University of Virginia Library

ACT. I.

SCENE I.

The Street.
Fabian comes in before Frederick and Jaqueline.
Fab.

Such an unlucky Accident! such a Misfortune!

Fred.

What is't, Fabian?

Fab.

A catching distemper; 'twill infect every
body that comes near me: The Tokens will
appear on the Faces of my Friends, in a day or two; and
all the Professions they have made to my Prosperity, will
cool into a Complement of Condolance; a civil Salutation
of the Hat in haste; and end in the usual Form of, Your
Humble Servant: with the hearty hope of never seeing
me again.

Fred.

This is the old quarrel between your Father and you.

Fab.

Ev'n so: My liberal, conscientious, loving, well-dispos'd
Father has forbid me his House; and civilly desir'd
me to seek my Fortune.

Fred.

O, you must expect to be dis-inherited twice or
thrice, to try your Obedience, before you're the better for
him. But it happens unluckily at this time: What will
become of the Ladies?

Fab.

'Tis that troubles me: to be turn'd out of doors,
when I had honestly undertaken the making my Mother-in-Law's,
and Sister's Fortune, as well as my own. I have
promoted the design as far as I cou'd: I hope you and
Carlos will carry it on. There's a Letter from my Sister,
[Gives him a Letter.
to desire your assistance: I think she wants nothing but an
opportunity of running away with you.

Fred.
That I have setled in a Letter to her.
[Feeling for his Letter.
I have contriv'd her escape: but how to send it now—

Jaq.
That, Sir, I think, falls under my employment:
Let me alone for the Letter.

Fab.

There's an old Gentleman coming this way will
certainly deliver it.

Jaq.

Gad, and so he shall: 'tis very well thought upon:
Sir, your most humble Servant. The Letter, the Letter,
Sir;

[To Frederick.
I'le do your business, I warrant you.

Fred.

I have left it unfortunately behind me upon my
Table: Jaqueline, make haste, and bring it me.

[Jaqueline runs out.
Fab.

I have it in my head to be reveng'd of this old Fellow:
Run away with my Sister, be sure, whatever you do:
rely upon the old Man's conscience to give her a Portion: all
that I can do for you—is to pray (tho' I think there will be
no great need of my Prayers) that he will never give you
a Shilling.

[Aside.

Carlos, I suppose, knows how to behave himself between a
handsome young Lady, my Mother-in-Law, and a Coxcombly
old Fellow, my Father. When we are all in Rebellion,
a general Pardon must follow.

[Exit.
[Fernando enters to Frederick.
Fern.

Sure I saw just now a glimpse of my Rascally

Son shoot by the corner there: Hark you, Friend, was
not one Fabian with you before I came?

Fred.

Your Son Fabian, Sir; he was here but just now.

Fern.

My Son! hum! he may be your Son, if you like
him; for I disown him.

Fred.

Ay, so I hear indeed: 'tis a thousand pities, a pretty
Gentleman, as he is—

Fern.

A pretty Gentleman! yes, truly, he's a very pretty
Gentleman: When you can find nothing that a Coxcomb is
good for, but to spend money, you cry, he's a pretty Gentleman.
What, I suppose you were with him last night, a Serenading
(as you pretty Gentlemen call it) but in my language,
'tis catterwawling; good for nothing but to disturb a civil
neighbourhood; waken our Wives into wicked wishes; and
put 'em in mind of younger Fellows than their Husbands.

Fred.

You mistake me, Sir—

Fern.

I don't know whether I mistake you: but I'm sure,
among other his enormities of last night, had not a less Rascal
of the Company interpos'd, that Fabian you speak of,
wou'd have carry'd me bodily away with him, in the Case of
a Base Viol.

Fred.

Nay then he is to blame indeed.

Fern.

To blame, do you call it!

Fred.

I hope I shall make you a better Son, Sir, if you
please to accept of me: I have made my applications to you
a great while.

Fern.

Hold, hold, Sir; I have plague enough with those
Children I have already; I want no more, I thank you. What,
I warrant you, you'll say I have a handsom Daughter; why,
very well: and every body will say I have a handsom Wife.

