 | The Perfidious Brother |  |
ACT III.
Enter Roderick following Selinda.Rod.
I bless the Chance, that once again permits me
In private here to tell you of my Pains:
How long, relentless Fair One, must I live,
And languish in Suspence? Will you for ever
Uphoard the Mem'ry of one rash Attempt,
To which resistless Charms inflam'd my Love,
And still disdain me for the venial Crime?
Sel.
Ha! Venial?—Dar'st thou palliate Guilt so grossly?
But wherefore do I question what thou dar'st?
To come upon me basely, by Surprize,
To watch me out, unguarded, and alone,
And then endeavour with unmanly Force
To violate my Virtue; Was this Venial?
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Be sure, if thus thou tempt'st the righteous Pow'rs,
Tho' Mercy long with-hold the Hand of Wrath,
A certain Vengeance will o'rtake thy Crimes.
Rod.
Thus when I mention Love and urge my Passion,
With Woman's Wiles you still divert the Theme;
Why am I brav'd? Or do you think to fright me,
As Nurses do their Children, with a Tale
Of Goblins, and Illusions of the Brain?
Forget these little Arts, and be thy self,
A Woman born for Love, and sprightly Pleasure:
By Heav'n, you're wond'rous fair!
Sel.
The more my Beauty,
The weaker is your Claim, the less your Merit.
Rod.
Why, were your Charms greater than Cleopatra's,
I've bid a noble Price to make them mine;
Consenting to forego my glorious Freedom,
Become a Slave, and drag the Marriage Chain.
Sel.
I wonder not that Libertines, like thee,
Should dread Restraint from Vice, and term it Bondage:
Thou count'st it Freedom, uncontroul'd to range,
Chase wild Desires, and riot on Enjoyment;
Pursuits which Virtue scorns, as mean and servile.
She calls it Liberty to vanquish Passion,
Draw back the wandring Soul from wanton Pleasure,
And fix her in the Paths of Truth and Honour.
Rod.
No more of this;—But crown me with your Love,
And, being happy, I'll forget I'm bound:
Nay, do not frown, unless you would destroy,
Unless your angry Eyes can dart Destruction;
But rather chear me with one gladd'ning Smile,
Whilst I, with trembling Joy, approach your Beauties;
Breath on that lovely Hand my faithful Vows;
And, with a Kiss, seal me for ever yours.
Sel.
Stand off! Away! I cannot brook thy fondness;
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And my chill Blood runs back, as thou approachest.
Rod.
Take heed, disdainful Maid.—
Sel.
No, since you urge me,
My swelling Bosom shall unload its freight;
I hold Thee as a Thing made up for Mischief,
A Mass of Ills, and uninform'd by Honour:
Incapable of Good; Flatt'ring, and Base;
Whose grov'ling Soul can fawn and still pursue,
Tho', with repeated Scorn, each Day I meet Thee;
Tho', I profess, I hate Thee; dread thy Nuptials;
And would in Death avoid thy loath'd Embrace.
Rod.
Then I return your Hate with treble Malice,
Since you disdain my Love: But know, Proud Maid,
Spite of this Insolence, this boasted Hatred,
And, tho' I scorn Thee more than once I lov'd,
Thy Father's Approbation seals Thee mine,
And, in that Claim secure, I will possess Thee:
Wed thee in Tears, and triumph in thy Grief;
Then clasp Thee in these Arms, with Wanton Pride,
Taste all thy Sweets with full Delight, whilst Thou,
Drooping and faint with Unavailing Struggles,
Shalt labour to repel thy pow'rful Lover:
Then if perchance, in Bitterness of Anguish,
Aversion makes Thee howl, by Heav'n, 'twill please me.
Sel.
Be hush'd my Heart, and stifle all thy Rage:—
I smile at those vain Threats, and scorn thy Malice;
Tho' Nature claims Obedience at my Hands,
And I must bow Me to a Parent's Will,
Yet when I plead, and shall report Thee to Him,
I know he will relent, regard my Tears,
And never force Me to a Monster's Bed.
Ex. Selin.
Rod.
Why, go thy ways, Imperious, haughty Scorner!
I'll make Thee mine, be it but in thy Right
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And laugh at Fortune, and my cheated Brother.
But soft, Gonsalvo's here; my Tool for Mischief!
My Instrument to propagate Destruction!
