THE Non-Juror.
A COMEDY.
As it is Acted at the THEATRE-ROYAL,
BY His MAJESTY'S Servants.
Written by Mr.
CIBBER
—Pulchra Laverna
Da mihi fallere; da Justum, Sanctum
que
videri,
Noctem Peccatis, & Fraudibus objice Nubem.
HOR.
DUBLIN:
Re-printed by THOMAS HUME, for GEORGE RISK, at the
London
in
Dame's-Street
near the Horse-Guard, 1718.
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
 
In
London.
In
Dublin.
Sir
John Woodvil,
Mr
Miles.
Mr.
Dummit.
Colonel
Woodvil,
Mr.
Booth.
Mr.
Evans.
Mr.
Heartly,
Mr.
Wilks.
Mr.
Elrington,
Sen.
Doctor
Wolf.
Mr.
Cibber.
Mr.
Griffith
Charles,
Mr.
Walker.
Mr.
Elrington,
Jun.
WOMEN.
Lady
Woodvil.
Mrs.
Porter.
Mrs.
Lyddal.
Maria,
Mrs.
Oldfield.
Mrs.
Vanderbank.
The SCENE, an Anti chamber of Sir
JOHN'S
House in
LONDON.
TO THE KING.
SIR,
IN a Time, when all Communities Congratulate Your MAJESTY on the
Glories
of Your Reign, which are continually rising from the
Prosperities
of Your People; be graciously pleas'd,
Dread Sir,
to permit the lowest of Your Subjects from the
Theatre,
to take this Occasion of offering their most Humble Acknowledgments for Your Royal Favour and Protection.
YOUR Comedians, SIR, are an Unhappy Society, whom some Severe Heads think wholly Useless, and others Dangerous to the Young and Innocent: This Comedy is therefore an Attempt to remove that Prejudice, and to shew, what Honest and Laudable Uses may be made of the
Theatre,
when its Performaces keep close to the true Purposes of its Institution: That it may be necessary to divert the Sullen and Dissaffected from busying their Brains to disturb the Happiness of a Government, which (for want of proper Amusements) they often enter into Wild and Seditious Schemes to reform: And that it may likewise make those very Follies the Ridicule and Diversion even of those that committed them. Our Labours have at least this Glory to boast, That since Plays were first Exhibited in
England,
they were never totally suppress'd, but by those very People, that turn'd our
Church,
and
Constitution,
into
Irreligion
and
Anarchy.
OF all Errors, those that are the Effect of
Superstition
make us naturally most obstinate; it is therefore no wonder, that the Blinded Proselytes of our Few Non-Juring Clergy, are so hard to be recover'd by the clearest Evidences of Sense and Reason. But when a
Principle
is once made truly
Ridiculous,
it is not in the Power of Human Nature not to be
asham'd
of it. From which Reflection, I was first determin'd to attack those
lurking
Enemies of our Constitution from the Stage: And though my Success has far exceeded my Expectation, yet I grieve, when I (perhaps with Vanity) imagine it might had thrice the good Effect on the Minds of Your MAJESTY'S People, were it not under the
Misfortune
of being written by a
Comedian.
I am therefore in some Terror, notwithstanding its Publick Applause, to reflect how far Your MAJESTY, in Your Wisdom, may think it proper to with-hold Your Pardon for the Unlicensed Boldness of my Undertaking. I am sensible it may be justly urg'd against me, That even
Truth
and
Loyalty
might have lost their Lustre, by appearing reduc'd to want the Defence of so inconsiderable a Champion: But as I never believ'd the best Play could be supported in an Ill Cause; so was I assur'd the worst might pass, with Favour, in a Good one. And though my Duty and Concern has made me more careful in the Conduct of this, than any of my former Endeavours; I am convinc'd, that what may have been extraordinary in the Success of it, is utterly owing to a happy Choice of the Subject: And as its meeting no Opposition from our Publick Malecontents, seems, in some Degree, an Argument of the Clear and Honest Truth of those Principles it vindicates; so may it of the equal Falshood of the Rebellious and Unchristian Tenets it exposes. Nay, I have yet a farther Hope, that it has even discovered the Strength and Number of the
Misguided
to be much less, than may have been artfully infinuated; there being no Assembly where People are so free, and apt to speak their Minds, as in a Crowded
Theatre;
Of which Your MAJESTY may have lately seen an Instance, in the Insuppressible Acclamations that were given on Your appearing to Honour this Play with Your Royal Presence.
BUT were the Disaffected yet as Numerous, as some Few may wish them, What Honest
Englishman
can ever think them formidable, that considers his Security in the Wisdom of Your MAJESTY'S
Counsels,
and Your Heroick
Resolution
to Execute them? And as every Action of Your Regal Power has shewn the Nation, that Your greatest
Glory
and
Delight
is in being the
Father
of Your
People;
so may it Convince its Enemies, that
they
will always find You KING of Your
Subjects.
—But I am wandring into Thoughts that awe me into Silence; and humbly beg Leave to Subscribe my self,
May it please Your
MAJESTY,
Your
MAJESTY'S
Most Dutiful, and Most Obedient, Subject and Servant, COLLEY CIBBER.
PROLOGUE.
Written by N. ROWE,
Esq
TO Night, ye
Whigs
and
Tories,
both be safe,
Nor hope, at one another's Cost, to laugh;
We mean to souse
Old Satan
and the
Pope;
They've no
Relations
here, nor
Friends
we hope.
A Tool of theirs supplys the Comick Stage
With just Materials for Satyrick Rage:
Nor think our Colours may too strongly paint
The Stiff
Nonjuring-Separation-Saint.
Good Breeding ne'er commands us to be Civil
To those who give the Nation to the
Devil;
Who at our Surest, `Best Foundation strike,
And hate our Monarch and
our Church
alike:
Our Church
—which aw'd with Reverential Fear,
Scarcely the Muse presumes to mention here.
Long may she these, her
worst
of Foes, defy,
And lift her Mitred Head triumphant to the Sky;
While
theirs
—but Satyr silently disdains
To name, what lives not but in
Madmen's Brains.
Like
Bawds,
each Lurking
Pastor
seeks the Dark,
And fears the
Justice
's Enquiring Clerk.
In close Back Rooms his Reuted Flocks he rallys,
And reigns the Patriarch of Blind Lanes and Alleys.
There safe, he lets his thund'ring Censures fly,
Unchristens, damns us, gives our Laws the Lye,
And Excommunicates three Storys high.
Why, since a Land of Liberty they hate,
Still will they linger in this Freeborn State?
Here, every Hour, fresh hateful Objects rise,
Peace and Prosperity afflict their Eyes:
With Anguish, Prince and People they survey,
Their Just Obedience, and his Righteous Sway.
Ship off
ye Slaves, and seek some passive Land,
Where Tyrants after your own Hearts Command;
To your
Transalpine
Master's Rule resort,
And fill an empty abdicated Court:
Turn your Possessions here to
Ready-Rhino,
And buy ye Lands and Lordships at
Urbino.
THE NON-JUROR.
ACT. I.
Sir
John Woodvil,
and the Colonel.
PRAY consider, Sir,
So I do, Sir, that I a
er Father and will dispose of her as I please.
I don't dispute your Authority, Sir: but am I am your Son too, I think it my Duty to be concern'd for your Honour: Have not you countenanced his addresses to my Sister! Has not she receiv'd them? How then is it possible, That either you or she with Honour can recede?
Why, Sir? Suppose I was about buying a Pad-nag for your Sister, and upon Enquiry should find him not sound: Pray, Sir, would there be any great Dishonour in being off o'the Bargain?
With Submission, Sir, I don't take that to be the Case. Mr.
Heartly
's Birth and Fortune are too well known to you; and I dare swear he may desy the World, to lay a Blemish upon his Principles.
Why then, Sir, since I must be catechis'd, I must tell you, I don't like his Principles: For I am inform'd he is a Time-server, one that basely flatters the Government, and has no more Religion than you have.
Sir, we don't either of us think it proper to make boast of our Religion; but if you please to enquire, you will find we go to Church as orderly as the rest of our Neighbours.
Ay! to what Church!
—St.
James
's Church—The establish'd Church.
Establish'd Church!
Sir—
Nay, you need not stare, Sir; and before he values himself upon going to Church, I would first have him be sure he is a Christian.
A Christian, Sir!
Ay, that's my Question, Whether he is yet christned? I mean, by a Pastor, that had a Divine, Uninterrupted, Successive Right to mark him as a Sheep of the true Fold?
Is it possible! are you an
Englishman,
and offer Sir, a Question so uncharitable, not only to him, but the whole Nation?
Nay, Sir, you may give your self what Air of Amazement you please,—I won't argue with you; you are both of you too harden'd to be converted now, but since you thing it your Duty, as a Son, to be concern'd for my Errors, I think it as much mine, as a Father, to be concern'd for yours—I'll only tell you of them, if you think fit to mend them—so—if not—take the Consequence.
(Aside.)
O! give me Temper, Heaven! this vile nonjuring Zealot! what poisonous Principles has he swell'd him with!—Well, Sir, since you don't think it proper to argue upon this Subject, I'll wave it too. But if I may ask it without Offence, Are these your only Reasons for discountenancing Mr.
Heartly
's Address to my Sister?
These! are they not flagrant! would you have me marry my Daughter to a Pagan! for so he is, and all of you, till you are regularly Christians. In short, Son, expect to inherit no Estate of mine, unless you resolve to come into the Pale of the Church, of which I prosess my self a Member.
I thought I always was, Sir, and hope I am still, unless you have lately been converted to the
Romans.
No, Sir, I abhor the Thoughts on't; and Protest against their Errors as much as you do.
If so, Sir, Where's our Difference?
Difference! 'twould make you tremble, Sir, to know it! but since 'tis fit you should know it, look there—
[Gives him a Book]
read that, and be reform'd.
What's here?
(Reads)
The Case of Schism,
&c. Thank you, Sir, I have seen enough of this in the
Daily Courant,
to be sorry its in any Hands, but those of the common Hangman.
Prophanation!
And though I always honour'd your Concern for the Church's Welfare, I little thought 'twas for a Church that is establish'd no where?
O, Perverseness! but there is no better to be expected from your Course of Life: This is all the Effects of your modern Loyalty, your Conversation at
Button
's. Will you never leave that foul Nest of Heresy and Schism?
Yes, Sir, when I see any Thing like it there; and should think my self oblig'd to retire, where such Principles were started—I own I use the Place, because I generally meet there instructive or diverting Company.
Yes, fine Company indeed,
Arians,
Party-Poets, Players and Presbyterians.
That's a very unusual Mixture, Sir; but if a Man entertains me innocently, am I oblig'd to enquire into his Profession, or Principles? Would not it be ridiculous for a Protestant that loves Musick, to refuse going to the
Opera,
because most of the Performers are Papists? But, Sir, this seems foreign to my Business; Mr.
Heartly
intends this Morning to pay his Respects to you, in hopes to obtain your final Consent; and desired me to be present, as a Mediator of Articles between you.
I am glad to hear it.
That's kind, indeed, Sir.
May be not, Sir—for I will not be at home when he comes.
Nay, pray, Sir, 'twill be but Civility, at least, to hear him.
And because I won't tell a Lie for the Matter, I'll go out this Moment.
Good Sir.
But because I won't deceive him neither, tell him, I would not have him lose his Time, in fooling after your Sister—In short, I have another Man in my Head for her.
(Exit Sir
John.
Another Man! 'twould be worth one's while to know him—Pray Heaven this nonjuring Hypocrite has not got some beggerly Traytor in his Eye for her—I must rid the House of him at any rate, or all the Settlement I can hope from my Father is a Castle in the Air, nor can indeed his Life be safe, while such a Villain makes it an Act of Conscience to endanger it; If his Eyes are not soon open'd against him, the Crown's more likely to inherit his Estate, than I am; and though the Government has beey very favourable upon those Occasions, it is but a melancholly Business to perition for what might have been one
s Birthright. My Sister may be ruin'd too—here she comes; if there be another Man in the Case, she no doubt can let me into the Secret.
Enter
Maria.
Sister, good Morrow—I want to speak with you.
Nay, but prithee, Brother, don't put on the wise politick Face then: Why you look as if the Minority had like to have carried the Question.
Come, come, a Truce with your Raillery; what I have to ask of you is serious, and I beg you would be so in your Answer.
Well then, provided it is not upon the Subject of Love, I will be so—but make Haste too—for I have not had my Tea yet.
Why it is, and it is not upon that Subject.
O! I love a Riddle dearly—come—let's hear it.
Nay, pish—if you will be serious, say so.
O Laid' Sir, I beg your Pardon—there—there's my whole Form and Features totally disengag'd and lifeless at your Service; now put them in what Posture of Attention you think fit.
(She leans against him, with her Arms awkardly falling on her Knees.
Was there ever such a giddy Devil!—prithee stand up. I have been talking with my Father, and he declares positively you shall not receive any farther Addresses from Mr.
Heartley
Are you serious?
He said it this Minute, and with some Warmth too.
I am glad on't with all my Heart.
How! glad!
To a Degree: Do you think a Man has any more Charms for me for my Father's liking him? No, Sir, if Mr.
Heartley
can make his Way to me now, he is oblig'd to me only: Besides, now it may have the Face of an Amour indeed: Now one has something to struggle for; there's Difficulty, there's Danger, there's the dear Spirit of Contradiction in it too. O I like it mightily.
I am glad this does not make you think the worse of
Heartley
—but however, a Father's Consent might have clapt a pair of Horses more to your Coach perhaps, and the want of that, may pinch your Fortune.
Burn Fortune; Am not I a fine Woman? And have not I above 5000
l.
in my own Hands?
Yes, Sister, but with all your Charms, you have had it in your Hands almost these four Years; pray consider that too.
Pshah! and have not I had the full Swing of my own Airs and Humours these four Years? But if I'll humour my Father, I'll warrant he'll make it three or four Thousand more, with some unlick'd Lout of a Fellow to drub me into the Bargain: A comfortable Equivalent truly—No, no, let him light his Pipe with his Consent if he pleases. Willful against Wife for a Wager.
Well said; nothing goes to your Heart I find.
No, no, Brother; the Suits of my Lovers shall not be ended, like those at Law, by dull Council on both sides, I'll hear nothing but what the Plaintiff himself can say to me; 'twould be a pretty Thing indeed to confine my Airs to the Directions of a Sollicitor, to look kind or cruel, only as the Jointure propos'd▪ is, or is not, equal to the Fortune my Father designs me: What do you think I'll have my Features put into the
Gazette
to be dispos'd of, like a parcel of dirty Acres, by an old Master in Chancery to the fairest Bidder? No, if I must have an ill Match, I'll have the Pleasure of playing my own Game at least.
There spoke the Spirit of a free-born
Englishwoman.
—Well, I am glad you are not startled at the first Part of my News however; but farther—Pray, Sister, has my Father ever propos'd any other Man to you?
Another Man! let me know why you ask, and I'll tell you.
Why the last Words he said to me, were, That he had another Man in his Head for you.
And who is it? Who is it? tell me, dear Brother, quickly.
Why you don't so much as seem surpriz'd at it!
No, but impatient, and that's as well you know.
Why how now, Sister?
[Gravely.
Why sure, Brother, you know very little of Female Happiness, if you suppose the Surprize of a new Lover ought to shock a Woman of my Temper—don't you know that I am a
Coquette?
If you are, you are the first that ever was sincere enough to own her being so.
To a Lover I grant you; but I make no more of you than a Sister, I can say any Thing to you.
I should have been better pleas'd if you had not own'd it to me—it's a hateful Character.
Ay, it's no Matter for that, its violently pleasant, and there's no Law against it, that I know of. You had best advise your Friend
Heartley
to bring in a Bill to prevent it: All the discarded Toasts, Prudes, and superannuated Virgins would give him their Interest I dare swear. Take my Word, Coquetry has govern'd the World from the Beginning, and will do so to the End on't.
Heartly
's like to have a hopeful Time on't with you.
Well, but don't you really know who it is my Father intends me?
Not I really, but I imagin'd you might, and therefore thought to advise with you about it.
Nay, he has not open'd his Lips to me yet—Are you sure he's gone out?
You are very impatient to know methinks? What have you to do to concern your self about any Man but
Heartly?
O Lud! O Lud! O Lud! don't be so wise, prithee Brother: Why if you had an empty House to lett, would you be displeas'd to hear there were two People about it? Can any Woman think herself happy, that's oblig'd to marry only with a
Hobson
's Choice? No, don't think to rob me of so innocent a Vanity; for believe me, Brother, there is no Fellow upon Earth, how disagreeable soever, but in the long Run of his Addresses will utter something at least, that's worth a poor Woman's hearing. Besides, to be a little serious,
Heartly
has a Tincture of Jealousy in his Temper, which nothing but a substantial Rival can cure him of.
O your Servant, Madam, now you talk Reason; I am glad you are concern'd enough for
Heartly
's Faults, to think them worth your mending—Ha! ha!
Concern'd! Why did I say that—look you, I'll deny it all to him—Well, if ever I am serious with you again—
Here he comes; be as merry with him as you please.
Pshah!
Enter
Heartly. Maria
takes a Book from the Table, and reads.
Dear Colonel, your Servant.
I am glad you did not come sooner, for in the Humour my Father left me, 'twould not have been a proper Time to have press'd your Affair—I touch'd upon't—but—I'll tell you more presently; in the mean Time lose no Ground with my Sister.
I shall always think my self oblig'd to your Friendship let my Success be what it will—Madam—your most obedient—What have you got there pray?
[Repeating.]
"Her lively Looks a sprightly Mind disclose,
"Quick, as her Eyes, and as unfix'd as those—
Pray, Madam, What is it?
"Favours to none, to all she Smiles extends—
Nay, I will see—
[Strugling.]
[Putting him by.]
"Ost she rejects—but never once offends.
