University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Enter Jenny and Jonathan.
Jenny.
Come, dear Mr. Jonathan, tell me the whole:
An account of a battle I love to my soul;
There is nothing on earth I so truly delight in,
As to hear a brave Soldier discourse about fighting.—
So the Colonel was wounded you say near the wall:
Whereabouts was the shot? Did he instantly fall?

Jonathan.
No; recoiling a little he rush'd on again,
And fought like a lion, made fiercer by pain;
Tho' a cursed keen arrow an Indian let fly,
Pierc'd the bone of his cheek just below the right eye.
'Twas a horrible wound! but it could not appall him.

Jenny.
O mercy! that such a hard fate should befall him.
Alas! I'm afraid that his fine manly face
Must have lost by the scar all its spirit and grace.
Does he look very hideous?

Jonathan.
No; thanks to my Master,
You can hardly perceive that he e'er wore a plaister.
There never was known a more wonderful cure;
But kind Heaven assists my good Master I'm sure;
Without it the skill of no mortal could save
The many brave lads he has kept from the grave.
You would weep with delight to behold him surrounded
With a hundred fine fellows once horribly wounded;
Who with thanks for their lives are still eager to greet him,
And hail him with blessings whenever they meet him.

Jenny.
God reward him, say I, for the good he has done;
And of those he has sav'd I'm glad you are one.

Jonathan.
Aye, twice he preserv'd me when all thought me dead,
And once brought me off at the risque of his head.
It was not his business to mix in the strife,
And some thought him mad when he ventur'd his life
To bring off a poor mangled private like me;
But I've still a heart left in this trunk that you see,
Which loves the brave spirit who snatch'd me from death,
And will serve him, I hope, till my very last breath.

Jenny.
Your scenes of hard service I hope are all over;
It is now fairly time you should both live in clover.
Your Master, I trust, has brought home as much treasure
As will make him a parliament-man at his pleasure;
And to recompence you for the wound in your arm,
Perhaps he will buy you a snug little farm.

Jonathan.
When a Gentleman comes from the East, my good girl,
You all think he is loaded with diamonds and pearl;
You fancy his treasure too great to be told,
And suppose he possesses a mountain of gold.
A few daring blades, by a bold kind of stealth,
Have indeed from the Indies brought home so much wealth,
That with all their keen senses they ne'er could employ it,
And have dy'd from the want of a heart to enjoy it:
But some hundred brave lads, whom gay youth led to enter
That promising region of hope and adventure,
Have toil'd many years in those rich-burning climes,
With small share of their wealth, and with none of their crimes.
Now my Master and I both belong to this tribe;
Not a single Nabob have we kill'd for a bribe;
And to tell you a truth, which I hope you'll not doubt,
We're as poor and as honest as when we set out.

Jenny.
What! your Master still poor in so thriving a trade!
And with patients so rich has he never been paid
For the wounds he has heal'd?

Jonathan.
Yes, my dear, for his fees
I know he has touch'd many thousand rupees;
But the sight of distress he could never endure;
What he took from the rich he bestow'd on the poor.

Jenny.
Well, Heaven will pay him, no doubt, in due season.
But what brings him home?—I would fain know the reason
Why he leaves that rich land in the bloom of his life:
I suppose from the want of a cherry-cheek'd wife?
They say those black wenches are sad nasty creatures,
And tho' they've fine shapes they have horrible features.
Does he want a white sweet-heart? or has he a Black?

Jonathan.
'Tis indeed a white woman that brings us both back:
But alas! 'tis an old one—my Master, it seems,
Has a fond simple mother that's troubled with dreams,
And he, like a tender and soft-hearted youth,
Resigns his fine prospect, and comes home forsooth
Because the old dame has express'd her desires
To see him in England before she expires:
And egad since he's come she will live long enough,
For she seems to be made of good durable stuff.

