[]
THE INSOLVENT: OR, FILIAL PIETY. A TRAGEDY.
ACTED AT THE THEATRE in the HAY-MARKET, (By AUTHORITY) Under the DIRECTION of Mr. CIBBER.
WRITTEN BY THE LATE AARON HILL, Eſq AUTHOR OF MEROPE; Partly on a Plan of Sir WILLIAM D'AVENANT's and Mr. MASSENGER's.
LONDON: [...]rinted and ſold by W. REEVE, oppoſite Crane-Court, in Fleet-Street. MDCCLVIII. Price One Shilling and Six-pence.]
PREFACE.
[]ABOVE thirty years ago, Mr. WILKS (then one of the patentees of the theatre royal) gave an old manuſcript play, call'd, The Guiltleſs Adultreſs; or, Judge in his own Cauſe, to Mr. THEOPHILUS CIBBER, who was then manager of what us'd to be call'd, the ſummer company. This company conſiſted, in general, of the junior part of the performers; who, during the vacation time, commonly acted twice, or thrice, a week. As they play'd on ſhares (divided in proportion ac⯑cording to their ſeveral ſalaries ſtipulated in the winter) their endeavours to pleaſe the town generally produc'd 'em double pay, on thoſe nights; ſometimes more.
This kept moſt of 'em from ſtrolling into the country, for the ſummer ſeaſon: it added to their income, and gave 'em an op⯑portunity of getting forward in their buſineſs, in a more regular manner, than has been practis'd of late years. It had its effect: performers then try'd their force in characters, in the ſummer; and became, by practice therein, gradually acquainted with their buſineſs, and the town with them. Nor was every one ſuppos'd to be equal, at their very ſetting out, to the moſt capital characters of the drama.
But to return to the play.—By the hand, and the long time it had been in the poſſeſſion of the managers, it was ſuppos'd to have been one of Sir WILLIAM D'AVENANT's (formerly a patentee) and, by the opening of the piece, palpably was found⯑ed on a play of MASSENGER's, call'd, The Fatal Dowry—(this laſt piece has often been enquired after in vain)—Mr. WILKS recommended it to Mr. CIBBER to be got up in the ſummer, with ſome alterations—It lay by ſome time.—In the year 1733, it was intended for the ſtage in the ſummer—But the performers were then ſhut out of the theatre, by the then patentees of Drury-Lane.—A candid account of which will be given, when Mr. CIBBER has a proper opportunity to ſpeak thereof, in his purpos'd hiſtory of the ſtage.
[] In the following year, when the principal comedians of that time return'd from the theatre in the Hay-Market, and play'd under the direction of Mr. FLETEWOOD, it was propos'd agen to have a ſummer company; as the uſe of it, both to the actors and managers, had been experienced. Many light pieces were then reviv'd, and ſeveral new petit pieces brought on the ſtage; ſuch as, The Devil to Pay, The Mock Doctor, &c. which prov'd afterwards laſting entertainments in the winter ſeaſon.
'Twas in The Devil to Pay, in a ſummer ſeaſon, Mrs. CLIVE (then Miſs KAFTOR) firſt ſurpriz'd a delighted audi⯑ence with a proof of her extraordinary genius, in the character of NELL. Her ſpirited ſimplicity, and ſtrong natural humour, carried her thro' the part with an aſtoniſhing variety, and pro⯑priety. She ſhew'd herſelf an excellent original.—She has had many followers, ſome imitators; and, 'tis but juſtice to add, no equal. She then promis'd to be, what ſhe has ſince prov'd, one of the firſt performers of the ſtage: and, when judi⯑ciouſly examined in the general various caſt of parts ſhe acts, 'tis imagined, ſhe will be allow'd not to be inferior to any per⯑former of her time.
Well, this is digreſſion on digreſſion—(pardon it, reader, and let it paſs)—In 1734, a ſummer company was agen pro⯑pos'd. They play'd once the play of George Barnwell, to a very great houſe. The manager (jealous, leaſt the company ſhou'd get too much) order'd the farther acting to be ſtopp'd. It was judg'd, indeed, the jealouſy of ſome actors (who were not concern'd in the ſummer) gave this advice—ſo the affair dropp'd—and there has been no ſummer playing ſince.
But, to return to our play.—On a reviſal, it was judg'd to want ſome alterations—Accordingly, Mr. CIBBEE requeſted his kind friend the late Mr. HILL (who was never happier than when he had an opportunity to do a friendly office) to correct it—How much he was taken with the play, will appear on a peruſal of ſome letters of his relative thereto, (pub⯑liſh'd in his collection) and ſent to Mr. THEOPHILUS CIBBER, about the year 1746.—Let it ſuffice here, to add—Mr. HILL almoſt new wrote the whole; and the laſt act was entirely his, in conduct, ſentiment, diction, &c.
[] It was brought on the ſtage at the theatre in the Hay-Market early this year, 1758—When his Grace the Duke of DEVON⯑SHIRE humanely conſider'd the unfortunate, extraordinary condition of a comedian (who has had more frequent opportu⯑nities of happily entertaining the town) and gave him liberty to try his fortune, awhile, at the little theatre in the Hay-Market.
But what mighty matters could be hop'd, from a young, raw, unexperienced company, haſtily collected, and as haſtily to be employ'd (but ſinking men catch at reeds) while eſtabliſh'd theatres were open to entertain the town, with the united force of tragedy, comedy, opera, pantomime, ſong, dance, and a long train of et ceteras—Some rational, and ſome other ex⯑hibitions, which are ſo frequently follow'd in a winter ſeaſon?
Mr. CIBBER was out of pocket by his undertaking; yet this does not prevent his having a grateful ſenſe of the favours he received, from thoſe noble perſonages, and other friends, who have frequently pratonis'd his undertakings.—To acknow⯑ledge a favour, is but gratitude—To name the perſons, might appear vanity.
It may not be improper, on this occaſion to ſignify, as Mr. CIBBER has not had the wiſh'd ſucceſs at the theatre in the Hay-Market—That Mr. RICH has, with great good-nature, granted the uſe of his theatre in Covent-Garden to Mr. CIBBER, for his benefit, the beginning of next month—When a new mock-tragedy, (which many perſons of taſte have approv'd of, and which the author has kindly allow'd Mr. CIBBER to make uſe of on this occaſion) will be acted, with all the variety of ſcenes, machines, ſongs, dirges, proceſſions, &c. &c.—requiſite to embelliſh (a-la-moderne) this extraordinary heroick piece.
PROLOGUE.
[]Spoke by Mr. CIBBER. (Then in mourning for his father)
OUR ſcenes, to-night, would nature's pangs impart;
True filiel piety ſhould reach the heart.
I feel it now—That thought the tear ſhall claim;
To merit ſacred, and immortal fame.
Now ſleeps the honour'd duſt, which gave me birth;
Recent in death, but newly lodg'd in earth:
Forgive the heart-felt grief! the filial lay!
The public tear might drop o'er CIBBER's clay!
His comic force—for more than half an age;
His well-wrote moral ſcene, his manly page,
Your fathers fathers pleas'd—His ſcenes ſhall live;
And, to your childrens children, equal pleaſure give.
Forgive the filial dews that thus diſtil—
'Tis from the heart they flow, and not from skill:
By nature mov'd, your patience thus I try;
Art would but give my ſuff'ring ſoul the lie.
Now for the father's ſake, the ſon endure;
Let his paternal worth your ſmile ſecure.
Let his rich merit my poor wants attone;
His high deſert I plead—Boaſt none my own.
Let then this tribute, to the father due;
This public tribute, be approv'd by you.
Whatever faults may thro' this piece be ſhewn,
No living bard can now thoſe faults attone,
While ſuch you, tranſient, mark—Let mercy ſpare,
Such parts as you may think ſome merit ſhare.
Where judgment wakes, let candour intervene,
Mark out the failings with that golden mean,
Nor for a ſingle ſentence damn a ſcene.
To our young actors too your ſmiles extend;
Youth claims indulgence—as want claims a friend:
Whate'er their flatt'ring hopes, their fears are great,
Which your applauſe alone can diſſipate:
And, 'tis a maxim with the truly brave,
They triumph moſt, who generouſly ſave.
PROLOGUE.
[]POOR (at firſt op'ning) ſeems the plot we chuſe:
But no felt indigence unfir'd the muſe.
Inſolvent pris'ner—bears no awful ſound!
Yet—hope ſtrong buildings—on that humble ground.
Debtor and creditor th' account begin:
But then comes joy—wife—mis'ry—death and ſin!
While, from theſe varying lights, fierce fires we raiſe,
Lend but attention—and your tears ſhall praiſe.
Few are the public ſtains, that tinge the fame
Of this brave, rich, good-natur'd nation's name:
Yet, one there is—from time's long licenſe, grown—
That blots out pity—and turns fleſh, to ſtone.
'Tis—the deaf rage, that (where hard wants oppreſs)
Doubles th' inſolvent ſuff'rer's dire diſtreſs.
Stung by this waſp, paſt friendſhips loſe their weight;
Warp'd eſtimation wears a face like hate:
Suſpended mercy bids affliction ſmart;
And, in a ſcale of flint, immures her heart.
Self—yet, unreach'd by woe—made proud, by gain,
Blind to diſaſter—and inſulting pain;
In eaſe, ſhort-ſighted—hugs her lot, ſecure—
And marks no diff'rence—'twixt the baſe, and poor;
Flings from calamity, turns ſhort on grief,
And, to the priſon's grave, refers relief.
So—for awhile—triumphantly ſevere!
Tow'rs the bid inſult—and diſdains to hear.
At laſt, comes diſappointment home—Then, ſtarts
Touch'd ſenſe—and wonders at mens cruel hearts!
Then (ſelf ſtill upmoſt) the rous'd ſleeper ſhakes;
And inſolently hopes—compaſſion wakes!
But ſcorn cloſe waits upon the ſcorner's heel;
And he, that ſhunn'd to hear—vouchſafes to feel.
Too late, he feels!—The Eye, that wakes for all,
Fore-doom'd his anguiſh—and enjoys his fall;
[] Points, to his trembling view, that wiſe man's ſchool—
That god-given law—th' all-temp'ring golden rule:
Bids him thank bitterneſs, for due deſpair;
And, ſince he cou'd not pity, learn to bear.
From our laſt age's plays exemplar aim,
Preſent and paſt, we find too much the ſame:
Stern, unrelenting int'reſt's partial will
Reign'd then reſiſtleſs—and it reigns ſo ſtill.
How happy were th' effect—cou'd miſeries, here,
From pride's correction (mourn'd by pity's tear)
Teach the dry rock to melt, in pain-touch'd flow;
And eaſe th' unhoping crouds, that ſigh, in woe!
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
MEN.
- Old AUMELE, firſt preſident of Burgundy.
- Young AUMELE, in love with AMELIA.
- Count CHALONS, ſon of the marſhal of Burgundy.
- LA FOY, his friend, a rough ſoldier.
- VALDORE, father to AMELIA, and predeceſſor to Old AUMELE.
- BELGARD, couſin, and dependent on AUMELE.
- LE FER, ſervant to VALDORE.
WOMEN.
- AMELIA, daughter to VALDORE.
- FLORELLA, her maid.
- PRESIDENTS, ADVOCATES, CLIENTS, GOALER, &c.
SCENE, the capital of Burgundy.
[]THE INSOLVENT: OR, FILIAL PIETY.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
A court ſitting. Judges on the bench. Lawyers with clients at the bar.
2d PRESIDENT.
HAIL! reverend judges! May this meeting prove
Proſperous to us, and end in general good.
Old AUMELE.
Speak to the point, the cauſe of this our ſummons.
2d PRESIDENT.
We meet, my lords, reluctant to diſpoſe
The awful place, and high important power
Of firſt in council of this ſacred court:
This, to our grief, the reverend wiſe VALDORE
Reſolves, grown weary of the ponderous charge,
Here to give up this day.
VALDORE.
Too heavy truſt! it preſs'd my conſcious weakneſs:
Yet, not for private eaſe wou'd I reſign it,
[10] But, bow'd beneath the burden, ſinking age
Implores your kind releaſe from care too weighty.
Old AUMELE.
Still to preſide, we all wou'd gladly move you.
VALDORE.
It muſt not be; nor can your lordſhips goodneſs
Deny my poor remains of time the refuge
Of ſome ſhort ſpace, for penitence and prayer.
Let me employ my laſt low ebb of breath,
In cares for future life—and learn to die.—
I pray the court to eaſe me of this burden.
3d PRESIDENT.
The court entreats your lordſhip wou'd be pleas'd
To guide the general voice—The choice you make
Will be, by all, confirm'd.
VALDORE.
The lord AUMELE.
3d PRESIDENT.
[After a pauſe—the preſidents bow.]
The court allows it—Be it ſo decreed.
VALDORE.
But here are ſuitors, and their cauſe may carry
More weight, than forms like thoſe attending on
This choice—Diſpatch them firſt.
3d PRESIDENT.
Pleaſe you, my lord AUMELE, to take the chair,
We wou'd begin.
Old AUMELE.
[Seats himſelf.]
Speak, ADVOCATE; we hear.ADVOCATE.
The cauſe my client offers to your lordſhips
Is in itſelf ſo pleaful, that it needs
Nor eloquence, nor favour, in this court.
The guilty, when condemn'd, confeſs your juſtice;
Our cauſe ſhall claim your mercy.
Old AUMELE.
Speak to the cauſe.
ADVOCATE.
[11]'Tis the cauſe ſpeaks.—Great Burgundy's bleſt ſtate
Had once—But ſtop.
[Pauſe.]