Enter Gonsalvo.
Gons.
Rod'rick, where are the Hopes with which you flush'd Me?
Quickly, disclose the Way I may possess Her;
For, ev'ry Moment of my Life, Desire
Grows stronger, and I burn with Expectation.
Rod.
Be patient, Sir, and wait the promis'd Hour;
Check for a while the fierceness of your Passion,
You may securely hope you shall Enjoy her.
Gons.
Flatter me not, nor sooth this doating Breast,
Unless thy Hopes are most securely grounded.
But say, what Progress ha'st thou made to serve Me?
Rod.
Already have I fir'd Sebastian's Breast
With Rage, and sown the Seeds of rank Suspition:
Drawn such a Curtain o'er his Consort's Honour,
That tho' She shone fair as a Cherub late,
Dark and diminish'd now, She seems to him
(Whose Eyes are dimm'd with Jealousie, and Fears;)
Spotted as Infamy, and black as Hell.
Gons.
But how does this avail, or help my Cause?
Rod.
My Lord, if I mistake not, much 'twill help Us.
For should she let him know that we've been tamp'ring,
He'll judge it to be Art, and practis'd Falshood:
Suspect a Story forg'd to varnish Guilt,
And shut the Ear of Credit on her Babblings.
Then breeding Jarrs betwixt 'em cools her Love
To him, perhaps, and kindles up Distaste;
Then, in the Heat of Rage and Accusation,
Humour the Bent of her tempestuous Soul;
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Gons.
Ha! by my Soul, 'tis probably contriv'd;
And I have Hopes Fortune will crown the Project.
O Rod'rick, let me clasp Thee for thy Love;
My Life, and Happiness are owing to Thee.
Rod.
May I complain, my Lord, that whilst I thus
Pursue the Means to make my Uncle happy,
Rod'rick is most Unfortunate?—Selinda,
Deaf to your Orders, and my ardent Vows,
Scornful, unkind, and obstinately Cruel,
Rejects my Love.—
Gons.
She dares not disobey Me:
By her dead Mother's Soul, I swear, she dares not.
'Tis fixt as Fate, Selinda shall be thine:
The glowing Morn shall give Her to thy Arms.
Go, seek Sebastian out, pursue thy Wiles;
And rouze the sleeping Scorpions in his Bosom.
I'll to my Daughter, reinforce my Orders,
And soon prepare Her to approve my Choice.
Rod.
By such a Grant you bind Me yours for ever.
Exeunt severally.
SCENE changes to an Inward Apartment.
Sebastian discover'd sitting at a Table.
Seb.
I cannot find a Phrase t'upbraid her with;
But I more shame to write her horrid Guilt,
Than She to practise it: Perfidious Woman!
Thy Treach'ry and Dishonour wound my Soul.
The glorious Sun, who travels o'er the Globe,
Sees not a Wretch, in all his gawdy Round,
So Curst as I:—Why was I made this Thing,
To be the Mark of Scorn, the common Subject
Of ev'ry drunken Slave's reproachful Mirth?
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And I shall then be happy:—O Luciana!—
Enter Luciana.
Luc.
Why am I summon'd in such mournful Accents?
Why that contracted Brow, that Voice of Sorrow?
Wildness of Grief sits on your alter'd Visage;
You are not well, my Lord: Ha! turn away!
Am I not worth a Look? Am I detested?
O let me know the Cause of all this Strangeness,
This sudden Damp, this Mystery of Sadness.
Seb.
Oh!—
Luc.
Wherefore heaves your Bosom with that Sigh,
As it would burst, and Life were on the Wing?
Explain this hidden Weight of Tyrant Woe,
And let me share the Torment of your Soul.
Seb.
Stand off;—be gone;—and leave me to my Sorrows.
Luc.
Amazement! O Sebastian, whence this Usage,
This stern Behaviour to your loving Wife?
What have I done, thus to be banish'd from you?
Seb.
Ha! would'st thou shuffle, and evade thy Crime
With pleaded Ignorance, pernicious Traytress?
Thou most disloyal Wretch! Damn'd, damn'd Dissembler!
But I forget my self:—Thou wert my Wife.—
Luc.
And am I not so still, cruel Sebastian,
Your faithful, loving Wife?—
Seb.
Insist not on it;
I've Reasons why I would not think thou wert so.
