University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE, the Prospect of a Village.
Enter Fabian and Lopez; Henriquez on the Opposite Side.
Lop.

Soft, soft you, Neighbour; who comes
here? Pray you, slink aside.

Henr.

Ha! Is it come to this? Oh the Devil, the
Devil, the Devil!

Fab.

Lo you now! for Want of the discreet Ladle
of a cool Understanding, will this Fellow's Brains
boil over.

Henr.
To have enjoy'd her, I would have given—What
All that at present I could boast my own,
And the Reversion of the World to boot,
Had the Inheritance been mine:—And now,
(Just Doom of guilty Joys!) I grieve as much
That I have rifled all the Stores of Beauty,
Those Charms of Innocence and artless Love,
As just before I was devour'd with Sorrow,
That she refus'd my Vows, and shut the Door
Upon my ardent Longings.

Lop.

Love! Love!—Downright Love! I see by
the Foolishness of it.

Henr.

Now then to Recollection—Was't not so?
A Promise first of Marriage—Not a Promise only,
for 'twas bound with Surety of a thousand Oaths;—
and those not light ones neither.—Yet I remember
too, those Oaths could not prevail; th'unpractis'd
Maid trembled to meet my Love: By Force alone I

snatch'd th'imperfect Joy, which now torments my
Memory. Not Love, but brutal Violence prevail'd;
to which the Time, and Place, and Opportunity,
were Accessaries most dishonourable. Shame, Shame
upon it!

Fab.

What a Heap of Stuff's this—I fancy, this
Fellow's Head would make a good Pedlar's Pack, Neighbour.

Henr.

Hold, let me be severe to my Self, but not
unjust.—Was it a Rape then? No. Her Shrieks,
her Exclamations then had drove me from her. True,
she did not consent; as true, she did resist; but still
in Silence all.—'Twas but the Coyness of a modest
Bride, not the Resentment of a ravisht Maid.
And is the Man yet born, who would not risque the
Guilt, to meet the Joy?—The Guilt! that's true—but
then the Danger; the Tears, the Clamours of
the ruin'd Maid, pursuing me to Court. That, that,
I fear will (as it already does my Conscience) something
shatter my Honour. What's to be done? But
now I have no Choice. Fair Leonora reigns confest the
Tyrant Queen of my revolted Heart, and Violante
seems a short Usurper there.—Julio's already by my
Arts remov'd.—O Friendship, how wilt thou answer
That? Oh, that a Man could reason down this
Feaver of the Blood, or sooth with Words the Tumult
in his Heart! Then, Julio, I might be, indeed,
thy Friend. They, they only should condemn me, who
born devoid of Passion ne'er have prov'd the fierce
Disputes 'twixt Virtue and Desire. While they, who
have, like me,

The loose Escapes of youthful Nature known.
Must wink at mine, indulgent to their own.
[Exit Henriquez.

Lop.

This Man is certainly mad, and may be mischievous.
Pr'ythee, Neighbour, let's follow him;
but at some Distance, for fear of the worst.

[Exeunt, after Henr.

SCENE II.

An Apartment.
Enters Violante alone.
Viol.
Whom shall I look upon without a Blush?
There's not a Maid, whose Eye with Virgin Gaze
Pierces not to my Guilt. What will't avail me,
To say I was not willing;
Nothing; but that I publish my Dishonour,
And wound my Fame anew.—O Misery,
To seem to all one's Neighbours rich, yet know
One's Self necessitous and wretched.

Enter Maid, and afterwards Gerald with a Letter.
Maid.
Madam, here's Gerald, Lord Henriquez' Servant;
He brings a Letter to you.

Viol.
A Letter to me! How I tremble now!
Your Lord's for Court, good Gerald, is he not?

Ger.
Not so, Lady.

Viol.
O my presaging Heart! When goes he then?

Ger.
His Business now steers him some other Course.

Viol.
Whither, I pray you?—How my Fears torment me!

Ger.
Some two Months Progress.

Viol.
—Whither, whither, Sir,
I do beseech you? Good Heav'ns, I lose all Patience.
Did he deliberate this? or was the Business
But then conceiv'd, when it was born?

Ger.

Lady, I know not That; nor is it in the Command
I have to wait your Answer. For the perusing
the Letter I commend you to your Leisure.

[Exit Gerald.

Viol.
To Hearts like mine Suspence is Misery.
Wax, render up thy Trust: Be the Contents
Prosp'rous, or fatal, they are all my Due.
Reads.]

Our Prudence should now teach us to forget,
what our Indiscretion has committed. I
have already made one Step towards this
Wisdom, by prevailing on Myself to bid you
Farewell.