To ſay that her dead marſhal,The father of this brave young lord, my client,
[Pointing to CHAEONS.
Honour'd his country's name by far-fam'd ſervice,
Wou'd tax aſſertion, by a doubt undue.
You all, my lords, remember that ſo well,
'Twere injury to prove it.—In his life,
He grew indebted to theſe thrifty men;
[Pointing to the creditors.
And failing, by repeated loſs in war,
Of power to free himſelf from ſuch low claims;
I weep to tell it—But, his country ſav'd,
Saw him impriſon'd—and in priſon die.
It is a maxim in our law—that debts
Die, with inſolvent debtors: But theſe men,
Length'ning malicious pain beyond life's bounds,
From death ſnatch bodies for new chains.
They dare deny him ev'n his funeral rites;
Rites, not by heathens held from wretched ſlaves.
We humbly, therefore, pray your lordſhips pity,
Setting aſide their more than barbarous inſult,
To diſappoint revenge—That woe may reſt.
Old AUMELE.
How long have you, ſir, practis'd in this court?
ADVOCATE.
Full twenty years, my lord.
Old AUMELE.
How!—Twenty years?—
So bold an ignorance had half convinc'd me,
Your judgment ſcarce cou'd number twenty days.
ADVOCATE.
I hope, in ſuch a cauſe as this, my lord—
Old AUMELE.
How dare you thus preſume to urge the court
(Law's ſacred guardian) to diſpenſe with law?
Terror of bankrupts gave this ſtatute birth.
Go home, and with more care peruſe known acts;
And then make motions.
ADVOCATE.
[12]I ſubmit—but mourn.
[Exit ADVOCATE.
LA FOY.
Can then your lordſhips think, that he whoſe plea
Supports a friendleſs cauſe (condemn'd by law,
Tho' juſtice owns it) errs by honeſt zeal?
Old AUMELE.
Prodigious arrogance!
LA FOY.
Is reaſon ſuch!
Or is it here a maxim, that the pleader
Reads on the judge's face his cauſe's worth?
3d PRESIDENT.
Too bold LA FOY—Pay reverence where 'tis due.
LA FOY.
Or was the power you act by, truſted with you
To qualify no rigour in the laws;
But doubling ev'ry wound that mercy feels,
Treat pity like a guilt?—Oh, ſhame of ſtate!—
This ſtrictneſs of your ſour decree, that grinds
The debtor's dying bones, to feaſt the ſpight
Of a ſtill greedy creditor, who gapes
For payment from the grave's uncloſing duſt;
Condemns misfortune, to let crimes go free.
Old AUMELE.
You, ſir, that prate thus ſaucily, what are you?
LA FOY.
I am a ſoldier—If you know not me,
Ne'er has yourſelf been known in honour's courts.
Beneath the banner of the dead CHALONS,
Long witneſs of his deeds, I ſerv'd, in blood;
Sav'd your ungrateful head, and lent it means
To lift that haughty brow—my partial judge.
3d PRESIDENT.
Forbear, bold Man—'Tis raſhneſs paſt ſupport.
LA FOY.
Let thoſe proud angry Eyes flaſh lightning round,
Each object they can meet feels dumb diſdain;
[13] Shrinks from their blood-ſhot beams, and frowns within:
Long had they been, ere this, by ſome fierce hand
Torn from their taſteleſs orbs; or, ſav'd for ſhame,
Had, juſtly weeping, ſerv'd ſome needy foe;
Had I not worn a ſword, and us'd it better,
Than, in diſgrace of law, thou doſt thy tongue.
Old AUMELE.
If inſolence, like this, paſs here unpuniſh'd—
LA FOY.
Yet I—who in my country's balanc'd ſcale
Out-weigh'd a thouſand tame proud logs like thee,
Confeſs myſelf unworthy name, compar'd
With the leaſt claim of my dead general's worth.
Then from his numberleſs, long line of glories,
Make choice of any one, e'en of the meaneſt;
Whether againſt that wily fox of France,
The politick LEWIS, or more deſperate Swiſs;
Still ſhalt thou find it poize, beyond all tricks,
Craft, views, or acts, that ever gown-men thought of.
Old AUMELE.
Away—to priſon with him.
LA FOY.
Off.
[To the guards.]
If curſes,Urg'd in the bitterneſs of aching wrong,
E'er pierc'd the ear of heav'n—and drew down bolts,
On heads that moſt deſerv'd them, let not mine,
Now, riſe in vain.—Fear, from this moment;
And, fearing, feel; and tremble to ſuſtain,
The whips that furies ſhake o'er cruel men.
[To AUMELE.]
You have a ſon; take care this curſe not reach him.You clods
[To the creditors.]
in human forms, that cou'd denyEarth, gentler than your own, its mournful claim,
To cover the remains of that great chief.
May all your wives prove falſe, and bring you heirs
Of liberal hearts, whoſe riots may undo you!
Your factors all prove thieves, your debtors bankrupts;
And thou, ſtern patron of their bluſhleſs plea,
Live to loſe all thy lordſhips; not even ſave
[14] Room on thy dunghill for thyſelf and dog.
Be old before thou dieſt, to die more wretched!
That, as thou haſt deny'd the dead a grave,
Thy living miſery in vain may wiſh one.—
I've well begun—on—imitate—exceed.
[To CHALONS.
Old AUMELE.
Force him away.
[Exit LA FOY guarded.
3d PRESIDENT.
Remember where you are.
[To CHALONS.
CHALONS.
Thus low the wretched bends to thank your counſel.
I'll teach my temper'd language to ſuſpend
All ſenſe of filial pain—and ſpeak but duty.
Not that I fear to raiſe my voice as loud,
And with as fierce complaint, as touch'd LA FOY;
But that from me, who am ſo deeply ſunk
In miſery's gulph, ſo hopeleſs in diſtreſs,
'Twou'd ſeem the raſh man's means to cure deſpair,
By caſting off his load, that ends with life.
No—let my ſuffering duty to the dead
Live on—and pay the tribute of your praiſe,
Honeſt ſeverity renowns your juſtice:
Why ſhould ſuch white, unſinning ſouls as yours,
Forgive the guilt you act not?—Why ſhou'd ſervice
By any man perform'd, to bleſs his country,
Exact his country's mercy?—What tho' my father,
Ere ſcarce arriv'd at youth, out acted man;
Number'd that day no part of life, wherein
He ſnatch'd not ſome new trophy from your foes,
Was he for that to triumph o'er your courts,
Superior to the laws he fought to ſave?
What tho' the ſums he dy'd indebted for,
Were borrow'd, not for his, but publick uſe,
Shou'd he be free from payment; becauſe poor,
From a ſpent patrimony, kindly ſpread
To the ſtarv'd ſoldiers wants?—'Twas his brave choice;
And, when the willing ſuffer,—are they wrong'd?
Old AUMELE.
The precedent were ill—
CHALONS.
[15]True, my kind lord!
What is it to your courts, that weigh but laws,
That after all our great defeats in war,
Which in their dreadful ruins buried quick
Courage and hope in all men, but himſelf;
He forc'd the foe from that proud height of conqueſt,
To tremble in his turn—and ſue for peace!
What tho' he ſav'd an hundred thouſand lives,
By hard fatigues, that robb'd him of his own;
Dauntleſs to ſummer heats, and winter's froſt,
Ill airs, mines, cannons, and th' unſparing ſword;
Was he, for that, to hope eſcape from debt,
Or privilege from priſon?
3d PRESIDENT.
'Twas his fault
To be ſo prodigal—he ſhou'd have ſpar'd.
Old AUMELE.
The ſtate allow'd him what maintain'd their army.
CHALONS.
You ſay he ſhou'd have ſpar'd—He ſhou'd indeed—
Have ſpar'd, to truſt his hopes on hopeleſs ground.
I too will ſpare to ſpeak the pangs I feel,
And feed my thoughts within.—Yet to theſe men,
[To the creditors.]
To theſe ſoft-hearted men, theſe wiſe men, here;Theſe only good men—Men that pay their debts;
To theſe, I turn my hopes—theſe honeſt ſouls!
1ſt CREDITOR.
And ſo they are.
2d CREDITOR.
It is our doctrine, ſir.
CHALONS.
Be conſtant in it—leſt you change your road,
And ſtraggle to ſalvation—Do not cheat
The devil of his beſt dues—make punctual payment.
But my ſad ſwelling heart forgets its cue—
On deaf and narrow natures, ſuch as yours,
[16] I will not waſte one hint that honour loves;
The court ſhall ſqueeze no ſcruple from the law,
That lends your ſelon hearts the weight of right.
I know there is no muſick to your ears
More pleaſing, than the groans of men in pain:
The tears of widows, and the orphans cry,
Feaſt but your happier ſenſe of wealth's coarſe joy.
But rather than my father's reverend duſt,
Shall want its place in that ſtill monument
Where all his ſilent anceſtors ſleep ſafe,
Take me, your living pledge—Renounce the dead,
And, in my fetter'd freedom, find revenge.
I am poſſeſs'd of ſtrength to ſcorn your malice,
Shun the deteſted world, and love reſtraint.
I wou'd forget the ſun, that ſhines on you,
And chuſe my dwelling where no light can enter.—
Releaſe my father's corps.
VALDORE.
Alas! young lord,
Conſider well what hopes you caſt away;
Your liberty, youth, joy, life, friends and fame.
Your bounty is employ'd upon a ſubject,
That cannot feel its vaſtneſs: The known glory
Of your dead father vindicates his urn,
Treads on their living duſt who wrong his name,
And breaks the priſon's gates that bind his body.
Old AUMELE.
Let him alone—the young man loves renown:
If he courts miſery, let miſery meet him.
Provided theſe conſent, the court objects not.
CHALONS.
Conſent!—the wrongful doubt offends their wiſdom.
Can theſe trade-tools lie ſullen, and ſhun work,
When willing intereſt hires 'em?—Calls their idol,
And ſhall their zeal grow deaf—and drop their worſhip?—
From my dead father's corps what hopes of profit?
Nay, they have there no chance of giving pain.
What reliſh of revenge, where 'tis not felt?
[17] In me they're ſure, at leaſt of preſent vengeance,
And cheriſh proſpect of ſome future gain.
1ſt CREDITOR.
What think you of the offer?—Shall we cloſe?
2d CREDITOR.
I like the motion well—It gives ſome hopes.
1ſt CREDITOR.
Some young, unthinking girl, or gay, warm widow,
Pleas'd with his fame for manly deeds in arms,
May pay us all our debts, and bind him hers.
3d PRESIDENT.
What is your anſwer?
2d CREDITOR.
You ſhall ſpeak for all.
1ſt CREDITOR.
Make all our actions on his father laid,
Stand the ſon's debts, and we releaſe the body.
Old AUMELE.
The court muſt grant you that.
CHALONS.
I thank you all.
In this you have confer'd a glory on me,
That nobly over-pays your envious view.
Come, lead me to the gloom I long to find;
'Twill free me from your forms, and ſhade my own.
[Exit, with creditors, officers, &c.
Old AUMELE.
Strange madneſs!
VALDORE.
Madneſs, do you call it!—Term it
Strange, generous extacy of matchleſs virtue!
Worthy of happier fortune, nobler fate!—
But reſt that now unargued.—To my cauſe
Already I have found your lordſhips bounty
So laviſh in your grants, that it ſhould teach me
To limit my deſires to narrower bounds.
3d PRESIDENT.
[18]There's nothing you can ask, we wou'd not grant.
2d PRESIDENT.
Our wills are all your own; pray uſe 'em freely.
VALDORE.
It has been here, you know, the court's kind cuſtom,
Confirm'd by time's long venerable practice,
That at ſurrender of the place I held,
Some grant indulg'd confirms a favour ask'd.
As proof then of your grace, that loves to give,
I tempt its proffer'd bounty.
3d PRESIDENT.
Think it yours.
VALDORE.
I ask remiſſion for that raſh LA FOY;
And that you, lord AUMELE, whoſe wrong partook
Th' affront that mov'd the court, will pardon with it,
And ſign his wiſh'd enlargement.
Old AUMELE.
Nay, my lord, demand one half of my eſtate—Take all—
But ſpare me this ſtrange prayer—It warms my wonder!
VALDORE.
If I muſt be deny'd—
2d PRESIDENT.
That cannot be.
3d PRESIDENT.
I have a voice to give.
2d PRESIDENT.
I add mine to it.
3d PRESIDENT.
If then perſuaſion fails—we muſt inſiſt,
That votes decide this queſtion.
Old AUMELE.
You are too abſolute;
I cou'd conſent to any thing but this:
Yet, this—if it muſt be—my lord—I yield.
VALDORE.
[19]I thank your hard concurrence.
Old AUMELE.
Break up the court.
[The court riſes.
[Exeunt, all but VALDORE and ſervant.
VALDORE.
I'll follow inſtantly.—
LE FER.
LE FER.
My lord.
VALDORE.
What didſt thou think, but now, of young CHALONS;
How did his conduct ſtrike thee?
LE FER.
With due wonder; and ſo did brave LA FOY's.
VALDORE.
Fye, fye; he's faulty.—
What ready money have I unaſſign'd?
LE FER.
Enough for every uſe your wiſh can form.
VALDORE.
'Tis well.—I'm wounded, when the brave feel pain:
Some call this weakneſs—Heav'n turn their hearts.
The filial piety of young CHALONS, demands reward
Beyond our admiration.—
Methinks from his example—low mankind,
Shou'd riſe in body's ſcorn—for taſte of mind;
Fly the coarſe droſs, that weighs down virtue's claim;
Stretch for futurity—and grapple fame.
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the firſt Act.
ACT II.
