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Lucy. Incredible confidence !
with life has shewn me how impracticable these Bel. sen. We shall see who will meet most be- principles are. To live with mankind, we must live lief in the world; you or I. Choose, therefore, like mankind : was it a world of honesty, I should your part: if you betray it, you have me for an blush to be a man of art. enemy; and a fatal one you shall find me.— Put. And do you dream of ever reaching Now, enter, if you think fit; there lies your way your journey's end by such crooked paths as these to Sophia. (She goes into the house.] Šo ! how are? am I to parry this blow? what plea shall I use Bel. sen. And yet, my most sage moralist, with Sophia ? 'twas the ardour of my love—any | wonderful as it may seem to thee, true it is, notthing will find pardon with a woman, that con- withstanding, that, after having threaded all veys flattery to her charms. After all, if the these by-ways and crooked allies, which thy rightworst should happen, and I be defeated in this lined apprehension knows nothing of; after hamatch, so shall I be saved from doing that, ving driven my rival from the field, and being alwhich, when done,'tis probable I may repent of; most in possession of the spoil, still I feel a reand I have some intimation from within, which pugnance in me that almost tempts me to retells me that it will be so : I perceive that, in this nounce my good fortune, and abandon a victory life, he, who is checked by the rubs of compunc- I have struggled so hard to obtain. tion, can never arrive at the summit of prospe- Pat. I guessed as much; 'tis your Violetta ; rity.
’tis your fair Portuguese, that counterworks your
good fortune ; and I must own to you, it was Enter PATERSON.
principally to save you from that improvident atPat. What, melancholy, Mr Belfield! So near tachment, that I wrote so pressingly for your reyour happiness, and so full of thought ?
turn; but though I have got your body in safe Bel. sen. Happiness! what's that?
holding, your heart is still at Lisbon ; and if you Pat. I'll tell you, sır; the possession of a love marry Miss Dove, 'tis because Violetta's furtune ly girl, with fifty thousand pounds in her lap, and was demolished by the earthquake ; and sir Bentivice fifty thousand virtues in ber mind; this I jamin's stands safe upon terra firma. call happiness, as much as mortai inan can me- Bel. sen. Prithee, Paterson, don't be too hard rit: and this, as I take it, you are destined to upon me : sure you don't suspect that I am marenjoy.
ried to Violetta? Bel. sen. That is not so certain, Mr Paterson. Pat. Married to Violetta! Now you grow Would you believe it, that perverse hussy, Lucy much too serious, and 'tis time to put an end to Waters, who left me but this minute, threatens the discourse.
[Erit. to transverse all my hopes, and is gone this in- Bel. sen. And you grow much too quick-sighted, stant to Sophia with that resolution?
Mr Paterson, för my acquaintance. I think he Pat. Iinpossible! how is Miss Waters provided does not quite suspect me of double dealing in or provoked to do this!
this business ; and yet I have my doubts; his reBel
. sen. Why, 'tis a foolish story, and scarce ply to my question was equivocal, and his depar, worth relating to you; but you know, when your ture abrupt-I know not what to think-This I letters called me home from Portugal, I found know, that Love is a deity, and Avarice a devil; my younger brother in close attendance on Miss that Violetta is my lawful wife; and that Andrew Dove; and, indeed, such good use had the fel- Belfield is a villain. low made of his time in my absence, that I found it impossible to counterwork his operations by
SCENE II. fair and open approaches; so, to make short of the story, I took this girl, Lucy Waters, into part
PATERSON passes over the stage. nership; and, by a happy device, ruined him with Pat. All abroad this fine day-not a creature Sophia.
within doors. Pat. This, Mr Belfield, I neither know, nor wish to know.
Enter Kitty. Bel. sen. Let it pass, then. Defcated in these Kitty. Mr Paterson ! bist, Mr Paterson! a views, my brother, as you know, betook himself, word in your ear, sweet sir. to the desperate course of privateering, with that Pat. Curse on't, she has caught me-Well, old tar-barrel, my uncle : what may bave been Mrs Kitty? his fate, I know not, but I have found it couve- Kitty. Why, I have been hunting you all the nient to propagate a report of bis death. bouse over; my lady's impatient to see you.
Put. I am sorry for it, Mr Belford : I wish Pat. Oh, I'm my lady Dove's most obedient nothing was convenient, that can be thought dis- servant-And what are her ladyship's commands, honourable.
