compliment

to his discernment-

LADY TEAZLE. To be sure what you say is very reasonable-and when

the consciousness of my own Innocence--

SURFACE. Ah: my dear-Madam there is the great mistake-'tis this

very conscious Innocence that is of the greatest Prejudice to you-

what is it makes you negligent of Forms and careless of the world's

opinion-why the consciousness of your Innocence-what makes you

thoughtless in your Conduct and apt to run into a thousand little

imprudences-why the consciousness of your Innocence-what makes you

impatient of Sir Peter's temper, and outrageous at his suspicions-

why the consciousness of your own Innocence-

LADY TEAZLE. 'Tis very true.

SURFACE. Now my dear Lady Teazle if you but once make a trifling

Faux Pas you can't conceive how cautious you would grow, and how

ready to humour and agree with your Husband.

LADY TEAZLE. Do you think so-

SURFACE. O I'm sure on't; and then you'd find all scandal would

cease at once-for in short your Character at Present is like

a Person in a Plethora, absolutely dying of too much Health-

LADY TEAZLE. So-so-then I perceive your Prescription is that

I must sin in my own Defence-and part with my virtue to preserve

my Reputation.-

SURFACE. Exactly so upon my credit Ma'am[.]

LADY TEAZLE. Well certainly this is the oddest Doctrine-and the

newest Receipt for avoiding calumny.

SURFACE. An infallible one believe me-Prudence like experience

must be paid for-

LADY TEAZLE. Why if my understanding were once convinced--

SURFACE. Oh, certainly Madam, your understanding SHOULD be

convinced-yes-yes-Heaven forbid I should persuade you to do

anything you THOUGHT wrong-no-no-I have too much honor

to desire it-

LADY TEAZLE. Don't-you think we may as well leave Honor

out of the Argument— [Rises.]

SURFACE. Ah-the ill effects of your country education I see

still remain with you.

LADY TEAZLE. I doubt they do indeed-and I will fairly own to you,

that If I could be persuaded to do wrong it would be by Sir Peter's

ill-usage-sooner than your honourable Logic, after all.

SURFACE. Then by this Hand, which He is unworthy of--

Enter SERVANT

Sdeath, you Blockhead-what do you want—

SERVANT. I beg your Pardon Sir, but I thought you wouldn't chuse

Sir Peter to come up without announcing him—

SURFACE. Sir Peter-Oons-the Devil!

LADY TEAZLE. Sir Peter! O Lud! I'm ruined! I'm ruin'd!

SERVANT. Sir, 'twasn't I let him in.

LADY TEAZLE. O I'm undone-what will become of me now Mr. Logick.-

Oh! mercy, He's on the Stairs-I'll get behind here-and if ever

I'm so imprudent again--

[Goes behind the screen-]

SURFACE. Give me that-Book!--

[Sits down-SERVANT pretends to adjust his Hair-]

Enter SIR PETER

SIR PETER. Aye-ever improving himself!-Mr. Surface-

SURFACE. Oh! my dear Sir Peter-I beg your Pardon-[Gaping and

throws away the Book.] I have been dosing [dozing] over a stupid

Book! well-I am much obliged to you for this Call-You haven't

been here I believe since I fitted up this Room-Books you know

are the only Things I am a Coxcomb in-

SIR PETER. 'Tis very neat indeed-well well that's proper-

and you make even your Screen a source of knowledge-hung

I perceive with Maps-

SURFACE. O yes-I find great use in that Screen.

SIR PETER. I dare say you must-certainly-when you want to find

out anything in a Hurry.

SURFACE. Aye or to hide anything in a Hurry either-

SIR PETER. Well I have a little private Business-if we were alone-

SURFACE. You needn't stay.

SERVANT. No-Sir--

[Exit SERVANT.]

SURFACE. Here's a Chair-Sir Peter-I beg--

SIR PETER. Well-now we are alone-there IS a subject-my dear

Friend-on which I wish to unburthen my Mind to you-a Point

of the greatest moment to my Peace-in short, my good Friend-

Lady Teazle's conduct of late has made me very unhappy.

SURFACE. Indeed I'm very sorry to hear it-

SIR PETER. Yes 'tis but too plain she has not the least regard

for me-but what's worse, I have pretty good Authority to suspect

that she must have formed an attachment to another.

SURFACE. Indeed! you astonish me.

SIR PETER. Yes-and between ourselves-I think I have discover'd

the Person.

SURFACE. How-you alarm me exceedingly!

SIR PETER. Ah: my dear Friend I knew you would sympathize with me.-

SURFACE. Yes-believe me Sir Peter-such a discovery would hurt me

just as much as it would you-

SIR PETER. I am convinced of it-ah-it is a happiness to have

a Friend whom one can trust even with one's Family secrets-

but have you no guess who I mean—

SURFACE. I haven't the most distant Idea-it can't be

Sir Benjamin Backbite.

SIR PETER. O-No. What say you to Charles—

SURFACE. My Brother-impossible!-O no Sir Peter you mustn't credit

the scandalous insinuations you hear-no no-Charles to be sure

has been charged with many things but go I can never think

He would meditate so gross an injury-

SIR PETER. Ah! my dear Friend-the goodness of your own Heart

misleads you-you judge of others by yourself.

SURFACE. Certainly Sir Peter-the Heart that is conscious of its own

integrity is ever slowest to credit another's Treachery.-

SIR PETER. True-but your Brother has no sentiment[-]you never hear

him talk so.-

SURFACE. Well there certainly is no knowing what men are capable of-

no-there is no knowing-yet I can't but think Lady Teazle herself

has too much Principle--

SIR PETER. Aye but what's Principle against the Flattery of a

handsome-lively young Fellow-

SURFACE. That's very true-

SIR PETER. And then you know the difference of our ages makes it very

improbable that she should have any great affection for me-and if she

were to be frail and I were to make it Public-why the Town would only

laugh at the foolish old Batchelor, who had married a girl--

SURFACE. That's true-to be sure People would laugh.

SIR PETER. Laugh-aye and make Ballads-and Paragraphs and the Devil

knows what of me-

SURFACE. No-you must never make it public-

SIR PETER. But then again that the Nephew of my old Friend,

Sir Oliver[,] should be the Person to attempt such an injury-

hurts me more nearly-

SURFACE. Undoubtedly-when Ingratitude barbs the Dart of Injury-

the wound has double danger in it-

SIR PETER. Aye-I that was in a manner left his Guardian-

in his House he had been so often entertain'd-who never in my Life

denied him my advice-

SURFACE. O 'tis not to be credited-There may be a man capable

of such Baseness, to be sure-but for my Part till you can give me

positive Proofs you must excuse me withholding my Belief. However,

if this should be proved on him He is no longer a brother of mine

I disclaim kindred with him-for the man who can break thro' the Laws

of Hospitality-and attempt the wife of his Friend deserves to be

branded as the Pest of Society.

SIR PETER. What a difference there is between you-what noble

sentiments!-

SURFACE. But I cannot suspect Lady Teazle's honor.

SIR PETER. I'm sure I wish to think well of her-and to remove

all ground of Quarrel between us-She has lately reproach'd me more

than once with having made no settlement on her-and, in our last

Quarrel, she almost hinted that she should not break her Heart if

I was dead.-now as we seem to differ in our Ideas of Expense

I have resolved she shall be her own Mistress in that Respect

for the future-and if I were to die-she shall find that I have not

been inattentive to her Interests while living-Here my Friend

are the Draughts of two Deeds which I wish to have your opinion on-

by one she will enjoy eight hundred a year independent while I live-

and by the other the bulk of my Fortune after my Death.

SURFACE. This conduct Sir Peter is indeed truly Generous! I wish

it may not corrupt my pupil.-[Aside.]

SIR PETER. Yes I am determined she shall have no cause to complain-

tho' I would not have her acquainted with the latter instance of my

affection yet awhile.

SURFACE. Nor I-if I could help it.

SIR PETER. And now my dear Friend if you please we will talk over

the situation of your Hopes with Maria.

SURFACE. No-no-Sir Peter-another Time if you Please-[softly].

SIR PETER. I am sensibly chagrined at the little Progress you seem

to make in her affection.

SURFACE. I beg you will not mention it-What are my Disappointments

when your Happiness is in Debate [softly]. 'Sdeath I shall be ruined

every way.

SIR PETER. And tho' you are so averse to my acquainting Lady Teazle

with YOUR passion, I am sure she's not your Enemy in the Affair.

SURFACE. Pray Sir Peter, now oblige me.-I am really too much

affected by the subject we have been speaking of to bestow a thought

on my own concerns-The Man who is entrusted with his Friend's

Distresses can never--

Enter SERVANT

Well, Sir—

SERVANT. Your Brother Sir, is-speaking to a Gentleman in the Street,

and says He knows you're within.

SURFACE. 'Sdeath, Blockhead-I'm NOT within-I'm out for the Day.

SIR PETER. Stay-hold-a thought has struck me-you shall be at home.

SURFACE. Well-well-let him up.-

[Exit SERVANT.]

He'll interrupt Sir Peter, however. [Aside.]

SIR PETER. Now, my good Friend-oblige me I Intreat you-before

Charles comes-let me conceal myself somewhere-Then do you tax him

on the Point we have been talking on-and his answers may satisfy me

at once.-

SURFACE. O Fie-Sir Peter-would you have ME join in so mean

a Trick— to trepan my Brother too—

SIR PETER. Nay you tell me you are SURE He is innocent-if so you

do him the greatest service in giving him an opportunity to clear

himself-and-you will set my Heart at rest-come you shall not refuse

me-here behind this Screen will be-hey! what the Devil-there seems

to be one listener here already-I'll swear I saw a Petticoat.-

SURFACE. Ha! ha! ha! Well this is ridiculous enough-I'll tell you,

Sir Peter-tho' I hold a man of Intrigue to be a most despicable

Character-yet you know it doesn't follow that a man is to be an

absolute Joseph either-hark'ee-'tis a little French Milliner-

a silly Rogue that plagues me-and having some character, on your

coming she ran behind the Screen.-

SIR PETER. Ah a Rogue-but 'egad she has overheard all I have been

saying of my Wife.

SURFACE. O 'twill never go any farther, you may depend on't.

SIR PETER. No!-then efaith let her hear it out.-Here's a Closet

will do as well.-

SURFACE. Well, go in there.-

SIR PETER. Sly rogue-sly Rogue.-

SURFACE. Gad's my Life what an Escape-! and a curious situation

I'm in!-to part man and wife in this manner.-

LADY TEAZLE. [peeps out.] Couldn't I steal off-

SURFACE. Keep close, my Angel!

SIR PETER. [Peeping out.] Joseph-tax him home.

SURFACE. Back-my dear Friend

LADY TEAZLE. [Peeping out.] Couldn't you lock Sir Peter in—-

SURFACE. Be still-my Life!

SIR PETER. [Peeping.] You're sure the little Milliner won't blab—

SURFACE. In! in! my good Sir Peter-'Fore Gad, I wish I had a key

to the Door.

Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Hollo! Brother-what has been the matter— your Fellow

wouldn't let me up at first-What[—] have you had a Jew or a wench

with you.-

SURFACE. Neither Brother I assure you.

CHARLES. But-what has made Sir Peter steal off-I thought He had

been with you-

SURFACE. He WAS Brother-but hearing you were coming He didn't

chuse to stay-

CHARLES. What[!] was the old Gentleman afraid I wanted to borrow

money of him—

SURFACE. No Sir-but I am sorry to find[,] Charles-you have lately

given that worthy man grounds for great Uneasiness.

CHARLES. Yes they tell me I do that to a great many worthy men-

but how so Pray—

SURFACE. To be plain with you Brother He thinks you are endeavouring

to gain Lady Teazle's Affections from him.

CHARLES. Who I-O Lud! not I upon my word.-Ha! ha! ha! so the old

Fellow has found out that He has got a young wife has He— or what's

worse she has discover'd that she has an old Husband—

SURFACE. This is no subject to jest on Brother-He who can laugh--

CHARLES. True true as you were going to say-then seriously I never

had the least idea of what you charge me with, upon my honour.

SURFACE. Well it will give Sir Peter great satisfaction to hear this.

CHARLES. [Aloud.] To be sure, I once thought the lady seemed

to have taken a fancy-but upon my soul I never gave her the least

encouragement.-Beside you know my Attachment to Maria-

SURFACE. But sure Brother even if Lady Teazle had betray'd the

fondest Partiality for you--

CHARLES. Why-look'ee Joseph-I hope I shall never deliberately

do a dishonourable Action-but if a pretty woman was purposely

to throw herself in my way-and that pretty woman married to a man

old enough to be her Father--

SURFACE. Well—

CHARLES. Why I believe I should be obliged to borrow a little of your

Morality, that's all.-but, Brother do you know now that you surprize

me exceedingly by naming me with Lady Teazle-for faith I always

understood YOU were her Favourite-

SURFACE. O for shame-Charles-This retort is Foolish.

CHARLES. Nay I swear I have seen you exchange such significant

Glances--

SURFACE. Nay-nay-Sir-this is no jest-

CHARLES. Egad-I'm serious-Don't you remember-one Day, when

I called here--

SURFACE. Nay-prithee-Charles

CHARLES. And found you together--

SURFACE. Zounds, Sir-I insist--

CHARLES. And another time when your Servant--

SURFACE. Brother-brother a word with you-Gad I must stop him-

[Aside.]

CHARLES. Informed-me that--

SURFACE. Hush!-I beg your Pardon but Sir Peter has overheard all

we have been saying-I knew you would clear yourself, or I shouldn't

have consented-

CHARLES. How Sir Peter-Where is He-

SURFACE. Softly, there! [Points to the closet.]

CHARLES. [In the Closet!] O 'fore Heaven I'll have him out-

Sir Peter come forth!

SURFACE. No-no--

CHARLES. I say Sir Peter-come into court.-

[Pulls in SIR PETER.]

What-my old Guardian-what[!] turn inquisitor and take evidence

incog.-

SIR PETER. Give me your hand-Charles-I believe I have suspected

you wrongfully; but you mustn't be angry with Joseph-'twas my Plan-

CHARLES. Indeed!-

SIR PETER. But I acquit you-I promise you I don't think near so ill

of you as I did-what I have heard has given me great satisfaction.

CHARLES. Egad then 'twas lucky you didn't hear any more. Wasn't it

Joseph—

SIR PETER. Ah! you would have retorted on him.

CHARLES. Aye-aye-that was a Joke.

SIR PETER. Yes, yes, I know his honor too well.

CHARLES. Yet you might as well have suspected him as me in this

matter, for all that-mightn't He, Joseph—

SIR PETER. Well well I believe you-

SURFACE. Would they were both out of the Room!

Enter SERVANT, whispers SURFACE

SIR PETER. And in future perhaps we may not be such Strangers.

SURFACE. Gentlemen-I beg Pardon-I must wait on you downstairs-

Here is a Person come on particular Business--

CHARLES. Well you can see him in another Room-Sir Peter and

I haven't met a long time and I have something to say [to] him.

SURFACE. They must not be left together.-I'll send this man away

and return directly-

[SURFACE goes out.]

SIR PETER. Ah-Charles if you associated more with your Brother,

one might indeed hope for your reformation-He is a man of Sentiment-

Well! there is nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!

CHARLES. Pshaw! He is too moral by half-and so apprehensive of

his good Name, as he calls it, that I suppose He would as soon let

a Priest in his House as a Girl-

SIR PETER. No-no-come come,-you wrong him. No, no, Joseph is no

Rake but he is no such Saint in that respect either. I have a great

mind to tell him-we should have such a Laugh!

CHARLES. Oh, hang him— He's a very Anchorite-a young Hermit!

SIR PETER. Harkee-you must not abuse him, he may chance to hear

of it again I promise you.

CHARLES. Why you won't tell him—

SIR PETER. No-but-this way. Egad, I'll tell him-Harkee, have

you a mind to have a good laugh against Joseph—

CHARLES. I should like it of all things-

SIR PETER. Then, E'faith, we will-I'll be quit with him for

discovering me.-He had a girl with him when I called. [Whispers.]

CHARLES. What[!] Joseph[!] you jest-

SIR PETER. Hush!-a little French Milliner-and the best of the jest

is-she's in the room now.

CHARLES. The devil she is-

SIR PETER. Hush! I tell you. [Points.]

CHARLES. Behind the screen! Odds Life, let's unveil her!

SIR PETER. No-no! He's coming-you shan't indeed!

CHARLES. Oh, egad, we'll have a peep at the little milliner!

SIR PETER. Not for the world-Joseph will never forgive me.

CHARLES. I'll stand by you--

SIR PETER. Odds Life! Here He's coming-

[SURFACE enters just as CHARLES throws down the Screen.]

Re-enter JOSEPH SURFACE

CHARLES. Lady Teazle! by all that's wonderful!

SIR PETER. Lady Teazle! by all that's Horrible!

CHARLES. Sir Peter-This is one of the smartest French Milliners

I ever saw!-Egad, you seem all to have been diverting yourselves

here at Hide and Seek-and I don't see who is out of the Secret!-

Shall I beg your Ladyship to inform me!-Not a word!-Brother!-

will you please to explain this matter— What! is Honesty Dumb too—-

Sir Peter, though I found you in the Dark-perhaps you are not so

now-all mute! Well tho' I can make nothing of the Affair, I make

no doubt but you perfectly understand one another-so I'll leave you

to yourselves.-[Going.] Brother I'm sorry to find you have given

that worthy man grounds for so much uneasiness!-Sir Peter-there's

nothing in the world so noble as a man of Sentiment!-

[Stand for some time looking at one another. Exit CHARLES.]

SURFACE. Sir Peter-notwithstanding I confess that appearances

are against me. If you will afford me your Patience I make no doubt

but I shall explain everything to your satisfaction.-

SIR PETER. If you please-Sir-

SURFACE. The Fact is Sir-that Lady Teazle knowing my Pretensions

to your ward Maria-I say Sir Lady Teazle-being apprehensive of the

Jealousy of your Temper-and knowing my Friendship to the Family. S

he Sir-I say call'd here-in order that I might explain those

Pretensions-but on your coming being apprehensive-as I said of your

Jealousy-she withdrew-and this, you may depend on't is the whole

truth of the Matter.

SIR PETER. A very clear account upon the [my] word and I dare swear

the Lady will vouch for every article of it.

LADY TEAZLE. For not one word of it Sir Peter-

SIR PETER. How[!] don't you think it worthwhile to agree in the lie.

LADY TEAZLE. There is not one Syllable of Truth in what that

Gentleman has told you.

SIR PETER. I believe you upon my soul Ma'am-

SURFACE. 'Sdeath, madam, will you betray me! [Aside.]

LADY TEAZLE. Good Mr. Hypocrite by your leave I will speak for

myself-

SIR PETER. Aye let her alone Sir-you'll find she'll make out

a better story than you without Prompting.

LADY TEAZLE. Hear me Sir Peter-I came hither on no matter relating

to your ward and even ignorant of this Gentleman's pretensions to

her-but I came-seduced by his insidious arguments-and pretended

Passion[-]at least to listen to his dishonourable Love if not

to sacrifice your Honour to his Baseness.

SIR PETER. Now, I believe, the Truth is coming indeed[.]

SURFACE. The Woman's mad-

LADY TEAZLE. No Sir-she has recovered her Senses. Your own Arts

have furnished her with the means. Sir Peter-I do not expect you

to credit me-but the Tenderness you express'd for me, when I am sure

you could not think I was a witness to it, has penetrated so to my

Heart that had I left the Place without the Shame of this discovery-

my future life should have spoken the sincerity of my Gratitude-

as for that smooth-tongued Hypocrite-who would have seduced the wife

of his too credulous Friend while he pretended honourable addresses

to his ward-I behold him now in a light so truly despicable that

I shall never again Respect myself for having Listened to him.

[Exit.]

SURFACE. Notwithstanding all this Sir Peter-Heaven knows--

SIR PETER. That you are a Villain!-and so I leave you to your

conscience-

SURFACE. You are too Rash Sir Peter-you SHALL hear me-The man

who shuts out conviction by refusing to--

[Exeunt, SURFACE following and speaking.]

END OF THE FOURTH

ACT V

SCENE I.-The Library

Enter SURFACE and SERVANT

SURFACE. Mr. Stanley! and why should you think I would see him—-

you must know he came to ask something!

SERVANT. Sir-I shouldn't have let him in but that Mr. Rowley

came to the Door with him.

SURFACE. Pshaw!-Blockhead to suppose that I should now be in

a Temper to receive visits from poor Relations!-well why don't

you show the Fellow up—

SERVANT. I will-Sir-Why, Sir-it was not my Fault that Sir Peter

discover'd my Lady--

SURFACE. Go, fool!-

[Exit SERVANT.]

Sure Fortune never play'd a man of my policy such a Trick before-

my character with Sir Peter!-my Hopes with Maria!-destroy'd in

a moment!-I'm in a rare Humour to listen to other People's

Distresses!-I shan't be able to bestow even a benevolent sentiment

on Stanley-So! here-He comes and Rowley with him-I MUST try to

recover myself, and put a little Charity into my Face however.--

[Exit.]

Enter SIR OLIVER and ROWLEY

SIR OLIVER. What! does He avoid us— that was He-was it not—

ROWLEY. It was Sir-but I doubt you are come a little too abruptly-

his Nerves are so weak that the sight of a poor Relation may be too

much for him-I should have gone first to break you to him.

SIR OLIVER. A Plague of his Nerves-yet this is He whom Sir Peter

extolls as a Man of the most Benevolent way of thinking!-

ROWLEY. As to his way of thinking-I can't pretend to decide[,]

for, to do him justice He appears to have as much speculative

Benevolence as any private Gentleman in the Kingdom-though he is

seldom so sensual as to indulge himself in the exercise of it--

SIR OLIVER. Yet [he] has a string of charitable Sentiments I suppose

at his Fingers' ends!-

ROWLEY. Or, rather at his Tongue's end Sir Oliver; for I believe

there is no sentiment he has more faith in than that 'Charity begins

at Home.'

SIR OLIVER. And his I presume is of that domestic sort which never

stirs abroad at all.

ROWLEY. I doubt you'll find it so-but He's coming-I mustn't seem

to interrupt you-and you know immediately-as you leave him-I come

in to announce-your arrival in your real Character.

SIR OLIVER. True-and afterwards you'll meet me at Sir Peter's--

ROWLEY. Without losing a moment.

[Exit.]

SIR OLIVER. So-I see he has premeditated a Denial by the

Complaisance of his Features.

Enter SURFACE

SURFACE. Sir-I beg you ten thousand Pardons for keeping-

you a moment waiting-Mr. Stanley-I presume--

SIR OLIVER. At your Service.

SURFACE. Sir-I beg you will do me the honour to sit down-

I entreat you Sir.

SIR OLIVER. Dear Sir there's no occasion-too civil by half!

SURFACE. I have not the Pleasure of knowing you, Mr. Stanley-

but I am extremely happy to see you look so well-you were nearly

related to my mother-I think Mr. Stanley--

SIR OLIVER. I was Sir-so nearly that my present Poverty I fear

may do discredit to her Wealthy Children-else I should not

have presumed to trouble you.-

SURFACE. Dear Sir-there needs no apology-He that is in Distress

tho' a stranger has a right to claim kindred with the wealthy-

I am sure I wish I was of that class, and had it in my power

to offer you even a small relief.

SIR OLIVER. If your Unkle, Sir Oliver were here-I should have

a Friend--

SURFACE. I wish He was Sir, with all my Heart-you should not want

an advocate with him-believe me Sir.

SIR OLIVER. I should not need one-my Distresses would recommend

me.-but I imagined-his Bounty had enabled you to become the agent

of his Charity.

SURFACE. My dear Sir-you are strangely misinformed-Sir Oliver

is a worthy Man, a worthy man-a very worthy sort of Man-but avarice

Mr. Stanley is the vice of age-I will tell you my good Sir in

confidence:-what he has done for me has been a mere-nothing[;]

tho' People I know have thought otherwise and for my Part I never

chose to contradict the Report.

SIR OLIVER. What!-has he never transmitted-you-Bullion-Rupees-

Pagodas!

SURFACE. O Dear Sir-Nothing of the kind-no-no-a few Presents

now and then-china, shawls, congo Tea, Avadavats-and indian

Crackers-little more, believe me.

SIR OLIVER. Here's Gratitude for twelve thousand pounds!-

Avadavats and indian Crackers.

SURFACE. Then my dear-Sir-you have heard, I doubt not, of the

extravagance of my Brother-Sir-there are very few would credit

what I have done for that unfortunate young man.

SIR OLIVER. Not I for one!

SURFACE. The sums I have lent him! indeed-I have been exceedingly

to blame-it was an amiable weakness! however I don't pretend

to defend it-and now I feel it doubly culpable-since it has

deprived me of the power of serving YOU Mr. Stanley as my Heart

directs--

SIR OLIVER. Dissembler! Then Sir-you cannot assist me—

SURFACE. At Present it grieves me to say I cannot-but whenever

I have the ability, you may depend upon hearing from me.

SIR OLIVER. I am extremely sorry--

SURFACE. Not more than I am believe me-to pity without the Power

to relieve is still more painful than to ask and be denied--

SIR OLIVER. Kind Sir-your most obedient humble servant.

SURFACE. You leave me deeply affected Mr. Stanley-William-

be ready to open the door--

SIR OLIVER. O, Dear Sir, no ceremony--

SURFACE. Your very obedient--

SIR OLIVER. Your most obsequious--

SURFACE. You may depend on hearing from me whenever I can be

of service--

SIR OLIVER. Sweet Sir-you are too good--

SURFACE. In the mean time I wish you Health and Spirits--

SIR OLIVER. Your ever grateful and perpetual humble Servant--

SURFACE. Sir-yours as sincerely--

SIR OLIVER. Charles!-you are my Heir.

[Exit.]

SURFACE, solus

Soh!-This is one bad effect of a good Character-it invites

applications from the unfortunate and there needs no small degree

of address to gain the reputation of Benevolence without incurring

the expence.-The silver ore of pure Charity is an expensive article

in the catalogue of a man's good Qualities-whereas the sentimental

French Plate I use instead of it makes just as good a shew-and pays

no tax.

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. Mr. Surface-your Servant: I was apprehensive of

interrupting you, tho' my Business demands immediate attention-

as this Note will inform you--

SURFACE. Always Happy to see Mr. Rowley-how-Oliver-Surface!-

My Unkle arrived!

ROWLEY. He is indeed-we have just parted-quite well-after

a speedy voyage-and impatient to embrace his worthy Nephew.

SURFACE. I am astonished!-William[!] stop Mr. Stanley, if He's not

gone--

ROWLEY. O-He's out of reach-I believe.

SURFACE. Why didn't you let me know this when you came in together.-

ROWLEY. I thought you had particular-Business-but must be gone

to inform your Brother, and appoint him here to meet his Uncle.

He will be with you in a quarter of an hour--

SURFACE. So he says. Well-I am strangely overjoy'd at his coming-

never to be sure was anything so damn'd unlucky!

ROWLEY. You will be delighted to see how well He looks.

SURFACE. O-I'm rejoiced to hear it-just at this time--

ROWLEY. I'll tell him how impatiently you expect him--

SURFACE. Do-do-pray-give my best duty and affection-indeed,

I cannot express the sensations I feel at the thought of seeing

him!-certainly his coming just at this Time is the cruellest

piece of ill Fortune--

[Exeunt.]

SCENE II.-At SIR PETER'S House

Enter MRS. CANDOUR and SERVANT

SERVANT. Indeed Ma'am, my Lady will see nobody at Present.

MRS. CANDOUR. Did you tell her it was her Friend Mrs. Candour--

SERVANT. Yes Ma'am but she begs you will excuse her--

MRS. CANDOUR. Do go again-I shall be glad to see her if it be

only for a moment-for I am sure she must be in great Distress

[exit MAID]

-Dear Heart-how provoking!-I'm not mistress of half the

circumstances!-We shall have the whole affair in the newspapers

with the Names of the Parties at length before I have dropt the story

at a dozen houses.

Enter SIR BENJAMIN

Sir Benjamin you have heard, I suppose--

SIR BENJAMIN. Of Lady Teazle and Mr. Surface--

MRS. CANDOUR. And Sir Peter's Discovery--

SIR BENJAMIN. O the strangest Piece of Business to be sure--

MRS. CANDOUR. Well I never was so surprised in my life!-I am so

sorry for all Parties-indeed,

SIR BENJAMIN. Now I don't Pity Sir Peter at all-he was so

extravagant-partial to Mr. Surface--

MRS. CANDOUR. Mr. Surface!-why 'twas with Charles Lady Teazle

was detected.

SIR BENJAMIN. No such thing Mr. Surface is the gallant.

MRS. CANDOUR. No-no-Charles is the man-'twas Mr. Surface brought

Sir Peter on purpose to discover them--

SIR BENJAMIN. I tell you I have it from one--

MRS. CANDOUR. And I have it from one--

SIR BENJAMIN. Who had it from one who had it--

MRS. CANDOUR. From one immediately-but here comes Lady Sneerwell-

perhaps she knows the whole affair.

Enter LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. So-my dear Mrs. Candour Here's a sad affair

of our Friend Teazle--

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye my dear Friend, who could have thought it.

LADY SNEERWELL. Well there is no trusting to appearances[;] tho'-

indeed she was always too lively for me.

MRS. CANDOUR. To be sure, her manners were a little too-free-

but she was very young--

LADY SNEERWELL. And had indeed some good Qualities.

MRS. CANDOUR. So she had indeed-but have you heard the Particulars—

LADY SNEERWELL. No-but everybody says that Mr. Surface--

SIR BENJAMIN. Aye there I told you-Mr. Surface was the Man.

MRS. CANDOUR. No-no-indeed the assignation was with Charles--

LADY SNEERWELL. With Charles!-You alarm me Mrs. Candour!

MRS. CANDOUR. Yes-yes He was the Lover-Mr. Surface-do him

justice-was only the Informer.

SIR BENJAMIN. Well I'll not dispute with you Mrs. Candour-

but be it which it may-I hope that Sir Peter's wound will not--

MRS. CANDOUR. Sir Peter's wound! O mercy! I didn't hear a word

of their Fighting--

LADY SNEERWELL. Nor I a syllable!

SIR BENJAMIN. No-what no mention of the Duel--

MRS. CANDOUR. Not a word-

SIR BENJAMIN. O, Lord-yes-yes-they fought before they left

the Room.

LADY SNEERWELL. Pray let us hear.

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye-do oblige-us with the Duel--

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Sir'-says Sir Peter-immediately after the Discovery,

'you are a most ungrateful Fellow.'

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye to Charles--

SIR BENJAMIN. No, no-to Mr. Surface-'a most ungrateful Fellow;

and old as I am, Sir,' says He, 'I insist on immediate satisfaction.'

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye that must have been to Charles for 'tis very

unlikely Mr. Surface should go to fight in his own House.

SIR BENJAMIN. Gad's Life, Ma'am, not at all-giving me immediate

satisfaction-on this, Madam-Lady Teazle seeing Sir Peter in such

Danger-ran out of the Room in strong Hysterics-and Charles after

her calling out for Hartshorn and Water! Then Madam-they began

to fight with Swords--

Enter CRABTREE

CRABTREE. With Pistols-Nephew-I have it from undoubted authority.

MRS. CANDOUR. Oh, Mr. Crabtree then it is all true--

CRABTREE. Too true indeed Ma'am, and Sir Peter Dangerously

wounded--

SIR BENJAMIN. By a thrust in second-quite thro' his left side

CRABTREE. By a Bullet lodged in the Thorax--

MRS. CANDOUR. Mercy-on me[!] Poor Sir Peter--

CRABTREE. Yes, ma'am tho' Charles would have avoided the matter

if he could--

MRS. CANDOUR. I knew Charles was the Person--

SIR BENJAMIN. O my Unkle I see knows nothing of the matter--

CRABTREE. But Sir Peter tax'd him with the basest ingratitude--

SIR BENJAMIN. That I told you, you know--

CRABTREE. Do Nephew let me speak-and insisted on immediate--

SIR BENJAMIN. Just as I said--

CRABTREE. Odds life! Nephew allow others to know something too-

A Pair of Pistols lay on the Bureau-for Mr. Surface-it seems,

had come home the Night before late from Salt-Hill where He had been

to see the Montem with a Friend, who has a Son at Eton-so unluckily

the Pistols were left Charged--

SIR BENJAMIN. I heard nothing of this--

CRABTREE. Sir Peter forced Charles to take one and they fired-

it seems pretty nearly together-Charles's shot took Place as I tell

you-and Sir Peter's miss'd-but what is very extraordinary the Ball

struck against a little Bronze Pliny that stood over the Fire Place-

grazed out of the window at a right angle-and wounded the Postman,

who was just coming to the Door with a double letter from

Northamptonshire.

SIR BENJAMIN. My Unkle's account is more circumstantial I must

confess-but I believe mine is the true one for all that.

LADY SNEERWELL. I am more interested in this Affair than they

imagine-and must have better information.-

[Exit.]

SIR BENJAMIN. Ah! Lady Sneerwell's alarm is very easily accounted

for.-

CRABTREE. Yes yes, they certainly DO say-but that's neither here

nor there.

MRS. CANDOUR. But pray where is Sir Peter at present--

CRABTREE. Oh! they-brought him home and He is now in the House,

tho' the Servants are order'd to deny it--

MRS. CANDOUR. I believe so-and Lady Teazle-I suppose attending

him--

CRABTREE. Yes yes-and I saw one of the Faculty enter just before

me--

SIR BENJAMIN. Hey-who comes here--

CRABTREE. Oh, this is He-the Physician depend on't.

MRS. CANDOUR. O certainly it must be the Physician and now we shall

know--

Enter SIR OLIVER

CRABTREE. Well, Doctor-what Hopes—

MRS. CANDOUR. Aye Doctor how's your Patient—

SIR BENJAMIN. Now Doctor isn't it a wound with a small sword--

CRABTREE. A bullet lodged in the Thorax-for a hundred!

SIR OLIVER. Doctor!-a wound with a small sword! and a Bullet

in the Thorax!-oon's are you mad, good People—

SIR BENJAMIN. Perhaps, Sir, you are not a Doctor.

SIR OLIVER. Truly Sir I am to thank you for my degree If I am.

CRABTREE. Only a Friend of Sir Peter's then I presume-but, sir,

you must have heard of this accident-

SIR OLIVER. Not a word!

CRABTREE. Not of his being dangerously wounded—

SIR OLIVER. The Devil he is!

SIR BENJAMIN. Run thro' the Body--

CRABTREE. Shot in the breast--

SIR BENJAMIN. By one Mr. Surface--

CRABTREE. Aye the younger.

SIR OLIVER. Hey! what the plague! you seem to differ strangely

in your accounts-however you agree that Sir Peter is dangerously

wounded.

SIR BENJAMIN. Oh yes, we agree in that.

CRABTREE. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that.

SIR OLIVER. Then, upon my word, for a person in that Situation,

he is the most imprudent man alive-For here he comes walking

as if nothing at all was the matter.

Enter SIR PETER

Odd's heart, sir Peter! you are come in good time I promise you,

for we had just given you over!

SIR BENJAMIN. 'Egad, Uncle this is the most sudden Recovery!

SIR OLIVER. Why, man, what do you do out of Bed with a Small Sword

through your Body, and a Bullet lodg'd in your Thorax—

SIR PETER. A Small Sword and a Bullet-

SIR OLIVER. Aye these Gentlemen would have kill'd you without Law

or Physic, and wanted to dub me a Doctor to make me an accomplice.

SIR PETER. Why! what is all this—

SIR BENJAMIN. We rejoice, Sir Peter, that the Story of the Duel

is not true-and are sincerely sorry for your other Misfortune.

SIR PETER. So-so-all over the Town already! [Aside.]

CRABTREE. Tho', Sir Peter, you were certainly vastly to blame

to marry at all at your years.

SIR PETER. Sir, what Business is that of yours—

MRS. CANDOUR. Tho' Indeed, as Sir Peter made so good a Husband,

he's very much to be pitied.

SIR PETER. Plague on your pity, Ma'am, I desire none of it.

SIR BENJAMIN. However Sir Peter, you must not mind the Laughing

and jests you will meet with on the occasion.

SIR PETER. Sir, I desire to be master in my own house.

CRABTREE. 'Tis no Uncommon Case, that's one comfort.

SIR PETER. I insist on being left to myself, without ceremony,-

I insist on your leaving my house directly!

MRS. CANDOUR. Well, well, we are going and depend on't, we'll

make the best report of you we can.

SIR PETER. Leave my house!

CRABTREE. And tell how hardly you have been treated.

SIR PETER. Leave my House-

SIR BENJAMIN. And how patiently you bear it.

SIR PETER. Friends! Vipers! Furies! Oh that their own Venom

would choke them!

SIR OLIVER. They are very provoking indeed, Sir Peter.

Enter ROWLEY

ROWLEY. I heard high words: what has ruffled you Sir Peter-

SIR PETER. Pshaw what signifies asking-do I ever pass a Day

without my Vexations—

SIR OLIVER. Well I'm not Inquisitive-I come only to tell you,

that I have seen both my Nephews in the manner we proposed.

SIR PETER. A Precious Couple they are!

ROWLEY. Yes and Sir Oliver-is convinced that your judgment was right

Sir Peter.

SIR OLIVER. Yes I find Joseph is Indeed the Man after all.

ROWLEY. Aye as Sir Peter says, He's a man of Sentiment.

SIR OLIVER. And acts up to the Sentiments he professes.

ROWLEY. It certainly is Edification to hear him talk.

SIR OLIVER. Oh, He's a model for the young men of the age!

But how's this, Sir Peter— you don't Join us in your Friend

Joseph's Praise as I expected.

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver, we live in a damned wicked world,

and the fewer we praise the better.

ROWLEY. What do YOU say so, Sir Peter-who were never mistaken

in your Life—

SIR PETER. Pshaw-Plague on you both-I see by your sneering

you have heard-the whole affair-I shall go mad among you!

ROWLEY. Then to fret you no longer Sir Peter-we are indeed

acquainted with it all-I met Lady Teazle coming from Mr. Surface's so

humbled, that she deigned to request ME to be her advocate with you-

SIR PETER. And does Sir Oliver know all too—

SIR OLIVER. Every circumstance!

SIR PETER. What of the closet and the screen-hey[—]

SIR OLIVER. Yes yes-and the little French Milliner. Oh,

I have been vastly diverted with the story! ha! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. 'Twas very pleasant!

SIR OLIVER. I never laugh'd more in my life, I assure you: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. O vastly diverting! ha! ha!

ROWLEY. To be sure Joseph with his Sentiments! ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes his sentiments! ha! ha! a hypocritical Villain!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and that Rogue Charles-to pull Sir Peter out of the

closet: ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Ha! ha! 'twas devilish entertaining to be sure-

SIR OLIVER. Ha! ha! Egad, Sir Peter I should like to have seen

your Face when the screen was thrown down-ha! ha!

SIR PETER. Yes, my face when the Screen was thrown down: ha! ha! ha!

O I must never show my head again!

SIR OLIVER. But come-come it isn't fair to laugh at you neither

my old Friend-tho' upon my soul I can't help it-

SIR PETER. O pray don't restrain your mirth on my account: it does

not hurt me at all-I laugh at the whole affair myself-Yes-yes-

I think being a standing Jest for all one's acquaintance a very happy

situation-O yes-and then of a morning to read the Paragraphs about

Mr. S--, Lady T--, and Sir P--, will be so entertaining!-

I shall certainly leave town tomorrow and never look mankind

in the Face again!

ROWLEY. Without affectation Sir Peter, you may despise the ridicule

of Fools-but I see Lady Teazle going towards the next Room-I am sure

you must desire a Reconciliation as earnestly as she does.

SIR OLIVER. Perhaps MY being here prevents her coming to you-

well I'll leave honest Rowley to mediate between you; but he must

bring you all presently to Mr. Surface's-where I am now returning-

if not to reclaim a Libertine, at least to expose Hypocrisy.

SIR PETER. Ah! I'll be present at your discovering yourself there

with all my heart; though 'tis a vile unlucky Place for discoveries.

SIR OLIVER. However it is very convenient to the carrying on of

my Plot that you all live so near one another!

[Exit SIR OLIVER.]

ROWLEY. We'll follow-

SIR PETER. She is not coming here you see, Rowley-

ROWLEY. No but she has left the Door of that Room open you

perceive.-see she is in Tears-!

SIR PETER. She seems indeed to wish I should go to her.-how

dejected she appears-

ROWLEY. And will you refrain from comforting her-

SIR PETER. Certainly a little mortification appears very becoming

in a wife-don't you think it will do her good to let her Pine

a little.

ROWLEY. O this is ungenerous in you-

SIR PETER. Well I know not what to think-you remember Rowley

the Letter I found of her's-evidently intended for Charles—

ROWLEY. A mere forgery, Sir Peter-laid in your way on Purpose-

this is one of the Points which I intend Snake shall give you

conviction on-

SIR PETER. I wish I were once satisfied of that-She looks this

way--what a remarkably elegant Turn of the Head she has!

Rowley I'll go to her-

ROWLEY. Certainly-

SIR PETER. Tho' when it is known that we are reconciled, People

will laugh at me ten times more!

ROWLEY. Let-them laugh-and retort their malice only by

showing them you are happy in spite of it.

SIR PETER. Efaith so I will-and, if I'm not mistaken we may yet

be the happiest couple in the country-

ROWLEY. Nay Sir Peter-He who once lays aside suspicion--

SIR PETER. Hold Master Rowley-if you have any Regard for me-

never let me hear you utter anything like a Sentiment. I have had

enough of THEM to serve me the rest of my Life.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE THE LAST.-The Library

SURFACE and LADY SNEERWELL

LADY SNEERWELL. Impossible! will not Sir Peter immediately

be reconciled to CHARLES— and of consequence no longer oppose

his union with MARIA— the thought is Distraction to me!

SURFACE. Can Passion-furnish a Remedy—

LADY SNEERWELL. No-nor cunning either. O I was a Fool, an Ideot-

to league with such a Blunderer!

SURFACE. Surely Lady Sneerwell I am the greatest Sufferer-yet you

see I bear the accident with Calmness.

LADY SNEERWELL. Because the Disappointment hasn't reached your

HEART-your interest only attached you to Maria-had you felt for

her-what I have for that ungrateful Libertine-neither your Temper

nor Hypocrisy could prevent your showing the sharpness of your

Vexation.

SURFACE. But why should your Reproaches fall on me for this

Disappointment—

LADY SNEERWELL. Are not you the cause of it— what had you to bate

in your Pursuit of Maria to pervert Lady Teazle by the way.-had you

not a sufficient field for your Roguery in blinding Sir Peter and

supplanting your Brother-I hate such an avarice of crimes-'tis

an unfair monopoly and never prospers.

SURFACE. Well I admit I have been to blame-I confess I deviated

from the direct Road of wrong but I don't think we're so totally

defeated neither.

LADY SNEERWELL. No!

SURFACE. You tell me you have made a trial of Snake since we met-

and that you still believe him faithful to us-

LADY SNEERWELL. I do believe so.

SURFACE. And that he has undertaken should it be necessary-to swear

and prove that Charles is at this Time contracted by vows and Honour

to your Ladyship-which some of his former letters to you will serve

to support-

LADY SNEERWELL. This, indeed, might have assisted-

SURFACE. Come-come it is not too late yet-but hark! this is

probably my Unkle Sir Oliver-retire to that Room-we'll consult

further when He's gone.-

LADY SNEERWELL. Well but if HE should find you out to-

SURFACE. O I have no fear of that-Sir Peter will hold his tongue

for his own credit sake-and you may depend on't I shall soon Discover

Sir Oliver's weak side!-

LADY SNEERWELL. I have no diffidence of your abilities-only

be constant to one roguery at a time-

[Exit.]

SURFACE. I will-I will-So 'tis confounded hard after such bad

Fortune, to be baited by one's confederate in evil-well at all

events my character is so much better than Charles's, that I

certainly-hey-what!-this is not Sir Oliver-but old Stanley

again!-Plague on't that He should return to teaze me just now-

I shall have Sir Oliver come and find him here-and--

Enter SIR OLIVER

Gad's life, Mr. Stanley-why have you come back to plague me

at this time— you must not stay now upon my word!

SIR OLIVER. Sir-I hear your Unkle Oliver is expected here-

and tho' He has been so penurious to you, I'll try what He'll

do for me-

SURFACE. Sir! 'tis impossible for you to stay now-so I must

beg--come any other time and I promise you you shall be assisted.

SIR OLIVER. No-Sir Oliver and I must be acquainted-

SURFACE. Zounds Sir then [I] insist on your quitting the-

Room directly-

SIR OLIVER. Nay Sir--

SURFACE. Sir-I insist on't-here William show this Gentleman out.

Since you compel me Sir-not one moment-this is such insolence.

[Going to push him out.]

Enter CHARLES

CHARLES. Heyday! what's the matter now—-what the Devil have you

got hold of my little Broker here! Zounds-Brother, don't hurt

little Premium. What's the matter-my little Fellow—

SURFACE. So! He has been with you, too, has He-

CHARLES. To be sure He has! Why, 'tis as honest a little--

But sure Joseph you have not been borrowing money too have you—

SURFACE. Borrowing-no!-But, Brother-you know sure we expect

Sir Oliver every--

CHARLES. O Gad, that's true-Noll mustn't find the little Broker

here to be sure-

SURFACE. Yet Mr. Stanley insists--

CHARLES. Stanley-why his name's Premium-

SURFACE. No no Stanley.

CHARLES. No, no-Premium.

SURFACE. Well no matter which-but--

CHARLES. Aye aye Stanley or Premium, 'tis the same thing as you

say-for I suppose He goes by half a hundred Names, besides A. B's

at the Coffee-House. [Knock.]

SURFACE. 'Sdeath-here's Sir Oliver at the Door--Now I beg-

Mr. Stanley--

CHARLES. Aye aye and I beg Mr. Premium--

SIR OLIVER. Gentlemen--

SURFACE. Sir, by Heaven you shall go-

CHARLES. Aye out with him certainly--

SIR OLIVER. This violence--

SURFACE. 'Tis your own Fault.

CHARLES. Out with him to be sure.

[Both forcing SIR OLIVER out.]

Enter SIR PETER TEAZLE, LADY TEAZLE, MARIA, and ROWLEY

SIR PETER. My old Friend, Sir Oliver!-hey! what in the name

of wonder!-Here are dutiful Nephews!-assault their Unkle

at his first Visit!

LADY TEAZLE. Indeed Sir Oliver 'twas well we came in to rescue you.

ROWLEY. Truly it was-for I perceive Sir Oliver the character

of old Stanley was no Protection to you.

SIR OLIVER. Nor of Premium either-the necessities of the former

could not extort a shilling from that benevolent Gentleman; and

with the other I stood a chance of faring worse than my Ancestors,

and being knocked down without being bid for.

SURFACE. Charles!

CHARLES. Joseph!

SURFACE. 'Tis compleat!

CHARLES. Very!

SIR OLIVER. Sir Peter-my Friend and Rowley too-look on that

elder Nephew of mine-You know what He has already received from

my Bounty and you know also how gladly I would have look'd on half

my Fortune as held in trust for him-judge then my Disappointment

in discovering him to be destitute of Truth-Charity-and Gratitude-

SIR PETER. Sir Oliver-I should be more surprized at this

Declaration, if I had not myself found him to be selfish-

treacherous and Hypocritical.