[20]SCENE I.
A PRISON.
GOALER and LE FER.
GOALER.
SO ripe a judgment, at an age ſo young;
'Tis wonderful!
LE FER.
Religious—tho' a ſoldier!
GOALER.
That ſtill is more a wonder!—So to quit,
In the ſtrong tide of youth, his flowing fortune;
Drop his own living taſte of joy's full feaſt,
To give his father's dead remains a grave,
Seems ſomething that exceeds the bounds of faith.
LE FER.
It makes a golden precedent indeed!
It teaches piety a bright, new road,
To reach perfection by a ſhorter cut.
GOALER.
What is his age?
LE FER.
Scarce three and twenty years. I remember
When firſt he ſerv'd unhappy Burgundy,
Under his more unhappy father's wing;
Where ſerving and commanding, he learn'd both,
With ſuch a ready fire and temper mix'd,
That ſometimes he appear'd his father's father;
And never leſs, than our great captain's ſon.
GOALER.
Look, where he comes; and ſee his friend, LA FOY,
Waiting the father's corps, the ſon has freed,
Now moving to its laſt, long priſon's cell.
[21]Enter Funeral, attend by CHALONS, LA FOY, &c.
LA FOY.
How like a ſilent ſtream, by night's dark brow
O'er-ſhaded, gliding under ſtill cold ſhowers,
Moves the ſlow march of that ſad ſolemn train!
Tears, ſighs, and mournful black, but paint woe's face,
Within lies all the depth that drowns diſtreſs.
CHALONS.
Stay, friends, a moment—while a wretch, deny'd
To bear due murmurs to the cave of death,
Bounds here his hollow groans. Reſt, reſt awhile.
[To the bearers, who ſet down the hearſe.
Oh! hail; for ever hail! dear reverend ſhade!
Adieu, ye lov'd remains of that bleſs'd form,
Who gave a nation reſt—and loſt his own!
Cruel extent of proof, that he who toils
To ſerve (miſtaken thought) the publick cauſe,
Works for a fleeting ſhadow, that but ſeems
To wear a tempting ſhape—a dream, and fades.
Here ſtands thy poor executor—thy ſon;
More proud a captive, thus thy hearſe to free,
Than when he fought thy cauſe, and ſhar'd its fame.
Of all the thouſands thou haſt ſerv'd and ſav'd,
Theſe only cou'd remember. Theſe dear few,
Remember well—for they forget not gratitude.
I thank you—and I wiſh I cou'd reward;
'Tis the laſt friendly aid you lend his love.
His native land, like an unnatural mother,
Not only has devour'd the worth ſhe bore,
But blots it from her memory's blank record;
Leaving thy heir (great ſtain of want!) ſo poor,
He cannot buy thee one ſad humble ſtone,
To mark its only ſpot exempt from ſhame.
[Obſerves the ſoldiers weep.
Alas! the mournful ſcene's not wholly mine!
The honeſt ſoldiers weep!—LA FOY too weeps!
Oh, heaven! behold a miracle of virtue,
The very goaler weeps!—And look, LA FOY,
[22] The plaintiff crocodiles themſelves ſhed tears!
Nay, then—my father's bones ſhall need no tomb:
Be theſe his body's balm; theſe drops, more hard
Than Idumean flints, on ſun-burnt plains!
[Creditors ſeem to weep.
LA FOY.
Away, ye ſniv'ling rogues! nor mix prophane
The dry-drawn tribute of a whine like yours,
With rites of heart-felt ſorrow—Howl not here:
Strain your fqueez'd eye-ſtrings 'till they crack, for pain;
Ne'er ſhall one generous dew-drop ſtart, for virtue.
PRIEST.
On with the proceſſion.
CHALONS.
Hold—Yet hold—
But, 'till in preſence of his honour's hearſe,
I ſtruggle 'till I find a few poor legacies.
[To a ſoldier]
Come hither, generous ſoldier—Wear this ring;'Twill, when thou ſeeſt it, bid thy valour glow
Diſtinguiſh'd as thy pity.
Thou, good friend,
[To another]
Croſs thy afflicted manly breaſt ſhall bind
This ſcarf—and doubly dye the warlike crimſon.
[To the bearers]
You, gentle bearers of the nobleſt load,That e'er preſs'd willing ſhoulders, take this purſe;
Divide its little all—For thee, LA FOY,
Poor as thou think'ſt thy friend, I've gold yet leſt:
Take thou this medal; wear it for his ſake
Who knew thy worth, and lov'd it.
And now my wants and wealth are ended all:
Now—bleak, inhoſpitable world, farewel;
Darkneſs will, gratis, in my ſilent cell
Furniſh an unbought ſhelter—Life's ſhort ſtorm
Blown over, I once more ſhall meet my father.
'Till then—Tears ſpeak the reſt.
[Weeps.
LA FOY.
On—on—he ſhakes me.
[23]Funeral proceeds.
1ſt CREDITOR.
No farther.
[Stopping CHALONS.]
Goaler, at your peril, keep him.What! ſquander our eſtate before our faces!
GOALER.
Sir—Pleaſe you to return?
2d CREDITOR.
Pleaſe!—He ſhall pleaſe.
Come, every little helps—and money's money.
CHALONS.
Dear, venerable earth!—Adieu, for ever!
[Goes in.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE II.
A CHAMBER in VALDORE's Houſe.
Enter AMELIA and FLORELLA.
AMELIA.
Your ſtory of CHALONS has greatly mov'd me.
If AUMELE touch'd my thoughts, 'twas partial folly;
Yet 'twas not love, 'twas duty; ſince my father
Pointed his lightneſs out, not warn'd me from it.
FLORELLA.
AUMELE is light, deceitful, looſe, ignoble;
Loves every face, is every woman's claim,
And ſhe who firſt believes, is firſt undone.
His very friendſhip's falſe—Himſelf, whom only
He wiſhes not to cheat, he cheats the moſt.
He courts you for a miſtreſs, not a wife.
AMELIA.
No more—I hear him with ſuſpecting hope;
And doubt, I ſhou'd not truſt him.
FLORELLA.
Still 'tis thus!—
Woman, by nature form'd to be undone,
Oft ſees, yet helps the treaſon ſhe wou'd ſhun.
[24]Enter Young AUMELE.
AMELIA.
Huſh, good FLORELLA—huſh—No more—He comes!
The gay, the witty, cou'd I add the juſt,
AUMELE were all the maid belov'd cou'd wiſh.
[Exit FLOR.
AUMELE.
Lov'lieſt AMELIA; if, before my hour,
I break on your retirement, thank your charms.
Love has its wing'd deſires, when beauty calls.—
Sweeter than ſpring! than ſummer's ſun more awful!
Yet colder than the winter's ſtarry nights!
Say, how much longer will that frozen heart
Reſiſt the warmth it gives me?
AMELIA.
Gay AUMELE!—
Lovers make light complaints, who love like you.
Too well you gueſs the father muſt prevail,
Where daughters, by their duty, guide their choice:
You know my heart admits no wavering flame.
AUMELE.
Cou'd gifts of empty air enrich my claim,
How wealthy had you made me!—Still look angel,
But more like woman love—Meet flame with flame.
AMELIA.
Has not my father's will pronounc'd me yours?
AUMELE.
True—But methinks he gave what was not his:
Your lover's pride wou'd owe you to yourſelf.
Whate'er you to a father's orders yield,
Proves your obedience, but it proves not love:
The ſureſt teſt of love is confidence.
AMELIA.
She gives without reſerve, who gives up all.
AUMELE.
Manner, in miſer's deeds, deſtroys their bounty:
Bonds they inſiſt on—firſt—then pinch out gold;
While the true friend tells faſt, and truſts repay.
AMELIA.
[25]I underſtand you not.
AUMELE.
Had you but love,
Then cou'd you ſoon—
AMELIA.
What mean you!
AUMELE.
Credit mine—
But your calm, patient paſſion waits dull form;
Asks holy mortgage—to inſure captivity,
And doubts if honour's ties can bind like prieſts.
AMELIA.
How!—For thy honour, ſhou'd I part with mine!
Fain wou'd I think leſs ſouly of AUMELE,
Than once to fear he dares deſign my ruin.
AUMELE.
Thy ruin!—No, thy happineſs he courts—
Wou'd crown AMELIA empreſs of his ſoul,
Not warden of his body—See her reign
Sovereign, by free-born choice, with generous ſway,
Safely ſurrounded with thy guard of charms.
What need—what uſe—of yeoman duty's aid?
AMELIA.
What wou'dſt thou dare?—
AUMELE.
Why—'Tis unjuſt, my love,
To treat our queens, like ſlaves—Weigh marriage rightly,
You'll find it humbling fierce, tumultuous joy,
Concurrent wills, and elegant deſires;
Made cold, and lifeleſs all—becauſe compell'd.
AMELIA.
Oh, heaven! begone for ever from my ſight;
Nor dare to blaſt my name, from this black moment,
With breath more baneful than the viper's hiſs!
If, in ſome ſofter hour's unguarded faith,
Truſtful I liſten'd, and half hop'd thee juſt;
Spight of thy known, thy dreaded lightneſs, heard thee—
Puniſh me, angry powers, when I forgive thee!
AUMELE.
[26]Have frowns ſuch charms! why heaves that ſnowy boſom,
Unform'd for any ſighs, but thoſe of love?
[Forcing her hand, and embraces her—She puts him aſide.
Change 'em for fiercer tranſports, yet unknown:
Soft murmurs—ſtifled whiſpers—throbbing heart—
Eyes mixing angry fear, with fond defires;
Earneſt of joy too violent to laſt,
And kindly made too ſhort, leſt bliſs might kill.
[After ſtruggling, ſhe breaks from him.
AMELIA.
Unhand me, villain! traitor, fly this moment!
O! that the eyes thou wrong'ſt, cou'd look thee dead!
The curs'd hyaena's wily cry—falſe tears
Of crocodiles—All, all that's fatal, dire,
Deſtructive to our ſex—all meet in thee!
No, baſe AUMELE—once paſſion did but pauſe—
This inſult on my honour ends it all:
I'd ſooner—But begone—'tis guilt to ſee thee;
But, to hold converſe with thee, blots my fame.
[Going.
AUMELE.
Hear yet one humble word—
AMELIA.
When next I do,
Then curſe me every power that hates not virtue.
[Going, meets her father entring.
My father!—Sure he has not been a witneſs
To this man's daring perfidy!
Enter VALDORE.
VALDORE.
AMELIA!—
Young lord, allow me to expect your pardon,
[To AUMELE.
That buſineſs of importance calls my daughter.
AUMELE.
I humbly take my leave.
[Exit bowing.
[VALDORE ſees him to the door, and returns.
VALDORE.
[27]Why look you ſad, AMELIA?
AMELIA.
I was mov'd,
By news my woman brought me of this fame,
From great and generous praiſe, that crowns CHALONS.
VALDORE.
Kind heav'n prepar'd that thought to ſuit my purpoſe.
Thy duty ever met thy father's will;
And, as thou know'ſt I will but for thy good,
I have no cauſe to doubt thy wiſh'd obedience.
AMELIA.
Sir, I am yours—ſo wholly, that my heart
Unheſitating hears—when you command.
VALDORE.
To ſay I love thee, were too ſhort—Thou art
My age's only comfort—my ſoul's joy—
My hope for future time—my pride in this.
AMELIA.
Wou'd I had merit, fir, to make this juſtice.
VALDORE.
I thought, AMELIA, at my entrance here,
I ſaw thee mov'd to anger?
AMELIA.
Oh! my heart!
[Aſide.
VALDORE.
AUMELE was with thee—As I know him vain,
I fear ſome lightneſs ſhook thee!
AMELIA.
Me! my lord!
VALDORE.
Sprung from a brutal ſtem, himſelf more brutal,
I now, too late, repent I bade thee love him.
Too conſcious of his father's power, I poorly
Barter'd my love of truth, for earth's proud views;
And heaven reſentful, has reſolv'd to blaſt 'em.
To him, this morning, I ſurrender'd up
A power, his ſchemes inſidious long had croſs'd:
[28] But, by his conduct in CHALONS' juſt cauſe,
New ſhock'd by ſavage proof of flinty nature,
He wak'd me into deteſtation, due
To his whole impious race, and ſtop thy ruin.
AMELIA.
Alas! my lord, far happier had I been,
Never to have indulg'd a liſt'ning ear.
Unapprehenſive innocence, in maids,
Weighs man by its own meanings.
VALDORE.
Wary maids—
AMELIA.
Alas! there are no ſuch, when love reigns lord.
Ah! what, if in obedience to your orders,
I ſhou'd have given my heart, where you aſſign'd it?
Think to what miſery then my duty dragg'd me.
Paſſions new-born, at firſt are in our power;
But, when their tide runs ſtrong, they ſweep reſolves.
VALDORE.
Away—Ere yet the prieſt has join'd your hands,
To truſt your paſſion's range beyond your power,
Were treaſon againſt honour—If 'tis ſo,
Recal it, while you can: You are too wiſe
To doat, AMELIA, on a youth ſo weightleſs.
The ſolid lover guards his favourer's ſame,
Which the fool's whole wiſh'd joy but ſeeks to fully.
Boaſters of frothy ſoul, when young, like this,
So little too inform'd by manly virtue,
Blaſt, like a baſilisk, each fair they look on:
Loud, among lewd companions, wildly cruel.
Each but compares with each his liſt of conqueſts,
And he's moſt hero, who has ruin'd moſt.
AMELIA.
And is AUMELE of taſte deprav'd like this?
VALDORE.
Name him no more—I, whoſe miſtaken hand
Brought malady, will alſo bring the cure.