Bel. sen. Nature, Mr Paterson, never put into Kitty. Fy, Mr Paterson ! how should I know a human composition more candour and credu- what her ladvship wants with you. but a secret hty than she did into mine; but acquaintance it is, no doubt, for she desires you to come to her
immediately in the garden, at the bottom of the me any further, at present; I must leave you ; yew-tree walk, next the warren.
remember the condition of our agreement, and Pat. The devil she does ! - What a pity it expect my friendship-Oh, I could tear your is, Mrs Kitty, we can't cure your lady of this turn
[Exit. for solitude. I wish you would go with me; your Bel. jun. Well, sir Benjamin, keep your own company, probably, will divert her from her con- counsel, if you are wise; I'll do as I would be templations : besides, I shall certainly mistake done by. Had I such a wife as lady Dove, I
should be very happy to have such a friend as Kitty. I go with you, Mr Paterson! a fine Mr Paterson.
[Exit. thing truly: I'd have you to know, that my character is not to be trusted with young feliows in
SCENE IV. yew-tree walks, whatever my lady may think of the matter- - Besides, I've an assignation in ano
Enter Sophia Dove, and Lucy Waters. ther place.
[Erit. Lucy. If there is faith in woman, I have seen Pat. What a devilish dilemma am I in! Why young Belfield; I have beheld his apparition; for this is a peremptory assignation-Certain it is, ivhat else could it be? there are some ladies that no wise man should Sophia. How? when? where? I shall faint with be commonly civil to- -Here have I been flat- surprise. tering myself that I was stroaking a termagant Lucy. As I crossed the yew-tree walk, I saw into humour, and all the while have been betray- him pass by the head of the canal, towards the ing a tender victim into love. Love, love, did I house. Alas! poor youth, the injuries I have say? her ladyship's passion is a disgrace to the done him have called him from his grave. name--But what shall I do ?—'tis a pitiful thing Sophia. Injuries, Miss Waters! what injuries to run away from a victory; but 'tis frequently bare you done him? Tell me; for therein, perthe case in precipitate successes ; we conquer haps, I may be concerned. more than we have wit to keep, or ability to en- Lucy. Deeply concerned you are; with the joy.
[Erit. most penitent remorse I contess it to you, that
his affections to you were pure, honest, and sinSCENE III.-Changes to the yew-tree walk. cere. Yes, amiable Sophia, you was unrivalled
in his esteem; and I, who persuaded you to the Enter BELFIELD junior.
contrary, am the basest, the falsest of womanBel. jun. Now, could I but meet my Sophia! - kind; every syllable I told you of his engageWhere can she have hid herself?-Blush; lady ments to me, was a malicious invention : how Dove, as I live!
could you be so blind to your own superiority, to
give credit to the imposition, and suffer him to Enter Lady Dove.
depart without an explanation? Oh, that villain, Lady Dove. So, Mr Paterson, you're a pretty that villain, his brother, has undone us all! gentleman, to keep a lady waiting here! Why, Sophia. Villain, do you call him? Whither how you stand ?-Come, come, I shall expect a would you transport my imagination? You hurry very handsome atonement for this indecorum- me with such rapidity from one surprise to anoWhy, what, let me look-Ah! who bave we ther, that I know not where to fix, bow to act, or here?
what to believe. Bel. jun. A man, madam; and though not Lucy. Oh, madam! he is a villain, a most acyour man, yet one as honest, and as secret : complished one; and, if I can but snatch you come, come, my lady, I'm no tell-tale; be you from the snare he has spread for you, I hope it but grateful, this goes no further.
will, in some measure, atone for the injuries I Ludy Dove. Lost and undone! young Bel- have done to you, and to that unhappy youth, field !
who now Heavens! I see him again ! he Bel. jun. The same; but be not alarmed; we comes this way! I cannot endure his sight! alive both have our secrets; I am, like you, a votary or dead, I must avoid him. [Runs out. to love: favour but my virtuous passion for Miss Dove, and take you your Paterson; I shall be si
Enter BELFIELD junior. lent as the grave.
Bel. jun. Adorable Sophia ! this transport overLady Dove. Humph!
Bel. jun. Nay, never hesitate; my brother, I Sophia, Sir! Mr Belfield, is it you? Oh, support know, had your wishes: but wherein has nature favoured him more than me? And, since fortune Bel. jun. With my life, thou loveliest of wohas now made my scale as heavy as his, why men ! Bebold your poor adventurer is returned ; should you partially direct the beam?
happy past compute, if his fate is not indifferent, Lady Dove. Well, if it is so, and that you pro- to you; rich beyond measure, if his safety is wormise not to betray me- But this accident has thy your concern. so discomposed me (plague on't say I), don't press Sophia. Release me, I beseech you: what have
pays my labours.
