University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Room in an Inn at Romford.
Enter Hostess and Ralph.
Hostess.
Now have I told thee all—how she came here
On Tuesday night, sore faint and travel-worn,
When thou at Epping wast upon the roam;
How from her home, by bold and lawless men,
She had been forced; how she escaped their hands;
How, when she reach'd her parents' roof again,
Deserted 'twas,—its tenants doubtless gone
In quest of her; how, knowing not what way
To go, she put her trust in Heaven to guide her,
Which brought her to our door!

Ralph.
Inform'd she thee
Who were her parents?

Hostess.
No. I ask'd, but saw
The question troubled her, so ask'd no more.
I see thou think'st her fair. Now, mark me, Ralph.
Thou'rt less sedate, I know, than thou art wild,—
And, still, I think there's in thy heart a check
Of ruth and honesty, that draws thee back
When passion 'cross their bounds would have thee wing.
Beware then, Ralph, her beauty tempt thee not
To do her wrong! She's poor! She has not friend,
Of right, she here can call so—has not home,
Save what a stranger's roof supplies her with;
The labour of her hands is all her means;
Her virtue is their strength; who'd rob them on't,
Were he my son, he were not villain only,
But coward mean to boot!

Ralph.
Nay, mother, nay,
I'm not that lackgrace yet! Give thou consent,
I'm wived to-morrow, for sweet Bessy's sake.

Hostess.
I'll think on't, Ralph. Meantime bestir thee, son;
Look to the gentleman, since Wednesday last
Took up his quarters here.

Ralph.
The gentleman?
My shoe's a gentleman!

Hostess.
How, sirrah! this
Thy manners?

Ralph.
Mother, I overheard—

Hostess.
Didst what?
I'll have no list'ners in my house,
No eaves-droppers! no ears that wait on keyholes!
Who take their quarters up at the Queen's Arms,
Shall have their secrets, as their luggage, safe!
Fie on thee, Ralph! No more on't! Mind thyself!
Thy mother's hard-earn'd gains not more were won
By thrift than honesty; whom they enrich
Must honest be as thrifty. So be thou!
My son is he, not of my blood that's drop,
But portion of my heart.—Not so—I'd take
A hind that is, to be thy mother's heir.
[Ralph goes out.
All's right and tidy,—each thing in its place,
And cleverly put out of hand. No cup,
Tankard, or flagon, but its face might show
To polish'd silver, rich and bright as 'tis
There's sure a virtue in her touch, that leaves
All things it meets as ne'er they look'd before!
Luck hath she brought with her. Since here she came,
No house in Romford holds its head so high
As the Queen's Arms, for balm of sparkling ale,
Cordial of sack, and nectar of bright wine!
Would she were wife to Ralph! We cannot hope
To keep the treasure, long, that's coveted
By all who see it, and by right's not ours.
But, yet, who is she?—Ralph's my son; and heir
To good a hundred pounds a year, besides
His father's house and land. Her courtesy might
An heiress' self vouchsafe to make to Ralph;
When he should wed, I ever look'd, at least,
To give my blessing to some doctor's, squire's,
Or curate's daughter. Wed him shall I to
One knows not whom?—I'll question her more closely.
His father, when he wived, took home his match,
And so must he! She comes.
[Bess sings without.
No need to keep
Blackbird or thrush, while she is in the house;
So sweet and active is her pretty throat.
What's that she looks thus constant at, whene'er
She thinks herself alone! but when observed,
Confused and startled, nestles in her breast?

Enter Bess with her father's picture, which she frequently examines while she sings.

[At the conclusion of the song, the Hostess approaches and steals a look at the picture.
Hostess.
Whose picture is that, my Bess?

Bess.
My father's.

Hostess.
Then
Was never father better loved than thine!
Nay, blush not, that thou lovest thy father well!
Show't me. He is a father to be loved!
No wonder thou shouldst keep it next thy heart;
I well could take't to mine! Thou blushest more
And more. Thou silly wench! There, put it up.
I like to hear thee sing, my pretty Bess;
'Tis gladness to my heart! Art happy, Bess,
To live with me?

Bess.
As far as happiness
Can live with Bess,—her parents lost—herself
Unable to provide her home or friend!

