 | Isabella : or, The Fatal Marriage |  |
ACT I.
SCENE, before Count Baldwin's House.Enter Villeroy and Carlos.
CARLOS.
This Constancy of yours will establish an
immortal Reputation among the Women.
Vil.
If it would establish me with Isabella—
Car.
Follow her, follow her: Troy
Town was won at last.
Vil.
I have follow'd her these seven Years, and now
but live in Hopes.
Car.
But live in Hopes! why, Hope is the ready
Road, the Lover's Baiting-place; and for ought you
know, but one Stage short of the Possession of your
Mistress.
But my Hopes, I fear, are more of my own
making, than hers; and proceed rather from my Wishes,
than any Encouragement she has given me.
Car.
That I can't tell: The Sex is very various:
There are no certain Measures to be prescrib'd, or follow'd,
in making our Approaches to the Women. All
that we have to do, I think, is to attempt 'em in
the weakest Part: Press 'em but hard, and they will all
fall under the Necessity of a Surrender at last. That Favour
comes at once; and sometimes when we least expect it.
Vil.
I shall be glad to find it so.
Car.
You will find it so. Every Place is to be taken,
that is not to be reliev'd: She must comply.
Vil.
I'm going to visit her.
Car.
What Interest a Brother-in-Law can have with
her, depend upon.
Vil.
I know your Interest, and I thank you.
Car.
You are prevented; see the Mourner comes;
She weeps, as seven Years were seven Hours;
So fresh, unfading is the Memory
Of my poor Brother's Biron's Death:
I leave you to your Opportunity.
[Exit Vil.
Tho' I have ta'en Care to root her from our House,
I wou'd transplant her into Villeroy's—
There is an evil Fate that waits upon her,
To which, I wish him wedded—Only him:
His upstart Family, with haughty Brow,
(Tho' Villeroy and myself are seeming Friends)
Looks down upon our House; his Sister too,
Whose Hand I ask'd, and was with Scorn refus'd,
Lives in my Breast, and fires me to Revenge.—
They bend this Way—
Perhaps at last she seeks my Father's Doors;
They shall be shut, and he prepar'd to give
The Beggar and her Brat a cold Reception.
That Boy's an Adder in my Path—they come,
I'll stand a-part, and watch their Motions.
[Retires.
Isa.
Why do you follow me? You know, I am
A Bankrupt every way; too far engag'd
Ever to make Return; I own you've been
More than a Brother to me, been my Friend;
And at a Time when Friends are found no more,
A Friend to my Misfortunes.
Vil.
I must be
Always your Friend.
Isa.
I have known, and found you
Truly my Friend; and wou'd I cou'd be yours;
But the Unfortunate cannot be Friends:
Fate watches the first Motion of the Soul,
To disappoint our Wishes; if we pray
For Blessings, they prove Curses in the End,
To ruin all about us. Pray be gone,
Take Warning, and be happy.
Vil.
Happiness!
There's none for me, without you: Riches, Name,
Health, Fame, Distinction, Place, and Quality,
Are the Incumbrances of groaning Life,
To make it but more tedious, without you;
What serve the Goods of Fortune for? To raise
My Hopes, that you at last will share 'em with me.
Long Life itself, the universal Prayer,
And Heav'n's Reward of Well-deservers here,
Wou'd prove a Plague to me; to see you always,
And never see you mine! still to desire,
And never to enjoy!
Isa.
I must not hear you.
Vil.
Thus, at this awful Distance, I have serv'd
A seven Years Bondage—Do I call it Bondage,
When I can never wish to be redeem'd?
No, let me rather linger out a Life
Of Expectation, that you may be mine,
Than be restor'd to the Indifference
Of seeing you, without this pleasing Pain:
But in these Arms.
Isa.
O, I have heard all this!
—But must no more—the Charmer is no more:
My bury'd Husband rises in the Face
Of my dear Boy, and chides me for my Stay:
Can'st thou forgive me, Child?
Child.