LADY TEAZLE. And if the Gentleman pleads not guilty to these

pray let him call ME to his Character.

SIR PETER. Then I believe we need add no more-if He knows himself

He will consider it as the most perfect Punishment that He is known

to the world-

CHARLES. If they talk this way to Honesty-what will they say to ME

by and bye!

SIR OLIVER. As for that Prodigal-his Brother there--

CHARLES. Aye now comes my Turn-the damn'd Family Pictures will ruin

me-

SURFACE. Sir Oliver-Unkle-will you honour me with a hearing-

CHARLES. I wish Joseph now would make one of his long speeches and

I might recollect myself a little-

SIR OLIVER. And I suppose you would undertake to vindicate yourself

entirely-

SURFACE. I trust I could-

SIR OLIVER. Nay-if you desert your Roguery in its Distress and

try to be justified-you have even less principle than I thought

you had.-[To CHARLES SURFACE] Well, Sir-and YOU could JUSTIFY

yourself too I suppose-

CHARLES. Not that I know of, Sir Oliver.

SIR OLIVER. What[!] little Premium has been let too much into the

secret I presume.

CHARLES. True-Sir-but they were Family Secrets, and should not be

mentioned again you know.

ROWLEY. Come Sir Oliver I know you cannot speak of Charles's Follies

with anger.

SIR OLIVER. Odd's heart no more I can-nor with gravity either-

Sir Peter do you know the Rogue bargain'd with me for all his

Ancestors-sold me judges and Generals by the Foot, and Maiden Aunts

as cheap as broken China!

CHARLES. To be sure, Sir Oliver, I did make a little free with

the Family Canvas that's the truth on't:-my Ancestors may certainly

rise in judgment against me there's no denying it-but believe me

sincere when I tell you, and upon my soul I would not say so if I was

not-that if I do not appear mortified at the exposure of my Follies,

it is because I feel at this moment the warmest satisfaction in seeing

you, my liberal benefactor.

SIR OLIVER. Charles-I believe you-give me your hand again:

the ill-looking little fellow over the Couch has made your Peace.

CHARLES. Then Sir-my Gratitude to the original is still encreased.

LADY TEAZLE. [Advancing.] Yet I believe, Sir Oliver, here is one

whom Charles is still more anxious to be reconciled to.

SIR OLIVER. O I have heard of his Attachment there-and, with the

young Lady's Pardon if I construe right that Blush--

SIR PETER. Well-Child-speak your sentiments-you know-we are

going to be reconciled to Charles-

MARIA. Sir-I have little to say-but that I shall rejoice to hear

that He is happy-For me-whatever claim I had to his Affection-

I willing resign to one who has a better title.

CHARLES. How Maria!

SIR PETER. Heyday-what's the mystery now— while he appeared

an incorrigible Rake, you would give your hand to no one else

and now that He's likely to reform I'll warrant You won't have him!

MARIA. His own Heart-and Lady Sneerwell know the cause.

[CHARLES.] Lady Sneerwell!

SURFACE. Brother it is with great concern-I am obliged

to speak on this Point, but my Regard to justice obliges me-

and Lady Sneerwell's injuries can no longer-be concealed-

[Goes to the Door.]

Enter LADY SNEERWELL

SIR PETER. Soh! another French milliner egad! He has one

in every Room in the House I suppose-

LADY SNEERWELL. Ungrateful Charles! Well may you be surprised and

feel for the indelicate situation which your Perfidy has forced me

into.

CHARLES. Pray Unkle, is this another Plot of yours— for as I have

Life I don't understand it.

SURFACE. I believe Sir there is but the evidence of one Person

more necessary to make it extremely clear.

SIR PETER. And that Person-I imagine, is Mr. Snake-Rowley-you

were perfectly right to bring him with us-and pray let him appear.

ROWLEY. Walk in, Mr. Snake-

Enter SNAKE

I thought his Testimony might be wanted-however it happens unluckily

that He comes to confront Lady Sneerwell and not to support her-

LADY SNEERWELL. A Villain!-Treacherous to me at last! Speak,

Fellow, have you too conspired against me—

SNAKE. I beg your Ladyship-ten thousand Pardons-you paid me

extremely Liberally for the Lie in question-but I unfortunately

have been offer'd double to speak the Truth.

LADY SNEERWELL. The Torments of Shame and Disappointment on you all!

LADY TEAZLE. Hold-Lady Sneerwell-before you go let me thank you

for the trouble you and that Gentleman have taken in writing Letters

from me to Charles and answering them yourself-and let me also

request you to make my Respects to the Scandalous College-of which

you are President-and inform them that Lady Teazle, Licentiate,

begs leave to return the diploma they granted her-as she leaves of[f]

Practice and kills Characters no longer.

LADY SNEERWELL. Provoking-insolent!-may your Husband live these

fifty years!

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Oons what a Fury--

LADY TEAZLE. A malicious Creature indeed!

SIR PETER. Hey-not for her last wish—-

LADY TEAZLE. O No-

SIR OLIVER. Well Sir, and what have you to say now—

SURFACE. Sir, I am so confounded, to find that Lady Sneerwell could

be guilty of suborning Mr. Snake in this manner to impose on us

all that I know not what to say--however, lest her Revengeful

Spirit should prompt her to injure my Brother I had certainly better

follow her directly.

[Exit.]

SIR PETER. Moral to the last drop!

SIR OLIVER. Aye and marry her Joseph if you can.-Oil and Vinegar

egad:-you'll do very well together.

ROWLEY. I believe we have no more occasion for Mr. Snake at Present-

SNAKE. Before I go-I beg Pardon once for all for whatever uneasiness

I have been the humble instrument of causing to the Parties present.

SIR PETER. Well-well you have made atonement by a good Deed

at last-

SNAKE. But I must Request of the Company that it shall never

be known-

SIR PETER. Hey!-what the Plague-are you ashamed of having done

a right thing once in your life—

SNAKE. Ah: Sir-consider I live by the Badness of my Character!-

I have nothing but my Infamy to depend on!-and, if it were once

known that I had been betray'd into an honest Action, I should lose

every Friend I have in the world.

SIR OLIVER. Well-well we'll not traduce you by saying anything

to your Praise never fear.

[Exit SNAKE.]

SIR PETER. There's a precious Rogue-Yet that fellow is a Writer

and a Critic.

LADY TEAZLE. See[,] Sir Oliver[,] there needs no persuasion now

to reconcile your Nephew and Maria-

SIR OLIVER. Aye-aye-that's as it should be and egad we'll have

the wedding to-morrow morning-

CHARLES. Thank you, dear Unkle!

SIR PETER. What! you rogue don't you ask the Girl's consent first-

CHARLES. Oh, I have done that a long time-above a minute ago-

nd She has look'd yes-

MARIA. For Shame-Charles-I protest Sir Peter, there has not been

a word--

SIR OLIVER. Well then the fewer the Better-may your love for each

other never know-abatement.

SIR PETER. And may you live as happily together as Lady Teazle

and I-intend to do-

CHARLES. Rowley my old Friend-I am sure you congratulate me and

I suspect too that I owe you much.

SIR OLIVER. You do, indeed, Charles-

ROWLEY. If my Efforts to serve you had not succeeded you would have

been in my debt for the attempt-but deserve to be happy-and you

over-repay me.

SIR PETER. Aye honest Rowley always said you would reform.

CHARLES. Why as to reforming Sir Peter I'll make no promises-

and that I take to be a proof that I intend to set about it-

But here shall be my Monitor-my gentle Guide.-ah! can I leave

the Virtuous path those Eyes illumine—

Tho' thou, dear Maid, should'st wave [waive] thy Beauty's Sway,

-Thou still must Rule-because I will obey:

An humbled fugitive from Folly View,

No sanctuary near but Love and YOU:

You can indeed each anxious Fear remove,

For even Scandal dies if you approve. [To the audience.]

EPILOGUE

BY MR. COLMAN

SPOKEN BY LADY TEAZLE

I, who was late so volatile and gay,

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way,

Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,

To one dull rusty weathercock-my spouse!

So wills our virtuous bard-the motley Bayes

Of crying epilogues and laughing plays!

Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,

Learn from our play to regulate your lives:

Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her-

London will prove the very source of honour.

Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves,

When principles relax, to brace the nerves:

Such is my case; and yet I must deplore

That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er.

And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife,

Born with a genius for the highest life,

Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,

Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom—

Save money-when I just knew how to waste it!

Leave London-just as I began to taste it!

Must I then watch the early crowing cock,

The melancholy ticking of a clock;

In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,

With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded—

With humble curate can I now retire,

(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,)

And at backgammon mortify my soul,

That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole—

Seven's the main! Dear sound that must expire,

Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire;

The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,

Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!

Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tete,

That takes the cushion from its proper seat!

That spirit-stirring drum!-card drums I mean,

Spadille-odd trick-pam-basto-king and queen!

And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,

The welcome visitors' approach denote;

Farewell all quality of high renown,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!

Farewell! your revels I partake no more,

And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er!

All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said 'twas clear,

I ought to play deep tragedy next year.

Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,

And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:--

"Bless'd were the fair like you; her faults who stopp'd,

And closed her follies when the curtain dropp'd!

No more in vice or error to engage,

Or play the fool at large on life's great stage."

Oliver Goldsmith— She Stoops to Conquer

Introductory Note

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, like his contemporary dramatist Sheridan, was an Irishman. He was born at Pallas, near Ballymahon, Longford, November 10, 1728, the son of Charles Goldsmith, a clergyman with narrow means and a large family. Through the help of relatives Oliver was able to get through his course at Trinity College, Dublin, and after various futile experiments he went to Edinburgh to study medicine. Deciding to finish his studies abroad, he set out for Leyden, whence he went traveling through France, Switzerland, and Italy, usually on foot, and earning his meals by playing to the peasants on the flute. Returning to England in 1756 in a state of destitution, he set up as a physician in London, later tried teaching, and in 1757 began his work as a literary hack in the employment of Griffiths, proprietor of the “Monthly Review.” The next year he failed in an attempt to reenter the practise of medicine, and for the rest of his life was dependent on his pen and the generosity of his friends for a precarious livelihood.

Goldsmith’s literary work began with writing for periodicals, and in this form appeared his earliest notable production, “The Chinese Letters,” later republished as “The Citizen of the World.” His reputation was increased by the publication of “The Traveller” in 1764, and still farther by that of “The Vicar of Wakefield” in 1766, so that he obtained abundance of work from publishers and came as near being in easy circumstances as his improvident nature permitted. In 1768 appeared his first attempt at drama, “The Good-Natured Man,” which met with fair success. “The Deserted Village,” issued in 1770, was immediately popular; and in 1773 “She Stoops to Conquer” was presented at Covent Garden and scored a great triumph. But Goldsmith’s money was usually spent or given away before it was earned; and he died on April 4, 1774, deeply in debt.

Goldsmith shares with Sheridan the honor of being the only dramatist of his century whose plays are both read and acted to-day. “She Stoops to Conquer,” while less brilliant in both dialogue and characterization than “The School for Scandal,” is rich in amusing situations and still holds its audiences delighted with its genial and rollicking fun.

Dedication

To Samuel Johnson, LL.D.

DEAR SIR,—By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety.

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful.

I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

Prologue

By David Garrick, Esq.

Enter M R. W OODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes

EXCUSE me, sirs, I pray—I can’t yet speak—

I’m crying now—and have been all the week.

“’Tis not alone this mourning suit,” good masters:

“I’ve that within—for which there are no plasters!

Pray, would you know the reason why I’m crying—

The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!

And if she goes, my tears will never stop;

For as a player, I can’t squeeze out one drop:

I am undone, that’s all—shall lose my bread—

I’d rather, but that’s nothing—lose my head.

When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,

Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.

To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,

Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!

Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents;

We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!

Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,

We now and then take down a hearty cup.

What shall we do— If Comedy forsake us,

They’ll turn us out, and no one else will take us.

But why can’t I be moral——Let me try—

My heart thus pressing—fixed my face and eye—

With a sententious look, that nothing means,

(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes)

Thus I begin: “All is not gold that glitters,

Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters.

When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand:

Learning is better far than house and land.

Let not your virtue trip; who trips may stumble,

And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.”

I give it up—morals won’t do for me;

To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.

One hope remains—hearing the maid was ill,

A Doctor comes this night to show his skill.

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion,

He, in Five Draughts prepar’d presents a potion:

A kind of magic charm—for be assur’d,

If you will swallow it, the maid is cur’d:

But desperate the Doctor, and her case is,

If you reject the dose, and make wry faces!

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,

No poisonous drugs are mixed in what he gives.

Should he succeed, you’ll give him his degree;

If not, within he will receive no fee!

The College you, must his pretensions back,

Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

Dramatis Personae

MEN

SIR CHARLES MARLOW Mr. Gardner

YOUNG MARLOW (his son) Mr. Lee Lewes

HARDCASTLE Mr. Shuter

HASTINGS Mr. Dubellamy

TONY LUMPKIN Mr. Quick

DIGGORY Mr. Saunders

WOMEN

MRS. HARDCASTLE Mrs. Green

MISS HARDCASTLE Mrs. Bulkley

MISS NEVILLE Mrs. Kniveton

Maid Miss Williams

Landlord, Servants, &c., &c.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE-A Chamber in an old-fashioned House.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MR. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. Is

there a creature in the whole country but ourselves, that does not take

a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little— There's the

two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's

polishing every winter.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the

whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In

my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they

travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as

inside passengers, but in the very basket.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been

telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old

rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we

never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the

curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all

our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of

Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery.

HARDCASTLE. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old

friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and I believe,

Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old

wife.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your

Dorothys and your old wifes. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan,

I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good

year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that.

HARDCASTLE. Let me see; twenty added to twenty makes just fifty and

seven.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was but twenty when I

was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first

husband; and he's not come to years of discretion yet.

HARDCASTLE. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have

taught him finely.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son

is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much

learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.

HARDCASTLE. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and

mischief.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Humour, my dear; nothing but humour. Come, Mr.

Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour.

HARDCASTLE. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the

footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens be

humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back

of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs.

Frizzle's face.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame— The poor boy was always too

sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to

be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for

him—

HARDCASTLE. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse

and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I

believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his

face may see he's consumptive.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He coughs sometimes.

HARDCASTLE. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.

HARDCASTLE. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a

speaking trumpet-(Tony hallooing behind the scenes)-O, there he

goes-a very consumptive figure, truly.

Enter TONY, crossing the stage.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Tony, where are you going, my charmer— Won't you

give papa and I a little of your company, lovee—

TONY. I'm in haste, mother; I cannot stay.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear; you

look most shockingly.

TONY. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down

every moment. There's some fun going forward.

HARDCASTLE. Ay; the alehouse, the old place: I thought so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A low, paltry set of fellows.

TONY. Not so low, neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack

Slang the horse doctor, Little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and

Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night at

least.

TONY. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I

can't abide to disappoint myself.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (detaining him.) You shan't go.

TONY. I will, I tell you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I say you shan't.

TONY. We'll see which is strongest, you or I. [Exit, hauling her

out.]

HARDCASTLE. (solus.) Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each

other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and

discretion out of doors— There's my pretty darling Kate! the fashions

of the times have almost infected her too. By living a year or two in

town, she is as fond of gauze and French frippery as the best of them.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Blessings on my pretty innocence! drest out as usual, my

Kate. Goodness! What a quantity of superfluous silk hast thou got

about thee, girl! I could never teach the fools of this age, that the

indigent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of the vain.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You know our agreement, sir. You allow me the

morning to receive and pay visits, and to dress in my own manner; and

in the evening I put on my housewife's dress to please you.

HARDCASTLE. Well, remember, I insist on the terms of our agreement;

and, by the bye, I believe I shall have occasion to try your obedience

this very evening.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend your meaning.

HARDCASTLE. Then to be plain with you, Kate, I expect the young

gentleman I have chosen to be your husband from town this very day. I

have his father's letter, in which he informs me his son is set out,

and that he intends to follow himself shortly after.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Indeed! I wish I had known something of this

before. Bless me, how shall I behave— It's a thousand to one I

shan't like him; our meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of

business, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem.

HARDCASTLE. Depend upon it, child, I'll never control your choice; but

Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir

Charles Marlow, of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young

gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed for an employment in

the service of his country. I am told he's a man of an excellent

understanding.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Is he—

HARDCASTLE. Very generous.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I believe I shall like him.

HARDCASTLE. Young and brave.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm sure I shall like him.

HARDCASTLE. And very handsome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, say no more, (kissing his hand), he's

mine; I'll have him.

HARDCASTLE. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the most bashful and

reserved young fellows in all the world.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Eh! you have frozen me to death again. That word

RESERVED has undone all the rest of his accomplishments. A reserved

lover, it is said, always makes a suspicious husband.

HARDCASTLE. On the contrary, modesty seldom resides in a breast that

is not enriched with nobler virtues. It was the very feature in his

character that first struck me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. He must have more striking features to catch me, I

promise you. However, if he be so young, so handsome, and so

everything as you mention, I believe he'll do still. I think I'll have

him.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. It's more than

an even wager he may not have you.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My dear papa, why will you mortify one so—-Well, if

he refuses, instead of breaking my heart at his indifference, I'll only

break my glass for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and

look out for some less difficult admirer.

HARDCASTLE. Bravely resolved! In the mean time I'll go prepare the

servants for his reception: as we seldom see company, they want as much

training as a company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Alone). Lud, this news of papa's puts me all in a

flutter. Young, handsome: these he put last; but I put them foremost.

Sensible, good-natured; I like all that. But then reserved and

sheepish; that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured of his

timidity, by being taught to be proud of his wife— Yes, and can't

I-But I vow I'm disposing of the husband before I have secured the

lover.

Enter MISS NEVILLE.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm glad you're come, Neville, my dear. Tell me,

Constance, how do I look this evening— Is there anything whimsical

about me— Is it one of my well-looking days, child— Am I in face

to-day—

MISS NEVILLE. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look again-bless

me!-sure no accident has happened among the canary birds or the gold

fishes. Has your brother or the cat been meddling— or has the last

novel been too moving—

MISS HARDCASTLE. No; nothing of all this. I have been threatened-I

can scarce get it out-I have been threatened with a lover.

MISS NEVILLE. And his name-

MISS HARDCASTLE. Is Marlow.

MISS NEVILLE. Indeed!

MISS HARDCASTLE. The son of Sir Charles Marlow.

MISS NEVILLE. As I live, the most intimate friend of Mr. Hastings, my

admirer. They are never asunder. I believe you must have seen him

when we lived in town.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never.

MISS NEVILLE. He's a very singular character, I assure you. Among

women of reputation and virtue he is the modestest man alive; but his

acquaintance give him a very different character among creatures of

another stamp: you understand me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. An odd character indeed. I shall never be able to

manage him. What shall I do— Pshaw, think no more of him, but trust

to occurrences for success. But how goes on your own affair, my dear—

has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony as usual—

MISS NEVILLE. I have just come from one of our agreeable

tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred tender things, and setting

off her pretty monster as the very pink of perfection.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And her partiality is such, that she actually thinks

him so. A fortune like yours is no small temptation. Besides, as she

has the sole management of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling

to let it go out of the family.

MISS NEVILLE. A fortune like mine, which chiefly consists in jewels,

is no such mighty temptation. But at any rate, if my dear Hastings be

but constant, I make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. However,

I let her suppose that I am in love with her son; and she never once

dreams that my affections are fixed upon another.

MISS HARDCASTLE. My good brother holds out stoutly. I could almost

love him for hating you so.

MISS NEVILLE. It is a good-natured creature at bottom, and I'm sure

would wish to see me married to anybody but himself. But my aunt's

bell rings for our afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons!

Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical.

MISS HARDCASTLE. "Would it were bed-time, and all were well."

[Exeunt.]

SCENE-An Alehouse Room. Several shabby Fellows with punch and

tobacco. TONY at the head of the table, a little higher than the

rest, a mallet in his hand.

OMNES. Hurrea! hurrea! hurrea! bravo!

FIRST FELLOW Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. The 'squire is

going to knock himself down for a song.

OMNES. Ay, a song, a song!

TONY. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song I made upon this

alehouse, the Three Pigeons.

SONG.

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning,

Good liquor, I stoutly maintain,

Gives GENUS a better discerning.

Let them brag of their heathenish gods,

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians,

Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods,

They're all but a parcel of Pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

When methodist preachers come down,

A-preaching that drinking is sinful,

I'll wager the rascals a crown,

They always preach best with a skinful.

But when you come down with your pence,

For a slice of their scurvy religion,

I'll leave it to all men of sense,

But you, my good friend, are the Pigeon.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

Then come, put the jorum about,

And let us be merry and clever,

Our hearts and our liquors are stout,

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.

Let some cry up woodcock or hare,

Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons;

But of all the GAY birds in the air,

Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons.

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

OMNES. Bravo, bravo!

FIRST FELLOW. The 'squire has got spunk in him.

SECOND FELLOW. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays he never gives us

nothing that's low.

THIRD FELLOW. O damn anything that's low, I cannot bear it.

FOURTH FELLOW. The genteel thing is the genteel thing any time: if so

be that a gentleman bees in a concatenation accordingly.

THIRD FELLOW. I likes the maxum of it, Master Muggins. What, though I

am obligated to dance a bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that.

May this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the very

genteelest of tunes; "Water Parted," or "The minuet in Ariadne."

SECOND FELLOW. What a pity it is the 'squire is not come to his own.

It would be well for all the publicans within ten miles round of him.

TONY. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I'd then show what it was

to keep choice of company.

SECOND FELLOW. O he takes after his own father for that. To be sure

old 'Squire Lumpkin was the finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on.

For winding the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare, or a

wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in the place, that he

kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, in the whole county.

TONY. Ecod, and when I'm of age, I'll be no bastard, I promise you. I

have been thinking of Bet Bouncer and the miller's grey mare to begin

with. But come, my boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no

reckoning. Well, Stingo, what's the matter—

Enter Landlord.

LANDLORD. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise at the door. They

have lost their way upo' the forest; and they are talking something

about Mr. Hardcastle.

TONY. As sure as can be, one of them must be the gentleman that's

coming down to court my sister. Do they seem to be Londoners—

LANDLORD. I believe they may. They look woundily like Frenchmen.

TONY. Then desire them to step this way, and I'll set them right in a

twinkling. (Exit Landlord.) Gentlemen, as they mayn't be good enough

company for you, step down for a moment, and I'll be with you in the

squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob.]

TONY. (solus). Father-in-law has been calling me whelp and hound this

half year. Now, if I pleased, I could be so revenged upon the old

grumbletonian. But then I'm afraid-afraid of what— I shall soon be

worth fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of THAT if he

can.

Enter Landlord, conducting MARLOW and HASTINGS.

MARLOW. What a tedious uncomfortable day have we had of it! We were

told it was but forty miles across the country, and we have come above

threescore.

HASTINGS. And all, Marlow, from that unaccountable reserve of yours,

that would not let us inquire more frequently on the way.

MARLOW. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay myself under an

obligation to every one I meet, and often stand the chance of an

unmannerly answer.

HASTINGS. At present, however, we are not likely to receive any

answer.

TONY. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you have been inquiring for

one Mr. Hardcastle in these parts. Do you know what part of the

country you are in—

HASTINGS. Not in the least, sir, but should thank you for

information.

TONY. Nor the way you came—

HASTINGS. No, sir: but if you can inform us--

TONY. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the road you are going, nor

where you are, nor the road you came, the first thing I have to inform

you is, that-you have lost your way.

MARLOW. We wanted no ghost to tell us that.

TONY. Pray, gentlemen, may I be so bold so as to ask the place from

whence you came—

MARLOW. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go.

TONY. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know.

Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained,

old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face, a daughter, and a

pretty son—

HASTINGS. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you

mention.

TONY. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, talkative maypole;

the son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond

of.

MARLOW. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be

well-bred and beautiful; the son an awkward booby, reared up and

spoiled at his mother's apron-string.

TONY. He-he-hem!-Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you

won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe.

HASTINGS. Unfortunate!

TONY. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo,

tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's! (Winking upon the

Landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh, you understand me.

LANDLORD. Master Hardcastle's! Lock-a-daisy, my masters, you're come

a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you

should have crossed down Squash Lane.

MARLOW. Cross down Squash Lane!

LANDLORD. Then you were to keep straight forward, till you came to

four roads.

MARLOW. Come to where four roads meet—

TONY. Ay; but you must be sure to take only one of them.

MARLOW. O, sir, you're facetious.

TONY. Then keeping to the right, you are to go sideways till you come

upon Crackskull Common: there you must look sharp for the track of the

wheel, and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's barn. Coming

to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the right, and then to the

left, and then to the right about again, till you find out the old

mill-

MARLOW. Zounds, man! we could as soon find out the longitude!

HASTINGS. What's to be done, Marlow—

MARLOW. This house promises but a poor reception; though perhaps the

landlord can accommodate us.

LANDLORD. Alack, master, we have but one spare bed in the whole

house.

TONY. And to my knowledge, that's taken up by three lodgers already.

(After a pause, in which the rest seem disconcerted.) I have hit it.

Don't you think, Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen

by the fire-side, with--three chairs and a bolster—

HASTINGS. I hate sleeping by the fire-side.

MARLOW. And I detest your three chairs and a bolster.

TONY. You do, do you— then, let me see-what if you go on a mile

further, to the Buck's Head; the old Buck's Head on the hill, one of

the best inns in the whole county—

HASTINGS. O ho! so we have escaped an adventure for this night,

however.

LANDLORD. (apart to TONY). Sure, you ben't sending them to your

father's as an inn, be you—

TONY. Mum, you fool you. Let THEM find that out. (To them.) You

have only to keep on straight forward, till you come to a large old

house by the road side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the

door. That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly about you.

HASTINGS. Sir, we are obliged to you. The servants can't miss the

way—

TONY. No, no: but I tell you, though, the landlord is rich, and going

to leave off business; so he wants to be thought a gentleman, saving

your presence, he! he! he! He'll be for giving you his company; and,

ecod, if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother was an

alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace.

LANDLORD. A troublesome old blade, to be sure; but a keeps as good

wines and beds as any in the whole country.

MARLOW. Well, if he supplies us with these, we shall want no farther

connexion. We are to turn to the right, did you say—

TONY. No, no; straight forward. I'll just step myself, and show you a

piece of the way. (To the Landlord.) Mum!

LANDLORD. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleasant-damn'd

mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt.]

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE-An old-fashioned House.

Enter HARDCASTLE, followed by three or four awkward Servants.

HARDCASTLE. Well, I hope you are perfect in the table exercise I have

been teaching you these three days. You all know your posts and your

places, and can show that you have been used to good company, without

ever stirring from home.

OMNES. Ay, ay.

HARDCASTLE. When company comes you are not to pop out and stare, and

then run in again, like frightened rabbits in a warren.

OMNES. No, no.

HARDCASTLE. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from the barn, are to make

a show at the side-table; and you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the

plough, are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not to stand

so, with your hands in your pockets. Take your hands from your

pockets, Roger; and from your head, you blockhead you. See how Diggory

carries his hands. They're a little too stiff, indeed, but that's no

great matter.

DIGGORY. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned to hold my hands this

way when I was upon drill for the militia. And so being upon drill--

HARDCASTLE. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. You must be all

attention to the guests. You must hear us talk, and not think of

talking; you must see us drink, and not think of drinking; you must see

us eat, and not think of eating.

DIGGORY. By the laws, your worship, that's parfectly unpossible.

Whenever Diggory sees yeating going forward, ecod, he's always wishing

for a mouthful himself.

HARDCASTLE. Blockhead! Is not a belly-full in the kitchen as good as

a belly-full in the parlour— Stay your stomach with that reflection.

DIGGORY. Ecod, I thank your worship, I'll make a shift to stay my

stomach with a slice of cold beef in the pantry.

HARDCASTLE. Diggory, you are too talkative.-Then, if I happen to say

a good thing, or tell a good story at table, you must not all burst out

a-laughing, as if you made part of the company.

DIGGORY. Then ecod your worship must not tell the story of Ould

Grouse in the gun-room: I can't help laughing at that-he! he!

he!-for the soul of me. We have laughed at that these twenty

years-ha! ha! ha!

HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The story is a good one. Well, honest

Diggory, you may laugh at that-but still remember to be attentive.

Suppose one of the company should call for a glass of wine, how will

you behave— A glass of wine, sir, if you please (to DIGGORY).-Eh, why

don't you move—

DIGGORY. Ecod, your worship, I never have courage till I see the

eatables and drinkables brought upo' the table, and then I'm as bauld

as a lion.

HARDCASTLE. What, will nobody move—

FIRST SERVANT. I'm not to leave this pleace.

SECOND SERVANT. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine.

THIRD SERVANT. Nor mine, for sartain.

DIGGORY. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine.

HARDCASTLE. You numskulls! and so while, like your betters, you are

quarrelling for places, the guests must be starved. O you dunces! I

find I must begin all over again--But don't I hear a coach drive into

the yard— To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go in the mean time and

give my old friend's son a hearty reception at the gate. [Exit HARDCASTLE.]

DIGGORY. By the elevens, my pleace is gone quite out of my head.

ROGER. I know that my pleace is to be everywhere.

FIRST SERVANT. Where the devil is mine—

SECOND SERVANT. My pleace is to be nowhere at all; and so I'ze go

about my business. [Exeunt Servants, running about as if frightened,

different ways.]

Enter Servant with candles, showing in MARLOW and HASTINGS.

SERVANT. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome! This way.

HASTINGS. After the disappointments of the day, welcome once more,

Charles, to the comforts of a clean room and a good fire. Upon my

word, a very well-looking house; antique but creditable.

MARLOW. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having first ruined the

master by good housekeeping, it at last comes to levy contributions as

an inn.

HASTINGS. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay all these

fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or a marble

chimney-piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame a

reckoning confoundedly.

MARLOW. Travellers, George, must pay in all places: the only

difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly for luxuries; in bad

inns you are fleeced and starved.

HASTINGS. You have lived very much among them. In truth, I have been

often surprised, that you who have seen so much of the world, with your

natural good sense, and your many opportunities, could never yet

acquire a requisite share of assurance.

MARLOW. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, George, where could I

have learned that assurance you talk of— My life has been chiefly

spent in a college or an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the

creation that chiefly teach men confidence. I don't know that I was

ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest woman-except my

mother-But among females of another class, you know--

HASTINGS. Ay, among them you are impudent enough of all conscience.

MARLOW. They are of US, you know.

HASTINGS. But in the company of women of reputation I never saw such

an idiot, such a trembler; you look for all the world as if you wanted

an opportunity of stealing out of the room.

MARLOW. Why, man, that's because I do want to steal out of the room.

Faith, I have often formed a resolution to break the ice, and rattle

away at any rate. But I don't know how, a single glance from a pair of

fine eyes has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow may

counterfeit modesty; but I'll be hanged if a modest man can ever

counterfeit impudence.

HASTINGS. If you could but say half the fine things to them that I

have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of an inn, or even a college

bed-maker--

MARLOW. Why, George, I can't say fine things to them; they freeze,

they petrify me. They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or

some such bagatelle; but, to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her

finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation.

HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! At this rate, man, how can you ever expect to

marry—

MARLOW. Never; unless, as among kings and princes, my bride were to be

courted by proxy. If, indeed, like an Eastern bridegroom, one were to

be introduced to a wife he never saw before, it might be endured. But

to go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together with the

episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and at last to blurt out

the broad staring question of, Madam, will you marry me— No, no,

that's a strain much above me, I assure you.

HASTINGS. I pity you. But how do you intend behaving to the lady you

are come down to visit at the request of your father—

MARLOW. As I behave to all other ladies. Bow very low, answer yes or

no to all her demands-But for the rest, I don't think I shall venture

to look in her face till I see my father's again.

HASTINGS. I'm surprised that one who is so warm a friend can be so

cool a lover.

MARLOW. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief inducement down was

to be instrumental in forwarding your happiness, not my own. Miss

Neville loves you, the family don't know you; as my friend you are sure

of a reception, and let honour do the rest.

HASTINGS. My dear Marlow! But I'll suppress the emotion. Were I a

wretch, meanly seeking to carry off a fortune, you should be the last

man in the world I would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's

person is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased father's

consent, and her own inclination.

MARLOW. Happy man! You have talents and art to captivate any woman.

I'm doom'd to adore the sex, and yet to converse with the only part of

it I despise. This stammer in my address, and this awkward

prepossessing visage of mine, can never permit me to soar above the

reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the duchesses of Drury-lane.

Pshaw! this fellow here to interrupt us.

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily welcome. Which is

Mr. Marlow— Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you see,

to receive my friends with my back to the fire. I like give them a

hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to see their

horses and trunks taken care of.

MARLOW. (Aside.) He has got our names from the servants already. (To

him.) We approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To HASTINGS.) I

have been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the

morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine.

HARDCASTLE. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house.

HASTINGS. I fancy, Charles, you're right: the first blow is half the

battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white and gold.

HARDCASTLE. Mr. Marlow-Mr. Hastings-gentlemen-pray be under no

constraint in this house. This is Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do

just as you please here.

MARLOW. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, we

may want ammunition before it is over. I think to reserve the

embroidery to secure a retreat.

HARDCASTLE. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. Marlow, puts me in mind of

the Duke of Marlborough, when we went to besiege Denain. He first

summoned the garrison--

MARLOW. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with the

plain brown—

HARDCASTLE. He first summoned the garrison, which might consist of

about five thousand men--

HASTINGS. I think not: brown and yellow mix but very poorly.

HARDCASTLE. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, be summoned the

garrison, which might consist of about five thousand men--

MARLOW. The girls like finery.

HARDCASTLE. Which might consist of about five thousand men, well

appointed with stores, ammunition, and other implements of war. Now,

says the Duke of Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to

him-you must have heard of George Brooks-I'll pawn my dukedom, says

he, but I take that garrison without spilling a drop of blood. So--

MARLOW. What, my good friend, if you gave us a glass of punch in the

mean time; it would help us to carry on the siege with vigour.

HARDCASTLE. Punch, sir! (Aside.) This is the most unaccountable kind

of modesty I ever met with.

MARLOW. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch, after our journey,

will be comfortable. This is Liberty-hall, you know.

HARDCASTLE. Here's a cup, sir.

MARLOW. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty-hall, will only let

us have just what he pleases.

HARDCASTLE. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find it to your mind. I

have prepared it with my own hands, and I believe you'll own the

ingredients are tolerable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir—

Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. [Drinks.]

MARLOW. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this! but he's a character,

and I'll humour him a little. Sir, my service to you. [Drinks.]

HASTINGS. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give us his company,

and forgets that he's an innkeeper, before he has learned to be a

gentleman.

MARLOW. From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you

have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work,

now and then, at elections, I suppose.

HARDCASTLE. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our

betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there is no

business "for us that sell ale."

HASTINGS. So, then, you have no turn for politics, I find.

HARDCASTLE. Not in the least. There was a time, indeed, I fretted

myself about the mistakes of government, like other people; but finding

myself every day grow more angry, and the government growing no better,

I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more trouble my head about

Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, than about Ally Croker. Sir, my service to

you.

HASTINGS. So that with eating above stairs, and drinking below, with

receiving your friends within, and amusing them without, you lead a

good pleasant bustling life of it.

HARDCASTLE. I do stir about a great deal, that's certain. Half the

differences of the parish are adjusted in this very parlour.

MARLOW. (After drinking.) And you have an argument in your cup, old

gentleman, better than any in Westminster-hall.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little philosophy.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I ever heard of an

innkeeper's philosophy.

HASTINGS. So then, like an experienced general, you attack them on

every quarter. If you find their reason manageable, you attack it with

your philosophy; if you find they have no reason, you attack them with

this. Here's your health, my philosopher. [Drinks.]

HARDCASTLE. Good, very good, thank you; ha! ha! Your generalship puts

me in mind of Prince Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of

Belgrade. You shall hear.

MARLOW. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe it's almost time

to talk about supper. What has your philosophy got in the house for

supper—

HARDCASTLE. For supper, sir! (Aside.) Was ever such a request to a

man in his own house—

MARLOW. Yes, sir, supper, sir; I begin to feel an appetite. I shall

make devilish work to-night in the larder, I promise you.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never my eyes beheld.

(To him.) Why, really, sir, as for supper I can't well tell. My

Dorothy and the cook-maid settle these things between them. I leave

these kind of things entirely to them.

MARLOW. You do, do you—

HARDCASTLE. Entirely. By the bye, I believe they are in actual

consultation upon what's for supper this moment in the kitchen.

MARLOW. Then I beg they'll admit me as one of their privy council.

It's a way I have got. When I travel, I always chose to regulate my

own supper. Let the cook be called. No offence I hope, sir.

HARDCASTLE. O no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't know how; our

Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very communicative upon these

occasions. Should we send for her, she might scold us all out of the

house.

HASTINGS. Let's see your list of the larder then. I ask it as a

favour. I always match my appetite to my bill of fare.

MARLOW. (To HARDCASTLE, who looks at them with surprise.) Sir, he's

very right, and it's my way too.

HARDCASTLE. Sir, you have a right to command here. Here, Roger,

bring us the bill of fare for to-night's supper: I believe it's drawn

out-Your manner, Mr. Hastings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel

Wallop. It was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper

till he had eaten it.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) All upon the high rope! His uncle a colonel! we

shall soon hear of his mother being a justice of the peace. But let's

hear the bill of fare.

MARLOW. (Perusing.) What's here— For the first course; for the

second course; for the dessert. The devil, sir, do you think we have

brought down a whole Joiners' Company, or the corporation of Bedford,

to eat up such a supper— Two or three little things, clean and

comfortable, will do.

HASTINGS. But let's hear it.

MARLOW. (Reading.) For the first course, at the top, a pig and prune

sauce.

HASTINGS. Damn your pig, I say.

MARLOW. And damn your prune sauce, say I.

HARDCASTLE. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are hungry, pig with

prune sauce is very good eating.

MARLOW. At the bottom, a calf's tongue and brains.

HASTINGS. Let your brains be knocked out, my good sir, I don't like

them.

MARLOW. Or you may clap them on a plate by themselves. I do.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds me. (To them.)

Gentlemen, you are my guests, make what alterations you please. Is

there anything else you wish to retrench or alter, gentlemen—

MARLOW. Item, a pork pie, a boiled rabbit and sausages, a Florentine,

a shaking pudding, and a dish of tiff-taff-taffety cream.

HASTINGS. Confound your made dishes; I shall be as much at a loss in

this house as at a green and yellow dinner at the French ambassador's

table. I'm for plain eating.

HARDCASTLE. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have nothing you like, but if

there be anything you have a particular fancy to--

MARLOW. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so exquisite, that any

one part of it is full as good as another. Send us what you please.

So much for supper. And now to see that our beds are aired, and

properly taken care of.

HARDCASTLE. I entreat you'll leave that to me. You shall not stir a

step.

MARLOW. Leave that to you! I protest, sir, you must excuse me, I

always look to these things myself.

HARDCASTLE. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself easy on that

head.

MARLOW. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside.) A very troublesome

fellow this, as I ever met with.

HARDCASTLE. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to attend you. (Aside.)

This may be modem modesty, but I never saw anything look so like

old-fashioned impudence. [Exeunt MARLOW and HARDCASTLE.]

HASTINGS. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civilities begin to grow

troublesome. But who can be angry at those assiduities which are meant

to please him— Ha! what do I see— Miss Neville, by all that's happy!

Enter MISS NEVILLE.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear Hastings! To what unexpected good fortune, to

what accident, am I to ascribe this happy meeting—

HASTINGS. Rather let me ask the same question, as I could never have

hoped to meet my dearest Constance at an inn.

MISS NEVILLE. An inn! sure you mistake: my aunt, my guardian, lives

here. What could induce you to think this house an inn—

HASTINGS. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom I came down, and I, have

been sent here as to an inn, I assure you. A young fellow, whom we

accidentally met at a house hard by, directed us hither.

MISS NEVILLE. Certainly it must be one of my hopeful cousin's tricks,

of whom you have heard me talk so often; ha! ha! ha!

HASTINGS. He whom your aunt intends for you— he of whom I have such

just apprehensions—

MISS NEVILLE. You have nothing to fear from him, I assure you. You'd

adore him, if you knew how heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it

too, and has undertaken to court me for him, and actually begins to

think she has made a conquest.

HASTINGS. Thou dear dissembler! You must know, my Constance, I have

just seized this happy opportunity of my friend's visit here to get

admittance into the family. The horses that carried us down are now

fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be refreshed; and then,

if my dearest girl will trust in her faithful Hastings, we shall soon

be landed in France, where even among slaves the laws of marriage are

respected.

MISS NEVILLE. I have often told you, that though ready to obey you, I

yet should leave my little fortune behind with reluctance. The

greatest part of it was left me by my uncle, the India director, and

chiefly consists in jewels. I have been for some time persuading my

aunt to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeeding. The

instant they are put into my possession, you shall find me ready to

make them and myself yours.

HASTINGS. Perish the baubles! Your person is all I desire. In the

mean time, my friend Marlow must not be let into his mistake. I know

the strange reserve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed of

it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan was ripe for

execution.

MISS NEVILLE. But how shall we keep him in the deception— Miss

Hardcastle is just returned from walking; what if we still continue to

deceive him—--This, this way--[They confer.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. The assiduities of these good people teaze me beyond bearing.

My host seems to think it ill manners to leave me alone, and so he

claps not only himself, but his old-fashioned wife, on my back. They

talk of coming to sup with us too; and then, I suppose, we are to run

the gantlet through all the rest of the family.-What have we got here—

HASTINGS. My dear Charles! Let me congratulate you!-The most

fortunate accident!-Who do you think is just alighted—

MARLOW. Cannot guess.

HASTINGS. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and Miss Neville.

Give me leave to introduce Miss Constance Neville to your

acquaintance. Happening to dine in the neighbourhood, they called on

their return to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just stept

into the next room, and will be back in an instant. Wasn't it lucky—

eh!

MARLOW. (Aside.) I have been mortified enough of all conscience, and

here comes something to complete my embarrassment.

HASTINGS. Well, but wasn't it the most fortunate thing in the world—

MARLOW. Oh! yes. Very fortunate-a most joyful encounter-But our

dresses, George, you know are in disorder-What if we should postpone

the happiness till to-morrow—-To-morrow at her own house-It will be

every bit as convenient-and rather more respectful-To-morrow let it

be. [Offering to go.]

MISS NEVILLE. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will displease her.

The disorder of your dress will show the ardour of your impatience.

Besides, she knows you are in the house, and will permit you to see

her.

MARLOW. O! the devil! how shall I support it— Hem! hem! Hastings,

you must not go. You are to assist me, you know. I shall be

confoundedly ridiculous. Yet, hang it! I'll take courage. Hem!

HASTINGS. Pshaw, man! it's but the first plunge, and all's over.

She's but a woman, you know.

MARLOW. And, of all women, she that I dread most to encounter.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, as returned from walking, a bonnet, etc.

HASTINGS. (Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, Mr. Marlow. I'm

proud of bringing two persons of such merit together, that only want to

know, to esteem each other.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Now for meeting my modest gentleman with a

demure face, and quite in his own manner. (After a pause, in which he

appears very uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival,

sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way.

MARLOW. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some. Yes, madam, a good many

accidents, but should be sorry-madam-or rather glad of any

accidents-that are so agreeably concluded. Hem!

HASTINGS. (To him.) You never spoke better in your whole life. Keep

it up, and I'll insure you the victory.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm afraid you flatter, sir. You that have seen so

much of the finest company, can find little entertainment in an obscure

corner of the country.

MARLOW. (Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, in the world,

madam; but I have kept very little company. I have been but an

observer upon life, madam, while others were enjoying it.

MISS NEVILLE. But that, I am told, is the way to enjoy it at last.

HASTINGS. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. Once more, and you

are confirmed in assurance for ever.

MARLOW. (To him.) Hem! Stand by me, then, and when I'm down, throw

in a word or two, to set me up again.

MISS HARDCASTLE. An observer, like you, upon life were, I fear,

disagreeably employed, since you must have had much more to censure

than to approve.

MARLOW. Pardon me, madam. I was always willing to be amused. The

folly of most people is rather an object of mirth than uneasiness.

HASTINGS. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke so well in your whole

life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see that you and Mr. Marlow are going

to be very good company. I believe our being here will but embarrass

the interview.

MARLOW. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like your company of all

things. (To him.) Zounds! George, sure you won't go— how can you

leave us—

HASTINGS. Our presence will but spoil conversation, so we'll retire to

the next room. (To him.) You don't consider, man, that we are to

manage a little tete-a-tete of our own. [Exeunt.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (after a pause). But you have not been wholly an

observer, I presume, sir: the ladies, I should hope, have employed some

part of your addresses.

MARLOW. (Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, madam, I-I-I-as yet

have studied-only-to-deserve them.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And that, some say, is the very worst way to obtain

them.

MARLOW. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to converse only with the more

grave and sensible part of the sex. But I'm afraid I grow tiresome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Not at all, sir; there is nothing I like so much as

grave conversation myself; I could hear it for ever. Indeed, I have

often been surprised how a man of sentiment could ever admire those

light airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart.

MARLOW. It's--a disease--of the mind, madam. In the variety of

tastes there must be some who, wanting a relish--for--um-a-um.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you, sir. There must be some, who,

wanting a relish for refined pleasures, pretend to despise what they

are incapable of tasting.

MARLOW. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better expressed. And I

can't help observing--a--

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose this fellow

impudent upon some occasions— (To him.) You were going to observe,

sir--

MARLOW. I was observing, madam-I protest, madam, I forget what I was

going to observe.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To him.) You were

observing, sir, that in this age of hypocrisy-something about

hypocrisy, sir.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there are few who upon

strict inquiry do not-a-a-a-

MISS HARDCASTLE. I understand you perfectly, sir.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad! and that's more than I do myself.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You mean that in this hypocritical age there are few

that do not condemn in public what they practise in private, and think

they pay every debt to virtue when they praise it.

MARLOW. True, madam; those who have most virtue in their mouths, have

least of it in their bosoms. But I'm sure I tire you, madam.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Not in the least, sir; there's something so

agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life and force-pray, sir,

go on.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. I was saying--that there are some occasions,

when a total want of courage, madam, destroys all the--and puts

us--upon a-a-a-

MISS HARDCASTLE. I agree with you entirely; a want of courage upon

some occasions assumes the appearance of ignorance, and betrays us when

we most want to excel. I beg you'll proceed.

MARLOW. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam-But I see Miss Neville

expecting us in the next room. I would not intrude for the world.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I protest, sir, I never was more agreeably

entertained in all my life. Pray go on.

MARLOW. Yes, madam, I was--But she beckons us to join her. Madam,

shall I do myself the honour to attend you—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Well, then, I'll follow.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue has done for me.

[Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Alone.) Ha! ha! ha! Was there ever such a sober,

sentimental interview— I'm certain he scarce looked in my face the

whole time. Yet the fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is

pretty well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in his fears,

that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If I could teach him a

little confidence, it would be doing somebody that I know of a piece of

service. But who is that somebody—-That, faith, is a question I can

scarce answer. [Exit.]

Enter TONY and MISS NEVILLE, followed by MRS. HARDCASTLE and HASTINGS.

TONY. What do you follow me for, cousin Con— I wonder you're not

ashamed to be so very engaging.