Hostess.
Not so, my pretty Bess! Herself can best
Provide her these. No customer that comes
To the Queen's Arms, and hath unmistress'd house,
But would be glad if Bess its mistress were—
Knew he her history.

Bess.
[Aside.]
Her history?

Hostess.
One likes to know
Whence people come—who people are—their birth
And parentage. Wast thou a lady born,
I could not love thee better than I do;
But loving thee so well, I'd know who 'tis,
So well I love. Who art thou, pretty Bess?

Bess.
[Aside.]
If I should say I am a beggar's child,
The door, that took me in, may thrust me out!
If aught beside, I speak what is not truth,
And that I'll never speak!—You think me good:
You find me willing—useful in the house—
Not knowing who I am. To teach you that,
More good, more willing, useful, makes me not;
Then do not seek to know't! I dare be bound,
If cause I give you not for more content,
I'll give you none for less!

Hostess.
Where mystery is,
Doubt is. We hide what we're afraid to show.
If I be come of honest kind, care I
Who knows my father's name? I'd cry it from
The steeple-top! To be a friend, we needs
Must find a friend. My friend is she, alone,
That trusts me. If my love's not worth as much,
Better I keep it to myself! Fair brow
Thou hast, and open too! I ween thy heart's
As fair—but why is't not as open, Bess?—
Why, whither goest thou?

Bess.
[Who while the Hostess has been speaking, has put on her cloak and bonnet.]
I know not—but
I know I must go hence! You're right!—'Tis fit
One know who 'tis they lodge—who 'tis they love.
'Tis little to ask that! Alas for them
That are not masters of so small a boon!
They may be question'd—wonder were they not!
They may be doubted—they cannot complain!
They may lack friend—they've but themselves to blame!
Farewell—Thanks!—Thanks! all thanks!—'Twas all a gift!
The wind and rain, on which you shut the door
That let me in, had just as much a right
To enter it as I. I'm rested now,
Refresh'd and strengthen'd—Every foot I go
I'll bless you that I am so!

Hostess.
Leave me, Bess!
That shalt thou never! Give me off thy cloak!
Prevent me not!—thy bonnet I'll untie,
Or never more may I tie on my own!
Ah! Bess, dost mind me? Care I who thou art?
Or doubt I thee? or am I not thy friend?
Nay, if thou leav'st the house, I leave it too!
I'll have no house that does not roof thy head!
For ever live with me! [Embraces her.]
Want'st thou a right?
A right thou soon shalt have. Ralph loves thee, Bess,—
Whoe'er thou art, thou shalt be wife to Ralph!
Nay, answer not! I say I'll have it so!
See if I love thee now! Here's company—
I'll look to them. Go dry thine eyes, sweet Bess!
Thou shalt be daughter, wife, and all, my Bess!

[They go out severally.

SCENE II.

—A Private Room in the Queen's Arms.
Enter Ralph.
Ralph.
Look to thy birthright, Ralph!—Avails it not
To be thy mother's son that nature made,
Thou must be offspring of her humour too!
Is't fault of thine that thou art not a wall?
But listenest, when men, in earshot, tell
Their loose-kept secrets! Gentleman, forsooth!
My gentleman's gentleman!—the scrub of him!
The helper o' the scrub—a counterfeit,
Not worth the brad should nail it to the counter,—
To some vile counter,—has been taken thence;
And the base metal coin'd anew, to pass,
To pass for honest coin! 'Twon't pass with me!
He trusts to make his fortune by the priest—
Of some rich dame the favour sweet to win—
And thereunto he follows the queen's court;
But stopping, on his way, at Romford, here
Sets eye upon the linnet I would lime,
And tarries at our house. But, lest he spoil
My sport, I've pointed out the bush to him
Where sits a goldfinch—but a painted one—
Our Kate, that vows to wed a gentleman!—
Our chambermaid! to seek her fortune, come
Like him to Romford, and alighted here.
He takes her for a maid of noble stock;
In her own right, a costly heiress, flying
Compell'd espousals, and, in the disguise
Of lowly chambermaid, close crouching, here
To shun pursuit.—Ha! Here she comes!—Good day.
Enter Kate.
Sweet Kate.

