Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have loved best, if he had as many as king Pyramus of Troy ;-this Biron, as I was saying, was a lovely sweet gentleman, and, indeed, nobody could blame his father for loving him: he was a son for the king of Spain; Heaven bless him! for I was his nurse. But now I come to the point, Sampson; this Biron, without asking the advice of his friends, hand over head, as young men will have their vagaries, not having the fear of his father before his eyes, as I may say, wilfully marries this Isabella.

Samp. How, wilfully! he should have had her consent, methinks.

Nurse. No, wilfully marries her; and which was worse, after she had settled all her fortune upon a nunnery, which she broke out of to run away with him. They say they had the church's forgiveness, but I had rather it had been his father's.

Samp. Why, in good truth, and I think our young master was not in the wrong but in marrying without a portion.

Nurse. That was the quarrel, I believe, Sampson: upon this my old lord would never see him: disinherited him: took his younger brother, Carlos, into favour, whom he never cared for before: and, at last, forced Biron to go to the siege of Candy, where he was killed.

Samp. Alack a-day, poor gentleman! Nurse. For which my old lord hates her, as if she had been the cause of his going thither. Samp. Alas, poor lady! she has suffered for it; he has lived a great while a widow! Nurse. A great while indeed, for a young woman, Sampson.

Samp. Gad so! here they come; I won't venture to be seen. [They retire. Enter COUNT BALDWIN, ISABELLA, and her Child.

C. Bald. Whoever of your friends directed

you,

[way:

-There's your

Misguided and abus'd you.-
What could you expect from me?
Isa. Oh, I have nothing to expect on earth!
But misery is very apt to talk:

I thought I might be heard.

C. Bald. What can you say?

Is there in eloquence, can there be in words, A reparation of the injuries,

The great calamities, that you have brought On me and mine? You have destroy'd those hopes

I fondly rais'd, through my declining life, To rest my age upon; and most undone me. Isa. I have undone myself too.

C. Bald. Speak it again;

Say still you are undone; and I will hear you,
With pleasure hear you.

Isa. Would my ruin please you?
C. Bald. Beyond all other pleasures.
Is. Then you are pleas'd-for I am most
undone.

C. Bald. I pray'd but for revenge, and
Heaven has heard,

And sent it to my wishes: these gray hairs Would have gone down in sorrow to the grave Which you have dug for me, without the [here.

thought,

The thought of leaving you more wretched
Isa. Indeed I am most wretched-

I lost with Biron all the joys of life:
But now its last supporting means are gone.

All the kind helps that Heaven in pity rais'd,
In charitable pity to our wants,
At last have left us: now bereft of all,
But this last trial of a cruel father,
To save us both from sinking. Oh, my child!
Kneel with me, knock at nature in his heart:
Let the resemblance of a once lov'd son you,
Speak in this little one, who never wrong'd
And plead the fatherless and widow's cause.
Oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven, [yours!
Forget our faults, that Heaven may pardon
C. Bald. How dare you mention Heaven!
Call to mind
[faith
Your perjur'd vows; your plighted, broken
To Heaven, and all things holy; were you not
Devoted, wedded to a life recluse,
The sacred habit on, profess'd and sworn,
A votary for ever? Can you think
The sacrilegious wretch, that robs the shrine,
Is thunder proof?

Isa. There, there, began my woes.
Oh! had I never seen my Biron's face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fallen,
But still continued innocent and free
Of a bad world, which only he had power
To reconcile, and make me try again.

C. Bald. Your own inconstancy
Reconcil'd you to the world:
He had no hand to bring you back again,
But what you gave him. Circe! you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind, transforming him
From virtue, and himself, into what shapes
You had occasion for; and what he did
Was first inspir'd by you.

Isa. Not for my self-for I am past the hopes Of being heard--but for this innocentAnd then I never will disturb you more.

C. Bald. I almost pity the unhappy child: But, being yours

Isa. Look on him as your son's; And let this part in him answer for mine. Oh! save, defend him, save him from the That fall upon the poor! [wrongs

C. Bald. It touches me--
And I will save him-But to keep him safe,
Never come near him more.

Isa. What! take him from me!
No, we must never part.
I live but in my child.

No, let me pray in vain, and beg my bread
From door to door, to feed his daily wants,
Rather than always lose him.

C. Bald. Then have your child, and feed him with your prayer.

Isa, Then Heaven have mercy on me! (Exit, with Child. C. Bald. You rascal, slave, what do I keep you for?

How came this woman in?