MISS NEVILLE. I hope, cousin, one may speak to one's own relations,

and not be to blame.

TONY. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you want to make me,

though; but it won't do. I tell you, cousin Con, it won't do; so I beg

you'll keep your distance, I want no nearer relationship. [She

follows, coquetting him to the back scene.]

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well! I vow, Mr. Hastings, you are very

entertaining. There's nothing in the world I love to talk of so much

as London, and the fashions, though I was never there myself.

HASTINGS. Never there! You amaze me! From your air and manner, I

concluded you had been bred all your life either at Ranelagh, St.

James's, or Tower Wharf.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O! sir, you're only pleased to say so. We country

persons can have no manner at all. I'm in love with the town, and that

serves to raise me above some of our neighbouring rustics; but who can

have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the Grotto Gardens,

the Borough, and such places where the nobility chiefly resort— All I

can do is to enjoy London at second-hand. I take care to know every

tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have all the fashions, as

they come out, in a letter from the two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane.

Pray how do you like this head, Mr. Hastings—

HASTINGS. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my word, madam. Your

friseur is a Frenchman, I suppose—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I protest, I dressed it myself from a print in the

Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last year.

HASTINGS. Indeed! Such a head in a side-box at the play-house would

draw as many gazers as my Lady Mayoress at a City Ball.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such

thing to be seen as a plain woman; so one must dress a little

particular, or one may escape in the crowd.

HASTINGS. But that can never be your case, madam, in any dress.

(Bowing.)

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yet, what signifies my dressing when I have such a

piece of antiquity by my side as Mr. Hardcastle: all I can say will

never argue down a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted

him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he was bald, to

plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with powder.

HASTINGS. You are right, madam; for, as among the ladies there are

none ugly, so among the men there are none old.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. But what do you think his answer was— Why, with his

usual Gothic vivacity, he said I only wanted him to throw off his wig,

to convert it into a tete for my own wearing.

HASTINGS. Intolerable! At your age you may wear what you please, and

it must become you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you take to be the most

fashionable age about town—

HASTINGS. Some time ago, forty was all the mode; but I'm told the

ladies intend to bring up fifty for the ensuing winter.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Seriously. Then I shall be too young for the

fashion.

HASTINGS. No lady begins now to put on jewels till she's past forty.

For instance, Miss there, in a polite circle, would be considered as a

child, as a mere maker of samplers.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. And yet Mrs. Niece thinks herself as much a woman,

and is as fond of jewels, as the oldest of us all.

HASTINGS. Your niece, is she— And that young gentleman, a brother of

yours, I should presume—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My son, sir. They are contracted to each other.

Observe their little sports. They fall in and out ten times a day, as

if they were man and wife already. (To them.) Well, Tony, child, what

soft things are you saying to your cousin Constance this evening—

TONY. I have been saying no soft things; but that it's very hard to be

followed about so. Ecod! I've not a place in the house now that's left

to myself, but the stable.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Never mind him, Con, my dear. He's in another story

behind your back.

MISS NEVILLE. There's something generous in my cousin's manner. He

falls out before faces to be forgiven in private.

TONY. That's a damned confounded-crack.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ah! he's a sly one. Don't you think they are like

each other about the mouth, Mr. Hastings— The Blenkinsop mouth to a T.

They're of a size too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. Hastings

may see you. Come, Tony.

TONY. You had as good not make me, I tell you. (Measuring.)

MISS NEVILLE. O lud! he has almost cracked my head.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O, the monster! For shame, Tony. You a man, and

behave so!

TONY. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod! I'll not be made a

fool of no longer.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that I'm to get for the

pains I have taken in your education— I that have rocked you in your

cradle, and fed that pretty mouth with a spoon! Did not I work that

waistcoat to make you genteel— Did not I prescribe for you every day,

and weep while the receipt was operating—

TONY. Ecod! you had reason to weep, for you have been dosing me ever

since I was born. I have gone through every receipt in the Complete

Huswife ten times over; and you have thoughts of coursing me through

Quincy next spring. But, ecod! I tell you, I'll not be made a fool of

no longer.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Wasn't it all for your good, viper— Wasn't it all

for your good—

TONY. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, then. Snubbing this way

when I'm in spirits. If I'm to have any good, let it come of itself;

not to keep dinging it, dinging it into one so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. That's false; I never see you when you're in

spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the alehouse or kennel. I'm never

to be delighted with your agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster!

TONY. Ecod! mamma, your own notes are the wildest of the two.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was ever the like— But I see he wants to break my

heart, I see he does.

HASTINGS. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the young gentleman a

little. I'm certain I can persuade him to his duty.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, I must retire. Come, Constance, my love. You

see, Mr. Hastings, the wretchedness of my situation: was ever poor

woman so plagued with a dear sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful boy—

[Exeunt MRS. HARDCASTLE and MISS NEVILLE.]

TONY. (Singing.) "There was a young man riding by, and fain would

have his will. Rang do didlo dee."--Don't mind her. Let her cry.

It's the comfort of her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a

book for an hour together; and they said they liked the book the better

the more it made them cry.

HASTINGS. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I find, my pretty

young gentleman—

TONY. That's as I find 'um.

HASTINGS. Not to her of your mother's choosing, I dare answer— And

yet she appears to me a pretty well-tempered girl.

TONY. That's because you don't know her as well as I. Ecod! I know

every inch about her; and there's not a more bitter cantankerous toad

in all Christendom.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) Pretty encouragement this for a lover!

TONY. I have seen her since the height of that. She has as many

tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt the first day's breaking.

HASTINGS. To me she appears sensible and silent.

TONY. Ay, before company. But when she's with her playmate, she's as

loud as a hog in a gate.

HASTINGS. But there is a meek modesty about her that charms me.

TONY. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks up, and you're

flung in a ditch.

HASTINGS. Well, but you must allow her a little beauty.-Yes, you must

allow her some beauty.

TONY. Bandbox! She's all a made-up thing, mun. Ah! could you but see

Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty. Ecod, she

has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit

cushion. She'd make two of she.

HASTINGS. Well, what say you to a friend that would take this bitter

bargain off your hands—

TONY. Anon.

HASTINGS. Would you thank him that would take Miss Neville, and leave

you to happiness and your dear Betsy—

TONY. Ay; but where is there such a friend, for who would take her—

HASTINGS. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll engage to whip her off

to France, and you shall never hear more of her.

TONY. Assist you! Ecod I will, to the last drop of my blood. I'll

clap a pair of horses to your chaise that shall trundle you off in a

twinkling, and may be get you a part of her fortin beside, in jewels,

that you little dream of.

HASTINGS. My dear 'squire, this looks like a lad of spirit.

TONY. Come along, then, and you shall see more of my spirit before you

have done with me.

(Singing.)

"We are the boys

That fears no noise

Where the thundering cannons roar." [Exeunt.]

ACT THE THIRD.

Enter HARDCASTLE, alone.

HARDCASTLE. What could my old friend Sir Charles mean by recommending

his son as the modestest young man in town— To me he appears the most

impudent piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has taken

possession of the easy chair by the fire-side already. He took off his

boots in the parlour, and desired me to see them taken care of. I'm

desirous to know how his impudence affects my daughter. She will

certainly be shocked at it.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE, plainly dressed.

HARDCASTLE. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed your dress, as I

bade you; and yet, I believe, there was no great occasion.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I find such a pleasure, sir, in obeying your

commands, that I take care to observe them without ever debating their

propriety.

HARDCASTLE. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you some cause,

particularly when I recommended my modest gentleman to you as a lover

to-day.

MISS HARDCASTLE. You taught me to expect something extraordinary, and

I find the original exceeds the description.

HARDCASTLE. I was never so surprised in my life! He has quite

confounded all my faculties!

MISS HARDCASTLE. I never saw anything like it: and a man of the world

too!

HARDCASTLE. Ay, he learned it all abroad-what a fool was I, to think

a young man could learn modesty by travelling. He might as soon learn

wit at a masquerade.

MISS HARDCASTLE. It seems all natural to him.

HARDCASTLE. A good deal assisted by bad company and a French

dancing-master.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sure you mistake, papa! A French dancing-master

could never have taught him that timid look-that awkward address-that

bashful manner-

HARDCASTLE. Whose look— whose manner, child—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Mr. Marlow's: his mauvaise honte, his timidity,

struck me at the first sight.

HARDCASTLE. Then your first sight deceived you; for I think him one of

the most brazen first sights that ever astonished my senses.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sure, sir, you rally! I never saw any one so

modest.

HARDCASTLE. And can you be serious— I never saw such a bouncing,

swaggering puppy since I was born. Bully Dawson was but a fool to him.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Surprising! He met me with a respectful bow, a

stammering voice, and a look fixed on the ground.

HARDCASTLE. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly air, and a

familiarity that made my blood freeze again.

MISS HARDCASTLE. He treated me with diffidence and respect; censured

the manners of the age; admired the prudence of girls that never

laughed; tired me with apologies for being tiresome; then left the room

with a bow, and "Madam, I would not for the world detain you."

HARDCASTLE. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his life before;

asked twenty questions, and never waited for an answer; interrupted my

best remarks with some silly pun; and when I was in my best story of

the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if I had not a good

hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, he asked your father if he was a

maker of punch!

MISS HARDCASTLE. One of us must certainly be mistaken.

HARDCASTLE. If he be what he has shown himself, I'm determined he

shall never have my consent.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And if he be the sullen thing I take him, he shall

never have mine.

HARDCASTLE. In one thing then we are agreed-to reject him.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes: but upon conditions. For if you should find him

less impudent, and I more presuming-if you find him more respectful,

and I more importunate-I don't know-the fellow is well enough for a

man-Certainly, we don't meet many such at a horse-race in the country.

HARDCASTLE. If we should find him so--But that's impossible. The

first appearance has done my business. I'm seldom deceived in that.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And yet there may be many good qualities under that

first appearance.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside to her taste, she

then sets about guessing the rest of his furniture. With her, a smooth

face stands for good sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, a conversation begun with a compliment

to my good sense, won't end with a sneer at my understanding—

HARDCASTLE. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. Brazen can find the art

of reconciling contradictions, he may please us both, perhaps.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And as one of us must be mistaken, what if we go to

make further discoveries—

HARDCASTLE. Agreed. But depend on't I'm in the right.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And depend on't I'm not much in the wrong.

[Exeunt.]

Enter Tony, running in with a casket.

TONY. Ecod! I have got them. Here they are. My cousin Con's

necklaces, bobs and all. My mother shan't cheat the poor souls out of

their fortin neither. O! my genus, is that you—

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. My dear friend, how have you managed with your mother— I

hope you have amused her with pretending love for your cousin, and that

you are willing to be reconciled at last— Our horses will be refreshed

in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to set off.

TONY. And here's something to bear your charges by the way (giving the

casket); your sweetheart's jewels. Keep them: and hang those, I say,

that would rob you of one of them.

HASTINGS. But how have you procured them from your mother—

TONY. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no fibs. I procured them

by the rule of thumb. If I had not a key to every drawer in mother's

bureau, how could I go to the alehouse so often as I do— An honest man

may rob himself of his own at any time.

HASTINGS. Thousands do it every day. But to be plain with you; Miss

Neville is endeavouring to procure them from her aunt this very

instant. If she succeeds, it will be the most delicate way at least of

obtaining them.

TONY. Well, keep them, till you know how it will be. But I know how

it will be well enough; she'd as soon part with the only sound tooth in

her head.

HASTINGS. But I dread the effects of her resentment, when she finds

she has lost them.

TONY. Never you mind her resentment, leave ME to manage that. I

don't value her resentment the bounce of a cracker. Zounds! here they

are. Morrice! Prance! [Exit HASTINGS.]

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and MISS NEVILLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. Such a girl as you

want jewels! It will be time enough for jewels, my dear, twenty years

hence, when your beauty begins to want repairs.

MISS NEVILLE. But what will repair beauty at forty, will certainly

improve it at twenty, madam.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yours, my dear, can admit of none. That natural

blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. Besides, child, jewels are quite

out at present. Don't you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my

Lady Kill-daylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, carry their

jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste and marcasites back.

MISS NEVILLE. But who knows, madam, but somebody that shall be

nameless would like me best with all my little finery about me—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Consult your glass, my dear, and then see if, with

such a pair of eyes, you want any better sparklers. What do you think,

Tony, my dear— does your cousin Con. want any jewels in your eyes to

set off her beauty—

TONY. That's as thereafter may be.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear aunt, if you knew how it would oblige me.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and table-cut things.

They would make you look like the court of King Solomon at a

puppet-show. Besides, I believe, I can't readily come at them. They

may be missing, for aught I know to the contrary.

TONY. (Apart to MRS. HARDCASTLE.) Then why don't you tell her so at

once, as she's so longing for them— Tell her they're lost. It's the

only way to quiet her. Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Apart to TONY.) You know, my dear, I'm only

keeping them for you. So if I say they're gone, you'll bear me

witness, will you— He! he! he!

TONY. Never fear me. Ecod! I'll say I saw them taken out with my own

eyes.

MISS NEVILLE. I desire them but for a day, madam. Just to be

permitted to show them as relics, and then they may be locked up

again.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. To be plain with you, my dear Constance, if I could

find them you should have them. They're missing, I assure you. Lost,

for aught I know; but we must have patience wherever they are.

MISS NEVILLE. I'll not believe it! this is but a shallow pretence to

deny me. I know they are too valuable to be so slightly kept, and as

you are to answer for the loss-

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Don't be alarmed, Constance. If they be lost, I must

restore an equivalent. But my son knows they are missing, and not to

be found.

TONY. That I can bear witness to. They are missing, and not to be

found; I'll take my oath on't.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. You must learn resignation, my dear; for though we

lose our fortune, yet we should not lose our patience. See me, how

calm I am.

MISS NEVILLE. Ay, people are generally calm at the misfortunes of

others.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Now I wonder a girl of your good sense should waste a

thought upon such trumpery. We shall soon find them; and in the mean

time you shall make use of my garnets till your jewels be found.

MISS NEVILLE. I detest garnets.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. The most becoming things in the world to set off a

clear complexion. You have often seen how well they look upon me. You

SHALL have them. [Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. I dislike them of all things. You shan't stir.-Was

ever anything so provoking, to mislay my own jewels, and force me to

wear her trumpery—

TONY. Don't be a fool. If she gives you the garnets, take what you

can get. The jewels are your own already. I have stolen them out of

her bureau, and she does not know it. Fly to your spark, he'll tell

you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her.

MISS NEVILLE. My dear cousin!

TONY. Vanish. She's here, and has missed them already. [Exit MISS

NEVILLE.] Zounds! how she fidgets and spits about like a Catherine

wheel.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Confusion! thieves! robbers! we are cheated,

plundered, broke open, undone.

TONY. What's the matter, what's the matter, mamma— I hope nothing has

happened to any of the good family!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. We are robbed. My bureau has been broken open, the

jewels taken out, and I'm undone.

TONY. Oh! is that all— Ha! ha! ha! By the laws, I never saw it

acted better in my life. Ecod, I thought you was ruined in earnest,

ha! ha! ha!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Why, boy, I AM ruined in earnest. My bureau has been

broken open, and all taken away.

TONY. Stick to that: ha! ha! ha! stick to that. I'll bear witness,

you know; call me to bear witness.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I tell you, Tony, by all that's precious, the jewels

are gone, and I shall be ruined for ever.

TONY. Sure I know they're gone, and I'm to say so.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dearest Tony, but hear me. They're gone, I say.

TONY. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to laugh, ha! ha! I know

who took them well enough, ha! ha! ha!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a blockhead, that can't tell the

difference between jest and earnest— I tell you I'm not in jest,

booby.

TONY. That's right, that's right; you must be in a bitter passion, and

then nobody will suspect either of us. I'll bear witness that they are

gone.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Was there ever such a cross-grained brute, that

won't hear me— Can you bear witness that you're no better than a

fool— Was ever poor woman so beset with fools on one hand, and

thieves on the other—

TONY. I can bear witness to that.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Bear witness again, you blockhead you, and I'll turn

you out of the room directly. My poor niece, what will become of her—

Do you laugh, you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress—

TONY. I can bear witness to that.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Do you insult me, monster— I'll teach you to vex

your mother, I will.

TONY. I can bear witness to that. [He runs off, she follows him.]

Enter Miss HARDCASTLE and Maid.

MISS HARDCASTLE. What an unaccountable creature is that brother of

mine, to send them to the house as an inn! ha! ha! I don't wonder at

his impudence.

MAID. But what is more, madam, the young gentleman, as you passed by

in your present dress, asked me if you were the bar-maid. He mistook

you for the bar-maid, madam.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did he— Then as I live, I'm resolved to keep up the

delusion. Tell me, Pimple, how do you like my present dress— Don't

you think I look something like Cherry in the Beaux Stratagem—

MAID. It's the dress, madam, that every lady wears in the country, but

when she visits or receives company.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And are you sure he does not remember my face or

person—

MAID. Certain of it.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I vow, I thought so; for, though we spoke for some

time together, yet his fears were such, that he never once looked up

during the interview. Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him

from seeing me.

MAID. But what do you hope from keeping him in his mistake—

MISS HARDCASTLE. In the first place I shall be seen, and that is no

small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market. Then I shall

perhaps make an acquaintance, and that's no small victory gained over

one who never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But my chief

aim is, to take my gentleman off his guard, and, like an invisible

champion of romance, examine the giant's force before I offer to

combat.

MAID. But you are sure you can act your part, and disguise your voice

so that he may mistake that, as he has already mistaken your person—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never fear me. I think I have got the true bar

cant-Did your honour call—-Attend the Lion there-Pipes and tobacco

for the Angel.-The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour.

MAID. It will do, madam. But he's here. [Exit MAID.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. What a bawling in every part of the house! I have scarce a

moment's repose. If I go to the best room, there I find my host and

his story: if I fly to the gallery, there we have my hostess with her

curtsey down to the ground. I have at last got a moment to myself, and

now for recollection. [Walks and muses.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did you call, sir— Did your honour call—

MARLOW. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's too grave and

sentimental for me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Did your honour call— (She still places herself

before him, he turning away.)

MARLOW. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the glimpse I had of her,

I think she squints.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I'm sure, sir, I heard the bell ring.

MARLOW. No, no. (Musing.) I have pleased my father, however, by

coming down, and I'll to-morrow please myself by returning. [Taking

out his tablets, and perusing.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. Perhaps the other gentleman called, sir—

MARLOW. I tell you, no.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I should be glad to know, sir. We have such a

parcel of servants!

MARLOW. No, no, I tell you. (Looks full in her face.) Yes, child, I

think I did call. I wanted-I wanted-I vow, child, you are vastly

handsome.

MISS HARDCASTLE. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed.

MARLOW. Never saw a more sprightly malicious eye. Yes, yes, my dear,

I did call. Have you got any of your-a-what d'ye call it in the

house—

MISS HARDCASTLE. No, sir, we have been out of that these ten days.

MARLOW. One may call in this house, I find, to very little purpose.

Suppose I should call for a taste, just by way of a trial, of the

nectar of your lips; perhaps I might be disappointed in that too.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Nectar! nectar! That's a liquor there's no call for

in these parts. French, I suppose. We sell no French wines here, sir.

MARLOW. Of true English growth, I assure you.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it's odd I should not know it. We brew all

sorts of wines in this house, and I have lived here these eighteen

years.

MARLOW. Eighteen years! Why, one would think, child, you kept the bar

before you were born. How old are you—

MISS HARDCASTLE. O! sir, I must not tell my age. They say women and

music should never be dated.

MARLOW. To guess at this distance, you can't be much above forty

(approaching). Yet, nearer, I don't think so much (approaching). By

coming close to some women they look younger still; but when we come

very close indeed-(attempting to kiss her).

MISS HARDCASTLE. Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you

wanted to know one's age, as they do horses, by mark of mouth.

MARLOW. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. If you keep me at

this distance, how is it possible you and I can ever be acquainted—

MISS HARDCASTLE. And who wants to be acquainted with you— I want no

such acquaintance, not I. I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle,

that was here awhile ago, in this obstropalous manner. I'll warrant

me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to the ground, and

talked, for all the world, as if you was before a justice of peace.

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough! (To her.) In

awe of her, child— Ha! ha! ha! A mere awkward squinting thing; no,

no. I find you don't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little; but

I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not be too severe, curse

me!

MISS HARDCASTLE. O! then, sir, you are a favourite, I find, among the

ladies—

MARLOW. Yes, my dear, a great favourite. And yet hang me, I don't see

what they find in me to follow. At the Ladies' Club in town I'm called

their agreeable Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one

I'm known by. My name is Solomons; Mr. Solomons, my dear, at your

service. (Offering to salute her.)

MISS HARDCASTLE. Hold, sir; you are introducing me to your club, not

to yourself. And you're so great a favourite there, you say—

MARLOW. Yes, my dear. There's Mrs. Mantrap, Lady Betty Blackleg, the

Countess of Sligo, Mrs. Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your

humble servant, keep up the spirit of the place.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then it's a very merry place, I suppose—

MARLOW. Yes, as merry as cards, supper, wine, and old women can make

us.

MISS HARDCASTLE. And their agreeable Rattle, ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. (Aside.) Egad! I don't quite like this chit. She looks

knowing, methinks. You laugh, child—

MISS HARDCASTLE. I can't but laugh, to think what time they all have

for minding their work or their family.

MARLOW. (Aside.) All's well; she don't laugh at me. (To her.) Do

you ever work, child—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure. There's not a screen or quilt in the

whole house but what can bear witness to that.

MARLOW. Odso! then you must show me your embroidery. I embroider and

draw patterns myself a little. If you want a judge of your work, you

must apply to me. (Seizing her hand.)

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, but the colours do not look well by candlelight.

You shall see all in the morning. (Struggling.)

MARLOW. And why not now, my angel— Such beauty fires beyond the

power of resistance.-Pshaw! the father here! My old luck: I never

nicked seven that I did not throw ames ace three times following.

[Exit MARLOW.]

Enter HARDCASTLE, who stands in surprise.

HARDCASTLE. So, madam. So, I find THIS is your MODEST lover. This is

your humble admirer, that kept his eyes fixed on the ground, and only

adored at humble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to deceive

your father so—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Never trust me, dear papa, but he's still the modest

man I first took him for; you'll be convinced of it as well as I.

HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, I believe his impudence is

infectious! Didn't I see him seize your hand— Didn't I see him haul

you about like a milkmaid— And now you talk of his respect and his

modesty, forsooth!

MISS HARDCASTLE. But if I shortly convince you of his modesty, that he

has only the faults that will pass off with time, and the virtues that

will improve with age, I hope you'll forgive him.

HARDCASTLE. The girl would actually make one run mad! I tell you,

I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. He has scarce been three hours

in the house, and he has already encroached on all my prerogatives.

You may like his impudence, and call it modesty; but my son-in-law,

madam, must have very different qualifications.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I ask but this night to convince you.

HARDCASTLE. You shall not have half the time, for I have thoughts of

turning him out this very hour.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Give me that hour then, and I hope to satisfy you.

HARDCASTLE. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll have no trifling

with your father. All fair and open, do you mind me.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, you have ever found that I considered

your commands as my pride; for your kindness is such, that my duty as

yet has been inclination. [Exeunt.]

ACT THE FOURTH.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

HASTINGS. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow expected here this

night! Where have you had your information—

MISS NEVILLE. You may depend upon it. I just saw his letter to Mr.

Hardcastle, in which he tells him he intends setting out a few hours

after his son.

HASTINGS. Then, my Constance, all must be completed before he

arrives. He knows me; and should he find me here, would discover my

name, and perhaps my designs, to the rest of the family.

MISS NEVILLE. The jewels, I hope, are safe—

HASTINGS. Yes, yes, I have sent them to Marlow, who keeps the keys of

our baggage. In the mean time, I'll go to prepare matters for our

elopement. I have had the 'squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses;

and if I should not see him again, will write him further directions.

[Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. Well! success attend you. In the mean time I'll go and

amuse my aunt with the old pretence of a violent passion for my cousin.

[Exit.]

Enter MARLOW, followed by a Servant.

MARLOW. I wonder what Hastings could mean by sending me so valuable a

thing as a casket to keep for him, when he knows the only place I have

is the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited the

casket with the landlady, as I ordered you— Have you put it into her

own hands—

SERVANT. Yes, your honour.

MARLOW. She said she'd keep it safe, did she—

SERVANT. Yes, she said she'd keep it safe enough; she asked me how I

came by it; and she said she had a great mind to make me give an

account of myself. [Exit Servant.]

MARLOW. Ha! ha! ha! They're safe, however. What an unaccountable set

of beings have we got amongst! This little bar-maid though runs in my

head most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of all the rest of

the family. She's mine, she must be mine, or I'm greatly mistaken.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. Bless me! I quite forgot to tell her that I intended to

prepare at the bottom of the garden. Marlow here, and in spirits too!

MARLOW. Give me joy, George! Crown me, shadow me with laurels!

Well, George, after all, we modest fellows don't want for success

among the women.

HASTINGS. Some women, you mean. But what success has your honour's

modesty been crowned with now, that it grows so insolent upon us—

MARLOW. Didn't you see the tempting, brisk, lovely little thing, that

runs about the house with a bunch of keys to its girdle—

HASTINGS. Well, and what then—

MARLOW. She's mine, you rogue you. Such fire, such motion, such

eyes, such lips; but, egad! she would not let me kiss them though.

HASTINGS. But are you so sure, so very sure of her—

MARLOW. Why, man, she talked of showing me her work above stairs, and

I am to improve the pattern.

HASTINGS. But how can you, Charles, go about to rob a woman of her

honour—

MARLOW. Pshaw! pshaw! We all know the honour of the bar-maid of an

inn. I don't intend to rob her, take my word for it; there's nothing

in this house I shan't honestly pay for.

HASTINGS. I believe the girl has virtue.

MARLOW. And if she has, I should be the last man in the world that

would attempt to corrupt it.

HASTINGS. You have taken care, I hope, of the casket I sent you to

lock up— Is it in safety—

MARLOW. Yes, yes. It's safe enough. I have taken care of it. But

how could you think the seat of a post-coach at an inn-door a place of

safety— Ah! numskull! I have taken better precautions for you than

you did for yourself--I have--

HASTINGS. What—

MARLOW. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for you.

HASTINGS. To the landlady!

MARLOW. The landlady.

HASTINGS. You did—

MARLOW. I did. She's to be answerable for its forthcoming, you know.

HASTINGS. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness.

MARLOW. Wasn't I right— I believe you'll allow that I acted

prudently upon this occasion.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness.

MARLOW. You seem a little disconcerted though, methinks. Sure

nothing has happened—

HASTINGS. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits in all my life.

And so you left it with the landlady, who, no doubt, very readily

undertook the charge.

MARLOW. Rather too readily. For she not only kept the casket, but,

through her great precaution, was going to keep the messenger too. Ha!

ha! ha!

HASTINGS. He! he! he! They're safe, however.

MARLOW. As a guinea in a miser's purse.

HASTINGS. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are at an end, and we

must set off without it. (To him.) Well, Charles, I'll leave you to

your meditations on the pretty bar-maid, and, he! he! he! may you be as

successful for yourself, as you have been for me! [Exit.]

MARLOW. Thank ye, George: I ask no more. Ha! ha! ha!

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. I no longer know my own house. It's turned all

topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk already. I'll bear it no

longer; and yet, from my respect for his father, I'll be calm. (To

him.) Mr. Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant.

(Bowing low.)

MARLOW. Sir, your humble servant. (Aside.) What's to be the wonder

now—

HARDCASTLE. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, that no man

alive ought to be more welcome than your father's son, sir. I hope you

think so—

MARLOW. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much entreaty. I

generally make my father's son welcome wherever he goes.

HARDCASTLE. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. But though I say

nothing to your own conduct, that of your servants is insufferable.

Their manner of drinking is setting a very bad example in this house,

I assure you.

MARLOW. I protest, my very good sir, that is no fault of mine. If

they don't drink as they ought, they are to blame. I ordered them not

to spare the cellar. I did, I assure you. (To the side scene.) Here,

let one of my servants come up. (To him.) My positive directions

were, that as I did not drink myself, they should make up for my

deficiencies below.

HARDCASTLE. Then they had your orders for what they do— I'm

satisfied!

MARLOW. They had, I assure you. You shall hear from one of

themselves.

Enter Servant, drunk.

MARLOW. You, Jeremy! Come forward, sirrah! What were my orders—

Were you not told to drink freely, and call for what you thought fit,

for the good of the house—

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience.

JEREMY. Please your honour, liberty and Fleet-street for ever!

Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as another man. I'll drink for

no man before supper, sir, damme! Good liquor will sit upon a good

supper, but a good supper will not sit upon--hiccup--on my

conscience, sir.

MARLOW. You see, my old friend, the fellow is as drunk as he can

possibly be. I don't know what you'd have more, unless you'd have the

poor devil soused in a beer-barrel.

HARDCASTLE. Zounds! he'll drive me distracted, if I contain myself any

longer. Mr. Marlow-Sir; I have submitted to your insolence for more

than four hours, and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm

now resolved to be master here, sir; and I desire that you and your

drunken pack may leave my house directly.

MARLOW. Leave your house!--Sure you jest, my good friend! What—

when I'm doing what I can to please you.

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, you don't please me; so I desire you'll

leave my house.

MARLOW. Sure you cannot be serious— At this time o' night, and such a

night— You only mean to banter me.

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, sir, I'm serious! and now that my passions are

roused, I say this house is mine, sir; this house is mine, and I

command you to leave it directly.

MARLOW. Ha! ha! ha! A puddle in a storm. I shan't stir a step, I

assure you. (In a serious tone.) This your house, fellow! It's my

house. This is my house. Mine, while I choose to stay. What right

have you to bid me leave this house, sir— I never met with such

impudence, curse me; never in my whole life before.

HARDCASTLE. Nor I, confound me if ever I did. To come to my house, to

call for what he likes, to turn me out of my own chair, to insult the

family, to order his servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, "This

house is mine, sir." By all that's impudent, it makes me laugh. Ha!

ha! ha! Pray, sir (bantering), as you take the house, what think you

of taking the rest of the furniture— There's a pair of silver

candlesticks, and there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of

brazen-nosed bellows; perhaps you may take a fancy to them—

MARLOW. Bring me your bill, sir; bring me your bill, and let's make no

more words about it.

HARDCASTLE. There are a set of prints, too. What think you of the

Rake's Progress, for your own apartment—

MARLOW. Bring me your bill, I say; and I'll leave you and your

infernal house directly.

HARDCASTLE. Then there's a mahogany table that you may see your own

face in.

MARLOW. My bill, I say.

HARDCASTLE. I had forgot the great chair for your own particular

slumbers, after a hearty meal.

MARLOW. Zounds! bring me my bill, I say, and let's hear no more on't.

HARDCASTLE. Young man, young man, from your father's letter to me, I

was taught to expect a well-bred modest man as a visitor here, but now

I find him no better than a coxcomb and a bully; but he will be down

here presently, and shall hear more of it. [Exit.]

MARLOW. How's this— Sure I have not mistaken the house. Everything

looks like an inn. The servants cry, coming; the attendance is

awkward; the bar-maid, too, to attend us. But she's here, and will

further inform me. Whither so fast, child— A word with you.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Let it be short, then. I'm in a hurry. (Aside.) I

believe be begins to find out his mistake. But it's too soon quite to

undeceive him.

MARLOW. Pray, child, answer me one question. What are you, and what

may your business in this house be—

MISS HARDCASTLE. A relation of the family, sir.

MARLOW. What, a poor relation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir. A poor relation, appointed to keep the

keys, and to see that the guests want nothing in my power to give them.

MARLOW. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Inn! O law--what brought that in your head— One

of the best families in the country keep an inn-Ha! ha! ha! old Mr.

Hardcastle's house an inn!

MARLOW. Mr. Hardcastle's house! Is this Mr. Hardcastle's house,

child—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Ay, sure! Whose else should it be—

MARLOW. So then, all's out, and I have been damnably imposed on. O,

confound my stupid head, I shall be laughed at over the whole town. I

shall be stuck up in caricatura in all the print-shops. The DULLISSIMO

MACCARONI. To mistake this house of all others for an inn, and my

father's old friend for an innkeeper! What a swaggering puppy must he

take me for! What a silly puppy do I find myself! There again, may I

be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you for the bar-maid.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Dear me! dear me! I'm sure there's nothing in my

BEHAVIOUR to put me on a level with one of that stamp.

MARLOW. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in for a list of

blunders, and could not help making you a subscriber. My stupidity saw

everything the wrong way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and

your simplicity for allurement. But it's over. This house I no more

show MY face in.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I hope, sir, I have done nothing to disoblige you.

I'm sure I should be sorry to affront any gentleman who has been so

polite, and said so many civil things to me. I'm sure I should be

sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account. I'm

sure I should be sorry if people said anything amiss, since I have no

fortune but my character.

MARLOW. (Aside.) By Heaven! she weeps. This is the first mark of

tenderness I ever had from a modest woman, and it touches me. (To

her.) Excuse me, my lovely girl; you are the only part of the family I

leave with reluctance. But to be plain with you, the difference of our

birth, fortune, and education, makes an honourable connexion

impossible; and I can never harbour a thought of seducing simplicity

that trusted in my honour, of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault

was being too lovely.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) Generous man! I now begin to admire him.

(To him.) But I am sure my family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's; and

though I'm poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind; and,

until this moment, I never thought that it was bad to want fortune.

MARLOW. And why now, my pretty simplicity—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Because it puts me at a distance from one that, if I

had a thousand pounds, I would give it all to.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me, so that if I stay, I'm

undone. I must make one bold effort, and leave her. (To her.) Your

partiality in my favour, my dear, touches me most sensibly: and were I

to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. But I owe too

much to the opinion of the world, too much to the authority of a

father; so that-I can scarcely speak it-it affects me. Farewell.

[Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. I never knew half his merit till now. He shall not

go, if I have power or art to detain him. I'll still preserve the

character in which I STOOPED TO CONQUER; but will undeceive my papa,

who perhaps may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit.]

Enter Tony and MISS NEVILLE.

TONY. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next time. I have done my

duty. She has got the jewels again, that's a sure thing; but she

believes it was all a mistake of the servants.

MISS NEVILLE. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't forsake us in this

distress— If she in the least suspects that I am going off, I shall

certainly be locked up, or sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten

times worse.

TONY. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned bad things. But what

can I do— I have got you a pair of horses that will fly like

Whistle-jacket; and I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you

nicely before her face. Here she comes, we must court a bit or two

more, for fear she should suspect us. [They retire, and seem to

fondle.]

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, I was greatly fluttered, to be sure. But my

son tells me it was all a mistake of the servants. I shan't be easy,

however, till they are fairly married, and then let her keep her own

fortune. But what do I see— fondling together, as I'm alive. I never

saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah! have I caught you, my pretty doves—

What, billing, exchanging stolen glances and broken murmurs— Ah!

TONY. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little now and then, to be

sure. But there's no love lost between us.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon the flame, only to make

it burn brighter.

MISS NEVILLE. Cousin Tony promises to give us more of his company at

home. Indeed, he shan't leave us any more. It won't leave us, cousin

Tony, will it—

TONY. O! it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner leave my horse in a

pound, than leave you when you smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you

so becoming.

MISS NEVILLE. Agreeable cousin! Who can help admiring that natural

humour, that pleasant, broad, red, thoughtless (patting his cheek)-ah!

it's a bold face.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pretty innocence!

TONY. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con.'s hazle eyes, and her

pretty long fingers, that she twists this way and that over the

haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ah! he would charm the bird from the tree. I was

never so happy before. My boy takes after his father, poor Mr.

Lumpkin, exactly. The jewels, my dear Con., shall be yours

incontinently. You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear—

You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the rest of his

education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a fitter opportunity.

Enter DIGGORY.

DIGGORY. Where's the 'squire— I have got a letter for your worship.

TONY. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my letters first.

DIGGORY. I had orders to deliver it into your own hands.

TONY. Who does it come from—

DIGGORY. Your worship mun ask that o' the letter itself.

TONY. I could wish to know though (turning the letter, and gazing on

it).

MISS NEVILLE. (Aside.) Undone! undone! A letter to him from

Hastings. I know the hand. If my aunt sees it, we are ruined for

ever. I'll keep her employed a little if I can. (To MRS.

HARDCASTLE.) But I have not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart

answer just now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed.-You must know,

madam.-This way a little, for he must not hear us. [They confer.]

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of penmanship, as ever I

saw in my life. I can read your print hand very well. But here are

such handles, and shanks, and dashes, that one can scarce tell the head

from the tail.-"To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's very odd, I can

read the outside of my letters, where my own name is, well enough; but

when I come to open it, it's all--buzz. That's hard, very hard; for

the inside of the letter is always the cream of the correspondence.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! Very well, very well. And so my son was

too hard for the philosopher.

MISS NEVILLE. Yes, madam; but you must hear the rest, madam. A

little more this way, or he may hear us. You'll hear how he puzzled

him again.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He seems strangely puzzled now himself, methinks.

TONY. (Still gazing.) A damned up and down hand, as if it was

disguised in liquor.-(Reading.) Dear Sir,-ay, that's that. Then

there's an M, and a T, and an S, but whether the next be an izzard, or

an R, confound me, I cannot tell.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. What's that, my dear— Can I give you any

assistance—

MISS NEVILLE. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody reads a cramp hand

better than I. (Twitching the letter from him.) Do you know who it is

from—

TONY. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the feeder.

MISS NEVILLE. Ay, so it is. (Pretending to read.) Dear 'Squire,

hoping that you're in health, as I am at this present. The gentlemen

of the Shake-bag club has cut the gentlemen of Goose-green quite out of

feather. The odds-um-odd battle-um-long fighting-um-here, here,

it's all about cocks and fighting; it's of no consequence; here, put it

up, put it up. (Thrusting the crumpled letter upon him.)

TONY. But I tell you, miss, it's of all the consequence in the world.

I would not lose the rest of it for a guinea. Here, mother, do you

make it out. Of no consequence! (Giving MRS. HARDCASTLE the letter.)

MRS. HARDCASTLE. How's this—-(Reads.) "Dear 'Squire, I'm now

waiting for Miss Neville, with a post-chaise and pair, at the bottom of

the garden, but I find my horses yet unable to perform the journey. I

expect you'll assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised.

Dispatch is necessary, as the HAG (ay, the hag), your mother, will

otherwise suspect us! Yours, Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall

run distracted! My rage chokes me.

MISS NEVILLE. I hope, madam, you'll suspend your resentment for a few

moments, and not impute to me any impertinence, or sinister design,

that belongs to another.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Curtseying very low.) Fine spoken, madam, you are

most miraculously polite and engaging, and quite the very pink of

courtesy and circumspection, madam. (Changing her tone.) And you, you

great ill-fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your mouth

shut: were you, too, joined against me— But I'll defeat all your plots

in a moment. As for you, madam, since you have got a pair of fresh

horses ready, it would be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please,

instead of running away with your spark, prepare, this very moment, to

run off with ME. Your old aunt Pedigree will keep you secure, I'll

warrant me. You too, sir, may mount your horse, and guard us upon the

way. Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory! I'll show you, that I wish you

better than you do yourselves. [Exit.]

MISS NEVILLE. So now I'm completely ruined.

TONY. Ay, that's a sure thing.

MISS NEVILLE. What better could be expected from being connected with

such a stupid fool,-and after all the nods and signs I made him—

TONY. By the laws, miss, it was your own cleverness, and not my

stupidity, that did your business. You were so nice and so busy with

your Shake-bags and Goose-greens, that I thought you could never be

making believe.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. So, sir, I find by my servant, that you have shown my

letter, and betrayed us. Was this well done, young gentleman—

TONY. Here's another. Ask miss there, who betrayed you. Ecod, it was

her doing, not mine.

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. So I have been finely used here among you. Rendered

contemptible, driven into ill manners, despised, insulted, laughed at.

TONY. Here's another. We shall have old Bedlam broke loose

presently.

MISS NEVILLE. And there, sir, is the gentleman to whom we all owe

every obligation.

MARLOW. What can I say to him, a mere boy, an idiot, whose ignorance

and age are a protection—

HASTINGS. A poor contemptible booby, that would but disgrace

correction.

MISS NEVILLE. Yet with cunning and malice enough to make himself

merry with all our embarrassments.

HASTINGS. An insensible cub.

MARLOW. Replete with tricks and mischief.

TONY. Baw! damme, but I'll fight you both, one after the

other--with baskets.

MARLOW. As for him, he's below resentment. But your conduct, Mr.

Hastings, requires an explanation. You knew of my mistakes, yet would

not undeceive me.

HASTINGS. Tortured as I am with my own disappointments, is this a time

for explanations— It is not friendly, Mr. Marlow.

MARLOW. But, sir--

MISS NEVILLE. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your mistake till it was

too late to undeceive you.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. My mistress desires you'll get ready immediately, madam. The

horses are putting to. Your hat and things are in the next room. We

are to go thirty miles before morning. [Exit Servant.]

MISS NEVILLE. Well, well: I'll come presently.

MARLOW. (To HASTINGS.) Was it well done, sir, to assist in rendering

me ridiculous— To hang me out for the scorn of all my acquaintance—

Depend upon it, sir, I shall expect an explanation.

HASTINGS. Was it well done, sir, if you're upon that subject, to

deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the care of another sir—

MISS NEVILLE. Mr. Hastings! Mr. Marlow! Why will you increase my

distress by this groundless dispute— I implore, I entreat you--

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impatient. [Exit

Servant.]

MISS NEVILLE. I come. Pray be pacified. If I leave you thus, I

shall die with apprehension.

Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The horses are waiting.

MISS NEVILLE. O, Mr. Marlow! if you knew what a scene of constraint

and ill-nature lies before me, I'm sure it would convert your

resentment into pity.

MARLOW. I'm so distracted with a variety of passions, that I don't

know what I do. Forgive me, madam. George, forgive me. You know my

hasty temper, and should not exasperate it.

HASTINGS. The torture of my situation is my only excuse.

MISS NEVILLE. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have that esteem for me

that I think, that I am sure you have, your constancy for three years

will but increase the happiness of our future connexion. If--

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Within.) Miss Neville. Constance, why Constance, I

say.

MISS NEVILLE. I'm coming. Well, constancy, remember, constancy is the

word. [Exit.]

HASTINGS. My heart! how can I support this— To be so near happiness,

and such happiness!

MARLOW. (To Tony.) You see now, young gentleman, the effects of your

folly. What might be amusement to you, is here disappointment, and

even distress.

TONY. (From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it. It's here. Your

hands. Yours and yours, my poor Sulky!-My boots there, ho!-Meet me

two hours hence at the bottom of the garden; and if you don't find Tony

Lumpkin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I'll give you

leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer into the bargain. Come

along. My boots, ho! [Exeunt.]

ACT THE FIFTH.

(SCENE continued.)

Enter HASTINGS and Servant.

HASTINGS. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville drive off, you say—

SERVANT. Yes, your honour. They went off in a post-coach, and the

young 'squire went on horseback. They're thirty miles off by this

time.

HASTINGS. Then all my hopes are over.

SERVANT. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles has arrived. He and the old

gentleman of the house have been laughing at Mr. Marlow's mistake this

half hour. They are coming this way.

HASTINGS. Then I must not be seen. So now to my fruitless

appointment at the bottom of the garden. This is about the time.

[Exit.]

Enter SIR CHARLES and HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Ha! ha! ha! The peremptory tone in which he sent forth

his sublime commands!

SIR CHARLES. And the reserve with which I suppose he treated all your

advances.

HARDCASTLE. And yet he might have seen something in me above a common

innkeeper, too.

SIR CHARLES. Yes, Dick, but be mistook you for an uncommon innkeeper,

ha! ha! ha!

HARDCASTLE. Well, I'm in too good spirits to think of anything but

joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our families will make our

personal friendships hereditary; and though my daughter's fortune is

but small-

SIR CHARLES. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to ME— My son is

possessed of more than a competence already, and can want nothing but a

good and virtuous girl to share his happiness and increase it. If they

like each other, as you say they do-

HARDCASTLE. IF, man! I tell you they DO like each other. My

daughter as good as told me so.

SIR CHARLES. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, you know.

HARDCASTLE. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest manner myself; and

here he comes to put you out of your IFS, I warrant him.

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my strange conduct.

I can scarce reflect on my insolence without confusion.

HARDCASTLE. Tut, boy, a trifle! You take it too gravely. An hour or

two's laughing with my daughter will set all to rights again. She'll

never like you the worse for it.

MARLOW. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation.

HARDCASTLE. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Marlow; if I am not

deceived, you have something more than approbation thereabouts. You

take me—

MARLOW. Really, sir, I have not that happiness.

HARDCASTLE. Come, boy, I'm an old fellow, and know what's what as well

as you that are younger. I know what has passed between you; but mum.

MARLOW. Sure, sir, nothing has passed between us but the most

profound respect on my side, and the most distant reserve on hers. You

don't think, sir, that my impudence has been passed upon all the rest

of the family.

HARDCASTLE. Impudence! No, I don't say that-not quite

impudence-though girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little

too, sometimes. But she has told no tales, I assure you.

MARLOW. I never gave her the slightest cause.

HARDCASTLE. Well, well, I like modesty in its place well enough. But

this is over-acting, young gentleman. You may be open. Your father

and I will like you all the better for it.

MARLOW. May I die, sir, if I ever--

HARDCASTLE. I tell you, she don't dislike you; and as I'm sure you

like her--

MARLOW. Dear sir-I protest, sir--

HARDCASTLE. I see no reason why you should not be joined as fast as

the parson can tie you.

MARLOW. But hear me, sir-

HARDCASTLE. Your father approves the match, I admire it; every

moment's delay will be doing mischief. So-

MARLOW. But why won't you hear me— By all that's just and true, I

never gave Miss Hardcastle the slightest mark of my attachment, or even

the most distant hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one

interview, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting.

HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) This fellow's formal modest impudence is beyond

bearing.

SIR CHARLES. And you never grasped her hand, or made any

protestations—

MARLOW. As Heaven is my witness, I came down in obedience to your

commands. I saw the lady without emotion, and parted without

reluctance. I hope you'll exact no farther proofs of my duty, nor

prevent me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many

mortifications. [Exit.]

SIR CHARLES. I'm astonished at the air of sincerity with which he

parted.

HARDCASTLE. And I'm astonished at the deliberate intrepidity of his

assurance.

SIR CHARLES. I dare pledge my life and honour upon his truth.

HARDCASTLE. Here comes my daughter, and I would stake my happiness

upon her veracity.

Enter MISS HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us sincerely and

without reserve: has Mr. Marlow made you any professions of love and

affection—

MISS HARDCASTLE. The question is very abrupt, sir. But since you

require unreserved sincerity, I think he has.

HARDCASTLE. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see.

SIR CHARLES. And pray, madam, have you and my son had more than one

interview—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, several.

HARDCASTLE. (To SIR CHARLES.) You see.

SIR CHARLES. But did be profess any attachment—

MISS HARDCASTLE. A lasting one.

SIR CHARLES. Did he talk of love—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Much, sir.

SIR CHARLES. Amazing! And all this formally—

MISS HARDCASTLE. Formally.

HARDCASTLE. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied.

SIR CHARLES. And how did he behave, madam—

MISS HARDCASTLE. As most profest admirers do: said some civil things

of my face, talked much of his want of merit, and the greatness of

mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with

pretended rapture.