Jenny.
Well, now I shall love him a hundred times more
Than I did for the stories you told me before.
God bless the kind soul! who behaves to his mother
As if he well knew he could ne'er have another;
And were he my son I could not live without him;
I could stay here all day while you're talking about him.—
But 'tis time to be gone; we must both disappear,
For the Colonel's sweet Wife and your Master are here.

Jonathan.
Stop, I must peep at her;—she's as bright as the day!

Jenny.
And her heart is as good as her spirit is gay—
Come I'll shew you our walks—we may get out this way.

[Exeunt.
Enter Mrs. Felix and Morley.
Mrs. Felix.
Dear excellent Friend, since I owe to your worth
The safety of what I most value on earth,
With those it loves best my heart yields you a place,
And I clasp your kind hand with a sister's embrace.
To judge of the man whom such service endears
I want not the tardy acquaintance of years,
But in strong tho' quick ties, that no chances can sever,
In an instant he seizes my friendship for ever:
And had I much less obligation to you,
My regard and esteem I should still think your due,
From the picture my Felix has drawn of your mind.

Morley.
His warm soul to his friends is most partially kind:
But such as I am I most truly am yours;
Your goodness my grateful attachment ensures,
And my heart with proud transport your friendship embraces.
Tho' I ne'er gaz'd before on your personal graces,
I've beguil'd some long weeks of hard wearisome duty
With frequent discourse on your virtues and beauty;
And I own for the Colonel it rais'd my esteem,
To mark with what pleasure he dwelt on the theme.

Mrs. Felix.
You're an excellent creature to sooth a fond Wife,
Who regards her Lord's love hardly less than his life;
But since you've replied with good humour so steady
To the ten thousand questions I've ask'd you already,
I'll spare you to-day, and if 'tis in my power
Mention Felix's name only once in an hour.
That my thoughts to the Indies no longer may roam,
Let me talk to you now about matters at home;
Your counsel may make our perplexity less,
And finish our odd tragi-comic distress.
First tell me, and speak without any disguise,
(Tho' I fancy I read all your thoughts in your eyes)
What d' ye think of my Cousin?

Morley.
Her graces indeed
The glowing description of Felix exceed;
Tho' in praising her, oft he with pleasure has smil'd
Like a father describing his favourite child.
For my part, I think she is lavishly blest
With those beauties by which the pure mind is exprest,
That her heart is with truth and with tenderness warm,
That sweet sensibility shines in her form;
A form, on which no man his eye ever turn'd
Without feeling his breast in her welfare concern'd.
'Tis the lot of such graces, wherever they dwell,
None can see their soft mistress and not wish her well.

Mrs. Felix.
Very gallantly said, and the praise is her due—
But how came her Lovers so well known to you?

Morley.
Her Lovers!—dear Madam, I hope you're in jest—
Or if by their vows your sweet Friend is addrest,
Heaven grant, for the peace of her delicate mind,
That her hand may be never to either resign'd!

Mrs. Felix.
From my soul I assure you I join in your prayer;
But whence does it spring?

Morley.
I will freely declare,
Tho' they're both men of fortune, fair birth, and good name,
With figures that set some young nymphs in a flame;
Tho' at each, many ladies are ready to catch
At what the world calls, a most excellent match;
Yet, if I have read your fair Cousin aright,
A bosom so tender, a spirit so bright,
Must be wretched with such a companion for life,
As each of these Lovers would prove to his Wife.

Mrs. Felix.
You are right; but their characters where could you know?

Morley.
I knew them at college a few years ago,
Before, by a whimsical odd sort of fate,
And some family losses, too long to relate,
In Europe my views of prosperity ceas'd,
And chance sent me forth to my friends in the East.

Mrs. Felix.
Pray what sort of youths were these two modish men?

Morley.
You now find them both what they seem'd to me then;
Two characters form'd like most young men of fashion,
Whose cold selfish pride is their sovereign passion:
In each, tho' they're men of an opposite turn,
The same heart-freezing vanity still you discern.
To indulge that dear vanity, each still displays
All the force of his mind, tho' in different ways.
Thence, in spinning weak verse Sapphic's toil never ends,
And Decisive ne'er stops in deriding his friends;
Each equally fancies no nymph can resist
His lips, which he thinks all the Graces have kist.

