 | The Perfidious Brother |  |
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Enter Sebastian.Seb.
How poor a Gift is Life, when all its Blessings,
A Thousand Ways, are subject to Destruction!
When all our Hopes to purchase Ease are vain,
And we can never bid our Souls take Rest.
When Woe springs out of Woe; and, Hydra-like,
Tho' we should lop the Head of galling Anguish,
From unforeseen Events, from hidden Causes,
Sorrows arise more dreadful than the past.
Tho' Nature grant the Benefit of Health,
Tho' Fortune crown us, and our Houses flourish;
If Treach'ry taint the Partners of our Bosoms,
If our false Wives, sworn to be Chast and Loyal,
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Where shall we find a Balm in Life to heal
That Wound of Contumely, and dire Shame?
O Jealousy! thou worst of Human Plagues!
Why do we harbour such a Fiend within us?
To lash our Hearts with new untir'd Suspicions,
And send out Thought in fresh Pursuit of Woe!
Enter Beaufort.
Beau.
Sebastian! O my Friend! long have I sought Thee,
Impatient to unfold each lab'ring Thought,
Which swells my Breast. O listen to my Fondness,
And let me tell Thee how my Heart adores Her;
How much her Beauties have inflam'd my Soul:
O she is milder than the Queen of Love,
Fair as the Light, and fragrant as the Spring:
Born to inslave, and lead the World in Triumph.
Seb.
'Tis well:—
Beau.
'Tis well!—What, is it only thus,
Thus that thou greet'st the Transports of my Soul?
'Tis not well done, by Heav'n, nor like Sebastian
To answer thus with Coldness and Neglect.
Seb.
What would'st thou more?
Beau.
Why do'st thou use me thus?
Seb.
Because Dissimulation suits me not;
I cannot teach my Tongue the Trick of Falshood:
Nor dint my Cheek into a servile Smile,
To cloak the Rancour of my boiling Heart.
Beau.
I understand you not, your Words are dark,
And intricate as juggling Oracles:
If thou ha'st Ought to say concerns my Knowledge,
Speak plain; and wrap not thus your Phrase in Clouds.
Seb.
Does not thy Soul upbraid thee then?
Beau.
With what?
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With secret Crimes, and breach of sacred Friendship?
Beau.
I never broke the Band; take heed that Thou
Dissolv'st it not with base and poor Suspicions.
Seb.
He that can do an Injury, when tax'd,
Will never scruple to deny the Deed.
Beau.
If these reflected Injuries aim at Me,
Say, who is my Accuser?
Seb.
Beaufort, I am.
Beau.
And what is then my Crime?
Seb.
Death, and Perdition!—
Rage, and Reflection gnaw my Heart in pieces.
Can'st thou presume I will repeat my Shame,
To sooth thy impious Pride, and swell thy Triumphs?
No; since thy Guilt's betray'd, thy Falshood clear,
Nought now remains but to revenge the Wrong;
And with thy Blood to wash the Stain away.
Beau.
This wild, ungrounded Passion speaks like Madness;
Some sudden, strange Abuse has hurt thy Reason:
Wert thou thy Self, I know, thou would'st not act
A Violence like this.
Seb.
Poor, and Insulting!
But do not think to battle't with thy Tongue.
No Rhet'rick can defend thy matchless Guilt:
Then draw thy Sword, and give me Reparation.
[Draws.
Beau.
Away! thou wilt not kill thy faithful Friend?
Call back thy cooler Thoughts, and steady Temper:
Then I will hear Thee.
Seb.
Stay, and do me Justice,
Or, by the Rage which burns within my Breast,
You run upon my Point.
Beau.
Ha! yet be patient;—
Are we not Friends?—But thou art mad, and desp'rate:
I'll shun Thee, as I would a Beast of Prey;
For should I stay, I too may catch the Frenzy.
Seb.
Traytor, beyond this Bound thou can'st not pass:
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Beau.
Why do'st thou urge me thus
To draw down Ruin on Thee?
Seb.
This dull Tameness
Will make me think, 'tis more than Man can do
To stir thy languid Soul up to Resentment.
Beau.
No more of that; thou know'st I am no Coward:
Let me not boast past Actions to upbraid Thee.