Have a Care, she has dipt into her own Character, and she'll never forgive you, if you don't let her through with it.
I beg your Pardon, Madam.
[Gravely.]
"Bright as the Sun, her Eyes the Gazers strike,
"And like the Sun, they shine on all alike—
um—um.
That is something like indeed.
You would say so, if you knew all.
All what? Pray what do you mean?
Have a little Patience, I'll tell you immediately.
[Aside.]
Confusion! some Coxcomb now has been flattering her, I'll be curst else, she's so full of her dear self upon't.
[Turning to
Heartly.]
"If to her Share some Female Errors fall,
"Look on her Face—and you'll forget them all.
Is not that natural, Mr.
Heartly?
For a Woman to expect it is indeed.
And can you blame her, when 'tis at the same Time a Proof of the poor Man's Passion, and her Power?
So that you think the greatest Compliment a Lover can make his Mistress, is to give up his Reason to her!
Certainly: For what have your lordly Sex to boast of but your Understanding? And till that's entirely surrender'd to her Discretion, while the least Sentiment holds out against her, a Woman must be downright vain to think her Conquest compleated.
There we differ, Madam; for in my Opinion, nothing but the most excessive Vanity, could value or desire such a Conquest.
O! d'ye hear him, Brother? The Creature reasons with me! Nay, has the frontless Folly to think me in the wrong too! O Lud! he'd make a horrid Tyrant—positively I won't have him.
Well, my Comfort is, no other Man will easily know whether you'll have him or not.
[Affoctedly smiling.]
Am not I a horrid, vain, silly Creature, Mr.
Heartly?
A little bordering upon the Baby, I must own.
Laud! how can you love one so then? But I don't think you love me though—do you?
Yes, Faith I do, and so shamefully, that I am in Hopes you doubt it.
Poor Man! he'd fain bring me to Reason.
[Smiling in his Face.]
I would indeed, nor am asham'd to own it—nay, were it but possible to make you serious only when you should be so, you would be the most perfect Creature of your Sex.
O Lud! he's civil—
Come, come, you have good Sense, use me but with that, and make me what you please.
Laud! I don't desire to make any thing of you, not I.
Don't look so cold upon me, by Heaven I can't bear it.
Well! now you are tolerable.
[Gently glancing on him.]
Come then, be generous, and swear at least you'll never be another's.
Ah! Lard! now you have spoil'd all again; beside, how can I be sure of that before I have seen this t'other Man, my Brother spoke to me of?
[Reads to her self again.]
What Riddle's this?
[To the Col.]
I told you, you did not know all: To be serious▪ my Father went out but now, on purpose to avoid you. In short, he absolutely retracts his Promises, says he would not have you fool away your Time after my Sister, and in plain Terms told me, he had another Man in his Head for her.
Another Man! Confusion! who! what is he? did not he name him?
No, nor has he yet spoke of him to my Sister.
This is unaccountable—What can have given him this sudden turn?
Some Whim our Conscientious Doctor has put in his Head I'll lay my Life.
He! He can't be such a Villain, he professes a Friendship for me.
So much the worse: By the way, I am now upon the scent of a Secret, that I hope shortly will prove him a Rogue to the whole Nation.
You amaze me—But on what Pretence, what Ground, what Reason, what Interest can he have to oppose me?—This Shock is insupportable.
[He stands fix'd, and mute.
(Aside to
Maria.)
Are you really as unconcern'd now as you seem to be?
Thou art a strange Dunce, Brother, thou knowest no more of Love, than I do of a Regiment—You shall see now how I'll comfort him—
[She goes to
Heartly
—mimicks his Posture and Uneasiness, then looks seriously in his Face, and blurts into a Laugh.
I don't wonder at your good Humour, Madam, when you have so substantial an Opportunity to make me uneasy for Life.
O lud! how wise he is? Well! his Reproaches have, that greatness of Soul—the Confusion they give one is insupportable—
Betty,
is the Tea ready?
Enter
Betty.
Yes, Madam.
Mr.
Heartly,
your Servant.
[Exit.
So, so, you have made a fine spot of Work on't indeed.
Dear
Tom,
you'll pardon me, if I speak a little freely, I own the Levity of her Behaviour, at this time, gives me harder Thoughts, than I once believ'd it possible to have of her.
Indeed, my Friend, you mistake her.
O pardon me, had she any real Concern for me, the Apprehension of a Man's Addresses, whom yet she never saw, must have alarm'd her to be something more than serious.
Not at all, for (let this Man be who he will) I take all this Levity, as a Proof of her Resolution to have nothing to say to him.
And pray Sir, may I not as well suspect, that this artful Delay of her good Nature to me now, is meant as a provisional Defence against my Reproaches, in case, when she has seen this Man, she should think it convenient to prefer him to Me?
No, no, she's Giddy, but not capable of so serious a Falshood.
It's a sign you don't judge her with a Lover's Eye.
No; but as a stander by, I often see more of the Game than you do: Don't you know that she is naturally Coquette? And a Coquett's Play with a serious Lover, is like a Back game at Tables, all open at first; she'll make you twenty Blots—and you—spare none, take them All up, to be sure, while she—gains Points upon you: So that when you eagerly expect to end the Game on your Side, slap—as you were, she whips up your Man, she's fortified, and you are in a worse Condition, than when you begun with her—Upon which, you know of Course, you curse your Fortune, and she laughs at you.
Faith you judge it rightly—I have always found it so.
In short, you are in hast to be up, and she's resolv'd to make you play out the Game at her leisure; you play for the fair Stake, and she for Victory.
But still, what could she mean by going away so abruptly?
You grew too serious for her.
Why who could bear such Trifling?
You should have laught at her.
I can't love at that easy rate.
No—If you could, the Uneasiness would lie on her Side.
Do you then really think she has any thing in her Heart for me?
Ay, marry Sir—Ah! if you could but get her to own that seriously now—Lord! how you could love her!
And so I could, by Heaven!
[eagerly embracing him.
Ay, but 'tis not the Nature of the Creature, you must take her upon her own Terms; tho' faith I thought she own'd a great deal to you, but now; Did not you observe, when you were impatient, with what a conscious Vanity she cry'd—Now you are tolerable.
Nay, the Devil can be agreeable when she pleases.
Well, well, I'll undertake for her; if my Father don't stand in your Way we are well enough, and I don't question, but the Alarm he has given us, like his other Politick Projects, will end all
in Fumo.
What says my Lady? you don't think she's against us.
I dare swear she is not, she's of so soft, so sweet a Disposition, that ev'n Provocation can't make her your Enemy.
How came so fine a Creature to marry your Father with such a vast inequality of Years?
Want of Fortune,
Frank.
She was Poor and Beautiful▪ He Rich and Amorous—She made him Happy, and he her—
A Lady.
And a Jointure—Now she's the only one in the Family, that has Power with our precise Doctor, and I dare engage she'll use it with him, to persuade my Father from any thing that's against your Interest; by the way you must know, I have some shrewd Suspicions that this sanctify'd Rogue is carnally in love with her.
O the liquorish Rascal!
You shall judge by the Symptoms: First, he's jealous of every Male Thing that comes near her; and under a friendly Pretence of guarding my Father's Honour, has persuaded him to abolish her Assemblies: Nay, at the last Masquerade this conscientious Spy (unknown to her) was eternally at her Elbow in the Habit of a Cardinal. At Dinner he never fails to sit next her, and will eat nothing but what she helps him; always takes her side in Argument, and when he bows after Grace, constantly Ogles her; bids my Sister, if she would look lovely, learn to Dress by her; and at the Tea-Table, I have seen the impudent Goat most lusciously sip off her leavings. She lost one of her Slippers t'other Day, (by the way she has a mighty pretty Foot) and what no you think was become of it?
You puzzel me.
I gad, this love-sick Monkey had stole it for a private Play Thing, and one of the House-maids, when she clean'd his Study, found it there with one of her old Gloves in the middle of it.
A very proper Relique to put him in mind of his Devotions to
Venus.
But mum! here he comes.
Enter Doctor
Wolf,
and
Charles.
Charles,
Step up into my Study, and bring down half a Dozen more of those Manual Devotions that I compos'd for the Use of our Friends in Prison: and, dost thou hear? leave this Writing there, but bring me the Key, and then bid the Butler ring to Prayers—
[Exit
Charles.]
Mr.
Heartly,
I am your most faithful Servant, I hope you and the good Colonel will stay and join in the private Duties of the Family.
With all my Heart, Sir, provided you'll do the Duty of a Subject too, and not leave out the Prayer for the Royal Family.
The good Colonel knows, I never do omit it.
Sometimes, Doctor; but I don't remember, I ever One heard you name them.
That's only to shorten the Service, lest in so large a Family, some few vain, idle Souls might think it Tedious; and we ought, as it were, to Allure them to what's Good, by the gentlest, easiest Means we can.
How! how Doctor! Are you sure that's your only Reason for leaving their Names out?
But, pray Sir, why is Naming them so absolutely necessary? when Heaven, without it, knows the true Intention of our Hearts?—Beside, why should we, when we so easily may avoid it, give the least colour of Offence to tender Consciences?
Ay! now you begin to open, Doctor—
Have a care, Sir, the Conscience that Equivocates in its Devotions, must have the blackest Colour Hell can paint it with.
Well said! to him
Heartly.
Your Conscience, I dare say, won't be easily convinc'd, while your Scruples turn to so good Account in a private Family.
What am I to be baited then—but 'twont be always Holiday—
[Frowning.]
The Time's now yours, but mine may come.
What do you mean, Sir?
Sir, I shall not explain my self, but make your best of what I've said. I'm not to be intrap'd by all your servile Spies of Power—But Power perhaps may change its Hands, and you e'er long, as little dare to speak your Mind as I do.
(Taking him by the Collar.)
Hark you, Sirrah! Dare you menace the Government in my hearing?
Nay, Colonel.
(Interposing.
'Tis well!
Traytor! but that our Laws have Chains and Gibbets for such Villains, I'd this Moment crackle all thy Bones to Splinters.
(Shakes him.
Very well! your Father, Sir, shall know my Treatment.
Nay, dear Colonel, let him go.
I ask your Pardon,
Frank,
I am asham'd that such a Wretch could move me so.
Come, compose your self.
(Aside, and recovering himself.)
No! I'll take no Notice of it—I know he's warm and weak enough to tell this as his own Story to his Father—let him—'tis better so—'twill but confirm Sir
John
in his good Opinion of my Charity, and serve to ruin him the faster.
[Exit.
Was there ever so insolent a Rascal?
The Dog will one Day provoke me to beat his Brains out.
Who could have believ'd such outragious Arrogance could have lurk'd under so Lamb-like an Outside?
This Fellow has the Spleen and Spirit of ten
Beckets
in him.
What the Devil is he? whence came he? what's his Original? Is he really a Doctor?
So he pretends, and that he lost his Living in
Ireland
upon his refusing the Oaths to the Government. Now I have made the strictest Inquiries, and can't find the least Evidence, that ever he was in the Country. But (as I hinted to you) there is now in Prison a poor unhappy Rebel I went to School with, whose Pardon I am solliciting, and he assures me, he knew him very well in
Flanders,
and in such Circumstances, as when it can be serviceable to me to know them, he faithfully promises to discover, but begs till then I will not insist upon it.
I gad this Intelligence may be worth your Cherishing.
Hah! here's my Sister again.
Enter
Maria
hastily, Doctor
Wolf
following.
You'll find Sir, I will not be us'd thus: Nor shall your Credit with my Father protect your Insolence to me.
What's the Matter?
Nothing, pray be quiet—I don't want you—stand out of the way—
[They retire.
What has the Dog done to her?
How durst you bolt with such Authority in my Chamber without giving me Notice?
Confusion!
Now,
Frank,
whose turn is it to keep their Temper.
Apart.
[Struggling.]
'Tis not mine I'm sure.
Hold—if my Father won't resent this, 'tis then time enough for me to do it.
Compose your Transport, Madam, I came by your Father's Desire, who being inform'd, that you were Entertaining Mr.
Heartly,
grew Impatient, and gave his Positive Command, that you attend him instantly, or he himself, he says, will fetch you.
So! now the Storm is rising.
So for what I have done, Madam, I had his Authority, and shall leave him to answer you.
'Tis false, he gave you no Authority to insult me; or if he had, did you suppose I would bear it from you? What is it you presume upon? your Function! Does that exempt you from the Manners of a Gentleman?
Shall I have any answer to your Father, Lady?
I'll send him none by you.
I shall inform him so—
[Exit.
A sawcy Puppy.
Prithee, Sister, what has the Fellow done to you?
I beg you tell us, Madam.
Nay, no great Matter—but I was sitting carelesly in my Dressing Room—a—a fastning my Garter with my Face just towards the Door, and this impudent Cur, without the least Notice, comes Bounce in upon me—and my develish Hoop hapning to hitch in the Chair, I was an Hour before I could get down my Petticoats.
The Rogue must be corrected.
Yet I gad, I can't help laughing at the Accident! What a ridiculous Figure must she make! ha! ha!
Hah! you're as Impudent as he I think: Well but had not I best go to my Father?
Now, now, dear
Tom,
speak to her before she goes, this is the very Crisis of my Life—
[Apart to the Col.
What does he say, Brother?
Why he wants to have me speak to you, and I would have him do it himself.
Ay, come, do,
Heartly,
I am in good Humour now.
O
Maria!
—my Heart is bursting—
Well, well, out with it.
Your Father, now, I see is bent on parting us—Nay, what's yet worse, perhaps, will give you to another—I cannot speak—Imagine what I want from you—
Well—O lud! one looks so silly though, when one's serious—O Ged—in short I cannot get it out.
I warrant you, try again.
O lud!—well—if one must be teiz'd then—why he must Hope, I think.
Is't possible?—Thus—
Buz—
[Stopping his Mouth]
not a Syllable, she has done very well, I bar all Heroicks; if you press it too far, I'll hold Six to Four, she's off again in a Moment.
I am silenc'd.
Now am I on Tiptoe to know what odd Fellow my Father has found out for me.
I'd give something to know him.
He's in a terrible Fuss at your being here I find—I had best go to him.
By all means.
O Bless us! here he comes piping hot to fetch me! Now we are all in a fine Pickle.
Enter Sir
John
hastily—He takes
Maria
under his Arm, Cocks his Hat, Nods, frowning at
Heartly,
and carries her off.
So—Well said Doctor! 'tis he, I'm sure has blown this Fire. What horrid Hands is this poor Family fallen into? and how the Traytor seems to Triumph in his Power? How little is my Father like himself? by Nature, Open, Just, and Generous, but this vile Hypocrite drives his weak Passions like the Wind, and I foresee at last, will dash him on his Ruin.
Nothing but your speedily detecting him can prevent it.
I have a Thought, and 'tis the only one that can expose him to my Father—Come
Frank,
be cheerful; in some unguarded Hour, we yet, perhaps, this lurking Thief,
Without his Holy Vizor, may surprize.
And lay th' Impostor naked to his Eyes.
[Exeunt.
The End of the First ACT.
ACT II.
Charles
with a Writing in his Hand.
'TIS so—I have long suspected where his Zeal would end, in the making of his private Fortune—But then to found it on the Ruin of his Patron's Children, makes me shudder at the Villany: What Desperation may a Son be driven to, so barbarously disinherited!—Beside his Daughter, fair
Maria
too is wrong'd; wrong'd in the most tender Point: For so extravagant is this Settlement, it leaves her not a Shilling, but on her conditionally marrying with the Doctor's Consent; which seems, by what I've heard, intended as an Expedient, to oblige her to accept the Doctor himself for her Husband: Now 'twere but an honost part to let
Maria
know this Snare, that's laid for her: This Deed's not sign'd, and might be yet pervented—It shall be so—'twere Folly not to try—My Condition can't be worse—Who knows how far her good Nature may think herself oblig'd for the Discovery?—Must he ruin, as he has done mine, all Families he comes into?
Enter Sir
John,
Lady
Woodvil,
and
Maria.
O,
Charles,
your Master wants you to transcribe some Letters.
Sir, I'll wait on him.
[Exit
Charles,
bowing respectfully to the Ladies.
A pretty well bred Fellow that.
Ay, ay; but he has better Qualities than his good Breeding; he is honest.
He's always clean too.
I wonder, Daughter, when thou wilt take notice of a Man's real Merit—Humph! well bred, and clean forsooth—Would not one think now, she were describing a Coxcomb?
But, dear
Papa,
do you make no allowance for one's Taste?
Taste; hah! and One's Taste? That Madam One is to me the most provoking, impertinent Jade alive; and Taste is the true Picture of her senseless, sickly Ap- When do you hear my Wife talk at this rate? and yet she is as young, as your fantastical Ladyship.
W.
Maria
's of a cheerful Temper, my Dear; but I know you don't think she wants Discretion.
I shall try that presently, and you, Sweet-heart, shall judge between us: In short, Daughter, your Course of Life is but one continual Round of playing the Fool to no purpose; and therefore I am resolv'd to make you think seriously, and marry.
That I shall do before I marry, Sir, you may depend upon't.
Um—That I am not so sure of—but you may depend upon my having thought seriously, and that's as well: For the Person I intend you, is of all the World the only Man can make you truly happy.
And of all the World, Sir, that's the only Man, I'll positively marry.
[Aside to
Mar.]
Thou hast rare Courage,
Maria;
If I had such a Game to play, I should be frighted out of my Wits.
Lord, Madam, he'll make nothing on't, depend upon it.
[Aside]
Mind what I say to you—This wonderful Man, I say—First, as to his Principles both in Church and State, in unquestionable.
Sir, I leave all that to you, for I should never ask him a Question about either of them.
You need not, I am fully satisfied of both—He is a true, stanch Member of the
English
Catholick Church.
Methinks though, I would not have him a
Roman Catholick,
Sir, because you know of Double Taxes.
