Ent'ring in the harbour, run upon a rock,
And there was lost.

O. Wil. What 'came of those on board her?
Ran. Some few are sav'd; but much the
greater part,

'Tis thought, are perished,

O. Wil. They are past the fear

Of future tempests or a wreck on shore;
Those who escap'd are still expos'd to both.
Where's your mistress?

Ran. I saw her pass the High-strect, towards
the Minster.

O. Wil. She's gone to visit Charlotte-She
doth well.

In the soft bosom of that gentle maid,
There dwells more goodness than the rigid race
Of moral pedants e'er believ'd or taught.
With what amazing constancy and truth
Doth she sustain the absence of our son,
Whom more than life she loves! How shun for
him,

Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and great; Who own her charms, and sigh to make her happy.

Since our misfortunes, we have found no friend,
None who regarded our distress, but her;
And she, by what I have observ'd of late,
Is tir'd, or exhausted-curs'd condition!
To live a burden to one only friend,
And blast her youth with our contagious woe!
Who that had reason, soul, or sense, would bear it
A moment longer!-Then, this honest wretch!
I must dismiss him-Why should I detain
A grateful, gen'rous youth to perish with me?
His service may procure him bread elsewhere.
Though I have none to give him.

Randal,

How long hast thou been with me? Ran. Fifteen years.

Pr'ythee

I was a very child when first you took me,
To wait upon your son, my dear young master!
I oft have wish'd I'd gone to India with him;
Though you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.
I am to blame.-This talk revives your sorrow
For his absence.

O. Wil. That cannot be reviv'd,
Which never died.

Ran. The whole of my intent

Was to confess your bounty, that supplied
The loss of both my parents: I was long
The object of your charitable care.

O. Wil. No more of that.-Thou'st serv'd me longer since

Without reward; so that account is balanc'd,
Or, rather I'm thy debtor. I-remember,
When poverty began to show her face
Within these walls, and all my other servants,
Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house,
Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd,
And left me, too indulgent and remiss
For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd
Beneath the ruin they had help'd to make,
That you, more good than wise, refused to leave

me.

Ran. Nay, I beseech you, Sir!— O. Wil. With my distress, In perfect contradiction to the world, Thy love, respect, and diligence increased ; Now all the recompense within my power, Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard, Unprofitable service.

Ran. Heaven forbid!.

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
Believe me, Sir, my honest soul abhors
The barb'rous thought.

O. Wil. What! canst thou feed on air?
I have have not left wherewith to purchase food
For one meal more.

Ran. Rather than leave you thus,
I'll beg my bread and live on others' bounty
While I serve you.

O. Wil. Down, down my swelling heart,
Or burst in silence: 'tis thy cruel fate
Insults thee by his kindness. He is innocent
Of all the pain it gives thee. Go thy ways,
I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes
Of rising in the world.

Ran. Tis true; I'm young,

And never tried my fortune, or my genius; Which may, perhaps, find out some happy means As yet unthought of, to supply your wants.

O. Wil. Thou tortur'st me-I hate all obliga
tions

Which I can ne'er return. And who art thou,
That I should stoop to take 'em from thy hand?
Care for thyself, but take no thought for me;
I will not want thee-trouble me no more.

Ran. Be not offended, Sir, and I will go:
I ne'er repin'd at your commands before;
But, heaven's my witness, I obey you now
With strong reluctance and a heavy heart.
Farewell, my worthy master!
[Going

O. Wil. Farewell-StayAs thou art yet a stranger to the world, Of which, alas! I've had too much experience, I should, methinks, before we part, bestow A little counsel on thee. Dry thy eyesIf thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no farther. Dost thou aspire to greatness, or to wealth, Quit books and the unprofitable search Of wisdom there, and study human kind: No science will avail thee without that; But, that obtain'd, thou need'st not any other. This will instruct thee to conceal thy views, And wear the face of probity and honour, 'Till thou hast gain'd thy end; which must be

Ran. Is this the man I thought so wise and just?