But had I been that Thing, thou had'st not liv'd
To breath these Provocations: No; Remember
The Day of Slaughter, when, born down by Numbers,
I rush'd betwixt Thee, and impending Fate,
And sav'd thy Life at Hazard of my own.
Seb.
There's not an abject Hireling of the War,
But, when the sprightly Trumpet's quickning Voice
Has rais'd his grov'ling Soul to Martial Prowess,
Would, if his drudging Com'rade were o'er-pow'r'd,
Rush to his Aid, and work the like Redemption.
The Conflict hand to hand approves our Courage,
And That thou dar'st not try; but, like a Slave,
A fearful Slave, reap'st up this Tale of Rescue,
To blunt the Edge of Wrath, and shun my Vengeance.
Beau.
Such Terms of rude Reproach, ev'n had I wrong'd you,
Would clear th'Account, and set us on a Level:
Friendship, be gone; I shake thee from my Breast:
Vindictive Rage has drawn the Sword of Justice,
And Mildness is no more: Come on;—
Seb.
Have at Thee.
(As they prepare to fight, Enter Luciana, and Selinda, who run betwixt them.)
Luc.
O horror! hold, O hold, most barb'rous Men,
Or thro' this Bosom thrust your murth'ring Swords:
Hew me to Atoms; Death will be much happier,
Than to survive, and see this fatal Discord.
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Away.—
Luc.
O never, never will I loose you
To execute the Work of bloody Rage;
Whilst I have Life, and Strength, I'll bar your Way,
And save you from a Deed will blast your Honour:
Make Valour blush at Friendship's gaping Wounds,
And wither all the Lawrels you have won.
Sel.
Say, Beaufort, let me know what horrid Cause
Has turn'd thy Sword against Sebastian's Breast?
Beau.
He only is to blame, most lovely Maid;
Ask Him, whose Provocations arm'd Resentment;
Infring'd the Rights of Hospitable Love:
And forc'd my Hand to guard against his Frenzy.
Seb.
Ha! dar'st thou talk of Hospitable Love,
Whose Baseness has dishonour'd fair Reception?
Unhand Me:—Let me rush upon the Traytor,
And punish his Ingratitude with Death;
Or, by my Wrath, I'll cut Thee from thy Hold.
Luc.
Do;—thrust thy Sword quite thro' my faithful Heart;
Kill me, if you are bent on Blood and Slaughter:
Kill me for stopping you from horrid Murther:
For whilst I've Breath, I shall persist to hold you,
Arrest your Arm, and hang upon my Ruin.
Seb.
Do'st thou then think to shield him from my Rage?
Traytress, desist; or I will spurn Thee from me.
Luc.
Help! help, Selinda; for I cannot hold him:
O help to save him from his bloody purpose;
Or I shall dye that Moment at thy Feet.
Beau.
Loose him and let him try his boasted Valour;
Tho' I contemn his Rage, I'll scourge the Madman.
Sel.
Beaufort, if, as you late profess'd, you love Me;
And hope your Suit hereafter may be heard,
Obey my Will: This Instant sheath your Sword,
Or never dare to see my Face again.
Beau.
O cruel Charmer! Fatal Conjuration!
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And wound my Honour to confirm my Love?
O think how base would such Submission seem,
How would it sink me down beneath your Favour,
Should I be calm, and not resent his Usage.
Sel.
Can you pretend to love, and yet dispute
My will in one Command, which Virtue seconds.
Away, fond Man, and fly my Sight for ever.
Beau.
It were a Curse too Great to bear, and live;
See, I obey: Love and Selinda conquer.
Sebastian, we may meet at prop'rer Season;
And when you're next dispos'd to say I've wrong'd you,
I have a Sword to justify my Truth.
Sel.
No more:—Your Hand—and lead me from this Place.
Beau.
Tho' my Heart swells, I dare not disobey you.
[Exit Beaufort, leading her.
Seb.
By Heav'n! 'tis all confederated Cunning:
She has contriv'd t'excuse her Female Friend
By this concerted Shew of Beaufort's Courtship.
Luc.
O my lov'd Lord, for still you are Sebastian,
Be calm, and hear your wrong'd Luciana plead:
Tho' you can cast me from you, scorn, and loath me,
Still you're my Husband, Lord of all my Wishes,
And Sov'reign of my Heart. O hear me then,
Let me not fall beneath a base Suspicion;
Let me be clear'd, tho' after you forsake me.
