University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A CHAMBER in Valdore's House.
Enter Amelia and Florella.
Amelia.
Your story of Chalons has greatly mov'd me.
If Aumele touch'd my thoughts, 'twas partial folly;
Yet 'twas not love, 'twas duty; since my father
Pointed his lightness out, not warn'd me from it.

Florella.
Aumele is light, deceitful, loose, ignoble;
Loves every face, is every woman's claim,
And she who first believes, is first undone.
His very friendship's false—Himself, whom only
He wishes not to cheat, he cheats the most.
He courts you for a mistress, not a wife.

Amelia.
No more—I hear him with suspecting hope;
And doubt, I shou'd not trust him.

Florella.
Still 'tis thus!—
Woman, by nature form'd to be undone,
Oft sees, yet helps the treason she wou'd shun.

Enter Young Aumele.
Amelia.
Hush, good Florella—hush—No more—He comes!
The gay, the witty, cou'd I add the just,
Aumele were all the maid belov'd cou'd wish.

[Exit Flor.
Aumele.
Lov'liest Amelia; if, before my hour,
I break on your retirement, thank your charms.
Love has its wing'd desires, when beauty calls.—
Sweeter than spring! than summer's sun more awful!
Yet colder than the winter's starry nights!
Say, how much longer will that frozen heart
Resist the warmth it gives me?

Amelia.
Gay Aumele!—
Lovers make light complaints, who love like you.
Too well you guess the father must prevail,
Where daughters, by their duty, guide their choice:
You know my heart admits no wavering flame.

Aumele.
Cou'd gifts of empty air enrich my claim,
How wealthy had you made me!—Still look angel,
But more like woman love—Meet flame with flame.

Amelia.
Has not my father's will pronounc'd me yours?

Aumele.
True—But methinks he gave what was not his:
Your lover's pride wou'd owe you to yourself.
Whate'er you to a father's orders yield,
Proves your obedience, but it proves not love:
The surest test of love is confidence.

Amelia.
She gives without reserve, who gives up all.

Aumele.
Manner, in miser's deeds, destroys their bounty:
Bonds they insist on—first—then pinch out gold;
While the true friend tells fast, and trusts repay.

Amelia.
I understand you not.

Aumele.
Had you but love,
Then cou'd you soon—

Amelia.
What mean you?

Aumele.
Credit mine—
But your calm, patient passion waits dull form;
Asks holy mortgage—to insure captivity,
And doubts if honour's ties can bind like priests.

Amelia.
How!—For thy honour, shou'd I part with mine?
Fain wou'd I think less fouly of Aumele,
Than once to fear he dares design my ruin.

Aumele.
Thy ruin!—No, thy happiness he courts—
Wou'd crown Amelia empress of his soul,
Not warden of his body—See her reign
Sovereign, by free-born choice, with generous sway,
Safely surrounded with thy guard of charms.
What need—what use—of yeoman duty's aid?

Amelia.
What wou'dst thou dare?—

Aumele.
Why—'Tis unjust, my love,
To treat our queens, like slaves—Weigh marriage rightly,
You'll find it humbling fierce, tumultuous joy,
Concurrent wills, and elegant desires;
Made cold, and lifeless all—because compell'd.

Amelia.
Oh, heaven! begone for ever from my sight;
Nor dare to blast my name, from this black moment,
With breath more baneful than the viper's hiss!
If, in some softer hour's unguarded faith,
Trustful I listen'd, and half hop'd thee just;
Spight of thy known, thy dreaded lightness, heard thee—
Punish me, angry powers, when I forgive thee!

Aumele.
Have frowns such charms! why heaves that snowy bosom,
Unform'd for any sighs, but those of love?
[Forcing her hand, and embraces her—She puts him aside.
Change 'em for fiercer transports, yet unknown:
Soft murmurs—stifled whispers—throbbing heart—
Eyes mixing angry fear, with fond desires;
Earnest of joy too violent to last,
And kindly made too short, lest bliss might kill.

[After struggling, she breaks from him.
Amelia.
Unhand me, villain! traitor, fly this moment!
O! that the eyes thou wrong'st, cou'd look thee dead!
The curs'd hyæna's wily cry—false tears
Of crocodiles—All, all that's fatal, dire,
Destructive to our sex—all meet in thee!
No, base Aumele—once passion did but pause—
This insult on my honour ends it all:
I'd sooner—But begone—'tis guilt to see thee;
But, to hold converse with thee, blots my fame.

[Going.
Aumele.
Hear yet one humble word—

Amelia.
When next I do,
Then curse me every power that hates not virtue.
[Going, meets her father entring.
My father!—Sure he has not been a witness
To this man's daring perfidy!

Enter Valdore.
Valdore.
Amelia!—
Young lord, allow me to expect your pardon,
[To Aumele.
That business of importance calls my daughter.

Aumele.
I humbly take my leave.

[Exit bowing.
[Valdore sees him to the door, and returns.
Valdore.
Why look you sad, Amelia?