Fred.

Yes, indeed Sir, every body must say your Wife is
a very fine Lady.

Fern.

O, must they so? Why how do I know then, that
you han't as great a mind to my Wife, as you have to my
Daughter? you look as if you wou'd rather help to bring some
more Children into my Family, than take any out of it: But I
shall watch you for spoiling my Wife's shape, I promise you.
'Tis very hard upon marry'd Men, that's the truth on't: 'tis

a sin, and a shame, there shou'd be so many ways of making
a Cuckold; when there are so few, or none to prevent it.
Now are you going to put in a long answer to every particular,
but I shall save you the trouble.

[Going.
Fred.

Sir, I shan't think it a trouble—

Fern.

To make me a Cuckold? no, no, I believe you.

Fred.

You won't understand me.

Fern.

I do understand you.

Fred.

Then, Sir, I leave the business entirely to your prudence,
to manage according to your discretion.

Fern.

Is the Devil in the Fellow? because I understand
that he has a design upon my Wife, he says, he leaves me to
manage it according to my discretion: Why perhaps you expect
I shou'd pimp for you: Are not you a very impudent
Fellow? or is this your way of proceeding with the Husbands?
From this time forward you shall not so much as see my Wife
through a double-barr'd window; and to put you out of all
other hopes, I will marry my Daughter very shortly to a
Friend of my own that will deserve her.

[Going.
Fred.

Will you resolve without hearing me?

[Jaqueline enters to 'em.
Fern.

Resolve! why I do resolve to have nothing to say to
you; to you, nor your Rogue there, that follows you. Odd!
that Fellow looks very suspiciously.

Jaq.

Sir, Sir, say your pleasure of my Master, or to my
Master; but don't disparage my Countenance: what have
you to say to my Face?

Fern.

Why, I don't like it.

Jaq.

Nay, nay, if that be all—

Fern.

But that is not all: I say moreover that you must be
a very impudent Fellow, that can keep such a Face in countenance.

Jaq.

Sir, I wou'd have you to know, what it seems you
are ignorant of, That whatever you take me to be, Sir, I am
a Gentleman, Sir.

Fern.

Nay, keep your distance, Friend, however. A
Gentleman, say you like enough; take a Pick-pocket into
custody, and upon the first question of his Roguery, he shall

answer, I'm a Gentleman. You never hear of a Fellow to
be hang'd, tho' for stealing a clean Shirt, but he's a Gentleman;
and such a Gentleman I cou'd allow you to be, if you
were going to the Gallows.

[Fernando going.
Jaq.

What the Devil shall I do with my Letter? Sir, Sir,
under your favour one word; I beg your pardon, Sir; if my
Master has said any thing to disoblige you—Lord, Sir,
you Lovers have bad memories—

[To Frederick.
My Master has forgot his main business with you, Sir.
[To Fernando.
You have forgot the Mony you came about, Sir.

[To Frederick.
Fern.

Mony, Friend! if you come about Mony, I can
hear you.

Fred.

What Mony do'st talk of? I want no Mony.

Jaq.

Pray, Sir, pardon me; I am your Steward, and
know your wants; you do want—and I want—

[Shows the Letter, and makes Signs.
Pox on him, he won't apprehend me.

Fred.

There's something to be done with that Letter: I
don't understand him, but I'le give into't if I can—
[Applying to Fernando.
I was loath to discover it, but the best Estates may want
Mony sometimes: You shall have what Security—

[Jaqueline pins a Letter to Fernando's Coat behind.
Fern.
I am for a Mortgage, or nothing—
What a pox do you mean, gathering about me so?
Have you a design upon my Person?

Fred.
Fye, fye, Sir; well you minded what I said?

Fern.

Minded what you said! I thank you, I had more
occasion to mind what you did: for ought I know I may
be robb'd—

[Fernando searching his Pockets.
Jaq.

Of your Daughter, in good time.

[Aside.
Fern.

My Pockets may be pickt.

Jaq.

Of a short Pipe, and Iron Tobacco-Box.

Fern.

Very well, Sir, this trick won't take.

Jaq.