Why, have you done a Fault? You cry as if
you had: Indeed now, I have done nothing to offend
you: But if you kiss me, and look so very sad upon me,
I shall cry too.
Isa.
My little Angel, no, you must not cry;
Sorrow will overtake thy Steps too soon;
I should not hasten it.
Vil.
What can I say!
The Arguments that make against my Hopes
Prevail upon my Heart, and fix me more;
Those pious Tears you hourly throw away
Upon the Grave, have all their quick'ning Charms,
And more engage my Love, to make you mine:
When yet a Virgin, free, and undispos'd,
I lov'd, but saw you only with my Eyes;
I cou'd not reach the Beauties of your Soul:
I have since liv'd in Contemplation,
And long Experience of your growing Goodness:
What then was Passion, is my Judgment now,
Thro' all the several Changes of your Life,
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you.
Isa.
Nay, then I must be gone: If you're my Friend,
If you regard my little Interest;
No more of this; you see, I grant you all
That Friendship will allow: Be still my Friend;
That's all I can receive, or have to give:
I'm going to my Father: He needs not an Excuse
To use me ill; pray leave me to the Trial.
Vil.
I'm only born to be what you wou'd have me;
The Creature of your Power, and must obey;
In every thing obey you. I am going:
But all good Fortune go along with you.
[Exit.
I shall need all your Wishes—
[Knocks.
Lock'd! and fast!
Where is the Charity that us'd to stand
In our Forefathers hospitable Days
At great Men's Doors, ready for our Wants,
Like the good Angel of the Family,
With open Arms taking the Needy in,
To feed and clothe, to comfort, and relieve 'em?
Now even their Gates are shut against their Poor.
[She knocks again.
Enter Sampson to her.
Samp.
Well, what's to do now, I trow? You knock
as loud, as if you were invited; and that's more than I
hear of: But I can tell you, you may look twice about
you for a Welcome in a great Man's Family, before you
find it, unless you bring it along with you.
Isa.
I hope I bring my Welcome along with me: Is
your Lord at home?
Samp.
My Lord at home!
Isa.
Count Baldwin lives here still.
Samp.
Ay, ay, Count Baldwin does live here: And I
am his Porter: But what's that to the Purpose, good
Woman, of my Lord's being at home?
Isa.
Why, don't you know me, Friend?
Samp.
Not I, not I, Mistress; I may have seen you before,
or so: But Men of Employment must forget their
Acquaintance; especially such as we are never to be the
better for.
[Going to shut the Door, Nurse enters, having overheard him.
Nurse.
Handsomer Words would become you, and
mend your Manners, Sampson: Do you know who you
prate to?
Isa.
I'm glad you know me, Nurse.
Mary, Heav'n forbid, Madam, that I should
ever forget you, or my little Jewel: Pray go in—
[Isabella
goes in with her Child:]
Now my Blessing go along with
you, wherever you go, or whatever you are about. Fie,
Sampson, how could'st thou be such a Saracen? A Turk
would have been a better Christian, than to have done so
barbarously by so good a Lady.
Samp.
Why look you, Nurse, I know you of old: By
your Good-will you would have a Finger in every body's
Pie, but mark the End on't; if I am call'd to Account
about it, I know what I have to say.
Nurse.
Marry come up here; say your Pleasure, and
spare not. Refuse his eldest Son's Widow, and poor
Child, the Comfort of seeing him? She does not trouble
him so often.
Samp.
Not that I am against it, Nurse; but we are
but Servants, you know: We must have no Likings, but
our Lord's; and must do as we are ordered.
Nurse.
Nay, that's true, Sampson.
Samp.
Besides, what I did was all for the best: I have
no Ill-will to the young Lady, as a Body may say,
upon my own Account; only that I hear she is poor;
and indeed I naturally hate your decay'd Gentry: They
expect as much waiting upon as when they had Money
in their Pockets, and were able to consider us for the
Trouble.
Nurse.
Why, that is a Grievance indeed in great Families;
where the Gifts at good Times are better than
the Wages: It would do well to be reform'd.
Samp.
