University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Charlotta and Alicia.
Ali.
It must not be; this melancholy Mien,
This inauspicious Countenance of Sorrow,
But ill becomes the Prince of Conde's Bride,
Now at those Minutes, when each happier Thought
Should teem with greedy Hopes of promis'd Transport,
Each Look, each Feature speak the Soul's Content,
Put on the most inviting Form of Love,
To welcome and receive th'expected Joy.

Char.
That Joy, Alicia, is for them alone,
Whom Providence points out the happy Pair,
Where mutual Passions in one Current join,
Where of itself, unbiass'd, unconstrain'd,
Almighty Love the faithful Union ties,
Transmits to each kind Breast its social Heats,
One Heart, one Soul, one Thought, and one Desire:
This, my Alicia, this is Joy indeed;
Such Joy, alas! as I must never hope.
If a vast Hoard of ever-springing Sweets,
Is the blest Portion of the Bridal Bed;
Such is the cruel Doom of Heaven and Fate,
A bitter Hoard of Wretchedness is mine,
Wedded to Pomp, yet wedded to Despair.

Ali.
These are indeed the 'Plainings of Despair,
Accents of Woe, but Accents suiting ill
Charlotta's better State, and whiter Hours.
Forgive me, Madam, why do you withdraw,
With sullen Aspect, and with grief-swoln Heart,
From all the Pomp and Pleasures of the Court,
Th'Amusements of Society and Mirth,
To mingle with Affliction, and indulge
Unnecessary Thoughts, and causless Sorrows?

Char.
Beware, beware, nor aggravate my Madness,
Nor drive me by Reflection to explore
Too deep the burning Anguish of my Heart.
Hah! didst thou call them causless? But to thee,
Unconscious of the Smart, they may indeed
Seem causless and unnecessary too,
But I will tell thee, for I think thou'rt faithful.
No, rather let me bury in this Breast,
From thee, and all the busy censuring World,
The curs'd Heart-stabbing Cause, that on this Day,
This Day of Marriage, that should ever be
Sacred to Mirth, and set apart for Joy,
With furious Griefs engrosses all my Soul,
And turns me loose amidst a Hell of Horrors.

Ali.
Then if Alicia ever yet was thought
Worthy to bear a pleasant social Share,
Thro every gayer Scene of kinder Fate,
Now, Madam, make me Partner of the bad,
Leave me not out a Stranger to your Sorrows;
Disclose the Cause, that I may know to cure,
Or learn at least to grieve and mourn like you.

Char.
'Tis kind, Alicia: yes, I will to thee,
Tho neither thou, nor I, nor all the World,
Nor Reason's Virtue, nor Physician's Skill,
Can bring me Aid; yes, to thy faithful Breast
I will unbosom all the horrid Load,
And in the sad Narration find a short
Delusive slight Amusement from my Pain.
Oh Henry! Henry!—

Ali.
Heavens! does she name the King?

Char.
The King—the Great, the Godlike King of France,
The foremost Champion in the Field of War,
The brightest Courtier, and the softest Lover,
That ever prostrate bow'd to Beauty yet.

Ali.
Where can this end? What means this frantick Grief?

Char.
Yes, him; this King, a hundred hundred times
Have I beheld with Pity, Pride, and Joy,
With bended Knee, and supplicating Tears,
In short-breath'd Accents of impatient Love,
Adore these deify'd, now wretched Charms,
And languish for a Smile.

Ali.
Alas! what Hopes
Could you propose from this Great Monarch's Love?

Char.
Hopes I had none, nor ever durst receive
The flattering Thought of unexpected Bliss:
'Tis true, for sure our Passions are no Sins,
Or if they are, what Virtue can prevent
The furious Struggles of inclining Nature?
So well, so long he pleaded, that his Love
Rais'd by degrees an equal Warmth in me;
From hence Charlotta's Misery dates its birth;
Both lov'd, both wish'd, yet sentenc'd to Despair:
So far unknowing what it did, my Soul
Harbour'd the dangerous Guest, the Royal Foe:
But when he farther press'd his fatal Suit,
Then Modesty and Honour were my Guards;
I vow'd in presence of the raging King,
I never would admit the impious Joy.

Ali.
Oh what a Train of Woes have you prepar'd!
Why, conscious that your Heart was thus dispos'd,
Would you consent to give the Prince your Hand?

Char.
That, that's the Curse that hangs upon my Soul,
Upbraids my lawless Thoughts, and guilty Heart.
What could I do? a hapless Wretch I stood,
Drove out from Hope, from Anchor, and from Shore,
Of Conduct void, and destitute of Friends,
My Mind at war, my Passions all my Foes;
What then could I decline, or what resolve?
Once to myself I swore, (Oh dire Remembrance!
Since I so soon have violated all
The sacred Obligation) tho harsh Laws
And Honour's rigid Rules forbad the rest,
Still to preserve my Virgin Heart the King's,
And since it was not doom'd that I should live
Enjoy'd by him, die unenjoy'd at all.

Ali.
But since at last Necessity demands
A just Obedience to your present Fate,
Make use of the Occasion that presents
The happy Means of Freedom and Content.

Char.
Mistaken Notion! that can never be:
What, change a fierce Antipathy to Love?
Turn Chains to Freedom, Sorrow to Content?
Bid me extract from mortal Poison Life,
Make Time roll back, and Seasons past return,
Give Laws to Seas, to Winds, or Beasts of Prey;
Far less Impossibilities than that.
Content is lost to me, let me prepare
To welcome Misery in its highest Pomp:
Could Providence stand pitiless, and see
A rigid Father with a Tyrant-Frown,
On pain of Disobedience, and the Threats
Of a Paternal Curse and Exile Fate,
Awe his devoted Daughter to a Match
Adverse to Choice, to Nature, or to Love?

Ali.
Yet howsoe'er your discontented Heart
Brooks this unequal Match, it much behoves,
That you confine your secret Murm'rings there,
And well disguise your outward Form with Shews
Of false Affection and dissembled Gladness:
What may the Prince conclude, when once he finds,
Instead of willing Charms and blending Love,
A mourning Consort and a Bed of Tears?

Char.
For pity urge no more the shocking Subject;
The Prince is loving, generous, and great,
And well deserving of a better Wife;
But we were never pair'd for one Embrace.
Oh Virtue! Virtue cannot say I err,
Is it my Crime our Souls do not agree,
Nor our Affections meet? let Heaven that saw,
And, not preventing, seal'd the fatal Marriage,
Stamp it no Crime, or make that Crime its own.
But hold, my Lord, the Prince of Conde waits,
And a Bride's Duty summons me away,
To false distasteful Joys and glittering Woe.

[Exeunt.