Yes, but it will, Sir.

Fern.

What then, you design'd to abuse me, to make me

your Property, your Go-between? ha? what shall I do for
you? have you no Commendation-token of your affection,
or so, to my Wife, nor Daughter? what, you have a Letter;
I know. I shall certainly deliver it.

Jaq.

That will be kind, indeed, when my Master sends
one along with you.

Fern.
At any time, at any time.

Fred.
I'm glad I know the way.

Fern.
O, you can't miss it by me:
You can't find such another for your purpose.

Jaq.
By my troth, I think not, Sir; ha, ha, ha.

Fern.
Do you laugh at your good Fortune already?

Jaq.
I beg your Pardon, Sir, but I must laugh.

Fern.

Do, do, try with the silly Gentleman, your Master,
whether you can laugh me out of my Daughter, or
no.

[Exit.
Jaq.

I think I have bid fair for't.

Fred.

'Twas pretty well towards it, to make him carry
the Letter himself.

Jaq.

There's no danger of its miscarrying; the whole
Family is in a Conspiracy against him; and whoever gets
it, will deliver it to Victoria.

Fred.

I know Fabian will do any thing that's mischievous
to assist me: Go home, and desire him to stay for me: Behave
your self handsomely in this business, and you shall
be a Gentleman in earnest. Who's here? Villeroy and Carlos:
here, here Jaqueline.

[Whispers.
Enter Villeroy and Carlos.
Carl.

This constancy of yours will establish an immortal
Reputation among the Women.

Vil.

If it wou'd establish me with Isabella—

Carl.

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.

Carl.

But live in hopes! why, hope is the ready Road, the
Lovers baiting-place, and for ought you know, but one Stage
short of the possession of your Mistress.

Vil.

But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making,
than hers: and proceed rather from my wishes, than any
encouragement she has giv'n me.

Carl.
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.

Carl.
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.

Carl.

What Interest a Brother-in-Law can have with
her, depend upon.

Vil.
I know your Interest, and I thank you.

[Exit.
Carl.
Be sure of me to help the Marriage forward.

Why so, Frederick, am not I a very honest Fellow, to endeavour
to provide a good Husband for my elder Brother's
Widow?

Fred.

A very kind Relation indeed: you'll give your
Consent to the Match, where you are to have the Benefit
of the Bargain.

Carl.

Tho' I have taken care to root her out of our Family,
I wou'd transplant her into Villeroy's.

Fred.

That has a face of good Nature; but it squints
with both Eyes upon your own Interest.

Carl.

That trick I learnt in the Schools, in your company,
when I was a younger Brother, and design'd for the
Church.

Fred.

The Church is a very good School: there are wise
Men and Fools of every Foundation: but there are Lessons
for every Learner; Doctrines for all Disciples, and calculated
to all capacities, to thrive or starve by, as they are
able to digest 'em. The Church will teach us to rise in
this World, as well as in the next, if we have but Grace to
follow her Example.

Car.

I think, I have taken care to improve the Principles
I receiv'd from her. What did they turn me into a Trade
for, but to thrive by the Mystery? and Cheating is the Mystery
in all the Professions I know of.

Fred.

I have a great deal of News for you, about Fernando
and his Family; the Wife and Daughter are in distress, we
must have mercy on 'em.

When you have secur'd the main matter of Villeroy, and
Isabella; Julia desires to fall under your consideration.

Car.
I'm something busie at present;
But I'le take care of her.

[Exeunt.

Scene 2.

Fernando's House.
Enter Julia, and Victoria.
Jul.
Here's your Father behind us.

Vict.
I hope the Old Eves-dropper has not over-heard me.

Enter Fernando, with the Note pinn'd to his Coat.
Fern.
Who's that dares talk of Love in my House?
It shall be Treason to mention it.

Jul.
Your own jealous suspicion; here's nothing
Of Love in this House to be talkt of.

Fern.

My own jealous suspicion! it may be so; however,
I shall take an occasion to search my House, from the Garret
to the Cellar; and if I do find any Love in it, or any
thing towards, to encourage it—

Vict.
In the Cellar, Sir! what shou'd you find there?
Cold Meat, and small Beer, are no great Provocatives:
Won't you allow us to Eat and Drink, Father?