I done! Sure you are too generous to take any dyship has so liberally equipped him with weaadvantage of my confusion.
[Exeunt severally. Bel. jun. Pardon me, my Sophia! the advan
SCENE V.-A hall. tages I take from your confusion are not to be
Enter JONATHAN and FRANCIS. purchased by the riches of the east : I would not forego the transport of holding you one minute Jon. And so, sir, 'tis just as I tell you; every in my arms, for all that wealth and greatness have thing in this family goes according to the will of
the lady: for my own part, I ain one of those
that hate trouble; I swim with the stream, and Lady Dove enters, while BELFIELD junior is
make my place as easy as I can. kneeling, and embracing Sophia.
Fran. Your looks, Mr Jonathan, convince me
that you live at your ease. Lady Dove. Hey-day! what's here to do with Jon. I do so; and therefore, (in spite of the
old proverb, “ Like master, like man,") you neSophia. Ah!
[Shrieks. ver saw two people more different than I and Bel. jun. Confusion! Lady Dove here? sir Benjamin Dove. He, Lord help bim! is a Lady Dove. Yes, sir; lady Dove is here; and little peaking, puling thing! I am a jolly, poriwill take care you shall have no more garden- | able man, as you see. It so happened, that we dialogues. On your knees, too!- -The fellow both became widowers at the same time; I knew was not half so civil to me. (Aside.]- -Ridicu- when I was well, and have continued single eve lous ! a poor beggarly swabber truly !- -As for since. He fell into the clutches of ---Ilark, sure
I hear lady, Bel. jun. Hold, madam! as much of your fury Fran. No, it was nothing. When did the poor and foul language as you please upon me; but gentleman light upon this termagant ? not one hard word against that lady, or by Hea- Jon. Lackaday! 'twas here at the borough of
Knavestown, when master had the great contest Lady Dove. Come, sir, none of your reprobate with 'squire Belfield, about three years ago : her swearing; none of your sea-noises here. I would first husband, Mr Searcher, was a king's messenmy first husband was alive! I would he was, for ger, as they call it, and came down express from your sake! I am surprised, Miss Dove, you have a great man about court during the poll; he no more regard for your reputation; a delicate caught a surfeit, as ill luck would have it, at the swain truly you have chosen; just thrown ashore election-dinner; and, before he died, his wife, from the pitchy bowels of a shipwrecked priva- that's now my lady, came down to see him; then teer! Go, go; get you in; for shame! your father it was master fell in love with her: ogad, 'twas shall know of these goings on, depend on’t: the unluckiest job of all bis life. as for you, sir
[Erit Sophia. Sir Ben. (Calls without.] Jonathan! why, JoBel. jun. [Stopping Lady Dove.) A word with nathan ! you, inadam! Is this fair dealing ? What would Fran. Hark, you are called. you have said, if I had broke in thus upon you Jon. Ay, ay; 'tis only my master; my lady tells and vir Paterson ?
the serrants not to mind what sir Benjamin says, Lady Dove. Mr Paterson ! why, you rave; and I love to do as I am bid. what is it you mean?
Fran. Well, honest Jonathan, if you won't Bel. jun. Come, come, this is too ridiculous ; move, I must; by this time I hope my young you know your reputation is in my keeping; ca master is happy with your young mistress. to mind what passed between us a while ago, and
[Erit Francis. the engagement you are under on that account. Lady Dove. Ha, ha, ha!
Enter Sır BENJAMIN DOVE. Bel. jun. Very well, truly; and you think to Sir Ben. Why, Jonathan, I say? Oh, are you brave this matter out, do you?
here? Why cou'dn't you come when I called Lady Dove. Most assurediy; and shall make you? sir Benjamin call you to account, if you dare to Jon. Lackaday, sir! you don't consider how breathe a word against my reputation : incor- much easier it is for you to call, than for me to rigible coxcomb ! to think I would keep any come. terms with you after such an event. Take my Sir Ben. I think, honest Jonathan, when I first word for it, Belfield, you are come home no wiser knew you, you was a parish orphan; I 'prenthan you went out; you niissed the only advan- ticed you out; you run away from your master; tage you might have taken of that rencounter, I took you into my family; you married; I set and now I set you at defiance : take heed to you up in a farm of my own; stocked it; you what you say, or look to hear from sir Benja- paid me no rent; I received you again into my min.
service, or rather, I should say, my lady's Bel. jun. Oh, no doubt on't : how can sir Ben- Are these things so, or does my memory fail me, jamin avoid fighting for your sake, when your la- Jonathan?