Kate.
Hold off! I'm Kate too sweet for thee!

Ralph.
Indeed! When shall we call thee wife, sweet Kate?

Kate.
When thou hold'st stirrup to my husband!

Ralph.
How!
Will nothing less content thee? Marry, Kate,
Marry thy match, or count to die a maid!

Kate.
My match is he that fits my thought, not thine.

Ralph.
Thy match is he that fits thy fortune, Kate.

Kate.
Not so, when I my fortune am above.

Ralph.
Their fortune, who're above, oft fall below.

Kate.
Leave me to look to that.

Ralph.
Look to it, then,
Thy new year's gift I'll double for thee, Kate,
If, ere the year comes round, thou curtsey not
The wife of honest hind!

Kate.
The hind I'll wed
Thou'lt touch thy bonnet to!

Ralph.
Ay, shall I, Kate,
When he to me doffs his.

Kate.
Doffs his to thee?
He first shall doff his head!

Ralph.
Nay, Kate, be friends!
Not only do I wish thee well to wed,
But, if I could, would help thee, pretty Kate;
And I can help thee, if thou'rt in the mood.

Kate.
What! in the mood to help thee to a jest?

Ralph.
Thyself be judge! The gentleman that came
On Wednesday, throws soft glances at thee, Kate—
Is that a jest? I've heard, thy cousin, Kate,
Was cousin's cousin to the cousin of
An earl, sweet Kate—I've told him so! Is that
A jest? Thou know'st how windfalls come—How men
To-day but ragged knaves, next day are seen
To strut as robéd lords—how oft the tree
Of noble family has wither'd, branch
By branch, till none to bear its honours left,
They're gone to cover some poor distant graft,
The parent stock ne'er threw its shadow on!
Why may't not hap to thee?—I think it may—
I wish it may—and, as 'tis easy, Kate,
To fancy what we wish, I've told him, thou
An heiress art, and hast a title, too!
Is that a jest? Let but thy bearing back
My giving out, I'd marvel not if ere
A quarter of a year—a month—a week,
I doff my bonnet to thy spouse, indeed!
Is that a jest?

Kate.
Ralph, thou'rt an honest lad!

Ralph.
When thou repair'st to church, may I, sweet Kate,
Make bold to kiss thee when the knotting's done?

Kate.
I shall not mind, for old acquaintance, Ralph.

Ralph.
And when thou'rt married, may I sometimes call?

Kate.
Ay, mayst thou, Ralph.

Ralph.
How often?—Once a year?

Kate.
I'll not be angry, Ralph, though it be twice.

Ralph.
How kind thou art!—and when I call, sweet Kate,
Wilt bid the lackey ask me in?

Kate.
I will.

Ralph.
And order Master Ralph a cup of sack,
To drink thy health, while in the hall he stands?

Kate.
As sure as I shall be a lady, Ralph.

Ralph.
Thou shalt be married to a gentleman!
And here he comes—Observe him, bonny Kate,
The visage, figure, habit, air, and walk
Of gentleman! To note his only gait,
A man would say, or he lack'd brains, there goes
At least a handsome thousand pounds a year!
When thou shalt call him spouse! Away, my Kate.
Don thou a whiter 'kerchief—change this cap
For thy Sunday one, with bows as broad and red
As full-blown peonies! and, soon as done,
Come back again, when thou shalt find him here—
And troll that pretty song you sang to us
On Tuesday night—as though you mark'd him not.
Love in his heart be sure hath taken root—
See how 'twill grow apace and come to fruit!
Bear thee as lofty gentlewoman, Kate;
Go proudly, Kate, and not as chambermaid!
Of maids thou shalt be mistress!—Well done, Kate!
[Kate goes out.
Here comes, indeed, my gentleman, from top
To toe new-furnish'd, as on conquest bent.

[Retires up stage.
Enter Young Small.
Young S.
Debate it thus. What's love? It is not land
Or gold. 'Tis not attire or tenement;
Or meat or drink! What is the worth on't then?
Nothing! It makes not wise—for these are things
That wise men covet, and 'twould counsel me
To part with them. It makes not great—great men
Hath love undone. 'Tis not content—I ne'er
Saw lover yet but he was woe-begone!
Its signs are willows, darts, and bleeding hearts!
I'll none on't, I'm resolved! Sweet mistress Bess!