Then smooth that aweful Brow, forego your Wrath,
Or you will break a Heart, that doats upon you.
Seb.
Think not to sooth me with that Syren's Softness;
The Musick of thy Voice, which us'd to charm me,
And lull my Passions, now has lost its Sweetness:
'Tis now grown harsh, harsh as the Raven's Note,
And ev'ry Accent grates my Ear like Discord.
These Eyes which us'd to gaze for ever on Thee,
To view thy Beauties with incessant Longings,
Now shun thee, as thou wert a Basilisk,
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Luc.
O! I am miserable:—
Seb.
Yes, Luciana,
Thou art indeed a Wretch, and doom'd to Sorrows;
If that thy guilty Bosom be not steel'd
Against the Whips of an upbraiding Conscience.
For I am not the Fool thou tak'st me for:
Bow'd to Disgrace, or pliant to thy Purpose.
But I'm a Man full of resenting Fury;
My Soul's alarm'd, and startles at Injustice;
And none, who do me Wrong, shall scape my Vengeance.
Luc.
Were All who did you Wrong to meet their Dooms,
I should remain in Innocence secure,
Beyond the Reach of your vindictive Fury.
Seb.
Swear thou art Innocent;—I charge thee, swear it,
To swell thy Crimes, and add to sure Damnation.
Luc.
Then by the gracious Pow'rs of Heaven I swear,
I'm innocent and chast, as purest Vestals;
And if in Act, or Thought, I've ever wrong'd you,
Swift Lightnings dart on this devoted Head,
And blast Me, where I stand, if I am perjur'd.
Seb.
Hear this, ye Pow'rs, and let your Thunders roar,
Send forth your flaming Ministers of Wrath;
And in a Tempest snatch her from my Sight:
But yet the Bolts of Vengeance are not ready,
There is an Universal Calm in Nature:
The righteous Goddess stands aghast, and mute,
To hear the Guilt of this protesting False One.
Luc.
I see that you are bent upon my Ruine;
That neither Tears, nor Oaths can win your Faith,
To think me Loyal, and a Virtuous Wife.
But when I'm dead, as sure I shall be quickly,
Kill'd by the Rigour of your strange Unkindness,
When my cold Corse lies in the Silent Grave,
Then, if too late my Innocence is known,
(Tho' now 'tis clouded o'er with base Detraction;)
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That fond Credulity, if e're you lov'd me,
Which rob'd you of your faithful, wrong'd Luciana.
Seb.
How Eloquent, and Strong is Female Sorrow!
Perswasion sits upon her melting Tongue,
And Pity flows from ev'ry Word she utters.
Rage settles down, whilst on her Face appears
A specious Form of Innocence and Virtue.
She may be true, and I, perhaps, have wrong'd her;
I will indulge that Thought to sooth my Pains;
For, oh! I've lov'd, lov'd her to such a Height,
'Tis worse than Hell to think she is Disloyal.
Could I presume that thou wert Just, and Spotless,
Thus would I steal into thy lov'd Embrace;
Hush'd in thy Arms, laugh at the babbling World,
And lull to Rest my Tempest-beaten Soul.
But, ha!—What am I doing? Death and Tortures!
Honour, Revenge, and Indignation aid me!
I'll tear this Treach'rous Heart from out my Breast,
E'er it shall sooth me more to clasp Pollution.
Nay, do not kneel, and weep; for rig'rous Virtue
Resumes its Pow'r, and thus divides me from thee;
[Sebastian breaks from her, and Exit.
Luc.
Too well, Thou unrelenting, Cruel Father,
Too well thy potent Curses take Effect!
They hunt me down, down to the Verge of Life;
Can they pursue me further than the Grave?
Would I were there at Rest: For Life's a Torture.
Enter Roderick.
Rod.
My Sister, and in Tears! What cruel Cause
Has giv'n this Storm of Grief, this melting Sorrow?
Teach me the Source of this thy silent Woe,
That I may share thy Pains, or bring Thee Comfort.
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If thou can'st pity one that is a Wretch,
Born down with sharp Affliction's heavy Hand;
Avoid my Sight, and leave me to my Sorrows.
Rod.
No; let me stay to search thy wounded Soul:
To be the kind Physitian of Distress,
And with an Artist's Hand relieve thy Anguish.
Luc.