O, Wretched and betray'd! Lost Violante!
Heart-wounded with a thousand perjur'd Vows,
Poison'd with studied Language, and bequeath'd
To Desperation. I am now become
The Tomb of my own Honour: a dark Mansion,
For Death alone to dwell in. I invite thee,
Consuming Desolation, to this Temple,
Now fit to be thy Spoil: the ruin'd Fabrick,
Which cannot be repair'd, at once o'er-throw.
What must I do?—But That's not worth my Thought:
I will commend to Hazard all the Time
That I shall spend hereafter: Farewel, my Father,
Whom I'll no more offend: and Men, adieu,
Whom I'll no more believe: and Maids, adieu,
Whom I'll no longer shame. The Way I go,
As yet I know not.—Sorrow be my Guide.
[Exit Violante.

SCENE III.

Prospect of a Village, before Don Bernard's House.
Enters Henriquez.
Henr.
Where were the Eyes, the Voice, the various Charms,
Each beauteous Particle, each nameless Grace,
Parents of glowing Love? All These in Her,
It seems, were not: but a Disease in Me,
That fancied Graces in her.—Who ne'er beheld
More than a Hawthorne, shall have Cause to say
The Cedar's a tall Tree; and scorn the Shade,
The lov'd Bush once had lent him. Soft! mine Honour
Begins to sicken in this black Reflection.
How can it be, that with my Honour safe
I should pursue Leonora for my Wife?
That were accumulating Injuries,
To Violante first, and now to Julio;
To her a perjur'd Wretch, to him perfidious;
And to myself in strongest Terms accus'd
Of murth'ring Honour wilfully, without which
My Dog's the Creature of the nobler Kind.—
But Pleasure is too strong for Reason's Curb;
And Conscience sinks o'er-power'd with Beauty's Sweets.
Come, Leonora, Authress of my Crime,
Appear, and vindicate thy Empire here;
Aid me to drive this ling'ring Honour hence,
And I am wholly thine.

Enter to him, Don Bernard and Leonora.
D. Bern.
Fye, my good Lord; why would you wait without?
If you suspect your Welcome, I have brought
My Leonora to assure you of it.

[Henr. salutes Leon.
Henr.
O Kiss, sweet as the Odours of the Spring,
But cold as Dews that dwell on Morning Flow'rs!
Say, Leonora, has your Father conquer'd?
Shall Duty then at last obtain the Prize,
Which you refus'd to Love? And shall Henriquez
Owe all his Happiness to good Bernardo?
Ah! no; I read my Ruin in your Eyes:
That Sorrow, louder than a thousand Tongues,
Pronounces my Despair.

D. Bern.
—Come, Leonora,
You are not now to learn, this noble Lord,
(Whom but to name, restores my failing Age,)
Has with a Lover's Eye beheld your Beauty;
Thro' which his Heart speaks more than Language can;
It offers Joy and Happiness to You,
And Honour to our House. Imagine then
The Birth and Qualities of him that loves you;
Which when you know, you cannot rate too dear.

Leon.
My Father, on my Knees I do beseech you
To pause one Moment on your Daughter's Ruin.
I vow, my Heart ev'n bleeds, that I must thank you
For your past Tenderness; and yet distrust
That which is yet behind. Consider, Sir,
Whoe'er's th'Occasion of another's Fault,
Cannot himself be innocent. O, give not
The censuring World Occasion to reproach
Your harsh Commands; or to my Charge lay That
Which most I fear, the Fault of Disobedience.

D. Bern.

Pr'ythee, fear neither the One, nor the Other:
I tell thee, Girl, there's more Fear than Danger.
For my own part, as soon as Thou art married
to this noble Lord, my Fears will be over.

Leon.
Sir, I should be the vainest of my Sex,
Not to esteem myself unworthy far
Of this high Honour. Once there was a Time,
When to have heard my Lord Henriquez' Vows,
Might have subdued my unexperienc'd Heart,
And made me wholly his.—But That's now past:
And my firm-plighted Faith by your Consent
Was long since given to the injur'd Julio.

D. Bern.

Why then, by my Consent e'en take it
back again. Thou, like a simple Wench, hast given thy
Affections to a Fellow, that does not care a Farthing
for them. One, that has left thee for a Jaunt to
Court; as who should say, I'll get a Place now; 'tis
Time enough to marry, when I'm turn'd out of it.