Ralph.
Sweet mistress Kate thou mean'st.

Young S.
Right, Master Ralph.
Yet mistress Bess is sweet! But what of that
'Tis fit a gentleman a lady wed—
So Kate 's the maid for me! I'll conquer love!
Love 's no small thing to conquer. Men fall sick
For love—go mad for love!—hang, drown themselves!—
But love has met its match when it meets me!
You see I'm ready, Ralph.

Ralph.
I see you are.
Ay, that's the way to go a-wooing!

Young S.
What,
It strikes you?

Ralph.
Yes!

Young S.
The jerkin 's a new cut,
Or else the tailor 's perjured—Oath he took
It should be made as never jerkin was!

Ralph.
His oath he has kept!

Young S.
You mark my doublet too?

Ralph.
Else lack'd I eyes.

Young S.
And how the sleeves are slash'd?

Ralph.
'Tis slashing work indeed! She must have heart
Of stone, gives she not in.

Young S.
A fine effect!
And then my hat!—What think you of the set?

Ralph.
A gallant set—a very gallant set,
Most valiantly turn'd up!

Young S.
The feather red!
Blood-red! and nearly of a rapier's length!
The loop of warlike steel! So, what with loop,
Feather, and set, methinks it is a hat
Cries—“Touch me not.”

Ralph.
Methinks it is.

Young S.
'Twas made
To special order!

Ralph.
So 'twould seem.

Young S.
You know
They like a gallant bearing. I would look
A very Hector, when I go to woo!

Ralph.
And thou hast hit it.

Young S.
On your honour, now?

Ralph.
Else never man hit anything.

Young S.
Indeed!
I thank you, master Ralph. I'm glad you're pleased.
You have a taste! Beshrew me but you have!
How would you have me wear my rapier? So?
Or so?

Ralph.
Why, so—It better shows the hilt.

Young S.
A pretty hilt? I bought it for the hilt.
The cutler would have palm'd upon me one
Of better blade! He thought he had a fool
To deal with! Buy a rapier for the blade!
Who shows the blade?

Ralph.
Most true.

Young S.
I think I'll do.

Ralph.
No doubt on't—Here she comes, sir.—That's her voice.
Didst ever hear her sing, sir?

[Kate sings without.
Young S.
Never.

Ralph.
No!
Then never did you hear a nightingale.
Apart till awhile, sir, you'll hear her voice.

Enter Kate, and sings.

Ralph.
Up to her, sir—yet hold! I'll whisper her
A word, commending thee. Your gentle blood
Is skittish, sir, and mettlesome—Behoves
You tenderly approach, yet watchfully;
'Tis quick of instinct too, to know its kind.
Was ever balance poised by thee or thine,
Yard flourish'd, counter brush'd, or ledger scrawl'd,
'Tis odds she'll apprehend it in a trice.
Thank fate, thou art indeed a gentleman!

Young S.
[Aside.]
I'd thank it, never had I pass'd for one.
A score of crowns for my own clothes again!
What if she find, despite the tailor's craft,
The hatter's, jeweller's, and milliner's,
My suit is not a fit!—undress me!—bid me
Put on the counter clothes again, and wait
Upon my father's customers! The thought
Has set my heart a-thumping! Thomas Small!
Better thou hadst remain'd thy father's dog,
Than ta'en a roam to Romford.

Ralph.
Kate, behoves
Thou bear thyself as lofty gentlewoman.
If he looks ten feet high, do thou look twenty;
When he accosts thee, eye him up and down,
And down and up again from head to foot;
He verily believes thou art a lady,
Keep him to that—Thy arms a-kimbo put—
Walk to and fro, and toss thy pretty head!
Behoves fine ladies give themselves fine airs,
Or who would know them fine—
Up to her now.

[To Young Small.
Young S.
Fair Kate, a word I fain would speak to thee.

Kate.
[Following Ralph's direction.]
Sir!