No, he's no
Roman.
Very well, Sir—
Then as to the State, he'll shortly be one of the most considerable Men in the Kingdom; and that too in an Office for Life; which, on whatsoever pretence of Misbehaviour, no Civil Government can deprive him of.
That's fine indeed; I was afraid he had been a Cl
rgyman
I have not yet said what his Function is—As for his private Life—he's sober.
O! I should hate a Sot.
Chaste..
A hem!
(stifling a Laugh.)
What is't you sneer at, Madam—You want one of your fine Gentleman-Rakes, I suppose, that are snapping at every Woman they meet with.
No, no, Sir, I am very well satisfied—I—I should not care for such a sort of Man no more than I should for one that every Woman was ready to snap at.
No, you'll be secure from Jealousy; he has Experience, Ripeness of Years; he is almost Forty Nine: Your Sexes Vanities will have no Charm for him.
But all this while, Sir, I don't find that he has any Charm for our Sexes Vanity: How does he look? Is he tall, well made? Does he dress, sing, talk, laugh, and dance well? Has he a good Air, good Teeth, fine Eyes, fine fair Perriwig—Does he keep his Chaise, Coach, Chariot, and Berlin with fix flouncing
Flanders?
Does he wear Blew Velvet, clean White Stockings, and subscribe to the Opera?
Was there ever so profligate a Creature! What will this Age come to?
Nay,
Maria,
here I must be against you—Now you are blind indeed, a Woman's Happiness has little to do with the Pleasure her Husband takes in his own Person.
Right.
'Tis not how he looks, but how he loves is the Point.
Good again!
And a Wife is much more secure, that has Charms for her Husband, than when the Husband has only Charms for her.
Admirable! Go on my Dear.
Do you think, Child, a Woman of Five and twenty may not be much happier with an honest Man of Fifty, than the finest Woman of Fifty with a young Fellow of Five and twenty?
Mark that.
Ay, but when two Five and twenties come together—Dear
Papa,
you must allow they have a chance to be fifty times as pleasant and frolicksome.
Frolicksome! why you sensual Ideot, What have Frolicks to do with solid Happiness? I am asham'd of you—Go! you talk worse than a Girl at a BoardingSchool—Frolicksome! as if Marriage were only a Licence for two People to play the Fool according to Law? Methinks, Madam, you have a better Example of Happiness before your Face—Here's one has ten times your Understanding, and she, you find, has made a different Choice.
Lord, Sir! how you talk? you don't consider Peoples Temper: I don't say my Lady is not in the right; but then you know,
Papa,
she's a Prude, and I am a Coquet; she becomes her Character very well, I don't deny it, and I hope you see every thing I do is as consistent with mine: Your wise Folks may lay down what Rules they please; but 'tis Constitution that governs us all, and you can no more bring me, Sir, to endure a Man of Forty nine, than you can persuade my Lady to dance in a Church to the Organ.
Why you wicked Wretch, could any thing persuade you to that?
Lord, Sir! I won't answer for any thing I should do when the Whim's in my Head: You know I always lov'd a little Flirtation.
O horrible! My poor Mother has ruin'd her; leaving her a Fortune in her own hands, has turn'd her Brain: In short, your Sentiments of Life are shameful, and I am resolv'd upon your instant Reformation; therefore, as an Earnest of your Obedience, I shall first infist, that you never see young
Heartly
more; for in one word, the good and pious Doctor,
Wolf
's the Man that I have decreed your Husband.
Ho! ho! ho!
[Laughing aloud.]
'Tis very well—this Laugh you think becomes you, but I shall spoil your Mirth—no more—give me a serious Answer.
(Gravely)
I ask your Pardon, Sir, I should not have smil'd indeed, could I have suppos'd it possible that you were serious.
You'll find me so.
I am sorry for it; but I have an Objection to the Doctor, Sir, that most Fathers think a substantial one.
Name it.
Why, Sir, you know he is not worth a Groat.
That's more than you know, Madam; I am able to give him a better Estate than I am afraid you'll deserve.
How, Sir?
I have told you what's my Will, and shall leave you to think on't.
Enter
Charles.
[Aside to Sir
John.]
Sir, if you are at leisure, the Doctor desires a private Conference with you, upon Business of Importance.
Where is he?
In his own Chamber, Sir, just taking his leave of the Count and another Gentleman, that came this Morning Express from
Avignon:
He has sent you too the Note you ask'd him for.
'Tis well; I'll come to him immediately—
[Ex.
Charles.]
Daughter, I am call'd away, and therefore have only time to tell you, as my last Resolution, that if you expect a Shilling from me, the Doctor is your Husband, or I'm no more your Father.
[Exit Sir
John,
and drops the Paper.
O Madam! I am at my Wits end, not for the little Fortune I may lose in disobeying my Father; but it startles me to find what a dangerous Influence this Fellow has o'er all his Actions.
Dear
Maria,
I am now as much alarm'd as you; for though in Compliance to your Father, I have been always inclin'd to think charitably of this Doctor, yet now I am convinc'd 'tis time to be upon our guard—he's stepping into his Estate too!
Here's my Brother, Madam, we'll consult with him.
To them the Colonel.
Madam, your most obedient—Well, Sister, is the Secret out? Who is this pretty Fellow my Father has pickt up for you?
Ev'n our agreeable Doctor.
You are not serious.
He's the very Man, I can assure you, Sir.
Confusion! What would the
Jewish
Cormorant devour the whole Family? Your Ladyship knows he is secretly in Love with you too.
Fy! fy! Colonel.
I ask your Pardon, Madam, if I speak too freely; but I am sure, by what I have seen, your Ladyship must suspect something of it.
I am sorry any Body else has seen it; but I must own his Civilities of late have been something warmer than I thought became him.
How then are these Opposites to be reconcil'd; can the Rascal have the Assurance to think both these Points are to be carried?—But he does nothing like other People; he's a Contradiction ev'n to his own Character: Most of your Non-Jurors now are generally People of a free and open Disposition, mighty Pretenders to a Conscience of Honour indeed: But you seldom see them put on the least Shew of Religion: But this formal Hypocrite always has it at his Tongue's end, and there it sticks, for it never gets into his Heart: I'll answer for him.
Ay, but that's the Charm, that first got him into Sir
John
's Heart; who, good Man, is himself, I am sure, sincere; however now misguided, 'twas not so much his Principles of Government, as his well painted Piety; his seeming Self-denial, Resignation, Patience, and humble Outside, that gave him first so warm a Lodging in his Bosom.
My Lady has judg'd it perfectly right.
I am afraid it's too true: There has been his surest footing! But here we are puzled again—What subtle Fe
ch can he have in being really in Love with your Ladyship, and at the same time making such a Bustle to marry my Sister?
Truly one would not suspect him to be so Termagant: I fancy the Gentleman might have his Hands full of one of us.
And yet his Zeal pretends to be so shock'd at all indecent Amours, that in the Country he us'd to make the Maids lock up the Turky-cocks every
Saturday
Night, for fear they should gallant the Hens on a
Sunday.
O! Ridiculous.
Upon my Life, Madam, my Sister told me so:
I tell you so: You impudent—
Fy!
Maria,
he only jests with you
How can you be such a Monster to be playing the fool here, when you have more reason to be frighted out of your Wits? You don't know, perhaps, that my Father declares he'll settle a Fortune upon this Fellow too.
What do you mean?
'Tis too true; 'tis not three Minutes since he said so.
Nay, then 'tis time indeed his Eyes were open'd; and give me leave to say, Madam, 'tis only in your Power to save not only me, but ev'n my Father too from Ruin.
I shall easily come into any thing of that kind, that's practicable—What is't you propose?
Why, if this Fellow (which I am sure of) is really in love with you, give him a fair Opportunity to declare himself, and leave me to make my Advantage of it.
I apprehend you—I am loath to do a wrong thing—
Dear Madam, it's the only way in the World to expose him to my Father.
I'll think of it—
[Musing.]
When you do, Madam, I am sure you will come into it.
How now What Paper's this? it's the Doctor's Hand.
I believe my Father dropt it.
What's here?
[Reads.]
Laid out at several times for the Secret Service of His
M
—
 
l.
s.
d.
May
the 28th, For six Baskets of Rue and Time,
00
18
00
The 29th,
ditto
Two Cart-Loads of Oaken-Boughs,—
02
00
00
June
10th, For ten Bushels of White Roses,
01
10
00
Ditto,
—Given to the Bell-ringers of several Parishes—
10
15
00
Ditto
To
Simon Chaunter
Parish-Clerk, for his
Staves adapted to the Day,
05
07
06
ditto
Lemons and
sent into
—
09
05
00
Well, while they drink it in
Newgate
much good may it do them.
Paid to
Henry Conscience,
Jury man, for his extraordinary Trouble in acquitting Sir
Preston Rebel
of his Indictment,—
53
15
00
Allow'd to
Patrick Mac Rogue,
of the Foot guards for prevailing with his Comrade to desert
04
06
06
Given as small Money to
Humphrey Stanch,
Cobler, lately whipt for speaking his Mind of the Government,—
03
04
06
Paid to
Abel Perkin,
News Writer, for divers seasonable Paragraphs,—
05
00
00
Aug.
the 1st, Paid to
John Shoplift
and
Thomas Highway,
for endeavouring to put out the Enemies Bonfire,—
02
03
00
Aug.
the 2d. Paid the Surgeon for Sear cloth, for their Bruises,—
01
01
06
Was there ever such a Heap of stupid, cold scented Treason? Now, Madam, I hope you see the Necessity of blowing up this Traitor: These are Lengths I did not think my Father had gone with him: What vile, what low Sedition, has he made him stoop to?
I tremble at the Precipice he stands on!
O bless us! I am in a cold Sweat, dear Brother, leave it where you found it—
By all means; if Sir
John
should know it's in your hands, it may make him desperate—
You are in the right, Madam.
(He lays down the Paper.
Let's steal into the next Room, and observe that no Body else takes it up; he'll certainly come back to look for't.
But I must leave you, poor
Heartly
stays for me at
White
's; and he'll sit upon Thorns, 'till I bring him an Account of his new Rival.
Well, well, get you gone then.
[Exeunt.
Enter Sir
John
in a Hurry.
Undone! Ruin'd! where could I drop this Paper?—Hold—let's see—
[He finds it.]
Ah! here it is—What a blessed Scape was this? If my hotbrain'd Son had found it, I suppose by tomorrow, he would have been begging my Estate for the Discovery—
[Enter Doctor
Wolf.
O Doctor! all's well: I have found my Paper.
I am sincerely glad of it—It might have ruin'd us.
Well, Sir, what say our last Advices from
Avignon?
All goes right—The Council has approv'd our Scheme, and press mightily for Dispatch among our Friends in
England.
But pray Doctor—
Hold, Sir,—now we are alone, give me leave to inform you better—Not that I am vain of any worldly Title; but since it has pleas'd our Court to dignify me, our Churches Right obliges me to take it.
Pray, Sir, explain.
Our last Express has brought me this—
[be shews a Writing]
which (far unworthy, as I am) promotes me to the vacant See of
Thetford.
Is it possible? My Lord, I joy in your Advancement.
It is indeed a Spiritual Comfort to find my Labours in the Cause are not forgotten; though I must own some less conspicuous Instance of their Favour had better suited me: Such high Distinctions are invidious; and it would really grieve me, Sir, among my Friends, to meet with Envy where I only hope for Love; not but I submit in any way to serve them.
Ah! good Man! this Meekness will, I hope, one Day be rewarded—but pray Sir—my Lord!—I beg your Lordship's Pardon—pray what other News? how do all our Friends? are they in Heart, and chearful?
To a Man! never in such sanguine hopes—the Court's extremely throng'd—never was there such a concourse of Warlike Exiles: though they talk, this sharp Season, of removing farther into
Italy,
for the benefit of milder Air: Well! The Catholicks are the sincerest Friends!
Nay, I must do them Justice, they are truly Zealous in the Cause, and it has often griev'd my Heart, that our Churches Differences are so utterly Irreconcileable.
O nourish still that charitable Thought! there's something truly Great and Humane in it; and really, Sir, if you examine well the Doctrines laid down, by my learned Predecessor, in his
Case of Schism,
you will find those Differences are not so terribly material, as some obstinate Schismaticks would paint them: Ah! could we but be brought to Temper, a great many seeming Contradictions might be reconcil'd on both finds: But while the Laity will interpret for themselves, there is indeed no doing it. Now, could we, Sir, like other Nations, but once restrain that monstrous Licence. Ah! Sir, a Union then might soon be practicable.
Auh! 'twill never do here: The
English
are a stubborn heanstrong People, and have been so long indulg'd in the use of their own Senses; that, while they have Eyes in their Heads, you will never be able to persuade them they can't see, there's no making them give up their Humane Evidences: and your
Credo, quia impossible est,
is an Argument they will always make a Jest of. No no, it is not Force will do the Thing, your Press'd Men don't always make the best Soldiers. And truly, my Lord, we seem to be wrong too in another Point, to which I have often imputed the ill Success of our Cause; and that is, the taking into our Party so may loose Persons of dissolute and abandon'd Morals; Fellows, whom in their daily private Course of Life, the Pillory and Gallows seem to groan for.
'Tis true indeed, and I have often wish'd 'twere possible to do without them, but in a Multitude all Men won't be all Saints; and then again they are really useful; nay, and in many things, that Sober Men will not stoop to—They serve, poor Curs, to brak at the Government in the open Streets, and keep up the wholsome Spirit of Clamour in the common People; and, Sir, you cannot conceive the wonderful use of Clamour, 'tis so teizing to a Ministry, it makes them winch and fret, and grow uneasy in their Posts—Ah! many a comfortable Point has been gain'd by Clamour! 'tis in the Nature of Mankind to yield more to that, than Reason—E'en
Socrates
himself could not resist it; for wise, as he was, yet you see his Wife
Xantippe
carried all her Points by Clamour. Come, come, Clamour is a useful Monster, and we must feed the hungry Mouths of it; it being of the last Importance to us, that hope to change the Government to let it have no quiet.
Well, there is indeed no resisting meer Necessity.
Besides, if we suffer our Spirits to cool here at home, our Friends obroad will send us over nothing but Excuses.
'Tis true, but still I am amaz'd, that
France
so totally should have left us—
Mardyke,
they say, will certainly be demolish'd.
No matter, let them go—we have made a good Exchange, our New Ally is yet better, as he is less suspected—But to give them their due, we have no Spirits among us, like the Women, the Ladies have supported our Cause with a surprizing Constancy. O! there's no daunting them, ev'en with ill Success! they will starve their very Vanities, their Vices, to feed their Loyalty: I am inform'd that my good Lady Countess of
Night-and-Day,
has never been seen in a new Gown, or has once thrown a Die at any of the Assemblies, since our last general Contribution.
O my good Lord, if our Court abroad but knew what Obligations they have to your indefatigable Endeavours—
Alas! Sir, I can only boast an honest Heart, my Power is Weak, I only can assist them with my Prayers and zealous Wishes; or if I had been serviceable, have not you, Sir▪ overpaid me? Your Daughter, Sir, the sair
Maria,
is a Reward no Merit can pretend to.
Nays, good my Lord, this tender Gratitude confounds me—O! this insensible Girl—Pray excuse me—
[Weeps.
You seem'd concern'd, pray what's amiss?
That I should be the Father of so blind a Child, alas! she slights the Blessing I propos'd, she sees you not, my Lord, with my fond Eyes; but lay not, I beseech you, at my Door, the ungrateful Stubbornness of a thoughtless Girl.
Nay, good Sir, he not thus concern'd for me, we must allow her Female Modesty a time, your strict Commands perhaps too suddenly surpriz'd her; Maids must be slowly, gently dealt with; and might I, Sir, presume to advise—
Any thing, your Will shall govern me and her.
Then, Sir, abate of your Authority, and let the Matter rest a while: Suppose I first should beg your good Lady, Sir, to be my Friend to her: Women will hear from their own Sex, what sometimes, ev'n from the Man they like, would startle them: May I have your Permission, Sir, when Dinner is remov'd, to entertain my Lady on this Subject privately?
O! by all means, and troth, it is an excellent Thought, I'll go this Instant, and prepare her to receive you, and will myself contrive your Opportunity.
You are too good to me, Sir—too bountiful.
Nay, now, my Lord, you drive me from you.
Pray pardon me.
No more I beg you, good my Lord—your Servant
[Exit.
Ha! ha! What noble Harvests have been reaped from bigotted Credulity, nor ever was a better Instance of it. Would it not make one Smile! that it should ever enter into the Brains of this Man (who can in other Points distinguish like a Man) that a Protestant Church can never be secure, till it has a Popish Prince to defend it.
Enter
Charles.
So
Charles,
hast thou finish'd those Letters?
I have brought them, Sir.
'Tis very well, let them be seal'd without a Direction, and give them to
Aaron Sham
the Jew, when he calls for them—O! and—here step yourself this Afternoon to Mr.
Deseazance
of
Gray's Inn,
and give him this Thirty Pound Bill from Sir
Harry Foxbound,
beg him to sit up Night and Day till the Writings are finish'd: For his Trial certainly comes on this Week, he knows we can't always be sure of a Jury, and a Moment's Delay may make the Commissioners lay hold of his Estate.
My Lord, I'll take the utmost Care.
Well
Charles.
[Gravely smiling.]
Sir
John
has told me of the new Duty, I ought to pay when in private.
But take special heed, that it be only private.
Your Lordship need not caution me—My Lord, I hear another Whisper in the Family; I'm told you'll shortly be allied to it; Sir
John,
they say, has actually consented; I hope, my Lord, you'll find the fair
Maria
too, as yelding.
Such a Proposal has indeed been started, but it will end in nothing:
Maria
is a giddy wanton thing, not form'd to make a wise Man happy, her Life's too vain, too sensual to elevate a Heart like mine: No, no, I have Views more serious.