Samp. Why, indeed, my lord, I did as good as tell her before, my thoughts upon the mat

ter

C. Bald. Did you so, Sir! Now then tell her mine;

Tell her I sent you to her. Begone, go all together-I shall be glad to hear of you; but never, never, see me more[Drives them off

ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS, meeting. Vil. My friend, I fear to ask-but IsabellaThe lovely widow's tears, her orphan's cries, Thy father must feel for them-No, I read, I read their cold reception in thine eyes

Ee

spare him

For Carlos' sake; thou art no son of his. There needs not this to endear thee more to me. Car. My Villeroy, the fatherless, the widow, Are terms not understood within these gatesYou must forgive him; Sir, he thinks this

woman

Is Biron's fate, that hurried him to death

thoughts

Start every way from my distracted soul, To find out hope, and only meet despair. What answer have I?

Enter SAMPSON.

Car. Why, so I mean.

These hardships, that my father lays upon her,
I'm sorry for, and wish I could prevent;
But he will have his way. Since there's no
hope

From her prosperity, her change of fortune
May alter the condition of her thoughts,
And make for you.

Vil. She is above her fortune.

Car. Try her again. Women commonly love According to the circumstances they are in. Vil. Common women may

No: Though I live but in the hopes of her,
And languish for th' enjoyment of those hopes,
I'd rather pine in a consuming want
Of what I wish, than have the blessing mine,
From any reason but consenting love.
Oh! let me never have it to remember,
I could betray her coldly to comply:
When a clear gen'rous choice bestows her on
I know to value the unequall'd gift: [me,
I would not have it but to value it.
Car. Take your own way; remember what
I offer'd.

Vil. I understand it so.

Of a reward.

I'll serve her for herself, without the thought
[Exit.
Car. Agree that point between you.
If you marry her any way, you do my business.
I know him. What his generous soul intends
Ripens my plots-I'll first to Isabella :-
I must keep up appearances with her too.

SCENE II.-House.

[Exit.

Samp. Why, truly, very little to the purhad more already than the jewels are worth: he wishes you would rather think of redeeming 'em, than expect any more money upon 'em. [Exit. Isa. So-Poverty at home, and debts a

broad!

My present fortune bad; my hopes yet worse!
What will become of me?

This ring is all I have left of value now;
'Twas given me by my husband; his first gift
Upon our marriage: I've always kept it
With my best care, the treasure next my life:
And now but part with it to support life,
Which only can be dearer. Take it, Nurse,
Take care of it:

Manage it as the last remaining friend
That would relieve us. [Exit NURSE.] Heaven
can only tell

Where we shall find another-My dear boy! The labour of his birth was lighter to me Than of my fondness now; my fears for him Are more than, in that hour of hovering death, They could be for myself. He minds me not,

His little sports have taken up his thoughts: Oh, may they never feel the pangs of mine! Thinking will make me mad: why must I think,

When no thought brings me comfort?

at play.

Isa. Sooner or later, all things pass away, And are no more. The beggar and the king, With equal steps, tread forward to their end: The reconciling grave

Swallows distinction first, that made us foes; Then all alike lie down in peace together. [Weeping.

Nurse. Good Madam, be comforted.
Isa. Do I deserve to be this outcast wretch;
Abandon'd thus, and lost? But 'tis my lot,
The will of Heaven, and I must not complain:
I will not for myself: let me bear all
The violence of your wrath; but spare my
child:

Let not my sins be visited on him:
They are; they must: a general ruin falls
On every thing about me! thou art lost,
Poor Nurse, by being near me.

Nurse. I can work, or beg, to do you service.
Isa. Could I forget

Of any way that I can serve you in?
But what enrages most my sense of grief,
My sorrow for your wrongs, is, that my father,
Foreknowing well the storm that was to fall,
Has order'd me not to appear for you.

Isa. I thank your pity; my poor husband fell
For disobeying him; do not you stay
To venture his displeasure too for me.

Car. You must resolve on something

[Exit. Isa. Hark, they are coming: let the torrent It can but overwhelm me in its fall; And life and death are both alike to me.

roar:

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-Anti-Chamber in ISABELLA'S

House.

CARLOS and VILLEROY, with OFFICERS.

Vil. No farther violence

223

That you will want one; him you may secure To be a friend, a father, a husband, to you. Isa. A husband!

Car. You have discharg'd your duty to the
dead,

And to the living! 'tis a wilfulness
Not to give way to your necessities,
That force you to this marriage.

Nurse. What must become of this poor in-
nocence?

Car. He wants a father to protect his youth,

And rear him up to virtue: you must bear
The future blame, and answer to the world,
When you refuse the easy, honest means
Of taking care of him.