[Young Small starts back, Kate walks about as instructed.
Ralph.
Now, stick up to her, or, as I live,
You'll lose her, sir. Set thou to work as well,
Pace to and fro, a yard at every step—
Great men, I have remark'd, take mighty strides—
That's right!—She stops—Now to the charge again!
Tell her thou hast a guess of her estate;
'Twill soften her—but mind thou nothing bate
The feeling of thine own, as right thou shouldst not!
Thou art, from top to toe, a gentleman!

Young S.
A cunning man who feels himself to be
The man he knows he is not! I perceive
'Tis not the clothes that make the gentleman.
Odzooks! she traversed me from top to toe,
As she would lay me open with her eye.
I vow I feel as I were like to swoon—
O Little Cheap!—Snug Little Cheap! As much
As once I wish'd me out of thee, I now
Wish I were back again!

Ralph.
Now, pretty Kate,
Let's calm a little—thou hast quite convinced him.
Thou art, indeed, a gentlewoman born;
Put off a cloud or two, and now and then,
When next he speaks, give out a blink of sun,
But not that he forget 'twas tempest, Kate.
Take out thy 'kerchief—hast thou one. Now draw it
From corner unto corner—be it clean.
Now pass it 'cross thy face, and back again;
Now use it so, as ladies do a fan;
Betray a little agitation, Kate;
Swing on one foot thy body to and fro,
And with thy other beat upon the ground.
Now, sir, at once propose for her—speak up!
Have not a faint heart!

Young S.
No!

Ralph.
Remember you're
A gentleman.

Young S.
I do!

Ralph.
And so you are
From top to toe!

Young S.
I thank you, Ralph—You're good.

Ralph.
And so your father was before you, sir,
And quite as much his father before him;
Was he not, sir?

Young S.
Ay, quite as much, good Ralph,
Or, if he was not, I'm no gentleman.

Ralph.
Then, now at once propose for her. Hem! twice
Or thrice before you speak, and broadly hint
At her gentility.

Young S.
Engaging Kate—
As gentleman should gentlewoman wed,
So fain would I to wife take thee, sweet Kate!
[Turns to Ralph.
And now I must take breath! I tell thee, Ralph,
To woo a lady is no easy thing.

[Retires.
Ralph.
Kate, canst thou blush? If not, why hang thy head,
And look as though thou knew'st not where to look,
And clasp thy hands and twirl thy thumbs about,
And make a shift to squeeze out half a sigh,
But loud enough to hear. Well done! well done!
Bespeaks her every way a gentlewoman—
Does she not, sir?

[To Young Small.
Young S.
Upon my life it does.

Ralph.
Now bring her to the point of yes or no.

Young S.
Of yes or no?

Ralph.
Yes!

Young S.
Yes or no! I vow
I tremble at the thought on't—Just I feel
As though I play'd at loggats, and a pound
Were laid upon the game, and mine the throw.

Ralph.
Well, sir?

Young S.
Good Ralph—I'll take a little time.

Ralph.
So do. He comes to pop the question, Kate.
When first he speaks, no answer render him:
Nor yet the second time—nor yet the third.

Kate.
No, Ralph?

Ralph.
Be patient, Kate! It were not meet,
In such a strait, a lady speak at once!
The thought should seem to take away thy breath;
Thou shouldst appear as thou wast like to faint,
And do, sweet Kate!—I'll be beside thee—Fall
Upon my shoulder—and when I say “now,”
Come to thyself—but mind, not all at once,
But bit by bit—I'll have him at thy feet.
Look at him once, and turn away again—
Another time—and try to turn away,
But, finding that thou canst not do't, cry “yes!”
And, quite o'ercome, fall plump into his arms!
You'll mind?

Kate.
Be sure of me.

Ralph.
Make sure of him!
Up to her now, sir!—Now or never, sir!

Young S.
Dear Kate! wilt be my bride?

Ralph.
Again, sweet sir!

Young S.
Dear Kate! wilt be my bride, a second time?
Sweet Kate, the third time. Wilt thou be my bride?

[Kate falls on Ralph's shoulder.
Ralph.
I do believe she faints.

Young S.
She does indeed!
She's a true lady—On my life she is.