SIR CHARLES. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. I know his

conversation among women to be modest and submissive: this forward

canting ranting manner by no means describes him; and, I am confident,

he never sat for the picture.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then, what, sir, if I should convince you to your

face of my sincerity— If you and my papa, in about half an hour, will

place yourselves behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his

passion to me in person.

SIR CHARLES. Agreed. And if I find him what you describe, all my

happiness in him must have an end. [Exit.]

MISS HARDCASTLE. And if you don't find him what I describe-I fear my

happiness must never have a beginning. [Exeunt.]

SCENE changes to the back of the Garden.

Enter HASTINGS.

HASTINGS. What an idiot am I, to wait here for a fellow who probably

takes a delight in mortifying me. He never intended to be punctual,

and I'll wait no longer. What do I see— It is he! and perhaps with

news of my Constance.

Enter Tony, booted and spattered.

HASTINGS. My honest 'squire! I now find you a man of your word.

This looks like friendship.

TONY. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you have in the world,

if you knew but all. This riding by night, by the bye, is cursedly

tiresome. It has shook me worse than the basket of a stage-coach.

HASTINGS. But how— where did you leave your fellow-travellers— Are

they in safety— Are they housed—

TONY. Five and twenty miles in two hours and a half is no such bad

driving. The poor beasts have smoked for it: rabbit me, but I'd rather

ride forty miles after a fox than ten with such varment.

HASTINGS. Well, but where have you left the ladies— I die with

impatience.

TONY. Left them! Why where should I leave them but where I found

them—

HASTINGS. This is a riddle.

TONY. Riddle me this then. What's that goes round the house, and

round the house, and never touches the house—

HASTINGS. I'm still astray.

TONY. Why, that's it, mon. I have led them astray. By jingo,

there's not a pond or a slough within five miles of the place but they

can tell the taste of.

HASTINGS. Ha! ha! ha! I understand: you took them in a round, while

they supposed themselves going forward, and so you have at last brought

them home again.

TONY. You shall hear. I first took them down Feather-bed Lane, where

we stuck fast in the mud. I then rattled them crack over the stones of

Up-and-down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on Heavy-tree

Heath; and from that, with a circumbendibus, I fairly lodged them in

the horse-pond at the bottom of the garden.

HASTINGS. But no accident, I hope—

TONY. No, no. Only mother is confoundedly frightened. She thinks

herself forty miles off. She's sick of the journey; and the cattle can

scarce crawl. So if your own horses be ready, you may whip off with

cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge a foot to follow

you.

HASTINGS. My dear friend, how can I be grateful—

TONY. Ay, now it's dear friend, noble 'squire. Just now, it was all

idiot, cub, and run me through the guts. Damn YOUR way of fighting, I

say. After we take a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be

friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then I should be

dead, and you might go kiss the hangman.

HASTINGS. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to relieve Miss

Neville: if you keep the old lady employed, I promise to take care of

the young one. [Exit HASTINGS.]

TONY. Never fear me. Here she comes. Vanish. She's got from the

pond, and draggled up to the waist like a mermaid.

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Oh, Tony, I'm killed! Shook! Battered to death. I

shall never survive it. That last jolt, that laid us against the

quickset hedge, has done my business.

TONY. Alack, mamma, it was all your own fault. You would be for

running away by night, without knowing one inch of the way.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I wish we were at home again. I never met so many

accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the mud, overturned in a

ditch, stuck fast in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose

our way. Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony—

TONY. By my guess we should come upon Crackskull Common, about forty

miles from home.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. O lud! O lud! The most notorious spot in all the

country. We only want a robbery to make a complete night on't.

TONY. Don't be afraid, mamma, don't be afraid. Two of the five that

kept here are hanged, and the other three may not find us. Don't be

afraid.-Is that a man that's galloping behind us— No; it's only a

tree.-Don't be afraid.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. The fright will certainly kill me.

TONY. Do you see anything like a black hat moving behind the thicket—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Oh, death!

TONY. No; it's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mamma; don't he afraid.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. As I'm alive, Tony, I see a man coming towards us.

Ah! I'm sure on't. If he perceives us, we are undone.

TONY. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky, come to take one

of his night walks. (To her.) Ah, it's a highwayman with pistols as

long as my arm. A damned ill-looking fellow.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Good Heaven defend us! He approaches.

TONY. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and leave me to manage

him. If there be any danger, I'll cough, and cry hem. When I cough,

be sure to keep close. (MRS. HARDCASTLE hides behind a tree in the

back scene.)

Enter HARDCASTLE.

HARDCASTLE. I'm mistaken, or I heard voices of people in want of

help. Oh, Tony! is that you— I did not expect you so soon back. Are

your mother and her charge in safety—

TONY. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Ah, death! I find there's danger.

HARDCASTLE. Forty miles in three hours; sure that's too much, my

youngster.

TONY. Stout horses and willing minds make short journeys, as they say.

Hem.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Sure he'll do the dear boy no harm.

HARDCASTLE. But I heard a voice here; I should be glad to know from

whence it came.

TONY. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was saying that forty

miles in four hours was very good going. Hem. As to be sure it was.

Hem. I have got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go in,

if you please. Hem.

HARDCASTLE. But if you talked to yourself you did not answer

yourself. I'm certain I heard two voices, and am resolved (raising his

voice) to find the other out.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (From behind.) Oh! he's coming to find me out. Oh!

TONY. What need you go, sir, if I tell you— Hem. I'll lay down my

life for the truth-hem-I'll tell you all, sir. [Detaining him.]

HARDCASTLE. I tell you I will not be detained. I insist on seeing.

It's in vain to expect I'll believe you.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Running forward from behind.) O lud! he'll murder

my poor boy, my darling! Here, good gentleman, whet your rage upon me.

Take my money, my life, but spare that young gentleman; spare my child,

if you have any mercy.

HARDCASTLE. My wife, as I'm a Christian. From whence can she come— or

what does she mean—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on us, good Mr.

Highwayman. Take our money, our watches, all we have, but spare our

lives. We will never bring you to justice; indeed we won't, good Mr.

Highwayman.

HARDCASTLE. I believe the woman's out of her senses. What, Dorothy,

don't you know ME—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Mr. Hardcastle, as I'm alive! My fears blinded me.

But who, my dear, could have expected to meet you here, in this

frightful place, so far from home— What has brought you to follow us—

HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your wits— So far from

home, when you are within forty yards of your own door! (To him.)

This is one of your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her.)

Don't you know the gate, and the mulberry-tree; and don't you remember

the horse-pond, my dear—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Yes, I shall remember the horse-pond as long as I

live; I have caught my death in it. (To TONY.) And it is to you, you

graceless varlet, I owe all this— I'll teach you to abuse your mother,

I will.

TONY. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have spoiled me, and so

you may take the fruits on't.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I'll spoil you, I will. [Follows him off the stage.

Exit.]

HARDCASTLE. There's morality, however, in his reply. [Exit.]

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

HASTINGS. My dear Constance, why will you deliberate thus— If we

delay a moment, all is lost for ever. Pluck up a little resolution,

and we shall soon be out of the reach of her malignity.

MISS NEVILLE. I find it impossible. My spirits are so sunk with the

agitations I have suffered, that I am unable to face any new danger.

Two or three years' patience will at last crown us with happiness.

HASTINGS. Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly,

my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish

fortune! Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a

monarch's revenue. Let me prevail!

MISS NEVILLE. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my

relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion fortune

may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm

resolved to apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for

redress.

HASTINGS. But though he had the will, he has not the power to relieve

you.

MISS NEVILLE. But he has influence, and upon that I am resolved to

rely.

HASTINGS. I have no hopes. But since you persist, I must reluctantly

obey you. [Exeunt.]

SCENE changes.

Enter SIR CHARLES and MISS HARDCASTLE.

SIR CHARLES. What a situation am I in! If what you say appears, I

shall then find a guilty son. If what he says be true, I shall then

lose one that, of all others, I most wished for a daughter.

MISS HARDCASTLE. I am proud of your approbation, and to show I merit

it, if you place yourselves as I directed, you shall hear his explicit

declaration. But he comes.

SIR CHARLES. I'll to your father, and keep him to the appointment.

[Exit SIR CHARLES.]

Enter MARLOW.

MARLOW. Though prepared for setting out, I come once more to take

leave; nor did I, till this moment, know the pain I feel in the

separation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. (In her own natural manner.) I believe sufferings

cannot be very great, sir, which you can so easily remove. A day or

two longer, perhaps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the

little value of what you now think proper to regret.

MARLOW. (Aside.) This girl every moment improves upon me. (To her.)

It must not be, madam. I have already trifled too long with my heart.

My very pride begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of

education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the contempt of my

equals, begin to lose their weight; and nothing can restore me to

myself but this painful effort of resolution.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Then go, sir: I'll urge nothing more to detain you.

Though my family be as good as hers you came down to visit, and my

education, I hope, not inferior, what are these advantages without

equal affluence— I must remain contented with the slight approbation

of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while

all your serious aims are fixed on fortune.

Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES from behind.

SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him

with confusion at last.

MARLOW. By heavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest

consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see

that without emotion— But every moment that I converse with you steals

in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger

expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined

simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the

result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue.

SIR CHARLES. What can it mean— He amazes me!

HARDCASTLE. I told you how it would be. Hush!

MARLOW. I am now determined to stay, madam; and I have too good an

opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his

approbation.

MISS HARDCASTLE. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do

you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest

room for repentance— Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a

transient passion, to load you with confusion— Do you think I could

ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours—

MARLOW. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your

power to grant me! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having

seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes; and

though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful

assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.

MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our

acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have

given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you

think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear

mercenary, and you imprudent— Do you think I could ever catch at the

confident addresses of a secure admirer—

MARLOW. (Kneeling.) Does this look like security— Does this look

like confidence— No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit,

only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me

continue--

SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou

deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting

conversation—

HARDCASTLE. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you

to say now—

MARLOW. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean—

HARDCASTLE. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure:

that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public: that you

have one story for us, and another for my daughter.

MARLOW. Daughter!-This lady your daughter—

HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; whose else should she

be—

MARLOW. Oh, the devil!

MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you

were pleased to take me for (courtseying); she that you addressed as

the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward,

agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club. Ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. Zounds! there's no bearing this; it's worse than death!

MISS HARDCASTLE. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us

leave to address you— As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the

ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud

confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss

Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning— Ha! ha! ha!

MARLOW. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent

yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.

HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was

all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I

tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate—

We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. (They retire, she

tormenting him, to the back scene.)

Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and Tony.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not.

HARDCASTLE. Who gone—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings,

from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here.

SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings— As worthy a fellow as

lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.

HARDCASTLE. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not

taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her

loss.

HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary—

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, that's my affair, not yours.

HARDCASTLE. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry

his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought

proper to wait for his refusal.

Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Aside.) What, returned so soon! I begin not to

like it.

HASTINGS. (To HARDCASTLE.) For my late attempt to fly off with your

niece let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back,

to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent,

I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in

duty.

MISS NEVILLE. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to

dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready

to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from

the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a

nearer connexion.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a

modern novel.

HARDCASTLE. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim

their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand

whom I now offer you—

TONY. What signifies my refusing— You know I can't refuse her till

I'm of age, father.

HARDCASTLE. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to

conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to

keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must

now declare you have been of age these three months.

TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father—

HARDCASTLE. Above three months.

TONY. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. (Taking

MISS NEVILLE's hand.) Witness all men by these presents, that I,

Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, Constantia

Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So

Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his

own man again.

SIR CHARLES. O brave 'squire!

HASTINGS. My worthy friend!

MRS. HARDCASTLE. My undutiful offspring!

MARLOW. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I

prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be

the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.

HASTINGS. (To MISS HARDCASTLE.) Come, madam, you are now driven to

the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm

sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.

HARDCASTLE. (Joining their hands.) And I say so too. And, Mr.

Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't

believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow

we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes

of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her;

and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may

never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnes.]

Percy Bysshe Shelley— The Cenci

Introductory Note

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was born near Horsham, Sussex, England, on August 4, 1792, of a wealthy but undistinguished family. He was educated at Eton, where he was unpopular and persecuted, and at University College, Oxford, where he was interested in science, and from which he was expelled for the publication of a pamphlet on “The Necessity of Atheism.” Going up to London, he met at the school attended by his sisters a girl of sixteen called Harriet Westbrook, whose accounts of the persecution she suffered won Shelley’s sympathy and led him into a foolish marriage, he being nineteen and she sixteen. Within three years they had become estranged; she left him to return with her child to her father’s house; and a month later he set out for the Continent with Mary, daughter of William Godwin, the political philosopher, under whose influence Shelley had been for a time. In 1816 Harriet was found drowned; Shelley formally married Mary Godwin; and the courts refused him the custody of his children. Meantime he was taking active part in political agitation on the side of liberty, and was producing a good deal of poetry. “Alastor” had been written in 1815, and “The Revolt of Islam” appeared in 1818. In that year he returned to Italy, where he remained till his death by drowning on July 8, 1822. His ashes were buried in Rome.

These last years were crowded with poetical production, “Prometheus Unbound,” “The Cenci,” the “Ode to the West Wind,” “The Sensitive Plant,” “Epipsychidion,” “Adonais,” and many of his finest lyrics belonging to this period. Of his dramatic work, the “Prometheus Unbound,” a mythological drama on the redemption of mankind, in gorgeous lyrical verse, and “The Cenci” are the most important. In the latter he handled a terrible story of old Roman life with great delicacy and tremendous impressiveness. Partly under the influence of Shakespeare, partly from the nature of the subject, this play, is more concrete and palpable than Shelley’s work in general, and displays sides of his genius which might not otherwise have been suspected. Though impossible on the public stage, “The Cenci” has claims to be regarded, by virtue of its strength of characterization, its poetry, and its emotional intensity, as the greatest drama of the century.

Dedication

To Leigh Hunt, Esq.

MY DEAR FRIEND—I inscribe with your name, from a distant country, and after an absence whose months have seemed years, this the latest of my literary efforts.

Those writings which I have hitherto published, have been little else than visions which impersonate my own apprehensions of the beautiful and the just. I can also perceive in them the literary defects incidental to youth and impatience; they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be. The drama which I now present to you is a sad reality. I lay aside the presumptuous attitude of an instructor, and am content to paint, with such colours as my own heart furnishes, that which has been.

Had I known a person more highly endowed than yourself with all that it becomes a man to possess. I had solicited for this work the ornament of his name. One more gentle, honourable, innocent and brave; one of more exalted toleration for all who do and think evil, and yet himself more free from evil; one who knows better how to receive, and how to confer a benefit though he must ever confer far more than he can receive; one of simpler, and, in the highest sense of the word, of purer life and manners I never knew: and I had already been fortunate in friendships when your name was added to the list.

In that patient and irreconcilable enmity with domestic and political tyranny and imposture which the tenor of your life has illustrated, and which, had I health and talents, should illustrate mine, let us, comforting each other in our task, live and die.

All happiness attend you! Your affectionate friend,

PERCY B. SHELLEY.

ROME, May 29, 1819.

Preface

A MANUSCRIPT was communicated to me during my travels in Italy, which was copied from the archives of the Cenci Palace at Rome, and contains a detailed account of the horrors which ended in the extinction of one of the noblest and richest families of that city during the Pontificate of Clement VIII, in the year 1599. The story is, that an old man having spent his life in debauchery and wickedness, conceived at length an implacable hatred towards his children; which showed itself towards one daughter under the form of an incestuous passion, aggravated by every circumstance of cruelty and violence. This daughter, after long and vain attempts to escape from what she considered a perpetual contamination both of body and mind, at length plotted with her mother-in-law and brother to murder their common tyrant. The young maiden, who was urged to this tremendous deed by an impulse which overpowered its horror, was evidently a most gentle and amiable being, a creature formed to adorn and be admired, and thus violently thwarted from her nature by the necessity of circumstance and opinion. The deed was quickly discovered, and, in spite of the most earnest prayers made to the Pope by the highest persons in Rome, the criminals were put to death. The old man had during his life repeatedly bought his pardon from the Pope for capital crimes of the most enormous and unspeakable kind, at the price of a hundred thousand crowns; the death therefore of his victims can scarcely be accounted for by the love of justice. The Pope, among other motives for severity, probably felt that whoever killed the Count Cenci deprived his treasury of a certain and copious source of revenue. 1 Such a story, if told so as to present to the reader all the feelings of those who once acted it, their hopes and fears, their confidences and misgivings, their various interests, passions, and opinions, acting upon and with each other, yet all conspiring to one tremendous end, would be as a light to make apparent some of the most dark and secret caverns of the human heart.

On my arrival at Rome I found that the story of the Cenci was a subject not to be mentioned in Italian society without awakening a deep and breathless interest; and that the feelings of the company never failed to incline to a romantic pity for the wrongs, and a passionate exculpation of the horrible deed to which they urged her, who has been mingled two centuries with the common dust. All ranks of people knew the outlines of this history, and participated in the overwhelming interest which it seems to have the magic of exciting in the human heart. I had a copy of Guido’s picture of Beatrice which is preserved in the Colonna Palace, and my servant instantly recognized it as the portrait of La Cenci.

This national and universal interest which the story produces and has produced for two centuries and among all ranks of people in a great City, where the imagination is kept for ever active and awake, first suggested to me the conception of its fitness for a dramatic purpose. In fact it is a tragedy which has already received, from its capacity of awakening and sustaining the sympathy of men, approbation, and success. Nothing remained as I imagined, but to clothe it to the apprehensions of my countrymen in such language and action as would bring it home to their hearts. The deepest and the sublimest tragic compositions, King Lear and the two plays in which the tale of Oedipus is told, were stories which already existed in tradition, as matters of popular belief and interest, before Shakespeare and Sophocles made them familiar to the sympathy of all succeeding generations of mankind.

This story of the Cenci is indeed eminently fearful and monstrous: any thing like a dry exhibition of it on the stage would be insupportable. The person who would treat such a subject must increase the ideal, and diminish the actual horror of the events, so that the pleasure which arises from the poetry which exists in these tempestuous sufferings and crimes may mitigate the pain of the contemplation of the moral deformity from which they spring. There must also be nothing attempted to make the exhibition subservient to what is vulgarly termed a moral purpose. The highest moral purpose aimed at in the highest species of the drama, is the teaching the human heart, through its sympathies and antipathies, the knowledge of itself; in proportion to the possession of which knowledge, every human being is wise, just, sincere, tolerant and kind. If dogmas can do more, it is well: but a drama is no fit place for the enforcement of them. Undoubtedly, no person can be truly dishonoured by the act of another; and the fit return to make to the most enormous injuries is kindness and forbearance, and a resolution to convert the injurer from his dark passions by peace and love. Revenge, retaliation, atonement, are pernicious mistakes. If Beatrice had thought in this manner she would have been wiser and better; but she would never have been a tragic character: the few whom such an exhibition would have interested, could never have been sufficiently interested for a dramatic purpose, from the want of finding sympathy in their interest among the mass who surround them. It is in the restless and anatomising casuistry with which men seek the justification of Beatrice, yet feel that she has done what needs justification; it is in the superstitious horror with which they contemplate alike her wrongs, and their revenge, that the dramatic character of what she did and suffered, consists.

I have endeavoured as nearly as possible to represent the characters as they probably were, and have sought to avoid the error of making them actuated by my own conceptions of right or wrong, false or true: thus under a thin veil converting names and actions of the sixteenth century into cold impersonations of my own mind. They are represented as Catholics, and as Catholics deeply tinged with religion. To a Protestant apprehension there will appear something unnatural in the earnest and perpetual sentiment of the relations between God and men which pervade the tragedy of the Cenci. It will especially be startled at the combination of an undoubting persuasion of the truth of the popular religion with a cool and determined perseverance in enormous guilt. But religion in Italy is not, as in Protestant countries, a cloak to be worn on particular days; or a passport which those who do not wish to be railed at carry with them to exhibit; or a gloomy passion for penetrating the impenetrable mysteries of our being, which terrifies its possessor at the darkness of the abyss to the brink of which it has conducted him. Religion coexists, as it were, in the mind of an Italian Catholic, with a faith in that of which all men have the most certain knowledge. It is interwoven with the whole fabric of life. It is adoration, faith, submission, penitence, blind admiration; not a rule for moral conduct. It has no necessary connection with any one virtue. The most atrocious villain may be rigidly devout, and without any shock to established faith, confess himself to be so. Religion pervades intensely the whole frame of society, and is according to the temper of the mind which it inhabits, a passion, a persuasion, an excuse, a refuge; never a check. Cenci himself built a chapel in the court of his Palace, and dedicated it to St. Thomas the Apostle, and established masses for the peace of his soul. Thus in the first scene of the fourth act Lucretia’s design in exposing herself to the consequences of an expostulation with Cenci after having administered the opiate, was to induce him by a feigned tale to confess himself before death; this being esteemed by Catholics as essential to salvation; and she only relinquishes her purpose when she perceives that her perseverance would expose Beatrice to new outrages.

I have avoided with great care in writing this play the introduction of what is commonly called mere poetry, and I imagine there will scarcely be found a detached simile or a single isolated description, unless Beatrice’s description of the chasm appointed for her father’s murder should be judged to be of that nature. 2

In a dramatic composition the imagery and the passion should interpenetrate one another, the former being reserved simply for the full development and illustration of the latter. Imagination is as the immortal God which should assume flesh for the redemption of mortal passion. It is thus that the most remote and the most familiar imagery may alike be fit for dramatic purposes when employed in the illustration of strong feeling, which raises what is low, and levels to the apprehension that which is lofty, casting over all the shadow of its own greatness. In other respects, I have written more carelessly; that is, without an overfastidious and learned choice of words. In this respect I entirely agree with those modern critics who assert that in order to move men to true sympathy we must use the familiar language of men, and that our great ancestors the ancient English poets are the writers, a study of whom might incite us to do that for our own age which they have done for theirs. But it must be the real language of men in general, and not that of any particular class to whose society the writer happens to belong. So much for what I have attempted; I need not be assured that success is a very different matter; particularly for one whose attention has but newly been awakened to the study of dramatic literature.

I endeavoured whilst at Rome to observe such monuments of this story as might be accessible to a stranger. The portrait of Beatrice at the Colonna Palace is admirable as a work of art; it was taken by Guido during her confinement in prison. But it is most interesting as a just representation of one of the loveliest specimens of the workmanship of Nature. There is a fixed and pale composure upon the features; she seems sad and stricken down in spirit, yet the despair thus expressed is lightened by the patience of gentleness. Her head is bound with folds of white drapery from which the yellow strings of her golden hair escape, and fall about her neck. The moulding of her face is exquisitely delicate; the eyebrows are distinct and arched; the lips have that permanent meaning of imagination and sensibility which suffering has not repressed and which it seems as if death scarcely could extinguish. Her forehead is large and clear; her eyes which we are told were remarkable for their vivacity, are swollen with weeping and lustreless, but beautifully tender and serene. In the whole mien there is a simplicity and dignity which united with her exquisite loveliness and deep sorrow are inexpressibly pathetic. Beatrice Cenci appears to have been one of those rare persons in whom energy and gentleness dwell together without destroying one another: her nature was simple and profound. The crimes and miseries in which she was an actor and a sufferer are as the mask and the mantle in which circumstances clothed her for her impersonation on the scene of the world.

The Cenci Palace is of great extent; and though in part modernized, there yet remains a vast and gloomy pile of feudal architecture in the same state as during the dreadful scenes which are the subject of this tragedy. The Palace is situated in an obscure corner of Rome, near the quarter of the Jews, and from the upper windows you see the immense ruins of Mount Palatine half hidden under their profuse overgrowth of trees. There is a court in one part of the Palace (perhaps that in which Cenci built the Chapel to St. Thomas), supported by granite columns and adorned with antique friezes of fine workmanship, and built up, according to the ancient Italian fashion, with balcony over balcony of open-work. One of the gates of the Palace formed of immense stones and leading through a passage, dark and lofty and opening into gloomy subterranean chambers, struck me particularly.

Of the Castle of Petrella, I could obtain no further information than that which is to be found in the manuscript.

Note 1. The Papal Government formerly took the most extraordinary precautions against the publicity of facts which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own wickedness and weakness; so that the communication of the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of some difficulty.

Note 2. An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in “El Purgatorio de San Patricio” of Calderon; the only plagiarism which I have intentionally committed in the whole piece.

Dramatis Personae

COUNT FRANCESCO CENCI.

GIACOMO & BERNARDO, his Sons.

CARDINAL CAMILLO.

ORSINO, a Prelate.

SAVELLA, the Pope’s Legate.

OLIMPIO & MARZIO, Assassins.

ANDREA, Servant to Cenci.

Nobles—Judges—Guards—Servants.

LUCRETIA, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children; BEATRICE, his Daughter.

The SCENE lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.

Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

Act I

Scene I

An Apartment In The CenciPalace.

Enter COUNT CENCI, and CARDINAL CAMILLO

Camillo

THAT matter of the murder is hushed up

If you consent to yield his Holiness

Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.—

It needed all my interest in the conclave

To bend him to this point: he said that you

Bought perilous impunity with your gold;

That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded

Enriched the Church, and respited from hell

An erring soul which might repent and live:—

But that the glory and the interest

Of the high throne he fills, little consist

With making it a daily mart of guilt

As manifold and hideous as the deeds

Which you scarce hide from men’s revolted eyes.

Cenci. The third of my possessions—let it go!

Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope

Had sent his architect to view the ground,

Meaning to build a villa on my vines

The next time I compounded with his uncle:

I little thought he should outwit me so!

Henceforth no witness—not the lamp—shall see

That which the vassal threatened to divulge

Whose throat is choked with dust for his reward.

The deed he saw could not have rated higher

Than his most worthless life:—it angers me!

Respited me from Hell!—So may the Devil

Respite their souls from Heaven. No doubt Pope Clement,

And his most charitable nephews, pray

That the Apostle Peter and the saints

Will grant for their sake that I long enjoy

Strength, wealth, and pride, and lust, and length of days

Wherein to act the deeds which are the stewards

Of their revenue.—But much yet remains

To which they show no title.

Camillo. Oh, Count Cenci!

So much that thou mightst honourably live

And reconcile thyself with thine own heart

And with thy God, and with the offended world.

How hideously look deeds of lust and blood

Thro’ those snow white and venerable hairs!—

Your children should be sitting round you now,

But that you fear to read upon their looks

The shame and misery you have written there.

Where is your wife— Where is your gentle daughter—

Methinks her sweet looks, which make all things else

Beauteous and glad, might kill the fiend within you.

Why is she barred from all society

But her own strange and uncomplaining wrongs—

Talk with me, Count,—you know I mean you well.

I stood beside your dark and fiery youth

Watching its bold and bad career, as men

Watch meteors, but it vanished not—I marked

Your desperate and remorseless manhood; now

Do I behold you in dishonoured age

Charged with a thousand unrepented crimes.

Yet I have ever hoped you would amend,

And in that hope have saved your life three times.

Cenci. For which Aldobrandino owes you now

My fief beyond the Pincian-Cardinal,

One thing, I pray you, recollect henceforth,

And so we shall converse with less restraint.

A man you knew spoke of my wife and daughter—

He was accustomed to frequent my house;

So the next day his wife and daughter came

And asked if I had seen him; and I smiled:

I think they never saw him any more.

Camillo. Thou execrable man, beware!—

Cenci. Of thee—

Nay this is idle:—We should know each other.

As to my character for what men call crime

Seeing I please my senses as I list,

And vindicate that right with force or guile

It is a public matter, and I care not

If I discuss it with you. I may speak

Alike to you and my own conscious heart—

For you give out that you have half reformed me,

Therefore strong vanity will keep you silent

If fear should not; both will, I do not doubt.

All men delight in sensual luxury,

All men enjoy revenge; and most exult

Over the tortures they can never feel—

Flattering their secret peace with others’ pain.

But I delight in nothing else. I love

The sight of agony, and the sense of joy,

When this shall be another’s, and that mine.

And I have no remorse and little fear,

Which are, I think, the checks of other men.

This mood has grown upon me, until now

Any design my captious fancy makes

The picture of its wish, and it forms none

But such as men like you would start to know,

Is as my natural food and rest debarred

Until it be accomplished.

Camillo. Art thou not

Most miserable—

Cenci. Why, miserable——

No.—I am what your theologians call

Hardened;—which they must be in impudence,

So to revile a man’s peculiar taste.

True, I was happier than I am, while yet

Manhood remained to act the thing I thought;

While lust was sweeter than revenge; and now

Invention palls:—Ay, we must all grow old—

And but that there yet remains a deed to act

Whose horror might make sharp an appetite

Duller than mine—I’d do—I know not what.

When I was young I thought of nothing else

But pleasure; and I fed on honey sweets:

Men, by St. Thomas! cannot live like bees,

And I grew tired:—yet, till I killed a foe,

And heard his groans, and heard his children’s groans,

Knew I not what delight was else on earth,

Which now delights me little. I the rather

Look on such pangs as terror ill conceals,

The dry fixed eyeball; the pale quivering lip,

Which tell me that the spirit weeps within

Tears bitterer than the bloody sweat of Christ.

I rarely kill the body, which preserves,

Like a strong prison, the soul within my power,

Wherein I feed it with the breath of fear

For hourly pain.

Camillo. Hell’s most abandoned fiend

Did never, in the drunkenness of guilt,

Speak to his heart as now you speak to me;

I thank my God that I believe you not.

Enter ANDREA

Andrea. My Lord, a gentleman from Salamanca

Would speak with you.

Cenci. Bid him attend me in the grand saloon. [Exit ANDREA.

Camillo. Farewell; and I will pray

Almighty God that thy false, impious words

Tempt not his spirit to abandon thee. [Exit CAMILLO.

Cenci. The third of my possessions! I must use

Close husbandry, or gold, the old man’s sword,

Falls from my withered hand. But yesterday

There came an order from the Pope to make

Fourfold provision for my cursed sons;

Whom I had sent from Rome to Salamanca,

Hoping some accident might cut them off;

And meaning if I could to starve them there.

I pray thee, God, send some quick death upon them!

Bernardo and my wife could not be worse

If dead and damned:—then, as to Beatrice—

(Looking around him suspiciously.)

I think they cannot hear me at the door;

What if they should— And yet I need not speak

Though the heart triumphs with itself in words.

O, thou most silent air, that shalt not hear

What now I think! Thou, pavement, which I tread

Towards her chamber,—let your echoes talk

Of my imperious step scorning surprise,

But not of my intent!—Andrea!

Enter ANDREA

Andrea. My lord—

Cenci. Bid Beatrice attend me in her chamber

This evening:—no, at midnight and alone. [Exeunt.

Scene II

A Garden in the CenciPalace.

Enter BEATRICE and ORSINO, as in conversation

Beatrice. Pervert not truth,

Orsino. You remember where we held

That conversation;—nay, we see the spot

Even from this cypress;—two long years are past

Since, on an April midnight, underneath

The moonlight ruins of mount Palatine,

I did confess to you my secret mind.

Orsino. You said you loved me then.

Beatrice. You are a Priest,

Speak to me not of love.

Orsino. I may obtain

The dispensation of the Pope to marry.

Because I am a Priest do you believe

Your image, as the hunter some struck deer,

Follows me not whether I wake or sleep—

Beatrice. As I have said, speak to me not of love:

Had you a dispensation I have not;

Nor will I leave this home of misery

Whilst my poor Bernard, and that gentle lady

To whom I owe life, and these virtuous thoughts,

Must suffer what I still have strength to share.

Alas, Orsino! All the love that once

I felt for you, is turned to bitter pain.

Ours was a youthful contract, which you first

Broke, by assuming vows no Pope will loose.

And thus I love you still, but holily,

Even as a sister or a spirit might;

And so I swear a cold fidelity.

And it is well perhaps we shall not marry.

You have a sly, equivocating vein

That suits me not.—Ah, wretched that I am!

Where shall I turn— Even now you look on me

As you were not my friend, and as if you

Discovered that I thought so, with false smiles

Making my true suspicion seem your wrong.

Ah no! forgive me; sorrow makes me seem

Sterner than else my nature might have been;

I have a weight of melancholy thoughts,

And they forbode,—but what can they forbode

Worse than I now endure—

Orsino. All will be well.

Is the petition yet prepared— You know

My zeal for all you wish, sweet Beatrice;

Doubt not but I will use my utmost skill

So that the Pope attend to your complaint.

Beatrice. Your zeal for all I wish;—Ah me, you are cold!

Your utmost skill… speak but one word… (aside) Alas!

Weak and deserted creature that I am,

Here I stand bickering with my only friend! [To ORSINO.

This night my father gives a sumptuous feast,

Orsino; he has heard some happy news

From Salamanca, from my brothers there,

And with this outward show of love he mocks

His inward hate. ’Tis bold hypocrisy,

For he would gladlier celebrate their deaths,

Which I have heard him pray for on his knees:

Great God! that such a father should be mine!

But there is mighty preparation made,

And all our kin, the Cenci, will be there,

And all the chief nobility of Rome.

And he has bidden me and my pale Mother

Attire ourselves in festival array.

Poor lady! She expects some happy change

In his dark spirit from this act; I none.

At supper I will give you the petition:

Till when—farewell.

Orsino. Farewell. (Exit BEATRICE.) I know the Pope

Will ne’er absolve me from my priestly vow

But by absolving me from the revenue

Of many a wealthy see; and, Beatrice,

I think to win thee at an easier rate.

Nor shall he read her eloquent petition:

He might bestow her on some poor relation

Of his sixth cousin, as he did her sister,

And I should be debarred from all access.

Then as to what she suffers from her father,

In all this there is much exaggeration:—

Old men are testy and will have their way;

A man my stab his enemy, or his vassal,

And live a free life as to wine and women,

And with a peevish temper may return

To a dull home, and rate his wife and children;

Daughters and wives call this foul tyranny.

I shall be well content if on my conscience

There rest no heavier sin than what they suffer

From the devices of my love—A net

From which she shall escape not. Yet I fear

Her subtle mind, her awe-inspiring gaze,

Whose beams anatomise me nerve by nerve

And lay me bare, and make me blush to see

My hidden thoughts.—Ah, no! A friendless girl

Who clings to me, as to her only hope:—

I were a fool, not less than if a panther

Were panic-stricken by the antelope’s eye,

If she escape me. [Exit.

Scene III

A Magnificent Hall in the CenciPalace. A Banquet.

Enter CENCI, LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, ORSINO, CAMILLO, NOBLES

Cenci. Welcome, my friends and kinsmen; welcome ye,

Princes and Cardinals, pillars of the church,

Whose presence honours our festivity.

I have too long lived like an anchorite,

And in my absence from your merry meetings

An evil word is gone abroad of me;

But I do hope that you, my noble friends,

When you have shared the entertainment here,

And heard the pious cause for which ’tis given,

And we have pledged a health or two together,

Will think me flesh and blood as well as you;

Sinful indeed, for Adam made all so,

But tender-hearted, meek and pitiful.

First Guest. In truth, My Lord, you seem too light of heart,

Too sprightly and companionable a man,

To act the deeds that rumour pins on you.

(To his companion.) I never saw such blithe and open cheer

In any eye!

Second Guest. Some most desired event,

In which we all demand a common joy,

Has brought us hither; let us hear it, Count.

Cenci. It is indeed a most desired event.

If, when a parent from a parent’s heart

Lifts from this earth to the great father of all

A prayer, both when he lays him down to sleep,

And when he rises up from dreaming it;

One supplication, one desire, one hope,

That he would grant a wish for his two sons,

Even all that he demands in their regard—

And suddenly beyond his dearest hope,

It is accomplished, he should then rejoice,

And call his friends and kinsmen to a feast,

And task their love to grace his merriment,

Then honour me thus far—for I am he.

Beatrice (to Lucretia). Great God! How horrible! Some dreadful ill

Must have befallen my brothers.

Lucretia. Fear not, Child,

He speaks too frankly.

Beatrice. Ah! My blood runs cold.

I fear that wicked laughter round his eye,

Which wrinkles up the skin even to the hair.

Cenci. Here are the letters brought from Salamanca;

Beatrice, read them to your mother. God!

I thank thee! In one night didst thou perform,

By ways inscrutable, the thing I sought.

My disobedient and rebellious sons

Are dead!—Why, dead!—What means this change of cheer—

You hear me not, I tell you they are dead;

And they will need no food or raiment more:

The tapers that did light them the dark way

Are their last cost. The Pope, I think, will not

Expect I should maintain them in their coffins.

Rejoice with me—my heart is wondrous glad. [LUCRETIA sinks, half-fainting; BEATRICE supports her.

Beatrice. It is not true!—Dear lady, pray look up.

Had it been true, there is a God in Heaven,

He would not live to boast of such a boon.

Unnatural man, thou knowest that it is false.

Cenci. Ay, as the word of God; whom here I call

To witness that I speak the sober truth;—

And whose most favouring Providence was shown

Even in the manner of their deaths. For Rocco

Was kneeling at the mass, with sixteen others,

When the church fell and crushed him to a mummy,

The rest escaped unhurt. Cristofano

Was stabbed in error by a jealous man,

Whilst she he loved was sleeping with his rival;

All in the self-same hour of the same night;

Which shows that Heaven has special care of me.

I beg those friends who love me, that they mark

The day a feast upon their calendars.

It was the twenty-seventh of December:

Ay, read the letters if you doubt my oath. [The Assembly appears confused; several of the guests rise.

First Guest. Oh, horrible! I will depart—

Second Guest. And I.—

Third Guest. No, stay!

I do believe it is some jest; tho’ faith!

’Tis mocking us somewhat too solemnly.

I think his son has married the Infanta,

Or found a mine of gold in El Dorado;

’Tis but to season some such news; stay, stay!

I see ’tis only raillery by his smile.

Cenci (filling a bowl of wine, and lifting it up). Oh, thou

bright wine whose purple splendour leaps

And bubbles gaily in this golden bowl

Under the lamp-light, as my spirits do,

To hear the death of my accursèd sons!

Could I believe thou wert their mingled blood,

Then would I taste thee like a sacrament,

And pledge with thee the mighty Devil in Hell,

Who, if a father’s curses, as men say,

Climb with swift wings after their children’s souls,

And drag them from the very throne of Heaven,

Now triumphs in my triumph!—But thou art

Superfluous; I have drunken deep of joy,

And I will taste no other wine to-night.

Here, Andrea! Bear the bowl around.

A Guest (rising). Thou wretch!

Will none among this noble company

Check the abandoned villain—

Camillo. For God’s sake

Let me dismiss the guests! You are insane,

Some ill will come of this.

Second Guest. Seize, silence him!

First Guest. I will!

Third Guest. And I!

Cenci (addressing those who rise with a threatening gesture). Who moves— Who speaks— (turning to the Company)

’tis nothing,

Enjoy yourselves.—Beware! For my revenge

Is as the sealed commission of a king

That kills, and none dare name the murderer. [The Banquet is broken up; several of the Guests are departing.

Beatrice. I do entreat you, go not, noble guests;

What, although tyranny and impious hate

Stand sheltered by a father’s hoary hair,

What, if ’tis he who clothed us in these limbs

Who tortures them, and triumphs— What, if we,

The desolate and the dead, were his own flesh,

His children and his wife, whom he is bound

To love and shelter— Shall we therefore find

No refuge in this merciless wide world—

O think what deep wrongs must have blotted out

First love, then reverence in a child’s prone mind,

Till it thus vanquish shame and fear! O think!

I have borne much, and kissed the sacred hand

Which crushed us to the earth, and thought its stroke

Was perhaps some paternal chastisement!

Have excused much, doubted; and when no doubt

Remained, have sought by patience, love, and tears

To soften him, and when this could not be

I have knelt down through the long sleepless nights

And lifted up to God, the father of all,

Passionate prayers: and when these were not heard

I have still borne,—until I meet you here,

Princes and kinsmen, at this hideous feast

Given at my brothers’ deaths. Two yet remain,

His wife remains and I, whom if ye save not,

Ye may soon share such merriment again

As fathers make over their children’s graves.

O Prince Colonna, thou art our near kinsman,

Cardinal, thou art the Pope’s chamberlain,

Camillo, thou art chief justiciary,

Take us away!

Cenci. (He has been conversing with CAMILLO during the first part of BEATRICE’S speech; he hears the conclusion, and now advances.) I hope my good friends here

Will think of their own daughters—or perhaps

Of their own throats—before they lend an ear

To this wild girl.

Beatrice (not noticing the words of Cenci). Dare no one look on me—

None answer— Can one tyrant overbear

The sense of many best and wisest men—

Or is it that I sue not in some form

Of scrupulous law, that ye deny my suit—

O God! That I were buried with my brothers!

And that the flowers of this departed spring

Were fading on my grave! And that my father

Were celebrating now one feast for all!

Camillo. A bitter wish for one so young and gentle;

Can we do nothing—

Colonna. Nothing that I see.

Count Cenci were a dangerous enemy:

Yet I would second any one.

A Cardinal. And I.

Cenci. Retire to your chamber, insolent girl!

Beatrice. Retire thou impious man! Ay, hide thyself

Where never eye can look upon thee more!

Wouldst thou have honour and obedience

Who art a torturer— Father, never dream

Though thou must overbear this company,

But ill must come of ill.—Frown not on me!

Haste, hide thyself, lest with avenging looks

My brothers’ ghosts should hunt thee from thy seat!

Cover thy face from every living eye,

And start if thou but hear a human step.

Seek out some dark and silent corner, there

Bow thy white head before offended God,

And we will kneel around, and fervently

Pray that he pity both ourselves, and thee.

Cenci. My friends, I do lament this insane girl

Has spoilt the mirth of our festivity.

Good night, farewell; I will not make you longer

Spectators of our dull domestic quarrels.

Another time.— [Exeunt all but CENCI and BEATRICE.

My brain is swimming round;

Give me a bowl of wine! [To BEATRICE.

Thou painted viper!

Beast that thou art! Fair and yet terrible!

I know a charm shall make thee meek and tame,

Now get thee from my sight! [Exit BEATRICE.

Here, Andrea,

Fill up this goblet with Greek wine. I said

I would not drink this evening; but I must;

For, strange to say, I feel my spirits fail

With thinking what I have decreed to do.— [Drinking the wine.

Be thou the resolution of quick youth

Within my veins, and manhood’s purpose stern,

And age’s firm, cold, subtle villainy;

As if thou wert indeed my children’s blood

Which I did thirst to drink! The charm works well;

It must be done; it shall be done, I swear! [Exit.

Act II

Scene I

An Apartment in the CenciPalace.

Enter LUCRETIA and BERNARDO

Lucretia. Weep not, my gentle boy; he struck but me

Who have borne deeper wrongs. In truth, if he

Had killed me, he had done a kinder deed.

O, God Almighty, do thou look upon us,

We have no other friend but only thee!

Yet weep not; though I love you as my own,

I am not your true mother.

Bernardo. O more, more,

Than ever mother was to any child,

That have you been to me! Had he not been

My father, do you think that I should weep!

Lucretia. Alas! Poor boy, what else couldst thou have done—

Enter BEATRICE

Beatrice (in a hurried voice). Did he pass this way— Have you seen him, brother—

Ah! No, that is his step upon the stairs;

’Tis nearer now; his hand in on the door;

Mother, if I to thee have ever been

A duteous child, now save me! Thou, great God,

Whose image upon earth a father is,

Dost thou indeed abandon me— He comes:

The door is opening now; I see his face;

He frowns on others, but he smiles on me,

Even as he did after the feast last night.

Enter a Servant

Almighty God, how merciful thou art!

’Tis but Orsino’s servant.—Well, what news—

Servant. My master bids me say, the Holy Father

Has sent back your petition thus unopened. [Giving a paper.

And he demands at what hour ’twere secure

To visit you again—

Lucretia. At the Ave Mary. [Exit Servant.

So daughter, our last hope has failed; Ah me!

How pale you look; you tremble, and you stand

Wrapped in some fixed and fearful meditation,

As if one thought were over strong for you:

Your eyes have a chill glare; O, dearest child!

Are you gone mad— If not, pray speak to me.

Beatrice. You see I am not mad: I speak to you.

Lucretia. You talked of something that your father did

After that dreadful feast— Could it be worse

Than when he smiled, and cried, My sons are dead!

And every one looked in his neighbour’s face

To see if others were as white as he—

At the first word he spoke I felt the blood

Rush to my heart, and fell into a trance;

And when it passed I sat all weak and wild;

Whilst you alone stood up, and with strong words

Checked his unnatural pride; and I could see

The devil was rebuked that lives in him.

Until this hour thus have you ever stood

Between us and your father’s moody wrath

Like a protecting presence: your firm mind

Has been our only refuge and defence.

What can have thus subdued it— What can now

Have given you that cold melancholy look,

Succeeding to your unaccustomed fear—

Beatrice. What is it that you say— I was just thinking

’Twere better not to struggle any more.

Men, like my father, have been dark and bloody,

Yet never—Oh! Before worse comes of it

’Twere wise to die: it ends in that at last.

Lucretia. O talk not so, dear child! Tell me at once

What did your father do or say to you—

He stayed not after that accursèd feast

One moment in your chamber.—Speak to me.

Bernardo. O sister, sister, prithee, speak to us!

Beatrice (speaking very slowly with a forced calmness). It was one word, Mother, one little word;

One look, one smile. (Wildly.) Oh! He has trampled me

Under his feet, and made the blood stream down

My pallid cheeks. And he has given us all

Ditch water, and the fever-stricken flesh

Of buffaloes, and bade us eat or starve,

And we have eaten.—He has made me look

On my beloved Bernardo, when the rust

Of heavy chains has gangrened his sweet limbs,

And I have never yet despaired—but now!

What could I say— [Recovering herself.

Ah! No, ’tis nothing new.

The sufferings we all share have made me wild:

He only struck and cursed me as he passed;

He said, he looked, he did;—nothing at all

Beyond his wont, yet it disordered me.

Alas! I am forgetful of my duty,

I should preserve my senses for your sake.

Lucretia. Nay, Beatrice! have courage, my sweet girl,

If any one despairs it should be I

Who loved him once, and now must live with him

Till God in pity call for him or me.

For you may, like your sister, find some husband,

And smile, years hence, with children round your knees;

Whilst I, then dead, and all this hideous coil

Shall be remembered only as a dream.

Beatrice. Talk not to me, dear lady, of a husband.

Did you not nurse me when my mother died—

Did you not shield me and that dearest boy—

And had we any other friend but you

In infancy, with gentle words and looks,

To win our father not to murder us—

And shall I now desert you— May the ghost

Of my dead Mother plead against my soul

If I abandon her who filled the place

She left, with more, even, than a mother’s love!

Bernardo. And I am of my sister’s mind. Indeed

I would not leave you in this wretchedness,

Even though the Pope should make me free to live

In some blithe place, like others of my age,

With sports, and delicate food, and the fresh air.

O never think that I will leave you, Mother!

Lucretia. My dear, dear children!

Enter CENCI suddenly

Cenci. What, Beatrice here!

Come hither! [She shrinks back, and covers her face.

Nay, hide not your face, ’tis fair;

Look up! Why, yesternight you dared to look

With disobedient insolence upon me,

Bending a stern and an inquiring brow

On what I meant; whilst I then sought to hide

That which I came to tell you—but in vain.

Beatrice (wildly, staggering towards the door). O that the earth would gape! Hide me, O God!