I did not wed Thee, say?
Luc.
What means my Lord?
Too well you know, you did.
Seb.
Then would I had not!
Luc.
Would I had dy'd, e'er I had heard you say so!
I can remember when you've blest the Time;
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Heav'n meant you Blessings when it gave you Me.
Have you forgot?—
Seb.
Curst be the Day that join'd us!
And doubly Curst the Hour, when first I view'd
Those Charms which drew Me to thy hated Bed.
Let it be torn from the Records of Time,
Or stand distinguish'd out by future Horrors;
A Period, for all Practices of Hell
To be concerted, or accomplish'd in!
Luc.
Unkind Sebastian! Oh, it is too much.
(She swoons.)
Seb.
She seems to faint, the trifling Hypocrite!
Shallow Dissimulation! 'Tis a Trick
Learnt by the Faithless Sex to practise on us:
Come, come, you cannot thus impose on Me:
Ha! could she counterfeit that Death-like Paleness?
Guilt and Conviction must have wrought upon her:
Drops of cold Sweat stand on her dewy Forehead.
These must be Signs of agonizing Nature;
Oppression has lock'd up the Vital Pow'rs,
And Life appears but in convulsive Struggles.
Spite of my self, my Wrongs, and all her Baseness,
To see her thus my Tenderness returns.
I'll bow her forwards—Oh for some Assistance
To bring her back, but to repent her Falshood!
But see, she stirs;—
Luc.
Why do you hold me thus?
Why labour to bring back my fleeting Soul?
For Pity, let me shrink into the Cold,
But friendly Arms of Death, and sleep for ever;
Nor force me to reanimate this Clay
With Sense of Pain, and Smart of sharpest Woe.
Seb.
Who would not think she had a real Sorrow,
To see her thus affected?—But, we know,
That artful Women, absolute in Wiles,
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And coin their Faces to each new Occasion.
Luc.
My Lord, if such I may presume to call You,
I throw Me at your Feet, and do conjure You,
As you hope Pardon at that dreadful Day
When all your Deeds shall come to strictest Audit,
To tell me what has rais'd your Wrath against me,
That thus you spurn, and shake me from your Soul
As a detested Creature:—
Seb.
Are you determin'd
Still to maintain this Shew of Ignorance,
When you're too Conscious of the cursed Cause?
Luc.
By all the Love I bear you then, I am not.
Seb.
The Love thou bear'st me!—Sly, pernicious Strumpet!
Luc.
How!—
Seb.
Strumpet,—if thou lik'st the Repetition.
Hast thou not sold thy Honour, branded Me
With Shame, and rob'd me of my Peace for ever?
Giv'n up thy Loyalty, and broke fair Truth,
And plighted Vows, for the short fulsom Joy
Of an adult'rous Moment?
Luc.
O my Rage!
The swelling Spleen contends to choak my Utt'rance:
For Modesty, if not for Love, my Lord,
Make foul Suspicion speak a gentler Language,
To One, who dares the World to brand her Fame,
Or tax her with a Breach of Duty to you.
I can bear much, Sebastian, much from You,
But you provoke me in so high a Nature,
I shall not soon forgive the heinous Charge,
Tho' on your Knees perhaps you may request it.
Seb.
Most glorious Insolence! Confusion—what,
Guilty and threaten! brave me to my Face!
Know, false One, yet my Vengeance is not ripe;
Else I would mangle that offending Form,
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And lay Adult'ry open to the World.
But think not my Resentment, tho' differ'd,
Shall slacken by Delay: If thou would'st live,
Repent, confess thy Crime, and merit Mercy.
[Exit Sebastian.
Luc.
Repent, confess my Crime, if I would live!
No, Life's a Burthen now Sebastian's cruel.
He nam'd Adult'ry too, and foul Dishonour,
Tax'd me with broken Vows, and call'd me Strumpet!
What can this mean? Unriddle it, ye Pow'rs,
For I'm bewilder'd in a Maze of Error:
Well; let him rip this faithful Bosom up;
Could he look inwards, and read o'er my Thoughts,
He would not meet with One to witness for him,
Or plead in Favour of this barb'rous Usage.
What if the envious Rod'rick has done this?
Has prepossess'd him with some hellish Tale,
And wrought this Mischief? But it matters not,
How, or by whom, my Virtue is traduc'd,
For since He thinks me False, I must be Wretched.—
Enter Selinda.