Relief, and Charity are thrown away:
Should'st thou attempt to aid, 'twould double Woe;
For Solitude is all the Cure I covet.
Rod.
'Tis most unkind thus to despise my Service,
And harbour such a Prejudice against me;
I came to change the Scene of black Despair,
And call Thee back to thoughts of Ease and Comfort.
Luc.
O never must I taste of Comfort more!
Rod.
Think better of your Fate: I guess the Cause
Of these o'erflowing Eyes, that heaving Bosom:
Say, has not your Sebastian been unkind?
This rugged Trade of War has made him Savage;
Stern, and unapt for Love, and soft Enjoyment.
That Gush of Tears confirms my Judgment right,
And says he is to blame.
Luc.
Rod'rick, I fear,
For all this Shew of smooth dissembled Kindness,
You are the Spring and Source of all my Sorrow.
Rod.
Heav'n witness for my Truth, how much you wrong me!
Luc.
How could'st thou know the Cause that makes me weep,
Unless thy self contriv'd the Hellish Mischief?
Rod.
Think not so harshly of my honest Love;
But since, you own, I've guess'd the real Cause,
Take a Friend's Counsel to redress your Suff'rings.
Return with Scorn his rude unmanner'd Usage;
Why should you doat on One who treats you ill,
Yet slight the Man, who lives upon your Smiles?
Be wise, and make a Friend of good Gonsalvo.
Luc.
Rod'rick, no more; upon thy Life, no more!
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This new Attempt to win Me to Dishonour,
Confirms me in the Truth of my Suspicions:
I see thy Treach'ry plain; 'tis Thou alone
Ha'st wrought my Woe; but tell me, what has urg'd Thee
To ruin Her who never did Thee Wrong?
But do not think, that I shall tamely bear it,
Fly to my Lord, and clear my injur'd Name;
Declare thy Villanies, and canker'd Malice;
Set all thy dark Infernal Plots to View,
That he may know thy Falshood, and my Virtue;
Or, by the Injuries that swell my Bosom,
The Moment that I meet Thee next, thou dy'st.
[Exit Luciana.
Rod.
So bold, my Heroine! Then I must be quick;
For tho' I do not dread her feeble Rage,
Yet, should she venture to impeach us to him,
His fiery Soul, ungrounded in Suspicion,
May take Alarm at the new Tale of Mischief,
And frustrate the Success of all my Toil.
It is a Fear must drive my working Thoughts
On countermining with some swift Prevention.
Enter Gonsalvo.
Gons.
How, Rod'rick, Pensive, and with Arms across!
What means this Mood of thoughtful Melancholy,
When ev'ry thing combines to make Thee happy?
Selinda has receiv'd my strict Commands,
And knows she must be thine, or be a Beggar.
Rod.
And how, my Lord, did she receive the News?
I fear, not well: For tho' with low Submissions
I've often urg'd the Merit of my Love,
Wept at her Feet, and woo'd in tend'rest Phrase,
Yet all that she would yield me in Return,
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Gons.
Grieve not at that: Is not my Word thy Warrant?
I tell thee She is thine: Therefore no more,
But say, how stands my Int'rest in Luciana,
What have you yet atchiev'd to aid my Passion?
Rod.
I've watch'd their Meetings with assiduous Steps,
And find that my Designs have ta'en Effect:
Lean Jealousy with haggard Eyes pursues 'em,
And Feuds and raging Discord stalk behind her.
This is the time t'attack her wav'ring Virtue,
Now it is weakned with Revenge and Wrongs;
Promise whate'er her Woman's Heart is fond of,
Urge what a Wretch her Peevishness will make her:
And what Advantage waits on her Compliance:
Tempt her with Grandeur, and the gawdy Baits
The giddy Sex prefers to Fame and Honour.
Gons.
Think'st thou I may succeed?
Rod.
Distrust it not:
But instantly away to her Apartment.
Employ your strongest Rhet'rick; try Her home,
Now in the very Ferment of her Soul;
And Pride and her Resentments may befriend you.
Ambition too will work, and lov'd Revenge,
And they are Motives carry all before 'em.
The blushing Virgin and reluctant Dame,
Whilst calm, with Ease resist the Lover's Flame;
But when Ambition, or Revenge inspire,
Submissive Virtue yields to warm Desire.
[Exeunt.
End of the Fourth Act.
| The Perfidious Brother | |