Jon. Why, to be sure, I partly remember some- Iron. And so, sir knight, knowing I was welwhat of what your worship mentions.
come, and having met with a mishap here, upon Sir Ben If you partly remember all this, your coast, I am come to taste your good Jonathan, don't entirely forget to come when I cheer, and pass an evening with you over a tiff call.
of punch. Iron. (Without.] Hoy there! within! what! Sir Ben. The devil you are ! [Aside. This nobody stirring? all hands asleep? all under is very kind of you: there is no man in England, the hatches?
captain Ironsides, better pleased to see his friends Sir Ben. Hey-day, who the dickens have we about him than I am. got here? Old captain Ironsides, as I am a sin- Iron. Ay, ay; if I did'nt think I was welcome, ner! who could have thought of this ? Run to I shou'dn't ha' come. the door, good Jonathan-nay, hold; there's no Sir Ben. You may be assured you are welcome. escaping now :-what will become of me!-he'll Iron. I am assured. ruin every thing; and throw the whole house Sir Ben. You are, by my soul ! take my word into confusion.
for it, you are. Iron. (Entering.) What, sir Ben! my little Iron. Well, well ; what need of all this cereknight of Malta ! give me a buss, my boy. Hold, mony about a meal's meat? who doubts you? hold ! sure I'm out of my reckoning : let me look Sir Ben. You need not doubt me, believe ita little nearer; why, what mishap has befallen I'll only step out, and ask my lady what time she
you heave out these signals of distress? ordered dinner ; or whether she has made any Sir Ben. I'm heartily glad to see thee, my old engagement I'm not apprized of. friend; but a truce to your sea-phrases, for I Iron. No, no; engagement! how can that be, don't understand them : what signals of distress and you in this pickle ? Come, come, sit down; have I about me?
dinner won't come the quicker for your inIron. Why that white flag there at your main quiry: and now tell me, how does my god-daughtop-mast head: in plain English, what dost do ter Sophia? with that clout about thy pate?
Sir Ben. Thank you heartily, captain, my Sir Ben. Clout, do you call it? 'Tis a little daughter's well in health. en dishabille, indeed; but there's nothing extra- Iron. That's well; and how fares your fine ordinary, I take it, in a man's wearing his gown new wife? How goes on matrimony? Fond as and cap in a morning ; 'tis the dress I usually ever, my little amorous Dove? always billing, alchuse to study in.
ways cooing? Iron. And this hall is your library, is it? Ah ! Sir Ben. No, captain, no; we are totally almy old friend, my old friend ! But, come, I want tered in that respect ; we shew no fondness now to have a little chat with you, and thought to before company; my lady is so delicate in that have dropt in at pudding-time, as they say; for particular, that from the little notice she takes of though it may be morning with thee, sir Ben, 'tis me in public, you would scarce believe we were mid-day with the rest of the world.
man and wife. Sir Ben. Indeed! is it so late?-But I was Iron. Ha, ha, ha! why 'tis the very circumfallen upon an agreeable tête à tête with lady stance that would confirm it; but I'm glad to Dove, and hardly knew how the time passed. hear it: for, of all things under the sun, I most
Iron. Come, come; 'tis very clear how your nauseate your nuptial familiarities; and, though time has passed—but what occasion is there for you remember I was fool enough to dissuade you this fellow's being privy to our conversation ?- from this match, I am rejoiced to bear you maWhy don't the lubber stir? What does the fat, nage so well and so wisely. lazy oaf stand staring at?
Sir Ben. No man happier in this life, captain ! Sir Ben. What shall I say now? Was ever any no man happier ! one thing only is wanting; thing so distressing! Why that's Jonathan, had the kind stars but crowned our endearcaptain; don't you remember your old friend, mentsJonathan?
Iron. What, my lady don't breed, then ? Jon. I hope your honour's in good health ; I'm Sir Ben. Hush, hush ! for Heaven's sake don't glad to see your honour come home again. speak so loud ! should my lady overhear you, it
Iron. Honest Jonathan, I caine to visit your might put strange things into her head; oh! she master, and not you; if you'll go and hasten is a lady of delicate spirits, tender nerves-quite dinner, and bring sir Benjamin his periwig and weak and tender nerves—a small matter throws clothes, you'll do me a very acceptable piece of her down-gentle as a lamb-starts at a strawservice; for, to tell you the truth, my friend, I speak loud, and it destroys her: Oh! my friend, haven't had a comfortable meal of fresh provi- you are not used to deal with wonien's constitusion this many a day.
tions—these hypochondriac cases require a deal
[E.rit Jonathan. of management—'tis but charity to humour them; Sir Ben. 'Foregad, you're coine to the wrong and you cannot think what pains it requires to house to find one,
[Aside. keep them always quiet and in temper!