Cenci. Then it was I whose inarticulate words

Fell from my lips, and who with tottering steps

Fled from your presence, as you now from mine.

Stay, I command you—from this day and hour

Never again, I think, with fearless eye,

And brow superior, and unaltered cheek,

And that lip made for tenderness or scorn,

Shalt thou strike dumb the meanest of mankind;

Me least of all. Now get thee to thy chamber!

Thou too, loathed image of thy cursed mother, [To BERNARDO.

Thy milky, meek face makes me sick with hate! [Exeunt BEATRICE and BERNARDO.

(Aside.) So much has past between us as must make

Me bold, her fearful.—’Tis an awful thing

To touch such mischief as I now conceive:

So men sit shivering on the dewy bank,

And try the chill stream with their feet; once in…

How the delighted spirit pants for joy!

Lucretia (advancing timidly towards him). O husband! Pray forgive poor Beatrice.

She meant not any ill.

Cenci. Nor you perhaps—

Nor that young imp, whom you have taught by rote

Parricide with his alphabet— Nor Giacomo—

Nor those two must unnatural sons, who stirred

Enmity up against me with the Pope—

Whom in one night merciful God cut off:

Innocent lambs! They thought not any ill.

You were not here conspiring— You said nothing

Of how I might be dungeoned as a madman;

Or be condemned to death for some offence,

And you would be the witness——This failing,

How just it were to hire assassins, or

Put sudden poison in my evening drink—

Or smother me when overcome by wine—

Seeing we had no other judge but God,

And he had sentenced me, and there were none

But you to be the executioners

Of this decree enregistered in heaven—

Oh, no! You said not this—

Lucretia. So help me God,

I never thought the things you charge me with!

Cenci. If you dare speak that wicked lie again

I’ll kill you. What! It was not by your counsel

That Beatrice disturbed the feast last night—

You did not hope to stir some enemies

Against me, and escape, and laugh to scorn

What every nerve of you now trembles at—

You judged that men were bolder than they are;

Few dare to stand between their grave and me.

Lucretia. Look not so dreadfully! By my salvation

I knew not aught that Beatrice designed;

Nor do I think she designed any thing

Until she heard you talk of her dead brothers.

Cenci. Blaspheming liar! You are damned for his!

But I will take you where you may persuade

The stones you tread on to deliver you:

For men shall there be none but those who dare

All things—not question that which I command.

On Wednesday next I shall set out: you know

That savage rock, the Castle of Petrella:

’Tis safely walled, and moated round about:

Its dungeons underground, and its thick towers

Never told tales; though they have heard and seen

What might make dumb things speak.—Why do you linger—

Make speediest preparation for the journey! [Exit LUCRETIA.

The all-beholding sun yet shines; I hear

A busy stir of men about the streets;

I see the bright sky through the window panes:

It is a garish, broad, and peering day;

Loud, light, suspicious, full of eyes and ears,

And every little corner, nook, and hole

Is penetrated with the insolent light.

Come darkness! Yet, what is the day to me—

And wherefore should I wish for night, who do

A deed which shall confound both night and day—

’Tis she shall grope through a bewildering mist

Of horror: if there be a sun in heaven

She shall not dare to look upon its beams;

Nor feel its warmth. Let her then wish for night;

The act I think shall soon extinguish all

For me: I bear a darker deadlier gloom

Than the earth’s shade, or interlunar air,

Or constellations quenched in murkiest cloud,

In which I walk secure and unbeheld

Towards my purpose.—Would that it were done! [Exit.

Scene II

A Chamber in the Vatican.

Enter CAMILLO and GIACOMO, in conversation

Camillo. There is an obsolete and doubtful law

By which you might obtain a bare provision

Of food and clothing—

Giacomo. Nothing more— Alas!

Bare must be the provision which strict law

Awards, and aged, sullen avarice pays.

Why did my father not apprentice me

To some mechanic trade— I should have then

Been trained in no highborn necessities

Which I could meet not by my daily toil.

The eldest son of a rich nobleman

Is heir to all his incapacities;

He has wide wants, and narrow powers. If you,

Cardinal Camillo, were reduced at once

From thrice-driven beds of down, and delicate food,

An hundred servants, and six palaces,

To that which nature doth indeed require——

Camillo. Nay, there is reason in your plea; ’twere hard.

Giacomo. ’Tis hard for a firm man to bear: but I

Have a dear wife, a lady of high birth,

Whose dowry in ill hour I lent my father

Without a bond or witness to the deed:

And children, who inherit her fine senses,

The fairest creatures in this breathing world;

And she and they reproach me not. Cardinal,

Do you not think the Pope would interpose

And stretch authority beyond the law—

Camillo. Though your peculiar case is hard, I know

The Pope will not divert the course of law.

After that impious feast the other night

I spoke with him, and urged him then to check

Your father’s cruel hand; he frowned and said,

“Children are disobedient, and they sting

Their father’s hearts to madness and despair,

Requiting years of care with contumely.

I pity the Count Cenci from my heart;

His outraged love perhaps awakened hate,

And thus he is exasperated to ill.

In the great war between the old and young

I, who have white hairs and a tottering body,

Will keep at least blameless neutrality.”

Enter ORSINO

You, my good Lord Orsino, heard those words.

Orsino. What words—

Giacomo. Alas, repeat them not again!

There then is no redress for me, at least

None but that which I may achieve myself,

Since I am driven to the brink.—But, say,

My innocent sister and my only brother

Are dying underneath my father’s eye.

The memorable torturers of this land,

Galeaz Visconti, Borgia, Ezzelin,

Never inflicted on the meanest slave

What these endure; shall they have no protection—

Camillo. Why, if they would petition to the Pope

I see not how he could refuse it—yet

He holds it of most dangerous example

In aught to weaken the paternal power,

Being, as ’twere, the shadow of his own.

I pray you now excuse me. I have business

That will not bear delay. [Exit CAMILLO.

Giacomo. But you, Orsino,

Have the petition: wherefore not present it—

Orsino. I have presented it, and backed it with

My earnest prayers, and urgent interest;

It was returned unanswered. I doubt not

But that the strange and execrable deeds

Alleged in it—in truth they might well baffle

Any belief—have turned the Pope’s displeasure

Upon the accusers from the criminal:

So I should guess from what Camillo said.

Giacomo. My friend, that palace-walking devil Gold

Has whispered silence to his Holiness:

And we are left, as scorpions ringed with fire.

What should we do but strike ourselves to death—

For he who is our murderous persecutor

Is shielded by a father’s holy name,

Or I would— (Stops abruptly.)

Orsino. What— Fear not to speak your thought.

Words are but holy as the deeds they cover:

A priest who has forsworn the God he serves;

A judge who makes Truth weep at his decree;

A friend who should weave counsel, as I now,

But as the mantle of some selfish guile;

A father who is all a tyrant seems,

Were the profaner for his sacred name.

Giacomo. Ask me not what I think; the unwilling brain

Feigns often what it would not; and we trust

Imagination with such phantasies

As the tongue dares not fashion into words,

Which have no words, their horror makes them dim

To the mind’s eye.—My heart denies itself

To think what you demand.

Orsino. But a friend’s bosom

Is as the inmost cave of our own mind

Where we sit shut from the wide gaze of day,

And from the all-communicating air.

You look what I suspected—

Giacomo. Spare me now!

I am as one lost in a midnight wood,

Who dares not ask some harmless passenger

The path across the wilderness, lest he,

As my thoughts are, should be—a murderer.

I know you are my friend, and all I dare

Speak to my soul that will I trust with thee.

But now my heart is heavy, and would take

Lone counsel from a night of sleepless care.

Pardon me, that I say farewell—farewell!

I would that to my own suspected self

I could address a word so full of peace.

Orsino. Farewell!—Be your thoughts better or more bold. [Exit GIACOMO.

I had disposed the Cardinal Camillo

To feed his hope with cold encouragement:

It fortunately serves my close designs

That ’tis a trick of this same family

To analyse their own and other minds.

Such self-anatomy shall teach the will

Dangerous secrets: for it tempts our powers,

Knowing what must be thought, and may be done,

Into the depth of darkest purposes:

So Cenci fell into the pit; even I,

Since Beatrice unveiled me to myself,

And made me shrink from what I cannot shun,

Show a poor figure to my own esteem,

To which I grow half reconciled. I’ll do

As little mischief as I can; that thought

Shall fee the accuser conscience.

(After a pause.) Now what harm

If Cenci should be murdered——Yet, if murdered,

Wherefore by me— And what if I could take

The profit, yet omit the sin and peril

In such an action— Of all earthly things

I fear a man whose blows outspeed his words;

And such is Cenci: and while Cenci lives

His daughter’s dowry were a secret grave

If a priest wins her.—Oh, fair Beatrice!

Would that I loved thee not, or loving thee

Could but despise danger and gold and all

That frowns between my wish and its effect,

Or smiles beyond it! There is no escape…

Her bright form kneels beside me at the altar,

And follows me to the resort of men,

And fills my slumber with tumultuous dreams.

So when I wake my blood seems liquid fire;

And if I strike my damp and dizzy head

My hot palm scorches it: her very name,

But spoken by a stranger, makes my heart

Sicken and pant; and thus unprofitably

I clasp the phantom of unfelt delights

Till weak imagination half possesses

The self-created shadow. Yet much longer

Will I not nurse this life of feverous hours:

From the unravelled hopes of Giacomo

I must work out my own dear purposes.

I see, as from a tower, the end of all:

Her father dead; her brother bound to me

By a dark secret, surer than the grave;

Her mother scared and unexpostulating

From the dread manner of her wish achieved:

And she!—Once more take courage my faint heart;

What dares a friendless maiden matched with thee—

I have such foresight as assures success:

Some unbeheld divinity doth ever,

When dread events are near, stir up men’s minds

To black suggestions; and he prospers best,

Not who becomes the instrument of ill,

But who can flatter the dark spirit, that makes

Its empire and its prey of other hearts

Till it become his slave… as I will do. [Exit.

Act III

Scene I

An Apartment in the CenciPalace.

LUCRETIA, to her enter BEATRICE

Beatrice. (She enters staggering, and speaks wildly.) Reach me that handkerchief!—My brain is hurt;

My eyes are full of blood; just wipe them for me…

I see but indistinctly…

Lucretia. My sweet child,

You have no wound; ’tis only a cold dew

That starts from your dear brow… Alas! Alas!

What has befallen—

Beatrice. How comes this hair undone—

Its wandering strings must be what blind me so,

And yet I tied it fast.—O, horrible!

The pavement sinks under my feet! The walls

Spin round! I see a woman weeping there,

And standing calm and motionless, whilst I

Slide giddily as the world reels… My God!

The beautiful blue heaven is flecked with blood!

The sunshine on the floor is black! The air

Is changed to vapours such as the dead breathe

In charnel pits! Pah! I am choked! There creeps

A clinging, black contaminating mist

About me… ’tis substantial, heavy, thick,

I cannot pluck it from me, for it glues

My fingers and my limbs to one another,

And eats into my sinews, and dissolves

My flesh to a pollution, poisoning

The subtle, pure, and inmost spirit of life!

My God! I never knew what the mad felt

Before; for I am mad beyond all doubt!

(More wildly.) No, I am dead! These putrefying limbs

Shut round and sepulchre the panting soul

Which would burst forth into the wandering air! (A pause.)

What hideous thought was that I had even now—

’Tis gone; and yet its burthen remains here

O’er these dull eyes… upon this weary heart!

O, world! O, life! O, day! O, misery!

Lucretia. What ails thee, my poor child— She answers not:

Her spirit apprehends the sense of pain,

But not its cause; suffering has dried away

The source from which it sprung…

Beatrice (frantically). Like Parricide…

Misery has killed its father: yet its father

Never like mine… O, God! What thing am I—

Lucretia. My dearest child, what has your father done—

Beatrice (doubtfully). Who art thou, questioner— I have no father.

(Aside.) She is the madhouse nurse who tends on me,

It is a piteous office.

(To Lucretia, in a slow, subdued voice.) Do you know

I thought I was that wretched Beatrice

Men speak of, whom her father sometimes hales

From hall to hall by the entangled hair;

At others, pens up naked in damp cells

Where scaly reptiles crawl, and starves her there,

Till she will eat strange flesh. This woful story

So did I overact in my sick dreams,

That I imagined… no, it cannot be!

Horrible things have been in this wild world,

Prodigious mixtures, and confusions strange

Of good and ill; and worse have been conceived

Than ever there was found a heart to do.

But never fancy imaged such a deed

As… (Pauses, suddenly recollecting herself.)

Who art thou— Swear to me, ere I die

With fearful expectation, that indeed

Thou art not what thou seemest… Mother!

Lucretia. Oh!

My sweet child, know you…

Beatrice. Yet speak it not:

For then if this be truth, that other too

Must be a truth, a firm enduring truth,

Linked with each lasting circumstance of life,

Never to change, never to pass away.

Why so it is. This is the Cenci Palace;

Thou art Lucretia; I am Beatrice.

I have talked some wild words, but will no more.

Mother, come near me: from this point of time,

I am… (Her voice dies away faintly.)

Lucretia. Alas! What has befallen thee, child—

What has thy father done—

Beatrice. What have I done—

Am I not innocent— Is it my crime

That one with white hair and imperious brow,

Who tortured me from my forgotten years

As parents only dare, should call himself

My father, yet should be!—Oh, what am I—

What name, what place, what memory shall be mine—

What retrospects, outliving even despair—

Lucretia. He is a violent tyrant, surely, child:

We know that death alone can make us free;

His death or ours. But what can he have done

Of deadlier outrage or worse injury—

Thou art unlike thyself; thine eyes shoot forth

A wandering and strange spirit. Speak to me,

Unlock those pallid hands whose fingers twine

With one another.

Beatrice. ’Tis the restless life

Tortured within them. If I try to speak

I shall go mad. Ay, something must be done:

What, yet I know not… something which shall make

The thing that I have suffered but a shadow

In the dread lightning which avenges it;

Brief, rapid, irreversible, destroying

The consequence of what it cannot cure.

Some such thing is to be endured or done:

When I know what, I shall be still and calm,

And never any thing will move me more.

But now!—Oh blood, which art my father’s blood,

Circling thro’ these contaminated veins,

If thou, poured forth on the polluted earth,

Could wash away the crime, and punishment

By which I suffer… no, that cannot be!

Many might doubt there were a God above

Who sees and permits evil, and so die:

That faith no agony shall obscure in me.

Lucretia. It must indeed have been some bitter wrong;

Yet what, I dare not guess. Oh, my lost child,

Hide not in proud impenetrable grief

Thy sufferings from my fear.

Beatrice. I hide them not.

What are the words which you would have me speak—

I, who can feign no image in my mind

Of that which has transformed me: I, whose thought

Is like a ghost shrouded and folded up

In its own formless horror: of all words,

That minister to mortal intercourse,

Which wouldst thou hear— For there is none to tell

My misery: if another ever knew

Aught like to it, she died as I will die,

And left it, as I must, without a name.

Death! Death! Our law and our religion call thee

A punishment and a reward… Oh, which

Have I deserved—

Lucretia. The peace of innocence;

Till in your season you be called to heaven.

Whate’er you may have suffered, you have done

No evil. Death must be the punishment

Of crime, or the reward of trampling down

The thorns which God has strewed upon the path

Which leads to immortality.

Beatrice. Ay, death…

The punishment of crime. I pray thee, God,

Let me not be bewildered while I judge.

If I must live day after day, and keep

These limbs, the unworthy temple of thy spirit,

As a foul den from which what thou abhorrest

May mock thee, unavenged… it shall not be!

Self-murder… no, that might be no escape,

For thy decree yawns like a Hell between

Our will and it:—O! In this mortal world

There is no vindication and no law

Which can adjudge and execute the doom

Of that through which I suffer.

Enter ORSINO

(She approaches him solemnly.) Welcome, Friend!

I have to tell you that, since last we met,

I have endured a wrong so great and strange,

That neither life nor death can give me rest.

Ask me not what it is, for there are deeds

Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.

Orsino. And what is he who has thus injured you—

Beatrice. The man they call my father: a dread name.

Orsino. It cannot be…

Beatrice. What it can be, or not,

Forbear to think. It is, and it has been;

Advise me how it shall not be again.

I thought to die; but a religious awe

Restrains me, and the dread lest death itself

Might be no refuge from the consciousness

Of what is yet unexpiated. Oh, speak!

Orsino. Accuse him of the deed, and let the law avenge thee.

Beatrice. Oh, ice-hearted counsellor!

If I could find a word that might make known

The crime of my destroyer; and that done,

My tongue should like a knife tear out the secret

Which cankers my heart’s core; ay, lay all bare

So that my unpolluted fame should be

With vilest gossips a stale mouthèd story;

A mock, a bye-word, an astonishment:—

If this were done, which never shall be done,

Think of the offender’s gold, his dreaded hate

And the strange horror of the accuser’s tale,

Baffling belief, and overpowering speech;

Scarce whispered, unimaginable, wrapt

In hideous hints… Oh, most assured redress!

Orsino. You will endure it then—

Beatrice. Endure——Orsino,

It seems your counsel is small profit. (Turns from him, and speaks half to herself.)

Ay,

All must be suddenly resolved and done.

What is this undistinguishable mist

Of thoughts, which rise, like shadow after shadow,

Darkening each other—

Orsino. Should the offender live—

Triumph in his misdeed— and make, by use,

His crime, whate’er it is, dreadful no doubt,

Thine element; until thou mayest become

Utterly lost; subdued even to the hue

Of that which thou permittest—

Beatrice (to herself). Mighty death!

Thou double-visaged shadow— Only judge!

Rightfullest arbiter! (She retires absorbed in thought.)

Lucretia. If the lightning

Of God has e’er descended to avenge…

Orsino. Blaspheme not! His high Providence commits

Its glory on this earth, and their own wrongs

Into the hands of men; if they neglect

To punish crime…

Lucretia. But if one, like this wretch,

Should mock, with gold, opinion, law, and power—

If there be no appeal to that which makes

The guiltiest tremble— If because our wrongs,

For that they are unnatural, strange, and monstrous,

Exceed all measure of belief— O God!

If, for the very reasons which should make

Redress most swift and sure, our injurer triumphs—

And we, the victims, bear worse punishment

Than that appointed for their torturer—

Orsino. Think not

But that there is redress where there is wrong,

So we be bold enough to seize it.

Lucretia. How—

If there were any way to make all sure,

I know not… but I think it might be good

To…

Orsino. Why, his late outrage to Beatrice;

For it is such, as I but faintly guess,

As makes remorse dishonour, and leaves her

Only one duty, how she may avenge:

You, but one refuge from ills ill endured;

Me, but one counsel…

Lucretia. For we cannot hope

That aid, or retribution, or resource

Will arise thence, where every other one

Might find them with less need. (BEATRICE advances.)

Orsino. Then…

Beatrice. Peace, Orsino!

And, honoured Lady, while I speak, I pray

That you put off, as garments overworn,

Forbearance and respect, remorse and fear,

And all the fit restraints of daily life,

Which have been borne from childhood, but which now

Would be a mockery to my holier plea.

As I have said, I have endured a wrong,

Which, though it be expressionless, is such

As asks atonement; both for what is past,

And lest I be reserved, day after day,

To load with crimes an overburthened soul,

And be… what ye can dream not. I have prayed

To God, and I have talked with my own heart,

And have unravelled my entangled will,

And have at length determined what is right.

Art thou my friend, Orsino— False or true—

Pledge thy salvation ere I speak.

Orsino. I swear

To dedicate my cunning, and my strength,

My silence, and whatever else is mine,

To thy commands.

Lucretia. You think we should devise

His death—

Beatrice. And execute what is devised,

And suddenly. We must be brief and bold.

Orsino. And yet most cautious.

Lucretia. For the jealous laws

Would punish us with death and infamy

For that which it became themselves to do.

Beatrice. Be cautious as ye may, but prompt. Orsino.

What are the means—

Orsino. I know two dull, fierce outlaws,

Who think man’s spirit as a worm’s, and they

Would trample out, for any slight caprice,

The meanest or the noblest life. This mood

Is marketable here in Rome. They sell

What we now want.

Lucretia. To-morrow before dawn,

Cenci will take us to that lonely rock,

Petrella, in the Apulian Apennines.

If he arrive there…

Beatrice. He must not arrive.

Orsino. Will it be dark before you reach the tower—

Lucretia. The sun will scarce be set.

Beatrice. But I remember

Two miles on this side of the fort, the road

Crosses a deep ravine; ’tis rough and narrow,

And winds with short turns down the precipice;

And in its depth there is a mighty rock,

Which has, from unimaginable years,

Sustained itself with terror and with toil

Over a gulph, and with the agony

With which it clings seems slowly coming down;

Even as a wretched soul hour after hour,

Clings to the mass of life; yet clinging, leans;

And leaning, makes more dark the dread abyss

In which it fears to fall: beneath this crag

Huge as despair, as if in weariness,

The melancholy mountain yawns… below,

You hear but see not an impetuous torrent

Raging among the caverns, and a bridge

Crosses the chasm; and high above there grow,

With intersecting trunks, from crag to crag,

Cedars, and yews, and pines; whose tangled hair

Is matted in one solid roof of shade

By the dark ivy’s twine. At noonday here

’Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night.

Orsino. Before you reach that bridge make some excuse

For spurring on your mules, or loitering

Until…

Beatrice. What sound is that—

Lucretia. Hark! No, it cannot be a servant’s step;

It must be Cenci, unexpectedly

Returned… Make some excuse for being here.

Beatrice. (To ORSINO, as she goes out.) That step we hear approach must never pass

The bridge of which we spoke. [Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE.

Orsino. What shall I do—

Cenci must find me here, and I must bear

The imperious inquisition of his looks

As to what brought me hither: let me mask

Mine own in some inane and vacant smile.

Enter GIACOMO, in a hurried manner

How! Have you ventured hither— Know you then

That Cenci is from home—

Giacomo. I sought him here;

And now must wait till he returns.

Orsino. Great God!

Weigh you the danger of this rashness—

Giacomo. Ay!

Does my destroyer know his danger— We

Are now no more, as once, parent and child,

But man to man; the oppressor to the oppressed;

The slanderer to the slandered; foe to foe:

He has cast Nature off, which was his shield,

And Nature casts him off, who is her shame;

And I spurn both. Is it a father’s throat

Which I will shake, and say, I ask not gold;

I ask not happy years; nor memories

Of tranquil childhood; nor home-sheltered love;

Though all these hast thou torn from me, and more;

But only my fair fame; only one hoard

Of peace, which I thought hidden from thy hate,

Under the penury heaped on me by thee,

Or I will… God can understand and pardon,

Why should I speak with man—

Orsino. Be calm, dear friend.

Giacomo. Well, I will calmly tell you what he did.

This old Francesco Cenci, as you know,

Borrowed the dowry of my wife from me,

And then denied the loan; and left me so

In poverty, the which I sought to mend

By holding a poor office in the state.

It had been promised to me, and already

I bought new clothing for my ragged babes,

And my wife smiled; and my heart knew repose.

When Cenci’s intercession, as I found,

Conferred this office on a wretch, whom thus

He paid for vilest service. I returned

With this ill news, and we sate sad together

Solacing our despondency with tears

Of such affection and unbroken faith

As temper life’s worst bitterness; when he,

As he is wont, came to upbraid and curse,

Mocking our poverty, and telling us

Such was God’s scourge for disobedient sons.

And then, that I might strike him dumb with shame

I spoke of my wife’s dowry; but he coined

A brief yet specious tale, how I had wasted

The sum in secret riot and he saw

My wife was touched, and he went smiling forth.

And when I knew the impression he had made,

And felt my wife insult with silent scorn

My ardent truth, and look averse and cold,

I went forth too: but soon returned again;

Yet not so soon but that my wife had taught

My children her harsh thoughts, and they all cried,

“Give us clothes, father” Give us better food!

What you in one night squander were enough

For months!” I looked, and saw that home was hell.

And to that hell will I return no more

Until mine enemy has rendered up

Atonement, or, as he gave life to me

I will, reversing nature’s law…

Orsino. Trust me,

The compensation which thou seekest here

Will be denied.

Giacomo. Then… Are you not my friend—

Did you not hint at the alternative,

Upon the brink of which you see I stand,

The other day when we conversed together—

My wrongs were then less. That word parricide,

Although I am resolved, haunts me like fear.

Orsino. It must be fear itself, for the bare word

Is hollow mockery. Mark, how wisest God

Draws to one point the threads of a just doom,

So sanctifying it: what you devise

Is, as it were, accomplished.

Giacomo. Is he dead—

Orsino. His grave is ready. Know that since we met.

Cenci has done an outrage to his daughter.

Giacomo. What outrage—

Orsino. That she speaks not, but you may

Conceive such half conjectures as I do,

From her fixed paleness, and the lofty grief

Of her stern brow bent on the idle air,

And her severe unmodulated voice,

Drowning both tenderness and dread; and last

From this; that whilst her step-mother and I,

Bewildered in our horror, talked together

With obscure hints; both self-misunderstood

And darkly guessing, stumbling, in our talk,

Over the truth, and yet to its revenge,

She interrupted us, and with a look

Which told before she spoke it, he must die:…

Giacomo. It is enough. My doubts are well appeased;

There is a higher reason for the act

Than mine; there is a holier judge than me,

A more unblamed avenger. Beatrice,

Who in the gentleness of thy sweet youth

Hast never trodden on a worm, or bruised

A living flower, but thou hast pitied it

With needless tears! Fair sister, thou in whom

Men wondered how such loveliness and wisdom

Did not destroy each other! Is there made

Ravage of thee— O, heart, I ask no more

Justification! Shall I wait, Orsino,

Till he return, and stab him at the door—

Orsino. Not so; some accident might interpose

To rescue him from what is now most sure;

And you are unprovided where to fly,

How to excuse or to conceal. Nay, listen:

All is contrived; success is so assured

That…

Enter BEATRICE

Beatrice. ’Tis my brother’s voice! You know me not—

Giacomo. My sister, my lost sister!

Beatrice. Lost indeed!

I see Orsino has talked with you, and

That you conjecture things too horrible

To speak, yet far less than the truth.

Now, stay not,

He might return: yet kiss me; I shall know

That then thou hast consented to his death.

Farewell, farewell! Let piety to God,

Brotherly love, justice and clemency,

And all things that make tender hardest hearts

Make thine hard, brother. Answer not… farewell. [Exeunt severally.

Scene II

A mean Apartment in GIACOMO’S House.

GIACOMO alone

Giacomo. ’Tis midnight, and Orsino comes not yet. [Thunder, and the sound of a storm.

What! can the everlasting elements

Fell with a worm like man— If so the shaft

Of mercy-wingèd lightning would not fall

On stones and trees. My wife and children sleep:

They are now living in unmeaning dreams:

But I must wake, still doubting if that deed

Be just which was most necessary. O,

Thou unreplenished lamp! whose narrow fire

Is shaken by the wind, and on whose edge

Devouring darkness hovers! Thou small flame,

Which, as a dying pulse rises and falls,

Still flickerest up and down, how very soon,

Did I not feed thee, wouldst thou fail and be

As thou hadst never been! So wastes and sinks

Even now, perhaps, the life that kindled mine:

But that no power can fill with vital oil

That broken lamp of flesh. Ha! ’tis the blood

Which fed these veins that ebbs till all is cold:

It is the form that moulded mine that sinks

Into the white and yellow spasms of death:

It is the soul by which mine was arrayed

In God’s immortal likeness which now stands

Naked before Heaven’s judgment seat! (A bell strikes.)

One! Two!

The hours crawl on; and when my hairs are white,

My son will then perhaps be waiting thus,

Tortured between just hate and vain remorse;

Chiding the tardy messenger of news

Like those which I expect; I almost wish

He be not dead, although my wrongs are great;

Yet… ’tis Orsino’s step…

Enter ORSINO

Speak!

Orsino. I am come

To say he has escaped.

Giacomo. Escaped!

Orsino. And safe

Within Petrella. He past by the spot

Appointed for the deed an hour too soon.

Giacomo. Are we the fools of such contingencies—

And do we waste in blind misgivings thus

The hours when we should act— Then wind and thunder,

Which seemed to howl his knell, is the loud laughter

With which Heaven mocks our weakness! I henceforth

Will ne’er repent of aught designed or done

But my repentance.

Orsino. See, the lamp is out.

Giacomo. If no remorse is ours when the dim air

Has drank this innocent flame, why should we quail

When Cenci’s life, that light by which ill spirits

See the worst deeds they prompt, shall sink for ever—

No, I am hardened.

Orsino. Why, what need of this—

Who feared the pale intrusion of remorse

In a just deed— Altho’ our first plan failed,

Doubt not but he will soon be laid to rest.

But light the lamp; let us not talk i’ the dark.

Giacomo (lighting the lamp). And yet once quenched I cannot thus relume

My father’s life: do you not think his ghost

Might plead that argument with God—

Orsino. Once gone

You cannot now recall your sister’s peace;

Your own extinguished years of youth and hope;

Nor your wife’s bitter words; nor all the taunts

Which, from the prosperous, weak misfortune takes;

Nor your dead mother; nor…

Giacomo. O, speak no more!

I am resolved, although this very hand

Must quench the life that animated it.

Orsino. There is no need of that. Listen: you know

Olimpio, the castellan of Petrella

In old Colonna’s time; him whom your father

Degraded from his post— And Marzio,

That desperate wretch, whom he deprived last year

Of a reward of blood, well earned and due—

Giacomo. I knew Olimpio; and they say he hated

Old Cenci so, that in his silent rage

His lips grew white only to see him pass.

Of Marzio I know nothing.

Orsino. Marzio’s hate

Matches Olimpio’s. I have sent these men,

But in your name and as at your request,

To talk with Beatrice and Lucretia.

Giacomo. Only to talk—

Orsino. The moments which even now

Pass onward to to-morrow’s midnight hour

May memorise their flight with death: ere then

They must have talked, and may perhaps have done

And made an end…

Giacomo. Listen! What sound is that—

Orsino. The house-dog moans, and the beams crack nought else.

Giacomo. It is my wife complaining in her sleep:

I doubt not she is saying bitter things

Of me; and all my children round her dreaming

That I deny them sustenance.

Orsino. Whilst he

Who truly took it from them, and who fills

Their hungry rest with bitterness, now sleeps

Lapped in bad pleasures, and triumphantly

Mocks thee in visions of successful hate

Too like the truth of day.

Giacomo. If e’er he wakes

Again, I will not trust to hireling hands…

Orsino. Why, that were well. I must be gone; good-night:

When next we meet—may all be done!

Giacomo. And all

Forgotten: Oh, that I had never been! [Exeunt.

Act IV

Scene I

An Apartment in the Castle of Petrella

Enter CENCI

Cenci. She comes not; yet I left her even now

Vanquished and faint. She knows the penalty

Of her delay: yet what if threats are vain—

Am I not now within Petrella’s moat—

Or fear I still the eyes and ears of Rome—

Might I not drag her by the golden hair—

Stamp on her— Keep her sleepless till her brain

Be overworn— Tame her with chains and famine—

Less would suffice. Yet so to leave undone

What I most seek! No, ’tis her stubborn will

Which by its own consent shall stoop as low

As that which drags it down.

Enter LUCRETIA

Thou loathèd wretch!

Hide thee from my abhorrence; fly, begone!

Yet stay! Bid Beatrice come hither.

Lucretia. Oh,

Husband! I pray for thine own wretched sake

Heed what thou dost. A man who walks like thee

Thro’ crimes, and thro’ the danger of his crimes,

Each hour may stumble o’er a sudden grave.

And thou art old; thy hairs are hoary gray;

As thou wouldst save thyself from death and hell,

Pity thy daughter; give her to some friend

In marriage: so that she may tempt thee not

To hatred, or worse thoughts, if worse there be.

Cenci. What! like her sister who has found a home

To mock my hate from with prosperity—

Strange ruin shall destroy both her and thee

And all that yet remain. My death may be

Rapid, her destiny outspeeds it. Go,

Bid her come hither, and before my mood

Be changed, lest I should drag her by the hair.

Lucretia. She sent me to thee, husband. At thy presence

She fell, as thou dost know, into a trance;

And in that trance she heard a voice which said,

“Cenci must die! Let him confess himself!

Even now the accusing Angel waits to hear

If God, to punish his enormous crimes,

Harden his dying heart!”

Cenci. Why—such thing are…

No doubt divine revealings may be made.

’Tis plain I have been favoured from above,

For when I cursed my sons they died.—Ay… so…

As to the right of wrong that’s talk… repentance…

Repentance is an easy moment’s work

And more depends on God than me. Well… well…

I must give up the greater point, which was

To poison and corrupt her soul. [A pause; LUCRETIA approaches anxiously, and then shrinks bask as he speaks. One, two;

Ay… Rocco and Cristofano my curse

Strangled: and Giacomo, I think, will find

Life a worse Hell than that beyond the grave:

Beatrice shall, if there be skill in hate,

Die in despair, blaspheming: to Bernardo,

He is so innocent, I will bequeath

The memory of these deeds, and make his youth

The sepulchre of hope, where evil thoughts

Shall grow like weeds on a neglected tomb.

When all is done, out in the wide Campagna,

I will pile up my silver and my gold;

My costly robes, paintings and tapestries;

My parchments and all records of my wealth,

And make a bonfire in my joy, and leave

Of my possessions nothing but my name;

Which shall be an inheritance to strip

Its wearer bare as infamy. That done,

My soul, which is a scourge, will I resign

Into the hands of him who wielded it;

Be it for its own punishment or theirs,

He will not ask it of me till the lash

Be broken in its last and deepest wound;

Until its hate be all inflicted. Yet,

Lest death outspeed my purpose, let me make

Short work and sure… [Going.

Lucretia. (Stops him.) Oh, stay! It was a feint:

She had no vision, and she heard no voice.

I said it but to awe thee.

Cenci. That is well.

Vile palterer with the sacred truth of God,

Be thy soul choked with that blaspheming lie!

For Beatrice worse terrors are in store

To bend her to my will.

Lucretia. Oh! to what will—

What cruel sufferings more than she has known

Canst thou inflict—

Cenci. Andrea! Go call my daughter,

And if she comes not tell her that I come.

What sufferings— I will drag her, step by step,

Thro’ infamies unheard of among men:

She shall stand shelterless in the broad noon

Of public scorn, for acts blazoned abroad,

One among which shall be… What— Canst thou guess—

She shall become (for what she most abhors

Shall have a fascination to entrap

Her loathing will) to her own conscious self

All she appears to others; and when dead,

As she shall die unshrived and unforgiven,

A rebel to her father and her God,

Her corpse shall be abandoned to the hounds;

Her name shall be the terror of the earth;

Her spirit shall approach the throne of God

Plague-spotted with my curses. I will make

Body and soul a monstrous lump of ruin.

Enter ANDREA

Andrea. The Lady Beatrice…

Cenci. Speak, pale slave! What

Said she—

Andrea. My lord, ’twas what she looked; she said:

“Go tell my father that I see the gulf

Of Hell between us two, which he may pass,

I will not.” [Exit ANDREA.

Cenci. Go thou quick, Lucretia,

Tell her to come; yet let her understand

Her coming is consent: and say, moreover

That if she come not I will curse her. [Exit LUCRETIA.

Ha!

With what but with a father’s curse doth God

Panic-strike armèd victory, and make pale

Cities in their prosperity— The world’s Father

Must grant a parent’s prayer against his child,

Be he who asks even what men call me.

Will not the deaths of her rebellious brothers

Awe her before I speak— For I on them

Did imprecate quick ruin, and it came.

Enter LUCRETIA

Well; what— Speak, wretch!

Lucretia. She said, “I cannot come;

Go tell my father that I see a torrent

Of his own blood raging between us.”

Cenci (kneeling). God!

Hear me! If this most specious mass of flesh,

Which thou hast made my daughter; this my blood,

This particle of my divided being;

Or rather, this my bane and my disease,

Whose sight infects and poisons, me; this devil

Which sprung from me as from a hell, was meant

To aught good use; if her bright loveliness

Was kindled to illumine this dark world;

If nursed by thy selectest dew of love

Such virtues blossom in her as should make

The peace of life, I pray thee for my sake,

As thou the common God and Father art

Of her, and me, and all; reverse that doom!

Earth, in the name of God, let her food be

Poison, until she be encrusted round

With leprous stains! Heaven, rain upon her head

The blistering drops of the Maremma’s dew,

Till she be speckled like a toad; parch up

Those love-enkindled lips, warp those fine limbs

To loathed lameness! All-beholding sun,

Strike in thine envy those life-darting eyes

With thine own blinding beams!

Lucretia. Peace! Peace!

For thine own sake unsay those dreadful words.

When high God grants he punishes such prayers.

Cenci (leaping up, and throwing his right hand towards Heaven). He does his will, I mine! This in addition,

That if she have a child…

Lucretia. Horrible thought!

Cenci. That if she ever have a child; and thou,

Quick Nature! I adjure thee by thy God,

That thou be fruitful in her, and increase

And multiply, fulfilling his command,

And my deep imprecation! May it be

A hideous likeness of herself, that as

From a distorting mirror, she may see

Her image mixed with what she most abhors,

Smiling upon her from her nursing breast.

And that the child may from its infancy

Grow, day by day, more wicked and deformed,

Turning her mother’s love to misery:

And that both she and it may live until

It shall repay her care and pain with hate,

Or what may else be more unnatural.

So he may hunt her through he clamorous scoffs

Of the loud world to a dishonoured grave.

Shall I revoke this curse— Go, bid her come,

Before my words are chronicled in Heaven. [Exit LUCRETIA.

I do not feel as if I were a man,

But like a fiend appointed to chastise

The offences of some unremembered world.

My blood is running up and down my veins;

A fearful pleasure makes it prick and tingle:

I feel a giddy sickness of strange awe;

My heart is beating with an expectation

Of horrid joy.

Enter LUCRETIA

What— Speak!

Lucretia. She bids thee curse;

And if thy curses, as they cannot do,

Could kill her soul…

Cenci. She would not come. ’Tis well,

I can do both: first take what I demand,

And then extort concession. To thy chamber!

Fly ere I spurn thee: and beware this night

That thou cross not my footsteps. It were safer

To come between the tiger and his prey. [Exit LUCRETIA.

It must be late; mine eyes grow weary dim

With unaccustomed heaviness of sleep.

Conscience! Oh, thou most insolent of lies!

They say that sleep, that healing dew of Heaven,

Steeps not in balm the foldings of the brain

Which thinks thee an impostor. I will go

First belie thee with an hour of rest,

Which will be deep and calm, I feel: and then…

O, multitudinous Hell, the fiends will shake

Thine arches with the laughter of their joy!

There shall be lamentation heard in Heaven

As o’er an angel fallen and upon Earth

All good shall droop and sicken, and ill things

Shall with a spirit of unnatural life

Stir and be quickened… even as I am now. [Exit.

Scene II

Before the Castle of Petrella.

Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA above on the Ramparts

Beatrice. They come not yet.

Lucretia. ’Tis scarce midnight.

Beatrice. How slow

Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed,

Lags leaden footed time!

Lucretia. The minutes pass…

If he should wake before the deed is done—

Beatrice. O, mother! He must never wake again.

What thou hast said persuades me that our act

Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell

Out of a human form.

Lucretia. ’Tis true he spoke

Of death and judgment with strange confidence

For one so wicked; as a man believing

In God, yet recking not of good or ill.

And yet to die without confession!…

Beatrice. Oh!

Believe that Heaven is merciful and just,

And will not add our dread necessity

To the amount of his offences.

Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO, below

Lucretia. See,

They come.

Beatrice. All mortal things must hasten thus

To their dark end. Let us go down. [Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE from above.

Olimpio. How feel you to this work—

Marzio. As one who thinks

A thousand crowns excellent market price

For an old murderer’s life. Your cheeks are pale.

Olimpio. It is the white reflection of your own,

Which you call pale.

Marzio. Is that their natural hue—

Olimpio. Or ’tis my hate and the deferred desire

To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood.

Marzio. You are inclined then to this business—

Olimpio. Ay.

If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns

To kill a serpent which had stung my child,

I could not be more willing.

Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA, below

Noble ladies!

Beatrice. Are ye resolved—

Olimpio. Is he asleep—

Marzio. Is all

Quiet—

Lucretia. I mixed an opiate with his drink:

He sleeps so soundly…

Beatrice. That his death will be

But as a change of sin-chastising dreams,

A dark continuance of the Hell within him,

Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved—

Ye know it is a high and holy deed—

Olimpio. We are resolved.

Marzio. As to the how this act

Be warranted, it rests with you.

Beatrice. Well, follow!

Olimpio. Hush! Hark! What noise is that—

Marzio. Ha! some one comes!

Beatrice. Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest

Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate,

Which ye left open, swinging to the wind,

That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow!

And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold. [Exeunt.

Scene III

An Apartment in the Castle.

Enter BEATRICE and LUCRETIA

Lucretia. They are about it now.

Beatrice. Nay, it is done.

Lucretia. I have not heard him groan.

Beatrice. He will not groan.

Lucretia. What sound is that—

Beatrice. List ’tis the tread of feet

About his bed.

Lucretia. My God!

If he be now a cold stiff corpse…

Beatrice. O, fear not

What may be done, but what is left undone:

The act seals all.

Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO

Is it accomplished—

Marzio. What—

Olimpio. Did you not call—

Beatrice. When—

Olimpio. Now.

Beatrice. I ask if all is over—

Olimpio. We dare not kill an old and sleeping man;

His thin gray hair, his stern and reverent brow,

His veined hands crossed on his heaving breast,

And the calm innocent sleep in which he lay,

Quelled me. Indeed, indeed, I cannot do it.

Marzio. But I was bolder; for I chid Olimpio,

And bade him bear his wrongs to his own grave

And leave me the reward. And now my knife

Touched the loose wrinkled throat, when the old man

Stirred in his sleep, and said, “God! hear, O, hear,

A father’s curse! What, art though not our father—”

And then he laughed. I knew it was the ghost

Of my dead father speaking through his lips,

And could not kill him.

Beatrice. Miserable slaves!

Where, if ye dare not kill a sleeping man,

Found ye the boldness to return to me

With such a deed undone— Base palterers!

Cowards and traitors! Why, the very conscience

Which ye would sell for gold and for revenge

Is an equivocation: it sleeps over

A thousand daily acts disgracing men;

And when a deed where mercy insults Heaven…

Why do I talk— [Snatching a dagger from one of them and raising it.

Hadst thou a tongue to say,

She murdered her own father, I must do it!

But never dream ye shall outlive him long!

Olimpio. Stop, for God’s sake!

Marzio. I will go back and kill him.

Olimpio. Give me the weapon, we must do thy will.

Beatrice. Take it. Depart! Return! [Exeunt OLIMPIO and MARZIO.

How pale thou art!

We do but that which ’twere a deadly crime

To leave undone.

Lucretia. Would it were done!

Beatrice. Even whilst

That doubt is passing through your mind, the world

Is conscious of a change. Darkness and Hell

Have swallowed up the vapour they sent forth

To blacken the sweet light of life, My breath

Comes, methinks, lighter, and the jellied blood

Runs freely thro’ my veins. Hark!

Enter OLIMPIO and MARZIO.

He is…

Olimpio. Dead!

Marzio. We strangled him that there might be no blood;

And then we threw his heavy corpse i’ the garden

Under the balcony; ’twill seem it fell.

Beatrice (giving them a bag of coin). Here, take this gold and hasten to your homes.

And, Marzio, because thou wast only awed

By that which made me tremble, wear thou this! [Clothes him in a rich mantle.

It was the mantle which my grandfather

Wore in his high prosperity, and men

Envied his state: so may they envy thine.

Thou wert a weapon in the hand of God

To a just use. Live long and thrive! And, mark,

If thou hast crimes, repent: this deed is none. [A horn is sounded.

Lucretia. Hark, ’tis the castle horn; my God! it sounds

Like the last trump.

Beatrice. Some tedious guest is coming.

Lucretia. The drawbridge is let down; there is a tramp

Of horses in the court; fly, hide yourselves! [Exeunt OLIMPIO and MARZIO.

Beatrice. Let us retire to counterfeit deep rest;

I scarcely need to counterfeit it now:

The spirit which doth reign within these limbs

Seems strangely undisturbed. I could even sleep

Fearless and calm: all ill is surely past. [Exeunt.

Scene IV

Another Apartment in the Castle.

Enter on one side the Legate SAVELLA, introduced by a Servant, and on the other LUCRETIA and BERNARDO

Savella. Lady, my duty to his Holiness

Be my excuse that thus unseasonably

I break upon your rest. I must speak with

Count Cenci; doth he sleep—

Lucretia (in a hurried and confused manner). I think he sleeps;

Yet wake him not, I pray, spare me awhile,

He is a wicked and a wrathful man;

Should he be roused out of his sleep to-night,

Which is, I know, a hell of angry dreams,

It were not well; indeed it were not well.

Wait till day break… (aside) O, I am deadly sick!

Savella. I grieve thus to distress you, but the Count

Must answer charges of the gravest import,

And suddenly; such my commission is.

Lucretia (with increased agitation). I dare not rouse him:

I know none who dare…

’Twere perilous;… you might as safely waken

A serpent; or a corpse in which some fiend

Were laid to sleep.

Savella. Lady, moments here

Are counted. I must rouse him from his sleep,

Since none else dare.

Lucretia (aside). O, terror! O, despair!

(To BERNARDO.) Bernardo, conduct you the Lord Legate to

Your father’s chamber. [Exeunt SAVELLA and BERNARDO.

Enter BEATRICE

Beatrice. ’Tis a messenger

Come to arrest the culprit who now stands

Before the throne of unappealable God.

Both Earth and Heaven, consenting arbiters,

Acquit our deed.

Lucretia. Oh, agony of fear!

Would that he yet might live! Even now I heard

The Legate’s followers whisper as they passed

They had a warrant for his instant death.

All was prepared by unforbidden means

Which we must pay so dearly, having done.

Even now they search the tower, and find the body;

Now they suspect the truth; now they consult

Before they come to tax us with the fact;

O, horrible, ’tis all discovered!

Beatrice. Mother,

What is done wisely, is done well. Be bold

As thou art just. ’Tis like a truant child

To fear that others know what thou hast done,

Even from thine own strong consciousness, and thus

Write on unsteady eyes and altered cheeks

All thou wouldst hide. Be faithful to thyself,

And fear no other witness but thy fear.

For if, as cannot be, some circumstance

Should rise in accusation, we can blind

Suspicion with such cheap astonishment,

Or overbear it with such guiltless pride,

As murderers cannot feign. The deed is done,

And what may follow now regards not me.

I am as universal as the light;

Free as the earth-surrounding air; as firm

As the world’s centre. Consequence, to me,

Is as the wind which strikes the solid rock

But shakes it not. [A cry within and tumult.

Voices. Murder! Murder! Murder!

Enter BERNARDO and SAVELLA

Savella (to his followers). Go search the castle round; sound the alarm;

Look to the gates that none escape!

Beatrice. What now—

Bernardo. I know not what to say… my father’s dead.

Beatrice. How; dead! he only sleeps; you mistake, brother.

His sleep is very calm, very like death;

’Tis wonderful how well a tyrant sleeps.

He is not dead—

Bernardo. Dead; murdered.

Lucretia (with extreme agitation). Oh no, no,

He is not murdered though he may be dead;

I have alone the keys of those apartments.

