University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE

a Parlour; Louisa leaning on a Couch, in a melancholy Manner—her Children by her.
*Louisa.
Can Heav'n be just, and these dear Infants wretched?
What have they done, to merit all this Misery?
Brought forth in Sorrow! nourish'd in Distress!
Their Hopes, Despair! their very Living, Death!
O fatal Fruits of Gaming! baneful Mischief,
That, like Contagion, spreads itself around,
And blasts alike the Innocent and Guilty!
Dire Punishment, that, for a Father's Folly,
Reaches the Souls and Fortune of his Offspring!

[weeping.
Eldest Boy.
Why weep you, Madam? Heav'n is good—and, oft,
I've heard you say, we never shou'd despair,
Nor quarrel with our State.

Lou.
'Tis true, my Boy—
I was too rash; the Ways of Heav'n are just:
But human Frailty hardly bears with Patience
Such undeserv'd, and still-increasing, Woe.
To see you helpless—Oh!

Eld. Boy.
Our Father
Bids us be chearful, and expects Relief.
There comes our Uncle Courtney with some News.

SCENE II.

Courtney, Louisa, three Children.
Lou.
May they be good!—This Speed of your Return
Is kind: but, tell me, Uncle, your Success—
*Say, was my Father, by your Means, dispos'd
To help my Bellmour with the hop'd Supplies?
+—Methinks I read your News in your sad Visage,
And my Heart trembles with prophetick Fears.

*Court.
Bid These retire—

Eld. Boy.
This bodes no Good.

SCENE III.

Courtney, Louisa.
Court.
Alas!
+'Tis, as I judg'd 'twou'd be: His own Wants press him.

*Lou.
Ah! Is the Pow'r of doing Good quite lost?
Is he unable to afford Relief?

Court.
He wants not Disposition to assist you:
But, barr'd by generous Actions oft repeated,
He now sinks with you. Bellmour's wasteful Life,
+Those boundless Diceings, and voluptuous Riots,
And this last, worst Adventure of lost Hope,
(Which has, at once, dissolv'd a Wealth, so vast!)
*Weighs down his Friends, and makes them share his Fate;
While others, less concern'd, scarce feel his Suffering,
Nor think it merits Pity. Dreadful Case!

+Lou.
But his late Conduct proves my Bellmour chang,
Misfortunes have instructed him to think,
And Thought has captiv'd ev'ry madding Passion.

Court.
Yet early Vice, by Custom long indulg'd,
Leaves such Impression, of habitual Ill,
As finds no Cure, but from severe Remorse,
And Time's slow Workings.

Lou.
Name not Bellmour's Vice—
He has no Vice—His very Pow'r is lost,
Ev'n had he Taste, for Follies. Ruin'd Bellmour!
The Slaves, for whose curs'd Sakes, he stands reproach'd,
Now, shun his Converse. Villains, who betray'd him,
Start, when they meet him. Poverty, like his,
Spreads a Contagion round it. All Mankind
Cry, “Lord have Mercy,” and fly, frighted, from him.
Did you lay open our incumbent Ruin?
Urg'd you my Father strongly? Want's cold Hand
Creeps o'er us; and 'tis, now, no Time for Counsel.

Court.
I told him all, and mov'd his utmost Pity,
Still, as he set, to View, your Husband's Failings,
I urg'd his Virtues, and bore down the Ballance
I prais'd his Wit, his Courage, and Humanity;
His fine, frank, Spirit, and his generous Nature.
But 'twas lost Hope! Believe, I know him well:
His struggling Will, to save you, has undone him,
And Bellmour's Self wou'd there beg Aid in vain.

Lou.
Oh! He was never born, to be a Beggar.
Heav'n is too kind to Goodness, to forsake him.
He, whom soft Pity melts, at others' Misery,
Deserves himself, to live exempt from Woe.
Bellmour cou'd ne'er behold a Stranger wretched,
But he partook his Pain, till he cou'd ease it.
How, then, will he support the weeping Anguish
Of three, poor, Children, all undone by him?