Ralph.
Down on your knees, sir—both your knees—and chafe
Her hands with yours—kissing them now and then—
And 'gainst she comes unto herself, 'twere well
If you could squeeze a tear into your eye:—
Fair Kate, awake! Your lover's at your feet,
Kneeling as well behoves a gentleman—Now—

Kate.
[Recovers—follows Ralph's directions.]
Yes!

[Throwing herself into Small's arms, nearly oversetting him.
Ralph.
Hold up, sweet sir, and try to bear
This overpowering happiness!—To both
I wish a world of joy.—Take her apart
[To Small.
Into the garden. Never drop thy suit
Until she name the day, and be't to-morrow.
“The cup, sir, and the lip!” But, gentle Kate,
[To Kate.
'Tis not enough the bird is limed, behoves
You have him in your hand—Good sir!—fair lady!
I give you joy, and wish you a good day!

[Goes out.
Young S.
Come, gentle Kate, that is to be my bride.

Kate.
O, la, sir!

Young S.
Sir! call me thy Thomas, Kate.
My name is Thomas—master Thomas.

Kate.
La!
I ne'er can call thee Thomas.

Young S.
Yes, thou canst,
And wilt!—dear Thomas!—thy own Thomas!

Kate.
La!

Young S.
As I will call thee my own Kate, be sure,
As soon as we are man and wife.

Kate.
O, la!
Don't talk of it.

Young S.
Of what else should I talk?
Come Kate—my wife!—my lady Kate!

Kate.
O, la!

[They go out.

SCENE III.

—The Bar and Parlour.
Enter the Hostess, conducting Last, Mortice, and Mallet.
Hostess.
Walk in, good master Mallet. Gentlemen,
Walk in, you're welcome. What will't please you have?
We've choice for all, and nought but's of the best.

Mallet.
We'll taste your ale, good mistress Trusty. Hark!
How does your pretty barmaid? Did you speak,
As late you promised, a good word for me?

Hostess.
I did.

Mallet.
And was she pleased?

Hostess.
'Tis hard to say
When maids are pleased. When I myself was one,
What most I seem'd was, oft, what least I felt.

Mortice.
Your ear, kind hostess.—Gave you mistress Bess
The message that I sent her?

Hostess.
Word for word.

Mortice.
What word did she return me?

Hostess.
Marry, none!
Bess is a prudent wench. Maids' thoughts go cheap
That can be had for asking! Little worth,
Yet hoarded charily, great price they bring.
I found it so myself when I was young.

Last.
A word, good mistress Trusty, when you're done.

Hostess.
I'm at your service, now, sir.

Last.
Handed you
My gift to Bess?

Hostess.
I did.

Last.
And took she it?

Hostess.
She took it not.—'Tis here for you again.
Presents to maids are earnest. Take they them,
They next should take the donors. Had not I
Thought so in my free days, I should have won
A dower in gifts! You shall be served anon.

Mortice.
I guess you've come bad speed.

Last.
Hast thou come better?

Mallet.
The fault's our own. Love's not a game at law,
Wherein the player is not he that stakes.
I'll play my game myself, and ask sweet Bess
To church to-morrow!

Last.
So will I.

Mortice.
And I.

[They go out.
[Bess crosses the stage after them with a tankard.
Enter Hostess conducting Belmont and Wilford.
Hostess.
Walk in, walk in—I'll show you to a room.

Wilf.
And please you get my chamber ready straight;
I will, at once, to bed.

Hostess.
I'll see to't, sir.
He early goes to rest—He must be ill?
Love-sick perhaps? There's comfort for him then,
Like all his sex he'll soon get over that!

Bel.
Hostess!

Hostess.
Your will?

Bel.
I'd try your wine—Is't good?

Hostess.
The very best! Please you sit down, good sirs.

[Places chairs and goes out.
Bel.
Still rapt as ever! Rouse thee, Wilford, rouse thee!
Shake off this lethargy, and be a man!
Take faster hold of hope! We'll find her yet.
But should we fail, what then? Art thou to pine
To death? This malady is of the head
More than the heart. Believe it can be cured,
Thou'lt find 'twill be so. Be thyself again!
Be free! But once beheld may be forgot.