Mrs. Felix.
Perfect knowledge of both your just picture has shown!—
The warmth of these Lovers diverts me I own.
Of conquest each seems to himself very clear,
And feels from his rivals no diffident fear.
'Tis easy to see from their satisfied air,
Each loves his own person much more than the Fair.
But my poor gentle Coz wishes both at a distance;
And I want to contrive, by your friendly assistance,
To relieve her, and quietly send them from hence
Without the Knight's knowledge.

Morley.
As neither wants sense,
Can't the Lady pronounce their dismission at once,
Which none can mistake but an impudent dunce?

Mrs. Felix.
This measure seems easy indeed at first view;
But alas! 'tis a measure we dare not pursue.
Our warm-hearted, whimsical, positive Knight,
Allows not to woman this natural right;
And hence my young Friend, in a pitiful case,
Knows not how to reject what she ne'er can embrace;
For nothing her Uncle's resentment would smother,
Should she banish one suitor, and not take the other.

Morley.
Then indeed I am griev'd for the Lady's distress;
But how can I aid her?

Mrs. Felix.
'Tis hard, I confess,
To a sudden retreat this bold Pair to oblige,
And make two such Heroes abandon a siege;
Yet I wish we could do it—and when they recede,
The departure of both must appear their own deed.

Morley
, after a pause.
Well—my friendship for you has suggested a scheme.

Mrs. Felix.
'Tis a service our hearts will for ever esteem.
But what is your project?

Morley.
Don't question me what,
Lest you think me a fool for too simple a plot:
'Tis simple, and yet I would venture my life
It will drive from these Beaus all their thoughts of a Wife;
And if my scheme prospers, with joy I'll confess
What a whimsical trifle produc'd our success.

Mrs. Felix.
Well, keep your own secret, if silence is best;
Tho' a woman, for once I'll in ignorance rest.—
Here comes our friend Sapphic—he seems in a flurry.

Morley.
His step shews indeed a poetical hurry,
And we shall be call'd in as Gossips, fair neighbour,
For by the Bard's bustle his Muse is in labour.

Enter Sapphic.
Sapphic.
Dear Ma'am! may I ask you for paper and ink,
Lest a fresh jeu d'esprit in oblivion should sink?
For when my free fancy has brought forth my verse,
My treacherous memory proves a bad nurse.

Mrs. Felix.
O pray! for your Muse let us rear her young chit,
For the bantling no doubt must have spirit and wit;
As a cradle to hold it, I beg you'll take that,
(giving him a paper.)
And your Friend here will aid you in dressing the Brat;
At a rite so important I merit no place,
And I beg to withdraw while you're washing its face.

[Exit.
Sapphic.
That's a charming gay Creature—luxuriant and young—
But I've lost half a stanza—the deuce take her tongue;—
Let me see—let me see if I can't recollect it.—
'Tis done;—and now, Morley, pray hear or inspect it.

Morley.
The Poet himself his own verse should recite.

Sapphic.
You're a sensible fellow—your maxim is right.
(Reads.)
Well, my Friend, won't this bring the old God out of Greece?

Morley.
Aye, and make good Sir Nicholas give you his Niece.

Sapphic.
Yes, I fancy this stanza will make the Girl mine.

Morley.
What Poet can wish for a prize more divine?
I give you much joy on your conquest, my Friend;
Yet the eyes of regret on your nuptials I bend,
And grieve in reflecting, that conjugal joy
Your poetical harvest of Fame must destroy.

Sapphic.
What the deuce do you mean?

Morley.
To those great works adieu
Which the world now expects with impatience from you.
The Poet when blest can no more be sublime,
And a chill matrimonial must strike thro' his rhyme.