Court.
His Good, and Ill, so chequer out his Nature,
That which excells is doubtful. Nobly will'd,
His pitying Heart flows out, in generous Purposes:
But, wanting Pow'r, to stem the Tide of Pleasure,
Irresolute, he drives, and floats, to Ruin.
Men must be rigid, and severe, in Virtue!
Serious and noble Aims distinguish Reason!
To live for Taste, is not to live at all.
The Men of Pleasure dreams away his Days,
And dies, to be forgotten.—Bellmour's Soul,
Had Contemplation bent it to a Byas,
Had giv'n a Point to Fame's proud Pinacle,
And purpled o'er his Name, with deathless Glory!
Now, it lies low, in Dust!—I wou'd 'twere mine,
To skreen you, from the Storm, that's gathering round you:
But I, unbless'd with Pow'r, can only wish,
And wonder why the Strong have feeble Wills!

Lou.
Oh! I shall tremble, to behold his Face.
His ruin'd Family hangs on his Heart;
His helpless Childrens future Fate distracts him,
And, the once lively, Bellmour smiles no more.
Silent, he walks, or stands, with folded Arms,
And still looks down, as if his Soul were Earth.
If e'er by Chance, his lifted Eyes meet mine,
The starting Tears glare, dreadfully, upon me,
And, quivering, struggle, to flow loose, in Sorrow.
Then Sighs, suppress'd by Force, strive hard for Vent,
And heave, and swell, like Earthquakes, in his Bosom.
Groaning, at length, he breaks, in Whirlwind, from me,
Torn by ten thousand Pangs, raves, reddens, starts,
And frights me with a dreadful Burst of Passions!
—Oh! Uncle, what remains for Hope to snatch at?
Of all the wide Estate, that, late enclos'd us,
But this poor House is left us—This, too, totters—
Soon Ruin, with his palsied Hand, will seize
This antient Pile, and shake it into Dust!
Not thrice the Worth of all, that, now, is ours,
Will save poor Woodly from that fatal Bond
He sign'd, to serve my Bellmour. All our Hope
Was in your speedy Journey to my Father.
Woodly must sink, and Bellmour cannot bear it!
Bellmour will never live, to sink a Friend.

*Court.
Yet despair not—Your malicious Creditor
May cancel all the dreaded Obligations,
Or lengthen out his Patience, for the Payment.

Lou.
Oh! No—his Heart is stubborn as a Rock.
In vain are Arguments, to move Compassion
In Hearts, to which Humanity's a Stranger.
Pity's a human Passion; Not in him!

Court.
His Nature will not let him crush a Family,
An old, illustrious Family! whose Misfortunes
Himself was Cause of, put by Means of Chance.
But if he can prove obstinately cruel,
And deaf to Calls of Honour, and Distress,
Methinks, his Love may mitigate his Rage,
And make him friendly for Belinda's Sake.

Lou.
Name not Belinda—Bellmour cannot bear
That she shou'd be made one with hated Bargrave.
This Opposition whets the Villain's Rage,
And much he threatens, to exert his Pow'r.

Court.
Tho' Bellmour disapproves the Match propos'd,
Yet Love may bind the cruel Bargrave down,
And make the Tyger gentle as the Lamb.
The fiercest Tempers have been tam'd by Love.
It strikes the Sparks of Honour in the Soul,
And blazes up a Reformation there!
Did he not promise, he wou'd try again,
To win her, with Consent?

Lou.
We wait his Coming—
But all our Hope is, only, short Reprieve,
And, by fair Words, to ward the threaten'd Blow.

Court.
Urge you Belinda to be seeming kind,
While I inform your Husband how I sped.
Wou'd I had better News, to give him Comfort!

+Lou.
Look yonder, where, in pensive Grief, he walks,
Unhoping, and disconsolate!