Wilf.
Yes, if a thing that any fellow hath!
I may forget a diamond, can I find
Another one as rich; but show me one
That is the paragon of all the mine,
And try if that's forgot, though seen but once!
Say that but once I see a beauteous star,
I may forget it for another star;
But say but once I gaze upon the sun,
And name the orb will blot its image out!

Bel.
But of a single draught of love to die!

Wilf.
Why not? There is your poison, strong and weak;
One kind admits of antidote—one not.
One by the drachm, one by the scruple, kills:
Another by the grain—for not in bulk,
But subtleness, the lethal virtue lies.
So are there kinds in love! A dozen shafts
May gall him, and the bounding deer run on,—
But one shot home, behold he's down at once!

Bess enters with wine, which she places on a table, at some distance from Belmont and Wilford; the former sees her at once, and regards her with an expression of fixed admiration —the latter remaining in a state of perfect abstraction.
Bel.
E'er saw'st thou thing so fair?

Wilf.
What speak'st thou of?

Bel.
Yon maid that waits on us.

Wilf.
I've seen! I've seen!

Bel.
This is to dream!
He sleeps—I'll wake him then. My pretty maid,
Hand thou the cup to yonder gentleman.
[Bess, whose eyes have just fallen on Wilford, stands gazing upon him, apparently insensible to everything else.
What ails the girl? Does she not hear? She's fix'd
As statue to the pedestal—what is't
She gazes at? As I'm alive, 'tis he!
Commend me to a sallow cheek! She's smit,
If Cupid is a marksman! Maids, I've heard,
Like books they weep over, the which, the more
They're made to melt, the greedier they devour!
See how she reads him! Marry, she will get
The book by heart!

Bess.
'Tis he! 'tis he! How's this?
I feel at home the while I look on him!
Seem near me hearts I know! I could believe
The roof our own! I scarce would start, were now
The door to ope, to see my father's face!
Yet what is he to me? Acquaintance of
My eyes, whom ne'er they met but once before!

Bel.
A shot! a shot! Cupid is in the vein!

Bess.
[Drawing her father's picture from her bosom.]
How like! how like! how very—very like!
There only wants a smile upon the lip—
I think the lip more sweet the smile away—
Fie! 'tis my father's lip! My father, then,
As often I have heard my mother say,
Had newly won my mother's love—I ween
My mother then smiled too! Who ought to smile,
If not the maid that's woo'd by him she'd wed?
Her Bess will never wed!

Bel.
A sigh! Be sure
The arrow 's home!

Bess.
Just now I felt at home,
And now I feel a thousand miles from home!
Things, strange before, are now still stranger grown,
And he most strange of all—the farthest off,
The least expected ever to be near—
The sight of whom brought home so near to Bess!
What's Bess's home to him? He'd pass the door,
And would not know she dwelt there! If he did,
Would never thank the latch to let him in!
He has a home, and friends that love him there—
Friends that he loves. Poor Bess is far from home,
Was never farther—never half so far!

Hostess.
[without].
Why, Bess! what, Bess!

Bel.
How deep the maiden's trance.

Hostess enters, and goes to her.
Hostess.
Why Bess, what ails thee, child?

Bess.
[Abstractedly.]
Anon! anon!
I'll do it this moment.

Hostess.
Do it! what wilt do?

Bess.
[Confused and hurriedly.]
Whate'er you bid.

Hostess.
Why, what has happen'd to her!
Look to the bar till I come back again.
Why Bess, dost hear me, that thou dost not move?

Bess.
[Confused.]
I'll go this moment—Where am I to go?

Hostess.
The girl 's bewilder'd! “Where am I to go!”
Canst tell me what I said to thee just now?

Bess.
Thou saidst, I think—or I mistake—thou saidst—
Thou saidst—perhaps I did not rightly hear;
Thinking of one thing, one forgets at times
Another thing—Thou saidst—It was not that—
Nor that—In sooth, I know not what thou saidst—

Hostess.
I knew't. I bade thee go and mind the bar.

Bess.
I'll do't.

[Still looking in the direction of Wilford.
Hostess.
Thou'lt do't! and go'st thou not to do it?
Yonder 's the bar—Why, Bess, thou art asleep!
Thou dreamest! Rouse thee, Bess. Go, mind the bar.
The girl 's not like herself!

