Iron. Ay, like enough-but here comes my lady, and in excellent temper, if her looks don't belie her. Enter LADY DOVE. Lady Dove. What's to do now, sir Benjamin? What's the matter that you send for your clothes? Can't you be contented to remain as you are? Your present dress is well enough to stay at home in, and I don't know that you have any call out of doors. Iron. Gentle as a lamb, sir Benjamin! Sir Ben. This attention of yours, my dear, is beyond measure flattering! I am infinitely beholden to you; but you are so taken up with your concern on my account, that you overlook our old friend and neighbour, captain Ironsides. Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, you make yourself quite ridiculous: this folly is not to be endured; you are enough to tire the patience of any woman living. Sir Ben. She's quite discomposed; all in a flutter for fear I should take cold by changing my dress. Iron. weak nerves. mour her. wild Indian, your savage there, is making off with his daughter. Sir Ben. Mercy on us! what am I to think of all this? Iron. What are you to think! Why, that it is a lie-that you are an ass-and that your wife is a termagant. My nephew is a lad of honour, and scorns to run away with any man's daughter, or wife either, though, I think, there's little danger of that here-As for me, sooner than mess with such a vixen, I'd starve: and so, sir Benjamin, I wish you a good stomach to your dinner. [Exit IRONSIDES. Lady Dove. Insolent, unmannerly brute! was ever the like heard? And you to stand tamely. by! I declare I've a great mind to raise the servants upon him, since I have no other defenders. Thus am I for ever treated by your scurvy companions! Sir Ben. Be pacified, my dear! am I in fault? But for Heaven's sake, what is become of my daughter? Lady Dove. Yes, you can think of your daughter; but she is safe enough for this turn; Yes, I perceive she has exceeding I have taken care of her for one while, and thus You are much in the right to hu-I am rewarded for it. Am I a vixen? am I a termagant? Oh, had my first husband, had my poor, dear, dead Mr Searcher heard such a word, he would have rattled him-But he-What do talk of? he was a man! yes, yes, he was, indeed, a man-As for you Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin Dove, if you mean that I should stay a minute longer in this house, I insist upon your turning that old porpoise out│I of it is it not enough to bring your nauseous sea companions within these doors, but must I be compelled to entertain them? Foh! I shan't get the scent of his tar-jacket out of my nostrils this fortnight. Sir Ben. Hush, my dear lady Dove! for Hea ven's sake, don't shame and expose me in this manner! how can I possibly turn an honest gentleman out of my doors, who has given me no offence in life? Lady Dove. Marry, but he has though, and great offence, too. I tell you, sir Benjamin, you are made a fool of. Sir Ben. Nay, now, my dear sweet love! be composed. Lady Dove. Yes, forsooth, and let a young, rambling, raking prodigal, run away with your daughter! Sir Ben. How, what! Lady Dove. A fine thing, truly, to be composed Iron. Who is it your ladyship suspects of such a design? Lady Dove. Who, sir? why, who but your nephew Robert? You flattered us with a false hope he was dead; but, to our sorrow, we find him alive, and returned; and now you are cajoling this poor, simple, unthinking man, while your Sir Ben. Strain the comparison no farther, lady Dove; there are particulars, I dare say, in which I fall short of Mr Searcher. Lady Dove. Short of him! I tell you what, sir Benjamin; I valued more the dear grey-hound that hung at his button-hole, more than I do all the foolish trinkets your vanity has lavished on me. Sir Ben. Your ladyship, doubtless, was the paragon of wives: I well remember, when the poor man laid ill at my borough of Knavestown, how you came flying on the wings of love, by the Exeter waggon, to visit him before he died. Lady Dove. I understand your sneer, sir, and despise it: there is one condition only, upon which you may regain my forfeited opinion.Young Belfield, who, with this old fellow, has designs in hand of a dangerous nature, has treated me with an indignity still greater than what you have now been a witness to. Shew yourself a man upon this occasion, sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. Any thing, dearest, for peace sake. Lady Dove. Peace sake! It is war, and not peace, which I require-But come, if you will walk this way, I'll lay the matter open to you. [Exeunt. ACT III. SCENE L-The sea-shore before GOODWIN'S cabin. Enter VIOLETTA and FANNY. Vio. Fair, or dark