Isa Do not think I need
Your reasons to confirm my gratitude;
I have a soul that's truly sensible
Of your great worth, and busy to contrive,
[To VILLEROY.

If possible, to make you a return.
Vil. Oh, easily possible!

Isa. It cannot be your way: my pleasures

are

Buried, and cold in my dead husband's grave;
And should I wrong the truth, my self, and you,
To say that I can ever love again?

I owe this declaration to myself:
But, as a proof that I owe all to you,

If, after what I have said, you can resolve
To think me worth your love-Where am I
going?

You cannot think it; 'tis impossible,
Vil. Impossible!

Isa. You should not ask me now, nor should
I grant;

I am so much oblig'd, that to consent, Would want a name to recommend the gift: "Twould show me poor, indebted, and com

pell'd

Designing, mercenary: and I know

You would not wish to think I could be bought.

Vil. Be bought! where is the price that can pretend

To bargain for you? Not in Fortune's power. The joys of Heaven, and love, must be bestow'd; They are not to be sold, and cannot be de. [serv'd. Isa. Some other time I'll hear you on this

subject.

Vil. Nay, then, there is no time so fit for me. Since you consent to hear me, hear me now; That you may grant: you are above

[Takes her hand. The little forms which circumscribe your sex; We differ but in time, let that be mine. Isa. You think fit

To get the better of me, and you shall; Since you will have it so I will be yours.

Vil. I take you at your word.

Isa. I give you all,

You will rave too, dote on the dear content, .
And prattle in their praise out of all bounds.
Enter ISABELLA and Child.

My Isabella! Oh, the joy of my heart,
That I have leave at last to call you mine!
But let me look upon you, view you well.
This is a welcome gallantry, indeed!
I durst not ask, but it was kind to grant,
Just at this time; dispensing with your dress
Upon this second day, to greet our friends.
Isa. Black might be ominous;

I would not bring ill luck along with me.
Vil. Oh, if your melancholy thoughts could
change
[cures
With shifting of your dress-Time has done
Incredible this way, and may again.
Isa. I could have wish'd, if you had thought

it fit,

Vil. My Carlos too, who came in to the support

Of our bad fortune, has an honest right,
In better times, to share the good with us.
Car. I come to claim that right, to share
your joy;

To wish you joy; and find it in myself;
For a friend's happiness reflects a warmth,
A kindly comfort, into every heart
That is not envious.

Vil. He must be a friend indeed, Who is not envious of a happiness So absolute as mine; but if you are (As I have reason to believe you are) Concern'd for my well-being, there's the cause; Thank her for what I am, and what must be. [Music.

I see you mean a second entertainment.
My dearest Isabella, you must hear
The raptures of my friends; from thee they
spring;

Thy virtues have diffus'd themselves around,
And made them all as happy as myself.
Isa. I feel their favours with a grateful
And willingly comply.

DUET.

(heart,

Take the gifts the gods intend ye;
Grateful meet the proffer'd joy;
Truth and honour shall attend ye;
Charms, that ne'er can change or cloy.
Oh, the raptures of possessing,
Taking beauty to thy arms!
Oh, the joy, the lasting blessing,
When with virtue beauty charms!
Purer flames shall gently warm ye;
Love and honour both shall charm thee.

Car. You'll take my advice another time, sister.

Vil. What have you done? A rising smile Stole from her thoughts, just redd'ning on her And you have dash'd it. [cheek,

Car. I'm sorry for❜t.

Vil. My friends, you will forgive me, when

Iown,

I must prefer her peace to all the world! Come, Isabella, let us lead the way:

Samp. Ay, marry, Nurse, here's a master, indeed: He'll double our wages for us! If he comes on as fast with my lady as he does with his servants, we are all in the way to be well pleased.

Nurse. He's in a rare humour; if she be in as good a one——

Samp. If she be, marry, we may even say, they have begot it upon one another.

to your old count? You thought your throat Nurse. Weil; why don't you go back again

cut, I warrant you, to be turned out of a nobleman's service.

Samp. For the future, I will never serve in a house, where the master or mistress of it

lie single: they are out of humour with every body when they are not pleased themselves. Now, this matrimony makes every thing go well. There's mirth and money stirring about, when those matters go as they should do.

Nurse. Indeed, this matrimony, Sampson

Samp. Ah, Nurse! this matrimony is a very good thing-but what, now my lady is married, I hope we shall have company come to the house: there's something always coming from one gentleman or other upon those occasions, if my lady loves company. This feasting looks well, Nurse. Odso, my master: we must not be seen. [Exeunt.