O my fluttering Joy!
[Aside.
Marriage is a State too turbulent for me.
But with Sir
John
's Consent, my Lord, her Fortune may be considerable.
Thou know'st,
Charles,
my Thoughts of Happiness were never form'd on Fortune.
No! I find that by the Settlement.
[Aside.
Or if they were, they would be there impossible;
Maria
's vain distaste of me, I know's as deeply rooted, as my Contempt of her: And canst thou think I'd stain my Character to be a Wanton's Mokery, to follow through the Wilds of Folly she would lead me, to cringe and doat upon a senseless Toy, that every Feather in a Hat can purchase?
But mayn't Sir
John
take it ill, my Lord, to have her slighted?
No, no, her ridiculous Aversion will secure me from his Reproaches.
Enter a Servant.
Sir, my Master desires to speak with you.
I'll wait on him—
Charles,
you'll take care of my Directions.
I'll be sure, Sir.
[Exit Doctor.
Kind Heaven, I thank thee! this Bar so unexpectly remov'd gives vigour to my Heart, and is, I hope, an Omen of its Fortune—But I must lose no Time, the Writing may be every Moment called for—this is her Chamber.
He knocks softly—and
Betty
Enters to him.
Is your Lady busy?
I think she's only a reading.
Will you do me the Favour to let her know, if she is at leisure, I beg to speak with her upon some earnest Business.
Maria
Enter with a Book.
Who's that?
She's here—Mr.
Charles,
Madam, desires to speak with you.
O! Your Servant Mr.
Charles,
—Here take this odious
Homer,
and lay him up again, he tires me.
[Exit.
Betty
with the Book.
How could the blind Wretch make such a horrid fuss about a fine Woman, for so many Volumes together, and give us no Account of her Amours? You have read him I suppose in the
Greek,
Mr.
Charles.
Not lately, Madam.
But do you so violently admire him now?
The Criticks say he has his Beauties, Madam. But
Ovid
has been always my Favorite,
Ovid!
O! he's ravishing—
And so art thou to Madness
[Aside.]
Lord! how could one do to learn
Greek,
was you a great while about it?
It has been half the Business of my Life, Madam.
That's cruel now! then you think one can't be Mistress of it in a Month ar two.
Not easily, Madam.
They tell me it has he softest Tone for Love of any Language in the World, I fancy I could soon learn it—I know two Words of it already.
Pray, Madam, what are they?
Stay let me see—O—ay
Zoe, kai Psyehe.
I hope you know the
English
of 'em, Madam.
O lud! I hope there's no Harm in it; I am sure I heard the Doctor say it to my Lady—Pray what is it?
You must first imagine, Madam, a tender Lover gazing on his Mistress, and then indeed they have a softness in 'em, as thus—
Zoe, kai psyche!
my Life, my Soul?
O the Impudent young Rogue! how his Eyes spoke too!
[Aside.]
What the duce! can he want with me!—
I have startled her, she muses.
[Aside.
It always ran in my Head this Fellow had something in him above his Condition—I'll know presently.
[Aside
Well, but your Business with me Mr.
Charles,
you have something of Love in your Head now, Ill lay my Life on't.
I never yet durst own it, Madam.
Why, what's the Matter?
My Story is too Melancholy to entertain a Mind so much at Ease as yours.
O! I love melancholy Stories of all things—
But mine, Madam, can't be told, unless I give my Life into your Power.
O Lud! you have not done any Body a Mischief, I hope.
I never did a private Injury; if I have done a publick Wrong, I'm sure it might, in me, at least be called an honest Error.
Pray whom did you serve before you liv'd with the Doctor?
I was not born to serve; and had not an unfortunate Education ruin'd me, might have now appear'd, like what I am by Birth, a Gentleman.
I am surpriz'd! Your Education, say you, ruin you? Lord! I am concern'd for you. Pray let me know your Story; and if any Services are in my Power, I am sure you may command them.
Such soft Compassion, from so fair a Bosom, o'erpays the word than can attend my owning what I am.
O your Servant—but pray let's hear.
My Father's elder Brother, Madam, was a Gentleman of an antient Family in the North, who having then no Child himself, begg'd me from my Nurse's Arms, to be adopted as his own, with an Assurance too of making me his Heir; to which my Father (then alas! in the Infancy of his Fortune) easily consented. This Uncle being himself secretly disaffected to the Government, gave me of course, in my Education, the same unhappy Prejudices, which since have ended in the Ruin of us both.
Then you were bred a
Roman-Catholick.
No, Madam; but I own in Principles of very little difference, which I imbib'd chiefly from this Doctor; he having been five Years my Governor. As I grew up, my Father'sMerit had rais'd his Fortune under the present Government; and fearing I might be too far fix'd in Principles against it, desired me from my Uncle Home again: But I, as I then thought my self bound in Gratitude, excus'd my going in Terms of Duty to my Father; whom since alas! I too justly have provok'd ever to hope a Reconciliation. I saw too late my Folly, and had no Defence against his Anger, but by artfully confirming him in a Belief, that I had perish'd with my Uncle in the late Rebellion.
Bless us! what do you mean? you were not actully in it, I hope!
I can't disown the Guilt—but since the Royal Mercy has been refus'd to none that frankly have confess'd with Penitence their Crime (which from my Heart I most sincerely do) in that is all my Hope—My Youth and Education's all th' Excuse I plead; if they deserve no Pity, I am determin'd to throw off my Disguise, and bow me to the Hand of Justice.
Poor Creature! Lord! I can't bear it.
(with Concern.)
But then unknown, and friendless as I am; to whom, alas! can I apply for Succour!
[Weeps.
O Lord! I'll serve you, depend upon it: My Brother shall have no rest 'till he gets your Pardon.
Your kind Compassion, Madam, has prevented, what, if I durst, I should have mention'd, I hope too, I shall personally deserve his Favour; if not, your generous Inclination to have sav'd me, even in my last Despair of Life, will give my Heart a Joy.
Lord! the poor unfortunate Boy loves me too? what shall I do with him? But, Mr.
Charles,
pray once more to your Story—what was it that really drew you into the Rebellion?
This Doctor, Madam, who, as he is now your Father's, was then my Uncle's Bosom-Counsellor: 'Twas his infidious Tongue that painted it to us as an incumbent Duty, on which the Welfare of our Souls depended; he warm'd us too into such a weak Belief of vile Reports, as Infamy should blush to mention—we were assur'd, that half the Churches here in Town were lying all in sacrilegious Ruines; which since, I found, maliciously was meant, even of those that are magnificently rising from their new Foundation!
But, pray—while you were in Arms how did the Doctor dispose of himself?
He!—went with us, Madam, none so active in the Front of Resolution, till Danger came to face him; then indeed a friendly Fever seiz'd him, which on the first Alarm of the King's Forces marching towards
Preston,
gave him a cold Pretence to leave the Town; in the Defence of which my Uncle lost his Life, and I my only Friend, with all my long fed Hopes of Fortune.
Poor Wretch but how came you to avoid being Prisoner?
Upon our Surrender of the Place, I brib'd a Townsman to employ me, as his Servant, in a backward Working-house, where, from my Youth, and Change of Habit, I pass'd without Suspicion till the whole Affair was over—But then, alas! whither to turn I knew not: My Life grew now no more my Care—Perish, I saw, I must, whether as a Criminal, or a Beggar, was my only Choice.
O Lord! tell me quickly how you came hither.
In this Despair I wander'd up to
London,
where I scarce knew one Mortal, but some few Friends in Prison. What could I do? I ventur'd even hither for my Safety; where 'twas my Fortune first to see your Father, Madam, distributing Relief to several: He knew my Uncle well; and being inform'd of my Condition, he charitably took me Home; and here has ever since conceal'd me as a menial Servant to the Doctor. The Detestation of whose vile, dishonest Practices at last have waked me to a Sense of all my blinded Errors; of which this Writing is his least of sordid Instances.
[Gives it to
Maria.
You frighten me; pray what are the P
rposes of it▪ 'Tis neither sign'd nor seal'd.
No, Madam, therefore to prevent it by this timely Notice, was my Business here with you: Your Father gave it the Doctor first to shew his Council, who having since approv'd it, I understand this Evening 'twill be executed.
But what is it?
It grants to Doctor
Wolf
in present four hundred Pounds
per Annum,
of which this very House is Part; and at your Father's D
ath invests him in the whole Remainder of his Free Estat
. For you indeed there is a Charge of four thousand Pound upon it; provided you marry only with th
Doctor's Consent; if not, 'tis added to my Lady's Jointure. But your Brother, Madam, is without Conditions utt
rly disinherited.
I am confounded—what will become of us! my Father now I find was serious—O this insinuating Hypocrit
▪ let me sa
—ay—I will go this Minute—Sir, dare you trust this in my Hands for an Hour only?
Any thing to serve you—my Life's already in your Hands.
And I dare secure it with my own—Hark! they ring to Dinner; pray, Sir, step in, say I am oblig'd to dine Abroad, and whisper one of the Footmen to get an Hackney Coach immediately; then do you take a proper Occasion to slip out after me to Mr.
Double
's Chambers in the
Temple,
there I shall have Time to talk farther with you You'll excuse my Hurry—Here
Betty,
my Scarf, and a Mask.
[Ex.
Maria
What does my Fortune mean me? She'll there talk farther with me! Of what! What will she talk of? O my Heart! methought she look'd at parting too, as kindly conscious of some Obligation to me: And then how soft, how amiable tender was her pity of my Fortune. But O! I rave! keep down my vain aspiring Thoughts, and to my lost Condition level all my Hopes.
Rather content with Pity let me live,
Than hope for more than she resolves to give,
[Ex.
The End of the Second ACT.
ACT. III.
Maria,
and
Betty
taking off her Scarf, &c.
HAS any one been to speak with me,
Betty?
Only Mr.
Heartly,
Madam, he said he would call again, and bid his Servant stay below to give him Notice when you came Home.
You don't know what he wanted?
No, Madam, he seem'd very uneasy at your being Abroad.
Well—go, and lay up those Things—
[Ex.
Betty,
Ten to One, but his wise Head now has found out something to be jealous of; if he lets me see it, I shall be sure to make him infinitely easy—Here he comes.
Enter
Heartly.
Your humble Servant, Madam,
gravely.
Your Servant, Sir,
You have been Abroad, I hear.
Yes, and now, I am come Home, you see.
You seem to turn upon my Words, Madam, is there any Thing particular in them?
As much, as there is in my being Abrord, I believe.
Might not I say you had been Abrord, without giving Offence?
And might not I as well say, I was come Home, without your being so grave upon't?
Do you know any Thing should make me grave;
I know, if you are so, I am the worst Person in the World you could possibly shew it to.
Nay, I don't suppose you do any thing, you won't justify.
O! then I find I have done something you think I can't justify.
I don't say that neither, perhaps I am in the wrong in what I have said; but I have been so often us'd to ask Pardon for your being in the wrong, that I am resolv'd henceforth never to relie on the insolent Evidence of my own Senses.
You don't know now, perhaps, that I think this pritty smart Speech of yours is very Dull; but since that's a Fault you can't help, I will not take it ill. Come now, be as sincere on your Side, and tell me seriously—Is not what real Business I had Abroad, the very Thing you want to be made easy in?
If I thought you would make me easy, I would own it.
Now we come to the Point—To morrow Moring then, I give you my Word to let you know it all, till when there is a Necessity for its being a Secret, and I insist upon your believing it.
But pray, Madam, what am I to do with my private Imagination in the mean Time, that is not in my Power to confine: And sure you won't be offended, if to avoid the Tortures That may give me, I beg you'll trust me with the Secret now.
Don't press me, for positively I will not.
Cannot, had been a kinder Term—is my Disquiet of so little Moment to you;
Of none, while your Disquiet dares not trust the Assurances I have given you; if you expect I should confide in you for Life, don't let me see you dare not take my Word for a Day; and if you are wise, you'll think so fair a Trial of your Faith a Favour.
If you intend it such—it is a Favour, if not 'tis something—so—come let's wave the Subject.
With all my Heart: Have you seen my Brother lately?
Yes, Madam, and he tells me, it seems, the Doctor is the Man your Father has resolv'd upon.
'Tis so; nay and what will more surprize you, he leaves me only to the Choice of him, or of no Fortune.
And may I, without Offence, beg leave to know, what Resolutions, Madam, you have taken upon it?
I have not taken any, I do not know what to do; what would you advise me to?
I advise you to? Nay, you are in the right to make it a Question.
He says he'll settle all his Estate upon him too.
O take it, take it, to be sure, it's the fittest Match in the World, you cant't do a wiser Thing certainly.
'Twill be as wise at least, as the Ways you take to prevent it.
I find, Madam, I am not to know what you intend to do; and I suppose I am to be easy at that too.
When I intend to marry him, I shall not care whether you are easy, or no.
If your Indifference to me, were a Proof of your Inclination to him, the Gentleman need not despair.
Very well, Sir, I'll endeavour to take your Advice, I promise you.
O! that won't cost you much Trouble, I dare say, Madam.
About as much, I suppose, as it cost you to give it me.
Upon my Word, Madam, I gave it purely to oblige you.
Then to return your Civility, the least I can do is to take it.
Is't possible? How can you torture me with this Indifference?
Why do you insult me with such a bare-fac'd Jealousy?
Is it a Crime to be concern'd for what becomes of you? Has not your Father openly declar'd against me, in Favour of my Rival? How is it possible, at such a Time, not to have a thousand Fears? What though they all are false and groundless, are they not still the Effect of Love alarm'd, and anxious to be satisfied? I have an open, artless Heart, that cannot bear Disguises, but when 'tis griev'd, in spite of me, 'twill shew it—Pray pardon me—But when I am told you went out in the utmost Hurry with some Writings to a Lawyer, and took the Doctor's own Servant with you, ev'n in the very Hour your Father had propos'd him, as your Husband!—Good Heaven! what am I to think? Can I, must I suppose my Senses fail me? If I have Eyes, have Ears, and have a Heart, must it be still a Crime to think I see, and hear—Yet by my Torments feel I love.
[Asid
.]
Well! I own it looks ill-natur'd now, now, to shew him some Concern—but then this Jealousy—I must, and will get th
better of.
Speak
Maria,
is still my Jealousy a Crime?
If you s
ll insist on it, as a Proof of Love, then I must tell you, Sir, 'tis of that kind, that only slighted Hearts are pleas'd with; when I am so reduc'd, then I prehaps may bear it—The Fact you charge me with I grant is true, I have been Abroad, as you say: But still let Appearance look ne'er so pointing, while there is a Possibility in Nature, that what I have done may be innocent, I won't bear a Look, that tells me to my Face you dare suspect me: If you have Doubts, why don't you satisfy them before you see me? Can you suppose, that I'm to stand confounded, as a Criminal before you? How despicable a Figure must a Woman make, to bear but such a Moment? Come, come, there's nothing shews so low a Mind, as these grave, and insolent Jealousies. The Man, that's capable of ever seeing a Woman, after he believes her false, is capable on her Submission, and a little Flattery, were she really false, poorly to forgive and bear it.
You won't find me, Madam, of so low a Spirit; but since I see your Tyranny arises from your mean Opinion of me, 'tis Time to be my self, and disavow your Power, you use it now beyond my bearing; not only impose on me to disbelieve my Senses, but do it with such an imperious Air, as if my Honest, manly Reason were your Slave, and this poor groveling Frame that follows you, durst shew no Signs of Life, but what you deign to give it.
Oh! you are in the right—go on—suspect me still, believe the worst you can—'tis all true—I don't justify my self—Why do you trouble me with your Complaints? If you are Master of that manly Reason you have boasted, give me a manly Proof of it, at once resume your Liberty, despise me, go, go off in Triumph now, and let me see you scorn the Woman, whose vile, o'er-bearing Falshood, would insult your Senses.
O Heaven! is this the End of all? Are then those tender Prorestations you have made me (for such I thought them) when with the softest
ind Reluctance your rising Blushes gave me something more, than Hope—What all—O
Maria!
All but come to this?
[Aside]
O Lud! I am growing silly, if I hear on, I shall tell him every thing; 'tis but another struggle, and I shall conquer it—So so you ar
not gone, I see.
Do you then wish me gone, Madam?
Your manly Reason will direct you.
This is too much—my Heart can bear no more. O!—what? am I rooted here! 'Tis but a Pang, and I am free for ever.
Enter
Charles,
with two Writings.
At last I am reliev'd! Well, Mr.
Charles,
is it done?
I did not stir from his Desk, Madam, till it was intirely finish'd.
Where's the Original?
This is it, Madam.
Very well, that, you know you must keep, but come, we must lose no Time, we will examine this in the next Room. Now I feel for him.
[Aside.
[Exit
Maria,
with
Charles.
O Rage! Rage! this is not to be born—she's gone, she's lost, sordidly has sold her self to Fortune, and I must now forget her—Hold, if possible, let me cool a Moment—Interest! No, that could not tempt her—She knows I'm Master of a larger Fortune, than there her utmost Hopes can give her, that on her own Conditions she may be mine:—But what's this secret Treaty then within! what's doing there! who can resolve that Riddle?—And yet perhaps, like other Riddles, when 'tis explain'd, nothing may seem so easy: But why again, might she not trust me too with the Secret! That! that entangles all a-fresh, and sets me on the Rack of Jealousy.
Enter Colonel.
How now,
Frank!
what in a Rapture?
Prithee, pardon me, I am unfit to talk with you.
What is
Maria
in her Airs again?
I know not what she is.
Do you know where she is?
Retir'd this Moment to her Chamber, with the Doctor's Servant.
Why thou art not jealous of the Doctor, I hope?
Perhaps she'll be less reserv'd to you, and tell you wherein I have mistaken her.