Amelia.
I was mov'd,
By news my woman brought me of this fame,
From great and generous praise, that crowns Chalons.

Valdore.
Kind heav'n prepar'd that thought to suit my purpose.
Thy duty ever met thy father's will;
And, as thou know'st I will but for thy good,
I have no cause to doubt thy wish'd obedience.

Amelia.
Sir, I am yours—so wholly, that my heart
Unhesitating hears—when you command.

Valdore.
To say I love thee, were too short—Thou art
My age's only comfort—my soul's joy—
My hope for future time—my pride in this.

Amelia.
Wou'd I had merit, sir, to make this justice.

Valdore.
I thought, Amelia, at my entrance here,
I saw thee mov'd to anger?

Amelia.
Oh! my heart!

[Aside.
Valdore.
Aumele was with thee—As I know him vain,
I fear some lightness shook thee!

Amelia.
Me! my lord!

Valdore.
Sprung from a brutal stem, himself more brutal,
I now, too late, repent I bade thee love him.
Too conscious of his father's power, I poorly
Barter'd my love of truth, for earth's proud views;
And heaven resentful, has resolv'd to blast 'em.
To him, this morning, I surrender'd up
A power, his schemes insidious long had cross'd:
But, by his conduct in Chalons' just cause,
New shock'd by savage proof of flinty nature,
He wak'd me into detestation, due
To his whole impious race, and stop thy ruin.

Amelia.
Alas! my lord, far happier had I been,
Never to have indulg'd a list'ning ear.
Unapprehensive innocence, in maids,
Weighs man by its own meanings.

Valdore.
Wary maids—

Amelia.
Alas! there are no such, when love reigns lord.
Ah! what, if in obedience to your orders,
I shou'd have given my heart, where you assign'd it?
Think to what misery then my duty dragg'd me.
Passions new-born, at first are in our power;
But, when their tide runs strong, they sweep resolves.

Valdore.
Away—Ere yet the priest has join'd your hands,
To trust your passion's range beyond your power,
Were treason against honour—If 'tis so,
Recal it, while you can: You are too wise
To doat, Amelia, on a youth so weightless.
The solid lover guards his favourer's fame,
Which the fool's whole wish'd joy but seeks to sully.
Boasters of frothy soul, when young, like this,
So little too inform'd by manly virtue,
Blast, like a basilisk, each fair they look on:
Loud, among lewd companions, wildly cruel,
Each but compares with each his list of conquests,
And he's most hero, who has ruin'd most.

Amelia.
And is Aumele of taste deprav'd like this?

Valdore.
Name him no more—I, whose mistaken hand
Brought malady, will also bring the cure.
Chalons, the brave Chalons, shall claim thy heart,
And prize it to its value. Smile, Amelia;
Chalons, that mov'd thy praise, deserves thy pity.
Chalons has ev'ry worth should charm a woman;
A mind exalted, like a fancied god!
Judge it, by what thou'st heard of his dead father.
Example never reach'd it—It has fir'd
My blood to sense of transport!—Give him then
Your wonder and your love.

Amelia.
He has my wonder! has my heart's applause;
But, for its tenderness, 'tis scarce my own!

Valdore.
Peace, Amelia,
Lest thou shou'dst lead me to believe—But—no—
Aumele had ne'er the power to wound thy honour;
I cannot then suspect thy heart admits him.
Is that a man to move a lady's wish?
Light rival of her sexes emptiest arts,
The toilet and the ball-room are his fields—
Thence rise his trophies—There expands his fame.

Amelia.
Yet, once, you thought him worthiest of my love.

Valdore.
How careful shou'd men be to weigh resolves!
Push thought to consequence, and take in fear!
Else comes reproach, let loose—for ever ours.
I charge you, on my blessing, shun Aumele;
And view Chalons as one that claims your love.

Enter Le Fer.
Le Fer.
La Foy, my lord, attends.

[Exit.
Valdore.
Amelia—you may now
Retire, to suit your wish to my command;
Or bear the weight of a wrong'd father's curse,
And live a stranger to me.

Amelia.
Oh! sir!—Oh! father!

[Kneeling.
Valdore.
Away—I will not hear thee!—Go—Obey!

[Exit Amelia, weeping.
Enter La Foy.
Valdore.
I wish'd to see you, sir, for your own sake;
'Twas to lend counsel to your iron rashness:
Love of your bravery forc'd me to esteem you.
Haste, and submit yourself to warm Aumele.
Weigh your too bold contempt of a court's power,
And deprecate its vengeance.