Court.
Poor Bellmour!
How chang'd, from that wild, noisy, joyful Rioter,
Which all his Friends have known him! Still extream!

SCENE IV.

Bellmour, Courtney, Louisa.
Lou.
My Life! my Bellmour! wound not thus my Soul.
I have more Woes to bear, that are my own,
Than my Strength matches—add not thou thy Sorrow;
That wou'd o'erwhelm me quite.

Bell.
I pray forgive me.
Prison'd in Thought, I could not look about me,
And my Soul miss'd thy Comfort—I was musing;

Lou.
What sad Reflection held you?

Bell.
A mournful Wandering!
No matter now—

Lou.
Nay you must tell it me.

Bell.
I was considering which of my three Boys,
Some few Years hence, when I'm dissolv'd in Death,
Will act the Beggar best! run bare-foot fastest!
And, with most dextrous Shrug, play Tricks for Charity!

Lou.
O! for Heav'ns Sake, forbear, by Starts, like This,
To image Horrors, Nature shrinks at thought of.

Bell.
Why, my Louisa! 'tis a Wretch's Duty,
To learn to bear his Misery—to know it,
To use ourselves to poize it, is the Means
To make it easy to us.—Yet I'm to blame!
Thou had'st no Share in any Guilt of mine;
I ought alone to suffer.—'Twas too cruel,
'Twas even unmanly, to afflict thy Innocence!

Court.
Oh! Sir, you sooth the Grief you should resist!
As the gross Atmosphere is shook by Tempests,
Which never ruffle the superior Regions;
Mean Spirits, only, buckle under Woe;
It is the great Man's Pride, to combat Fortune,
And rise against Oppression.

Bell.
Sir, 'tis true—
And, I remember, you have oft advis'd it,
While I had Power, to try my Virtue's Proof.
A Man may die unhelp'd—but must not hope
To Conquer, without Arms.—Talking of Help,
Will your good Brother lend it?—Speaking Silence!
How could I hope it from him?

Court.
Yet despair not—
A Time may come, when ev'n your Woes shall prove
Great Benefits. Firm Spirits break Misfortunes!
To suffer well's the noblest Way to Conquest.
On a smooth Sea, the Sailor shows no Skill,
But he displays it all, in Hurricanes.

Bell.
He wou'd not, sure, neglect to save his Daughter,
Had he the Power still left him—Yet Friends, sometimes,
Are more than Fathers! A Father cannot be
More than a Friend!—I had a Friend in Woodly!
Once he was happy—what he shall be hereafter,
He owes to faithless Bellmour! Perish the Name.
To what a stinging Death is he reserv'd,
Who leaves a good Man wretched, whom he made so?
Sir, it wou'd ease me of a galling Pain,
Wou'd you dissolve this disappointed Hope
In Woodly's Breast—'Twere Sin to nourish it,
Since 'tis unstable—He must know it soon:
Let it be told by any Tongue, but Bellmour's.

Court.
I'll visit him this Instant.—Do you, mean while,
Bravely seek Comfort from a firm Belief,
That Heav'n befriends your Virtues, and will save you.
A Hand unseen these Clouds of Woe may clear,
And, into Triumph, turn distracting Fear.

SCENE V.

Bellmour, Louisa.
Bell.
Louisa! I am damn'd, while yet alive!

Lou.
Alas! what mean you to distract me thus
With your wild Startings?