Sel.
O my Luciana, pity thy lost Friend;
The haughty Rod'rick does insult my Weakness,
And boasts h'as wrought my Father to his Will.
But wherefore those swoln Eyes, this streaming Sorrow?
Sure Grief is grown contagious, spreads around,
And stalks in Triumph o'er this wretched House.
I met Sebastian too, with folded Arms,
Striding with hasty Steps, and in his Eyes
I read the Marks of Rage and high Displeasure.
Whence all this Discontent?
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O my Selinda,
Think not these Tears flow on a trivial Cause:
My Husband, Oh! my Husband—
Sel.
What of him?
Have you a Grief you dare not trust Me with,
Or have I lost the Priviledge of Friendship?
If still I'm worthy to partake your Love,
Disclose your Sorrow.
Luc.
Shame, and Rage prevent Me:—
Sel.
'Twill ease your lab'ring Soul, and lighten Anguish.
Luc.
O never, never:—Could'st thou think it?
Sel.
What?
Luc.
That he should use me like a Common Wretch!—
Sel.
What did he do?
Luc.
In bitt'rest Terms revil'd Me;
Swore I had injur'd Him, and call'd me Strumpet.
Sel.
Sure you mistook; he did not, could not say it.
Luc.
Indeed he did; in Anger call'd me Strumpet;
And curst the fatal Hour, in which he first
Beheld this hated Face.
Sel.
Forbear;—my Father—
Enter Gonsalvo.
Gons.
Daughter, prepare you to be Rod'rick's Bride;
To Morrow I've decreed to make you His:
For now Sebastian's here to grace your Nuptials,
We'll not protract the purpos'd Ceremony.
Sel.
Sir, on my Knees, I beg, you will not force me
To wed the only Man on Earth I hate.
Rather bestow me on some lowly Peasant,
With Joy I'll yield my Hand, and meet your Pleasure:
Are you grown weary of your wretched Daughter,
That thus you throw me off to certain Woe,
To be the Slave of an insulting Tyrant?
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Be dumb, thou obstinate, disputing Fool!
Learn to be wiser; nor refuse a Man
Whose Love deserves more generous Returns.
Sel.
His Love!—Indeed, my Lord, he does not love;
Ev'n to my Face has he avow'd his Hate:
And says, he'll wed me to revenge my Scorn,
And gain the Pow'r to use me at his Will.
O Sir, by all you ever yet held dear,
Let me conjure You, spare your trembling Child,
Save me from Ruin, Misery, and Madness,
And for a while suspend this Doom of Horror.—
Gons.
Still bent on Stubbornness and Disobedience!
Hear me, rash Girl; submit thee to my Will;
Or, by the holy Saints, I'll turn Thee out
From all Paternal Care, a common Vagrant;
And Shame and Beggary shall be thy Portion.
No more Replies;—My Resolution stands,
And on thy Choice depends thy After-Fate.
Exit Gonsalvo.
Sel.
He's gone:—Inhumane Father!—O Luciana,
Now can I match my Griefs with any Wretch,
Whom Fortune has made sick of anxious Life;
For Death had been more welcome than this Sentence.
Fain wou'd I die, to rest from painful Thought,
And disappoint my Fears.
Luc.
Trust me, Selinda,
Tho' harrass'd and o'ercome with private Woe,
Thy Sorrows share my Breast, and double Anguish.
Would I could give Thee Hopes;—
Sel.
It cannot be;
The stern Gonsalvo, resolute, and cruel,
Will give me up a Victim to Despair,
To Rod'rick's hated Arms:—Oh dreaded Union!
Luc.
'Tis hard; but barb'rous Man will be obey'd:
O let us leave, my Friend, the Lordly Tyrants.
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Where Fathers, or where Husbands are unheard of:
And shunning them, prevent our future Woe.
If we survey the Order of Creation,
Form'd last, we were the noblest Work of Heav'n;
And so by Nature were design'd for Rule.
But now, with Pow'r usurp'd, Man lords it o'er us;
With artful Wiles they first our Sex betray'd;
Conq'ring, impos'd the Laws themselves they made;
And did, with Force unjust, our rightful Sway invade.
[Exeunt.
The End of the third Act.
| The Perfidious Brother | |