complexioned? Fanny. Of a most lovely complexion; 'tis her greatest beauty, and all pure nature, I'll be answerable; then, her eyes are so soft, and so smi Vio. AND when is this great match of Mrling; and as for her hairBelfield's to be? Fanny. Alas, madam! we look to hear of it every day. Vio. Hey-day! why, where are you rambling, child? I am satisfied; I make no doubt she is a consummate beauty, and that Mr Belfield loves Vio. You seem to consider this event, child, her to distraction. [Aside.] I don't like this girl as a misfortune to yourself: however others may so well as I did; she is a great talker; I am be affected by Mr Belfield's marrying Miss Dove, glad I did not disclose my mind to her; I'll go to you I conceive it must be matter of indiffer-in, and determine on some expedient. [Exit. ence. Funny. I have been taught, madam, to consi- | der no event as matter of indifference to me, by which good people are made unhappy.Miss Sophy is the best young lady living; Mr Belfield is Vio. Hold, Fanny! do step into the house; in my writing-box you will find a letter sealed, but without a direction; bring it to me. [Erit FANNY.] I have been writing to this base man, for I want fortitude to support an interview. What if I unbosomed myself to this girl, and entrusted the letter to her conveyance? She secins exceedingly honest, and, for one of so mean a condition, uncommonly sensible; I think I may safely confide in her." Well, Fanny! Enter FANNY. Fanny. Here is your letter, madam. Vio. I thank you; I trouble you too much; but thou art a good-natured girl, and your attention to me shall not go unrewarded. Fanny. I am happy to wait on you; I wish I could do or say any thing to divert you; but my discourse can't be very amusing to a lady of your sort; and talking of this wedding seems to have made you more melancholy than you was before. Vio. Come hither, child; you have remarked my disquietude; I will now disclose to you the occasion of it: you seem interested for Miss Dove; I am touched with her situation: you tell me, she is the best young lady living. Funny. Oh, madam! if it were possible for an angel to take a human shape, she must be one. Vio. Tis very well; I commend your zeal; you are speaking now of the qualities of her mind. Fanny. Not of them alone; she has not only the virtues, but the beauties of an angel. Vio. Indeed! Pray, tell me, is she so very handsome? Fanny. As fine a person as you could wish to see. Vio. Tall? Fanny. About your size, or rather taller. Fanny. Alas, poor lady! as sure as can be, she has been crossed in love; nothing in this world besides could make her so miserable. But sure I see Mr Francis; if falling in love leads to such misfortunes, 'tis fit I should get out of his [Erit. way. SCENE II. Enter FRANCIS and PHILIP. Fran. Wasn't that your sister, Philip, that ran into the cabin? Phi. I think it was. Frun. You've made a good day's work on't: the weather coming about so fair, I think we've scarce lost any thing of value, but the ship;didn't you meet the old captain as you came down to the creek? Phi. I did; he has been at sir Benjamin Dove's, here, at Cropley-castle, and is come back in a curious humour. Fran. So! so! I attended my young master thither at the same time; how came they not to return together? Phi. That I can't tell. Come, let's go in, and refresh ourselves. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter SOPHIA DOVE, and Lucy WATERS. Sophia. Indeed, and indeed, Miss Lucy Waters, these are strong facts which you tell me; and, I do believe, no prudent woman would engage with a man of Mr Andrew Belfield's disposition: but what course am I to follow? and how am I to extricate myself from the embarrassments of my situation?" Lucy. Truly, madam, you have but one refuge that I know of. Sophia. And that lies in the arms of a young adventurer. O, Lucy, Lucy! this is a flattering prescription; calculated rather to humour the patient, than to remove the discase. Lucy. Nay, but if there is a necessity for your taking this step Sophia. Ay, necessity is grown strangely com modious of late, and always compels us to do the very thing we have most a mind to. Lucy. Well, madam, but common humanity to young Mr Belfield-You must allow he has been hardly treated. Sophia. By me, Lucy? Lucy. Madam! No, madam, not by you; but 'tis charity to heal the wounded, though you have not been a party in the fray. Sophia. I grant you. You are a true female philosopher; you would let charity recommend you a husband, and a husband recommend you to charity-But I won't reason upon the matter; at least, not in the humour I am now; not at this particular