Poor
Frank,
thou art a perfect Sir
Martin
in thy Amours, every Plot I lay upon my Sister's Inclination for thee, thou art sure to ruin by thy own unfortunate Conduct.
I own I have too little Temper, and too much real Passion for a modish Lover.
Come, come, prithee be easy once more, I'll undertake for you, if you'll fetch a cool Turn in the
Park
upon
Constitution Hill,
in less than half an Hour, I'll come to you.
Dear
Tom,
thou art a Friend indeed! O I have a Thousand Things—but you shall find me there.
[Exit
Heartly.
Poor
Frank!
now has he been taking some honest Pains to make himself miserable.
Enter
Maria,
and
Charles.
How now, Sister, what have you done to
Heartly?
The poor Fellow looks, as if he had kill'd your Parrot.
Pshah! you know him well enough, I have only been setting him a Love-Lesson, it a little puzzles him to get through it at first, but he'll know it all by to morrow; you will be sure to be in the way, Mr.
Charles?
Madam, you may depend upon me, I have my full Instructions.
[Exit.
Charles.
O ho! There's the Business then, and it seems
Heartly
was not to be trusted with it; ha! ha! and prithee what is this mighty Secret, that's transacting between
Charles
and you?
That's what he would have known indeed, but you must know, I don't think it proper to let you tell him neither, for all your sly manner of asking.
O! pray take your own Time, dear Madam, I am not in haste to know, I can assure you, I came about another Affair, our Design upon the Doctor: Now while my Father takes his Nap after Dinner, would be the properest Time to put it in Execution: prithee go to my Lady, and perswade her to it this Moment.
Why won't you go with me?
No, I'll place my self unknown to her in this Passage; for, sho
ld I tell her I design to over-hear him, she might be scrupulous.
That's true—but hold, on second Thoughts, you shall know part of this Affair between
Charles
and me; nay, I give you leave to tell it
Heartly
too, on some Conditions, 'tis true, I did design to have surpriz'd you, but now—my Mind's alter'd, that's enough.
Ay, for any Mortal's Satisfaction—but here comes my Lady.
Away then to your Post—but let me see you, when this Affair is over.
I'll be with you.
[Ex. Col.
Enter Lady
Woodvil.
Well, Madam, has your Ladyship consider'd my Brother's Proposal about the Doctor?
I have Child, and am convinc'd it ought not to be delay'd a Moment: I have just sent to speak with him here—Sir
John
too presses me to give him a Hearing upon your Account: but must I play a treacherous Part now, and instead of persuading you to the Doctor, ev'n persuade the Doctor against you.
Dear Madam, don't be so nice, if Wives were never to dissemble, what wou'd become of many wilful Husband's Happiness?
Nay, that's true too.
I'd give the World now methinks, to see this solemn Interview; sure there can't be a more ridiculous Image, than unlawful Love peeping his sly Head out from under the Cloak of Sanctity! O! that I were in your Ladyship's Place, I would lead that dancing Blood of his such a profane Courant—your wise Fellows make the rarest Fools too: But your Ladyship will make a Rogue of him, and that will do our Business at present.
If he makes himself one, 'tis his own Fault.
Dear Madam, one Moment's Truce with the Prude, I beg you, don't start at his first Declarations, but let him go on till he shews the very bottom of his ugly Heart.
I'll warrant you, I'll give a good Account of him—here he comes.
Then I hope, Madam, you will give me Leave to be Commode, and steal off.
Very well.
[Ex.
Maria,
and Enter Doctor.
I am told, Madam, you design me the Happiness of your Commands; I am proud you think me worthy of them in any sort.
Please to sit, Sir.
Did not Sir
John
inform you too, that I had desir'd a private Conference with your Ladyship?
He did, Sir.
'Tis then by his Permission we are thus happily alone.
True, and 'tis on that Account, I wanted to advise with you.
Well, but, dear Lady, ah!
[sighing]
you can't conceive the Joyousness I feel, in this so unexpected Interview, ah! ah! I have a Thousand friendly Things to say to you—Ah! ah! and how stands your precious Health? Is your naughty Cold abated yet? I have scarce closed my Eyes these two Nights, with my Concern for you, and every watchful Interval has sent a Thousand Sighs and Prayers to Heaven for your Recovery.
Your Charity was too far concern'd for me.
Ah! don't say so, don't say so—you merit more, than mortal Man can do for you.
Indeed, you over-rate me.
I speak it from my Soul! indeed! indeed! indeed! do.
[Presses her Hand.
O dear! you hurt my Hand, Sir.
Impute it to my Zeal, and want of Words to express my Heart; ah! I would not harm you for the World, no, bright Creature, 'tis the whole Business of my Soul to—
But to our Affair, Sir.
Ah! thou heavenly Woman!
[Laying his Hand on her Knee.
Your Hand need not be there, Sir.
Ah! I was admiring the Softness of this Silk, Madam.
Ay, but I am ticklish.
They are indeed come to a prodigious Perfection in this Manufacture—How wonderful is Humane Art!—Here it disputes the Prize with Nature—that all this soft, and gaudy Lustre, should be wrought from the poor Labours of a Worm?
[Stroking it.
But our Business, Sir, is upon another Subject: Sir
John
informs me, that he thinks himself under no Obligation to Mr.
Heartly,
and therefore resolves to give you
Maria:
Now pray be sincere, and let me know what your real Intentions are?
Is it possible! Can you, Divine Perfection, be still a Stranger to my real Thoughts? Has not one Action of my Life inform'd you better? Since I must plainly speak them then,
Maria
's but a Feint, a Blind to screen my real Thoughts from shrewd Suspicion's Eye, and shield your spotless Fame from worldly Censure. Could you then think 'twas for
Maria
's sake, your Balls, Assemblies, and your Toilet Visits have been restrain'd? Would I have urged Sir
John
to make that Fence to inclose a Butterfly? No, soft, and serious Excellence, your Virtues only were the Object of my Care, I could not bear to see the Gay, the Young, and the Inconstant daily basking in your diffusive Beams of Beauty, without a secret Grudg, I might say, Envy ev'n of such Insects Happiness.
Well, Sir, I take all this, as I suppose you intended it, for my Good, my spiritual Welfare.
Indeed I meant you serious, cordial Service.
I dare say you did, you are above the low and momentary Views of this World.
Ah! I should be so—and yet, alas! I find this mortal Cloathing of my Soul is made like other Mens, of sensual Flesh and Blood, and has its Frailties.
We all have those, but yours I know, are well corrected by your divine, and virtuous Contemplations.
And yet our Knowledge of Eternal Beauties, do not restrain us wholly from the love of all that's mortal—Beauty here, 'tis true must die, but while it lives, 'twas given us to admire, to wake the sluggish Heart, and charm the sensible: At the first Sight of you, I felt unusual Transports in my Soul, and trembled at the Guilt that might ensue; but on Reflection found my Flame receiv'd a Sanction from your Goodness, and might be reconcil'd with Virtue; on this I chaced my slandrous Fears, let in the harmless Passion at my Eyes, and gave up all my Heart to Love.
[Behind.]
Indeed! so warm Sir
Roger,
but I shall cool your Passion with a Witness.
[Exit.
These gay Professions, Sir, shew more the Courtier than the Zealot; nor could I think a Mind so fortify as yours, could have been open to such vain Temptation.
What Bosom can be Proof 'gainst such Artillery of Love? I may resist, call all my Prayers, my Fastings, Tears and Penance to my Aid, but yet, alas! these have not made an Angel of me: I am still but Man, Virtue may strive, but Nature will be uppermost: Permit me then on this fair Shrine to pay my Vows, and offer up a Heart—
Hold, Sir, you've said enough to put you in my Power, suppose I now should let my Husband, Sir, your Benefactor, know the Favour you design'd him.
[She rises.
You cannot be so cruel?
Nor will, on one Condition.
Name it.
That instantly you renounce all Claim and Title to
Maria
and use your utmost Interest with Sir
John
to give her with her full Fortune to Mr.
Heartly:
If you are wise, consider on't
[Sir
John,
and C
l behind.
[The Doctor
accidentally sees them
Ha! the Colonel ther
! his Father with him too!
may have been some Treachery, what's to be done?
Now, Sir, let your Eyes convince you.
They do, that yours, Sir, have deceiv'd you, all this I knew of.
Apart.
How, Sir!
Observe, and be convinc'd.
I have it.
[To the Doctor.]
Methinks this Business needs not Sir, so long a Pause.
Madam, I cannot easily give up such honest Hopes.
Honest!
Perhaps my Years are thought unequal to my Flame, but, Lady, those were found no strong Objection 'twixt Sir
John
and you; and can you blame me then for following so sure a Guide in the same youthful Path to Happiness.
Is this your Resolution then?
Will you let him go on, Sir?
Yes, Sir, to confound your Slander.
Apart.
Monstrous
Can you suppose my Heart less capable of Love than his? Is it for me to push the Blessing from me too; For tho' my Flame has been of long Duration, my conscious want of Merit kept it still conceal'd, till his good Nature brought it to this blest Occasion; and can you then, so authoriz'd, refuse your friendly Pity to my Sufferings? One Word from you compleats my Joy; in you, Madam, is my only Hope, my Fear, my Ease, my Pain, my Torment, or my Happiness;
Maria!
O!
Maria!
Confusion!
[Coming forward with the Colonel.]
Now, vile Detractor of all Virtue, is your outragious Malice yet confounded? Did I not tell you too, he only made an Interest here to gain your Sister?
His Devil has outreacht me.
[Aside.
Is this your rank Detection of his Treachery?
John,
I did not see you, Sir, I doubt you are come too soon, I have not yet prevail'd with her.
[Aside to him.
Ah! good Man, be not concern'd your Trouble shall be short
r for't, I'll force her to Complyance.
What have you done—your Impatience has ruin'd all.
Apart.
I s
it now too late.
Now, Sir! will your bas
Pr
judice of Party never b
at rest? Am I to be
thought partial, blind, and obstinate to favour so much injur'd Virtue; if thou art a Man not lost to Conscience, or to Honour, then like a Man repair this Wrong, confess the Rancour of thy vile Suspicion, and throw thee at his Feet for Pardon.
What mean you, Sir?
[Aside.]
While he is in this Temper, he will not easily be undeceiv'd—I've yet an After game to play, till when, 'tis best to leave him in his Error.
[Ex. Lady
Woodvil.
What! mute! defenceless! hardned in thy Malice?
I scorn the Imputation, Sir, and with the same repeated Honesty avow (howe'er his Cunning may have chang'd Appearances) that you are still deceiv'd, that all I told you, Sir, was true, these Eyes these Ears were Witnesses of his audacious Love, without the mention of my Sister's Name, directly, plainly, grosly tending to abuse the Honour of your Bed.
Audacious Monster! were not your own Senses Evidence against your frontless Accusation? I see your Aim; Wife, Children, Servants, all are bent against him, and think to weary me by groundless Clamours to discard him, but all shall not do, your Malice on your own vile Heads; to me, it but the more endears him; either submit, and ask his Pardon for this Wrong—
Good Sir!
Or this Instant leave my Sight, my House, my Family for ever.
What means this Rashness, Sir! on my Account it must not be, what would the World report of it? I grant it possible he loves me not, but you must grant it too as possible he might mistake me! it must be so—He is too much your Son to do his Enemy a wilful Injury: If he, I say, suppos'd my Converse with your Lady Criminal, to accuse me then, was but the Error of his Virtue, not his Baseness, you ought to love him, thank him for such watchful Care: Was it for him to se
, as he believ'd, your Honour in so soul a danger, and stand concernless by? The Law of Heaven, of Nature, and of Filial Duty, all oblig'd him to allarm your Vengeance, and detect the Villany.
O Miracle of Charity!
Come, come, such Breaches must not be, betwixt so good a Son, and Father▪ forget, forgive, embrace him, cherish him, and let me bless the Hour I was the Occasion of so sw
t a Reconcilement.
I cannot bear such Goodness! O sink me not into the Earth with Shame—Hear this, perverse and Reprobate! O! couldst thou wrong such more than mortal Virtue!
Wrong him! the hardned Impudence of this painted Charity—
Peace, Monster—
Is of a blacker, deeper Dye, than the great Devil himselfin all his Triumphs over Innocence ever wore.
O graceless Infidel!
No, Sir, though I would hazard Life to save you from the Ruine he misleads you to; could die to reconcile my Duty to your Favour; yet on the Terms that Villain offers, 'tis Merit to refuse it; I glory in the Disgrace your Errors give me—But, Sir, I'll trouble you no more: To Day is his—to Morrow may be mine.
[Exit.
Col.
I did not think he had had so hard a Nature.
O, my good Lord, your charitable Heart discovers not the Rancour that's in his: but what better can be hoped for, from a Wretch so swell'd with Spleen, and Rage of Party.
No, no, Sir, I am the Thorn that galls him; 'tis me, 'tis me he hates; he thinks I stand before him in your Favour; and 'tis not fit indeed I should do so; for fallen, as he is, he's still your Son, and I alas! an Alien, an Intruder here, and ought in Conscience to retire, and heal these hapless Breaches in your Family.
What means your Lordship?
But I'll remove this Eye-sore—Here
Charles!
—
(Enter
Charles.
For Goodness sake.
Bring me that Writing I gave you to lay up this Morning.
Now Fortune favour us,
(Aside)
Exit
Charles.
Make haste, good
Charles,
it shall be sign'd this Moment.
Not for the World; 'twas not to that End I sent for it, but to refuse your kind Intentions; for with your Chrildren's Curses, Sir, I dare not, must not take it.
Nay good, my Lord, you carry it now too far; my Daughter is not wrong'd by it, but if not obstinate may still be happy; and for my wicked Son, shall he then Heir my Lands, to propagate more miserable Schismaticks; No, let him depend on you, whom he has wrong'd; perhaps in Time, he may refl
ct upon his Father's Justice; be reconcil'd to your rewarded Virtues, and r
form his
Errors.
Re-enter
Charles
with a Writing.
That would be indeed a Blessing.
If Heaven should at last reclaim him, the Power to right him still is yours; in you I know he yet would find a fond forgiving Father.
The Imagination of so blest an Hour, softens me to a Tenderness I can't support.
O the dear, good Man' come! come, let's in to execute this Deed.
Will you then force me to accept this Trust? For, call it what you will, with me, it shall never be more than such,
Let that depend upon the Conduct of my Son.
Well. Sir, since yet it may prevent his Ruine, I consent.
So sweet a Hope must all my Fears controul,
I take the Trust, as Guardian to his Soul.
(Exeunt
The End of the Third ACT.
ACT IV.
Maria
and
Charles.
YOU were a Witness then?
I saw it sign'd, seal'd, and deliver'd, Madam.
And all pass'd without the least Suspicion?
Sir
John
sign'd it with such Earnestness, and the Doctor receiv'd it with such a seeming Reluctance, that neither had the Curiosity to examine a Line of it.
Well, Mr.
Charles,
whether it succeeds to our Ends, or not, we have still the same Obligations to you: You saw with what a friendly Warmth my Brother heard your Story, and I don't in the least doubt his Success in your Affair at Court.
What I have done, my Duty bound me to: But pray, Madam, give me leave, without Offence, to ask you one innocent Question.
Freely, Sir.
Have you never suspected then, that in all this Affair I have had some secret, stronger Motive to it, than barely Duty?
Yes—but have you been in no Apprehensions I should discover that Motive?
[Gravely.
Pray, pardon me, I see already, I have gone too far.
Not at all, it loses you no Merit with me, nor is it in my Nature to use any one ill, that loves me, unless I lov'd that one again, then indeed, there might be Danger—Come, don't look grave, my Inclinations to another, shall not hinder me paying every One, what's due to their Merit, I shall therefore always think my self oblig'd to treat your Misfortunes and your Modesty with the utmost Tenderness.
By the dear, soft Ease you have given my Heart, I never hoped for more.
Then I'll give you a great deal more, and to shew my particular good Opinion of you, I'll do you a Favour, Mr.
Charles,
I never did any Man since I was born—I'll be sincere with you.
Is it then possible you can have lov'd another, to whom you never were sincere?
Alas! you are but a Novice in the Passion—Sincerity is a dangerous Virtue, and often surfeits what it ought to nourish; therefore I take more Pains to make the Man I love believe I slight him, than (if possible) I would to convince you of my Esteem and Friendship.
Be but sincere in that, Madam, and I can't complain.
Nay, I'll give you a Proof of it, I'll shew you all the Good-nature you can desire; you shall make what Love to me you please now; but then I'll tell you the Consequence, I shall certainly be pleas'd with it, and that will flatter you, till I do you a Mischief. Now do you think me sincere?
I scarce consider that, but I'm sure you are agreeable.
Why look you there now! do you consider, that a Woman had as live be thought agreeable, as handsome? And how can you suppose, from one of your Sense, that I am not pleas'd with being told so?
Was ever Temper so enchanting?
Or Vanity more venial! I'm pleas'd with you.
[Smiling.
Distracting! sure never was Despair administred with a Hand so gentle.
So! now you have convinc'd me, I have a good Understanding too—Why I shall certainly have the better Opinion of yours, for finding it out now.
Your good Opinion's what I aim at.
Ay, but the more I give it you, the better you'll think of me still; and then I must think the better of you again, and then you the better of me upon that too; and so at last I shall think seriously, and you'll begin to think ill of me. But I hope, Mr.
Charles,
your good Sense will prevent all this.
I see my Folly now, and blush at my Presumption: but yet to cure my weaning Heart, and reconcile me to my Doom, be yet sincere, and satisfy one sickly Longing of my Soul.
To my Power, command me.
O! tell me then the Requisites I want, and what's the secret Charm that has preferr'd my Rival to your Heart.