CHALONS, the brave CHALONS, ſhall claim thy heart,
[29] And prize it to its value. Smile, AMELIA;
CHALONS, that mov'd thy praiſe, deſerves thy pity.
CHALONS has ev'ry worth ſhould charm a woman;
A mind exalted, like a fancied god!
Judge it, by what thou'ſt heard of his dead father.
Example never reach'd it—It has fir'd
My blood to ſenſe of tranſport!—Give him then
Your wonder and your love.
AMELIA.
He has my wonder! has my heart's applauſe;
But, for its tenderneſs, 'tis ſcarce my own!
VALDORE.
Peace, AMELIA,
Leſt thou ſhou'dſt lead me to believe—But—no—
AUMELE had ne'er the power to wound thy honour;
I cannot then ſuſpect thy heart admits him.
Is that a man to move a lady's wiſh?
Light rival of her ſexes emptieſt arts,
The toilet and the ball-room are his fields—
Thence riſe his trophies—There expands his ſame.
AMELIA.
Yet, once, you thought him worthieſt of my love.
VALDORE.
How careful ſhou'd men be to weigh reſolves!
Puſh thought to conſequence, and take in fear!
Elſe comes reproach, let looſe—for ever ours.
I charge you, on my bleſſing, ſhun AUMELE;
And view CHALONS as one that claims your love.
Enter LE FER.
LE FER.
LA FOY, my lord, attends,
[Exit.
VALDORE.
AMELIA—you may now
Retire, to ſuit 'your wiſh to my command;
Or bear the weight of a wrong'd father's curſe,
And live a ſtranger to me.
AMELIA.
Oh! ſir!—Oh! father!
[Kneeling.
VALDORE.
[30]Away—I will not hear thee!—Go—Obey!
[Exit AMELIA, weeping.
Enter LA FOY.
VALDORE.
I wiſh'd to ſee you, ſir, for your own ſake;
'Twas to lend counſel [...] your iron raſhneſs:
Love of your bravery forc'd me to eſteem you.
Haſte, and ſubmit yourſelf to warm AUMELE.
Weigh your too bold contempt of a court's power,
And deprecate its vengeance.
LA FOY.
When I do—
May my tongue rot.—My lord, you know not me.
Submit, and crave forgiveneſs of a brute!
What tho' his wealth were equal to a monarch's?
Nay, tho' himſelf a monarch (as his pride
Out-monarch's his crown'd maſter's) let me die
The death his baſeneſs merits, ere once ſtoop
To think commiſſion'd brutes are leſs than monſters.
Does he not uſe his power to cruſh the needy?
Oppreſs the ſoldier, ſcholar, all deſert?
Nay, wrong'd he not the marſhal!—Nature form'd
This loath'd, wry mouth of law, to ſcare mankind,
By ſcorn of ugly vice, to love of virtue!
How ſavagely the brute blaſphemer ſpoke
Of the dead general!—Ask him forgiveneſs!
Firſt let me periſh law-ſtruck—A judge!—A dog!
How he inſulted o'er the brave man's memory!
Perdition ſeize him for't!—I weep to think on't!
VALDORE.
I was to blame
To yield my place too blindly—But, perhaps,
'Tis practicable to retrieve that error.—
Sir, give not way to paſſion.
LA FOY.
I weep not when I fight—But, pardon me,
I melt becauſe too weak to check oppreſſion.
[31] Whene'er I think of the vile injuries,
The bold black injuries done my worthy maſter,
I cou'd devour him piece-meal.
VALDORE.
Pray be temperate—
I but adviſe your frenzy—not conſtrain:
Opinion is as free as air—and they
Who err in power, are leaſt exempt from cenſure.
Enter LE FER.
LE FER.
The creditors attend with count CHALONS.
VALDORE.
Pay thoſe hard men their claims—Wait the count in.
Pleaſe you, LA FOY, to witneſs their receipts,
And take their full releaſes—What but now
I ſaid, meant nothing—'Twas this call
Detain'd you for their coming—What you'll ſee
Will more explain my purpoſe.
LA FOY.
What I hear alarms my love and wonder.
LE FER.
This way, ſir.
[Exit LE FER and LA FOY.
Enter CHALONS, wiping his eyes and melancholy. VALDORE meets him.
VALDORE.
Brave ſir, you are moſt welcome.—Fye! be huſh'd,
You have out wept a woman!—Noble CHALONS!
No man that lives but has a father loſt,
Or once muſt loſe a father.
CHALONS.
Sir, 'tis true.—
I never thought my father was immortal;
But as I paſs'd your hall, his reverend picture
Smil'd on my ſtartled eye, and forc'd ſome tears.
VALDORE.
My lord—I lov'd your father—and wou'd wiſh
One favour from his ſon.
CHALONS.
[32]Of me—a favour!
What has he left to grant, who wants his liberty?
VALDORE.
The liberty you think you want, is yours.
The rich man that beholds the brave in chains,
And pants not for his freedom, is a ſlave.
Jewels or gold, whate'er your wants require,
Take all that I poſſeſs, and end reſtraint.
You look amazement.
CHALONS.
Nay, I am amaz'd!
You cannot mock diſtreſs—Natures, like yours,
Call feign'd compaſſion inſult. But your virtue
Shall wonder, in its turn—for I'll not tax
Your bounty for myſelf—But beg releaſe
(In my forgotten ſtead) of poor LA FOY.
Enter LA FOY.
VALDORE.
See what a power the prayers of good men hold!
I give him to your friendſhip—and to his
I join your own due freedom—Live and love.
Your father's debts diſcharg'd, his name ſhines free.
LA FOY.
'Tis an aſtoniſhing, yet ſacred truth!
I come from witneſſing the generous deed—
See here, your own diſcharge.
CHALONS.
Honour'd VALDORE!—
[Pauſes.]
But words won'd wrong my meaning.Dumb be my tongue, while bluſhes only ſpeak—
All language is too light, for deeds like theſe!
VALDORE.
Wou'd you requite 'em, count?
LA FOY.
Command his life—
And, if one ſerves not; throw in mine, my lord.
[CHALONS ſtands ſtruck with ſilent attention.
VALDORE.
[33]I have an only child, her mother's likeneſs,
Care of my life, and comfort of my years!
I ſtand ſo near the brink of time's dark ſtream,
That ſoon in courſe I muſt drop in, and die:
Fain wou'd I firſt provide a guard more ſtrong
For my AMELIA's youth, than age like mine.
Her birth perhaps leſs ſplendid, match'd with yours,
Yet worthy nobleſt notice. Take her, then,
And with her all my fortune—Call her wife.
Thank me, by loving her; 'tis all the gratitude
My hopes, from brave CHALONS, can bear to claim.
CHALONS.
Oh! what delightful payments you exact,
When you thus plunge me deeper far in debt!
Now, not my life's laſt toils can ever pay you.
She were, without a dower, a prince's prize;
How greatly then too rich, too dear, for me!
VALDORE.
Is it reſolv'd then?
CHALONS.
Sir—I have lov'd her long—
Deſpairing (loſt in fortune's clouds) to gain her.
Her beauty is the boaſt of Burgundy;
Her father is VALDORE!—There honour ſtrikes
Perfection's proudeſt point—and joy ſtands dumb.
Heav'n grant her generous will but pleas'd as mine,
And ere the ſun yet ſets—his day's a year.
VALDORE.
Enough, I anſwer for her willing duty.
She wants no ſenſe of that—and knows your worth.
This day ſhall ſmile on my compleated wiſh.
CHALONS.
'Tis more than love's ſtretch'd arrogance of hope
Durſt promiſe my deſires. Oh, ſir! I groan
Beneath ſuch added weight of benefit!
You, CURTIUS like, have caſt into the gulph
Of our ſunk Burgundy's ungrateful ſhame,
Your fame and fortune, to redeem her name.
VALDORE.
[34]Fortune's an empty well—and hoards but air,
'Till uſe lends weight to wealth—and taſte to care:
Then ſhine the rich man's joys—when ſhar'd they flow;
He that wou'd well poſſeſs, muſt wide beſtow.
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the ſecond Act.
ACT III.
[35]SCENE I.
A GARDEN, belonging to VALDORE's Houſe.
On one ſide, FLORELLA and AUMELE diſcover'd, talking earneſtly: On the other, enter BELGARD.
BELGARD.
SO! he has lodg'd me here, for his old purpoſe.
How baſe are theſe employments!—I'll forſake him.
Thinks he, becauſe I owe his father's purſe
My poor ſubſiſtence, I but eat to ſin!
From this cloſe conference, and that low voice,
The new bride's faithleſs maid, or I gueſs wrong,
Betrays ſome truſted ſecret.—Hark! he's louder.
AUMELE.
Well—grant that I advis'd the uſeful ſcheme,
Which authoris'd thy crafty tongue to paint me
In odious lights; that, ſeeming not my friend,
Her caution ſhou'd not catch the leaſt faint glimpſe,
That I had bought thy ſervice; was you by that,
Commiſſion'd to betray me for another,
And pay CHALONS the joys beſpoke by me?
FLORELLA.
If you cou'd hear—I meant to do you ſervice;
Enrich you, by your loſs—Never, 'till now,
Was your hope likely—never near, 'till now.
AUMELE.
Thy fancy is all woman—Wind and feather!
FLORELLA.
Will you hear me?
You ſay my lady's married—Thank heav'n for it,
And feel the clue that guides you.—Track two footſteps;
One o'er the trodden path of ſome hedg'd field,
That tempts approach to beat it more, yet tells not:
[36] The other croſs cold lawns of ſhivering ſnow,
'Till then by mortal wanderer unimprinted,
Which of theſe two proclaims diſcovery ſooneſt?
Shame on ſuch ſhallow plotters!—When in love,
Int'reſt, or treaſon, your he blunderer moves,
Without a woman's help, his wit deſtroys him.
AUMELE.
What am I to infer from this fine ſtory?
FLORELLA.
Her marriage but invites her lover's hopes;
Unbars the door of doubt, faſt lock'd by danger.
France, you well know, truſts wives with ample freedom;
And when theſe wives have maids—thoſe maids good friends—
And thoſe friends liberal hearts—What think you now?
AUMELE.
Provided ſhe conſented, this were eaſy.
FLORELLA.
Oh! there are arts—Conſent or not conſent:
In ſhort, I know ſhe loves you—Did you know
But half as well who ſerves your int'reſt there,
You'd ſcorn to weigh how dear the hope may coſt you.
AUMELE.
Nay, that's unjuſt reproach. Here's a new witneſs;
[Gives her a purſe.
I want no grateful will to note thy friendſhip:
If it ſucceeds, in this ſweet view thou ſhew'ſt me,
Be richer than thy miſtreſs.
FLORELLA.
See! I told you,
She ſhou'd walk there alone—pretend you ſought her.
[Exit FLORELLA.
BELGARD comes forward.
BELGARD.
So, ſir! I ſee for what you dragg'd me hither.
Preferr'd to be your pander. Help to ruin
A fine young lady, form'd for love and piety.
That ſhe cou'd ever fancy one ſo wicked!
AUMELE.
[37]No, no; I brought thee but to take the air,
Thy dull'd wit wanted freſh'ning: and beſides,
Thou haſt a ſword edg'd ſharp, how blunt ſoe'er
Thy ſurly virtue makes thee—Threat'nings, BELGARD,
Threat'nings grow frequent, and theſe groves are ſolitary.
What! you want money now? That makes you peeviſh.
There—
[Offers money.
BELGARD.
I ſcorn your money, ſir; nor will be bought
To a baſe act. I ſhall acquaint your father.
AUMELE.
Aye, do; he'll not believe thee—His own gambols
Lay not my way, his loves have hard round faces;
And what men wiſh not theirs, they grudge not others.
BELGARD.
But will not law defend a lady's honour?
AUMELE.
No, 'tis the lady's property: while ſo,
What legal right has power to enter on it?
Grant it were ſtolen, (as yet, woes me, it is not)
Then in comes law indeed, and makes good pen'worths
In the rogues rents that robb'd it.—Ah, BELGARD!
Had'ſt thou a kinſman judge—I'd ſay ſin cheap;
But mum for that—So, couſin, go thy way:
I'll think on thy advice, muſe here awhile,
And meet thee at the Vine, to hear more counſel.
BELGARD.
Adieu, then, if you're ſtill thus obſtinate;
The loſs is but your own: henceforth, your father
Shall hold my care excus'd for ſuch a ſon;
And I'll renounce his help, or wake his caution.
[Exit BELGARD.
AUMELE.
He went in pinch of time; for yonder walks
A ſaint, this bluſt'ring devil had ſcar'd from ſin.
He's born to ſpoil my markets.—I'll ſtand ſhaded.
[AUMELE ſtands on one ſide.
[38]Enter AMELIA and FLORELLA.
FLORELLA.
You know I never lik'd him; if I had,
Good faith, I might have laugh'd myſelf to pity:
For, cou'd you ſee how like a love-ſick mope,
The poor, touch'd penitent, weeps, prays and curſes,
Forſaken tho' he is, you'd ne'er forget him.
AMELIA.
He has too much deſerv'd the pain he ſuffers.
FLORELLA.
Wou'd you ſhun him?
Perhaps, for much he ever lov'd our grove,
He may not yet have left it.—Look!—He's here.
AMELIA.
I charge you, ſtir not—Stay, and be a witneſs,
If he dares ſpeak—But ſure he will not dare.
Light chance lends ſlander oft to idle tongues,
And innocence might ſuffer.
FLORELLA.
I will be near.
[Exit.
AUMELE approaches reſpectfully.
AUMELE.