time: no, Lucy, nor in this particular spot; for here it was, at this very hour, yesterday evening, young Belfield surprised me. Lucy. And see, madam, punctual to the same lucky moment, he comes again! let him plead his own cause; you need fear no interruption; my lady has too agreeable an engagement of her own, to endeavour at disturbing those of other people. [Exit. Enter BELFIELD, jun. Bel. jun. Have I, then, found thee, loveliest of women? O! Sophia, report has struck me to the heart; if, as I am told, to-morrow gives you to my brother, this is the last time I am ever to behold you. Sophia. Why so, Mr Belfield? Why should our separation be a necessary consequence of our alliance? Bel. jun. Because I have been ambitious, and cannot survive the pangs of disappointment. Sophia. Alas, poor man! but you know where to bury your disappointments; the sea is still open to you; and, take my word for it, Mr Belfield, the man who can live three years, ay, or three months, in separation from the woman of his heart, need be under no apprehension for his life, let what will befall her. Sophia. What, you've discovered it at last? Oh, fie upon you ! Bel. jun. Thus, thus, let me embrace my unexpected blessing: come to my heart, my fond, overflowing heart, and tell me once again that my Sophia will be only mine! Sophia. O, man, man! all despondency one moment, all rapture the next. No question now but you conceive every difficulty surmounted, and that we have nothing to do but to run into cach other's arms, make a fashionable elopement, and be happy for life? and I must own to you, Belfield, was there no other condition of our union, even this project should not deter me; but I have better hopes, provided you will be piloted by me; for, believe me, my good friend, I am better acquainted with this coast than you are. Bel. jun. I doubt not your discretion, and shall implicitly surrender myself to your guidance. Sophia. Give me a proof of it, then, by retreating from this place immediately; 'tis my father's hour for walking, and I would not have you meet; besides, your brother is expected. Bel. jun. Ay, that brother, my Sophia, that brother, brings vexation and regret whenever he is named! but I hope, I need not dread a second injury in your esteem; and yet I know not how it is, but if I was addicted to superstition Sophia. And if I was addicted to anger, I should quarrel with you for not obeying my injunctions with more readiness. Bel. jun. I will obey thee, and yet 'tis difficult. Those lips, which thus have blest me, cannot dismiss me without Sophia. Nay, Mr Belfield, don't you——well, then-mercy upon us! who's coming here? Bel. jun. How! oh, yes! never fear; 'tis a friend; 'tis Violetta; 'tis a lady that I Sophia. That you what, Mr Belfield? What lady is it! I never saw her in my life before. Bel. jun. Cruel, insulting Sophia! when I last Bel. jun. No, she is a foreigner, born in Porparted from you, I flattered myself I had left tugal, though of an English family: the packet, some impression on your heart-But in every in which she was coming to England, foundered event of my life, I meet a base, injurious bro-along-side of our ship, and I was the instrument ther; the everlasting bar to my happiness-I of saving her life: I interest myself much in her can support it no longer; and Mr Belfield, ma- happiness, and I beseech you, for my sake, to be dam, never can, never shall be yours. kind to her. [Exit. Sophia. How, Sir! never shall be mine?What do you tell me? There is but that man on earth with whom I can be happy; and if my fate is such, that he is never to be mine, the world, and all that it contains, will for ever after be indifferent to me. Bel. jun. I have heard enough; farewell! Sophia. Farewell, sagacious Mr Belfield! the next fond female, who thus openly declares herself to you, will, I hope, meet with a more gallant reception than I have done. Bel. jun. How! what! is't possible? O, Heavens ! Sophia. He interests himself much in her happiness; he beseeches me, for his sake, to be kind to her-What am I to judge of all this? Enter VIOLETTA. Vio. Madam, I ask pardon for this intrusion; but I have business with you of a nature that-I presume I'm not mistaken; you are the young lady I have been directed to, the daughter of sir Benjamin Dove? Sophia. I am, madam; but wont you please to repose yourself in the house? 