University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A room in old Wilmot's house.
Old Wilmot and Agnes.
O. Wilm.
Here, take this Seneca, this haughty pedant,
Who governing the master of mankind,
And awing power imperial, prates of—patience;
And praises poverty—possess'd of millions:
—Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal
The vilest copy of his book e'er purchased,
Will give us more relief in this distress,
Than all his boasted precepts.—Nay, no tears;
Keep them to move compassion when you beg.

Agn.
My heart may break, but never stoop to that.

O. Wilm.
Nor wou'd I live to see it—But dispatch.
[Exit Agnes.
Where must I charge this length of misery,
That gathers force each moment as it rolls,
And must at last o'erwhelm me; but on hope,
Vain, flattering, delusive, groundless hope;
A senseless expectation of relief
That has for years deceived me?—Had I thought
As I do now, as wise men ever think,
When first this hell of poverty o'ertook me,
That power to die implies a right to do it,
And shou'd be used when life becomes a pain,
What plagues had I prevented?—True, my wife
Is still a slave to prejudice and fear—
I would not leave my better part, the dear
[Weeps.
Faithful companion of my happier days,
To bear the weight of age and want alone.
—I'll try once more—

Enter Agnes, and after her young Wilmot.
O. Wilm.
Returned, my life! so soon!—

Agn.
The unexpected coming of this stranger
Prevents my going yet.

Y. Wilm.
You're, I presume,
The gentleman to whom this is directed.
[Gives a letter
What wild neglect, the token of despair,
What indigence, what misery appears
In each disorder'd, or disfurnished room
Of this once gorgeous house? What discontent,
What anguish and confusion fill the faces
Of its dejected owners?

O. Wilm.
Sir, such welcome
As this poor house affords, you may command.
Our ever friendly neighbour—Once we hoped
T'have called fair Charlot by a dearer name—
But we have done with hope—I pray excuse
This incoherence—We had once a son.

[Weeps.
Agn.
That you are come from that dear virtuous maid,
Revives in us the mem'ry of a loss,
Which, tho' long since, we have not learned to bear.

Y. Wilm.
The joy to see them, and the bitter pain
It is to see them thus, touches my soul
With tenderness and grief, that will o'erflow.
My bosom heaves and swells, as it would burst;
My bowels move, and my heart melts within me.
—They know me not, and yet, I fear, I shall
Defeat my purpose, and betray myself.

[Aside.
O. Wilm.
The lady calls you here her valued friend;
Enough, tho' nothing more should be implied,
To recommend you to our best esteem,
—A worthless acquisition!—May she find
Some means that better may express her kindness;
But she, perhaps, hath purposed to inrich
You with herself, and end her fruitless sorrow
For one whom death alone can justify
For leaving her so long. If it be so,
May you repair his loss, and be to Charlot
A second, happier Wilmot. Partial nature,
Who only favours youth, as feeble age
Were not her offspring or below her care,
Has seal'd our doom: No second hope shall spring
From my dead loins, and Agnes' steril womb,
To dry our tears, and dissipate despair.

Agn.
The last and most abandon'd of our kind,
By heaven and earth neglected or despised,
The loathsom grave, that robb'd us of our son
And all our joys in him, must be our refuge.

Y. W.
Let ghosts unpardon'd, or devoted fiends,
Fear without hope, and wail in such sad strains;
But grace defend the living from despair.
The darkest hours precede the rising sun;
And mercy may appear, when least expected.

O. W.
This I have heard a thousand times repeated,
And have, believing, been as oft deceived.

Y. Wilm.
Behold in me an instance of its truth,
At Sea twice shipwrack'd, and as oft the prey
Of lawless pyrates; by the Arabs thrice
Surpriz'd, and robb'd on shore; and one reduced
To worse than these, the sum of all distress
That the most wretched feel on this side hell,
Ev'n slavery itself: Yet here I stand,
Except one trouble that will quickly end,
The happiest of mankind.

O. Wilm.
A rare example
Of fortune's caprice; apter to surprize,
Or entertain, than comfort, or instruct.
If you wou'd reason from events, be just,
And count, when you escaped, how many perished;
And draw your inf'rence thence.

Agn.
Alas! who knows,
But we were rendred childless by some storm,
In which you, tho' preserved, might bear a part.

Y. Wilm.
How has my curiosity betray'd me
Into superfluous pain! I faint with fondness;
And shall, if I stay longer, rush upon 'em,
Proclaim myself their son, kiss and embrace 'em
Till their souls, transported with the excess
Of pleasure and surprize, quit their frail mansions,
And leave 'em breathless in my longing arms.
By circumstances then and slow degrees,
They must be let into a happiness
Too great for them to bear at once, and live:
That Charlot will perform: I need not feign
To ask an hour for rest. (Aside.)
Sir, I intreat
The favour to retire where, for a while,
I may repose my self. You will excuse
This freedom, and the trouble that I give you:
'Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls.

O. Wilm.
I pray no more: Believe we're only troubled,
That you shou'd think any excuse were needful.

Y. W.
The weight of this is some incumbrance to me.
[Takes a casket out of his bosom and gives it to his mother.]
And its contents of value: If you please
To take the charge of it 'till I awake,
I shall not rest the worse. If I shou'd sleep
'Till I am ask'd for, as perhaps I may,
I beg that you wou'd wake me.

Agn.
Doubt it not:
Distracted as I am with various woes,
I shall remember that.

[Exit.
Y. Wilm.

[Exeunt.