La Foy.
When I do—
May my tongue rot.—My lord, you know not me.
Submit, and crave forgiveness of a brute!
What tho' his wealth were equal to a monarch's?
Nay, tho' himself a monarch (as his pride
Out-monarch's his crown'd master's) let me die
The death his baseness merits, ere once stoop
To think commission'd brutes are less than monsters.
Does he not use his power to crush the needy?
Oppress the soldier, scholar, all desert?
Nay, wrong'd he not the marshal!—Nature form'd
This loath'd, wry mouth of law, to scare mankind,
By scorn of ugly vice, to love of virtue!
How savagely the brute blasphemer spoke
Of the dead general!—Ask him forgiveness!
First let me perish law-struck—A judge!—A dog!
How he insulted o'er the brave man's memory!
Perdition seize him for't!—I weep to think on't!

Valdore.
I was to blame
To yield my place too blindly—But, perhaps,
'Tis practicable to retrieve that error.—
Sir, give not way to passion.

La Foy.
I weep not when I fight—But, pardon me,
I melt because too weak to check oppression.
Whene'er I think of the vile injuries,
The bold black injuries done my worthy master,
I cou'd devour him piece-meal.

Valdore.
Pray be temperate—
I but advise your frenzy—not constrain:
Opinion is as free as air—and they
Who err in power, are least exempt from censure.

Enter Le Fer.
Le Fer.
The creditors attend with count Chalons.

Valdore.
Pay those hard men their claims—Wait the count in.
Please you, La Foy, to witness their receipts,
And take their full releases—What but now
I said, meant nothing—'Twas this call
Detain'd you for their coming—What you'll see
Will more explain my purpose.

La Foy.
What I hear alarms my love and wonder.

Le Fer.
This way, sir.

[Exit Le Fer and La Foy.
Enter Chalons, wiping his eyes and melancholy.
Valdore meets him.
Valdore.
Brave sir, you are most welcome.—Fye! be hush'd,
You have out wept a woman!—Noble Chalons!
No man that lives but has a father lost,
Or once must lose a father.

Chalons.
Sir, 'tis true.—
I never thought my father was immortal;
But as I pass'd your hall, his reverend picture
Smil'd on my startled eye, and forc'd some tears.

Valdore.
My lord—I lov'd your father—and wou'd wish
One favour from his son.

Chalons.
Of me—a favour!
What has he left to grant, who wants his liberty?

Valdore.
The liberty you think you want, is yours.
The rich man that beholds the brave in chains,
And pants not for his freedom, is a slave.
Jewels or gold, whate'er your wants require,
Take all that I possess, and end restraint.
You look amazement.

Chalons.
Nay, I am amaz'd!
You cannot mock distress—Natures, like yours,
Call feign'd compassion insult. But your virtue
Shall wonder, in its turn—for I'll not tax
Your bounty for myself—But beg release
(In my forgotten stead) of poor La Foy.

Enter La Foy.
Valdore.
See what a power the prayers of good men hold!
I give him to your friendship—and to his
I join your own due freedom—Live and love.
Your father's debts discharg'd, his name shines free.

La Foy.
'Tis an astonishing, yet sacred truth!
I come from witnessing the generous deed—
See here, your own discharge.

Chalons.
Honour'd Valdore!— [Pauses.]
But words wou'd wrong my meaning.
Dumb be my tongue, while blushes only speak—
All language is too light, for deeds like these!

Valdore.
Wou'd you requite 'em, count?

La Foy.
Command his life—
And, if one serves not; throw in mine, my lord.

[Chalons stands struck with silent attention.
Valdore.
I have an only child, her mother's likeness,
Care of my life, and comfort of my years!
I stand so near the brink of time's dark stream,
That soon in course I must drop in, and die:
Fain wou'd I first provide a guard more strong
For my Amelia's youth, than age like mine.
Her birth perhaps less splendid, match'd with yours,
Yet worthy noblest notice. Take her, then,
And with her all my fortune—Call her wife.
Thank me, by loving her; 'tis all the gratitude
My hopes, from brave Chalons, can bear to claim.

Chalons.
Oh! what delightful payments you exact,
When you thus plunge me deeper far in debt!
Now, not my life's last toils can ever pay you.
She were, without a dower, a prince's prize;
How greatly then too rich, too dear, for me!

Valdore.
Is it resolv'd then?

Chalons.
Sir—I have lov'd her long—
Despairing (lost in fortune's clouds) to gain her.
Her beauty is the boast of Burgundy;
Her father is Valdore!—There honour strikes
Perfection's proudest point—and joy stands dumb.
Heav'n grant her generous will but pleas'd as mine,
And ere the sun yet sets—his day's a year.

Valdore.
Enough, I answer for her willing duty.
She wants no sense of that—and knows your worth.
This day shall smile on my compleated wish.

Chalons.
'Tis more than love's stretch'd arrogance of hope
Durst promise my desires. Oh, sir! I groan
Beneath such added weight of benefit!
You, Curtius like, have cast into the gulph
Of our sunk Burgundy's ungrateful shame,
Your fame and fortune, to redeem her name.

Valdore.
Fortune's an empty well—and hoards but air,
'Till use lends weight to wealth—and taste to care:
Then shine the rich man's joys—when shar'd they flow;
He that wou'd well possess, must wide bestow.

[Exeunt omnes.