1 understand you are a stranger in this country. May I beg to know what commands you have for me? Mr Belfield has made me acquainted with some circumstances relative to your story: and, for his sake, madam, I shall be proud to render you any service in my power. Vio. For Mr Belfield's sake, did you say, madam? Has Mr Belfield named me to you, madam? Pat. Sir! Bel. jun. Nay, Mr Paterson, don't assume such a menacing air; nor practise on my temper too far in this business. I know both your situation and my own. Consider, sir, mine is a cause that would animate the most dastardly spirit; your's is enough to damp the most courageous. [Exit BEL. jun. Sophia. Is there any wonder in that, pray? Pat. A very short and sententious gentleman : Vio. No; none at all. If any man else, such but there is truth in his remark. Mine is but a confidence would surprise me; but, in Mr Bel-sorry commission, after all. The man is in the field, 'tis natural; there is no wondering at what he does. Sophia. You must pardon me: I find we think differently of Mr Belfield. He left me but this minute, and, in the kindest terms, recommended you to my friendship. Vio. 'Twas he, then, that parted from you as I came up? I thought so; but I was too much agitated to observe him-and I am confident he is too guilty to dare to look upon me. right to fight for his mistress; she's worth the venture; and, if there was no way else to be quit of mine, I should be in the right to fight, too: egad, I don't see why aversion should not make me as desperate as love makes him. Hell and fury! here comes my Venus! Enter LADY DOVE. Lady Dove. Well, Paterson, what says the fellow to my message? Pat. Says, madam! I'm ashamed to tell you what he says: he's the arrantest boatswain that Sophia. Why so, madam? For Heaven's sake, inforin me what injuries you have received from Mr Belfield; I must own to you, I am much in-ever I conversed with. terested in finding him to be a man of honour. Vio. I know your situation, madam, and I pity it. Providence has sent me here, in time to save you, and to tell you Sophia. What? To tell me what? Oh! speak, or I shall sink with apprehension! Vio. To tell you, that he is my husband! Sophia. Husband! your husband? what do I hear! ungenerous, base, deceitful Belfield! I thought he seemed confounded at your appear ance; every thing confirms his treachery; and I cannot doubt the truth of what you tell me. Vio. A truth it is, madam, that I must ever reflect on with the most sorrowful regret. Lady Dove. But tell me what he says. Pat. Every thing that scandal and scurrility can utter against you. Lady Dove. Against me! What could he say against me? Pat. Modesty forbids me to tell you. Lady Dove. Oh! the vile reprobate! I, that have been so guarded in my conduct, so discreet in my partialities, as to keep them secret, even from my own husband; but, I hope, he did not venture to abuse my person? Pat. No, madam, no; had he proceeded to such lengths, I could not in honour have put up with it; I hope I have more spirit than to suffer any reflections upon your ladyship's personal ac Sophia. Come, let me beg you to walk to wards the house. I ask no account of this tran-complishments. saction of Mr Belfield's. I would fain banish his name from my memory for ever; and you shall this instant be a witness of his peremptory dismission. [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Enter BELFIELD jun. and PATERSON. Bel. jun. And so, sir, these are her ladyship's commands, are they? Pat. This is what I am commissioned by lady Dove to tell you what report shall I make to her? Lady Dove. Well; but did you say nothing in Pat. Not a syllable! Trust me for that; 'tis the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be silent; for he, who takes upon him to defend a lady's reputation, only publishes her favours to the world; and, therefore, I would always leave that office to a husband. Lady Dove. Tis true; and, if sir Benjamin had any heart Bel. jun. Even what you please, Mr Paterson; Pat. Come, come, my dear lady, don't be too mould it and model it to your liking; put as severe upon sir Benjamin: many men, of no betmany palliatives, as you think proper, to sweeten ter appearance than sir Benjamin, have shown it to her ladyship's taste; so you do but give her themselves perfect heroes: I know a whole fato understand, that I neither can, nor will abandonmily, that, with the limbs of ladies, have the my Sophia. Cease to think of her, indeed! hearts of lions. Who can tell but your husband What earthly power can exclude her idea from may be one of this sort? my thoughts? I am surprized lady Dove should think of sending me such a message; and I wonder, sir, that you should consent to bring it. VOL. II. Lady Dove. Ah! Pat. Well, but try him; tell him how you have been used, and see what his spirit will prompt 5 X him to do. A-propos here the gentleman comes: if he won't fight, 'tis but what you expect; if he will, who can tell where a lucky arrow may hit? [Exit PAT. lieve this, sir Benjamin; you could not bear to see me ill used; I'm positive you could not. Sir Ben. 