University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

A Servant enters.
Servant.
With Sorrow I approach my much lov'd Master,
When I must bring Addition to his Woes.
The virtuous Matron's dead; the Weight of Grief,
Pressing too fast upon her gentle Nature,
Has stop'd her Springs of Life; and she's no more.

Y. Freeman.
Who is no more?

Servant.
Your Charlotte's Mother's dead.

[Charlotte faints.
Y. Freeman
She sinks, she faints; and if the Angel's fled
To her original Seat of Bliss, to Heav'n,
I've Nothing more to manage here on Earth.
[Turning to the Servant.
This is a Tale you shou'd have told to me,
To me alone, that at a proper Season,
More fit than this, it might have reach'd her Ear.
O! Charlotte! O! my Wife! hear, hear, the Voice
Of him that calls you back to Life, to Love.—
Her Breast is cold, her Eyes have loss'd their Lustre;
But her Breath's sweeter than the Syrian Rose.
O! charm me with the Music of thy Voice!—
She breathes; and on her Lips Carnations bloom;
And her Eyes cheer me like the Morning Sun.

Charlotte.
Who calls me back to Life, to Wretchedness?

Y. Freeman.
To Life, my Soul, and Love, to Love, and me;
For, after such a black and dismal Storm,
The Face of Heav'n must soon begin to clear.

Charlotte.
Mine is no common Case, no vulgar Misery:
A loving Father and the tenderest Mother
That ever a poor Child was bless'd with, gone,
Gone, and for ever loss'd to wretched me.
Who, not divested of Humanity,
Can see my Woes with an unpitying Eye?
And what Daughter (I am no Daughter now!)
What Child, what Orphan Child, that has a Sense
Of Duty and of Love, can think of Joy,
Or can, in my Condition, think of Life?
Come, Death, to one that earnestly invokes you,
O! come thou friendly everlasting Sleep,
And close my Eyes in Night that knows no Dawn.

Y. Freeman.
Perish a thousand Worlds rather than you,
Than you, to me a World of Sweets, shou'd give
Those scarcely tasted Beautys to the Grave!
'Tis Virtue now to live, and great the Virtue,
To save that Life which all depends on thine.

Charlotte.
If I can live, I need not strive to love.—
O! Freeman, take me to your honest Heart;
And, if I keep the full Possession there,
Life will be worth my Care, preserv'd by you.
Tho strong the Pains which have besieg'd me round,
Your Love must be the Cure of all my Grief.

Y. Freeman.
Thou sweetly drooping Flow'r, come to this Breast,
Which has no Room for any Guest but you.
I have no Thoughts of Paradise beyond
What my dear Charlotte, what my Love, can give:
I have no Wish, but what I wish for you:
Wish I to live, 'tis that my Life may be
Employ'd in tender Offices to you:
Wou'd I behold Encrease of Flocks and Herds,
'Tis that I wou'd encrease my Love's fair Dow'r:
Have I delight to see my Garden yield
The fairest Flow'rs which e'er adorn'd the Spring,
'Tis that they may adorn a fairer Flow'r:
If, when I walk my Orchard round, I hope
To see my Fruit-trees bending with their Weight,
'Tis that I may prepare a grateful Feast,
And to the cheerful Banquet call my Love:
Whate'er I wish to have, or wish to be,
'Tis to improve thy Bliss, and merit thee.

[They go.