Savella. Ha! Is it so—

Beatrice. My Lord, I pray excuse us;

We will retire; my mother is not well:

She seems quite overcome with this strange horror. [Exeunt LUCRETIA and BEATRICE.

Savella. Can you suspect who may have murdered him—

Bernardo. I know not what to think.

Savella. Can you name any

Who had an interest in his death—

Bernardo. Alas!

I can name none who had not, and those most

Who most lament that such a deed is done;

My mother, and my sister, and myself.

Savella. ’Tis strange! There were clear marks of violence.

I found the old man’s body in the moonlight

Hanging beneath the window of his chamber,

Among the branches of a pine; he could not

Have fallen there, for all his limbs lay heaped

And effortless; ’tis true there was no blood…

Favour me, Sir; it much imports your house

That all should be made clear; to tell the ladies

That I request their presence. [Exit BERNARDO.

Enter GUARDS bringing in MARZIO

Guard. We have one.

Officer. My Lord, we found this ruffian and another

Lurking among the rocks; there is no doubt

But that they are the murderers of Count Cenci;

Each had a bag of coin; this fellow wore

A gold-inwoven robe, which shining bright

Under the dark rocks to the glimmering moon

Betrayed them to our notice: the other fell

Desperately fighting.

Savella. What does he confess—

Officer. He keeps firm silence; but these lines found on him

May speak.

Savella. Their language is at least sincere. [Reads.

“TO THE LADY BEATRICE.—That the atonement of what my nature sickens to conjecture may soon arrive, I send thee, at thy brother’s desire, those who will speak and do more than I dare write… Thy devoted servant, ORSINO.”

Enter LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and BERNARDO

Knowest thou this writing, Lady—

Beatrice. No.

Savella. Nor thou—

Lucretia. (Her conduct throughout the scene is marked by extreme agitation). Where was it found— What is it—

It should be

Orsino’s hand! It speaks of that strange horror

Which never yet found utterance, but which made

Between that hapless child and her dead father

A gulf of obscure hatred.

Savella. Is it so—

Is it true, Lady, that thy father did

Such outrages as to awaken in thee

Unfilial hate—

Beatrice. Not hate, ’twas more than hate:

This is most true, yet wherefore question me—

Savella. There is a deed demanding question done;

Thou hast a secret which will answer not.

Beatrice. What sayest— My Lord, your words are bold and rash.

Savella. I do arrest all present in the name

Of the Pope’s Holiness. You must to Rome.

Lucretia. O, not to Rome, Indeed we are not guilty.

Beatrice. Guilty! Who dares talk of guilt— My Lord,

I am more innocent of parricide

Than is a child born fatherless… Dear mother,

Your gentleness and patience are no shield

For this keen-judging world, this two-edged lie,

Which seems, but is not. What! will human laws,

Rather will ye who are their ministers,

Bar all access to retribution first,

And then, when Heaven doth interpose to do

What ye neglect, arming familiar things

To the redress of an unwonted crime,

Make ye the victims who demanded it

Culprits— ’Tis ye are culprits! That poor wretch

Who stands so pale, and trembling, and amazed,

If it be true he murdered Cenci, was

A sword in the right hand of justest God.

Wherefore should I have wielded it— Unless

The crimes which mortal tongue dare never name

God therefore scruples to avenge.

Savella. You own

That you desired his death—

Beatrice. It would have been

A crime no less than his, if for one moment

That fierce desire had faded in my heart.

’Tis true I did believe, and hope, and pray,

Ay, I even knew… for God is wise and just,

That some strange sudden death hung over him.

’Tis true that this did happen, and most true

There was no other rest for me on earth,

No other hope in Heaven… now what of this—

Savella. Strange thoughts beget strange deeds; and here are both:

I judge thee not.

Beatrice. And yet, if you arrest me,

You are the judge and executioner

Of that which is the life of life: the breath

Of accusation kills an innocent name,

And leaves for lame acquittal the poor life

Which is a mask without it. ’Tis most false

That I am guilty of foul parricide;

Although I must rejoice, for justest cause,

That other hands have sent my father’s soul

To ask the mercy he denied to me.

Now leave us free; stain not a noble house

With vague surmises of rejected crime;

Add to our sufferings and your own neglect

No heavier sum: let them have been enough:

Leave us the wreck we have.

Savella. I dare not, Lady.

I pray that you prepare yourselves for Rome:

There the Pope’s further pleasure will be known.

Lucretia. O, not to Rome! O, take us not to Rome!

Beatrice. Why not to Rome, dear mother— There as here

Our innocence is as an armed heel

To trample accusation. God is there

As here, and with his shadow ever clothes

The innocent, the injured and the weak;

And such are we. Cheer up, dear Lady, lean

On me; collect your wandering thoughts. My Lord,

As soon as you have taken some refreshment,

And had all such examinations made

Upon the spot, as may be necessary

To the full understanding of this matter,

We shall be ready. Mother; will you come—

Lucretia. Ha! they will bind us to the rack, and wrest

Self-accusation from our agony!

Will Giacomo be there— Orsino— Marzio—

All present; all confronted; all demanding

Each from the other’s countenance the thing

Which is in every heart! O, misery! [She faints, and is borne out.

Savella. She faints: an ill appearance, this.

Beatrice. My Lord,

She knows not yet the uses of the world.

She fears that power is as a beast which grasps

And loosens not: a snake whose look transmutes

All things to guilt which is its nutriment.

She cannot know how well the supine slaves

Of blind authority read the truth of things

When written on a brow of guilelessness:

She sees not yet triumphant Innocence

Stand at the judgment-seat of mortal man,

A judge and an accuser of the wrong

Which drags it there. Prepare yourself, my Lord;

Our suite will join yours in the court below. [Exeunt.

Act V

Scene I

An Apartment in ORSINO’S Palace.

Enter ORSINO and GIACOMO

Giacomo. Do evil deeds thus quickly come to end—

O, that the vain remorse which must chastise

Crimes done, had but as loud a voice to warn

As its keen sting is mortal to avenge!

O, that the hour when present had cast off

The mantle of its mystery, and shown

The ghastly form with which it now returns

When its scared game is roused, cheering the hounds

Of conscience to their prey! Alas! Alas!

It was a wicked thought, a piteous deed,

To kill an old and hoary-headed father.

Orsino. It has turned out unluckily, in truth.

Giacomo. To violate the sacred doors of sleep;

To cheat kind nature of the placid death

Which she prepares for overwearied age;

To drag from Heaven an unrepentant soul

Which might have quenched in reconciling prayers

A life of burning crimes…

Orsino. You cannot say

I urged you to the deed.

Giacomo. O, had I never

Found in thy smooth and ready countenance

The mirror of my darkest thoughts; hadst thou

Never with hints and questions made me look

Upon the monster of my thought, until

It grew familiar to desire…

Orsino. ’Tis thus

Men cast the blame of their unprosperous acts

Upon the abettors of their own resolve;

Or anything but their weak, guilty selves.

And yet, confess the truth, it is the peril

In which you stand that gives you this pale sickness

Of penitence; confess ’tis fear disguised

From its own shame that takes the mantle now

Of thin remorse. What if we yet were safe—

Giacomo. How can that be— Already Beatrice,

Lucretia and the murderer are in prison.

I doubt not officers are, whilst we speak,

Sent to arrest us.

Orsino. I have all prepared.

For instant flight. We can escape even now,

So we take fleet occasion by the hair.

Giacomo. Rather expire in tortures, as I may.

What! will you cast by self-accusing flight

Assured conviction upon Beatrice—

She, who alone in this unnatural work,

Stands like God’s angel ministered upon

By fiends; avenging such a nameless wrong

As turns black parricide to piety;

Whilst we for basest ends… I fear, Orsino,

While I consider all your words and looks,

Comparing them with your proposal now,

That you must be a villain. For what end

Could you engage in such a perilous crime,

Training me on with hints, and signs, and smiles,

Even to this gulf— Thou art no liar— No,

Thou art a lie! Traitor and murderer!

Coward and slave! But, no, defend thyself; [Drawing.

Let the sword speak what the indignant tongue

Disdains to brand thee with.

Orsino. Put up your weapon.

Is it the desperation of your fear

Makes you thus rash and sudden with a friend,

Now ruined for your sake— If honest anger

Have moved you, know, that what I just proposed

Was but to try you. As for me, I think,

Thankless affection led me to this point,

From which, if my firm temper could repent,

I cannot now recede. Even whilst we speak

The ministers of justice wait below:

They grant me these brief moments. Now if you

Have any word of melancholy comfort

To speak to your pale wife, ’twere best to pass

Out at the postern, and avoid them so.

Giacomo. O, generous friend! How canst thou pardon me—

Would that my life could purchase thine!

Orsino. That wish

Now comes a day too late. Haste; fare thee well!

Hear’st thou not steps along the corridor— [Exit GIACOMO.

I’m sorry for it; but the guards are waiting

At his own gate, and such was my contrivance

That I might rid me both of him and them.

I thought to act a solemn comedy

Upon the painted scene of this new world,

And to attain my own peculiar ends

By some such plot of mingled good and ill

As other weave; but there arose a Power

Which graspt and snapped the threads of my device

And turned it to a net of ruin… Ha! [A shout is heard.

Is that my name I hear proclaimed abroad—

But I will pass, wrapt in a vile disguise;

Rags on my back, and a false innocence

Upon my face, thro’ the misdeeming crowd

Which judges by what seems. ’Tis easy then

For a new name and for a country new,

And a new life, fashioned on old desires,

To change the honours of abandoned Rome.

And these must be the masks of that within,

Which must remain unaltered… Oh, I fear

That what is past will never let me rest!

Why, when none else is conscious, but myself,

Of my misdeeds, should my own heart’s contempt

Trouble me— Have I not the power to fly

My own reproaches— Shall I be the slave

Of… what— A word— which those of this false world

Employ against each other, not themselves;

As men wear daggers not for self-offence.

But if I am mistaken, where shall I

Find the disguise to hide me from myself,

As now I skulk from every other eye— [Exit.

Scene II

A Hall of Justice.

CAMILLO, JUDGES, etc., are discovered seated; MARZIO is led in

First Judge. Accused, do you persist in your denial—

I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty—

I demand who were the participators

In your offence— Speak truth and the whole truth.

Marzio. My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing;

Olimpio sold the robe to me from which

You would infer my guilt.

Second Judge. Away with him!

First Judge. Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack’s kiss

Speak false— Is it so soft a questioner,

That you would bandy lover’s talk with it

Till it wind out your life and soul— Away!

Marzio. Spare me! O, spare! I will confess.

First Judge. Then speak.

Marzio. I strangled him in his sleep.

First Judge. Who urged you to it—

Marzio. His own son Giacomo, and the young prelate

Orsino sent me to Petrella; there

The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia

Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I

And my companion forthwith murdered him.

Now let me die.

First Judge. This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there,

Lead forth the prisoner!

Enter LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and GIACOMO, guarded

Look upon this man;

When did you see him last—

Beatrice. We never saw him.

Marzio. You know me too well, Lady Beatrice.

Beatrice. I know thee! How— where— when—

Marzio. You know ’twas I

Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes

To kill your father. When the thing was done

You clothed me in a robe of woven gold

And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see.

You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia,

You know that what I speak is true. [BEATRICE advances towards him; he covers his face, and shrinks back. O, dart

The terrible resentment of those eyes

On the dead earth! Turn them away from me!

They wound: ’twas torture forced the truth. My Lords,

Having said this let me be led to death.

Beatrice. Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay awhile.

Camillo. Guards, lead him not away.

Beatrice. Cardinal Camillo,

You have a good repute for gentleness

And wisdom: can it be that you sit here

To countenance a wicked farce like this—

When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged

From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart

And bade to answer, not as he believes,

But as those may suspect or do desire

Whose questions thence suggest their own reply:

And that in peril of such hideous torments

As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now

The thing you surely know, which is that you,

If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel,

And you were told: “Confess that you did poison

Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child

Who was the loadstar of your life:”—and though

All see, since his most swift and piteous death,

That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,

And all the things hoped for or done therein

Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief,

Yet you would say, “I confess anything:”

And beg from your tormentors, like that slave,

The refuge of dishonourable death.

I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert

My innocence.

Camillo (much moved). What shall we think, my Lords—

Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen

Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul

That she is guiltless.

Judge. Yet she must be tortured.

Camillo. I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew

(If he now live he would be just her age;

His hair, too, was her colour, and his eyes

Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep)

As that most perfect image of God’s love

That ever came sorrowing upon the earth.

She is as pure as speechless infancy!

Judge.Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord,

If you forbid the rack. His Holiness

Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime

By the severest forms of law; nay even

To stretch a point against the criminals.

The prisoners stand accused of parricide

Upon such evidence as justifies

Torture.

Beatrice. What evidence— This man’s—

Judge. Even so.

Beatrice. (To MARZIO.) Come near. And who art thou thus chosen forth

Out of the multitude of living men

To kill the innocent—

Marzio. I am Marzio,

Thy father’s vassal.

Beatrice. Fix thine eyes on mine;

Answer to what I ask.

(Turning to the Judges.) I prithee mark

His countenance: unlike bold calumny

Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks,

He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends

His gaze on the blind earth.

(To MARZIO.) What! wilt thou say

That I did murder my own father—

Marzio. Oh!

Spare me! My brain swims round… I cannot speak…

It was that horrid torture forced the truth.

Take me away! Let her not look on me!

I am a guilty miserable wretch,

I have said all I know; now, let me die!

Beatrice. My Lords, if by my nature I had been

So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged,

Which your suspicions dictate to this slave,

And the rack makes him utter, do you think

I should have left this two-edged instrument

Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife

With my own name engraven on the heft,

Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes,

For my own death— That with such horrible need

For deepest silence, I should have neglected

So trivial a precaution, as the making

His tomb the keeper of a secret written

On a thief’s memory— What is his poor life—

What are a thousand lives— A parricide

Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives!

(Turning to MARZIO.) And thou…

Marzio. Oh, spare me!

Speak to me no more!

That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones,

Wound worse than torture.

(To the Judges.) I have told it all;

For pity’s sake lead me away to death.

Camillo. Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice,

He shrinks from her regard like autumn’s leaf

From the keen breath of the serenest north.

Beatrice. O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge

Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me;

So mayst thou answer God with less dismay:

What evil have we done thee— I, alas!

Have lived but on this earth a few sad years

And so my lot was ordered, that a father

First turned the moments of awakening life

To drops, each poisoning youth’s sweet hope; and then

Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul;

And my untainted fame; and even that peace

Which sleeps within the core of the heart’s heart;

But the wound was not mortal; so my hate

Became the only worship I could lift

To our great father, who in pity and love,

Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off;

And thus his wrong becomes my accusation;

And art thou the accuser— If thou hopest

Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth:

Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart.

If thou hast done murders, made thy life’s path

Over the trampled laws of God and man,

Rush not before thy Judge, and say: “My maker,

I have done this and more; for there was one

Who was most pure and innocent on earth;

And because she endured what never any

Guilty or innocent endured before:

Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought;

Because thy hand at length did rescue her;

I with my words killed her and all her kin.”

Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay

The reverence living in the minds of men

Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame!

Think what it is to strangle infant pity,

Cradled in the belief of guileless looks,

Till it become a crime to suffer. Think

What ’tis to blot with infamy and blood

All that which shows like innocence, and is,

Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent,

So that the world lose all discrimination

Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt,

And that which now compels thee to reply

To what I ask: Am I, or am I not

A parricide—

Marzio. Thou art not!

Judge. What is this—

Marzio. I here declare those whom I did accuse

Are innocent. ’Tis I alone am guilty.

Judge. Drag him away to torments; let them be

Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds

Of the heart’s inmost cell. Unbind him not

Till he confess.

Marzio. Torture me as ye will:

A keener pain has wrung a higher truth

From my last breath. She is most innocent!

Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me;

I will not give you that fine piece of nature

To rend and ruin. [Exit MARZIO, guarded.

Camillo. What say ye now, my Lords—

Judge. Let tortures strain the truth till it be white

As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind.

Camillo. Yet stained with blood.

Judge (to BEATRICE). Know you this paper, Lady—

Beatrice. Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here

As my accuser— Ha! wilt thou be he,

Who art my judge— Accuser, witness, judge,

What, all in one— Here is Orsino’s name;

Where is Orsino— Let his eye meet mine.

What means this scrawl— Alas! ye know not what,

And therefore on the chance that it may be

Some evil, will ye kill us—

Enter an Officer

Officer. Marzio’s dead.

Judge. What did he say—

Officer. Nothing. As soon as we

Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us,

As one who baffles a deep adversary;

And holding his breath, died.

Judge. There remains nothing

But to apply the question to those prisoners,

Who yet remain stubborn.

Camillo. I overrule

Further proceedings, and in the behalf

Of these most innocent and noble persons

Will use my interest with the Holy Father.

Judge. Let the Pope’s pleasure then be done. Meanwhile

Conduct these culprits each to separate cells;

And be the engines ready: for this night

If the Pope’s resolution be as grave,

Pious, and just as once, I’ll wring the truth

Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. [Exeunt.

Scene III

The Cell of a Prison.

BEATRICE is discovered asleep on a couch. Enter BERNARDO

Bernardo. How gently slumber rests upon her face,

Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly spent

Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged.

After such torments as she bore last night,

How light and soft her breathing comes. Ay, me!

Methinks that I shall never sleep again.

But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest

From this sweet folded flower, thus… wake! awake!

What, sister, canst thou sleep—

Beatrice (awaking). I was just dreaming

That we were all in Paradise. Thou knowest

This cell seems like a kind of Paradise

After our father’s presence.

Bernardo. Dear, dear sister,

Would that thy dream were not a dream! O God!

How shall I tell—

Beatrice. What wouldst thou tell, sweet brother—

Bernardo. Look not so calm and happy, or even whilst

I stand considering what I have to say

My heart will break.

Beatrice. See now, thou mak’st me weep:

How very friendless thou wouldst be, dear child,

If I were dead. Say what thou hast to say.

Bernardo. They have confessed; they could endure no more

The tortures…

Beatrice. Ha! What was there to confess—

They must have told some weak and wicked lie

To flatter their tormentors. Have they said

That they were guilty— O white innocence,

That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide

Thine awful and serenest countenance

From those who know thee not!

Enter JUDGE with LUCRETIA and GIACOMO, guarded

Ignoble hearts!

For some brief spasms of pain, which are at least

As mortal as the limbs through which they pass,

Are centuries of high splendour laid in dust—

And that eternal honour which should live

Sunlike, above the reek of mortal fame,

Changed to a mockery and a bye-word— What!

Will you give up these bodies to be dragged

At horses’ heels, so that our hair should sweep

The footsteps of the vain and senseless crowd,

Who, that they may make our calamity

Their worship and their spectacle, will leave

The churches and the theatres as void

As their own hearts— Shall the light multitude

Fling at their choice, curses or faded pity,

Sad funeral flowers to deck a living corpse,

Upon us as we pass to pass away,

And leave… what memory of our having been—

Infamy, blood, terror, despair— O thou,

Who wert a mother to the parentless,

Kill not thy child! Let not her wrongs kill thee!

Brother, lie down with me upon the rack,

And let us each be silent as a corpse;

It soon will be as soft as any grave.

’Tis but the falsehood it can wring from fear

Makes the rack cruel.

Giacomo. They will tear the truth

Even from thee at last, those cruel pains:

For pity’s sake say thou art guilty now.

Lucretia. Oh, speak the truth! Let us all quickly die;

And after death, God is our judge, not they;

He will have mercy on us.

Bernardo. If indeed

It can be true, say so, dear sister mine;

And then the Pope will surely pardon you,

And all be well.

Judge. Confess, or I will warp.

Your limbs with such keen tortures…

Beatrice. Tortures! Turn

The rack henceforth into a spinning wheel!

Torture your dog, that he may tell when last

He lapped the blood his master shed… not me!

My pangs are of the mind, and of the heart,

And of the soul; ay, of the inmost soul,

Which weeps within tears as of burning gall

To see, in this ill world where none are true,

My kindred false to their deserted selves.

And with considering all the wretched life

Which I have lived, and its now wretched end,

And the small justice shown by Heaven and Earth

To me or mine; and what a tyrant thou art,

And what slaves these; and what a world we make,

The oppressor and the oppressed… such pangs compel

My answer. What is it thou wouldst with me—

Judge. Art thou not guilty of thy father’s death—

Beatrice. Or wilt thou rather tax high judging God

That he permitted such an act as that

Which I have suffered, and which he beheld;

Made it unutterable, and took from it

All refuge, all revenge, all consequence,

But that which thou hast called my father’s death—

Which is or is not what men call a crime,

Which either I have done, or have not done;

Say what ye will. I shall deny no more.

If ye desire it thus, thus let it be,

And so an end of all. Now do your will;

No other pains shall force another word.

Judge. She is convicted, but has not confessed.

Be it enough. Until their final sentence

Let none have converse with them. You, young Lord,

Linger not here!

Beatrice. Oh, tear him not away!

Judge. Guards, do your duty.

Bernardo (embracing BEATRICE).

Oh! would ye divide

Body from soul—

Officer. That is the headsman’s business. [Exeunt all but LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and GIACOMO.

Giacomo. Have I confessed— It is all over now—

No hope! No refuge! O weak, wicked tongue

Which hast destroyed me, would that thou hadst been

Cut out and thrown to dogs first! To have killed

My father first, and then betrayed my sister;

Ay, thee! the one thing innocent and pure

In this black guilty world, to that which I

So well deserve! My wife! my little ones!

Destitute, helpless, and I… Father! God!

Canst thou forgive even the unforgiving,

When their full hearts break thus, thus!… [Covers his face and weeps.

Lucretia. O my child!

To what a dreadful end are we all come!

Why did I yield— Why did I not sustain

Those torments— Oh, that I were all dissolved

Into these fast and unavailing tears,

Which flow and feel not!

Beatrice. What ’twas weak to do,

’Tis weaker to lament, once being done;

Take cheer! The God who knew my wrong, and made

Our speedy act the angel of his wrath,

Seems, and but seems, to have abandoned us.

Let us not think that we shall die for this.

Brother, sit near me; give me your firm hand,

You had a manly heart. Bear up! Bear up!

O dearest Lady, put your gentle head

Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile:

Your eyes look pale, hollow and overworn,

With heaviness of watching and slow grief.

Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune,

Not cheerful, nor yet sad; some dull old thing,

Some outworn and unused monotony,

Such as our country gossips sing and spin,

Till they almost forget they live: lie down!

So, that will do. Have I forgot the words—

Faith! They are sadder than I thought they were.

SONG

False friend, wilt thou smile or weep

When my life is laid asleep—

Little cares for a smile or a tear,

The clay-cold corpse upon the bier!

Farewell! Heigho!

What is this whispers low—

There is a snake in thy smile, my dear;

And bitter poison within thy tear.

Sweet sleep, were death like to thee,

Or if thou couldst mortal be,

I would close these eyes of pain;

When to wake— Never again.

O World! Farewell!

Listen to the passing bell!

It says, thou and I must part,

With a light and a heavy heart. [The scene closes.

Scene IV

A Hall of the Prison.

Enter CAMILLO and BERNARDO

Camillo. The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent.

He looked as calm and keen as is the engine

Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself

From aught that it inflicts; a marble form,

A rite, a law, a custom: not a man.

He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick

Of his machinery, on the advocates

Presenting the defences, which he tore

And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice:

“Which among ye defended their old father

Killed in his sleep—” Then to another: “Thou

Dost this in virtue of thy place; ’tis well.”

He turned to me then, looking deprecation,

And said these three words, coldly: “They must die.”

Bernardo. And yet you left him not—

Camillo. I urged him still;

Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong

Which prompted your unnatural parent’s death.

And he replied: “Paolo Santa Croce

Murdered his mother yester evening,

And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife

That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young

Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs.

Authority, and power, and hoary hair

Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew,

You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment;

Here is their sentence; never see me more

Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.”

Bernardo. O God, not so! I did believe indeed

That all you said was but sad preparation

For happy news. Oh, there are words and looks

To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them,

Now I forget them at my dearest need.

What think you if I seek him out, and bathe

His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears—

Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain

With my perpetual cries, until in rage

He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample

Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood

May stain the senseless dust on which he treads,

And remorse waken mercy— I will do it!

Oh, wait till I return! [Rushes out.

Camillo. Alas! poor boy!

A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray

To the deaf sea.

Enter LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, and GIACOMO, guarded

Beatrice. I hardly dare to fear

That thou bring’st other news than a just pardon.

Camillo. May God in heaven be less inexorable

To the Pope’s prayers, than he has been to mine.

Here is the sentence and the warrant.

Beatrice (wildly). O

My God! Can it be possible I have

To die so suddenly— So young to go

Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground!

To be nailed down into a narrow place;

To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more

Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again

Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost—

How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be…

What— Oh, were am I— Let me not go mad!

Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be

No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world;

The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world!

If all things then should be… my father’s spirit,

His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me;

The atmosphere and breath of my dead life!

If sometimes, as a shape more like himself,

Even the form which tortured me on earth,

Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come

And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix

His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down!

For was he not alone omnipotent

On Earth, and ever present— Even tho’ dead,

Does not his spirit live in all that breathe,

And work for me and mine still the same ruin,

Scorn, pain, despair— Who ever yet returned

To teach the laws of death’s untrodden realm—

Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now,

Oh, whither, whither—

Lucretia. Trust in God’s sweet love,

The tender promises of Christ: ere night,

Think, we shall be in Paradise.

Beatrice. ’Tis past!

Whatever comes my heart shall sink no more.

And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill:

How tedious, false and cold seem all things. I

Have met with much injustice in this world;

No difference has been made by God or man,

Or any power moulding my wretched lot,

’Twixt good or evil, as regarded me.

I am cut off from the only world I know,

From light, and life, and love, in youth’s sweet prime.

You do well telling me to trust in God,

I hope I do trust in him. In whom else

Can any trust— And yet my heart is cold. [During the latter speeches GIACOMO has retired conversing with CAMILLO, who now goes out; GIACOMO advances.

Giacomo. Know you not, Mother… Sister, know you not—

Bernardo even now is gone to implore

The Pope to grant our pardon.

Lucretia. Child, perhaps

It will be granted. We may all then live

To make these woes a tale for distant years:

Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart

Like the warm blood.

Beatrice. Yet both will soon be cold.

Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair,

Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope:

It is the only ill which can find place

Upon the giddy, sharp and narrow hour

Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost

That it should spare the eldest flower of spring:

Plead with awakening earthquake, o’er whose couch

Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free:

Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead

With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence,

Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man!

Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words,

In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die:

Since such is the reward of innocent lives;

Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.

And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men,

Smiling and slow, walk thro’ a world of tears

To death as to life’s sleep; ’twere just the grave

Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death,

And wind me in thine all-embracing arms!

Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom,

And rock me to the sleep from which none wake.

Live ye, who live, subject to one another

As we were once, who now… [BERNARDO rushes in.

Bernardo. Oh, horrible,

That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer,

Even till the heart is vacant and despairs,

Should all be vain! The ministers of death

Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw

Blood on the face of one… What if ’twere fancy—

Soon the heart’s blood of all I love on earth

Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off

As if ’twere only rain. O life! O world!

Cover me! let me be no more! To see

That perfect mirror of pure innocence

Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good,

Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice,

Who made all lovely thou didst look upon…

Thee, light of life… dead, dark! while I say, sister,

To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother,

Whose love was as a bond to all our loves…

Dead! The sweet bond broken!

Enter CAMILLO and Guards

They come! Let me

Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves

Are blighted… white… cold. Say farewell, before

Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear

You speak!

Beatrice. Farewell, my tender brother. Think

Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now;

And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee

Thy sorrow’s load. Err not in harsh despair,

But tears and patience. One thing more, my child,

For thine own sake be constant to the love

Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I,

Tho’ wrapt in a strange cloud of crime and shame,

Lived ever holy and unstained. And tho’

Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name

Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow

For men to point at as they pass, do thou

Forbear, and never think a thought unkind

Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves.

So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain

Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell!

Camillo. O Lady Beatrice!

Beatrice. Give yourself no unnecessary pain,

My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie

My girdle for me, and bind up this hair

In any simple knot; ay, that does well.

And yours I see is coming down. How often

Have we done this for one another, now

We shall not do it any more. My Lord,

We are quite ready. Well, ’tis very well.

Robert Browning— A Blot in the ’Scutcheon

Introductory Note

ROBERT BROWNING stands, in respect to his origin and his career, in marked contrast to the two aristocratic poets beside whose dramas his “Blot in the ’Scutcheon” is here printed. His father was a bank clerk and a dissenter at a time when dissent meant exclusion from Society; the poet went neither to one of the great public schools nor to Oxford or Cambridge; and no breath of scandal touched his name. Born in London in 1812, he was educated largely by private tutors, and spent two years at London University, but the influence of his father, a man of wide reading and cultivated tastes, was probably the most important element in his early training. He drew well, was something of a musician, and wrote verses from an early age, though it was the accidental reading of a volume of Shelley which first kindled his real inspiration. This indebtedness is beautifully acknowledged in his first published poem, “Pauline” (1833).

Apart from frequent visits to Italy, there is little of incident to chronicle in Browning’s life, with the one great exception of his more than fortunate marriage in 1846 to Elizabeth Barrett, the greatest of English poetesses.

Browning’s dramatic period extended from 1835 to the time of his marriage, and produced some nine plays, not all of which, however, were intended for the stage. “Paracelsus,” the first of the series, has been fairly described as a “conversational drama,” and “Pippa Passes,” though it has been staged, is essentially a poem to read. The historical tragedy of “Strafford” has been impressively performed, but “King Victor and King Charles,” “The Return of the Druses,” “Colombe’s Birthday,” “A Soul’s Tragedy,” and “Luria,” while interesting in many ways, can hardly be regarded as successful stage-plays. “A Blot in the ’Scutcheon” was performed at Drury Lane, but its chances of a successful run were spoiled by the jealousy of Macready, the manager.

The main cause of Browning’s weakness as a playwright lay in the fact that he was so much more interested in psychology than in action. But in the present tragedy this defect is less prominent than usual, and in spite of flaws in construction, it reaches a high pitch of emotional intensity, the characters are drawn with vividness, and the lines are rich in poetry.

Dramatis Personae

MILDRED TRESHAM

THOROLD, EARL TRESHAM

HENRY, EARL MERTOUN

GUENDOLEN TRESHAM

AUSTIN TRESHAM

GERARD, and other retainers of Lord Tresham

Time, 17—

ACT I

SCENE I. -The Interior of a Lodge in Lord Tresham's Park.

Many Retainers crowded at the window, supposed to command

a view of the entrance to his Mansion.

GERARD, the Warrener, his back to a table on which are flagons,

etc.

FIRST RETAINER. Ay, do! push, friends, and then you'll push down me!

-What for— Does any hear a runner's foot

Or a steed's trample or a coach-wheel's cry—

Is the Earl come or his least poursuivant—

But there's no breeding in a man of you

Save Gerard yonder: here's a half-place yet,

Old Gerard!

GERARD. Save your courtesies, my friend. Here is my place.

SECOND RETAINER. Now, Gerard, out with it!

What makes you sullen, this of all the days

I' the year— To-day that young rich bountiful

Handsome Earl Mertoun, whom alone they match

With our Lord Tresham through the country-side,

Is coming here in utmost bravery

To ask our master's sister's hand—

GERARD. What then—

SECOND RETAINER. What then— Why, you, she speaks to, if she meets

Your worship, smiles on as you hold apart

The boughs to let her through her forest walks,

You, always favourite for your no-deserts,

You've heard, these three days, how Earl Mertoun sues

To lay his heart and house and broad lands too

At Lady Mildred's feet: and while we squeeze

Ourselves into a mousehole lest we miss

One congee of the least page in his train,

You sit o' one side-"there's the Earl," say I-

"What then—" say you!

THIRD RETAINER. I'll wager he has let

Both swans he tamed for Lady Mildred swim

Over the falls and gain the river!

GERARD. Ralph,

Is not to-morrow my inspecting-day

For you and for your hawks—

FOURTH RETAINER. Let Gerard be!

He's coarse-grained, like his carved black cross-bow stock.

Ha, look now, while we squabble with him, look!

Well done, now-is not this beginning, now,

To purpose—

FIRST RETAINER. Our retainers look as fine-

That's comfort. Lord, how Richard holds himself

With his white staff! Will not a knave behind

Prick him upright—

FOURTH RETAINER. He's only bowing, fool!

The Earl's man bent us lower by this much.

FIRST RETAINER. That's comfort. Here's a very cavalcade!

THIRD RETAINER. I don't see wherefore Richard, and his troop

Of silk and silver varlets there, should find

Their perfumed selves so indispensable

On high days, holidays! Would it so disgrace

Our family, if I, for instance, stood-

In my right hand a cast of Swedish hawks,

A leash of greyhounds in my left—-

GERARD. -With Hugh

The logman for supporter, in his right

The bill-hook, in his left the brushwood-shears!

THIRD RETAINER. Out on you, crab! What next, what next— The Earl!

FIRST RETAINER. Oh Walter, groom, our horses, do they match

The Earl's— Alas, that first pair of the six-

They paw the ground-Ah Walter! and that brute

Just on his haunches by the wheel!

SIXTH RETAINER. Ay-ay!

You, Philip, are a special hand, I hear,

At soups and sauces: what's a horse to you—

D'ye mark that beast they've slid into the midst

So cunningly—-then, Philip, mark this further;

No leg has he to stand on!

FIRST RETAINER. No— that's comfort.

SECOND RETAINER. Peace, Cook! The Earl descends. Well, Gerard, see

The Earl at least! Come, there's a proper man,

I hope! Why, Ralph, no falcon, Pole or Swede,

Has got a starrier eye.

THIRD RETAINER. His eyes are blue:

But leave my hawks alone!

FOURTH RETAINER. So young, and yet

So tall and shapely!

FIFTH RETAINER. Here's Lord Tresham's self!

There now-there's what a nobleman should be!

He's older, graver, loftier, he's more like

A House's head.

SECOND RETAINER. But you'd not have a boy

-And what's the Earl beside—-possess too soon

That stateliness—

FIRST RETAINER. Our master takes his hand-

Richard and his white staff are on the move-

Back fall our people-(tsh!-there's Timothy

Sure to get tangled in his ribbon-ties,

And Peter's cursed rosette's a-coming off!)

-At last I see our lord's back and his friend's;

And the whole beautiful bright company

Close round them-in they go!

[Jumping down from the window-bench, and making for

the table and its jugs.]

Good health, long life,

Great joy to our Lord Tresham and his House!

SIXTH RETAINER. My father drove his father first to court,

After his marriage-day-ay, did he!

SECOND RETAINER. God bless

Lord Tresham, Lady Mildred, and the Earl!

Here, Gerard, reach your beaker!

GERARD. Drink, my boys!

Don't mind me-all's not right about me-drink!

SECOND RETAINER [aside].

He's vexed, now, that he let the show escape!

[To GERARD.]

Remember that the Earl returns this way.

GERARD. That way—

SECOND RETAINER. Just so.

GERARD. Then my way's here.

[Goes.]

SECOND RETAINER. Old Gerard

Will die soon-mind, I said it! He was used

To care about the pitifullest thing

That touched the House's honour, not an eye

But his could see wherein: and on a cause

Of scarce a quarter this importance, Gerard

Fairly had fretted flesh and bone away

In cares that this was right, nor that was wrong,

Such point decorous, and such square by rule-

He knew such niceties, no herald more:

And now-you see his humour: die he will!

SECOND RETAINER. God help him! Who's for the great servants' hall

To hear what's going on inside! They'd follow

Lord Tresham into the saloon.

THIRD RETAINER. I!-

FOURTH RETAINER. I!-

Leave Frank alone for catching, at the door,

Some hint of how the parley goes inside!

Prosperity to the great House once more!

Here's the last drop!

FIRST RETAINER. Have at you! Boys, hurrah!

SCENE II.-A Saloon in the Mansion

Enter LORD TRESHAM, LORD MERTOUN, AUSTIN, and GUENDOLEN

TRESHAM. I welcome you, Lord Mertoun, yet once more,

To this ancestral roof of mine. Your name

-Noble among the noblest in itself,

Yet taking in your person, fame avers,

New price and lustre,-(as that gem you wear,

Transmitted from a hundred knightly breasts,

Fresh chased and set and fixed by its last lord,

Seems to re-kindle at the core)-your name

Would win you welcome!-

MERTOUN. Thanks!

TRESHAM. -But add to that,

The worthiness and grace and dignity

Of your proposal for uniting both

Our Houses even closer than respect

Unites them now-add these, and you must grant

One favour more, nor that the least,-to think

The welcome I should give;-'tis given! My lord,

My only brother, Austin: he's the king's.

Our cousin, Lady Guendolen-betrothed

To Austin: all are yours.

MERTOUN. I thank you-less

For the expressed commendings which your seal,

And only that, authenticates-forbids

My putting from me… to my heart I take

Your praise… but praise less claims my gratitude,

Than the indulgent insight it implies

Of what must needs be uppermost with one

Who comes, like me, with the bare leave to ask,

In weighed and measured unimpassioned words,

A gift, which, if as calmly 'tis denied,

He must withdraw, content upon his cheek,

Despair within his soul. That I dare ask

Firmly, near boldly, near with confidence

That gift, I have to thank you. Yes, Lord Tresham,

I love your sister-as you'd have one love

That lady… oh more, more I love her! Wealth,

Rank, all the world thinks me, they're yours, you know,

To hold or part with, at your choice-but grant

My true self, me without a rood of land,

A piece of gold, a name of yesterday,

Grant me that lady, and you… Death or life—

GUENDOLEN. [apart to AUSTIN]. Why, this is loving,

Austin!

AUSTIN. He's so young!

GUENDOLEN. Young— Old enough, I think, to half surmise

He never had obtained an entrance here,

Were all this fear and trembling needed.

AUSTIN. Hush!

He reddens.

GUENDOLEN. Mark him, Austin; that's true love!

Ours must begin again.

TRESHAM. We'll sit, my lord.

Ever with best desert goes diffidence.

I may speak plainly nor be misconceived

That I am wholly satisfied with you

On this occasion, when a falcon's eye

Were dull compared with mine to search out faults,

Is somewhat. Mildred's hand is hers to give

Or to refuse.

MERTOUN. But you, you grant my suit—

I have your word if hers—

TRESHAM. My best of words

If hers encourage you. I trust it will.

Have you seen Lady Mildred, by the way—

MERTOUN. I… I… our two demesnes, remember, touch,

I have beer used to wander carelessly

After my stricken game: the heron roused

Deep in my woods, has trailed its broken wing

Thro' thicks and glades a mile in yours,-or else

Some eyass ill-reclaimed has taken flight

And lured me after her from tree to tree,

I marked not whither. I have come upon

The lady's wondrous beauty unaware,

And-and then… I have seen her.

GUENDOLEN [aside to AUSTIN]. Note that mode

Of faltering out that, when a lady passed,

He, having eyes, did see her! You had said-

"On such a day I scanned her, head to foot;

Observed a red, where red should not have been,

Outside her elbow; but was pleased enough

Upon the whole." Let such irreverent talk

Be lessoned for the future!

TRESHAM. What's to say

May be said briefly. She has never known

A mother's care; I stand for father too.

Her beauty is not strange to you, it seems-

You cannot know the good and tender heart,

Its girl's trust and its woman's constancy,

How pure yet passionate, how calm yet kind,

How grave yet joyous, how reserved yet free

As light where friends are-how imbued with lore

The world most prizes, yet the simplest, yet

The… one might know I talked of Mildred-thus

We brothers talk!

MERTOUN. I thank you.

TRESHAM. In a word,

Control's not for this lady; but her wish

To please me outstrips in its subtlety

My power of being pleased: herself creates

The want she means to satisfy. My heart

Prefers your suit to her as 'twere its own.

Can I say more—

MERTOUN. No more-thanks, thanks-no more!

TRESHAM. This matter then discussed…

MERTOUN. -We'll waste no breath

On aught less precious. I'm beneath the roof

Which holds her: while I thought of that, my speech

To you would wander-as it must not do,

Since as you favour me I stand or fall.

I pray you suffer that I take my leave!

TRESHAM. With less regret 'tis suffered, that again

We meet, I hope, so shortly.

MERTOUN. We— again—-

Ah yes, forgive me-when shall… you will crown

Your goodness by forthwith apprising me

When… if… the lady will appoint a day

For me to wait on you-and her.

TRESHAM. So soon

As I am made acquainted with her thoughts

On your proposal-howsoe'er they lean-

A messenger shall bring you the result.

MERTOUN. You cannot bind me more to you, my lord.

Farewell till we renew… I trust, renew

A converse ne'er to disunite again.

TRESHAM. So may it prove!

MERTOUN. You, lady, you, sir, take

My humble salutation!

GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN. Thanks!

TRESHAM. Within there!

[Servants enter. TRESHAM conducts MERTOUN to the door.

Meantime AUSTIN remarks,]

Well,

Here I have an advantage of the Earl,

Confess now! I'd not think that all was safe

Because my lady's brother stood my friend!

Why, he makes sure of her-"do you say yes-

She'll not say, no,"-what comes it to beside—

I should have prayed the brother, "speak this speech,

For Heaven's sake urge this on her-put in this-

Forget not, as you'd save me, t'other thing,-

Then set down what she says, and how she looks,

And if she smiles, and" (in an under breath)

"Only let her accept me, and do you

And all the world refuse me, if you dare!"

GUENDOLEN. That way you'd take, friend Austin— What a shame

I was your cousin, tamely from the first

Your bride, and all this fervour's run to waste!

Do you know you speak sensibly to-day—

The Earl's a fool.

AUSTIN. Here's Thorold. Tell him so!

TRESHAM [returning]. Now, voices, voices! 'St! the lady's first!

How seems he—-seems he not… come, faith give fraud

The mercy-stroke whenever they engage!

Down with fraud, up with faith! How seems the Earl—

A name! a blazon! if you knew their worth,

As you will never! come-the Earl—

GUENDOLEN. He's young.

TRESHAM. What's she— an infant save in heart and brain.

Young! Mildred is fourteen, remark! And you…

Austin, how old is she—

GUENDOLEN. There's tact for you!

I meant that being young was good excuse

If one should tax him…

TRESHAM. Well—

GUENDOLEN. -With lacking wit.

TRESHAM. He lacked wit— Where might he lack wit, so please you—

GUENDOLEN. In standing straighter than the steward's rod

And making you the tiresomest harangue,

Instead of slipping over to my side

And softly whispering in my ear, "Sweet lady,

Your cousin there will do me detriment

He little dreams of: he's absorbed, I see,

In my old name and fame-be sure he'll leave

My Mildred, when his best account of me

Is ended, in full confidence I wear

My grandsire's periwig down either cheek.

I'm lost unless your gentleness vouchsafes"…

TRESHAM… "To give a best of best accounts, yourself,

Of me and my demerits." You are right!

He should have said what now I say for him.

Yon golden creature, will you help us all—

Here's Austin means to vouch for much, but you

-You are… what Austin only knows! Come up,

All three of us: she's in the library

No doubt, for the day's wearing fast. Precede!

GUENDOLEN. Austin, how we must-!

TRESHAM. Must what— Must speak truth,

Malignant tongue! Detect one fault in him!

I challenge you!

GUENDOLEN. Witchcraft's a fault in him,

For you're bewitched.

TRESHAM. What's urgent we obtain

Is, that she soon receive him-say, to-morrow-,

Next day at furthest.

GUENDOLEN. Ne'er instruct me!

TRESHAM. Come!

-He's out of your good graces, since forsooth,

He stood not as he'd carry us by storm

With his perfections! You're for the composed

Manly assured becoming confidence!

-Get her to say, "to-morrow," and I'll give you…

I'll give you black Urganda, to be spoiled

With petting and snail-paces. Will you— Come!

SCENE III.

-MILDRED'S Chamber. A Painted Window overlooks the Park

MILDRED and GUENDOLEN

GUENDOLEN. Now, Mildred, spare those pains. I have not left

Our talkers in the library, and climbed

The wearisome ascent to this your bower

In company with you,-I have not dared…

Nay, worked such prodigies as sparing you

Lord Mertoun's pedigree before the flood,

Which Thorold seemed in very act to tell

-Or bringing Austin to pluck up that most

Firm-rooted heresy-your suitor's eyes,

He would maintain, were grey instead of blue-

I think I brought him to contrition!-Well,

I have not done such things, (all to deserve

A minute's quiet cousin's talk with you,)

To be dismissed so coolly.

MILDRED. Guendolen!

What have I done— what could suggest…

GUENDOLEN. There, there!

Do I not comprehend you'd be alone

To throw those testimonies in a heap,

Thorold 's enlargings, Austin 's brevities,

With that poor silly heartless Guendolen's

Ill-time misplaced attempted smartnesses-

And sift their sense out— now, I come to spare you

Nearly a whole night's labour. Ask and have!

Demand, be answered! Lack I ears and eyes—

Am I perplexed which side of the rock-table

The Conqueror dined on when he landed first,

Lord Mertoun's ancestor was bidden take-

The bow-hand or the arrow-hand's great meed—

Mildred, the Earl has soft blue eyes!

MILDRED. My brother-

Did he… you said that he received him well—

GUENDOLEN. If I said only "well" I said not much.

Oh, stay-which brother—

MILDRED. Thorold! who-Who else—

GUENDOLEN. Thorold (a secret) is too proud by half,-

Nay, hear me out-with us he's even gentler

Than we are with our birds. Of this great House

The least retainer that e'er caught his glance

Would die for him, real dying-no mere talk:

And in the world, the court, if men would cite

The perfect spirit of honour, Thorold 's name

Rises of its clear nature to their lips.

But he should take men's homage, trust in it,

And care no more about what drew it down.

He has desert, and that, acknowledgment;

Is he content—

MILDRED. You wrong him, Guendolen.

GUENDOLEN. He's proud, confess; so proud with brooding o'er

The light of his interminable line,

An ancestry with men all paladins,

And women all…

MILDRED. Dear Guendolen, 'tis late!

When yonder purple pane the climbing moon

Pierces, I know 'tis midnight.

GUENDOLEN. Well, that Thorold

Should rise up from such musings, and receive

One come audaciously to graft himself

Into this peerless stock, yet find no flaw,

No slightest spot in such an one…

MILDRED. Who finds

A spot in Mertoun—

GUENDOLEN. Not your brother; therefore,

Not the whole world.

MILDRED. I am weary, Guendolen.

Bear with me!

GUENDOLEN. I am foolish.

MILDRED. Oh no, kind!

But I would rest.

GUENDOLEN. Good night and rest to you!

I said how gracefully his mantle lay

Beneath the rings of his light hair—

MILDRED. Brown hair.

GUENDOLEN. Brown— why, it IS brown: how could you know that—

MILDRED. How— did not you-Oh, Austin 'twas, declared

His hair was light, not brown-my head!-and look,

The moon-beam purpling the dark chamber! Sweet,

Good night!

GUENDOLEN. Forgive me-sleep the soundlier for me!

[Going, she turns suddenly.]

Mildred!

Perdition! all's discovered! Thorold finds

-That the Earl's greatest of all grandmothers

Was grander daughter still-to that fair dame

Whose garter slipped down at the famous dance!

[Goes.]

MILDRED. Is she-can she be really gone at last—

My heart! I shall not reach the window. Needs

Must I have sinned much, so to suffer.

[She lifts the small lamp which is suspended before the Virgin's

image in the window, and places it by the purple pane.]