Fern.

To Eat and Drink, Father! thou art always cramming,
by thy good will: That Jade's Gut wou'd ruine a little
Fortune; wou'd any, but I, were oblig'd to provide for it.
Let me see, I don't know but, in my absence, you may have
let in some Rascal or another, and hid him—

Jul.

Why don't you look under the Table?

Fern.

There's something going forward against me, I
know, Gentlewomen, by your always being together:
Come, come, what's the contrivance? let me know your
design, I'le tell you whether 'twill prosper, or no.

Jul.

In short, Husband, I must tell you, your Jealousie
has quite tir'd me, and I can live no longer under your Tyrannical
Government.

Fern.
Very well; mine is a Tyrannical Government:

And why, I pray? because it refuses you the priveledge of
making me a Cuckold:

A pretty Priviledge truly! and you will plead it as often as
you can, no doubt on't:

But I shall watch you.

[Victoria spies the Letter.
Vict.

Hey day! what merry Company has my Father
been in?

Fern.

Why, do you find me in so merry an Humor,
Mistress?

Vict.
In a Humour to entertain us, I see, Sir.
Some body has play'd the Rogue with him.
[Aside.
I'le try to Read it—

Fern.

The Spirit of Rebellion has been among you in my
absence, to perswade you to resist my Lawful Authority:
but whether that Spirit appear'd in the simple shape of a
Letter only, or in the more lewd Limbs of a Lover, you
know best—

Jul.

I know nothing.

[Turning from him.
Fern.

Look you, Wife, if there is a necessity for doing it,
do it the cheapest way:

Your Expresses, your Letter-carriers, will cost Mony:
Ah! wou'd I cou'd light upon one of those Letter-carriers,
I wou'd so pay 'em.

Vict.
'Tis directed to me—
I had almost spoil'd all.

[Takes the Letter off.
Fern.
What is that Wench doing behind me there?
No good I warrant her.

Vict.

Nothing, Sir, but some Fool or other has been chalking
you upon the back.

[Rubs him.
Fern.
O! 'twas that Rogue Frederick's Man:

I felt him indeed fumbling about me when his Master
whisper'd me: but I shall take an occasion to score him over
the Coxcomb, when I see him agen.

Vict.

Did he send it, Father?

Fern.

Send what, Daughter! wou'd you have had him
sent any thing? I cou'd do no more, than offer my Service.
He did not like the conveyance, I suppose; and so you
are disappointed.

Vict.
Not I indeed, Father, I'm not disappointed;
I have as much as I expected, or desir'd.

Fern.
As much as you expected, or desir'd!

Vict.
What have I to do with him?

Fern.

Ah! Gypsie! you don't know what you have to
do with him?

Nor you don't desire to be instructed?
But if you are ignorant, here's a Woman of Experience:
Your Mother can inform you;
She has something to do with him, if you han't.
Get you gone to your several Chambers, go.
I'le bring you News from your Fellows:
Rely upon me for your Intelligence:
I'le do your business, I warrant you.

[Thrusts 'em in before him.

Scene 3.

The Street.
Villeroy, with Isabella and her little Son.
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.

Vill.
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 ruine 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 it self, the Universal Prayer,
And Heaven'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.
I've lost my self, and never wou'd be found,
But in these Arms.

Isa.
O, I have heard all this!
—But must no more—the Charmer is no more.
My buried 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 shou'd 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 indispos'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 setled 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 Pow'r, and must obey,
In every thing obey you. I am going:
But all good Fortune go along with you.

[Exit.
Isa.
I shall need all your wishes—
[Knocks.
Lockt! and fast!
Where is the Charity that us'd to stand,
In our Forefathers Hospitable days,
At Great Mens Doors, ready for our wants,
Like the good Angel of the Family,
With open Arms taking the Needy in,
To feed, and cloath, to comfort, and relieve 'em?
Now ev'n their Gates are shut against the Poor.

[She knocks again.
Sampson enters to her.
Sam.

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?