Bell.
Nay but mark me well,—
Want's the Damnation of a living Sinner.—
What have I liv'd for, if I die a Beggar?
Why were my Ancestors renown'd in War?
Why, with grave Judges, have they grac'd the Bench,
Or, with wise Votes, the Senate?—In Me, must beg—
Mark that lean Word, Louisa! In Me must beg
That ebbing Name, which through a Length of Ages,
Has given a Kingdom Honour. Bear'st thou That?
How excellent art thou! not to have scorn'd me!
Good Heav'n! that Reason shou'd give Madness way,
'Till Man finds Musick in a rattling Dice-Box!
And has contracted thrice three thousand Acres,
To the curs'd Compass of a narrow Table!
With what a thoughtless Rapture have I shook 'em!
Hung o'er the Throw! and hurl'd out my Posterity
Pimps, Thieves, or Beggars!—But then at last,
This Madman's Hazard of my treasur'd Remnant,
In the wild Lottery of a publick Hope,
Where Reason had no Chance, and Villains govern'd—
Curs'd! groundless Rashness!—Tear me Limb from Limb,
Some pitying Torturer! To die at once,
Were Comfort e'en in Agony!—But I shall be
Whole Ages, after Death, in dying!—Villains,
Dull, pityless, insulting, dirty Villains,
Will point at some poor ragged Child of mine,
And say, ‘There's Pride and Name! there's Bellmour's Honour!
‘There's the blest Remnant of a boasted Family!
Curse the keen Thought! it pours all Hell upon me!

Lou.
Still wilt thou, thus, snatch at Despair's wild Shadows?
I thought, the manly Soul cou'd smile at Anguish;
Woman's weak Mind may bend beneath Adversity;
But Bellmour's Brow, methinks, shou'd wear a Majesty,
And make Affliction awful.

Bell.
Away with Counsel.
I cannot hear Thee. Thy moving Air! thy Wisdom!
That lovely Softnefs, which bewitches round Thee!
Each Charm, which has a thousand Times appeas'd me!
Now makes me mad! Like Oil pour'd out on Flame,
I tower, in Blaze, and burn with tenfold Fierceness.
Thy ev'ry Word is Death! Each Look thou giv'st me
Breaks thro' my Eye, comes rushing on my Soul,
And shoots sharp Arrows thro' my bleeding Conscience.
Think'st thou, I am so mean, so lost a Wretch,
That my own Misery stings me? Cruel Woman!
What Earthly Ills can Bellmour stoop to fear,
Which hurt but Bellmour? 'Tis true, indeed, thy Fate
I have not learn'd to bear—There Grief unmans me;
Thine and thy helpless Infants' Woes rise to me,
Glare on my Apprehension, like pale Ghosts!
And point me into Madness!

SCENE VI.

Bellmour, Louisa, Belinda.
*Lou.
Oh, Belinda!
How wretched are we now? No Gleam of Comfort
Breaks out to cheer our sad, despairing Spirits.
Courtney, return'd, has brought unwelcome News.

Belinda.
I've heard the News, and feel your Woes increase.
Wou'd it were mine to administer Relief!

Lou.
But one Way now remains to save us all—
At least, our Ruin to suspend a while—
And That is in your Power.

Bel.
Oh! speak it quickly—
How can I serve your Family?

Lou.
By Marriage.

Bell.
With whom?

Lou.
Ev'n Bargrave, our much-dreaded Creditor.

Bell.
I'll perish, rather than give my Consent.

Lou.
For Heav'n's Sake, Bellmour, think of our Distress,
Think of our Children's State—O think—

Bell.
No more.
Thought makes me wild—and shou'd Belinda yield,
The only, now remaining Treasure left us,
To such a Villain, I should lose my Reason,
And be a-like, in Soul and Fortune, beggar'd.
Think you I'd buy my Safety with her Ruin?
Barter her Charms, the Honour of our House,
And all the Stock of Glory that is ours,
For Bargrave's Grace? For the precarious Favour
Of short Reprieve from Misery? Were she his,
Were he but once possess'd of her, then All
Were his indeed: Our Ruin wou'd be then
Compleat, and his proud Tyranny triumphant.

Lou.
Too resolute and cruel in thy Purpose!
May not Alliance alter Bargrave's Mind?
What will not Love, and Marriage, and Relation,
Do for a Family?—But, Belinda, say,
What do'st thou now resolve? Thou see'st our Fate
Is to its Crisis come. We, or must perish,
Or Thou, the friendly Plank, preserve from Wreck,
And bear us to the wish'd-for Hav'n of Ease.