Iron. Ay, like enough—but here comes my wild Indian, your savage there, is making off with lady, and in excellent temper, if her looks don't his daughter. belie her.
Sir Ben. Mercy on us! what am I to think of
all this? Enter LADY Dove.
Iron. What are you to think! Why, that it is Lady Dove. What's to do now, sir Benjamin ? a lie-that you are an ass--and that your wife is What's the matter that you send for your clothes ? a termagant. My nephew is a lad of honour, and Can't you be contented to remain as you are? scorns to run away with any man's daughter, or Your present dress is well enough to stay at wife either, though, I think, there's little danger bonne in, and I don't know that you have any of that here-As for me, sooner than iness with call out of doors.
such a vixen, I'd starve: and so, sir Benjamin, I Iron. Gentle as a lamb, sir Benjamin ! wish you a good stomach to your dinner. Sir Ben. This attention of yours, my dear, is
(Erit IRONSIDES. beyond measure flattering! I am infinitely be- Lady Dove. Insolent, unmannerly brute! was holden to you; but you are so taken up with ever the like heard? And you to stand tamely your concern on my account, that you overlook by! I declare I've a great mind to raise the serour old friend and neighbour, captain Ironsides. vants upon him, since I have no other defenders.
Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, you make yourself Thus am I for ever treated by your scurvy comquite ridiculous: this folly is not to be endured; panions! you are enough to tire the patience of any woman Sir Ben. Be pacified, my dear! am I in fault! living.
But for Heaven's sake, what is become of my Sir Ben. She's quite discomposed; all in a danghter? flutter for fear I should take cold by changing Lady Dove. Yes, you can think of your my dress.
daughter; but she is safe enough for this turn; Iron. Yes, I perceive she has exceeding I have taken care of her for one while, and thus weak nerves. You are much in the right to hu- I ain rewarded for it. Ain I a vixen am I a mour her.
termagant? Oh, had my first husband, had my Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin Dove, if you mean poor, dear, dead Mr Searcher heard such a word, that I should stay a minute longer in this house, he would have rattled him-But he- What do I insist upon your turning that old porpoise out I talk of? he was a man! yes, yes, he was, inof it: is it not enough to bring your nauseous deed, a man-As for yousea companions within these doors, but must I Sir Ben. Sirain the comparison no farther, be compelled to entertain them? Foh! I shan't lady Dove; there are particulars, I dare say, in get the scent of his tar-jacket out of my nostrils which I fall short of Mir Searcher. this fortnight.
Lady Dove. Short of him! I tell you what, Sir Ben. Hush, my dear lady Dove ! for Hea- sir Benjamin; I valued more the dear grey-hound ven's sake, don't shame and expose me in this that hung at his button-bole, more than I do all manner! how can I possibly turn an honest gen. the foolish trinkets your vanity has lavished on tleman out of my doors, who has given me no offence in life?
· Sir Ben. Your ladyship, doubtless, was the paLady Dove. Marry, but he has though, and ragon of wives: I well remember, when the poor great offence, too. I tell you, sir Benjamin, you nan laid ill at my borough of Knavestown, how are made a fool of.
you came flying on the wings of love, hy the Sir Ben. Nay, now, my dear sweet love! be Exeter waggon, to visit hiin before he died. composed.
Lady Dore. I understand your sneer, sir, and Lady Dove. Yes, forsooth, and let a young, despise it: there is one condition only, upon rambling, raking prodigal, run away with your which you may regain my forfeited opinion. daughter !
Young Belfield, who, with this old fellow, has deSir Ben. How, what!
signs in hand of a dangerous nature, has treated Lady Dove. A fine thing, truly, to be com- me with an indignity still greater than what you posed
have now been a witness to. Shew yourself a Iron. Who is it your ladyship suspects of such man upon this occasion, sir Benjamin. a design?
Sir Ben. Any thing, dearest, for peace sake. Lady Dove. Who, sir? why, who but your ne- Lady Dove. Peace sake! It is war, and not phew Robert? You flattered us with a false peace, which I require-But come, if you will hope he was dead; but, to our sorrow, we find walk this way, I'll lay the matter open to him alive, and returned; and now you are cajol
[Éreund ing this poor, simple, unthinking man, while your