Sapphic.
You're mistaken, dear Doctor—connubial delight
Will give a new zest to each poem I write;
And you'll see such productions!—

Morley.
'Tis true, now and then
Polemics by marriage have quicken'd their pen.
A Dutch Critic I know, by the aid of his Wife,
Made a book and a child every year of his life.
But total seclusion from Venus and Bacchus,
Is, you know, to the Bard recommended by Flaccus.
A grand epic poem I hear you are writing;
'Tis a work that your country will take great delight in:
But consider, my Friend, when you're deep in heroics,
As Poets have not all the patience of Stoics,
How you'll grieve to be check'd in the flow of your verse,
By a young squalling child and an old scolding nurse;
E'en the qualms of your Lady may drive from your brain
Fine thoughts that you ne'er can recover again;
Reflect how you'll feel, with such hopes of succeeding,
If your Muse should miscarry because your Wife's breeding.

Sapphic.
Egad, in that case I should think my fate hard.

Morley.
I myself have beheld an unfortunate Bard,
Who his nails for a rhyme unsuccessfully bit,
When family cares had extinguish'd his wit.
With many who sing in the Muse's full choir,
It would do them no mischief to muffle their lyre;
But for you, whom the Nine, with a tender presage,
Are prepar'd to proclaim the first Bard of our age;
For you, who of Taste are the favourite theme—

Sapphic.
Yes, I think I stand high in the public esteem.—

Morley.
For you, I should grieve if domestic delight
On your fair rising laurels should fall as a blight.
'Tis the pride of great minds whom the Muses inflame,
To sacrifice joy on the altar of Fame:
Your passion's renown—of this Girl are you fonder?—
On this delicate point I must leave you to ponder;
Consider it, while I attend the old Knight.

[Exit.
Sapphic
alone (after a pause.)
By Jove, I believe my friend Morley is right.
Thou, Fame, art my Mistress; to win thee I sing.
This Girl, tho' she's handsome, is but a dull thing.
'Tis clear, whensoe'er I a poem rehearse,
That she has no relish for elegant verse.—
Her fortune indeed would be rather convenient,
But the glorious to me is before the expedient.
Egad I'd quit Venus herself, if I knew
That the system of Morley was certainly true.
I don't think the Girl to Decisive inclin'd;
But here comes her Maid, who may tell me her mind.
Enter Jenny.
My good little Jenny, you're trusty and true,
And your Mistress, I know, tells her secrets to you.
What you know, to a friend you may safely impart,
And give me a perfect account of her heart:
Pray how do I stand in your Lady's regard?

Jenny.
Now's my time to be even with this saucy Bard.
(aside.)
To be sure, Sir, the taste of my Lady is odd;
But poetry moves her no more than a clod.

Sapphic.
What! no relish for rhyme!—Does she never repeat
The soft little sonnets I've laid at her feet?

Jenny.
Ah, Sir! would my Mistress were once of my mind,
(For I read all the verses of yours that I find)
But my Lady's so cruel she thwarts my desire,
And to hide them from me throws them into the fire.

Sapphic.
She's a fool—she's a fool (aside.)
—I should have a fine life,
With such a prosaic dull jade of a wife.

Jenny.
But, my good Sir, I hope you will not be dejected,
I could tell you by whom all your wit is respected.
There's a heart upon which you have made such impression—
But I must not betray her by my indiscretion.

Sapphic.
Whom d'ye mean, my good Jenny? come, tell me, my dear.

Jenny.
You would make a bad use of the secret I fear.—
Now I hope I shall lead the Bard into a scrape,
(aside.)
For he bites like a Gudgeon, and cannot escape.

Sapphic.
Come, say who's in love with me—if she is fair,
I'll not leave the dear creature, I vow, to despair.

Jenny.
O lud! I protest she is coming this way;
But I did not intend her regard to betray.
I must fly—but I beg that you'll not be too free.

[Exit.
Sapphic.
Madam Felix!—I thought she was partial to me.

Enter Mrs. Felix.
Mrs. Felix.
May I enter without incommoding the Muse?