[Bess and Hostess go out severally.
Bel.
A point-blank shot!
An entry this in Cupid's register!
Lord Wilford, was't not noon with you just now?

Wilf.
Noon!

Bel.
Felt you not the sun?

Wilf.
The sun! what sun?

Bel.
I' faith a glorious one, but not so kind
As that which shines by day; for not a beam
It threw on aught beside. You were its earth—
The grateful earth unlike—the orb alone
For which its light seem'd made; absorbing it,
Without so much as e'en a smile, to show
You knew't from very darkness!

Wilf.
You are merry;
And I can only wonder that you are,—
As sickness doth, that health can feed, while she
Herself from rarest viands loathing turns!
It is not fancy; or, if fancy 'tis,
'Tis such as breeds reality—as, from
Imagination only of disease
Disease itself will grow. Do I but dream?
Say that the anguish of a probéd wound
Is but a dream!—Say he that writhes in fire
Is fancy-haunted—just as much am I!
See'st not my fever? Is't not in mine eye?
My cheek? if not, my pulse will show it thee!
For if its throb be not the counter one
To that which haleness knows, 'tis anything
But index of my heart!

Hostess enters.
Hostess.
Ho! Bess, I say!
Enter Bess, who is immediately perceived by Wilford, and meeting his eye, stands as transfixed.
Why, Bess, how's this? Is't true thou wast o'erheard
To one, to two, and three, to give consent,
When ask'd to be a wife? Art thou not pledged
To marry Ralph?

Wilf.
Is she to be a bride?

Bel.
Are you awake?

Wilf.
I am! I am!—as one,
That long at sea pines till he's sick, for land,
And, ever dreaming on't, starts up at last,
With the rebound which says his bark has struck,
And drowns in sight and very reach of it!

Bel.
Is that the maid?

Wilf.
It is. Now wonder at me!
Wouldst thou not ask, sprang ever that from earth?
Look there, and think of an anatomy!
Can lurk the canker death in such a cheek?
Is not that flower imperishable, as
It lodged the virtue of the feignéd one,
Which never dies—in poet's song yclept
The immortal amaranth! Is she to be
A bride? I'll speak to her!

Bel.
Thou'rt mad!

Wilf.
And if I am,
Then once at least is madness rational.
Being what I am, not to be mad as I,
Were to be kindred to the cloddish brute,
That looks at her and knows not what it sees!—
Prevent me not! Art pledged to any one?
Art thou to be a bride? Say yes or no.

Hostess.
Speak, Bess! Say yes! Thou know'st thou'rt pledged to Ralph!
Enter Ralph.
Maids, sir, you know, are coy—give me thy hand.
There—art thou now content?

[Places her hand in Ralph's without her being conscious of it.
Wilf.
Content!—Enough!
O'ermeasure on't! I've done,—Yet would I touch
The precious thing, so much I've coveted,
Was ne'er till now in reach of—now, so near—
Find can ne'er be mine!—Whoe'er thou art,
Thou art acquaintance of my heart—as soon
As seen, beloved! I saw thee only once,
That once too oft!—For then I thought upon
My marriage-bell, and wish'd it might be thine,
But now, when thine they ring, they ring my knell!
'Tis not a crime to kiss thy hand, while yet
The banning of the priest forbids me not.
There! Let thy bridegroom at the altar set,
In presence of the watching cherubim,
A truer seal upon thy lip than that
I've fixed upon thy hand—though his shall last
Till doomsday! Take me hence! 'Tis hard to look
At what we wish were ours, and while we do't,
Persuade ourselves it cannot be.—Take me hence!
The only sight of her is hold too strong
For me to struggle 'gainst! It pulls me towards her!
I feel as though she'd suck my vision in!
My breath! my life!—I cannot quit her!
[Breaks from Belmont and rushes towards her. Ralph interposes. Wilford seems to have lost all power over himself. Belmont approaches him to lead him out; but, when at the wing, he turns— gazes distractedly upon Bess.
Lost!

[Rushes out, followed by Belmont, and at the same moment Bess sinks senseless on the shoulder of Ralph.