There!

[She returns to the seat in front.]

Mildred and Mertoun! Mildred, with consent

Of all the world and Thorold, Mertoun's bride!

Too late! 'Tis sweet to think of, sweeter still

To hope for, that this blessed end soothes up

The curse of the beginning; but I know

It comes too late: 'twill sweetest be of all

To dream my soul away and die upon.

[A noise without.]

The voice! Oh why, why glided sin the snake

Into the paradise Heaven meant us both—

[The window opens softly. A low voice sings.]

There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest;

And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the

surest:

And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre

Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape

cluster,

Gush in golden tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble:

Then her voice's music… call it the well's bubbling, the bird's

warble!

[A figure wrapped in a mantle appears at the window.]

And this woman says, "My days were sunless and my nights were

moonless,

Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak

tuneless,

If you loved me not!" And I who-(ah, for words of flame!) adore

her,

Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her-

[He enters, approaches her seat, and bends over her.]

I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me,

And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

[The EARL throws off his slouched hat and long cloak.]

My very heart sings, so I sing, Beloved!

MILDRED. Sit, Henry-do not take my hand!

MERTOUN. 'Tis mine.

The meeting that appalled us both so much

Is ended.

MILDRED. What begins now—

MERTOUN. Happiness

Such as the world contains not.

MILDRED. That is it.

Our happiness would, as you say, exceed

The whole world's best of blisses: we-do we

Deserve that— Utter to your soul, what mine

Long since, Beloved, has grown used to hear,

Like a death-knell, so much regarded once,

And so familiar now; this will not be!

MERTOUN. Oh, Mildred, have I met your brother's face—

Compelled myself-if not to speak untruth,

Yet to disguise, to shun, to put aside

The truth, as-what had e'er prevailed on me

Save you to venture— Have I gained at last

Your brother, the one scarer of your dreams,

And waking thoughts' sole apprehension too—

Does a new life, like a young sunrise, break

On the strange unrest of our night, confused

With rain and stormy flaw-and will you see

No dripping blossoms, no fire-tinted drops

On each live spray, no vapour steaming up,

And no expressless glory in the East—

When I am by you, to be ever by you,

When I have won you and may worship you,

Oh, Mildred, can you say "this will not be"—

MILDRED. Sin has surprised us, so will punishment.

MERTOUN. No-me alone, who sinned alone!

MILDRED. The night

You likened our past life to-was it storm

Throughout to you then, Henry—

MERTOUN. Of your life

I spoke-what am I, what my life, to waste

A thought about when you are by me—-you

It was, I said my folly called the storm

And pulled the night upon. 'Twas day with me-

Perpetual dawn with me.

MILDRED. Come what, come will,

You have been happy: take my hand!

MERTOUN [after a pause]. How good

Your brother is! I figured him a cold-

Shall I say, haughty man—

MILDRED. They told me all.

I know all.

MERTOUN. It will soon be over.

MILDRED. Over—

Oh, what is over— what must I live through

And say, "'tis over"— Is our meeting over—

Have I received in presence of them all

The partner of my guilty love-with brow

Trying to seem a maiden's brow-with lips

Which make believe that when they strive to form

Replies to you and tremble as they strive,

It is the nearest ever they approached

A stranger's… Henry, yours that stranger's… lip-

With cheek that looks a virgin's, and that is…

Ah God, some prodigy of thine will stop

This planned piece of deliberate wickedness

In its birth even! some fierce leprous spot

Will mar the brow's dissimulating! I

Shall murmur no smooth speeches got by heart,

But, frenzied, pour forth all our woeful story,

The love, the shame, and the despair-with them

Round me aghast as round some cursed fount

That should spirt water, and spouts blood. I'll not

…Henry, you do not wish that I should draw

This vengeance down— I'll not affect a grace

That's gone from me-gone once, and gone for ever!

MERTOUN. Mildred, my honour is your own. I'll share

Disgrace I cannot suffer by myself.

A word informs your brother I retract

This morning's offer; time will yet bring forth

Some better way of saving both of us.

MILDRED. I'll meet their faces, Henry!

MERTOUN. When— to-morrow!

Get done with it!

MILDRED. Oh, Henry, not to-morrow!

Next day! I never shall prepare my words

And looks and gestures sooner.-How you must

Despise me!

MERTOUN. Mildred, break it if you choose,

A heart the love of you uplifted-still

Uplifts, thro' this protracted agony,

To heaven! but Mildred, answer me,-first pace

The chamber with me-once again-now, say

Calmly the part, the… what it is of me

You see contempt (for you did say contempt)

-Contempt for you in! I would pluck it off

And cast it from me!-but no-no, you'll not

Repeat that—-will you, Mildred, repeat that—

MILDRED. Dear Henry!

MERTOUN. I was scarce a boy-e'en now

What am I more— And you were infantine

When first I met you; why, your hair fell loose

On either side! My fool's-cheek reddens now

Only in the recalling how it burned

That morn to see the shape of many a dream

-You know we boys are prodigal of charms

To her we dream of-I had heard of one,

Had dreamed of her, and I was close to her,

Might speak to her, might live and die her own,

Who knew— I spoke. Oh, Mildred, feel you not

That now, while I remember every glance

Of yours, each word of yours, with power to test

And weigh them in the diamond scales of pride,

Resolved the treasure of a first and last

Heart's love shall have been bartered at its worth,

-That now I think upon your purity

And utter ignorance of guilt-your own

Or other's guilt-the girlish undisguised

Delight at a strange novel prize-(I talk

A silly language, but interpret, you!)

If I, with fancy at its full, and reason

Scarce in its germ, enjoined you secrecy,

If you had pity on my passion, pity

On my protested sickness of the soul

To sit beside you, hear you breathe, and watch

Your eyelids and the eyes beneath-if you

Accorded gifts and knew not they were gifts-

If I grew mad at last with enterprise

And must behold my beauty in her bower

Or perish-(I was ignorant of even

My own desires-what then were you—) if sorrow-

Sin-if the end came-must I now renounce

My reason, blind myself to light, say truth

Is false and lie to God and my own soul—

Contempt were all of this!

MILDRED. Do you believe…

Or, Henry, I'll not wrong you-you believe

That I was ignorant. I scarce grieve o'er

The past. We'll love on; you will love me still.

MERTOUN. Oh, to love less what one has injured! Dove,

Whose pinion I have rashly hurt, my breast-

Shall my heart's warmth not nurse thee into strength—

Flower I have crushed, shall I not care for thee—

Bloom o'er my crest, my fight-mark and device!

Mildred, I love you and you love me.

MILDRED. Go!

Be that your last word. I shall sleep to-night.

MERTOUN. This is not our last meeting—

MILDRED. One night more.

MERTOUN. And then-think, then!

MILDRED. Then, no sweet courtship-days,

No dawning consciousness of love for us,

No strange and palpitating births of sense

›From words and looks, no innocent fears and hopes,

Reserves and confidences: morning's over!

MERTOUN. How else should love's perfected noontide follow—

All the dawn promised shall the day perform.

MILDRED. So may it be! but-

You are cautious, Love—

Are sure that unobserved you scaled the walls—

MERTOUN. Oh, trust me! Then our final meeting's fixed

To-morrow night—

MILDRED. Farewell! stay, Henry… wherefore—

His foot is on the yew-tree bough; the turf

Receives him: now the moonlight as he runs

Embraces him-but he must go-is gone.

Ah, once again he turns-thanks, thanks, my Love!

He's gone. Oh, I'll believe him every word!

I was so young, I loved him so, I had

No mother, God forgot me, and I fell.

There may be pardon yet: all's doubt beyond!

Surely the bitterness of death is past.

ACT II

SCENE.-The Library

Enter LORD TRESHAM, hastily

TRESHAM. This way! In, Gerard, quick!

[As GERARD enters, TRESHAM secures the door.]

Now speak! or, wait-

I'll bid you speak directly.

[Seats himself.]

Now repeat

Firmly and circumstantially the tale

You just now told me; it eludes me; either

I did not listen, or the half is gone

Away from me. How long have you lived here—

Here in my house, your father kept our woods

Before you—

GERARD. -As his father did, my lord.

I have been eating, sixty years almost,

Your bread.

TRESHAM. Yes, yes. You ever were of all

The servants in my father's house, I know,

The trusted one. You'll speak the truth.

GERARD. I'll speak

God's truth. Night after night…

TRESHAM. Since when—

GERARD. At least

A month-each midnight has some man access

To Lady Mildred's chamber.

TRESHAM. Tush, "access"-

No wide words like "access" to me!

GERARD. He runs

Along the woodside, crosses to the South,

Takes the left tree that ends the avenue…

TRESHAM. The last great yew-tree—

GERARD. You might stand upon

The main boughs like a platform. Then he…

TRESHAM. Quick!

GERARD. Climbs up, and, where they lessen at the top,

-I cannot see distinctly, but he throws,

I think-for this I do not vouch-a line

That reaches to the lady's casement-

TRESHAM. -Which

He enters not! Gerard, some wretched fool

Dares pry into my sister's privacy!

When such are young, it seems a precious thing

To have approached,-to merely have approached,

Got sight of the abode of her they set

Their frantic thoughts upon. Ha does not enter—

Gerard—

GERARD. There is a lamp that's full i' the midst.

Under a red square in the painted glass

Of Lady Mildred's…

TRESHAM. Leave that name out! Well—

That lamp—

GERARD. Is moved at midnight higher up

To one pane-a small dark-blue pane; he waits

For that among the boughs: at sight of that,

I see him, plain as I see you, my lord,

Open the lady's casement, enter there…

TRESHAM. -And stay—

GERARD. An hour, two hours.

TRESHAM. And this you saw

Once—-twice—-quick!

GERARD. Twenty times.

TRESHAM. And what brings you

Under the yew-trees—

GERARD. The first night I left

My range so far, to track the stranger stag

That broke the pale, I saw the man.

TRESHAM. Yet sent

No cross-bow shaft through the marauder—

GERARD. But

He came, my lord, the first time he was seen,

In a great moonlight, light as any day,

FROM Lady Mildred's chamber.

TRESHAM [after a pause]. You have no cause

-Who could have cause to do my sister wrong—

GERARD. Oh, my lord, only once-let me this once

Speak what is on my mind! Since first I noted

All this, I've groaned as if a fiery net

Plucked me this way and that-fire if I turned

To her, fire if I turned to you, and fire

If down I flung myself and strove to die.

The lady could not have been seven years old

When I was trusted to conduct her safe

Through the deer-herd to stroke the snow-white fawn

I brought to eat bread from her tiny hand

Within a month. She ever had a smile

To greet me with-she… if it could undo

What's done, to lop each limb from off this trunk…

All that is foolish talk, not fit for you-

I mean, I could not speak and bring her hurt

For Heaven's compelling. But when I was fixed

To hold my peace, each morsel of your food

Eaten beneath your roof, my birth-place too,

Choked me. I wish I had grown mad in doubts

What it behoved me do. This morn it seemed

Either I must confess to you or die:

Now it is done, I seem the vilest worm

That crawls, to have betrayed my lady.

TRESHAM. No-

No, Gerard!

GERARD. Let me go!

TRESHAM. A man, you say:

What man— Young— Not a vulgar hind— What dress—

GERARD. A slouched hat and a large dark foreign cloak

Wraps his whole form; even his face is hid;

But I should judge him young: no hind, be sure!

TRESHAM. Why—

GERARD. He is ever armed: his sword projects

Beneath the cloak.

TRESHAM. Gerard,-I will not say

No word, no breath of this!

GERARD. Thank, thanks, my lord!

[Goes.]

TRESHAM [paces the room. After a pause].

Oh, thoughts absurd!-as with some monstrous fact

Which, when ill thoughts beset us, seems to give

Merciful God that made the sun and stars,

The waters and the green delights of earth,

The lie! I apprehend the monstrous fact-

Yet know the maker of all worlds is good,

And yield my reason up, inadequate

To reconcile what yet I do behold-

Blasting my sense! There's cheerful day outside:

This is my library, and this the chair

My father used to sit in carelessly

After his soldier-fashion, while I stood

Between his knees to question him: and here

Gerard our grey retainer,-as he says,

Fed with our food, from sire to son, an age,-

Has told a story-I am to believe!

That Mildred… oh, no, no! both tales are true,

Her pure cheek's story and the forester's!

Would she, or could she, err-much less, confound

All guilts of treachery, of craft, of… Heaven

Keep me within its hand!-I will sit here

Until thought settle and I see my course.

Avert, oh God, only this woe from me!

[As he sinks his head between his arms on the table,

GUENDOLEN'S voice is heard at the door.]

Lord Tresham!

[She knocks.]

Is Lord Tresham there—

[TRESHAM, hastily turning, pulls down the first book

above him and opens it.]

TRESHAM. Come in!

[She enters.]

Ha, Guendolen!-good morning.

GUENDOLEN. Nothing more—

TRESHAM. What should I say more—

GUENDOLEN. Pleasant question! more—

This more. Did I besiege poor Mildred's brain

Last night till close on morning with "the Earl,"

"The Earl"-whose worth did I asseverate

Till I am very fain to hope that… Thorold,

What is all this— You are not well!

TRESHAM. Who, I—

You laugh at me.

GUENDOLEN. Has what I'm fain to hope,

Arrived then— Does that huge tome show some blot

In the Earl's 'scutcheon come no longer back

Than Arthur's time—

TRESHAM. When left you Mildred's chamber—

GUENDOLEN. Oh, late enough, I told you! The main thing

To ask is, how I left her chamber,-sure,

Content yourself, she'll grant this paragon

Of Earls no such ungracious…

TRESHAM. Send her here!

GUENDOLEN. Thorold—

TRESHAM. I mean-acquaint her, Guendolen,

-But mildly!

GUENDOLEN. Mildly—

TRESHAM. Ah, you guessed aright!

I am not well: there is no hiding it.

But tell her I would see her at her leisure-

That is, at once! here in the library!

The passage in that old Italian book

We hunted for so long is found, say, found-

And if I let it slip again… you see,

That she must come-and instantly!

GUENDOLEN. I'll die

Piecemeal, record that, if there have not gloomed

Some blot i' the 'scutcheon!

TRESHAM. Go! or, Guendolen,

Be you at call,-With Austin, if you choose,-

In the adjoining gallery! There go!

[GUENDOLEN goes.]

Another lesson to me! You might bid

A child disguise his heart's sore, and conduct

Some sly investigation point by point

With a smooth brow, as well as bid me catch

The inquisitorial cleverness some praise.

If you had told me yesterday, "There's one

You needs must circumvent and practise with,

Entrap by policies, if you would worm

The truth out: and that one is-Mildred!" There,

There-reasoning is thrown away on it!

Prove she's unchaste… why, you may after prove

That she's a poisoner, traitress, what you will!

Where I can comprehend nought, nought's to say,

Or do, or think. Force on me but the first

Abomination,-then outpour all plagues,

And I shall ne'er make count of them.

Enter MILDRED

MILDRED. What book

Is it I wanted, Thorold— Guendolen

Thought you were pale; you are not pale. That book—

That's Latin surely.

TRESHAM. Mildred, here's a line,

(Don't lean on me: I'll English it for you)

"Love conquers all things." What love conquers them—

What love should you esteem-best love—

MILDRED. True love.

TRESHAM. I mean, and should have said, whose love is best

Of all that love or that profess to love—

MILDRED.

The list's so long: there's father's, mother's, husband's…

TRESHAM. Mildred, I do believe a brother's love

For a sole sister must exceed them all.

For see now, only see! there's no alloy

Of earth that creeps into the perfect'st gold

Of other loves-no gratitude to claim;

You never gave her life, not even aught

That keeps life-never tended her, instructed,

Enriched her-so, your love can claim no right

O'er her save pure love's claim: that's what I call

Freedom from earthliness. You'll never hope

To be such friends, for instance, she and you,

As when you hunted cowslips in the woods,

Or played together in the meadow hay.

Oh yes-with age, respect comes, and your worth

Is felt, there's growing sympathy of tastes,

There's ripened friendship, there's confirmed esteem:

-Much head these make against the newcomer!

The startling apparition, the strange youth-

Whom one half-hour's conversing with, or, say,

Mere gazing at, shall change (beyond all change

This Ovid ever sang about) your soul

…Her soul, that is,-the sister's soul! With her

'Twas winter yesterday; now, all is warmth,

The green leaf's springing and the turtle's voice,

"Arise and come away!" Come whither—-far

Enough from the esteem, respect, and all

The brother's somewhat insignificant

Array of rights! All which he knows before,

Has calculated on so long ago!

I think such love, (apart from yours and mine,)

Contented with its little term of life,

Intending to retire betimes, aware

How soon the background must be placed for it,

-I think, am sure, a brother's love exceeds

All the world's love in its unworldliness.

MILDRED. What is this for—

TRESHAM. This, Mildred, is it for!

Or, no, I cannot go to it so soon!

That's one of many points my haste left out-

Each day, each hour throws forth its silk-slight film

Between the being tied to you by birth,

And you, until those slender threads compose

A web that shrouds her daily life of hopes

And fears and fancies, all her life, from yours:

So close you live and yet so far apart!

And must I rend this web, tear up, break down

The sweet and palpitating mystery

That makes her sacred— You-for you I mean,

Shall I speak, shall I not speak—

MILDRED. Speak!

TRESHAM. I will.

Is there a story men could-any man

Could tell of you, you would conceal from me—

I'll never think there's falsehood on that lip.

Say "There is no such story men could tell,"

And I'll believe you, though I disbelieve

The world-the world of better men than I,

And women such as I suppose you. Speak!

[After a pause.]

Not speak— Explain then! Clear it up then! Move

Some of the miserable weight away

That presses lower than the grave. Not speak—

Some of the dead weight, Mildred! Ah, if I

Could bring myself to plainly make their charge

Against you! Must I, Mildred— Silent still—

[After a pause.]

Is there a gallant that has night by night

Admittance to your chamber—

[After a pause.]

Then, his name!

Till now, I only had a thought for you:

But now,-his name!

MILDRED. Thorold, do you devise

Fit expiation for my guilt, if fit

There be! 'Tis nought to say that I'll endure

And bless you,-that my spirit yearns to purge

Her stains off in the fierce renewing fire:

But do not plunge me into other guilt!

Oh, guilt enough! I cannot tell his name.

TRESHAM. Then judge yourself! How should I act— Pronounce!

MILDRED. Oh, Thorold, you must never tempt me thus!

To die here in this chamber by that sword

Would seem like punishment: so should I glide,

Like an arch-cheat, into extremest bliss!

'Twere easily arranged for me: but you-

What would become of you—

TRESHAM. And what will now

Become of me— I'll hide your shame and mine

›From every eye; the dead must heave their hearts

Under the marble of our chapel-floor;

They cannot rise and blast you. You may wed

Your paramour above our mother's tomb;

Our mother cannot move from 'neath your foot.

We too will somehow wear this one day out:

But with to-morrow hastens here-the Earl!

The youth without suspicion. Face can come

›From Heaven and heart from… whence proceed such hearts—

I have dispatched last night at your command

A missive bidding him present himself

To-morrow-here-thus much is said; the rest

Is understood as if 'twere written down-

"His suit finds favor in your eyes." Now dictate

This morning's letter that shall countermand

Last night's-do dictate that!

MILDRED. But, Thorold-if

I will receive him as I said—

TRESHAM. The Earl—

MILDRED. I will receive him.

TRESHAM [starting up]. Ho there! Guendolen!

GUENDOLEN and AUSTIN enter

And, Austin, you are welcome, too! Look there!

The woman there!

AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN. How— Mildred—

TRESHAM. Mildred once!

Now the receiver night by night, when sleep

Blesses the inmates of her father's house,

-I say, the soft sly wanton that receives

Her guilt's accomplice 'neath this roof which holds

You, Guendolen, you, Austin, and has held

A thousand Treshams-never one like her!

No lighter of the signal-lamp her quick

Foul breath near quenches in hot eagerness

To mix with breath as foul! no loosener

O' the lattice, practised in the stealthy tread,

The low voice and the noiseless come-and-go!

Not one composer of the bacchant's mien

Into-what you thought Mildred's, in a word!

Know her!

GUENDOLEN. Oh, Mildred, look to me, at least!

Thorold-she's dead, I'd say, but that she stands

Rigid as stone and whiter!

TRESHAM. You have heard…

GUENDOLEN. Too much! You must proceed no further.

MILDRED. Yes-

Proceed! All's truth. Go from me!

TRESHAM. All is truth,

She tells you! Well, you know, or ought to know,

All this I would forgive in her. I'd con

Each precept the harsh world enjoins, I'd take

Our ancestors' stern verdicts one by one,

I'd bind myself before then to exact

The prescribed vengeance-and one word of hers,

The sight of her, the bare least memory

Of Mildred, my one sister, my heart's pride

Above all prides, my all in all so long,

Would scatter every trace of my resolve.

What were it silently to waste away

And see her waste away from this day forth,

Two scathed things with leisure to repent,

And grow acquainted with the grave, and die

Tired out if not at peace, and be forgotten—

It were not so impossible to bear.

But this-that, fresh from last night's pledge renewed

Of love with the successful gallant there,

She calmly bids me help her to entice,

Inveigle an unconscious trusting youth

Who thinks her all that's chaste and good and pure,

-Invites me to betray him… who so fit

As honour's self to cover shame's arch-deed—

-That she'll receive Lord Mertoun-(her own phrase)-

This, who could bear— Why, you have heard of thieves,

Stabbers, the earth's disgrace, who yet have laughed,

"Talk not to me of torture-I'll betray

No comrade I've pledged faith to!"-you have heard

Of wretched women-all but Mildreds-tied

By wild illicit ties to losels vile

You'd tempt them to forsake; and they'll reply

"Gold, friends, repute, I left for him, I find

In him, why should I leave him then, for gold,

Repute or friends—"-and you have felt your heart

Respond to such poor outcasts of the world

As to so many friends; bad as you please,

You've felt they were God's men and women still,

So, not to be disowned by you. But she

That stands there, calmly gives her lover up

As means to wed the Earl that she may hide

Their intercourse the surelier: and, for this,

I curse her to her face before you all.

Shame hunt her from the earth! Then Heaven do right

To both! It hears me now-shall judge her then!

[AS MILDRED faints and falls, TRESHAM rushes out.]

AUSTIN. Stay, Tresham, we'll accompany you!

GUENDOLEN. We—

What, and leave Mildred— We— Why, where's my place

But by her side, and where yours but by mine—

Mildred-one word! Only look at me, then!

AUSTIN. No, Guendolen! I echo Thorold's voice.

She is unworthy to behold…

GUENDOLEN. Us two—

If you spoke on reflection, and if I

Approved your speech-if you (to put the thing

At lowest) you the soldier, bound to make

The king's cause yours and fight for it, and throw

Regard to others of its right or wrong,

-If with a death-white woman you can help,

Let alone sister, let alone a Mildred,

You left her-or if I, her cousin, friend

This morning, playfellow but yesterday,

Who said, or thought at least a thousand times,

"I'd serve you if I could," should now face round

And say, "Ah, that's to only signify

I'd serve you while you're fit to serve yourself:

So long as fifty eyes await the turn

Of yours to forestall its yet half-formed wish,

I'll proffer my assistance you'll not need-

When every tongue is praising you, I'll join

The praisers' chorus-when you're hemmed about

With lives between you and detraction-lives

To be laid down if a rude voice, rash eye,

Rough hand should violate the sacred ring

Their worship throws about you,-then indeed,

Who'll stand up for you stout as I—" If so

We said, and so we did,-not Mildred there

Would be unworthy to behold us both,

But we should be unworthy, both of us.

To be beheld by-by-your meanest dog,

Which, if that sword were broken in your face

Before a crowd, that badge torn off your breast,

And you cast out with hooting and contempt,

-Would push his way thro' all the hooters, gain

Your side, go off with you and all your shame

To the next ditch you choose to die in! Austin,

Do you love me— Here's Austin, Mildred,-here's

Your brother says he does not believe half-

No, nor half that-of all he heard! He says,

Look up and take his hand!

AUSTIN. Look up and take

My hand, dear Mildred!

MILDRED. I-I was so young!

Beside, I loved him, Thorold-and I had

No mother; God forgot me: so, I fell.

GUENDOLEN. Mildred!

MILDRED. Require no further! Did I dream

That I could palliate what is done— All's true.

Now, punish me! A woman takes my hand—

Let go my hand! You do not know, I see.

I thought that Thorold told you.

GUENDOLEN. What is this—

Where start you to—

MILDRED. Oh, Austin, loosen me!

You heard the whole of it-your eyes were worse,

In their surprise, than Thorold's! Oh, unless

You stay to execute his sentence, loose

My hand! Has Thorold gone, and are you here—

GUENDOLEN. Here, Mildred, we two friends of yours will wait

Your bidding; be you silent, sleep or muse!

Only, when you shall want your bidding done,

How can we do it if we are not by—

Here's Austin waiting patiently your will!

One spirit to command, and one to love

And to believe in it and do its best,

Poor as that is, to help it-why, the world

Has been won many a time, its length and breadth,

By just such a beginning!

MILDRED. I believe

If once I threw my arms about your neck

And sunk my head upon your breast, that I

Should weep again.

GUENDOLEN. Let go her hand now, Austin!

Wait for me. Pace the gallery and think

On the world's seemings and realities,

Until I call you.

[AUSTIN goes.]

MILDRED. No-I cannot weep.

No more tears from this brain-no sleep-no tears!

O Guendolen, I love you!

GUENDOLEN. Yes: and "love"

Is a short word that says so very much!

It says that you confide in me.

MILDRED. Confide!

GUENDOLEN. Your lover's name, then! I've so much to learn,

Ere I can work in your behalf!

MILDRED. My friend,

You know I cannot tell his name.

GUENDOLEN. At least

He is your lover— and you love him too—

MILDRED. Ah, do you ask me that,-but I am fallen

So low!

GUENDOLEN. You love him still, then—

MILDRED. My sole prop

Against the guilt that crushes me! I say,

Each night ere I lie down, "I was so young-

I had no mother, and I loved him so!"

And then God seems indulgent, and I dare

Trust him my soul in sleep.

GUENDOLEN. How could you let us

E'en talk to you about Lord Mertoun then—

MILDRED. There is a cloud around me.

GUENDOLEN. But you said

You would receive his suit in spite of this—

MILDRED. I say there is a cloud…

GUENDOLEN. No cloud to me!

Lord Mertoun and your lover are the same!

MILDRED. What maddest fancy…

GUENDOLEN [calling aloud.] Austin! (spare your pains-

When I have got a truth, that truth I keep)-

MILDRED. By all you love, sweet Guendolen, forbear!

Have I confided in you…

GUENDOLEN. Just for this!

Austin!-Oh, not to guess it at the first!

But I did guess it-that is, I divined,

Felt by an instinct how it was: why else

Should I pronounce you free from all that heap

Of sins which had been irredeemable—

I felt they were not yours-what other way

Than this, not yours— The secret's wholly mine!

MILDRED. If you would see me die before his face…

GUENDOLEN. I'd hold my peace! And if the Earl returns

To-night—

MILDRED. Ah Heaven, he's lost!

GUENDOLEN. I thought so. Austin!

Enter AUSTIN

Oh, where have you been hiding—

AUSTIN. Thorold's gone,

I know not how, across the meadow-land.

I watched him till I lost him in the skirts

O' the beech-wood.

GUENDOLEN. Gone— All thwarts us.

MILDRED. Thorold too—

GUENDOLEN. I have thought. First lead this Mildred to her room.

Go on the other side; and then we'll seek

Your brother: and I'll tell you, by the way,

The greatest comfort in the world. You said

There was a clue to all. Remember, Sweet,

He said there was a clue! I hold it. Come!

ACT III

SCENE I.-The end of the Yew-tree Avenue under MILDRED'S Window.

A light seen through a central red pane

Enter TRESHAM through the trees

Again here! But I cannot lose myself.

The heath-the orchard-I have traversed glades

And dells and bosky paths which used to lead

Into green wild-wood depths, bewildering

My boy's adventurous step. And now they tend

Hither or soon or late; the blackest shade

Breaks up, the thronged trunks of the trees ope wide,

And the dim turret I have fled from, fronts

Again my step; the very river put

Its arm about me and conducted me

To this detested spot. Why then, I'll shun

Their will no longer: do your will with me!

Oh, bitter! To have reared a towering scheme

Of happiness, and to behold it razed,

Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopes

Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew.

But I… to hope that from a line like ours

No horrid prodigy like this would spring,

Were just as though I hoped that from these old

Confederates against the sovereign day,

Children of older and yet older sires,

Whose living coral berries dropped, as now

On me, on many a baron's surcoat once,

On many a beauty's whimple-would proceed

No poison-tree, to thrust, from hell its root,

Hither and thither its strange snaky arms.

Why came I here— What must I do—

[A bell strikes.]

A bell—

Midnight! and 'tis at midnight… Ah, I catch

-Woods, river, plains, I catch your meaning now,

And I obey you! Hist! This tree will serve.

[He retires behind one of the trees. After a pause,

enter MERTOUN cloaked as before.]

MERTOUN. Not time! Beat out thy last voluptuous beat

Of hope and fear, my heart! I thought the clock

I' the chapel struck as I was pushing through

The ferns. And so I shall no more see rise

My love-star! Oh, no matter for the past!

So much the more delicious task to watch

Mildred revive: to pluck out, thorn by thorn,

All traces of the rough forbidden path

My rash love lured her to! Each day must see

Some fear of hers effaced, some hope renewed:

Then there will be surprises, unforeseen

Delights in store. I'll not regret the past.

[The light is placed above in the purple pane.]

And see, my signal rises, Mildred's star!

I never saw it lovelier than now

It rises for the last time. If it sets,

'Tis that the re-assuring sun may dawn.

[As he prepares to ascend the last tree of the avenue,

TRESHAM arrests his arm.]

Unhand me-peasant, by your grasp! Here's gold.

'Twas a mad freak of mine. I said I'd pluck

A branch from the white-blossomed shrub beneath

The casement there. Take this, and hold your peace.

TRESHAM. Into the moonlight yonder, come with me!

Out of the shadow!

MERTOUN. I am armed, fool!

TRESHAM. Yes,

Or no— You'll come into the light, or no—

My hand is on your throat-refuse!-

MERTOUN. That voice!

Where have I heard… no-that was mild and slow.

I'll come with you.

[They advance.]

TRESHAM. You're armed: that's well. Declare

Your name: who are you—

MERTOUN. (Tresham!-she is lost!)

TRESHAM. Oh, silent— Do you know, you bear yourself

Exactly as, in curious dreams I've had

How felons, this wild earth is full of, look

When they're detected, still your kind has looked!

The bravo holds an assured countenance,

The thief is voluble and plausible,

But silently the slave of lust has crouched

When I have fancied it before a man.

Your name!

MERTOUN. I do conjure Lord Tresham-ay,

Kissing his foot, if so I might prevail-

That he for his own sake forbear to ask

My name! As heaven's above, his future weal

Or woe depends upon my silence! Vain!

I read your white inexorable face.

Know me, Lord Tresham!

[He throws off his disguises.]

TRESHAM. Mertoun!

[After a pause.]

Draw now!

MERTOUN. Hear me

But speak first!

TRESHAM. Not one least word on your life!

Be sure that I will strangle in your throat

The least word that informs me how you live

And yet seem what you seem! No doubt 'twas you

Taught Mildred still to keep that face and sin.

We should join hands in frantic sympathy

If you once taught me the unteachable,

Explained how you can live so and so lie.

With God's help I retain, despite my sense,

The old belief-a life like yours is still

Impossible. Now draw!

MERTOUN. Not for my sake,

Do I entreat a hearing-for your sake,

And most, for her sake!

TRESHAM. Ha, ha, what should I

Know of your ways— A miscreant like yourself,

How must one rouse his ire— A blow—-that's pride

No doubt, to him! One spurns him, does one not—

Or sets the foot upon his mouth, or spits

Into his face! Come! Which, or all of these—

MERTOUN. 'Twixt him and me and Mildred, Heaven be judge!

Can I avoid this— Have your will, my lord!

[He draws and, after a few passes, falls.]

TRESHAM. You are not hurt—

MERTOUN. You'll hear me now!

TRESHAM. But rise!

MERTOUN. Ah, Tresham, say I not "you'll hear me now!"

And what procures a man the right to speak

In his defence before his fellow man,

But-I suppose-the thought that presently

He may have leave to speak before his God

His whole defence—

TRESHAM. Not hurt— It cannot be!

You made no effort to resist me. Where

Did my sword reach you— Why not have returned

My thrusts— Hurt where—

MERTOUN. My lord-

TRESHAM. How young he is!

MERTOUN. Lord Tresham, I am very young, and yet

I have entangled other lives with mine.

Do let me speak, and do believe my speech!

That when I die before you presently,-

TRESHAM. Can you stay here till I return with help—

MERTOUN. Oh, stay by me! When I was less than boy

I did you grievous wrong and knew it not-

Upon my honour, knew it not! Once known,

I could not find what seemed a better way

To right you than I took: my life-you feel

How less than nothing were the giving you

The life you've taken! But I thought my way

The better-only for your sake and hers:

And as you have decided otherwise,

Would I had an infinity of lives

To offer you! Now say-instruct me-think!

Can you, from the brief minutes I have left,

Eke out my reparation— Oh think-think!

For I must wring a partial-dare I say,

Forgiveness from you, ere I die—

TRESHAM. I do

Forgive you.

MERTOUN. Wait and ponder that great word!

Because, if you forgive me, I shall hope

To speak to you of-Mildred!

TRESHAM. Mertoun, haste

And anger have undone us. 'Tis not you

Should tell me for a novelty you're young,

Thoughtless, unable to recall the past.

Be but your pardon ample as my own!

MERTOUN. Ah, Tresham, that a sword-stroke and a drop

Of blood or two, should bring all this about

Why, 'twas my very fear of you, my love

Of you-(what passion like a boy's for one

Like you—)-that ruined me! I dreamed of you-

You, all accomplished, courted everywhere,

The scholar and the gentleman. I burned

To knit myself to you: but I was young,

And your surpassing reputation kept me

So far aloof! Oh, wherefore all that love—

With less of love, my glorious yesterday

Of praise and gentlest words and kindest looks,

Had taken place perchance six months ago.

Even now, how happy we had been! And yet

I know the thought of this escaped you, Tresham!

Let me look up into your face; I feel

'Tis changed above me: yet my eyes are glazed.

Where— where—

[As he endeavours to raise himself, his eye catches the lamp.]

Ah, Mildred! What will Mildred do—

Tresham, her life is bound up in the life

That's bleeding fast away! I'll live-must live,

There, if you'll only turn me I shall live

And save her! Tresham-oh, had you but heard!

Had you but heard! What right was yours to set

The thoughtless foot upon her life and mine,

And then say, as we perish, "Had I thought,

All had gone otherwise"— We've sinned and die:

Never you sin, Lord Tresham! for you'll die,

And God will judge you.

TRESHAM. Yes, be satisfied!

That process is begun.

MERTOUN. And she sits there

Waiting for me! Now, say you this to her-

You, not another-say, I saw him die

As he breathed this, "I love her"-you don't know

What those three small words mean! Say, loving her

Lowers me down the bloody slope to death

With memories… I speak to her, not you,

Who had no pity, will have no remorse,

Perchance intend her… Die along with me,

Dear Mildred! 'tis so easy, and you'll 'scape

So much unkindness! Can I lie at rest,

With rude speech spoken to you, ruder deeds

Done to you—-heartless men shall have my heart,

And I tied down with grave-clothes and the worm,

Aware, perhaps, of every blow-oh God!-

Upon those lips-yet of no power to tear

The felon stripe by stripe! Die, Mildred! Leave

Their honourable world to them! For God

We're good enough, though the world casts us out.

[A whistle is heard.]

TRESHAM. Ho, Gerard!

Enter GERARD, AUSTIN and GUENDOLEN, with lights

No one speak! You see what's done.

I cannot bear another voice.

MERTOUN. There's light-

Light all about me, and I move to it.

Tresham, did I not tell you-did you not

Just promise to deliver words of mine

To Mildred—

TRESHAM. I will bear those words to her.

MERTOUN. Now—

TRESHAM. Now. Lift you the body, and leave me

The head.

[As they have half raised MERTOUN, he turns suddenly.]

MERTOUN. I knew they turned me: turn me not from her!

There! stay you! there!

[Dies.]

GUENDOLEN [after a pause]. Austin, remain you here

With Thorold until Gerard comes with help:

Then lead him to his chamber. I must go

To Mildred.

TRESHAM. Guendolen, I hear each word

You utter. Did you hear him bid me give

His message— Did you hear my promise— I,

And only I, see Mildred.

GUENDOLEN. She will die.

TRESHAM. Oh no, she will not die! I dare not hope

She'll die. What ground have you to think she'll die—

Why, Austin's with you!

AUSTIN. Had we but arrived

Before you fought!

TRESHAM. There was no fight at all.

He let me slaughter him-the boy! I'll trust

The body there to you and Gerard-thus!

Now bear him on before me.

AUSTIN. Whither bear him—

TRESHAM. Oh, to my chamber! When we meet there next,

We shall be friends.

[They bear out the body of MERTOUN.]

Will she die, Guendolen—

GUENDOLEN. Where are you taking me—

TRESHAM. He fell just here.

Now answer me. Shall you in your whole life

-You who have nought to do with Mertoun's fate,

Now you have seen his breast upon the turf,

Shall you e'er walk this way if you can help—

When you and Austin wander arm-in-arm

Through our ancestral grounds, will not a shade

Be ever on the meadow and the waste-

Another kind of shade than when the night

Shuts the woodside with all its whispers up—

But will you ever so forget his breast

As carelessly to cross this bloody turf

Under the black yew avenue— That's well!

You turn your head: and I then—-

GUENDOLEN. What is done

Is done. My care is for the living. Thorold,

Bear up against this burden: more remains

To set the neck to!

TRESHAM. Dear and ancient trees

My fathers planted, and I loved so well!

What have I done that, like some fabled crime

Of yore, lets loose a Fury leading thus

Her miserable dance amidst you all—

Oh, never more for me shall winds intone

With all your tops a vast antiphony,

Demanding and responding in God's praise!

Hers ye are now, not mine! Farewell-farewell!

SCENE II.-MILDRED'S Chamber

MILDRED alone

He comes not! I have heard of those who seemed

Resourceless in prosperity,-you thought

Sorrow might slay them when she listed; yet

Did they so gather up their diffused strength

At her first menace, that they bade her strike,

And stood and laughed her subtlest skill to scorn.

Oh, 'tis not so with me! The first woe fell,

And the rest fall upon it, not on me:

Else should I bear that Henry comes not—-fails

Just this first night out of so many nights—

Loving is done with. Were he sitting now,

As so few hours since, on that seat, we'd love

No more-contrive no thousand happy ways

To hide love from the loveless, any more.

I think I might have urged some little point

In my defence, to Thorold; he was breathless

For the least hint of a defence: but no,

The first shame over, all that would might fall.

No Henry! Yet I merely sit and think

The morn's deed o'er and o'er. I must have crept

Out of myself. A Mildred that has lost

Her lover-oh, I dare not look upon

Such woe! I crouch away from it! 'Tis she,

Mildred, will break her heart, not I! The world

Forsakes me: only Henry's left me-left—

When I have lost him, for he does not come,

And I sit stupidly… Oh Heaven, break up

This worse than anguish, this mad apathy,

By any means or any messenger!

TRESHAM [without]. Mildred!

MILDRED. Come in! Heaven hears me!

[Enter TRESHAM.]

You— alone—

Oh, no more cursing!

TRESHAM. Mildred, I must sit.

There-you sit!

MILDRED. Say it, Thorold-do not look

The curse! deliver all you come to say!

What must become of me— Oh, speak that thought

Which makes your brow and cheeks so pale!

TRESHAM. My thought—

MILDRED. All of it!

TRESHAM. How we waded years-ago-

After those water-lilies, till the plash,

I know not how, surprised us; and you dared

Neither advance nor turn back: so, we stood

Laughing and crying until Gerard came-

Once safe upon the turf, the loudest too,

For once more reaching the relinquished prize!

How idle thoughts are, some men's, dying men's!

Mildred,-

MILDRED. You call me kindlier by my name

Than even yesterday: what is in that—

TRESHAM. It weighs so much upon my mind that I

This morning took an office not my own!

I might… of course, I must be glad or grieved,

Content or not, at every little thing

That touches you. I may with a wrung heart

Even reprove you, Mildred; I did more:

Will you forgive me—

MILDRED. Thorold— do you mock—

Oh no… and yet you bid me… say that word!

TRESHAM. Forgive me, Mildred!-are you silent, Sweet—

MILDRED [starting up]. Why does not Henry Mertoun come to-night—

Are you, too, silent—

[Dashing his mantle aside, and pointing to his scabbard,

which is empty.]

Ah, this speaks for you!

You've murdered Henry Mertoun! Now proceed!

What is it I must pardon— This and all—

Well, I do pardon you-I think I do.

Thorold, how very wretched you must be!

TRESHAM. He bade me tell you…

MILDRED. What I do forbid

Your utterance of! So much that you may tell

And will not-how you murdered him… but, no!

You'll tell me that he loved me, never more

Than bleeding out his life there: must I say

"Indeed," to that— Enough! I pardon you.

TRESHAM. You cannot, Mildred! for the harsh words, yes:

Of this last deed Another's judge: whose doom

I wait in doubt, despondency and fear.

MILDRED. Oh, true! There's nought for me to pardon! True!

You loose my soul of all its cares at once.

Death makes me sure of him for ever! You

Tell me his last words— He shall tell me them,

And take my answer-not in words, but reading

Himself the heart I had to read him late,

Which death…

TRESHAM. Death— You are dying too— Well said

Of Guendolen! I dared not hope you'd die:

But she was sure of it.

MILDRED. Tell Guendolen

I loved her, and tell Austin…

TRESHAM. Him you loved:

And me—

MILDRED. Ah, Thorold! Was't not rashly done

To quench that blood, on fire with youth and hope

And love of me-whom you loved too, and yet

Suffered to sit here waiting his approach

While you were slaying him— Oh, doubtlessly

You let him speak his poor confused boy's-speech

-Do his poor utmost to disarm your wrath

And respite me!-you let him try to give

The story of our love and ignorance,

And the brief madness and the long despair-

You let him plead all this, because your code

Of honour bids you hear before you strike:

But at the end, as he looked up for life

Into your eyes-you struck him down!

TRESHAM. No! No!

Had I but heard him-had I let him speak

Half the truth-less-had I looked long on him

I had desisted! Why, as he lay there,

The moon on his flushed cheek, I gathered all

The story ere he told it: I saw through

The troubled surface of his crime and yours

A depth of purity immovable,

Had I but glanced, where all seemed turbidest

Had gleamed some inlet to the calm beneath;

I would not glance: my punishment's at hand.

There, Mildred, is the truth! and you-say on-

You curse me—

MILDRED. As I dare approach that Heaven

Which has not bade a living thing despair,

Which needs no code to keep its grace from stain,

But bids the vilest worm that turns on it

Desist and be forgiven,-I-forgive not,

But bless you, Thorold, from my soul of souls!

[Falls on his neck.]

There! Do not think too much upon the past!

The cloud that's broke was all the same a cloud

While it stood up between my friend and you;

You hurt him 'neath its shadow: but is that

So past retrieve— I have his heart, you know;

I may dispose of it: I give it you!

It loves you as mine loves! Confirm me, Henry!

[Dies.]

TRESHAM. I wish thee joy, Beloved! I am glad

In thy full gladness!

GUENDOLEN [without]. Mildred! Tresham!

[Entering with AUSTIN.]

Thorold,

I could desist no longer. Ah, she swoons!

That's well.

TRESHAM. Oh, better far than that!

GUENDOLEN. She's dead!

Let me unlock her arms!

TRESHAM. She threw them thus

About my neck, and blessed me, and then died:

You'll let them stay now, Guendolen!

AUSTIN. Leave her

And look to him! What ails you, Thorold—

GUENDOLEN. White

As she, and whiter! Austin! quick-this side!

AUSTIN. A froth is oozing through his clenched teeth;

Both lips, where they're not bitten through, are black:

Speak, dearest Thorold!

TRESHAM. Something does weigh down

My neck beside her weight: thanks: I should fall

But for you, Austin, I believe!-there, there,

'Twill pass away soon!-ah,-I had forgotten:

I am dying.

GUENDOLEN. Thorold-Thorold-why was this—

TRESHAM. I said, just as I drank the poison off,

The earth would be no longer earth to me,

The life out of all life was gone from me.

There are blind ways provided, the fore-done

Heart-weary player in this pageant-world

Drops out by, letting the main masque defile

By the conspicuous portal: I am through-

Just through!

GUENDOLEN. Don't leave him, Austin! Death is close.

TRESHAM. Already Mildred's face is peacefuller,

I see you, Austin-feel you; here's my hand,

Put yours in it-you, Guendolen, yours too!

You're lord and lady now-you're Treshams; name

And fame are yours: you hold our 'scutcheon up.

Austin, no blot on it! You see how blood

Must wash one blot away: the first blot came

And the first blood came. To the vain world's eye

All's gules again: no care to the vain world,

›From whence the red was drawn!

AUSTIN. No blot shall come!

TRESHAM. I said that: yet it did come. Should it come,

Vengeance is God's, not man's. Remember me!

[Dies.]

GUENDOLEN [letting fall the pulseless arm].

Ah, Thorold, we can but-remember you!

Lord Byron— Manfred

Introductory Note

GEORGE GORDON, sixth Lord Byron, was the son of a profligate guardsman and an eccentric Scottish heiress. He was born in London on January 22, 1788, educated at Harrow and Trinity College, Cambridge, and came into prominence with the publication of “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” (1809), a satire provoked by an adverse criticism of his youthful “Hours of Idleness” in the “Edinburgh Review.” After two years of travel on the Continent, he published the first two cantos of “Childe Harold,” and in 1815 married Miss Milbanke, a prospective heiress. She left him a year later, and in the scandal which accompanied the separation Byron became very unpopular. He left England never to return, and spent most of his remaining years in Italy.

It is unnecessary to follow in detail the history of his life abroad. In spite of great irregularities in conduct, Byron continued to write copiously, seldom with care or attention to finish, but often with brilliance. His Oriental tales, which made him the hero of the sentimental readers of the day, “The Giaour,” “The Bride of Abydos,” “The Corsair,” had been written in the years preceding his marriage; “Manfred,” his first and in many respects his most interesting drama, appeared in 1817; “Don Juan” came out at intervals from 1819 to 1824; and during the same period he produced with extraordinary rapidity a group of plays of which the so-called mystery, “Cain,” is the most important. “The Vision of Judgment,” a merciless satire on Southey’s apotheosis of George III, followed in 1822.

Byron had been interested in revolutionary politics in Italy, and when the Greeks revolted against the Turks in 1823 he joined them as a volunteer; but before he saw fighting he died of fever at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824. His death at least was worthy of the noblest passion of his life, the passion for liberty.

For dramatic writing Byron was not favorably endowed. His egotism was too persistent to enable him to enter vitally and sympathetically into a variety of characters, and the hero of his plays, as of his poems, is usually himself more or less disguised. Yet some of his most eloquent lines are to be found in his dramas, and “Manfred” is an impressive and characteristic product of one of the most brilliantly gifted of English poets.