What! teach and counsel me to be a villain!
Sure grief has made him frantic, or some fiend
Assumed his shape-I shall suspect my senses.
High-minded he was ever, and improvident;
But pitiful and generous to a fault:

Pleasure he loved, but honour was his idol.
O, fatal change! O, horrid transformation!
So a majestic temple, sunk to ruin,
Becomes the loathsome shelter and abode
Of lurking serpents, toads, and beasts of prey;
And scaly dragons hiss, and lions roar,
Where wisdom taught, and music charmed be-
fore.
[Exit.
SCENE II.—A Parlour in CHARLOTTE's House.

Enter CHARLOTTE and MARIA.

Char. What terror and amazement must they Who die by shipwreck? [feel

Mar. 'Tis a dreadful thought!

Char. Ay; is it not, Maria ? to descend,
Living and conscious, to that wat'ry tomb!
Alas! had we no sorrows of our own,
The frequent instances of others' woe
Must give a gen'rous mind a world of pain.
But you forget you promised me to sing.
Though cheerfulness and I have long been stran-
gers,

Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.
There's sure no passion in the human sou!,
But finds its food in music-I would hear
The song composed by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover 'scap'd a thousand perils
From rocks, and sands, and the devouring deep:
And after all, being arrived at home,
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perished in her sight.

Mar. Cease, cease, heart-easing tears;
Adieu, you flutt'ring fears,
Which seven long tedious years
Taught me to bear.
Tears are for lighter woes;
Fear, no such danger knows,
As Fate remorseless shows,
Endless despair.

Dear cause of all my pain,
On the wide stormy main,
Thou wast preserved in vain,
Though still ador'd;

Hadst thou died there unseen.
My wounded eyes had been
Sav'd from the direst scene

Maid e'er deplor'd.
[CHARLOTTE finds a letter.
Char. What's this?-A letter, superscribed
to me!

None could convey it here but you, Maria:
Ungen'rous, cruel maid! to use me thus!
To join with flatt'ring men to break my peace,
And persecute me to the last retreat!

Mar. Why should it break your peace, to hear the sighs

Of honourable love? This letter is

Char. No matter whence-return it back unopened.

I have no love, no charms, but for my Wilmot, Nor would have any.

Mar. Alas! Wilmot's dead;

Or, living, dead to you.

Char. I'll not despair;

| Patience shall cherish hope, nor wrong his honour
By unjust suspicion. I know his truth,
And will preserve my own. But to prevent
All future, vain, officious importunity,
Know, thou incessant foe of my repose,
Whether he sleeps, secure from mortal cares,
In the deep bosom of the boist'rous main,
Or, tossed with tempests, still endures its rage,
No second choice shall violate my vows;
High heaven, which heard them, and abhors the
perjured,

Can witness, they were made without reserve;
Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolved
By accidents or absence, time or death.

Mar. And did your vows oblige you to support Well may you weep to think on what you've His haughty parents, to your utter ruin?

done.

For their support. What will become of ’em— Char. I weep to think that I can do no more The hoary, helpless, miserable pair!

Mar. What I can't praise, you force me to admire,

And mourn for you, as you lament for them.
Your patience, constancy, and resignation,
Merit a better fate.

Char. So pride would tell me,

And vain self-love; but I believe them not:
And if, by wanting pleasure, I have gained
Humility, I'm richer for my loss.

Mar. You have the heavenly art, still to im

By the least favour, though 'twere but a look,
I could have shown them, now refuse to see me.
'Tis misery enough to be reduced

To the low level of the common herd,
Who, born to begg'ry, envy all above them;
But 'tis the curse of curses, to endure
The insolent contempt of those we scorn.

Char. By scorning, we provoke them to contempt;

And thus offend, and suffer in our turns:
We must have patience.

Agn. No, I scorn them yet.

But there's no end of suff'ring: who can say Their sorrows are complete? My wretched hus.