Madam—forgive a trembling criminal;
Guilty—but greatly puniſh'd—that—thus—led,
By chance—his conſcious reverence of your power,
Permits an awful anguiſh to approach you.
AMELIA.
Chance was unkind to both; ſince neither's wiſh
Cou'd have forecaſt a meeting, neither's reaſon
Cou'd find pretence to juſtify.
AUMELE.
Oh! my AMELIA!
AMELIA.
No, falſe AUMELE!—forget preſumptious freedom.
While I was yet my own, I was not yours;
Leſs can I, when another's.
AUMELE.
[39]I was to blame—
But you have puniſh'd adoration's warmth,
As coldneſs ſhou'd be puniſh'd!
AMELIA.
Guilty warmth,
And adoration's tranſports never met.
AUMELE.
Oh! had you ſeen my agony of ſoul,
When, led by ſwift repentance, I return'd
To throw me at your feet—But met your father,
Alter'd like you—averſe to ev'ry prayer,
And all forgetful of his once kind wiſh,
You wou'd have wept the miſery you caus'd.
Diſtracted with my love, rage, ſhame, deſpair,
I loath'd my name, race, life; but, moſt, my crime,
And hid me in your groves—to die abſolv'd.
AMELIA.
Your being here is adding to your crime:
If truly penitent, offend no more.
AUMELE.
I wou'd have ſlept away ſome ſenſe of pain,
Made the cold earth my bed; and try'd all night,
Moiſten'd by midnight dews, to ſhut out ſhame:
But buſy fancy rais'd thy beauteous form
(Diſtracting image!)—giving joy to him,
Who reaps the harveſt my curs'd folly ſow'd.
AMELIA.
Be dumb—Begone—and never ſee me more:
Honour demands it now, if juſtice did not.
I can no more—I ſhou'd forget thee quite,
But thy fault will not let me. Once I dreamt,
And flumb'ring fancy ſhew'd thee gay, kind, honeſt;
But, waking, 'twas no more.
AUMELE.
You wou'd forget me then?
AMELIA.
I muſt, and will forget thee.
AUMELE.
[40]If it muſt be—'tis beſt I take my leave:
He cannot die too ſoon, who lives for ſcorn.
AMELIA.
I do not wiſh your death; but go—for ever.
AUMELE.
For ever is a diſmal ſound, AMELIA!
Wou'd it be more than pity might allow,
Since all my crime, bold as it was, was love,
To grant one laſt—ſoft—trembling—diſtant touch,
[Takes her hand to kiſs it. She draws it back again.
Of this dear hand—that ſhuns me? 'Twas too much;
'Twas extaſy too great for one condemn'd.
AMELIA.
Begone, AUMELE!
AUMELE.
Grant one nearer rapture—
[Takes her hand again.
And it ſhall dwell ſo ſweetly on my thought,
That memory ſhall admit no ſad idea.
This laſt permitted tranſport, and I go.
[Kiſſes her hand.
Enter LA FOY, at a diſtance, and ſtarts.
Yet, ſince I never am to ſee you more,
You will not, muſt not, think deſpair grows bold,
If I thus force one warmer, dearer draught,
From theſe preſs'd lips, to cool my ſeveriſh ſoul.
[Struggling, he kiſſes her.
AMELIA.
Leave me, preſumptuons, grief-ſtruck madman,
Leave me.
AUMELE.
I wou'd—but 'tis impoſſible.
LA FOY.
Sure 'tis a viſion.—
[Draws his ſword.
Draw, ruſſian, or thou dy'ſt.
[AUMELE retreats fighting in confuſion, follow'd out by LA FOY.
AMELIA.
[41]FLORELLA—where?—Oh! wretched, loſt AMELIA!
This only wanted to compleat thy woe.
My fame's fair promiſe, my white name, is loſt:
Blood too muſt follow.—Innocence, in vain,
Will now appeal to truth's diſtruſted aid,
And I am black as guilt—indulging none,
[Exit, in diſorder.
Enter LA FOY, putting up his ſword.
LA FOY.
Light as the robber's purpoſe was his foot,
And he has 'ſcap'd my vengeance. Now I'm cool,
Let me reflect.—I'm glad of his eſcape,
His death had broad proclaim'd her now hid ſhame.
What ſhall I do? Shall I conceal or tell it?
Something I muſt reſolve, nor injure friendſhip.
Had ſhe been well inclin'd—To keep her cautions,
Her ſecret ſhou'd be kept—But—She's a woman;
And who can ſtem their paſſions? To ſurmount
Her ſex's rage of heart beneath reſtraint,
Is harder than to prop a falling tower.
Enter VALDORE.
VALDORE.
Good morning, my LA FOY.
LA FOY.
My lord, good morrow.
[Aſide.]
How if I break it to him? He is wiſe,And his authority will give due weight
And warrant to his counſels.—
It ſhall be ſo.
VALDORE.
'Tis an inſpiring ſun—and the day ſhines;
Good omen to your friend's beginning joys.
LA FOY.
Yes, the air's hot—I wiſh it had been purer:
VALDORE.
I never heard it merited that cenſure.
LA FOY.
[42]Some climes change faſt, my lord.
VALDORE.
I pray, be plain.
LA FOY.
I ſtand engag'd for ſuch unbounded favour,
That 'twere to be ungrateful to be dumb,
On what concerns your honour.
VALDORE.
Honour!—How?
LA FOY.
Serious and penſive in my morning's walk,
Led through theſe covering groves and hid between 'em,
I ſaw your daughter and AUMELE—
VALDORE.
How, ſaw 'em?
LA FOY.
Cloſe as the grove they kiſs'd in.
VALDORE.
Kiſs'd in, ſoldier!
LA FOY.
Faith, I'm no orator;
Knew I a word more kind than kiſs, you'd had it.
VALDORE.
I hope you ſaw no guilt, beyond that promiſe.
LA FOY.
She ſtruggl'd, and he preſs'd her; ſhe ſtruggl'd on,
And he preſs'd cloſer. 'Twas no more than woman
Can all, by nature, do as well as ſhe did.
VALDORE.
I muſt inform you, ſir, my daughter's modeſty
Diſcredits this bold tale, that ſtains her virtue.
I know not from what quarter to ſuſpect,
Unleſs ſome hatred of AUMELE's light race,
Propell'd you to accuſe him. If 'twas ſo,
'Tis an ungenerous anger; that, for vengeance
'Gainſt an offending foe, forgets the friend.
I will, however, hold a watchful eye
[43] O'er her examin'd conduct; and mean while
Truſt, and demand your ſilence.
[Exit VALDORE, angrily.
LA FOY.
Curſe on my wayward fate that ſent me here,
To interrupt their loves—It was ill-breeding.
Some ſoft, cool wit, whom love more warm'd than friendſhip,
Had paſt it o'er, or forwarded the buſineſs;
So wiſely gain'd good will—and pleas'd 'em all.
Enter CHALONS.
CHALONS.
Muttering alone, LA FOY? what fretful ſcheme,
What melancholy rage of honeſt heart,
Diſturbs thy ſpleen thus early? Prythee brighten;
Since fortune ſmiles at laſt—for ſhame, ſmile with her.
If thou'rt untouch'd within, and know'ſt no joys
Thy own—let mine inſpire thy ſullen temper.
LA FOY.
Yes—that's a wiſe man's plot—Thy joys diſtrub me.
CHALONS.
Thou art too good for envy? What then moves thee?
How can a happineſs, like mine, diſtreſs thee?
Married to beauty—reconcil'd to hope;
Splendid in riches—in thy friendſhip happy;
And bleſt by fame and love—what want I more?
LA FOY.
One thing I'm ſure you want.
CHALONS.
What's that?
LA FOY.
Diſtruſt
Of woman's wavering love.
CHALONS.
Nay, now thou'rt cynical:
Merits my wiſe no truſt?
LA FOY.
Aye—truſt her on.
As to myſelf, I feel no pain from woman:
'Twas for your ſake, I found one not quite angel.
CHALONS.
[44]For my ſake!—Be explicit in thy charge,
And eaſe my heart's new anguiſh.
LA FOY.
No—reſt it here:
You are too young a lover—III prepar'd
For proofs your faith will ſtart from; 'twill unman you,
CHALONS.
What can'ſt thou mean?
LA FOY.
Why ſhou'd I pull down plagues?
Why ſhould I ſtrike diſeaſes through thy bones,
Beyond the cure of medicine—Scorch thy blood;
Rob thy torn hours of peace—and ſend in pain?
Better continue blind, than ſee but miſery.
CHALONS.
Thou ſtrik'ſt a deadly coldneſs to my heart.
Point out this foe to life; that, like a man,
I may ſubdue, or bear it. Am I not,
(Cruel LA FOY!) was I not bred—a ſoldier?
If it be fate, I'll meet it—If but a fault
That cankers on my mind, I'll cut it off,
Or cure it by my reaſon. Thus adjur'd,
If you continue dumb, you doubt my courage,
LA FOY,
I've heard that married men find friends in heav'n:
You ſhou'd have many there—Pray their kind guard
To keep your fair wife chaſte.
[Is going.
CHALONS.
Stay—what ſaid'ſt thou?
Take this devouring wolf out of my breaſt.
Stay—or for ever loſe me.
LA FOY.
Nay—I but go,
Leſt I ſhould loſe thee.
CHALONS.
Have a care thou doſt not;
Thou haſt inflam'd me now—and I will have it.
LA FOY.
[45]Nay—be content—thou haſt it.
CHALONS.
Death and hell!
Haſt it!—what have I?
LA FOY.
Why a fine young wife.
How can I help it, if ſhe too has claims,
Beyond all rights allow'd her.
CHALONS.
Rights! claims!—Furies!
Speak plainly, or thou dy'ſt.
LA FOY.
Why there 'tis, now!
Was it my fault, that I don't like her kiſſing
The ſon of your wrong'd father's mortal enemy?
CHALONS.
Nay, then—the world has no fix'd honour in't;
And he whom moſt I lov'd, is moſt a villain.
LA FOY.
Hark—my hot child! villain's wrong, bad word;
Uſe it no more—or, if agen thou ſpeak'ſt,
Think twice, who hears—and let no name denote him.
CHALONS.
Nature and name thy own—Hear it to heav'n,
Ye ſaints, that waſte no prayer for falſhood damn'd;
Hear it, ye winds, and blow it through his ear,
'Till his heart ſhrinks to feel it—that LA FOY,
His friend's belyar, his ſtain'd ſword's diſgracer,
Envies ſuperior bliſs—and is a villain.
LA FOY.
Madman, be dumb for ever. Thou haſt ſhrunk
Indeed my feeling heart, and pour'd in horror.
[Drawing.]
Look here—behold this ſword—bright as the truth'Tis drawn for—Never was it ſtain'd, 'till now;
But, when it wears thy blood, 'twill bluſh for pity.
CHALONS.
Hold—ere thy courage dares this deſp'rate ſtake,
[46] Throw not for life on the bad chance of guilt;
Own but thy falſhood—it ſhall ſtand forgiven.
LA FOY.
Wittal! thy wife's a wanton—That's truth; keep falſhood,
She'll want it for her dowry.
CHALONS.
Oh! my father!
[Drawing.
This was your heart's try'd friend. You lov'd him long;
And, with your dying breath, you bad me love him:
Now, from the grave that hides you from his guilt,
If poſſibly thoſe awful eyes pale beams
Can pierce the marble vault—Oh! ſee me wrong'd,
And groan reluctant licence to revenge it.
LA FOY.
Amen—to that; where the wrong lies, fall vengeance.
[Offering the medal.]
Here—ere I kill thee—take back what thou gav'ſt me.Take all that bears thy virtuous father's image;
Take back this kiſs-worn paper—Shou'd thy ſword
Force a ſucceſs thy crime's bad cauſe diſclaims,
'Twou'd, if I then retain'd that good man's gift,
Seem drawn againſt thy father. Take it from me;
Tear it, and ſcatter it in air—for ever;
So has thy raſhneſs torn the love that bound us.
CHALONS.
What wou'd this paper teach me?
LA FOY.
Teach thee—nothing;
Diſtraction will not learn—it ſhuns to hear.
'Tis the dear, grateful oath he ſign'd and gave me,
On the victorious evening of a day,
Thou dar'ſt not hear me name without a bluſh.
When cover'd o'er with blood, from wounds ill earn'd,
In thy unthank'd defence—Then fall'n and hopeleſs,
Half trampled into earth beneath the hoofs
Of fiery VILEROY's barb'd iron ſquadron;
He ſnatch'd me to his breaſt—hail'd my ſword's labour.
He wept, kind man! wept tears of grateful joy—
Gave that ſeal'd, written oath, to pay me greatly;
[47] Or, ſhou'd he die unable, leave th' oblig'd in charge,
(I ſcorn to name him) bound himſelf to pay me.
Well has he paid his father's vow!—Quick—tear it,
Let not the bond upbraid thee. Cancel that,
Since thou haſt blotted me; then, if I fall,
The payment I declin'd in life—dies too.
CHALONS.
[Drops his ſword.]
Oh! all ye bliſsful angels, who have ſeen me,What horror am I 'ſcap'd from!
LA FOY.
Raiſe thy fall'n point.
CHALONS.
Not for a thouſand wrongs wou'd I reſiſt thee.
Periſh th' unliſt'ning rage of human pride,
That burns up kind remembrance!—Wound me—kill me;
'Tis but to take your own—the life you ſav'd me.
Generous LA FOY!—brave hearts make room for pity:
Say but I'm pardon'd, and I'll dare look up,
Meet thy offended eyes—and hear thee chide me.
Why was love touch'd too roughly?