Come then, be chearful, and I'll answer like a Friend. The Gentleness, and Modesty of your Temper, would make with mine but an unequal Mixture: with you I shou'd be ungovernable, not know my self; your Compliance would undo me. I am by Nature Vain, Thoughtless, Wild, and Wilful; therefore ask a higher Spirit to controul and lead me. For whatever outward Airs I give my self, I am within convinc'd, a Woman makes a very wrong Figure in Happiness, that does not think Superiority best becomes her Husband—But what's yet more tho' I confess you have Qualities uncommon in your Sex, and such as ought to warm a Heart to love; yet here you come too late; Compassion's all within my Power: And I know you cannot but have seen, I am under Obligations, I need not explain to you.
I am satisfied—You treat me with so kind and gentle a Concern, that I must submit to it.
[Apart.]
Well when all's done, he's a pretty Fellow; and the first sure, that ever heard Reason against himself with so good an Understanding.
Enter a Servant with a Letter to
Charles.
Sir, the
Colonel
order'd me to give this into your own Hands.
From my Brother?—Where is he?
I left him, Madam, at the
Secretary
's-
Office
with one Sir
Charles Trueman,
and Mr.
Heartly.
(Exit
Serv.
Ha! my Father! O! Heaven, 'tis his Hand too! Now I tremble!
Come, Sir, take heart; I dare say there's good News in't, and I should be glad to hear it—But no Ceremony; pray read to your self first.
Since you command me, Madam.
[Reads to himself.
[Apart.]
Lord! how one may live and learn! I could not have believ'd, that Modesty in a young Fellow could have been so amiable a Virtue: and though, I own, there is I know not what of dear Delight in indulging one's Vanity with them; yet, upon serious Reflection. we must confess, that Truth and Sincerity have a Thousand Charms beyond it. And I now find more Pleasure in my self-denying Endeavours to make this poor Creature easy, than ever I took in humbling the Airs and Assurance of a Man of Quality—I believe I had as good confess all this to
Heartly,
and ev'n make up the Bustle with him too—But then he will so teaze one for Instances of real Inclination—O God—I can't bear the Thought on't—And yet we must come together too—Well! Nature knows the way to be sure, and so I'll ev'n trust to her sor't—Bless me! What's the Matter? you seem concern'd, Sir.
[To
Charles
wiping his Tears.
I am indeed, but 'tis with Joy! O! Madam! my Father's reconcil'd to me: This Letter is from him.
Pray let's hear.
[Reading,]
Dear
Charles,
This Day, by Colonel
Woodvil,
I receiv'd the joyful News of your being yet alive, and well: Though that's but half my Comfort. He has assur'd me too, you have renounc'd those Principles, that made me think your Death my Happiness. The Services you have intended his Family, and may do the Government, in your just Detection of a Traytor that would ruin both, have been so well receiv'd at Court, and so generously represented there by the
Colonel
and Mr.
Heartly,
that they have obtain'd an Order for your Pardon; which I now stay the passing of, before I throw my Arms about you, that I may have no Doubt or Fear behind to interupt the Fulness of my Joy. I am inform'd, that in revealing your self to a certain fair Lady, you have let fall some Words, that shew you have an innocent tho' hopeless Passion for her. Your Youth excuses what is past; but now consider how far you owe your Life to Mr.
Heartly:
I therefore charge you, on my Blessing, to give up every idle Thought of Love, that may interrupt his Happiness, or abate the Merit of what you've done to deserve the Pardon of your Sovereign, or of your affectionate forgiving Father,
Charles Trueman.
I an overjoy'd at your good Fortune.
You, Madam, are the Scource of all—but I am now unfit to thank you.
[Weeps.
You owe me nothing, Sir; Success was all I hoped for.
Pray excuse me—It would be Rudeness to trouble you with the tender Thoughts this must give a Heart oblig'd like mine.
[Exit
Charles.
Poor Creature how full his honest Heart is? What early Vicissitudes of Fortune has he run through? Well! this was handsomely done of
Heartly,
considering what he had felt upon his Account, to be so concern'd for his Pardon.
Enter
Lady Woodvil.
Dear
Maria,
what will become of us? The Tyranny of this subtle Priest is insupportable: He has so fortified himself in Sir
John
's Opinion by this last Misconduct of your Brother, that I begin to lose my usual Power with him.
Pray explain, Madam.
In spight of all I cou'd urge, he is this Minute bringing the Doctor to make his Addresses to you.
I am glad on't: for the Best must come like a Bear to the Stake, I'm sure: He knows I shall bait him.
No, no, he presses it, to keep Sir
John
still blind to his wicked Design upon me—Therefore I came to give you notice, that you might be prepar'd to receive him.
I am oblig'd to your Ladyship: Our Meeting will be a tender Scene, no doubt on't.
You have heard, I suppose, what an extravagant Settlement your Father has sign'd to.
Yes, Madam; but I am glad your Ladyship's like to be a Gainer by it, however: For when I marry, it will be without the Doctor's Consent, depend upon't.
No, Child, I did not come into Sir
John
's Family with a Design to injure it, or make any one of it my Enemy: Whenever that Four Thousand Pound falls into my Hands, you'll find it as firmly yours, as if it had been given you, without that odious Condition.
Madam, I think my self as much oblig'd by this kind Intention, as the Performance: But if your Ladyship could yet find a way to prove this Hypocrite a private Villain to my Father, I am not without Hopes the Publick will soon have enough against him, to give a Turn to the Settlement.
But suppose that fails, what will become of your poor Brother?
But, dear Madam, I cannot suppose this Fellow must not be hang'd at last; and then, you know, the same honest Hand that ties him up, releases the Settlement.
Not absolutely, neither; for this very House is given him in present, which, tho' that were to be the End of him, would then be sorfeited.
Why, then my Brother must ev'n petition the Government. There have been Presidents of the same Favour, Madam. If not, he must pay for his Blundering, and lay his next Plot deeper, I think.
I am glad you are so chearful upon it, however; it looks as if you had something
in Petto
to depend upon. But here comes the Doctor.
Enter Sir
John,
with the
Doctor.
Daughter, since you have the Happiness to be thought Amiable in the Eye of this Good Man, I expect you give him an instant Opportunity to improve it into an Amity for Life.
I hope, Sir, I shall give him no Occasion to alter his Opinion of me.
Why, that's well said; come, Sweet-heart, we'll use no Ceremony.
[Exit Sir
John,
with
Lady W. Marra
and the
Doctor
stand some Time mute, in formal Civilities, and a conscious Contempt of each other.
Please to sit, Sir.—What can the ugly Cur say to me? He seems a little puzzled. This puts me in mind of the tender Interview between Lady
Charlotte,
and Lord
Hardy
in the Funeral.
[Aside.
Look you, fair Lady, not to make many Words, I am convinc'd, notwithstanding your good Father's Favour, I am not the Person you desire to be alone with, upon this Occasion.
Your Modesty—is pleas'd to be in the right, Sir.
Humh! if I don't flatter my self, you have always had a very ill Opinion of me.
A worse, Sir, of no Mortal breathing,
Humh! and it is likely, it may he immoveable,
No Rock so firm.
Humh! from these Premises then, I may reasonably conclude—you hate me heartily.
Most sincerely, Sir.
Well there is, however, some Merit in speaking Truth; therefore to be as just on my side, I ought in Conscience to let you know, that I have as cordial a Contempt for you too.
O! fy! you flatter me.
[Affecting a Blush.
Indeed I don't; you wrong your own Imperfections to think so.
These Words from any Tongue but yours, might shock me; but coming from the only Man I hate—they charm me.
Admirable! there seems good Sense in this: Have you never observ'd, Madam, that sometimes the greatest Discords raise the most agreeable Harmony?
Yes. But what do you infer from thence?
That while we still preserve this Temper in our Hate, a mutual Benefit may rise from it.
O! never fear me, Sir; I shall not fly out; being convinc'd, that nothing gives so sharp a Point to one's A version, as good Breeding; as, on the contrary, ill Manners often hide a secret Inclination
Most accurately distinguish'd—Well, Madam, is there no Project you can think of now, to turn this mutual A version, as I said, into a mutual Benefit?
None, that I know of, unless we were to marry for our mutual Mortification.
What would you give then, to avoid marrying me?
My Life, with Joy, if Death alone cou'd shun you.
When you marry any other Person—my Consent is necessary.
So I hear indeed—But pray,
Doctor,
tell me, how could your Modesty receive so insolent a Power, without putting my poor Father out of Countenance with your Blushes?
You over-rate my Prudence: I sought it not, but he would crowd it in among other Obligations: He is good-natur'd, and I could not shock him by a Refusal. Wou'd you have had me plainly told him, what a despicable Opinion I had of his Daughter?
Or rather, what a favourable one you had of his Wife, Sir?
Humh! you seem to lose your Temper.
Why do you suppose, the whole Family does not see it except my Father?
If you will keep your Temper, I have something to propose to you.
Your Reproof is just; but I only rais'd my Voice, to let you know, I know you.
You might have spar'd your Pains, it being of no Consequence to my Proposal, what you think of me.
Not unlikely Come, Sir, I am ready to receive it.
In one Word then—I take it for granted, that you would marry Mr.
Heartly
—Am I right?
Once in your Life, you are.
Nay, no Compliments; let us be plain—Would you marry him?
You are mighty nice, methinks—Well—I would.
Then I won't consent to it—Now, if you have any Proposal to make me—so—if not, our Amour's at an end; and we part as Civil Enemies, as if he had been married this Twelvemonth—Think of it.
(Aside.)
O the mercenary Villain, he wants to have a Fellow feeling, I find—What shall I do with him—bite him—pretend to comply, and make my Advantage of it—Well, Sir, I understand every thing but the Sum—if we agree upon that, it's a Bargain.
Half.
What, Two Thousand Pound for your Consent only?
Why, is not Two Thousand Pound worth Two Thousand Pound? Don't you actually get so much by it? Is not the half better than nothing? Come, come, say, I have us'd you like a Friend.
Nay, I think it's the only civil Thing you have done, since you came into the Family.
Do you then make your Advantage of it.
Why, as you say
Doctor,
'tis better than nothing. But how is my Father to be brought into this?
Leave that to my Management.
What Security tho' do you expect for this Money?
O! when I deliver my Consent in Writing,
Heartly
shall lay it me down in
Bank
-Bills.
Well! on one Proviso, I'll undertake that too.
Name it.
Upon your immediately owning to my Father, that you are willing to give up your Interest to Mr.
Heartly.
Humh! stay—I agree to it—you shall have Proof of it this Evening—But in the mean time, let me warm you too; Don't expect, after I have hinted what you desire to your Father, to make your Advantages now by betraying me to him. You know my Power there; if you do, I can easily give it a Counter-Turn: So discover what you please, I shall only pity you.
O! I shall not stand in my own Light; I know your Power, and your Conscience too well, dear
Doctor.
Nay, I dare depend upon your being true to your own Interest. Here comes your Father, I will break it to him immediately. You'll prepare Mr.
Heartly
in the mean time.
Without fail.
I am satisfied.
Enter Sir
John.
Well, Sir, is my Daughter prudent? Has she at last, a true and virtuous Sense of Happiness?
She understands me better than I hoped, Sir.
Well said Equivocation.
[Aside.]
If you please, Sir
John,
we'll take a Turn in the Garden, I have something there to offer to you.
With all my Heart, Sir,—
Maria.
—There's a Toy for thee—Now thou art again my Daughter
[Gives her a Ring.
Come, Sir, I wait on you.
[Exeunt
Sir
John
and
Doctor.
What this Fellow's Original was, I know not; but by his Conscience and Cunning, he would make an admirable Jesuit—Here comes my Brother, and I hope with a good Account of him—Well! Brother, What Success?
Enter
Colonel.
All that my honest Heart could wish for—Substantial Affidavits! that will puzzle him to Answer; I have planted a Messenger at the next Door, who has a Warrant in his Pocket, when I give the Word, to take him.
Why should not you do it immediately, he's now in the Garden with my Father.
No; our seizing him now for Treason, I am afraid won't convince my Father of his Villany: My Design is not only to get my Father out of his Hands, but to drive the pernicious Principles he has instill'd, out of my Father too.
That I doubt will be difficult.
Not at all, if we can first prove him a private Villain to him. My Father's Honesty will soon reflect, and may receive as sudden a Turn as his Credulity.
That's true again; and I hope I am furnish'd with a new Occasion to begin the Alarm to him.
Pray what is't?
Not to trouble you with Particulars; but in short, I have agreed with the
Doctor,
that
Heartly
shall give him Two Thousand Pounds for his Consent without which, you know, by my Father's late Settlement,
Heartly
and I can never come together.
And does the Monster really insist upon't?
Not only that, but ev'n defies me to make an Advantage of the Discovery.
One would think the Villain suspects his Footing in the Family is but short-liv'd, he is in such Haste to have his Pennyworths out on't. But prithee, Sister, What Secret's this, that you have yet behind in those Writings that
Charles
brought to you?
O! that's what I can't yet tell you.
Why, pray?
Because, when you have done all you can, I am resolv'd to reserve some Merit against him to my self.
But why do you suppose I would not assist in it?
You can't, it's now too late.
Pshah! this is rash, and ridiculous.
Ay, may be so; I suppose
Heartly
will be of that Opinion too: But if he is, you had better advise him to keep it to himself.
You will have your obstinate Way, I find.
It can't be worse than yours, I'm sure; remember how you came off in your last Project; I know you meant well, but you are disinherited for all that.
That's no Surprize to me; but I am asham'd however.
By the way; What have you done with
Heartly?
why is he not here?
He has been here, but you must excuse him; he was obliged to call in Haste for
Charles,
whom he took home with him in his own Coach, where his Father waited to receive him.
The poor Boy by this Time then has seen him. Sure their meeting must have been a moving Sight; I would give the World methinks for a true Account of it.
You'll have it from
Heartly
by and by; 'tis at his House they meet: The Father, Sir
Charles Trueman,
hapned to be
Heartly
's intimate Acquaintance.
Well! I own
Heartly
has gained upon me by this.
I am glad to hear that at least. But I must let my Lady know what Progress we have made in the
Doctor's
Business, and beg her Assistance to finish him.
[Ex.
Col.
Enter a Servant.
Madam, Mr.
Heartly.
Desire him to walk in.
Enter
Heartly.
To find you thus alone, Madam, was an Happiness I did not expect from the Temper of our last parting,
I should have been as well pleas'd now to have been thank'd as reproach'd for my good Nature; but you will be in the Right, I find.
Indeed you took me wrong; I literally meant that I was afraid you would not so soon think I had deserv'd this Favour.
Well, then, one of us has been in the Wrong at least.
'Twas I, I own it—More is not in my Power; all the Amends that have been, I have made you: My very Joy of seeing you, has waited, till what you had at Heart unask'd, was perfected; my own Pardon was postpon'd, till I had secur'd one ev'n for a Rival's Life, whom you so justly had compassionated.
Pooh! but why would you say
unask'd
now? Don't you consider your doing it so, is half the Merit of the Action?—Lord you have no Art; you should have left me to have taken Notice of that; only imagine now, how kind, and handsome an Acknowledgment you have robb'd me of?
And yet how artfully you have paid it? With what a wanton, charming Ease you play upon my Tenderness?
Well, but was not you silly now?
(Gazing on her)
Come—You shall not be serious—You can't be more agreeable.
O! but I am serious.
Then I'll be so—Do you forgive me all?
What.
[Looking on her Fan, as not hearing him.
Are we Friends,
Maria?
O Lord! but you have told me nothing of poor
Charles;
Pray how did his Father receive him?
Must you needs know that, before you answer me?
Lord! you are never well till you have talk'd one out of Countenance.
Come, I won't be too particular, you shall answer nothing—Give me but your Hand only.
Pshah! I won't pull off my Glove, not I.
I'll take it as it is then.
Lord! there, there, eat it, eat it.
[Putting it awkwardly to him.
And so I could by Heav'n.
[Kisses
eagerly, and pulls off her Glove.
O my Glove! my Glove! my Glove!—Pooh! you are in a perfect Storm! Lord! if you make such a Rout with ones Hand only, What would you do if you had ones Heart?
That's impossible to tell—But you were asking me of
Charles,
Madam.
O! ay, that's true! Well, now you are good again—Come tell me all that Affair, and then you shall see—how I will like you.
[Wantonly.
O! that I could thus play with Inclination!
Pshah! but you don't tell me now.
There is not much to tell—Where two such tender Passions met, Words had but faintly spoke them. The Son conducted to the Door, with sudden Fear stopt short, and bursting into Sights, o'er chang'd with Shame, and Joy, had almost fainted in my Arms: The Father, touch'd with his Concern, mov'd forward with a kindly Smile to meet him. At this he took new Life, and springing from his Hold, fell protestate at his Feet; where mute, and trembling, for a while he lay: At length with streaming Eyes, and faultring Tongue, he begg'd his Blessing, and his Pardon. The tender Father caught him in his Arms, and dropping his fond Head upon his Cheek, kiss'd him, and sigh'd out,
Heaven protect thee!
then gave into his hand the Royal Pardon; and turning back his Face to dry his Manly Eyes, he cry'd,
Deserve this Royal Mercy,
Charles,
and I am still thy Father.
The grateful Youth. raising his Heart-swollen Voice, reply'd,
May Heaven preserve the Royal Life that gave it.
But here, their Passions grew too strong for farther Speech: Silent Embraces, alternate Sighs, and mingling Tears, were all their Language now. The moving Scene became too tender for my Eyes, and call'd methought, for Privacy; there unperceiv'd I left them, to recover into breathing Sense, and utterable Joy.
Well! of all the inmost Transports of the Soul, there's none that dance into the Heart, like Friendly Reconcilements.
Those Transports might be ours,
Maria,
would you bu
try your Power to pardon.
Which of those Two now do you think was happiest at that Meeting?
O! the Father, doubtless; Great Souls feel a kind of honest Glory in Forgiving, that far exce
ds the Transport of receiving Pardon.
