University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Bellmour, Woodly.
Bell.
Woodly! my Friend! my suff'ring, ruin'd Friend;
(For thou wilt soon be such) what shall, what can I say,
To give thee Satisfaction, Ease, or Comfort?
All, all is lost! my Money, Land, and Credit,
My very Hopes are gone. But what are these?
These were but poor Considerations all;
And all my own: But I have squander'd more,
Undone my Friends, and thee of Friends the best!

Wood.
Bellmour! I thought I had not been a Stranger,
Or e'en a common, customary, Acquaintance,
Who does a Favour, and repents it done,
Loves its Acknowledgment, and wou'd have Men
To know it, and its Circumstances. What
I've done for thee, was done as for my self;
For what am I without a Friend? and what
Avails my Substance, if it cannot serve him?
I've done too little, and you owe me nothing.
Wou'd I cou'd lend you more!

Bell.
Alas! I've drain'd
Your Purse, sunk deep your Credit and Estate,
And now your Person—Oh—

Wood.
Forbear, my Friend;
If that's in Danger too, I am prepar'd.
There's nothing I'd not suffer for thy Sake!
No Risque, too dangerous, to be run! And, sure,
Were yours the Pow'r, or had you Chance, like mine;
You'd serve me with your Life. I knew your Friendship
In prosperous State: 'Twas confident and free,
Familiar, plain, disinterested, artless!
'Twas perfect! And I'd have you be assured.
I think my self behind you, and indebted.
Your Merits challenge more than I can give,
Or do, or say, to serve you and your House.
To serve the Worthy, and to share their Pain,
Is to distinguish Natures—it exalts us!
A noble Mind feels Recompence in Pleasure,
And Pleasure flows from Consciousness of Virtue.
To share your Happiness wou'd less delight me,
Than to be able to promote, or make it.

Bell.
Prodigious Man! excessive Strength of Soul!
In what great School of Virtue, and of Honour,
Have you acquir'd this sovereign Perfection?
The World is not accustom'd to such Dealings.
Your Sentiments have Pow'r to still my Passions,
And set my banish'd Reason on its Throne.

Wood.
Fear not, my Friend—but moderate your Complaints:
Some lucky Turn may make good Fortune yours.

Bell.
My only Comfort is, in having Friends,
Who by dividing, make my Burden lighter.
Yet not so much, my own Misfortunes press me,
As generous Love—Oh! That o'erloads my Nature.
Your Suffering heaps the Anguish I endure,
And makes my Debts immortal. While my Mind
Holds its Existence, it must be indebted
To unbought Bounty, and Compassion.

Wood.
Still,
You will oppress me with a Load of Gratitude.
Shall I possess a Good, and you be wretched?
Curse on that Soul, that cannot hazard All,
To save his Friend, and succour suffering Virtue.
Let Misers preach Oeconomy and Thrift—
They understand not Life, who are not generous,
Where Love and Merit challenge their Regard.
There's no Profusion in a well judg'd Favour.

Bell.
Oft have I try'd you in a prosperous State
And found you faithful—but Adversity
Uses to bring Estrangement in its Train.
Few know the very Faces of the Wretched.

Wood.
What Woes can make a Man forget himself?
Such is a Friend—he lives but in his Friend—
The Bond of Nature cannot be more firm:
Adversity does search its very Soul,
And brings to Light its Qualities and Virtues;
It sets it off with a redoubled Lustre.
How firmly I am yours no Words can tell—

Bell.
Your Actions are rhetorical. By these,
Your Mind, to me, lies naked. I behold
My self, deep rooted in your faithful Bosom.
Too black a Guest, to enter such a Lodging!
You fondle Vipers, Woodly—Trust me not—
I've stung my Wife, my Children, and my self!
Preserve your self, tho' guilty I shou'd perish.