LA FOY.
[Putting up his ſword.]
Did I?—Faith,I half begin to doubt I was to blame—
But 'twill be always thus in womens matters;
Clap one of thoſe white make-bates 'twixt two pigeons,
You turn 'em into vultures!
CHALONS.
You ſay ſtrangely,
My wife gave wanton freedoms, to the ſon
Of my worſt enemy?—Sure 'twas impoſſible!
LA FOY.
Likely enough—We'll walk, and waſte an hour
On ſome freſh ſubject; air our glowing bloods,
'Till they grow cool as reaſon; then reſume
That feathery theme, and find its weight anon.
Think—have you mark'd no favour from her eye,
When it ſurvey'd AUMELE?
CHALONS.
AUMELE has long
Made boaſt of her attachment to his folly;
[48] But, as 'twas folly taught him to believe it,
I charg'd it to his lightneſs.—Yet—'twas odd,
When the prieſt join'd our hands, ſhe dragg'd her's back,
Trembling and cold; then rais'd it to her eyes,
Cover'd an ill-tim'd tear, and ſigh'd profound.
Let me conſider—
[Pauſes.
LA FOY.
Do; and this do further.
If ſhe has guilt, and you dare ſearch it boldly,
Truſt my advice—Make light of my grave jealouſy:
Laugh when you tell it her—Call it the blunder
Of an uncourtly taſte, not broke to gallantry.
I will contrive BELGARD, the honeſt hater
Of AUMELE's ſhameleſs riots, ſhall be ſent,
As from his father, to require your preſence
For two whole days, to wait th' aſſembled ſtates.
Obey the ſummons with aſſum'd regret,
Mourning ſuch tedious abſence. Then take leave,
And go no farther than to BELGARD's brother's.
But have a care—women have ſubtle piercings;
Kiſs warm at parting—cloſer—longer—kinder:
Squeeze a more hard, blind lover's hug, than ever.
CHALONS.
I will.
LA FOY.
Then leave the reſt to me.
CHALONS.
Oh! what a bliſs might marriage hopes create,
Were but its joys as permanent as great!
[Exeunt omnes.
End of the third Act.
ACT IV.
[49]SCENE I.
An ANTI-CHAMBER, in VALDORE's Houſe.
Enter FLORELLA and Young AUMELE.
FLORELLA.
YOU a young lover, and ſo near his miſtreſs—
And ſhe aſleep too—and ſtand wiſely doubting!
Go, and protect your fears within you night-gown;
Then ſafely fill your abſent rival's place.
Darkneſs can tell no tales—if rapture does not:
If you muſt ſpeak, take care you don't too ſoon;
Wiſe women know, miſtakes once paſt are helpleſs.
AUMELE.
But where's that ſullen friend? Did he go with him?
FLORELLA.
No, no—The count's kind, undiſtruſting goodneſs,
Thank'd the rough ſoldier's too officious ſight,
The husband's uſual way—and check'd his error.
AUMELE.
Impoſſible!
FLORELLA.
What can be ſo to woman?—
Drown'd in due tears, and rack'd by ſtrong deſpair,
Fled from the garden to her chamber's ſhelter,
She tore her hair, beat wild her beauteous boſom;
Curs'd ev'ry ſleeping ſtar, that watch'd not innocence;
Wounded the ſenſeleſs floor with bleeding nails,
As if ſhe plough'd up graves to cover ſhame.
Juſt in this tempeſt of ungovern'd rage,
In comes th' all-huſhing husband; kiſs'd her to ſtillneſs,
And every whirlwind's wing grew fledg'd with down;
Soft lent his head on her hard-heaving boſom,
While in an eager, doubt-diſpell'd embrace,
He broke the chain of fear that held her dumb.
AUMELE.
No more of their embraeing—paſs that by.
FLORELLA.
[50]He told her all the rough LA FOY's report,
But laugh'd at, while he told it—Generous ſpouſe!
He ſcorn'd to ſee too clear—'twas wronging love!
Sorry he was (and there the jeſt grew pang-full)
That, for two endleſs ages—two—long—nights!
He muſt, that moment, leave her. All the reſt
I have already told you; and thus near her,
I dare not truſt, in my conſtraint of muſcles,
To tell it o'er again—for I ſhall laugh;
Nay, laugh too loud—and if ſhe wakes, all's over.
AUMELE.
By CUPID's dart,
I love thee for thy virtues! Thy keen rays
Of ſparkling wantonneſs have fir'd my fancy,
And I could kiſs thee into tenfold extaſy!
[Kiſſes her eagerly.
FLORELLA.
Pſha! mind your buſineſs, my French man of ſtraw;
Soon kindled, ſoon burnt out—The proverb knew ye.
AUMELE.
Well—thou ſhalt ſee I am a judge's ſon;
I will be ſtay'd, and reverend—But let me once
Catch thee behind the curtain of occaſion,
And if there's judge or ſerjeant 'mongſt 'em all
Makes ſweeter uſe of darkneſs—I'm his client.
Heav'n ſave me! what a dreadful thought was that?
FLORELLA.
My lady and myſelf, alone inhabit
This right wing of the manſion—You may ſecure
Undreſs in the next chamber; two doors farther
You'll find your hope ſoft ſleeping. Take the night-gown,
She'll dream the count return'd. Keep your voice under;
Short murm'rings paſs for eloquence in love.
Whiſper, whene'er you give her breath for queſtion,
That you receiv'd freſh orders, and return'd.
AUMELE.
Sweet oracle!—Hadſt thou been born in Greece,
CUPID were king of Delphos. Here, eat gold—
Melt the whole purſe.
[Gives her a purſe.
FLORELLA.
[51]One hint more I'll give you—
When you ſucceed, triumphant in your ſcheme,
Own, in ſoft tumult, and with humbleſt joy,
The pleaſing theft—Leſt, ignorant of that,
She might blab ſecrets in a husband's ear,
Wou'd ſet his brains a madding. Timely warn'd,
She will be glad to bury what is paſt;
And for her own ſake, or for yours, conceal it.
AUMELE.
No more, but truſt me to my fate—Away;
I can no longer my fierce joys delay;
Too ſwiftly ended, with approaching day.
[Exeunt ſeverally.
Enter LA FOY, ſoftly.
LA FOY.
By the count's maſter-key I've paſt three doors,
Yet fail to find this cloſet. 'Tis no matter,
I'm ſure I've ſprung my quarry—So there needs
No covert, from a game already ſtarted.
How ſhall I act? If I alarm the houſe,
And he once more eſcapes, VALDORE's blind truſt,
In this chaſte daughter's modeſty, will break
His ſpleen with laughter—and conclude me mad.
Enter CHALONS, penſive.
Hark! there's ſome cautious ſtep!—It muſt be he;
He enter'd with a view, that bids tread ſoft—
Guilt ſtands in need of ſilence. May this
Good ſword and arm for ever fail me,
If he out-lives this meeting—
CHALONS.
Who is there?
LA FOY.
Shrink from thy horrid purpoſe, fatal ſword:
Is not that voice CHALONS's?
CHALONS.
LA FOY!
LA FOY.
The ſame.
Speak ſoftly—Why are you come hither, now?
[52] You promis'd to be patient, and expect
'Till I return'd to call you,
CHALONS.
Is ſhe innocent?
I glow with pain to wait that dear, wiſh'd news.
I dare be ſworn, you found her watchful virtue,
Befieging heav'n with pray'rs for my return.
How have you mark'd her bufied? All was huſh'd,
As through the private grot I paſs'd unſeen;
All was ſerene as peace. Still midnight nods,
And nothing breathes in this lull'd houſe like guilt.
LA FOY.
I hope, all's well—and wiſh you wou'd begone.
CHALONS.
Begone firſt, ſelf-tormenting jealouſy!
Thou dire camelion, that from air's each blaſt
Catcheſt new colours—and deceiv'ſt to live!
Honeſt LA FOY—'tis generous, as a god,
To change hard haſty doom—and make it mercy.
LA FOY.
In mercy too, ſome ſcars I yet retain;
Remitted—but not cur'd. Go—my heart bleeds,
And ſhuns to tell thee more—Go hence, this moment.
CHALONS.
Nay, then there's fate!
LA FOY.
You'll make it fate, by ſtaying.
CHALONS.
Anſwer me only this,
LA FOY.
Be brief—propoſe it.
CHALONS.
What have you ſeen—of what I dread to hear?
LA FOY.
Beſt friend—Your ſorrows make you doubly ſuch.
CHALONS.
Go on; I find then there is cauſe for ſorrow.
LA FOY.
[53]Oh! wou'd to heaven there was not. I have ſeen
(Oppreſs'd by all thy miſeries made my own,
How can I tell thee) thy fond faith's miſplac'd.
I love thee more than ever; for I add
My pity to my friendſhip.—
Thou muſt prepare thy honeſt heart for woe.
Here, like a ghoſt that haunts its hidden treaſure,
With melancholy glide thou ſtalk'ſt along,
Fond of the dirty earth thou tak'ſt for gold.
CHALONS.
If thou haſt pity, torture me no longer.
LA FOY.
Scarce had I turn'd the corner of the ſtreet
That fronts this fatal houſe—ere I beheld,
Swift paſſing by me, muffled from their note,
AMELIA's faithleſs favourite maid, FLORELLA;
And cloſe behind her, as ſin follows hard
Upon temptation's heels, on ſtalk'd AUMELE.
I ſaw 'em enter—Saw the door ſhut ſoftly:
Watch'd, 'till the lights extinguiſh'd ſhew'd all quiet;
Then follow'd, by the way you lately taught me.
He's ſtill within; if you, without much noiſe,
Search cloſe, you'll find him cloſer. If he ſtarts,
I'll ſeize him at his out-ſhot.
CHALONS.
Give me thy ſword.
LA FOY.
I'll keep it for your uſe—but not your folly.
CHALONS.
If you refuſe it now, you ſtain my fame.
LA FOY.
You know I wear it, but to ſerve your cauſe;
Let me go with it, you command it freely.
CHALONS.
I ſhall be ſham'd for ever, if thy raſhneſs
Denies to truſt me with it.
LA FOY.
[54]So adjur'd,
I am no more its maſter—Uſe it wiſely.
CHALONS.
Go, and be ſafe then—by the way you came.
Take my repentant thanks for all paſt goodneſs,
[Embracing LA FOY.
And pardon your poor friend, that—once—he wrong'd you.
Oh! my LA FOY, they who have ſoldier's hearts,
Unmingled with the lover's, never felt
The ſoftning pangs of tenderneſs we ſuffer.
Did you but know to what exceſs of joy
I rais'd my fooliſh hope, from this lov'd woman,
You wou'd forget my fault—and call it weakneſs.
LA FOY.
Before you let your paſſion looſe once more,
Take care it not deceives you. Heedfully
Convince yourſelf of wrongs, we now but fear;
And, above all, be mindful ſhe's a woman.
CHALONS.
Yet once embrace me, dear, too kind LA FOY.
If we muſt meet no more—tell the hard world
My wrongs—and vindicate an injur'd name.
[Exit, as into the chamber.
LA FOY.
I'll hover near, and hold attentive note
On what may want prevention. Swords us'd raſhly,
May juſtify intruſion every where.
I haunt no beauty's bed-chambers—Pray heav'n
He finds not AUMELE does.—I rais'd my voice
Higher than prudence ton'd it, purpoſely
To warn eſcape from danger.—Troth, this pain
Wounds my poor friend, beyond the cauſe's claim:
I cou'd half hate myſelf, for having given it.
[A noiſe of footſteps within.
That's a new ſtep, and near me; by its ſound,
'Tis from a different quarter.
[55]Enter FLORELLA, frighted.
FLORELLA.
Sure! I heard
Some noiſe!—and, if my fear deceiv'd me not,
The hum of buſy voices. Now 'tis huſh'd;
And I almoſt dare hope, 'twas but the echo
Of the wind's hollow groan, through empty chambers.
I'll venture liſt'ning at the inner door;
Leſt ſome alarm has reach'd them.
[Paſſing near LA FOY, he ſeizes her.
LA FOY.
Who art thou,
That thus, in dead of night, with robber's tread,
Steal'ſt to ſome purpos'd ſcene of frighted guilt?
FLORELLA.
Say rather, what preſuming ruffian's graſp,
With-holds me from my duty?—Who, or what thou
May'ſt be, my trembling heart wants power to gueſs.
LA FOY.
I know thy raven's croak.
FLORELLA.
I am call'd FLORELLA;
Attendant on the counteſs of CHALONS.
LA FOY.
Thou art the brib'd ſhe-baw'd that led AUMELE,
Hopeful of livelier paſtime, to the ſword,
That his vain penitence and puniſh'd vanity
Have ſail'd to ſave his youth from.
FLORELLA.
Heav'n forbid!
Alas! is AUMELE dead?
LA FOY.
How dar'ſt thou doubt it?
FLORELLA.
Who murder'd him?
LA FOY.
Say, 'twas LA FOY.
FLORELLA.
[56]I knew
Thy voice, but too, too well.
LA FOY.
Thou'rt come to die;
I waited but 'till heav'n's juſt anger ſent thee,
For thou art doom'd to follow.
FLORELLA.
Oh! for pity!
Spare my defenceleſs life. I will kneel, weep,
Beg mercy undeſerv'd—and tell thee all.
LA FOY.
Has the unhappy counteſs e'er before
Been guilty with AUMELE?
FLORELLA.
No—by my ſoul!
Nor is ſhe guilty now.
LA FOY.
Play'ſt thou at riddles?
FLORELLA.
Hark! what's that frightful noiſe! I hear claſh'd ſwords,
And die with apprehenſion.