Bel.
What shall I say? wou'd my poor Life cou'd save you!
My Soul is melted—Sympathy o'erpow'rs
My tender Nature, and I sink beneath
Your Burden: 'Tis my own, and weighs me down.
How hard the Struggle then, in my poor Heart,
To wed with Bargrave, and to please my Brother!
Marriage may soften—

Bell.
Whom? The polish'd Steel
Might sooner take Impression from the Dew,
Or gently falling Show'rs, than Bargrave's Soul
Receive the Stamp of Virtue and Humanity.
Trust not, Belinda, what he says, or swears.
His Heart and Tongue are Strangers.—Dost thou weep?
Alas! I've brought my Kindred and my Friends
Into my Sufferings: All involv'd in Woe!
Oh! Wretch! Wretch! Wretch!

SCENE VII.

Louisa, Belinda.
Lou.
Unhappy Bellmour!
Yet, O Belinda, save him, save us all;
Consent to Bargrave, suffer yet more Hardship,
To screen a Family from impending Ruin.

Bel.
'Twould break poor Bellmour's Heart; and yet, I own,
There's something in my Bosom pleads for Bargrave,
I cannot think him a consummate Villain,
Nor obstinately bent to crush a Family.
He comes. Louisa, leave us for a while,
I'll try to sooth, and win him to Compassion.

Lou.
Heav'n bless you, generous Maid, and with Success.

SCENE. VIII.

Bargrave, Belinda.
Bar.
Fair Belinda here!
And all alone! Madam, I'm now return'd
In Peace to visit you, and Bellmour's House.

Bel.
Sir, 'tis kind.

Bar.
But be it my last Visit
With gentle Terms, if Bellmour now refuses
My hearty Welcome to Belinda's Love.

Bel.
What tho' he shou'd not give Consent? wou'd Bargrave
Crown the Endeavour!
Punish a Family, an old, worthy, Family!
For Bellmour's Fault? Or, might not I expect
To win your Mercy, by my own Compliance?

Bar.
Madam, I love you, and demand no Dower:
Be that to you sufficient. Join'd to me,
You ne'er shall feel Distress. But he,
'Tis just, shou'd suffer for his Folly. For
His Family, I pity it; but must look
My own sustain no Damage. All Men know
That Charity shou'd still begin at home.

Bel.
Ungenerous, cruel, and severe! O Bargrave,
Think you I cou'd be easy in your Arms,
Happy amidst your Affluence of Life's Treasure,
Were Bellmour and his Family made wretched?
Wretched! by you! my Husband the Destroyer
Of my lov'd Brother's House! Hard-hearted Man!

Bar.
Learn to forget Relations; and, in me,
Think your self happy, and all other Cares
Center'd and lost. I wou'd not have a Wife
On other Terms.

Bel.
O, I shall be undone!

Bar.
Nay, Madam, you are free. We are not yet
Contracted and made one. If you disprove
The offer'd Terms, or like not to be joyn'd
To one of my Condition, say so. I
Can find a Help-meet for me—One dispos'd,
And glad to have me. True, I think you charming:
There's none of all your Sex, in my Esteem,
More lovely. But what then? I cannot Whine,
Sigh, Pray, and Kneel, and cant Romantick Tales.
—I'll leave you to your Thoughts, and try your Brother.

SCENE IX.

Belinda.
Bel.
Was ever such a Lover? Wealth and Avarice
Have ruin'd him. O fatal Chance! I tremble
At thoughts of Marriage; yet cou'd wish him mine.
O what shall I resolve? what do, or say?
I'm rack'd, and pull'd a thousand Ways at once!
Love, Honour, Pity, Pride, Revenge, and Grief;
War in my Soul: Come, Hope, to my Relief;
Come, like good News to Mortals in Despair,
And put a Period to corroding Care.