Dramatis Personae

MANFRED

CHAMOIS HUNTER

ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE

MANUEL

HERMAN

WITCH OF THE ALPS

ARIMANES

NEMESIS

THE DESTINIES

SPIRITS, ETC.

The scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps—partly in the Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains.

‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

Act I

Scene I

MANFRED alone.—Scene, a Gothic Gallery. Time, Midnight.

Manfred

THE LAMP must be replenish’d, but even then

It will not burn so long as I must watch.

My slumbers—if I slumber—are not sleep,

But a continuance of enduring thought,

Which then I can resist not: in my heart

There is a vigil, and these eyes but close

To look within; and yet I live, and bear

The aspect and the form of breathing men.

But grief should be the instructor of the wise;

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most

Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,

The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

Philosophy and science, and the springs

Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world,

I have essay’d, and in my mind there is

A power to make these subject to itself—

But they avail not: I have done men good,

And I have met with good even among men—

But this avail’d not: I have had my foes,

And none have baffled, many fallen before me—

But this avail’d not:—Good, or evil, life,

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,

Have been to me as rain unto the sands,

Since that all—nameless hour. I have no dread,

And feel the curse to have no natural fear,

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,

Or lurking love of something on the earth.

Now to my task.—

Mysterious Agency!

Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe,

Whom I have sought in darkness and in light!

Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell

In subtler essence! ye, to whom the tops

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth’s and ocean’s caves familiar things—

I call upon ye by the written charm

Which gives me power upon you—Rise! appear! [A pause.

They come not yet.—Now by the voice of him

Who is the first among you; by this sign,

Which makes you tremble; by the claims of him

Who is undying,—Rise! appear!—Appear! [A pause.

If it be so.—Spirits of earth and air,

Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power,

Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant—spell,

Which had its birthplace in a star condemn’d,

The burning wreck of a demolish’d world,

A wandering hell in the eternal space;

By the strong curse which is upon my soul,

The thought which is within me and around me,

I do compel ye to my will. Appear! [A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery: it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.

FIRST SPIRIT

Mortal! to thy bidding bow’d

From my mansion in the cloud,

Which the breath of twilight builds,

And the summer’s sunset gilds

With the azure and vermilion

Which is mix’d for my pavilion;

Though thy quest may be forbidden,

On a star—beam I have ridden,

To thine adjuration bow’d;

Mortal—be thy wish avow’d!

Voice of the SECOND SPIRIT

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;

They crown’d him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,

The Avalanche in his hand;

But ere it fall, that thundering ball

Must pause for my command.

The Glacier’s cold and restless mass

Moves onward day by day;

But I am he who bids it pass,

Or with its ice delay.

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow

And quiver to his cavern’d base—

And what with me wouldst Thou—

Voice of the THIRD SPIRIT

In the blue depth of the waters,

Where the wave hath no strife,

Where the wind is a stranger,

And the sea-snake hath life,

Where the Mermaid is decking

Her green hair with shells;

Like the storm on the surface

Came the sound of thy spells;

O’er my calm Hall of Coral

The deep echo roll’d—

To the Spirit of Ocean

Thy wishes unfold!

FOURTH SPIRIT

Where the slumbering earthquake

Lies pillow’d on fire,

And the lakes of bitumen

Rise boilingly higher;

Where the roots of the Andes

Strike deep in the earth,

As their summits to heaven

Shoot soaringly forth;

I have quitted my birthplace,

Thy bidding to bide—

Thy spell hath subdued me,

Thy will be my guide!

FIFTH SPIRIT

I am the Rider of the wind,

The Stirrer of the storm;

The hurricane I left behind

Is yet with lightning warm;

To speed to thee, o’er shore and sea

I swept upon the blast:

The fleet I met sail’d well, and yet

’Twill sink ere night be past.

SIXTH SPIRIT

My dwelling is the shadow of the night,

Why doth thy magic torture me with light—

SEVENTH SPIRIT

The star which rules thy destiny

Was ruled, ere earth began, by me:

It was a world as fresh and fair

As e’er revolved round sun in air;

Its course was free and regular,

Space bosom’d not a lovelier star.

The hour arrived—and it became

A wandering mass of shapeless flame,

A pathless comet, and a curse,

The menace of the universe;

Still rolling on with innate force,

Without a sphere, without a course,

A bright deformity on high,

The monster of the upper sky!

And thou! beneath its influence born—

Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn—

Forced by a power (which is not thine,

And lent thee but to make thee mine)

For this brief moment to descend,

Where these weak spirits round thee bend

And parley with a thing like thee—

What wouldst thou, Child of Clay, with me—

The SEVEN SPIRITS

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star,

Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay!

Before thee at thy quest their spirits are—

What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals—say—

Man. Forgetfulness—

First Spirit. Of what—of whom—and why—

Man. Of that which is within me; read it there—

Ye know it, and I cannot utter it.

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess:

Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power

O’er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign

Which shall control the elements, whereof

We are the dominators,—each and all,

These shall be thine.

Man. Oblivion, self—oblivion—

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms

Ye offer so profusely what I ask—

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill;

But—thou mayst die.

Man. Will death bestow it on me—

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget;

We are eternal; and to us the past

Is as the future, present. Art thou answer’d—

Man. Ye mock me—but the power which brought ye here

Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will!

The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark,

The lightning of my being, is as bright,

Pervading, and far darting as your own,

And shall not yield to yours, though coop’d in clay!

Answer, or I will teach you what I am.

Spirit. We answer as we answer’d; our reply

Is even in thine own words.

Man. Why say ye so—

Spirit. If, as thou say’st, thine essence be as ours,

We have replied in telling thee, the thing

Mortals call death hath nought to do with us.

Man. I then have call’d ye from your realms in vain;

Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me.

Spirit. Say;

What we possess we offer; it is thine:

Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again—

Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days—

Man. Accursèd! What have I to do with days—

They are too long already.—Hence—begone!

Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will would do thee service;

Bethink thee, is there then no other gift

Which ye can make not worthless in thine eyes—

Man. No, none: yet stay—one moment, ere we part—

I would behold ye face to face. I hear

Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds,

As music on the waters; and I see

The steady aspect of a clear large star;

But nothing more. Approach me as ye are,

Or one, or all, in your accustom’d forms.

Spirit. We have no forms, beyond the elements

Of which we are the mind and principle:

But choose a form—in that we will appear.

Man. I have no choice; there is no form on earth

Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him,

Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect

As unto him may seem most fitting—Come!

Seventh Spirit (appearing in the shape of a beautiful female figure). Behold!

Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thou

Art not a madness and a mockery,

I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee,

And we again will be— [The figure vanishes.

My heart is crush’d! [MANFRED falls senseless.

( A Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows. )

When the moon is on the wave,

And the glow—worm in the grass,

And the meteor on the grave,

And the wisp on the morass;

When the falling stars are shooting,

And the answer’d owls are hooting,

And the silent leaves are still

In the shadow of the hill,

Shall my soul be upon thine,

With a power and with a sign.

Though thy slumber may be deep,

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;

There are shades which will not vanish,

There are thoughts thou canst not banish;

By a power to thee unknown,

Thou canst never be alone;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,

Thou art gather’d in a cloud;

And for ever shalt thou dwell

In the spirit of this spell.

Though thou seest me not pass by,

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye

As a thing that, though unseen,

Must be near thee, and hath been;

And when in that secret dread

Thou hast turn’d around thy head,

Thou shalt marvel I am not

As thy shadow on the spot,

And the power which thou dost feel

Shall be what thou must conceal.

And a magic voice and verse

Hath baptized thee with a curse;

And a spirit of the air

Hath begirt thee with a snare;

In the wind there is a voice

Shall forbid thee to rejoice;

And to thee shall Night deny

All the quiet of her sky;

And the day shall have a sun,

Which shall make thee wish it done.

From thy false tears I did distil

An essence which hath strength to kill;

From thy own heart I then did wring

The black blood in its blackest spring;

From thy own smile I snatch’d the snake,

For there it coil’d as in a brake;

From thy own lip I drew the charm

Which gave all these their chiefest harm;

In proving every poison known,

I found the strongest was thine own.

By thy cold breast and serpent smile,

By thy unfathom’d gulfs of guile,

By that most seeming virtuous eye,

By thy shut soul’s hypocrisy;

By the perfection of thine art

Which pass’d for human thine own heart;

By thy delight in others’ pain,

And by thy brotherhood of Cain,

I call upon thee! and compel

Thyself to be thy proper Hell!

And on thy head I pour the vial

Which doth devote thee to this trial;

Nor to slumber, nor to die,

Shall be in thy destiny;

Though thy death shall still seem near

To thy wish, but as a fear;

Lo! the spell now works around thee,

And the clankless chain hath bound thee;

O’er thy heart and brain together

Hath the word been pass’d—now wither!

Act I

Scene II

The Mountain of the Jungfrau.—Time, Morning. MANFRED alone upon the Cliffs.

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me,

The spells which I have studied baffle me,

The remedy I reck’d of tortured me;

I lean no more on superhuman aid,

It hath no power upon the past, and for

The future, till the past be gulf’d in darkness,

It is not of my search.—My mother Earth!

And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,

Why are ye beautiful— I cannot love ye.

And thou, the bright eye of the universe,

That openest over all, and unto all

Art a delight—thou shin’st not on my heart.

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge

I stand, and on the torrent’s brink beneath

Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs

In dizziness of distance; when a leap,

A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring

My breast upon its rocky bosom’s bed

To rest for ever—wherefore do I pause—

I feel the impulse—yet I do not plunge;

I see the peril—yet do not recede;

And my brain reels—and yet my foot is firm.

There is a power upon me which withholds,

And makes it my fatality to live;

If it be life to wear within myself

This barrenness of spirit, and to be

My own soul’s sepulchre, for I have ceased

To justify my deeds unto myself—

The last infirmity of evil. Ay,

Thou winged and cloud—cleaving minister, [An eagle passes.

Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,

Well may’st thou swoop so near me—I should be

Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone

Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine

Yet pierces downward, onward, or above,

With a pervading vision.—Beautiful!

How beautiful is all this visible world!

How glorious in its action and itself!

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit

To sink or soar, with our mix’d essence make

A conflict of its elements, and breathe

The breath of degradation and of pride,

Contending with low wants and lofty will,

Till our mortality predominates,

And men are—what they name not to themselves,

And trust not to each other. Hark! the note, [The Shepherd’s pipe in the distance is heard.

The natural music of the mountain reed

(For here the patriarchal days are not

A pastoral fable) pipes in the liberal air,

Mix’d with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;

My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,

A living voice, a breathing harmony,

A bodiless enjoyment—born and dying

With the blest tone which made me!

Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER

Chamois Hunter. Even so

This way the chamois leapt: her nimble feet

Have baffled me; my gains to—day will scarce

Repay my break—neck travail.—What is here—

Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach’d

A height which none even of our mountaineers,

Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb

Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air

Proud as a freeborn peasant’s, at this distance—

I will approach him nearer.

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus—

Grey—hair’d with anguish, like these blasted pines.

Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless,

A blighted trunk upon a cursed root,

Which but supplies a feeling to decay—

And to be thus, eternally but thus,

Having been otherwise! Now furrow’d o’er

With wrinkles, plough’d by moments, not by years

And hours—all tortured into ages—hours

Which I outlive!—Ye toppling crags of ice!

Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down

In mountainous o’erwhelming, come and crush me!

I hear ye momently above, beneath,

Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,

And only fall on things that still would live;

On the young flourishing forest, or the hut

And hamlet of the harmless villager.

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley;

I’ll warn him to descend, or he may chance

To lose at once his way and life together.

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds

Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury,

Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell,

Whose every wave breaks on a living shore

Heap’d with the damn’d like pebbles.—I am giddy.

C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near,

A sudden step will startle him, and he

Seems tottering already.

Man. Mountains have fallen,

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock

Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up

The ripe green valleys with destruction’s splinters;

Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,

Which crush’d the waters into mist and made

Their fountains find another channel—thus,

Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg—

Why stood I not beneath it—

C. Hun. Friend! have a care,

Your next step may be fatal!—for the love

Of him who made you, stand not on that brink!

Man. (not hearing him). Such would have been for me a fitting tomb;

My bones had then been quiet in their depth;

They had not then been strewn upon the rocks

For the wind’s pastime—as thus—thus they shall be—

In this one plunge.—Farewell, ye opening heavens!

Look not upon me thus reproachfully—

Ye were not meant for me—Earth! take these atoms! [As MANFRED is in act to spring from the cliff, the CHAMOIS HUNTER seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.

C. Hun. Hold, madman!—though aweary of thy life,

Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood!

Away with me—I will not quit my hold.

Man. I am most sick at heart—nay, grasp me not—

I am all feebleness—the mountains whirl

Spinning around me—I grow blind—What art thou—

C. Hun. I’ll answer that anon.—Away with me!

The clouds grow thicker—there—now lean on me—

Place your foot here—here, take this staff, and cling

A moment to that shrub—now give me your hand,

And hold fast by my girdle—softly—well—

The Chalet will be gain’d within an hour.

Come on, we’ll quickly find a surer footing,

And something like a pathway, which the torrent

Hath wash’d since winter.—Come, ’tis bravely done;

Your should have been a hunter.—Follow me. [As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes.

Act II

Scene I

A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps.

MANFRED and the CHAMOIS HUNTER.

C. Hun. No, no, yet pause, thou must not yet go forth:

Thy mind and body are alike unfit

To trust each other, for some hours, at least;

When thou art better, I will be thy guide—

But whither—

Man. It imports not; I do know

My route full well and need no further guidance.

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage—

One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags

Look o’er the lower valleys—which of these

May call thee lord— I only know their portals;

My way of life leads me but rarely down

To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,

Carousing with the vassals; but the paths,

Which step from out our mountains to their doors,

I know from childhood—which of these is thine—

Man. No matter.

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the question,

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine;

’Tis of an ancient vintage; many a day

’T has thaw’d my veins among our glaciers, now

Let it do thus for thine. Come, pledge me fairly.

Man. Away, away! there’s blood upon the brim!

Will it then never—never sink in the earth—

C. Hun. What dost thou mean— thy senses wander from thee.

Man. I say ’tis blood—my blood! the pure warm stream

Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours

When we were in our youth, and had one heart,

And loved each other as we should not love,

And this was shed: but still it rises up,

Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven,

Where thou art not—and I shall never be.

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half—maddening sin,

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate’er

Thy dread and sufferance be, there’s comfort yet—

The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience—

Man. Patience and patience! Hence—that word was made

For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;

Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,—

I am not of thine order.

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven!

I would not be of thine for the free fame

Of William Tell; but whatsoe’er thine ill,

It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.

Man. Do I not bear it——Look on me—I live.

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.

Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,

Many long years, but they are nothing now

To those which I must number: ages—ages—

Space and eternity—and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death—and still unslaked!

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age

Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think’st thou existence doth depend on time—

It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine

Have made my days and nights imperishable,

Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore,

Innumerable atoms; and one desert,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,

But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,

Rocks, and the salt—surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hun. Alas! he’s mad—but yet I must not leave him.

Man. I would I were, for then the things I see

Could be but a distemper’d dream.

C. Hun. What is it

That thou dost see, or think thou look’st upon—

Man. Myself, and thee—a peasant of the Alps,

Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,

And spirit patient, pious, proud and free;

Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;

Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,

By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes

Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,

With cross and garland over its green turf,

And thy grandchildren’s love for epitaph;

This do I see—and then I look within—

It matters not—my soul was scorch’d already!

C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine—

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee nor exchange

My lot with living being: I can bear—

However wretchedly, ’tis still to bear—

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

C. Hun. And with this—

This cautious feeling for another’s pain,

Canst thou be black with evil——say not so.

Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak’d revenge

Upon his enemies—

Man. Oh! no, no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me—

On those whom I best loved: I never quell’d

An enemy, save in my just defence—

But my embrace was fatal.

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest!

And penitence restore thee to thyself;

My prayers shall be for thee.

Man. I need them not,

But can endure thy pity. I depart—

’Tis time—farewell!—Here’s gold, and thanks for thee;

No words—it is thy due. Follow me not;

I know my path—the mountain peril’s past:

And once again, I charge thee, follow not! [Exit MANFRED.

Act II

Scene II

A lower Valley in the Alps.—A Cataract.

Enter MANFRED

Man. It is not noon; the sunbow’s rays still arch

The torrent with the many hues of heaven,

And roll the sheeted silver’s waving column

O’er the crag’s headlong perpendicular,

And fling its lines of foaming light along,

And to and fro, like the pale courser’s tail

The Giani steed, to be bestrode by Death,

As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes

But mine now drink this sight of loveliness;

I should be sole in this sweet solitude,

And with the Spirit of the place divide

The homage of these waters.—I will call her. [MANFRED takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, and flings it in the air, muttering the adjuration. After a pause, the WITCH OF THE ALPS rises beneath the arch of the sunbow of the torrent.

Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light

And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form

The charms of earth’s least mortal daughters grow

To an unearthly stature, in an essence

Of purer elements; while the hues of youth

(Carnation’d like a sleeping infant’s cheek

Rock’d by the beating of her mother’s heart,

Or the rose-tints, which summer’s twilight leaves

Upon the lofty glacier’s virgin snow,

The blush of earth embracing with her heaven)

Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame

The beauties of the sunbow which bends o’er thee.

Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow,

Wherein is glass’d serenity of soul,

Which of itself shows immortality,

I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son

Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit

At times to commune with them—if that he

Avail him of his spells—to call thee thus,

And gaze on thee a moment.

Witch. Son of Earth!

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power;

I know thee for a man of many thoughts,

And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both,

Fatal and fated in thy sufferings.

I have expected this—what wouldst thou with me—

Man. To look upon thy beauty—nothing further.

The face of the earth hath madden’d me, and I

Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce

To the abodes of those who govern her—

But they can nothing aid me. I have sought

From them what they could not bestow, and now

I search no further.

Witch. What could be the quest

Which is not in the power of the most powerful,

The rulers of the invisible—

Man. A boon;

But why should I repeat it— ’twere in vain.

Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it.

Man. Well, though it torture me, ’tis but the same;

My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards

My spirit walk’d not with the souls of men,

Nor look’d upon the earth with human eyes;

The thirst of their ambition was not mine,

The aim of their existence was not mine;

My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers

Made me a stranger; though I wore the form,

I had no sympathy with breathing flesh,

Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me

Was there but one who—but of her anon.

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,

I held but slight communion; but instead,

My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe

The difficult air of the iced mountain’s top,

Where the birds dare not build, nor insect’s wing

Flit o’er the herbless granite; or to plunge

Into the torrent, and to roll along

On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave

Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow.

In these my early strength exulted; or

To follow through the night the moving moon,

The stars and their development; or catch

The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;

Or to look, list’ning, on the scatter’d leaves,

While Autumn winds were at their evening song.

These were my pastimes, and to be alone;

For if the beings, of whom I was one,—

Hating to be so,—cross’d me in my path,

I felt myself degraded back to them,

And was all clay again. And then I dived,

In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death,

Searching its cause in its effect; and drew

From wither’d bones, and skulls, and heap’d up dust,

Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass’d

The nights of years in sciences, untaught

Save in the old time; and with time and toil,

And terrible ordeal, and such penance

As in itself hath power upon the air

And spirits that do compass air and earth,

Space, and the peopled infinite, I made

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity,

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised

Eros and Anteros, at Gadara,

As I do thee;—and with my knowledge grew

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy

Of this most bright intelligence, until—

Witch. Proceed.

Man. Oh, I but thus prolong’d my words,

Boasting these idle attributes, because

As I approach the core of my heart’s grief

But to my task. I have not named to thee

Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,

With whom I wore the chain of human ties;

If I had such, they seem’d not such to me—

Yet there was one—

Witch. Spare not thyself—proceed.

Man. She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,

Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone

Even of her voice, they said were like to mine;

But soften’d all, and temper’d into beauty;

She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings,

The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind

To comprehend the universe; nor these

Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine,

Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not;

And tenderness—but that I had for her;

Humility—and that I never had.

Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—

I loved her, and destroy’d her!

Witch. With thy hand—

Man. Not with my hand, but heart—which broke her heart;

It gazed on mine, and wither’d. I have shed

Blood, but not hers—and yet her blood was shed—

I saw, and could not stanch it.

Witch. And for this,

A being of the race thou dost despise,

The order which thine own would rise above,

Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego

The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink’st back

To recreant mortality—Away!

Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since that hour—

But words are breath—look on me in my sleep,

Or watch my watchings—Come and sit by me!

My solitude is solitude no more,

But peopled with the Furies;—I have gnash’d

My teeth in darkness till returning morn,

Then cursed myself till sunset;—I have pray’d

Ford madness as a blessing—’tis denied me.

I have affronted death, but in the war

Of elements the waters shrunk from me,

And fatal things pass’d harmless—the cold hand

Of an all—pitiless demon held me back,

Back by a single hair, which would not break.

In fantasy, imagination, all

The affluence of my soul—which one day was

A Crsus in creation—I plunged deep,

But, like an ebbing wave, it dash’d me back

Into the gulf of my unfathom’d thought.

I plunged amidst mankind.—Forgetfulness

I sought in all, save where ’t is to be found,

And that I have to learn—my sciences,

My long pursued and superhuman art,

Is mortal here; I dwell in my despair—

And live—and live for ever.

Witch. It may be

That I can aid thee.

Man. To do this thy power

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them.

Do so—in any shape—in any hour—

With any torture—so it be the last.

Witch. That is not in my province; but if thou

Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do

My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes.

Man. I will not swear—Obey! and whom— the spirits

Whose presence I command, and be the slave

Of those who served me—Never!

Witch. Is this all—

Hast thou no gentler answer——Yet bethink thee,

And pause ere thou rejectest.

Man. I have said it.

Witch. Enough!—I may retire then—say!

Man. Retire! [The WITCH disappears.

Man. (alone). We are all the fools of time and terror: Days

Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live,

Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

In all the days of this detested yoke—

This vital weight upon the struggling heart,

Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,

Or joy that ends in agony or faintness—

In all the days of past and future, for

In life there is no present, we can number

How few, how less than few, wherein the soul

Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back

As from a stream in winter, though the chill

Be but a moment’s. I have one resource

Still in my science—I can call the dead,

And ask them what it is we dread to be:

The sternest answer can but be the Grave,

And that is nothing;—if they answer not—

The buried Prophet answered to the Hag

Of Endor; and the Spartan Monarch drew

From the Byzantine maid’s unsleeping spirit

An answer and his destiny—he slew

That which he loved, unknowing what he slew,

And died unpardon’d—though he call’d in aid

The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused

The Arcadian Evocators to compel

The indignant shadow to depose her wrath,

Or fix her term of vengeance—she replied

In words of dubious import, but fulfill’d.

If I had never lived, that which I love

Had still been living; had I never loved,

That which I love would still be beautiful—

Happy and giving happiness. What is she—

What is she now——a sufferer for my sins—

A thing I dare not think upon—or nothing.

Within few hours I shall not call in vain—

Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare:

Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze

On spirit, good or evil—now I tremble,

And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart.

But I can act even what I most abhor,

And champion human fears.—The night approaches. [Exit.

Act II

Scene III

The Summit of the JungfrauMountain.

Enter FIRST DESTINY

The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright;

And here on snows, where never human foot

Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread,

And leave no traces; o’er the savage sea,

The glassy ocean of the mountain ice,

We skim its rugged breakers, which put on

The aspect of a tumbling tempest’s foam,

Frozen in a moment—a dead whirlpool’s image.

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle,

The fretwork of some earthquake—where the clouds

Pause to repose themselves in passing by—

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils.

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to—night

Is our great festival—’t is strange they come not.

A Voice without, singing

The Captive Usurper,

Hurl’d down from the throne,

Lay buried in torpor,

Forgotten and lone;

I broke through his slumbers,

I shiver’d his chain,

I leagued him with numbers—

He’s Tyrant again!

With the blood of a million he’ll answer my care,

With a nation’s destruction—his flight and despair.

Second Voice, without

The ship sail’d on, the ship sail’d fast,

But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast;

There is not a plank of the hull or the deck,

And there is not a wretch to lament o’er his wreck;

Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair,

And he was a subject well worthy my care;

A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea—

But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me!

FIRST DESTINY, answering

The city lies sleeping;

The morn, to deplore it,

May dawn on it weeping:

Sullenly, slowly,

The black plague flew o’er it,—

Thousands lie lowly;

Tens of thousands shall perish—

The living shall fly from

The sick they should cherish:

But nothing can vanquish

The touch that they die from.

Sorrow and anguish,

And evil and dread,

Envelope a nation—

The blest are the dead,

Who see not the sight

Of their own desolation;

This work of a night—

This wreck of a realm—this deed of my doing—

For ages I’ve done, and shall still be renewing!

Enter the SECOND and THIRD DESTINIES

The Three

Our hands contain the hearts of men,

Our footsteps are their graves;

We only give to take again

The spirits of our slaves!

First Des. Welcome! Where’s Nemesis—

Second Des. At some great work;

But what I know not, for my hands were full.

Third Des. Behold she cometh.

Enter NEMESIS

First Des. Say, where hast thou been—

My sisters and thyself are slow to—night.

Nem. I was detain’d repairing shatter’d thrones,

Marrying fools, restoring dynasties,

Avenging men upon their enemies,

And making them repent their own revenge;

Goading the wise to madness; from the dull

Shaping out oracles to rule the world

Afresh, for they were waxing out of date,

And mortals dared to ponder for themselves,

To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak

Of freedom, the forbidden fruit.—Away!

We have outstay’d the hour—mount we our clouds! [Exeunt.

Act II

Scene IV

The Hall of ARIMANES.—ARIMANES on his Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the SPIRITS.

Hymn of the SPIRITS

Hail to our Master!—Prince of Earth and Air!

Who walks the clouds and waters—in his hand

The sceptre of the elements which tear

Themselves to chaos at his high command!

He breatheth—and a tempest shakes the sea;

He speaketh—and the clouds reply in thunder;

He gazeth—from his glance the sunbeams flee;

He moveth—earthquakes rend the world asunder.

Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise;

His shadow is the Pestilence; his path

The comets herald through the crackling skies;

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath.

To him War offers daily sacrifice;

To him Death pays his tribute; Life is his,

With all its infinite of agonies—

And his the spirit of whatever is!

Enter the DESTINIES and NEMESIS

First Des. Glory to Arimanes! on the earth

His power increaseth—both my sisters did

His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty!

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes! we who bow

The necks of men, bow down before his throne!

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes! we await

His nod!

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns! we are thine,

And all that liveth, more or less, is ours,

And most things wholly so; still to increase

Our power, increasing thine, demands our care,

And we are vigilant.—Thy late commands

Have been fulfilled to the utmost.

Enter MANFRED

A Spirit. What is here—

A mortal!—Thou most rash and fatal wretch,

Bow down and worship!

Second Spirit. I do know the man—

A Magian of great power and fearful skill!

Third Spirit./ Bow down and worship, slave! What, know’st thou not

Thine and our Sovereign——Tremble, and obey!

All the Spirits. Prostate thyself, and thy condemned clay,

Child of the Earth! or dread the worst.

Man. I know it;

And yet ye see I kneel not.

Fourth Spirit. ’Twill be taught thee.

Man. ’Tis taught already;—many a night on the earth,

On the bare ground, have I bow’d down my face,

And strew’d my head with ashes; I have known

The fullness of humiliation, for

I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt

To my own desolation.

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne

What the whole earth accords, beholding not

The terror of his Glory——Crouch! I say.

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him,

The overruling Infinite, the Maker

Who made him not for worship—let him kneel,

And we will kneel together.

The Spirits. Crush the worm!

Tear him in pieces!—

First Des. Hence! Avaunt!—he’s mine.

Prince of the Powers invisible! This man

Is of no common order, as his port

And presence here denote. His sufferings

Have been of an immortal nature, like

Our own; his knowledge and his powers and will,

As far as is compatible with clay,

Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such

As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations

Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth

And they have only taught him what we know—

That knowledge is not happiness, and science

But an exchange of ignorance for that

Which is another kind of ignorance.

This is not all; the passions, attributes

Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being,

Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt,

Have pierced his heart; and in their consequence

Made him a thing, which I, who pity not,

Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine,

And thine, it may be;—be it so, or not,

No other Spirit in this region hath

A soul like his—or power upon his soul.

Nem. What doth he here then—

First Des. Let him answer that.

Man. Ye know what I have known; and without power

I could not be amongst ye: but there are

Powers deeper still beyond—I come in quest

Of such, to answer unto what I seek.

Nem. What wouldst thou—

Man. Thou canst not reply to me.

Call up the dead—my question is for them.

Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch

The wishes of this mortal—

Ari. Yea.

Nem. Whom wouldst thou

Uncharnel—

Man. One without a tomb—call up Astarte.

NEMESIS

Shadow! or Spirit!

Whatever thou art

Which still doth inherit

The whole or a part

Of the form of thy birth,

Of the mould of thy clay

Which return’d to the earth,

Re-appear to the day!

Bear what thou borest,

The heart and the form,

And the aspect thou worest

Redeem from the worm.

Appear!—Appear!—Appear!

Who sent thee there requires thee here!

[The phantom of ASTARTE rises and stands in the midst.

Man. Can this be death— there’s bloom upon her cheek;

But now I see it is no living hue,

But a strange hectic—like the unnatural red

Which Autumn plants upon the perish’d leaf.

It is the same! Oh, God! that I should dread

To look upon the same—Astarte!—No,

I cannot speak to her—but bid her speak—

Forgive me or condemn me.

NEMESIS

By the power which hath broken

The grave which enthrall’d thee,

Speak to him who hath spoken,

Or those who have call’d thee!

Man. She is silent,

And in that silence I am more than answer’d.

Nem. My power extends no further, Prince of Air!

It rests with thee alone—command her voice.

Ari. Spirit—obey this sceptre!

Nem. Silent still!

She is not of our order, but belongs

To the other powers. Mortal! thy quest is vain,

And we are baffled also.

Man. Hear me, hear me—

Astarte! my belovèd! speak to me:

I have so much endured, so much endure—

Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more

Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me

Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made

To torture thus each other, though it were

The deadliest sin to love as we have loved.

Say that thou loath’st me not, that I do bear

This punishment for both, that thou wilt be

One of the blessèd, and that I shall die;

For hitherto all hateful things conspire

To bind me in existence—in a life

Which makes me shrink from immortality—

A future like the past. I cannot rest.

I know not what I ask, nor what I seek;

I feel but what thou art—and what I am;

And I would hear yet once before I perish

The voice which was my music—Speak to me!

For I have call’d on thee in the still night,

Startled the slumbering birds from the hush’d boughs,

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves

Acquainted with thy vainly echo’d name.

Which answer’d me—many things answer’d me—

Spirits and men—but thou wert silent all.

Yet speak to me! I have outwatch’d the stars,

And gazed o’er heaven in vain in search of thee,

Speak to me! I have wander’d o’er the earth,

And never found thy likeness—Speak to me!

Look on the fiends around—they feel for me:

I fear them not, and feel for thee alone.

Speak to me! though it be in wrath;—but say—

I reck not what—but let me hear thee once—

This once—once more!

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred!

Man. Say on, say on—

I live but in the sound—it is thy voice!

Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills.

Farewell!

Man. Yet one word more—am I forgiven—

Phan. Farewell!

Man. Say, shall we meet again—

Phan. Farewell!

Man. One word for mercy! Say, thou lovest me.

Phan. Manfred! [The Spirit of ASTARTE disappears.

Nem. She’s gone, and will not be recall’d;

Her words will be fulfill’d. Return to the earth.

A Spirit. He is convulsed—This is to be a mortal

And seek the things beyond mortality.

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes

His torture tributary to his will.

Had he been one of us, he would have made

An awful spirit.

Nem. Hast thou further question

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers—

Man. None.

Nem. Then for a time farewell.

Man. We meet then! Where— On the earth——

Even as thou wilt: and for the grace accorded

I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! [Exit MANFRED.

( Scene closes. )

Act III

Scene I

A Hall in the Castle of MANFRED.

MANFRED and HERMAN.

Man. What is the hour—

Her. It wants but one till sunset,

And promises a lovely twilight.

Man. Say,

Are all things so disposed of in the tower

As I directed—

Her. All, my lord, are ready:

Here is the key and casket.

Man. It is well:

Thou may’st retire. [Exit HERMAN.

Man. (alone). There is a calm upon me—

Inexplicable stillness! which till now

Did not belong to what I knew of life.

If that I did not know philosophy

To be of all our vanities the motliest,

The merest word that ever fool’d the ear

From out the schoolman’s jargon, I should deem

The golden secret, the sought “Kalon,” found,

And seated in my soul. It will not last,

But it is well to have known it, though but once:

It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense,

And I within my tablets would note down

That there is such a feeling. Who is there—

Re-enter HERMAN

Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves

To greet your presence.

Enter the ABBOT OF ST. MAURICE

Abbot. Peace be with Count Manfred!

Man. Thanks, holy father! welcome to these walls;

Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those

Who dwell within them.

Abbot. Would it were so, Count!—

But I would fain confer with thee alone.

Man. Herman, retire—What would my reverend guest—

Abbot. Thus, without prelude:—Age and zeal, my office,

And good intent, must plead my privilege;

Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood,

May also be my herald. Rumours strange,

And of unholy nature, are abroad,

And busy with thy name; a noble name

For centuries: may he who bears it now

Transmit it unimpair’d!

Man. Proceed, I listen.

Abbot. ’Tis said thou holdest converse with the things

Which are forbidden to the search of man;

That with the dwellers of the dark abodes,

The many evil and unheavenly spirits

Which walk the valley of the shade of death,

Thou communest. I know that with mankind.

Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely

Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude

Is as an anchorite’s, were it but holy.

Man. And what are they who do avouch these things—

Abbot. My pious brethren, the scared peasantry,

Even thy own vassals, who do look on thee

With most unquiet eyes. Thy life’s in peril.

Man. Take it.

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy.

I would not pry into thy secret soul;

But if these things be sooth, there still is time

For penitence and pity: reconcile thee

With the true church, and through the church to heaven.

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply: whate’er

I may have been, or am, doth rest between

Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal

To be my mediator. Have I sinn’d

Against your ordinances— prove and punish!

Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punishment,

But penitence and pardon; with thyself

The choice of such remains—and for the last,

Our institutions and our strong belief

Have given me power to smooth the path from sin

To higher hope and better thoughts; the first

I leave to heaven,—“Vengeance is mine alone!”

So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness

His servant echoes back the awful word.

Man. Old man! there is no power in holy men,

Nor charm in prayer, nor purifying form

Of penitence, nor outward look, nor fast,

Nor agony, nor, greater than all these,

The innate tortures of that deep despair,

Which is remorse without the fear of hell

But all in all sufficient to itself

Would make a hell of heaven,—can exorcise

From out the unbounded spirit the quick sense

Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge

Upon itself; there is no future pang

Can deal that justice on the self—condemn’d

He deals on his own soul.

Abbot. All this is well;

For this will pass away, and be succeeded

By an auspicious hope, which shall look up

With calm assurance to that blessed place

Which all who seek may win, whatever be

Their earthly errors, so they be atoned:

And the commencement of atonement is

The sense of its necessity.—Say on—

And all our church can teach thee shall be taught;

And all we can absolve thee shall be pardon’d.

Man. When Rome’s sixth emperor was near his last

The victim of a self—inflicted wound,

To shun the torments of a public death

From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier,

With show of loyal pity, would have stanch’d

The gushing throat with his officious robe;

The dying Roman thrust him back, and said—

Some empire still in his expiring glance—

“It is too late—is this fidelity—”

Abbot. And what of this—

Man. I answer with the Roman,

“It is too late!”

Abbot. It never can be so,

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul,

And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no hope—

’Tis strange—even those who do despair above,

Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth,

To which frail twig they cling like drowning men.

Man. Ay—father! I have had those earthly visions

And noble aspirations in my youth,

To make my own the mind of other men,

The enlightener of nations; and to rise

I knew not whither—it might be to fall;

But fall, even as the mountain-cataract,

Which, having leapt from its more dazzling height,

Even in the foaming strength of its abyss

(Which casts up misty columns that become

Clouds raining from the reascended skies)

Lies low but mighty still.—But this is past,

My thoughts mistook themselves.

Abbot. And wherefore so—

Man. I could not tame my nature down; for he

Must serve who fain would sway—and soothe, and sue,

And watch all time, and pry into all place,

And be a living lie, who would become

A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such

The mass are; I disdain’d to mingle with

A herd, though to be leader—and of wolves.

The lion is alone, and so am I.

Abbot. And why not live and act with other men—

Man. Because my nature was averse from life;

And yet not cruel; for I would not make,

But find a desolation. Like the wind,

The red-hot breath of the most lone Simoom,

Which dwells but in the desert and sweeps o’er

The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast,

And revels o’er their wild and arid waves,

And seeketh not, so that it is not sought,

But being met is deadly,—such hath been

The course of my existence; but there came

Things in my path which are no more.

Abbot. Alas!

I ’gin to fear that thou art past all aid

From me and from my calling; yet so young,

I still would—

Man. Look on me! there is an order

Of mortals on the earth, who do become

Old in their youth, and die ere middle age,

Without the violence of warlike death;

Some perishing of pleasure, some of study,

Some worn with toil, some of mere weariness,

Some of disease, and some insanity,

And some of wither’d or of broken hearts;

For this last is a malady which slays

More than are number’d in the lists of Fate,

Taking all shapes and bearing many names.

Look upon me! for even of all these things

Have I partaken; and of all these things,

One were enough; then wonder not that I

Am what I am, but that I ever was,

Or having been, that I am still on earth.

Abbot. Yet, hear me still—

Man. Old man! I do respect

Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem

Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain.

Think me not churlish; I would spare thyself,

Far more than me, in shunning at this time

All further colloquy; and so—farewell. [Exit MANFRED.

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature: he

Hath all the energy which would have made

A goodly frame of glorious elements,

Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,

It is an awful chaos—light and darkness,

And mind and dust, and passions and pure thoughts,

Mix’d, and contending without end or order,

All dormant or destructive. He will perish,

And yet he must not; I will try once more,

For such are worth redemption; and my duty

Is to dare all things for a righteous end.

I’ll follow him—but cautiously, though surely. [Exit ABBOT.

Act III

Scene II

Another Chamber.

MANFRED and HERMAN.

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sunset:

He sinks beyond the mountain.

Man. Doth he so—

I will look on him. [MANFRED advances to the Window of the Hall.

Glorious Orb! the idol

Of early nature, and the vigorous race

Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons

Of the embrace of angels with a sex

More beautiful than they, which did draw down

The erring spirits who can ne’er return;—

Most glorious orb! that wert a worship, ere

The mystery of thy making was reveal’d!

Thou earliest minister of the Almighty,

Which gladden’d, on their mountain tops, the hearts

Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour’d

Themselves in orisons! Thou material God!

And representative of the Unknown,

Who chose thee for his shadow! Thou chief star!

Centre of many stars! which mak’st our earth

Endurable, and temperest the hues

And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!

Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,

And those who dwell in them! for near or far,

Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,

Even as our outward aspects;—thou dost rise

And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well!

I ne’er shall see thee more. As my first glance

Of love and wonder was for thee, then take

My latest look: thou wilt not beam on one

To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been

Of a more fatal nature. He is gone;

I follow. [Exit MANFRED.

Act III

Scene III

The Mountains—The Castle of MANFRED at some distance—A Terrace before a Tower—Time, Twilight.

HERMAN, MANUEL, and other Dependants of MANFRED.

Her. ’Tis strange enough; night after night, for years,

He hath pursued long vigils in this tower,

Without a witness. I have been within it,—

So have we all been oft—times; but from it,

Or its contents, it were impossible

To draw conclusions absolute of aught

His studies tend to. To be sure, there is

One chamber where none enter: I would give

The fee of what I have to come these three years,

To pore upon its mysteries.

Manuel. ’Twere dangerous;

Content thyself with what thou knowest already.

Her. Ah, Manuel! thou art elderly and wise,

And couldst say much; thou hast dwelt within the castle—

How many years is ’t—

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred’s birth,

I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

Her. There be more sons in like predicament.

But wherein do they differ—

Manuel. I speak not

Of features or of form, but mind and habits;

Count Sigismund was proud, but gray and free—

A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not

With books and solitude, nor made the night

A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,

Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks

And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside

From men and their delights.

Her. Beshrew the hour,

But those were jocund times! I would that such

Would visit the old walls again; they look

As if they had forgotten them.

Manuel. These walls

Must change their chieftain first. Oh! I have seen

Some strange things in them, Herman.

Her. Come, be friendly;

Relate me some to while away our watch:

I’ve heard thee darkly speak of an event

Which happen’d hereabouts, by this same tower.

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remember

’T was twilight, as it may be now, and such

Another evening; yon red cloud, which rests

On Eigher’s pinnacle, so rested then,—

So like that it might be the same; the wind

Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows

Began to glitter with the climbing moon.

Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower,—

How occupied, we knew not, but with him

The sole companion of his wanderings

And watchings—her, whom of all earthly things

That lived, the only thing he seem’d to love,—

As he indeed, by blood was bound to do,

The Lady Astarte, his—

Hush! who comes here—

Enter the ABBOT

Abbot. Where is your master—

Her. Yonder in the tower.

Abbot. I must speak with him.

Manuel. ’Tis impossible;

He is most private, and must not be thus

Intruded on.

Abbot. Upon myself I take

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be—

But I must see him.

Her. Thou hast seen him once

This eve already.

Abbot. Herman! I command thee,

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach.

Her. We dare not.

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald

Of my own purpose.

Manuel. Reverend father, stop—

I pray you pause.

Abbot. Why so—

Manuel. But step this way,

And I will tell you further. [Exeunt.

Act III

Scene IV

Interior of the Tower.

MANFRED, alone.

Man. The stars are forth, the moon above the tops

Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful!

I linger yet with Nature, for the night

Hath been to me a more familiar face

Than that of man; and in her starry shade

Of dim and solitary loveliness,

I learn’d the language of another world.

I do remember me, that in my youth,

When I was wandering,—upon such a night

I stood within the Coliseum’s wall

Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.

The trees which grew along the broken arches

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars

Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar

The watch-dog bay’d beyond the Tiber; and

More near from out the Caesars’ palace came

The owl’s long cry, and, interruptedly,

Of distant sentinels the fitful song

Begun and died upon the gentle wind.

Some cypresses beyond the time—worn breach

Appear’d to skirt the horizon, yet they stood

Within a bowshot. Where the Caesars dwelt,

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

A grove which springs through levell’d battlements

And twines its roots with the imperial hearths,

Ivy usurps the laurel’s place of growth;—

But the gladiators’ bloody Circus stands,

A noble wreck in ruinous perfection!

While Caesar’s chambers and the Augustan halls

Grovel on earth in indistinct decay.

And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon

All this, and cast a wide and tender light,

Which soften’d down the hoar austerity

Of rugged desolation, and fill’d up,

As ’twere anew, the gaps of centuries;

Leaving that beautiful which still was so,

And making that which was not, till the place

Became religion, and the heart ran o’er

With silent worship of the great of old,—

The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule

Our spirits from their urns.—

’Twas such a night!

’Tis strange that I recall it at this time;

But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight

Even at the moment when they should array

Themselves in pensive order.

Enter the ABBOT

Abbot. My good lord!

I crave a second grace for this approach;

But yet let not my humble zeal offend

By its abruptness—all it hath of ill

Recoils on me; its good in the effect

May light upon your head—could I say heart—

Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should

Recall a noble spirit which hath wander’d

But is not yet all lost.

Man. Thou know’st me not;

My days are number’d, and my deeds recorded:

Retire, or ’twill be dangerous—Away!

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me—

Man. Not I;

I simply tell thee peril is at hand,

And would preserve thee.

Abbot. What dost thou mean—

Man. Look there!

What dost thou see—

Abbot. Nothing.

Man. Look there, I say,

And steadfastly;—now tell me what thou seest.

Abbot. That which should shake me—but I fear it not:

I see a dusk and awful figure rise,

Like an infernal god, from out the earth;

His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form

Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between

Thyself and me—but I do fear him not.

Man. Thou hast no cause; he shall not harm thee, but

His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy.

I say to thee—Retire!

Abbot. And I reply,

Never—till I have battled with this fiend:—

What doth he here—

Man. Why—ay—what doth he here—

I did not send for him,—he is unbidden.

Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what with guests like these

Hast thou to do— I tremble for thy sake:

Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him—

Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his brow

The thunder—scars are graven; from his eye

Glares forth the immortality of hell—

Avaunt!—

Man. Pronounce—what is thy mission—

Spirit. Come!

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being— answer!—speak!

Spirit. The genius of this mortal.—Come! ’tis time.

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny

The power which summons me. Who sent thee here—

Spirit. Thou’lt know anon—Come! Come!

Man. I have commanded

Things of an essence greater far than thine.

And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come—Away! I say.

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not

To render up my soul to such as thee:

Away! I’ll die as I have lived—alone.

Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren.—Rise! [Other Spirits rise up.

Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones!—Avaunt! I say,—

Ye have no power where piety hath power,

And I do charge ye in the name—

Spirit. Old man!

We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order;

Waste not thy holy words on idle uses,

It were in vain: this man is forfeited.

Once more I summon him—Away! away!

Man. I do defy ye,—though I feel my soul

Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye;

Nor will I hence, while I have earthly strength

To breathe my scorn upon ye—earthly breath

To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take

Shall be ta’en limb by limb.

Spirit. Reluctant mortal!

Is this the Magian who would so pervade

The world invisible, and make himself

Almost our equal——Can it be that thou

Art thus in love with life— the very life

Which made thee wretched!

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest!

My life is in its last hour,—that I know,

Nor would redeem a moment of that hour.

I do not combat against death, but thee

And thy surrounding angels; my past power

Was purchased by no compact with thy crew,

But by superior science, penance, daring,

And length of watching, strength of mind, and skill

In knowledge of our fathers when the earth

Saw men and spirits walking side by side

And gave ye no supremacy: I stand

Upon my strength—I do defy—deny—

Spurn back, and scorn ye!—

Spirit. But thy many crimes

Have made thee—

Man. What are they to such as thee—

Must crimes be punish’d but by other crimes,

And greater criminals——Back to thy hell!

Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel;

Thou never shalt possess me, that I know:

What I have done is done; I bear within

A torture which could nothing gain from thine.

The mind which is immortal makes itself

Requital for its good or evil thoughts,

Is its own origin of ill and end,

And its own place and time; its innate sense,

When stripp’d of this mortality, derives

No colour from the fleeting things without,

But is absorb’d in sufferance or in joy,

Born from the knowledge of its own desert.

Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me;

I have not been thy dupe nor am thy prey,

But was my own destroyer, and will be

My own hereafter.—Back, ye baffled fiends!

The hand of death is on me—but not yours! [The Demons disappear.

Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art—thy lips are white—

And thy breast heaves—and in thy gasping throat

The accents rattle. Give thy prayers to Heaven—

Pray—albeit but in thought,—but die not thus.

Man. ’Tis over—my dull eyes can fix thee not;

But all things swim around me, and the earth

Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well—

Give me thy hand.

Abbot. Cold—cold—even to the heart—

But yet one prayer—Alas! how fares it with thee—

Man. Old man! ’tis not so difficult to die. [MANFRED expires.

Abbot. He’s gone, his soul hath ta’en its earthless flight;

Whither— I dread to think; but he is gone.

This file was created with

BookDesigner program

bookdesigner@the-ebook.org

7/10/2007

Date:

7/10/2007