LA FOY.
Go—I want leiſure,
But ſhall examine further. Do but prove
Thy lady innocent, and claim ſome pity.
Which is the count's gilt cloſet?
FLORELLA.
See it there.
LA FOY.
I have the key—In—enter—and be ſafe,
Lock'd from eſcape or danger; 'till I ripen
The growing diſtant hope, that may releaſe thee.
[Shuts her in the cloſet. Takes the key, and puts it in his pocket.
And now, forgetful of all forms, I ruſh
To interpoſe prevention.
[Is going—Starts.
Horrid hand!
[57]Enter CHALONS, his ſword drawn and bloody.
Eyes horrid! mien confus'd—and that ſword bloody,
Make needleſs all enquiry.
CHALONS.
He is dead.
LA FOY.
Alas! too ſure you found him! Oh, 'twas thoughtleſs!
What will his father, what VALDORE, what law,
Misjudging cenſure, and the publick tongue,
What will the world and heav'n—conceive of this?
CHALONS.
I did not kill him baſely.
LA FOY.
Where is your wiſe?
CHALONS.
I've given her to the winds—They'll blow her name
Round the four borders of her country's ſcorn.
LA FOY.
Joyleſs CHALONS!—You kill'd him in her bed?
CHALONS.
No, not in bed—I found him kneeling near it.
He ſigh'd, and kiſs'd her hand with amorous boldneſs,
Mutt'ring his tranſports o'er it. Oft, in vain,
He try'd to interrupt her torrent rage
Of agoniz'd reproach, and conſcious ſhame.
Cruel, unkind AUMELE! I heard her ſay;
How can I ſee the ſun, when day-break comes?
How meet my injur'd husband's dreaded eyes,
My reverend father's tears, my friends diſdain,
The hoot of the light rabble's cutting ſcorn,
And all the killing anguiſh I muſt owe thee?
Go—for if here, by ſome diſaſt'rous chance,
Diſcover'd—'twill undo me. Patience bore it,
Even to this madding length—'twas all it cou'd,
And I was tame no longer.
LA FOY.
'Twas indeed
Too much for injur'd excellence, like thine,
To beat, from blind depravity of taſte,
That left to feed upon a boundleſs lawn,
And brows'd on a dry common!
CHALONS.
[58]Out, at once,
Burſt my relentleſs rage. Swift ſtept I to him,
Sending thy honeſt ſword before—That ne'er,
'Till then, had arm'd a hand unworthy. Take,
I cry'd, regardleſs of the ſhrieks ſhe rais'd,
Take a defence undue—protect thy vileneſs—
Nor let me baſely kill, tho' baſely wrong'd.
He roſe—leap'd back, and wonder'd—Paus'd, ſtood dumb,
And, for awhile, declin'd his urg'd defence.
" I ſhould not," he began—and purpos'd more,
" In ſuch a cauſe as this"—I ſtopp'd him ſhort—
Pour'd in reproach, and rous'd him into firmneſs.
He, in his turn, grew hot—came fiercely on—
Met the vindictive point—Sigh'd loud, and fell.
LA FOY.
Trembling I ask—raſh, violent CHALONS!
Ask with a friend's too apprehenſive dread;
Ask, ſince I muſt prepare my ear for anguiſh,
What follow'd this beginning?—The offence
Was bitter—bitterer ſtill th' offender's fate!
Oh, 'twas enough!—and ask'd no weak partaker.
CHALONS.
Eaſe that ungrounded pain—I cou'd not wound her.
Oh! had'ſt thou ſeen, and heard, thou had'ſt not fear'd it.
Speechleſs with horror—waſting fruitleſs tears;
Trembling, with force that ſhook the curtains round her;
Wringing her hands, in half-rais'd attitude,
And bending o'er the bed, through night's pale gleam,
She mark'd the bleeding form, and eye'd it ghaſtly.
" Cruel, loſt, ſhameleſs wanton!—Oh!" I cry'd,
" I want a name to ſpeak thee!—Shou'd I kill thee,
" What marble heart of cenſure durſt reproach me:
" But I remember what thou, wanton, did'ſt not;
" And, for thy ſex, I ſpare thee. Be this room
" Thy priſon, 'till that venerable judge,
" Thy own ſhock'd father, ſentence, or releaſe thee."
There, as I turn'd to go, th' unhappy ſtarter
Sprung from her pillow, caught my feet, and held 'em;
Clung, like her beauty's influence, faſt and painful;
Hung her dragg'd weight on my retarded knees,
[59] That, trembling, ſcarce ſuſtain'd me. At the door,
Fainting and hopeleſs, ſhe relax'd her hold.
I ſnatch'd th' afflicting moment, ſhook her from me;
And, priſon'd in her chamber, left her captive,
Companion of a flatterer cold and dumb,
And now grown taſteleſs of a lady's liking.
LA FOY.
Poor, poor AMELIA! what a ſate is yours!
How fall'n, from yeſter morning's awe-mix'd ſhine,
Of white untained beauty—Since 'tis thus,
I muſt approve the ſad appeal propos'd,
To an impartial judge, at once, and father:
His influence too, in your judicial proceſs,
Will balance, and 'twill all be needful there,
The vengeance of a judge leſs juſt than he.
CHALONS.
Too generous, ill-rewarded, lov'd VALDORE!
How ſhall my fick'ning ſoul find ſtrength to meet him!
I cannot—'Tis impoſſible.
LA FOY.
'Tis neceſſary:
Leave to my care that melancholy duty;
I'll bring him firſt prepar'd to ſtand the ſhock.
CHALONS.
But break not in on his too ſhort repoſe;
Shake not his unſuſpecting heart abruptly;
Wait 'till his uſual hour of waking comes:
'Twill be too ſoon, however long delay'd,
To ſigh ſuch ſorrows to him.
LA FOY.
I'll go liſten.
[Exit.
CHALONS.
Oh what a change can one ſhort hour beſtow!
To bury man's beſt hopes in endleſs woe!
Beauty's frail bloom's a cheat! Valour's brief fame
An empty ſound—The ſhadow of a name!
Riches are envy's bait—Scorn haunts the poor—
In death alone, from pain we reſt ſecure.
[Exit.
End of the fourth Act.
ACT V.
[60]SCENE I.
The ANTI-CHAMBER.
CHALONS on the floor, half rais'd, and weeping.
CHALONS.
WHY ſhou'd it be a ſin, when life grows painful,
To end it, and to truſt futurity?
Whom can the wretched here offend above,
By haſt'ning to hereafter?—Guilt, indeed,
Might pale the expiring murd'rer's conſcious cheek,
Ghaſtly with fear to meet the dead man's eye,
New glaz'd, to glare at vengeance—But the wrong'd,
The ſoul-ſick ſufferer—the deſpis'd—th' inſulted—
The poor, pin'd boneling, that, grown old in want,
Begs his cold draught, and drinks it mix'd with ſcorn;
What have theſe groundling windfalls of the world,
To fear from future tempeſts?—Out, falſe meteor!
Faithleſs in every form—This life deludes us,
Valour's but pride's big bubble. Honeſty,
The plain man's devious path to ſhun proſperity.
Learning and wit (not proſtitutes to power)
Are marks for ſhafted envy. Beauty (curſe her!)
Lures us to every chaſe of every joy.
That every plague may blaſt us—Love's blind fool-mark,
Stamp'd on the Almighty's weaken'd image, man,
Tempts but a woman's miſchief.—Down, proud worms!
Fill your ſtretch'd mouths with duſt—and farewel all.
[Throws himſelf proſtrate.
Enter VALDORE and LA FOY.
LA FOY.
See! my good lord, where on the floor extended,
Torn by too fierce a ſenſe of ſtrong diſtreſs,
The mournful miſery of his fate has caſt him!
VALDORE.
Leave this dejected bed of humble ſorrow—
For her, who—from thine ſofter—ſadly fell;
Fell, e'en too ſtain'd and low for this laſt refuge.
LA FOY.
[61]Find the forgotton firmneſs of thy brow,
And with a manly meekneſs meet compaſſion.
Who, that e'er lov'd a woman, liv'd exempt
From weakneſs that o'er-rates her?—Fye, CHALONS!
Is this that fam'd enliv'ner of the field,
Whoſe heart grew ſprightly at the trumpet's call?
Oh! I have ſeen thee war againſt diſtreſs;
Charge home, on ſoftneſs and fatigue at once,
And conquer in both onſets. Come, come, riſe;
Shift this ſad ſcene of ſhame: Change it for views
Of opening glory—that ſhall dazzle pain.
Look up—the reverend witneſs of thy weakneſs
Hides his own heart's diſtreſs, to comfort thine.
CHALONS.
[Half rais'd.]
Oh! my afflicted father!—That I thusDare face the ſorrows on that awful brow,
(Which but for generous pity of my woes,
Had felt no home-born pang)—requires more courage,
Than ever warm'd the veins of warring youth.
VALDORE.
Reach me thy hand—Lean on my feeble aid;
And, every way confiding, task my help.
CHALONS.
Too much already have I task'd your goodneſs;
Too ill have I repay'd its waſted care.
How can I look on miſeries I have made!
When I was ſunk beneath loſt mercy's hope;
Found by no far-ſtrain'd eye—This hand's kind reach,
Took pity on my wants; ſtretch'd out relief,
And drew me from a priſon's joyleſs gloom.
VALDORE.
No more of that ſad tale—forget it, now;
One far more ſad repels it.
CHALONS,
Never, never,
Will I forget the hand's kind help that ſav'd me:
From all this deep diſtreſs you call'd me up;
Chac'd inſult, grinding poverty, and ſhame;
Heal'd ev'ry infelt ſting contempt can wound with;
[62] Gave me your power, friends, fortune—Gave me—Oh!—
How ſhall I, trembling, add—gave me your daughter!
VALDORE.
Worſe than I fear'd—LA FOY thou haſt deceiv'd me.
Cruel CHALONS!—Since ſhe deſerv'd to die,
Had but her ſhame dy'd with her, I had ſtrove
To hold back nature's tax—theſe father's tears,
And labour'd to forgive thee.
CHALONS.
Sir! but hear me.
VALDORE.
'Tis needleſs—What have artful words to do
With a pain'd parent's anguiſh? Sooth not me
With unavailing flattery. Let vain youth
Taſte falſe mens frothy praiſes—Age is wiſer:
Age has experience in ſuch fruitleſs wiles—
Will not be flatter'd—Knows, that raſh revenge
Is blinder than tranſgreſſion.—How am I ſure
My daughter was not innocent?—The jealous
Dream that they ſee beſt—when darkeſt.
LA FOY.
My lord, my lord,
Lend your ear calmly.
VALDORE.
Had he but let her live to own her guilt;
Had I but read it in her ſilent eye,
I had forgiven him both—yet one too much.
He ſnatch'd the ſword from the wrong'd hand of law,
And plung'd it in the ſtrong's unſentenc'd breaſt:
The weak ſhou'd have eſcap'd—and touch'd his mercy.
LA FOY.
Give him his way, miſtaken grief impels him;
Anon, he will be juſter.
VALDORE.
Juſter!—Juſter!—
What juſtice has he right to?—Juſtice, ſay'ſt thou?
What juſtice can the ungrateful ſquand'rer plead,
That ruins his redeemer?—Has he not
Pour'd miſery on my dotage? All my joys,
The poor faint remnants of an old man's gleanings,
[63] For his few, feeble wiſhes! at one blow,
Cut from their tender root, deſtroy'd for ever!
Oh! 'twas a black return—to me, who lov'd him!
What, tho' he knew not half her claims to pity,
He ſhou'd have felt for me. I lov'd—I watch'd her;
Rais'd her from prattling infancy, to wonder!
She touch'd my charm'd (perhaps too partial) heart.
I priz'd her own ſweet bloom—Still more endear'd,
By her dead mother's likeneſs. He ſhou'd have ſtopp'd,
When his fell point was rais'd, and thought whoſe pangs
Were to partake her ſuff'rings.
CHALONS.
Had ſhe been dead—
Had ſhe—(but, oh! ſhe is not)—been partaker
Of her loſt paramour's diſaſtrous fate;
Think then—oh! then—how had my horror torn me;
Who ſcarce ſupport, with life, th' undue reproach.
VALDORE.
What ſays he, my LA FOY? Does he not mean
That my AMELIA lives?
LA FOY.
She does, my lord:
I told you that before; but your ſad heart
Repell'd the offer'd comfort.
VALDORE.
Generous CHALONS!
Scarce has the daughter's crime more wrong'd thy goodneſs,
Than did the father's anguiſh.
CHALONS.
Oh! my dear lord—
Cou'd ſome deſcending angel but reſtore
Her innocence (for ever loſt!)—Lend peace
Of mind once more—and make life taſteful to her;
To ſuch exceſs of fondneſs am I her's,
That I wou'd burn diſcernment's eyes to blindneſs,
Rather than ſee a fault, in one ſo lov'd—
So much has this day's torture coſt my ſoul!
LA FOY.
CHALONS, thou haſt a ſure friend's voice in heav'n.
My general oft wou'd ſay—"Pray, ſoldiers, pray;
[64] " If you deſerve ſucceſs—'Tis yours for asking."
Alas! I have too ſeldom try'd this power;
Who knows, but ſome ſuch angel as you wiſh'd for,
(I am no teazing, troubleſome invoker)
May in yon cloſet, on my prayer deſcend,
And whiten the ſtain'd name that paints your love.
[Goes, and unlocks the cloſet.
VALDORE.
Poor man!—Thy griefs have touch'd thy pitying friend,
'Till his hurt brain grows frantic.