'Tis as well, however, not to be too sure of that. [Aside. Lady Dove. You could not be so mean-spiritEnter SIR BENJAMIN DOVE. ed, as to stand by and hear your poor dear wife Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, I want to have a abused and insulted, andlittle discourse in private with you. Sir Ben. With me, my lady? Lady Dove. With you, sir Benjamin; 'tis upon a matter of a very serious nature; pray, sit down by me. I don't know how it is, my dear, but I have observed, of late, with much concern, a great abatement in your regard for me. Sir Ben. Oh ! fie, my lady, why do you think so? What reason have you for so unkind a suspicion ? Lady Dove. Tis in vain for you to deny it; I am convinced you have done loving me. Sir Ben. Well now, I vow, my dear, as I am a sinner, you do me wrong. Lady Dove. Look'e, sir Benjamin, love, like mine, is apt to be quick-sighted; and, I am persuaded, I am not deceived in my observation. Sir Ben. Indeed, and indeed, my lady Dove, you accuse me wrongfully. Lady Dove. Mistake me not, my dear, I do not accuse you; I accuse myself; I am sensible there are faults and imperfections in my temper. Sir Ben. Oh! trifles, my dear, mere trifles. Lady Dove. Come, come, I know you have led but an uncomfortable life of late, and, I am afraid, I've been innocently, in some degree, the cause of it. Sir Ben. Far be it from me to contradict your ladyship, if you are pleased to say so. Lady Dove. I am sure it has been as I say; my over-fondness for you has been troublesome and vexatious; you hate confinement, I know you do; you are a man of spirit, and formed to figure in the world. Sir Ben. Oh, you flatter me! : | Sir Ben. Oh! no, by no means; 'twould break my heart; but, who has abused you and insulted you, and Lady Dove. Who? Why, this young Belfield, that I told you of. Sir Ben. Oh! never listen to him! A woman of your years should have more sense than to mind what such idle young fleerers can say of you. Lady Dove. [Rising.] My years, sir Benjamin! Why, you are more intolerable than he is! but let him take his course; let him run away with your daughter; it shall be no further concern of mine to prevent him: Sir Ben. No, my dear, I've done that effectually. Lady Dove. How so, pray ? Sir Ben. By taking care he shan't run away with my estate at the same time. Some people lock their daughters up to prevent their eloping. I've gone a wiser way to work with mine; let her go loose, and locked up her fortune. Lady Dove. And, on my conscience, I believe you mean to do the same by your wife; turn her loose upon the world, as you do your daughter; leave her to the mercy of every free-booter; let her be vilified and abused; her honour, her reputation, mangled and torn by every paltry privateering fellow that fortune casts upon your coasts. Sir Ben. Hold, my lady, hold! young Belfield did not glance at your reputation, I hope! did he? Lady Dove. Indeed, but he did though; and therein, I think, every wife has a title to her husband's protection. Sir Ben. True, my dear; 'tis our duty to plead, but your's to provide us with the brief. Lady Dove. There are some insults, sir Benjamin, that no man of spirit ought to put up with; and the imputation of being made a wittol of, is the most unpardonable of any. Sir Ben. Right, my dear; even truth, you know, is not to be spoke at all times. Lady Dove. Nay, nay, there's no disguising it; you sigh for action; your looks declare it: this alteration in your habit and appearance, puts it out of doubt there is a certain quickness in your eye; 'twas the first symptom that attracted my regards; and, I am mistaken, sir Benjamin, if you don't possess as much courage as any man. Sir Ben. Your ladyship does me honour. Lady Dove. I do you justice, sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. Why, I believe, for the matter of courage, I have as much as my neighbours; but 'tis of a strange perverse quality; for, as some Sir Ben. Oh! if that's the alternative, what a spirits rise with the difficulties they are to en-deal of time have we wasted! Step with me counter, my courage, on the contrary, is always into my library, and I'll pen him a challenge imgreatest when there is least call for it. mediately. [Ereunt. Lady Dove. Oh! you shall never make me be Lady Dove. How, sir! would you insinuate any thing to the disparagement of my fidelity? but choose your side; quarrel you must, either with him, or with me. |