Now I think to bend the stubborn Mind to ask it, is an equal Conquest; and the Joy superior to receive, where the Heart wishes to be under Obligations.
Put me into the happy Boy's Condition, and I may then, perhaps, resolve you better.
You shall positively bring him into Acquaintance.
Upon my Word I will.
And shew him to all the Women of Taste; and I'll have you call him my pretty Fellow too.
I will indeed: But hear me—
I'm positive, if he had White Stockings he would cut down all the Danglers at Court in a Fortnight!
O! no doubt on't; but—
You can't conceive how prettily he makes Love now.
Not so well, as you make your Defence,
Maria.
O Lord! I had forgot—he's to teach me
Greek
too.
O, the trifling Tyrant! How long,
Maria,
do you think you can find out new Evasions for what I say unto you?
Lord, you are horrid silly! But since 'tis Love that makes you such a Dunce—poor
Heartly,
—I forgive you.
[Enter
Colonel,
unseen.
That's kind, however—But to compleat my Joy, be kinder yet—and—
O! I can't, I can't—Lord! did you never ride a Horse-Match?
Was ever so wild a Question?
Because if you have, it runs in my Head, you certainly gallop'd a Mile beyond the Winning Post, to make sure on't.
Now I understand you: But since you will have me touch every Thing so very tenderly,
Maria,
How shall I find proper Words to ask you the Lover's last necessary Question?
O! there's a Thousand Points to be adjusted, before that's answer'd.
(Coming unexpectedly between them.)
Name them this Moment then, for positively this is the last Time of asking.
Pshah! Who sent for you?
I only came to teach you to speak plain
English,
my Dear.
Lord! mind your own Business, can't you?
So I will; for I will make you do more of yours in Two Minutes, than you would have done without me in a Twelvemonth. Why, how now! What! do you think the Man's to dangle after your ridiculous Airs for ever?
This is mighty pretty.
You'll say so on
Thursday
Sevenight, (for let Affairs take what Turn they will in the Family); that's positively your Wedding Day—Nay, you shan't stir.
Was ever such Assurance?
Upon my Life, Madam, I am out of Countenance: I don't know how to behave my self to him.
No, no, let him go on, only—This is beyond whatever was known, sure!
Admirable! I hope it will come to something.
[Aside.
Ha! ha! If I were to leave you to yourselves now, what a Couple of pretty out of Countenance Figures you would make; Humming and Hawing upon the vulgar
of Jointure, and Pin Money—Come, come! I know what's proper o'both Sides, you shall leave it to me,
I had rather
Maria
would name her own Terms to me▪
Have you a Mind to any Thing particular?
[To
Maria.
Why sure! What! Do you think I'm only to be fill'd out here as you please, and sweetned, and supp'd up like a Dish of
Why, pray Madam, when your Tea's ready, what have you to do but to drink it? But you, I suppose, expect a Lover's Heart, like your Lamp, should be always flaming at your Elbow, and when it's ready to go out, you indolently supply it with the Spirit of Contraction.
And so you suppose, that your Assurance has made an End of this Matter?
Not till you have given him your Hand upon it.
That then would compleat it?
Perfectly.
Why then take it,
Heartly.
[Giving her Hand to
Heart.
O soft Surprize! Exstatick Joy.
Now I presume you are in high Triumph, Sir.
(To the
Col.)
No, Sister, now you are consistent with that good Sense I always thought you Mistress of.
I'm afraid, Mr.
Heartly,
we are both oblig'd to him.
If you think so,
Maria,
my Heart—Is under double Obligations laid.
(Embracing him.)
—If it cements our Friendship, I am overpaid.
[Exeunt.
ACT. V.
Heartly,
and
Maria.
WELL, now,
Heartly,
you have nothing to do but to look forward, and, if possible, to forget what I have been to you: Though 'tis a horrid Restraint you lay upon our Sex: You first make it the Business of your Lives to blow up our Vanity, and then preposterously expect we should be prudent and humble: That is, you invite us to a Feast, where 'tis criminal to taste, or have an Appetite; You put a Sword into a Child's Hand, and then are angry if it does Mischief.
You give up too much,
Maria;
I never treated you so: What might have been Flattery to most Women, was but honest Truth to you.
Why look there now! Is not that enough to turn any poor Woman into a Changeling?
No, because 'tis true; charge me with a Falshood and I submit.
Nay then, did you not once tell me, that all my Airs and Follies were merely put on in Compliance to the World, and that good Sense was only natural to me; that ev'n my Affectation (I have not forgot your Words) carried more Sincerity, than the serious Vows of other Women.
By all my Happiness I think so still.
What, seriously?
Upon my Soul I do.
Lord! that's delightful! Do you really love me then,
Heartly?
Do, tell me, for now I begin to believe every Thing you say to me. But don't neither—I am vain still—'Twas my Vanity that made me ask you.
Now I don't take it so.
There was some in't I am sure, tho' it begins to dwindle, I can tell you.
No matter, I love you as you are, I would not have you lose your Pleasantry,
Maria.
Well, do, let me be silly sometimes.
O! I can play with you, for that Matter.
Pshah! you'll laugh at me.
Not while you are good in Essentials.
Indeed I'll be very good.
O fy! that will be the way to make me so.
Lord! What signifies Sense, where there is so much Pleasure in Folly?
No perfect Passion ever was without it; the Pleasure would subside were we always to be wise in it.
For my Part I think so: But will you really stand to the Agreement tho', that I have made with the Doctor?
Why not? You shall not break your Word upon my Account, tho' he might be a Villain you gave it to.
Well, I take it as a Compliment; not but I have some Hopes of getting over it, and justly too; but don't let me tell you now. I love to surprize—Tho' you shall know all, if you desire it.
No,
Maria,
I don't want the Secret; I am satisfied in your Inclination to trust me.
Well then, I'll keep the Secret, only to shew you, that you upon Occasion may trust me with one.
After that,
Maria,
it would be wronging you to ask it: But pray, Madam, has the Doctor yet given you any Proof ofhis having declin'd his Interest to your Father?
Yes, he told me just now, he had brought him to pause upon it, and does not question in Two Days to compleat it; but desires in the mean Time you will be ready and punctual with the
Proemium.
Suppose I should talk with Sir
John
my self; 'tis true he has slighted me of late, but however, I ought at least to ask his Consent, though I have but little Hopes of it.
By all Means, do so—Here he comes—This may open another Scene of Action too, that we are preparing for.
Enter Sir
John,
and Lady
Woodvil,
who walks apart with
Maria.
Mr.
Heartly,
I am glad I have met with you here.
I have endeavour'd twice to Day, Sir, to pay my Respects to you.
Sir, I'll be plain with you—I went out to avoid you; but where the Welfare of a Child is concern'd you must not take it ill, if we don't stand upon Ceremony.—However, since I have Reason now to be more in Temper, than perhaps I was, at that Time, I should be glad to talk with you.
I take it as a Favour, Sir.
Sir,—Doctor
Wolf
informs me, that he is well assured you were horn the Year before the Revolution: Now Sir, I should be glad to be well satisfied in that Points a greater Consequence depending on it, perhaps, than you imagine.
Sir, I have been always told that was my Age; but for your farther Satisfaction I appeal to the Register.
Sir, I dare believe you, and am glad to hear it,
But pray, Sir, may I beg leave to ask, why you are so concerned to know this?
Because, Sir, if this be true, I am satisfied you may be a
regular Christian;
the Doubt of which, may have, perhaps, done you some Disservice in my private Opinion.
Sir, if that can reconcile me to it, I shall be thankful for the Benefit, without considering why I that way came to deserve it.
That Argument might hold us now too long.—But, Sir,—here's the Case—your Principles and mine have the Misfortune to differ: Yours being (as I take it) entirely on the Revolution Side.
If I am not misinform'd, Sir, you your self commanded a Regiment in Defence of it.
I did so, and thought it just.—'Twould be fruitless, perhaps, to offer you the Reasons, that since have alter'd my Opinion: But now, Sir, even supposing that I err in Principle, you must still allow, that Conscience is the Rule that every honest Man ought to walk by.
'Tis granted, Sir.
Then give me leave to tell you, Sir, that giving you my Daughter, would be to act against that Conscience I pretend to, and consequently the same Ties oblige me to bestow her, where the same Principles with mine, I think deserve her.—Now, Sir, consult your own Honour, and tell me, how you can still pursue my Daughter, without doing Violence to mine?
But, Sir, to shorten this Dispute, suppose the Doctor (whom I presume you design her for) actually consents to give me up his Interest; might not that soften your Objections to me?
But why do you suppose, Sir, he would give up his Interest?
I only judge from what your Daughter tells me, Sir.
My Daughter!
I appeal to her.
And I appeal ev'n to your self, Sir—Has not the Doctor just now in the Garden spoke in Favour of Mr.
Heartly
to you? Nay, pray, Sir, be plain, because more depends on that, than you can easily imagine or believe.
What senseless Insinuation have you got in your Head now?
Be so kind, Sir, first to answer me, that I may be better able to inform you.
Well, I own he has declined his Interest, in Favour of Mr.
Heartly.
But I must tell you, Madam, he did it in so modest, so friendly, so good-natur'd, so conscientious a Manner, that I now think my self more than ever bound in Honour to espouse him.
But now, Sir, (only for Arguments Sake) suppose I could prove, that all this seeming Virtue was utterly Artificial; that his Regard to Mr.
Heartly
was neither founded upon Modesty, Friendship, Good-Nature, nor Conscience; or in short, that he has basely betray'd and sold the Trust you made him; like a Villain barter'd, bargain'd to give me to Mr.
Heartly,
for half the Four Thousand Pound you have valued his Consent at. I say, suppose this were the Case, where would be his Virtue then, Sir?
And I say 'tis impious to suppose it.
Under Favour, Sir, how is it possible your Daughter could know the Doctor had spoke to you upon this Head, if he himself had not told her so, in Consequence of his Agreement?
Sir, I don't admit your Consequence: Her knowing it from him is no Proof, that he might not still resign her from a Principle of Modesty or Good Nature.
Then, Sir, from what Principle must you suppose that I accuse him?
From an obstinate Prejudice to all that's Good and Virtuous.
That's too hard, Sir, What Blot has stain'd my Life, that you can think so of me▪ But, Sir, the worst your Opinion can provoke me to, is to marry Mr.
Heartly,
without either his Consent or yours.
What, do you brave me Madam?
[in Tears]
No Sir, but I Scarn a Lye, and will so far vindicate my Integrity, as to insist on your believing me▪ if not, as a Child whom you abandon, I have a right to throw my self into other Arms for Protection.
O
Maria!
how thy Spirit Charms me!
[apart to her.]
I am Confounded! those Tears cannot be Counterfeit, nor can this be True.
Indeed my Dear, I fear it is, it would be Cruel to her Concern to think it wholly false, can you suppose she'd urge so gross an Accusation only to expose her self to the Justice of your Resentment?
What are you against him too? then he has no Friend but me, and I cannot, at so short a warning, give him up to Infamy, and Baseness.
Good Sir, be Compos'd, and ask your Heart one farther Question:
What would you say to me?
In all our mutual Course of Happiness, have I ever yet deceiv'd you with a falshood?
Never, I grant it, nor has my Honest Heart yet Wrong'd thy Goodness with a Jealous Thought of it.
Would you then believe me, should I accuse him too? even of Crimes, that Vertue Blushes but no mention.
To what Extravagance would you drive me?
I would before have undeceiv'd you, when his late Artifice turn'd the Honest Duty of your Son, into his own Reproach, and Ruine: But knowing then your Temper was inaccessible, I durst not offer it. But now, in better Hope of being believ'd, I here avow the Truth of all he was accus'd of then.
Will you Distract me? my Senses could not be deceiv'd.
Indeed, they were, he saw you listning, and at the Instant turn'd his Impious Barefac'd Leve to me, into Equivocal Intercessions pretending to
Maria.
You Starrle me.
Could you otherwise suppose, your Son would have brought you to be Witness of his own Weak Malice in Accusing him?
I'm all Astonishment!
Come, Sir, Suspend your Wonder, Respite your Belief ev'n of this, till grosser Evidence convinces you: Suppose I here, before your Face, should let you see his Villany, make him repeat his Odious Love to me, at once throw off his Mask, and shew the Barefac'd Traitor.
Is it possible? Make me but Witness of that Fact, and I shall soon Accuse my self, and own my Folly equal to his Baseness: But Pardon me, as I in such a Case would not believe, ev'n him Accusing you, so am I bound in equal Charity to think, you yet may be deceiv'd, in what you Charge on him.
'Tis Just—let it be so—we'll yet suppose him Innocent, till you your self pronounce him Guilty: and since I have stak'd my Faith upon the Truth of what I urge, 'tis fit we bring him to immediate Tryal: But then Sir, I must beg you to descend ev'n to the poorShifts we are reduc'd to.
All, to any thing to ease me of my Doubts, propose them.
They that would set Toils for Beasts of Prey, must lurk in humble Caves to watch their Haunts.
Place me where you please.
Under this Table is your only Stand, the Carpet will conceal you.
Be it so, I'll take my Post, what more?
Mr.
Heartly,
shall we beg your Leave, and you
Maria,
take the least suspected way to send the
Doctor
to me immediately
I have a Thought will do it, Madam,—come Sir,
[Exit
Mar.
and
Hear.
Here Sir, take this Cushion, you will be Easier, Sir
John goes under the Table.]
Now Sir, you must consider how desperate a Disease I have undertaken to Cure, therefore you must not winch nor stir too soon, at any freedom you Observe me take with him; be sure lie Close and Still, and when the Proof is full, appear at your Discretion.
Fear not, I'll be Patient.
Hush! he comes.
Enter
Doctor
with a Book.
Your Woman told me, Madam, you were here alone, and desir'd to speak with me.
I did Sir, but that we may be sure we are alone, pray shut the Outward Door, and see that Passage too be clear, another Surprize might Ruine us—is all safe?
I have taken care Madam.
I am afraid I interrupt your Meditations.
Say rather you improve them: You, Madam, were the subject of my solitary Thoughts, I take in all the little aids I can to Guard my Frailty, and truly I have receiv'd great Consolation from an Unfortunate Example here before me.
Pray of what kind Sir?
I had just dipt into poor
Eloisas
Passion for
Abelard;
It is indeed a piteous Conflict! How Terrible! How penitent a Sense she shews of Guilty Pleasures past, and fruitless Pains to shut them from her Memory.
I have read her Story, Sir.
Is it not pitiful?
A Heart of Stone might feel for her.
O! think then, what I endure for you, such are my Pains; but such is my Sincerity, tho' I fear my being reduc'd to feign a Passion for
Maria,
in my late Surprize, has done dishonour to the Vows I then preferr'd to You.
'Twas on that Point, I wanted now to talk with you, not knowing then, how fat you might mistake my Silence: Now had I clos'd with the Colonel in Accusing You, it would have been plain I was your Enemy; as had I joyn'd in your Defence against him, it had been as grossly evident I was his; but since I have Uses for his Friendship, and, as I saw your Credit with Sir
John
needed no support, I hope you'll think betwixt the two Extremes I have acted but a prudent Part.
Let me presume to hope then, what I did, you Judge was Self-Defence, and pure Necessity.
'Twas wonderful! Surprizing to perfection! The Wit of it—but I won't tell you, what effect it had upon me.
Why, Madam? let me beseech you.
No, 'twas nothing—beside—what need you ask me?
Why do you thus decoy my foolish Heart, and feed it, with such
Hybla
drops of Flattery? You cannot sure think Kindly of me.
O well feign'd Fear! You too, I sind can flatter in your Turn: You know how well the subtle force of Modesty prevails. O Men! Men! Men!
'Twere Arrogance to think I have deserv'd this Goodness: but treat me as you please, I'll be at least sincere to you, and frankly own, I still suspect, that all this sosrning Favour is but Artifice.
Well! well! I'd have you think so.
What Transport would it give, to be assur'd I wrong you! but O! I fear this Shaddow of Compliance is only meant to lure me from
Maria,
and then as fond
Ixions
were of old, to fill my Arms with Air.
Methinks this Doubt of me, seems rather founded on your second Thoughts of not resigning Her; 'tis she, I find is your substantial Happiness.
O that you could but fear I thought so! how easy 'twere to prove my Coldness, or my Love.
O Sir, you have convinc'd me Now of Both.
Can all this pretty Anger then be real? take heed, fair, Creature, it flatters more, than Kindness.
I can assure you Sir, I should have spar'd you this trouble, had I known how deeply you were engag'd to her.
Nay then I must believe you; but indeed you wrong me, to prove my Innocence, 'tis not an Hour since I press'd Sir
John
to give
Maria
to Young
Heartly.
O! all Artifice! you knew that modest resignation, would make Sir
John
but warmer in your Interest.
Since you will ripe the secret from my Heart—know then, I actually have Sold her, like a Bawble, to her Childish Lover, for two thousand times her Value.
Are you serious?
As this is true, or false, may I in you be Blest, or Miserable.
But how can you suppose Sir
John
will ever hear of it.
Alas! poor Man! he knows not his own Weakness, he's molded into any shape, if you but gently stroke his Humour: I dare depend on his Consent—beside, I intend to Morrow to perswade him 'tis for the Interest of our
Cause
it should be so, and then I have him sure.
Fy! how is that possible? he can't be so implicitly Credulous, You don't take him sure for a
Roman
Catholick.
Um—not absolutely—But, poor Soul! he little thinks how near he is one. 'Tis true, name to him but
Rome,
or Popery, he Startles, as at a Monster: But Gild its grossest Doctrines with the Stile of
English Catholick,
he swallows down the Poison, like a Cordial.
Nay, if he's so far within your Power, it cannot fail, He must consent: well Sir, now I give you leave to guess the Reason, why I too, at our last meeting, so warmly prest you to resign
Maria.
Is it possible? was I then so early your Concern?