LA FOY.
Appear, thou wing-clipt daemon!—If thou hop'ſt
To ſhun the doom that waits perdition's tribe,
Waſh thy ſav'd ſoul from all its native black,
And take an angel's form—Truth's convert friend.
LA FOY leads out FLORELLA.
VALDORE.
What means this?—FLORELLA!
FLORELLA.
I once was FLORELLA;
But heav'n has touch'd my heart with will ſo new,
That my old name offends me.
LA FOY.
Anſwer, firſt,
Truly and briefly, as when late I caught thee,
Skulking through night's lone gloom, that wanted ſhade
To ſuit thy darker purpoſe—Anſwer, plainly,
Is thy unhappy lady innocent,
IL AUMELE's dire admiſſion to her chamber;
Or, is ſhe guilty of it?
FLORELLA.
Innocent.
VALDORE.
How!—Innocent?
CHALONS.
A wife—her husband abſent,
Admits a lover in his room, at midnight—
Found in her chamber, in a looſe diſ-robe:
[65] Nay, in the husband's night-dreſs—Yet all this,
Thy venal evidence (falſe maid!) calls innocence!
LA FOY.
Pray, let her ſpeak. My lord, you are a judge;
Shou'd an accuſer brow-beat witneſſes,
Or interrupt their anſwers?
[To VALDORE.
CHALONS.
Nay, LA FOY;
Pity, thus forc'd, grows inſult. I have told thee,
I heard her loud reproach confeſs the guilt,
To am'rous AUMELE, when kneeling by her bed.
She call'd him, cruel AUMELE—Bid him begone;
For, if he there was found, her name was blaſted.
LA FOY.
Away with ſuch ſtrain'd proofs. Had I myſelf
Been there, but on ſome far more honeſt purpoſe,
Poor ſoul! ſhe might have ſaid the ſame to me;
When blund'ring accident alone had brought me.
VALDORE.
I think, CHALONS, you ſaid that AUMELE knelt
But near AMELIA's bed—Was it not more?
FLORELLA.
Had it been more—She ſtill were innocent;
Unconſcious of his coming. I alone
Was guilty. I (betray'd by bribe's profuſion)
Admitted the deaf, head-ſtrong, thoughtleſs lover,
Both to the houſe and chamber. I advis'd
The night-grown's needful cover. I gave notice
Of your wrong'd lordſhip's abſence; taught him how
To perſonate your chanc'd return; ſoft whiſpering,
That if ſhe wak'd not ere he reach'd her bed,
Whate'er ſucceeded, might be meant for you.
LA FOY.
Now, now CHALONS! what now becomes of all
Thoſe mad miſ-proofs of guilt ſhe ſhines untouch'd by?
By heav'n! 'tis plain, to me, ſhe wak'd too full
Of your remember'd image, to miſtake
For that th' intruder's loath'd one. She reproach'd
Not her accompliſh'd, but intended, ruin:
[66] And, tho' the traitor not unjuſtly fell,
His crime was nobly, by her guarded virtue,
Prevented, and ideal.
FLORELLA.
Never breath'd
A virtue more untainted. May my ſoul,
In time's laſt dreadful judgment meet no mercy,
If ever wife more faithful bleſs'd a husband;
Or, with more cautious conduct, fear'd a lover.
VALDORE.
Oh! what haſt thou deſerv'd—if this her due?
CHALONS.
Pity, forgiveneſs—A ſafe bought retreat,
To ſome ſweet convent's ſilent ſpace for prayer:
For penitence to heav'n—and 'ſcape from ſhame.
More ſhall be her's; for, oh! my gracious lord,
'Tis by her juſt amends for caſt-off ſin,
Your own paternal tenderneſs—my love—
And my brave, honeſt, generous friend's compaſſion,
Are all redeem'd, at once, from deep deſpair.
Go, fly FLORELLA—Take this guilty key—
Tell the poor captive innocent this tale;
And court her to be bleſs'd, by bleſſing all.
[Gives her the key, and exit FLORELLA.
VALDORE.
[Kneeling.]
Thou! ever-gracious, ever preſent power!That, firſt, inſpires our virtue—loves it, next;
And guards it, in concluſion!—Take, Oh! take
An old man's awful thanks, for days prolong'd;
Days doom'd, by grief, to pain—now ſav'd for joy!
CHALONS.
[Kneeling.]
From me (moſt worthleſs of the mercy ſhewn)Accept, all-worſhip'd author of all bliſs!
The pour'd-out heart's whole tide of grateful pray'r.
LA FOY.
Let not me ſeem leaſt ſenſible of zeal,
Becauſe leſs taught ſpeak it.
[Kneels too.]
—Had I words,I wou'd adore heav'n eloquently—(Now)—
Receive a plain blunt heart's ſincereſt thanks,
For more than I deſerve—or know to tell.
[67]FLORELLA within, ſpeaks.
FLORELLA.
Oh! horror! horror!—Comfort comes too late;
Death intercepts relief—and help is vain.
All ſtart up in confuſion; and LA FOY, running out, meets and aſſiſts FLORELLA, leading in AMELIA bleeding.
CHALONS.
Defend me from this viſion's ghaſtly menace,
Or I am loſt again!
VALDORE.
Hapleſs AMELIA!
What has thy raſhneſs done? Juſt heav'n, but now,
Hear'd our given thanks—Thy innocence ſtood clear'd.
FLORELLA, guilty, prov'd thy virtue wrong'd:
And, in this ill-choſen criſis of our joy,
Thou murder'ſt thy own bleſſing!
AMELIA.
[Kneeling to VALDORE.]
Heaven was too kind!That eas'd my honour'd father's aching ſenſe,
Of a loſt daughter's ſhame! Death, in this thought,
Robb'd of its ſharpeſt ſting, grows half a friend.
[To CHALONS; who raiſes her, weeping.]
Oh! too unkind CHALONS!—What ſhall I ſay—What ſhall diſtruſted honour—think—of thee?
I cannot—muſt not—blame—thy dreadful rage:
Appearance was againſt me.—Ah! ebb ſlow,
My offer'd blood—Give my ſick, trembling heart
One moment's ſhort reprieve—to clear my name.
CHALONS.
Pauſe, my faint, injur'd charmer—thy clear'd name,
Is ſpotleſs as thy beauty.
VALDORE.
Save thy ſhook ſpirits.
CHALONS.
FLORELLA! fly—Go, call immediate aid.
LA FOY.
No—let her ſtay—I'll haſte myſelf, my lord.
[Exit LA FOY.
VALDORE.
[68]How haſt thou given thy breaſt that fatal wound?
AMELIA.
Shut up with horror, and bound in with death,
'Twas natural to deſpiſe familiar fear.
Shunning the breathleſs corps, that clogg'd my way,
I ſtumbled o'er a ſword—Thus, learnt its uſe—
And thank'd it, for eſcape from dreaded ſhame.
Living, and hopeleſs to attract belief,
To the unhappy ſtory of my woe;
The eye of ev'ry gazer's dumb reproach,
Had given a ſharper wound, than this I choſe.
VALDORE.
Did'ſt thou diſcover the vile youth's diſguiſe?
Or—wert thou ſleeping, and unconſcious found,
When his bold craft ſurpriz'd thee?
AMELIA.
Troubled thoughts,
For my departed lord's ſo ſudden abſence,
Chas'd from my eye lids wiſh all power of ſleep.
Anxiouſly doubtful for his ſafe return,
Alarm'd by apprehenſion's buſy fears,
And wond'ring what ſtrange haſty cauſe had call'd him—
I ſtarted—when the door's ſoft opening ſound
Gave glanc'd admiſſion to th' intruſive tread.—
Poring, I ſhook with terror—for I ſaw
(By the pale, gleamy, ghoſt-like glaze of light)
That nor the force nor freedom ſhew'd that eaſe
Of manly grace, that marks my mienful lord.
CHALONS.
Oh! I was born to curſes—thus to wrong
Such tenderneſs of virtue!
AMELIA.
Twice I rais'd
My frighted voice—and twice he try'd, in vain,
To ſooth it into ſilence. Failing that,
Grew fearful of diſcovery—paus'd amaz'd,
Stepp'd back—return'd—ſtood doubtful—'till, at laſt,
He threw himſelf on his preſumptuous knees,
[69] As (my dear, angry lord) you found, and heard him.
Nearer than that (by the bleſt hopes I haſte to!
When, from this world of grief, I riſe to peace!)
He never had approach'd me.—Ah!—farewel—
My ſwimming eyes, dim'd o'er, have loſt your forms,
And I am cover'd round with dark—ſick—ſhadow.
VALDORE.
[Kiſſing her.]
Dear, dying child!—Her lips are cold and pale.Farewel, too ill-ſtar'd girl!—farewel—for ever.
CHALONS.
She cannot die. Heav'n is too kind, too juſt,
To excellence like her's—to let that be.
VALDORE.
Lead, to her chamber—Gently guide her feet,
They loſe—(Oh ki [...]ling ſight!) their own ſweet motion.
[Exit AMELIA, led off by CHALONS and FLORELLA.
Enter LA FOY, with BELGARD.
VALDORE.
Alas! you're come too late, See, where they lead her—
Lifeleſs, and paſt all ſenſe of art's loſt care.
LA FOY.
Follow, BELGARD; haſte, urge thy utmoſt skill:
Snatch her from death—and thou command'ſt my fortune.
[Exit BELGARD.
VALDORE.
I knew BELGARD—unknowing of his skill.
LA FOY.
He practis'd many a year, ſav'd many a life,
In war's deep wounding rage—but peace came on,
And his ſhunn'd virtue ſtarv'd him.—'Twas not him,
I purpos'd to have call'd; but met him, coming
To warn us, lord AUMELE (who now ſupports him)—
Fir'd at his ſon's preſumptuous levity,
His watch'd admiſſion here, and whole night's abſence,
Comes, with intent to note and tell his practice;
Then take ſuch meaſures as you beſt approve.
VALDORE.
[70]What ſhall we do?—He ſeeks a living ſon:
He finds a dead one. Unprepar'd event!
But, he muſt bear his part—and ſhare diſtreſs.
LA FOY.
'Twas due to his hard heart.—My curſe (provok'd
By his unſeeling wrong to my dead general)
Falls heavy on his head—to teach him pity.
Enter CHALONS and BELGARD.
CHALONS.
Bleſs'd, my LA FOY, be thy ſucceſsful call
Of this good angel's aid!—She wakes!—She breathes!—
He tells me ſhe ſhall live!—Her opening eye
Adds to the morning's light, and ſhines once more.
VALDORE.
Then is indulgent heav'n grown kind indeed.
BELGARD.
The wound, itſelf not mortal, gather'd danger
From weak'ning waſte of blood: her ſpirits, thence,
Loſt vigour to ſuſtain the toilſome length
Of agoniz'd complaint, I'm told, ſhe made.
So, fainting, ſhe ſeem'd dead; but reſt, with aid
Of skill'd attention, will reſtore her ſoon.
LA FOY.
Let us forethink of old AUMELE's approach.
VALDORE.
I'll juſtify the fate that reach'd his ſon.
LA FOY.
Warn'd by that fate, the brutal mind ſhall feel
Pangs, due to cruel breaſts, with hearts of ſteel.
On their own heads ſhall fall woe's driving rain,
And drown too bold contempt of other's pain.
Pity ſhall ſmile, to ſee th' unpitier fall;
And he who aids no want, ſhall ſuffer all.
FINIS.
Appendix A EPILOGUE.
[]Spoke by AMELIA.
I'VE 'ſcap'd, to-night, two terrible diſaſters;
My honour's indignation—and my maſter's:
And heaven beſt knows what hapleſs hole can hide me,
If (to crown all my woes) your help's deny'd me.
LADIES, you ſee how much expos'd our ſex is;
Sleeping, or waking, ſome ſad chance perplexes.
Man's a more wily ſnake than mother EVE's was;
In his own ſhape—and others too—deceives us.
Hungry devourer! never tir'd with ſnapping;
Shun him with open eyes—he'll catch us napping:
And how to 'ſcape him, if I know—ne'er let me
Break thro' th' entangling nets, that thus beſet me.
Now, GENTLEMEN, to your own thoughts appealing,
(Fitter, I doubt, for making wounds—than healing)
What wou'd you have poor women do with honour,
When danger heaps ſuch monſtrous loads upon her?
D'ye think in conſcience now—half-wak'd, half-weary
With foregone frights, for one's departed deary—
'Thad been ſo ſtrange a crime—or worth ſuch pother,
In darkneſs to miſtake one dear for t'other?
Pray think on't—Put yourſelves behind the curtain;
What can't be cur'd muſt be endur'd—that's certain.
[]
'Tis a fair queſtion—and 'tis plainly ask'd ye;
Anſwer it—or confeſs, I've over-task'd ye.
Suppoſe me bound in ſleep's ſoft, ſilken fetter,
And one of your dear ſelves the dark beſetter:
Sight has no eyes, at midnight—and, for touches,
"JOAN," (ſays the proverb) "in the dark's a dutcheſs."
For my part—I can't find we've any ſenſes,
Can furniſh ſuch attacks with fit defences.
Let truſty ſpouſe, when buſineſs ſends him packing,
("Safe bind ſafe find") leave no due caution lacking.
I ſee ſome judge-like eyes, that look too ſprightly
To miſs a ſhe law-point, put to 'em rightly.
Is mine the court's decree?—I humbly move it;
That, if your hearts affirm—your hands approve it.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4901 The insolvent or filial piety A tragedy Acted at the Theatre in the Hay market by authority under the direction of Mr Cibber Written by the late Aaron Hill. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D9D8-3