But what is the Business, Nurse? You have
been in the Family, before I came into the World:
What's the Reason, pray, that this Daughter-in-Law,
who has so good a Report in every Body's Mouth, is so
little set by, by my Lord?
Nurse.
Why, I'll tell you, Sampson; more nor less:
I'll tell the Truth, that's my Way, you know, without
adding or diminishing.
Samp.
Ay, marry, Nurse.
My Lord's eldest Son, Biron by Name, the
Son of his Bosom, and the Son that he would have lov'd
best, if he had as many as King Pyramus of Troy.
Samp.
How! King Pyramus of Troy! why how many
had he?
Nurse.
Why the Ballet sings he had fifty Sons: But
no matter for that. This Biron, as I was saying, was
a lovely sweet Gentleman, and indeed, no body could
blame his Father for loving him: He was a Son for the
King of Spain; God bless him; for I was his Nurse.
But now I come to the Point, Sampson; this Biron,
without asking the Advice of his Friends, Hand over
Head, as young Men will have their Vagaries, not having
the Fear of his Father before his Eyes, as I may say,
wilfully marries this Isabella.
Samp.
How, wilfully ! he should have had her Consent,
methinks.
Nurse.
No, wilfully marries her: and which was worse,
after she had settled all her Fortune upon a Nunnery,
which she broke out of to run away with him. They
say they had the Church's Forgiveness, but I had rather
it had been his Father's.
Samp.
Why in good Truth, these Nunneries, I see no
Good they do. I think the young Lady was in the right,
to run away from a Nunnery: And I think our young
Master was not in the wrong, but in marrying without a
Portion.
Nurse.
That was the Quarrel, I believe, Samson: Upon
this, my old Lord would never see him; disinherited him;
took his younger Brother Carlos into Favour, whom he
never car'd for before; and at last forc'd Biron to go to
the Siege of Candy, where he was killed.
Samp.
A-lack-a-day, poor Gentleman.
Nurse.
For which my old Lord hates her, as if she
had been the Cause of his going thither.
Samp.
Alas, alas, poor Lady, she has suffer'd for't:
She has liv'd a great While a Widow.
Nurse.
A great While indeed, for a young Woman,
Sampson.
Gad so! here they come; I won't venture to be
seen.
Enter Count Baldwin, followed by Isabella and her Child.
C. Bald.
Whoever of your Friends directed you,
Misguided, and abus'd you—There's your Way;
I can afford to shew you out again;
What could you expect from me?
Isa.
Oh, I have nothing to expect on Earth!
But Misery is very apt to talk:
I thought I might be heard.
C. Bald.
What can you say?
Is there in Eloquence, can there be in Words
A recompensing Pow'r, a Remedy,
A Reparation of the Injuries,
The great Calamities, that you have brought
On me, and mine? You have destroy'd those Hopes
I fondly rais'd, through my declining Life,
To rest my Age upon; and most undone me.
Isa.
I have undone myself too.
C. Bald.
Speak again:
Say still you are undone, and I will hear you,
With Pleasure hear you.
Isa.
Would my Ruin please you?
C. Bald.
Beyond all other Pleasures.
Isa.
Then you are pleas'd—for I am most undone.
C. Bald.
I pray'd but for Revenge, and Heav'n has heard,
And sent it to my Wishes: These grey Hairs
Would have gone down in Sorrow to the Grave,
Which you have dug for me, without the Thought,
The Thought of leaving you more wretched here.
Isa.
Indeed I am most wretched—When I lost
My Husband—
C. Bald.
Would he had never been;
Or never had been yours.
Isa.
I then believ'd
The Measure of my Sorrow then was full:
Makes room for Woes, and adds 'em to the Sum.
I lost with Biron all the Joys of Life:
But now its last supporting Means are gone,
All the kind Helps that Heav'n in Pity rais'd,
In charitable Pity to our Wants,
At last have left us: Now bereft of all,
But this last Trial of a cruel Father,
To save us both from sinking. O my Child!