Henr.
So, surely, it should seem, most lovely Maid;
Julio, alas, feels nothing of my Passion:
His Love is but th'Amusement of an Hour,
A short Relief from Business, or Ambition,
The Sport of Youth, and Fashion of the Age.
O! had he known the Hopes, the Doubts, the Ardours,
Or half the fond Varieties of Passion,
That play the Tyrant with my tortur'd Soul;
He had not left Thee to pursue his Fortune:
To practise Cringes in a slavish Circle,
And barter real Bliss for unsure Honour.

Leon.
Oh, the opposing Wind,
Should'ring the Tide, makes here a fearful Billow:
I needs must perish in it.—Oh, my Lord,
Is it then possible, you can forget
What's due to your great Name, and princely Birth,
To Friendship's holy Law, to Faith repos'd,
To Truth, to Honour, and poor injur'd Julio?
O think, my Lord, how much this Julio loves you;
Recall his Services, his well-try'd Faith;
Think too, this very Hour, where-e'er he be,
Your Favour is the Envy of the Court,
And secret Triumph of his grateful Heart.
Poor Julio, how securely thou depend'st
Upon the Faith and Honour of thy Master;
Mistaken Youth! this very Hour he robs thee
Of all thy Heart holds dear.—'Tis so Henriquez
Repays the Merits of unhappy Julio.

[Weeps.
Henr.
My slumb'ring Honour catches the Alarm.
I was to blame to parley with her thus:
Sh'as shown me to myself. It troubles me.

[Aside.
D. Bern.
Mad; Mad. Stark mad, by this Light.

Leon.
I but begin to be so.—I conjure you,
By all the tender Interests of Nature,
By the chaste Love 'twixt you, and my dear Mother,
(O holy Heav'n, that she were living now!)
Forgive and pity me.—Oh, Sir, remember,
I've heard my Mother say a thousand Times,
Her Father would have forced her Virgin Choice;
But when the Conflict was 'twixt Love and Duty,
Which should be first obey'd, my Mother quickly
Paid up her Vows to Love, and married You.
You thought this well, and she was praised for This;
For this her Name was honour'd, Disobedience
Was ne'er imputed to her, her firm Love
Conquer'd whate'er oppos'd it, and she prosper'd
Long Time your Wife. My Case is now the same;
You are the Father, which You then condemn'd;
I, what my Mother was; but not so happy.—

D. Bern.

Go to, you're a Fool. No doubt, You
have old Stories enough to undo you.—What, you
can't throw yourself away but by Precedent, ha?—You
will needs be married to One, that will None of
You? You will be happy no Body's way but your
own, forsooth.—But, d'ye mark me, spare your
Tongue for the future; (and That's using you hardly
too, to bid you spare what you have a great deal too
much of:) Go, go your ways, and d'ye hear, get
ready within these Two days to be married to a Husband
you don't deserve;—Do it, or, by my dead Father's
Soul, you are no Acquaintance of mine.

Henr.
She weeps: Be gentler to her, good Bernardo.

Leon.
Then Woe the Day.—I'm circled round with Fire;
No Way for my Escape, but thro' the Flames.
Oh, can I e'er resolve to live without
A Father's Blessing, or abandon Julio?
With other Maids, the Choice were not so hard;
Int'rest, that rules the World, has made at last
A Merchandize of Hearts: and Virgins now
Chuse as they're bid, and wed without Esteem.
By nobler Springs shall my Affections move;
Nor own a Master, but the Man I love.
[Exit Leonora.

D. Bern.

Go thy ways, Contradiction.—Follow
her, my Lord; follow her, in the very Heat. This
Obstinacy must be combated by Importunity as obstinate.

[Exit Henriquez after her.

The Girl says right; her Mother was just such Another.
I remember, Two of Us courted her at the
same Time. She lov'd neither of Us, but She chose
me purely to spight that surly Old Blockhead my Father-in-Law.
Who comes here, Camillo? Now the
refusing Part will lie on my Side.—

Enters Camillo.
Cam.

My worthy Neighbour, I am much in Fortune's
Favour to find You thus alone. I have a Suit
to You.

D. Bern.

Please to name it, Sir.

Cam.

Sir, I have long held You in singular Esteem:
and what I shall now say, will be a Proof of it. You
know, Sir, I have but one Son.

D. Bern.

Ay, Sir.

Cam.

And the Fortune I am blest withal, You pretty
well know what it is.

D. Bern.

'Tis a fair One, Sir.

Cam.

Such as it is, the whole Reversion is my Son's.
He is now engaged in his Attendance on our Master,
the Duke. But e'er he went, he left with me the
Secret of his Heart, his Love for your fair Daughter.
For your Consent, he said, 'twas ready: I took a
Night, indeed, to think upon it, and now have brought
you mine; and am come to bind the Contract with
half my Fortune in present, the Whole some time
hence, and, in the mean while, my hearty Blessing.
Ha? What say You to't, Don Bernard?

