University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—The Cottage.
Juliana,
sitting at her needle, sings; during which the Duke steals in behind.
SONG.

Duke.
Ay, this looks well, when, like the humming bee,
We lighten labour with a cheerful song.
Come, no more work to night!— (sits by her.)
It is the last
That we shall spend beneath this humble roof:
Our fleeting month of trial being past,
To-morrow you are free.

Juliana.
Nay, now you mock me,
And turn my thoughts upon my former follies.
You know, that, to be mistress of the world,
I would not leave you.

Duke.
No!

Juliana.
No, on my honour.

Duke.
I think you like me better than you did!—
And yet 't is natural: Come, come, be honest;
You have a sort of hank'ring,—no wild wish,
Or vehement desire, yet a slight longing,
A simple preference—if you had your choice,—
To be a duchess, rather than the wife
Of a low peasant?—

Juliana.
No, indeed you wrong me!

Duke.
I mark'd you closely at the palace, wife.
In the full tempest of your speech, your eye
Would glance to take the room's dimensions,
And pause upon each ornament; and then
There would break from you a half-smother'd sigh,
Which spoke distinctly—“these should have been mine.”
And therefore, though with a well-temper'd spirit,
You have some secret swellings of the heart
When these things rise to your imagination.

Juliana.
No, never: sometimes in my dreams, indeed,—
You know we cannot help our dreams!—

Duke.
What then?

Juliana.
Why, I confess that sometimes, in my dreams,
A noble house and splendid equipage,
Diamonds and pearls, and gilded furniture,
Will glitter, like an empty pageant, by me;
And then I'm apt to rise a little feverish.
But never do my sober waking thoughts,—
As I'm a woman worthy of belief,—
Wander to such forbidden vanities.
Yet, after all, it was a scurvy trick—
Your palace, and your pictures, and your plate;
Your fine plantations, your delightful gardens,
That were a second Paradise—for fools;
And then your grotto, so divinely cool;
Your Gothic summer-house, and Roman temple;
'T would puzzle much an antiquarian
To find out their remains!—

Duke.
No more of that!

Juliana.
You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too;—
Alas! the grapes are sour;—and, above all,
The Barbary courser, that was breaking for me—

Duke.
Nay, you shall ride him yet.

Juliana.
Indeed!

Duke.
Believe me,
We must forget these things.

Juliana.
They are forgot.
And by this kiss we'll think of them no more,
But when we want a theme to make us merry.

Duke.
It was an honest one, and spoke thy soul;
And by the fresh lip and unsullied breath,
Which join'd to give it sweetness—

Enter Balthazar.
Juliana.
How! my father!

Duke.
Signor Balthazar! You are welcome, sir,
To our poor habitation.

Balthazar.
Welcome, villain?
I come to call your dukeship to account,
And to reclaim my daughter.

Duke.
You will find her
Reclaim'd already:—or I've lost my pains. (Aside.)


Balthazar.
Let me come at him!

Juliana.
Patience, my dear father!

Duke.
Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, sir—
'T is the worst argument a man can use;
So let it be the last! As for your daughter,
She passes by another title here,
In which your whole authority is sunk—
My lawful wife.

Balthazar.
Lawful!—his lawful wife!
I shall go mad. Did you not basely steal her,
Under a vile pretence?

Duke.
What I have done
I'll answer to the law.—
Of what do you complain?

Balthazar.
Are you not
A most notorious self-confess'd impostor?

Duke.
True!—I am somewhat what dwindled from the state
In which you lately knew me; nor alone
Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder,
You'll find your daughter is not what she was.

Balthazar.
How, Juliana?

Juliana.
'Tis indeed most true.
I left you, sir, a froward foolish girl,
Full of capricious thoughts and fiery spirits,
Which, without judgment, I would vent on all.
But I have learnt this truth indelibly,—
That modesty, in deed, in word, and thought,
Is the prime grace of woman; and with that,
More than by frowning looks and saucy speeches,
She may persuade the man that rightly loves her,
Whom she was ne'er intended to command.

Balthazar.
Amazement! Why, this metamorphosis
Exceeds his own!—What spells, what cunning witchcraft
Has he employ'd?

Juliana.
None: he has simply taught me
To look into myself: his powerful rhet'ric
Hath with strong influence impress'd my heart,
And made me see at length the thing I have been,
And what I am, sir.

Balthazar.
Are you then content
To live with him?

Juliana.
Content?—I am most happy!

Balthazar.
Can you forget your crying wrongs?

Juliana.
Not quite, sir:
They sometimes serve us to make merry with.

Balthazar.
How like a villain he abus'd your father?

Juliana.
You will forgive him that for my sake!

Balthazar.
Never!

Duke.
Why, then, 't is plain, you seek your own revenge,
And not your daughter's happiness!

Balthazar.
No matter
I charge you, on your duty as my daughter,
Follow me!

Duke.
On a wife's obedience,
I charge you, stir not!

Juliana.
You, sir, are my father;
At the bare mention of that hallow'd name,
A thousand recollections rise within me,
To witness you have ever been a kind one:—
This is my husband, sir!

Balthazar.
Thy husband; well—

Juliana.
'T is fruitless now to think upon the means
He us'd—I am irrevocably his:
And when he pluck'd me from my parent tree
To graft me on himself, he gather'd with me
My love, my duty, my obedience;
And, by adoption, I am bound as strictly
To do his reasonable bidding now,
As once to follow yours.

Duke.
Most excellent! (Aside.)


Balthazar.
Yet I will be reveng'd!

Duke.
You would have justice!

Balthazar.
I will!

Duke.
Then forthwith meet me at the Duke's!

Balthazar.
What pledge have I for your appearance there?

Duke.
Your daughter, sir.—Nay, go, my Juliana!
'T is my request: within an hour at farthest,
I shall expect to see you at the palace.

Balthazar.
Come, Juliana.—You shall find me there, sir.

Duke.
Look not thus sad at parting, Juliana:
All will run smooth yet.

Balthazar.
Come!

Juliana.
Heav'n grant it may!

Duke.
The Duke shall right us all, without delay.

[Exeunt different ways.