Kneel with me, knock at Nature in his Heart:
Let the Resemblance of a once-lov'd Son
Speak in this little One, who never wrong'd you,
And plead the Fatherless and Widow's Cause.
Oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven,
As you will need to be forgiven too,
Forget our Faults, that Heav'n may pardon yours.
C. Bald.
How dare you mention Heav'n! Call to mind
Your perjur'd Vows; your plighted, broken Faith
To Heav'n, and all Things holy: Were you not
Devoted, wedded to a Life recluse,
The sacred Habit on, profest and sworn
A Votary for ever? Can you think
The sacrilegious Wretch, that robs the Shrine,
Is Thunder-proof?
Isa.
There, there began my Woes.
Let Women all take Warning at my Fate;
Never resolve, or think they can be safe,
Within the Reach and Tongue of tempting Men.
Oh! had I never seen my Biron's Face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fall'n,
But still continu'd innocent, and free
Of a bad World, which only he had Pow'r
To reconcile, and make me try again.
C. Bald.
Your own Inconstancy, your graceless Thoughts,
Debauch'd and reconcil'd you to the World:
He had no Hand to bring you back again,
But what you gave him. Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest Mind, transforming him
From Virtue, and himself, into what Shapes
Was first inspir'd by you. A Cloyster was
Too narrow for the Work you had in Hand:
Your Business was more general; the whole World
To be the Scene: Therefore you spread your Charms
To catch his Soul, to be the Instrument,
The wicked Instrument of your cursed Flight.
Not that you valu'd him; for any one,
Who could have serv'd that Turn, had been as welcome.
Isa.
O! I have Sins to Heav'n, but none to him.
C. Bald.
Had my wretched Son
Marry'd a Beggar's Bastard; taken her
Out of her Rags, and made her of my Blood,
The Mischief might have ceas'd, and ended there.
But bringing you into a Family
Entails a Curse upon the Name, and House,
That takes you in: The only Part of me
That did receive you, perish'd for his Crime.
'Tis a Defiance to offended Heav'n,
Barely to pity you: Your Sins pursue you:
The heaviest Judgments that can fall upon you,
Are your just Lot, and but prepare your Doom:
Expect 'em, and despair—Sirrah, Rogue,
How durst thou disobey me!
[To the Porter.
Isa.
Not for myself—for I am past the Hopes
Of being heard—but for this Innocent—
And then I never will disturb you more.
C. Bald.
I almost pity the unhappy Child:
But being yours—
Isa.
Look on him as your Son's;
And let his Part in him answer for mine.
O save, defend him, save him from the Wrongs
That fall upon the Poor.
C. Bald.
It touches me—
And I will save him—But to keep him safe;
Never come near him more.
Isa.
What! take him from me!
No, we must never part: 'tis the last Hold
All goes along with him: O! could you be
The Tyrant to divorce Life from my Life?
I live but in my Child.
No, let me pray in vain, and beg my Bread
From Door to Door, to feed his daily Wants,
Rather than always lose him.
C. Bald.
Then have your Child, and feed him with your Prayer.
You, Rascal, Slave; what do I keep you for?
How came this Woman in?
Samp.
Why indeed, my Lord, I did as good as tell
her before my Thoughts upon the Matter—
C. Bald.
Did you so, Sir? now then tell her mine:
Tell her I sent you to her.
[Thrusts him towards her.
There's one more to provide for.
Samp.
Good my Lord, what I did was in perfect Obedience
to the old Nurse there: I told her what it would
come to.
C. Bald.
What! this was a Plot upon me. And you
too, Beldam, were you in the Conspiracy? Be gone, go
all together; I have provided you an Equipage, now set
up when you please. She's old enough to do you Service:
I have none for her. The wide World lies before
you: Be gone, take any Road but this to beg or starve
in—I shall be glad to hear of you: But never, never see
me more.—
[He drives 'em off before him.
Isa.
Then Heav'n have Mercy on me!
[Exit with her Child, follow'd by Sampson and the Nurse.
| Isabella : or, The Fatal Marriage | |