Sapphic.
By a question like this your own charms you abuse.
Those eyes, my dear Madam, were form'd, I profess,
To inspirit a Poet, and not to depress;
From your presence he surely must catch inspiration.

Mrs. Felix.
A very poetical fine salutation!
But I seriously beg, if you're busy with rhyme,
That you will not allow me to take up your time.
As I'm not Selina, you're free from restriction,
And may tell me plain truths, unembellish'd with fiction.

Sapphic.
Then I swear, my dear Creature, I swear by this hand,
That I feel as I touch it my genius expand;
That your lips—O by Jove! he's a madman or booby,
Who roves to the Indies for diamond or ruby;
And each vein in my heart his strange folly condemns,
Who leaves these more bright and more exquisite gems.
Sweet Fair! let me keep, while their richness I praise,
The cold damp of neglect from o'erclouding their rays.

(While Mr. Sapphic kisses Mrs. Felix with great vehemence, Jenny enters unperceived.)
Jenny.
O ho!—have I caught you; impertinent Poet!
This is more than I hop'd for—my Master shall know it.

[Exit.
Mrs. Felix.
Good God! Mr. Sapphic, what frantic illusion
Has produc'd this ridiculous scene of confusion?
All Poets are Quixotes in love, I am told;
And the truth of the adage in you I behold.
As the Knight once mistook an old mill for a giant,
Your sense as disorder'd, your fancy as pliant,
Takes me for my Cousin—your love's ebullition
I only can pardon on this supposition.
I fain would suppose that no insult was meant,
Nor believe you could think, what I ought to resent.

Sapphic.
O! talk not of anger with lips that inspire
The strongest sensation of rapturous fire,
That with love's sweet convulsions shake every nerve:
O! think not that I your resentment deserve;
Because my warm heart, thus engross'd by your charms,
Is ambitious of filling these dear empty arms.
No, let me while basking beneath your bright eye,
The place of a thankless deserter supply;
And in this melting breast kindle ecstacy's flame,
Which Nature design'd for so glowing a frame.

Mrs. Felix.
Away, Sir! and since in your fondling insanity
You reject the excuse which I form'd for your vanity,
My threats must inform you—

Sapphic.
O! frown not, sweet Creature;
Let not wrath spoil the charm of thy every feature.

Mrs. Felix.
Regain you your sense—from my wrath you are free,
Which should not be rais'd by a being like thee;
Begone then!—my pardon in vain you'll implore,
If you dare on this subject to breathe a word more.

Sapphic.
Words, indeed, my warm fair one, by Nature's confession,
For the love that I feel, are no proper expression;
The soul's fond intent in soft murmurs should swell,
And kisses explain what no language can tell.
Ye Gods, how luxuriant!

Mrs. Felix.
Away! quit my arm!
Or my cries in an instant the house shall alarm.

Sapphic.
Provoking sweet Creature!—indulge my fond passion;
Come, come, don't I know you're a woman of fashion?
Your coyness, I've heard, you can sometimes give over;
And I'm sure you're too wise to be true to a rover.
Besides, I have learnt, that with partial regard
You have cast a kind eye on your ill-treated Bard.

Mrs. Felix.
Away! thou vain coxcomb! nor, base as thou art,
Insult the bright Lord of so loyal a heart;
Begone!—I abhor thee—my person release!—

Sir Nicholas
, entering.
Is it thus, my young Sir, you pay court to my Niece!

Sapphic.
Confusion! What devil has sent the old Knight?

Sir Nicholas.
How dare you, pert Stripling, almost in my sight
To insult a chaste Female that's under my roof?—
But since of your baseness you give me such proof,
You shall feel it repaid by a proper correction.

Sapphic
(aside.)
Deuce take this preverse and unlucky detection:
I wish I had wisely, as Morley had taught me,
Renounc'd that jade Venus before he thus caught me.
What excuse can I make him?— (To Sir Nicholas)
My dear worthy Sir,
Tho' I now seem most justly your wrath to incur,
Yet as you grow cool, your opinion will vary,
You will not resent such an idle vagary,
A mere romping frolic—

Sir Nicholas.
A frolic, d'ye say!
Then a frolic of mine shall your frolic repay.
Call our Servants to punish this frolicsome Spark,
They shall drag him across the new pond in the park.