D. Bern.

Why, really, Neighbour,—I must own, I
have heard Something of this Matter.—

Cam.

Heard Something of it? No doubt, you have.

D. Bern.

Yes, now I recollect it well.

Cam.

Was it so long ago then?

D. Bern.

Very long ago, Neighbour.—On Tuesday
last.

Cam.

What, am I mock'd in this Business, Don
Bernard?

D. Bern.

Not mock'd, good Camillo, not mock'd:
But in Love-matters, you know, there are Abundance
of Changes in half an Hour. Time, Time, Neighbour,
plays Tricks with all of us.

Cam.

Time, Sir! What tell you me of Time?
Come, I see how this goes. Can a little Time take
a Man by the Shoulder, and shake off his Honour?
Let me tell you, Neighbour, it must either be a strong
Wind, or a very mellow Honesty that drops so easily.
Time, quoth'a?

D. Bern.

Look'ee, Camillo; will you please to put your
Indignation in your Pocket for half a Moment, while
I tell you the whole Truth of the Matter. My Daughter,
you must know, is such a tender Soul, she cannot
possibly see a Duke's younger Son without falling
desperately in Love with him. Now, you know,
Neighbour, when Greatness rides Post after a Man
of my Years, 'tis both Prudence, and good Breeding,
to let one's self be overtaken by it. And who can
help all This? I profess, it was not my seeking, Neighbour.

Cam.

I profess, a Fox might earth in the Hollowness
of your Heart, Neighbour, and there's an End.
If I were to give a bad Conscience its true Likeness,
it should be drawn after a very near Neighbour to a
certain poor Neighbour of yours.—Neighbour!
with a Pox.

D. Bern.

Nay, you are so nimble with me, you
will hear Nothing.

Cam.

Sir, if I must speak Nothing, I will hear Nothing.
As for what you have to say, if it comes from your Heart,
'tis a Lye before you speak it.—I'll to Leonora; and if
I find her in the same Story, why, I shall believe your
Wife was true to You, and your Daughter is your
own. Fare you well.

[Exit, as into D. Bernard's House.
D. Bern.

Ay, but two Words must go to that Bargain.
It happens, that I am at present of Opinion
my Daughter shall receive no more Company to day
at least, no such Visits as yours.

[Exit D. Bernard, following him

SCENE IV.

Changes to another Prospect of Don Bernard's House.
Leonora, above.
Leon.
How tediously I've waited at the Window,
Yet know not One that passes.—Should I trust
My Letter to a Stranger, whom I think
To bear an honest Face, (in which sometimes
We fancy we are wond'rous skilful;) then
I might be much deceiv'd. This late Example
Of base Henriquez, bleeding in me now,
From each good Aspect takes away my Trust:
For his Face seem'd to promise Truth and Honour.
Since Nature's Gifts in noblest Forms deceive,
Be happy You, that want 'em!—Here comes One;
I've seen him, tho' I know him not; He has
An honest Face too—that's no Matter.—Sir,—

Enters Citizen.
Citiz.
To me?

Leon.
As You were of a virtuous Matron born,
(There is no Doubt, you are:) I do conjure you
Grant me one Boon. Say, do you know me, Sir?

Citiz.
Ay, Leonora, and your worthy Father.

Leon.
I have not Time to press the Suit I've to you
With many Words; nay, I should want the Words,
Tho' I had Leisure: but for Love of Justice,
And as you pity Misery—But I wander
Wide from my Subject! Know you Julio, Sir?

Citiz.
Yes, very well; and love him too, as well.

Leon.
Oh, there an Angel spake! Then I conjure you,
Convey this Paper to him: and believe me,
You do Heav'n Service in't, and shall have Cause
Not to repent your Pains.—I know not what
Your Fortune is;—Pardon me, gentle Sir,
That I am bold to offer This.

[Throws down a Purse with Money.
D. Bern.
within.]
Leonora.—

Leon.
I trust to you; Heav'n put it in your Heart
To work me some Relief.

Citiz.
Doubt it not, Lady. You have mov'd me so,
That tho' a thousand Dangers barr'd my way,
I'd dare 'em all to serve you.
[Exit Citizen.

Leon.
Thanks from a richer Hand than mine requite you!

D. Bern.
within.]
Why, Daughter—

Leon.
I come:—Oh, Julio, feel but half my Grief,
And Thou wilt outfly Time to bring Relief.
[Exit Leonora from the Window.