You cannot blame me sure, for having there oppos'd your Happiness.
I dye upon the Transport.
[taking her Hand]
Be sure you are secret now: your least Imprudence makes these, like Fair favours vanish in a Moment.
How can you form so vain a Fear?
Call it not vain, for let our Converse end in what it may, you still shall find, my Fame is Dear to me, as Life.
Where can it find so sure a guard? the grave Austerity of my Life will strike Suspicion Dumb, and yours may mock the Malice of Detraction: I am no Giddy, LooseLiv'd Courtier, whose false profession end only his Boast of Favours: No, fair spotless Miracle, the Mysterie of Love are only fit for Hearts Recluse, and Elevate as mine my Happiness, like yours, depending on my Secrecy.
'Tis you must answer for this Folly.
I take it whole upon my self, the guilt be only mine, but be our Transports Mutual—come lovely Creature, let us withdraw to privacy, where murmuring love shall hush thy Fears, and lose them in the Burning Joy.
[Sir
John
step
ng softly behind him seizes him by the Throat.]
Traytor!
Ah!
(Astonisht)
Is this thy Sanctity? this thy Doctrine! these thy Meditations! If stung with my Abuses I now should Stab thee to the Heart, what Devil durst murmur 'twere not an Act of Justice? But since thy Vile Hypocrisy unmask'd, must make Mankind Abhor thee, be thy own shame, thy living with Punishment.
Do! Triumph Sir—your Artifice has well succeeded—I see your Ends! you needed not so deep a Plot to part with me.
[Trembling]
Suppress thy weak evasions—Ungrateful Wretch! Have I for this redeem'd thee from the Jaws of gaping Poverty, Fed, Cloath'd, Loved, Preferr'd thee to my Bosom, to my Family, and Fortune? Wife, Children, Friends, Servants, all that were not Friends to thee, accounted as my Enemies; nay more to Crown my Faith in thee, I have relied on they Integrity ev'n for my Future Happiness: And how hast thou, in one short Day requited me? Taking the Advantage of my Blinded Passion, thou hast turn'd the Duty of my Son to his Undoing; Sordidly hast Sold the Trust I made thee of my Daughter, Attempted, like a Felonious Traytor, to seduce my Wife, and hast I fear, with Poisonous Doctrines too ensnar'd my Soul.
Now Heav'n be prais'd his Heart seems Conscious of his Error.
[aside.]
But why do I reproach thee? had I not been the weakest of Mankind, thou never couldst have prov'd so great a Villain—whether Heaven intends all this to Punish, or to Save me, yet I know not; my Senses staggar at the view, and my Reflexion's lost in Wild Astonishment.
[He stands musing.]
This snare was worthy of you, Madam, 'tis you have made this Villain of me.
[apart to Lady W.]
You would have made me worse, but I have only shewn him what you were before.
I thank you.
Thank your own Ingratitude, and Wickedness: but I must now pursue my Victory.
[Exit Lady W.]
[Apart.]
No It ends not here. He was not brought to listen to this proof alone! There's something deeper yet design'd against me—I must be speedy—suppose I talk with
Charles,
allarm him with our Common Danger, Point out his Ruine as our only means of Safety, and like Panther in the Toil provok'd, turn short with Vengeance on my Hunters!
What! still within my Sight! of all my Follys, which is it tells thee, that I now shall keep my Temper.
[Turning boldly to him.]
Whom do you menace, me Sir. Reflect upon your own condition first, and where you are.
What would the Villain drive at! I prithee leave me, I cannot look on thee! thy overbearing Insolence confounds me: But since thy Wickedness has turn'd my Eyes upon my self, and to thy crimes detected, I hope to owe my future Innocence, as the sore Wound the Viper gives, the Viper best can Cure: For that one good may Heaven like me forgive thee: But seek thy Biding in some other place—out of my House, this instant, Hence! be gon! and see my shameful Face no more.
Nay then, 'tis time to be my self, and let you know, that I am Master here, Turn you out Sir, this House is Mine; and now Sir, at your Peril dear to Insult me.
O! Heaven! 'tis true, thou hast disarm'd my Justice, and turn'd its Sword into my own weal Bosom—I had forgot my Folly, 'tis fit it should be so, and Heaven is Just, at once to let me see my Crime, and Punishment—O my poor Injur'd Son!—Whither shall I fly to hide me from the World?
Enter Lady Woodvil.
Whither are you going Sir?
I know not—but here it seems I am a Trespasser—the Master of this House has warn'd me hence, and since the Right is now in him, 'tis Just I should resign it.
You shall not stir: he dares not Act with such abandon'd Insolence, No Sir, Possession still is yours, if he pretends a Right, let him by open Course of Law maintain it.
Are these the shifts you are reduc'd to? no Madam, I shall not wait so slow a Vengeance, you'll find I have a shorter way to Rout you.—here!
Charles!
(Exit Doctor.)
Nay then there is an end of all—I have provok'd a Serpent—my Life, I see, must Pay the Forfeit of my Folly!
Come Sir, take Heart! your Life, in spite of him, is Free, and I hope your Actions too: However, tell me freely, have you rashly done any thing, for which the Law may Question you?
I think, not strictly, 'tis true I have lately trusted him with Summs of Money, which he pretended, if accounted for, might Endanger both of us.
O! the Subtle Villain! those Summs are Innocent, I dare answer for them: But is there nothing more?
Not, that I can call to Mind, more Criminal.
Pray tell the worst, that we may Arm against him.
Sometimes with my own Hand, I have reliev'd the wants of Wretched Prisoners to the State.
We have no Laws, that Frown on Acts of Charity, if that were Criminal, the Government it self is guilty
How far our private converse may affect me—That I know not. If
Charles
Betrays me not, I think his Malice cannot reach me,
Then Sir, be easy, for he has lost his Influence there:
Charles
has long since perceiv'd his Villany, and grew from thence a secret Convert to the Cause of Truth, and Loyalty: of which he has given such Meritorious Proof, that Mr.
Heartly,
and your Son this very Day, Sir, have obtain'd his Pardon.
You tell me Wonders! Pardon'd! and a Convert say you! how strongly are our Hearts persuaded by Example! what Darkness have I Wander'd in▪ How Aimiable is such Royal Mercy! yet with what hardned Malice, has that Slave traduced it?
Enter
Maria
hastily.
O
Sir!
I am frighted out of my Senses! for Heavens sake be gon! Fly, this Moment, this Wicked Fellow has Designs upon your Life.
How.
What dost thou mean? explain.
As I was passing by the Hall, I heard him Earnest in Discourse with
Charles,
and upon their Naming you, I stopt a while to listen, where, I heard the
Doctor
Urge to him, that you were False at Heart, that from your late Frivolous pretence to break with him, he was convinc'd your Malice now would stop at nothing to undo him, that
Charles
himself was equally in Danger, and that to save your own Life, you certainly design'd to Sacrifice theirs to the Government, which there was no Possibility of preventing, but by their immediate joining in a Charge of Treason against You.
O the Villain! 'tis well we are secure in
Charles.
If we are not, why be it, as it may—I will not stir—I'll stand upon my Innocence, or if that's Betray'd, will throw me on the Mercy of that Royal Breast, whose Vertues my Credulity has Injur'd.
Ah!
[A Pistol is heard from within.]
What means, that Pistol?
Don't stir, I beg you Sir.
What Terrors has this Monster brought into our Family?
What will it end in?
How Wretched has my Folly made me?
How now! what's the Matter?
Enter
Betty.
O Dear Madam! I shall faint away, there's Murther doing.
Who! where, what is it!
The
Doctor
Sir, and Mr.
Charles,
were at high Wordsjust now in the Hall, and upon a sudden there was a Pistol Fir'd between them: Oh! I am afraid poor Mr.
Charles
is Kill'd.
How!
Oh! here he comes himself Sir, he will tell you more.
Heartly, Charles,
and the
Doctor
held by Servants.
Here bring in this Ruffian, this is Villany beyond Example.
What means this Outrage?
I Tremble.
Don't be alarm'd, Madam, there's no Mischief done, what was intended, the
Doctor
here can best inform you.
[to Heartly.]
You Sir shall answer for this Insult? What am I held for? who's here, that dares assume a Right to Question me?
Keep your Temper, Sir, we'll Release you presently, but Sir
John
must first know the Bottom of his Obligations to you.
Mr.
Heartly,
I am asham'd to look on you.
What Sir! shall my own Servant abuse me, brave me, lift his Hand against me, and I not dare to punish him.
Your Servant Sir! we know him better.
Then Sir, I demand my Liberty, that the Government too may know him.
Yes, and let it too be known, you first seduc'd me to Rebel, and now would have me Expiate my Offence with Perjury.
How Sir?
Yes, Perjury! for such it must have been, should I have charg'd, as you'd have had me, this Gentleman with Treason: What Facts have I been privy to, that reach that Name? The Worst I know of him, is, that all the Factious Falshoods you have rais'd against the best of Princes, he, blinded with your Hypocrisy, believ'd.
'Tis well Sir, you are protected now.
This, Sir, in short has been our Cause of Quarrel: The
Doctor
finding I receiv'd with Coldness his vile designs against your Life, began to offer menaces on mine, if I comply'd not; at which I smiling told him, the Disappointments of his Love had made him Desperate: This stung him into Rage, and fastning at my Throat, he answer'd Villain! you'll be Humbler, when you groan in Chains for this: Here indeed all Temper left me, when disengaging from his hold, with One Home Blow I fell'd him reeling to the Pavement; at this grown Desp erate, he ran with Fury to some Pistols that hung above the Chimney, to Revenge him, I in the Instant as he reach'd one, seiz'd upon his Wrist, and as we grappled Sir, the Pistol firing to the Cieling, alarm'd the Family, when Mr.
Heartly,
and your Servants rusht in to part us.
Insatiate Villain! O my Shame!
Well Sir! now you have heard this Mighty Charge! what have you more against me?
More Sir, I hope is needless, but if Sir
John
is yet unsatisfied—
O! I have seen too much! every new instance of his Wickedness but adds afresh to my Confusion.
Now Sir is your Time
apart.
I go this Minute, Madam.
apart.
I Value not your whisper'd menaces, for know to your Confusion, my Vengeance is not yet Defeated: You'll find Sir, that to Rebel, or to Conceal a Rebel, are in the Eye of Law both Equal Acts of Treason: That Fact I'm sure is evident against you; There! there stands in Proof the
riling Traytor you have Shelter'd! this Sir, your whole Family can Charge you with, and Swear it home they shall, or Load their Souls with Perjury: but then to dash your few remaining Days with Bitterness of Misery, Remember I, Sir, whom Mortally you hate, succeed the Instant Heir to your Possessions: Now farewell, and let Disgrace, and Beggary be your Childrens Portion.
As he is going out, the
Collonel
stops him.
Hold, Sir, not so fast, you cannot pass.
Who, Sir, shall dare to stop me?
Within there! March!
Enter a
Messenger
with a file of
Musqueteers.
Is your Name
Wolf
Sir?
What if it be Sir!
Then Sir I have a Warrant against you for High Treason
Me Sir?
[Startled.]
Do you know one
Collonel Perth
Sir?
Ha! then I am Betray'd indeed.
This
Perth,
it seems, Sir, has m
nag'd his Correspondence at
Avignon,
from whence he came last Night Express; but the Government having Immediate Notice of his Arrival, he was this Morning seiz'd, and Examin'd before the Council, where, among other Facts, he has confest he knew the
Doctor
actually in Arms at the first Rebellious rising in
Northumberland,
which has been since by other Witnesses confirm'd.
And, Sir, to Convince you, that ev'n the Doctrine he has Broach'd could never flow from the pure Fountain of our Establisht Faith: Here are Affidavits in my Hand that prove him under his Disguise a lurking Emissary of
Rome
that he is actually a Priest in
Popish
Orders, and has several times been seen, as such, to Officiate Publick Mass in the Church of
Noster Dame
at
Antwerp.
How!
I start with Horror, ev'en at the Danger I am freed from.
And now, Sir, had not your Insatiate Villanys to this Family fac'd me to this close Inquiry into your Private Life, Perhaps you might have pass'd unquestion'd, among the Rout of Enemies, whom our Government Despises.
Well Sir! now then you know your worst of me: But know, what you call Criminal, may yet before your Triumph is secure, not only find its Pardon but Reward: I yet may Live, Sir, to retort your Insult, ot least the Days that are alotted me, will want for no supports of Life, while this Conveyance calls me Master.
There! there indeed he stings me to the Heart! For that rash act reproach, and endless Shame will haunt me.
No Sir—be Comforted! for ev'n there too his abandon'd hope must leave him.
Why dost thou totrure me! did I not Sign that Deed!
Yes, Sir, but in that Deed you'll find, my Brother, Not that Traytor is your Heir: For know the fatal Deed, which you intended, Sir, to Sign is here ev'n yet unseal'd and Innocent.
Ha!
The
Doctor
hastily openes the Deed to examine it, and all the Company seems surpriz'd.
What means she?
I mean Sir, that this Deed, by accident falling into this Gentlemans Hands, his generous Concern for our Family discover'd it to me; when I reduc'd to this Extremity, instantly procur'd that other to be drawn exactly like it, which in your Impatience, Sir, to execute, pass'd unsuspected for the Original: their only difference is, that, wherever here you read the
Doctors
Name, there you'll find my Brothers only, throughout, and wholly, Sir, in every Article investing him in all that Right, and Title, which you intended for your Mortal Enemy.
Distraction! Outwitted by a Brainless Girl.
[Throws down the Writing in Rage.]
All the Servants having attended to the Discovery, break out into Huzzahs of Joy, &c. while Sir
John,
the
Col. Charles
and
Maria
severally embrace,
Heartily,
and
Lady Woodvil
silently join in their Congratulations.
I cannot bear their irksome Joy—come Sir, lead me where you please—a Dungeon would releive me now.
Secure your Prisoner.
Huzzah! a Traytor! a Traytor!
[Exit
Mess. Soldiers, Doctor,
and
Servants.]
Now
Heartly,
I hope I have made attonement for your Jealousy.
You have Banisht it for ever: This was beyond your self surprizing.
Sister—
Come no set Speeches, If I deserve your Thanks, return them in a Friendship here.
[Pointing to
Charles.]
The Business of my Life shall be to merit it.
And mine to speak my Sense of Obligations.
O my Child! for this Deliverance, I only can reward thee here.
[gives
Maria
to
Heartly.]
For thee my Son, whose filial Virtues I have Injur'd; this Honest Deed in every Article shall be ratified: I see your Eyes are all upon me, expecting from that vile Traytors Parctices, some Voluntary Instance of my Hearts Conversion: I must be Blind indeed, were I not now convinc'd He must in all things have alike deceiv'd me, as the Dial that miss-tels one Hour, of Consequence is false through the whole round of Day. Let it suffice. I see my Errors with a Conscious Shame; but hope, when I am justly Weigh'd, you'll find those Errors rose but from a Ductile Heart, not Disinclin'd to Truth, but fatally misled by false Appearances:
Whoever knows your Private Life, must think you, Sir, in this Sincere:
And Now Sir, since I am sure, it will no more Offend you, give me leave to Observe, that of all the Arts our Enemies make use on to Embroil us, none seem so Audaciously Preposterous, as their Insisting, that a Nations best Security is the Word of a Prince, whose Religion Indulges him to give it, and at the same time Obliges him to break it: And tho' perhaps in lesser Points our Politick Disputes won't suddenly be ended, methinks there's one Principle, that all Partys might easily come into, that no Change of Government can give us a Blessing equal to our Liberty.
Grant us but this and then of Course you'll own,
To Guard that Freedom,
GEORGE
must fill the Throne.
FINIS.
Epilogue.
Spoken by Mrs. Oldfield.
HOW Wild, how Frantick is the vain Essay,
That Builds on Modern Politicks a Play!
Methinks to Write at all, is Bold enough,
But in a Play to stand a Faction Buff!
Not
Rome
's Old Stage presum'd, (or Fame's a Fibber.)
And Moderns to attempt it! well said
CIBBER!
Was't not enough the Criticks might pursue him!
But must he rouse a Party to undo him!
These Blows I told him on his Play would fall,
But he unmov'd, cry'd—Blood! we'll Stand it all,
When PRIESTS turn TRAYTORS where's the mighty matter?
Since when has Treason been exempt from Satyr?
And should from Guilt a Factious Clamour Rise,
Such Spite must speak them
England's
Enemies,
But if
Old England's
Friends allow 'tis right,
W'are sure their Power can chace the Jacobite,
And put their Malice, like their Troops, to Flight.
As for the Criticks, Those, he owns, may Teize him,
Because he never took such Pains to please them,
In Time; Place, Action, Rules by which Old Wits
Made Plays, as—Dames do Puddings, by Receipts:
But hopes again ev'n Rebels cannot say,
Tho' Vanquisht, they're Insulted in his Play:
Nay more—To set their Cause in fairest light,
H' has made a Man of Sense—A Jacobite!
(Tho' by our Bards good leave, (to take it right,
His Sense was shewn, when turn'd from Jacobite)
Thus too the Fair, that may be wrong Inclin'd,
He Hopes to
CHARLES's
Passion will be Kind,
And own, at worst, on their Reflecting Pillow,
The Rebel, after all's, a Pretty Fellow!
But why, you'll say, was I made
HEARTLYS
Wife?
Consider, Fair ones,
HEARTLY
sav'd his Life:
So that you see, the Boy han't quite Miscarried
Beside—
Are all those Dears so Happy you have Married?
How often, in that State, has Love seen Elves
So Cramm'd with Comsort, they could Han
themselves?
The Worst you can against his Satyr Plead,
Is that My Lord of
THETFORD's
Hang'd indeed:
If that seems hard▪ why Grant him your Reprive,
And by an Act of Grace, let this
NON-JUROR
Live.