Sapphic
(aside.)
'Tis what he can't mean—yet his countenance such is,
I wish from my soul I was out of his clutches.—
(To Sir Nicholas.)
Dear Sir, I assure you, I'm griev'd beyond measure
That I thus have awaken'd your furious displeasure;
When calmer—

Sir Nicholas.
Young Man, I am not in a fury,
A sentence more just never came from a jury;
Such frolics as yours have Old England disgrac'd:
In High Life let them flourish as Fashion and Taste.
To those wanton young fellows I am not severe,
Who attack the loose Wife of a vain gambling Peer.
My Lady whose Lord wastes at Hazard the night,
May plead to more generous pleasures some right;
I care not how each keeps their conjugal oath,
Since honour and peace must be strangers to both.
But when a brave Soldier, pure Glory's true son,
Ennobled with laurels laboriously won;
When risking in far distant climates his life,
To his Country he leaves a fair innocent Wife;
Accurst be the man, who, to Friendship unjust,
Fails to guard as his soul this most delicate trust;
Or to punish those Fops who insult her chaste beauty,
And invite her to swerve from her honour and duty.
Of the doom that I think to such Libertines due,
I will give to the world an example in you.
Our old English discipline, Ducking, by name,
Shall atone for your outrage, by quenching your flame.
Here! William and John—

Mrs. Felix.
For my sake, I intreat
That you will not, dear Sir, this rough vengeance compleat.

Sir Nicholas.
By Jupiter, Cousin, to make him less fond,
He shall croak out his love to the frogs of our pond.—
Here, William! tell Jack after Stephen to skip,
And tell the old Huntsman to come with his whip,
Then wait all together around the hall door.

Sapphic.
O mercy, dear Sir! I your mercy implore.
You will not destroy me?

Sir Nicholas.
No, only correct,
And teach you a brave Soldier's Wife to respect.

Mrs. Felix.
Yet think, my dear Cousin, yet think, for my sake,
What a noise this ridiculous matter will make.
You know that my Felix's nature is such,
He don't wish his Wife to be talk'd of too much;
His honour and quiet let us make our care,
And bury in silence this foolish affair:
Perhaps, in my manners too easy and gay,
My levity led the young Poet astray.

Sir Nicholas.
No, no! my good Creature, you must not arraign
Your innocent self in a business so plain:
Besides, his offence by this plea cannot sink,
For they are the worst of all puppies that think
Each woman's a wanton who is not precise,
And that cheerfulness must be the herald of vice.

Mrs. Felix.
Howe'er this may be—as he's now all repentance,
I earnestly beg a repeal of your sentence.

Sapphic.
Dear Ma'am I adore you for this intercession;
And I trust the good Knight will forgive my transgression.

Sir Nicholas.
Well, Sir, as beyond your desert you're befriended
By that virtue which you have so grossly offended,
You are free to depart; but remember, young Swain,
That you ne'er touch the Wife of a Soldier again.

Sapphic.
If I do, may I die by the wind of a ball!
Heaven bless you, good Folks, and this sociable hall!
Since my amorous folly your friendship thus loses,
My amours shall henceforth be confin'd to the Muses.

[Exit.
Mrs. Felix.
I thank you, dear Sir, and rejoice in my heart
That in safety you've suffer'd this Youth to depart.

Sir Nicholas.
By Jupiter, Coz, I had cool'd your warm Poet,
Had I not been afraid all our neighbours might know it,
And make you the subject of such conversation
As I think your nice Colonel would hear with vexation.
Then, since for your sake I have let the Bard go,
Come and aid me to settle all matters below:
That my anxious cares in her comfort may cease,
I'm resolv'd young Decisive shall marry my Niece.