Sam.
My Lord at home!

Isa.
Count Baldwin lives here still?

Sam.
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?

If you had enquir'd for Mrs. Comfit, the House-keeper, or
had the good Fortune to be acquainted with the Butler;
you might have what you came for; and I cou'd make you
an answer: but for my Lord's being at home to every idle
Body that enquires for him—

Isa.

Why, don't you know me, Friend?

Sam.

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 over-heard him.
Nur.

Handsomer words wou'd become you, and mend
your Manners, Sampson: Do you know who you prate to?

Isa.

I'm glad you know me, Nurse.

Nur.

Marry, Heaven forbid, Madam, that I shou'd
ever forget you, or my little Jewel—

[Isabella goes in with her Child.

Now my Blessing go along with you, wherever you go,
or whatever you are about. Fye, Sampson, how cou'dst
thou be such a Saracen? A Turk wou'd have been a better
Christian, than to have done so barbarously by so good
a Lady.

Sam.

Why look you, Nurse, I know you of old: by
your good will you wou'd have a finger in every body's
Pie, but mark the end on't; if I am call'd to acount about
it, I know what I have to say.

Nur.

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.

Sam.

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.

Nur.

Nay, that's true, Sampson.

Sam.
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 Mony in their
Pockets, and were able to consider us for the trouble.

Nur.

Why, that is a grievance indeed in great Families;
where the Gifts at good times are better than the
Wages:

It wou'd do well to be reform'd.

Sam.

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?

Nur.

Why, I'le tell you, Sampson; more nor less; I'le
tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding,
or diminishing.

Sam.

Ay, marry, Nurse.

Nur.

My Lord's eldest Son, Biron by Name, the Son
of his Bosom, and the Son that he wou'd have lov'd

best, if he had as many as King Pyramus of Troy.

Sam.

How! King Pyramus of Troy! why, how many
had he?

Nur.

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 cou'd blame his
Father for loving him: He was a Son for the King of
Spain, God bless him; 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.

Sam.

How, wilfully! he shou'd have had her consent,
methinks.

Nur.

No, wilfully marries her; and which was worse,
after she had setled all her Fortune upon a Nunnery, which
she broke out of to run away with him. They say they
had the Churches Forgiveness, but I had rather it had been
his Father's.

Sam.

Why in good troth, 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.

Nur.
That was the Quarrel, I believe, Sampson:

Upon this, my old Lord wou'd 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 kill'd.

Sam.

Alack-a-day, poor Gentleman.

Nur.

For which my old Lord hates her, as if she had
been the cause of his going thither.

Sam.
Alas, alas, poor Lady, she has suffer'd for't:
She has liv'd a great while a Widow.

Nur.
A great while indeed for a young Woman, Sampson!

Sam.

Gad so, here they come, I won't venture to be
seen.

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 agen.
What cou'd you expect from me?

Isa.
O, 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 my self too.

C. Bald.

Speak agen: Say still you are undone; and I
will hear you:

With pleasure hear you.

Isa.
Wou'd my Ruine 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
Wou'd 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.

Wou'd he had never been; or never had been
yours.

Isa.
I then believ'd
The measure of my sorrow then was full:
But every moment of my growing days
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 tryal 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.
O, if you ever hope to be forgiven,
As you will need to be forgiven too,
Forget our faults, that Heaven may pardon yours.

C. Bald.
How dare you mention Heaven! 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 of my Fate,
Never resolve, or think they can be safe;
Within the reach, and Tongues of tempting Men.
O! 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 agen.

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 agen,
But what you gave him. Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind, transforming him
From Virtue, and himself into what shapes
You had occasion for; and what he did
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 curs'd flight.
Not that you valu'd him: for any one,
Who cou'd 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 Heaven,
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 my self—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
Of comfort I have left, and when he fails
All goes along with him: O! cou'd 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 dayly 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?

Sam.

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 her.

Sam.

Good my Lord, what I did was in perfect Obedience
to the old Nurse there: I told her what it wou'd come to.

C. Bald.

What! this was a Plot upon me. Mumper, you,
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 see me more.

[He drives 'em off before him.