ROSINA: AN OPERA, IN TWO ACTS. BY MRS. BROOKE. REMARKS. THIS pleasing and well-arranged petite piece has been a constant favourite since its original performance at Covent Garden in 1785.-The dialogue is natural and easy, and the morality unexceptionable; the airs, compiled by Shield, are happily adapted; and a more agreeable or effective afterpiece can scarcely be named in the varied productions of our modern writers. Mrs. Brooke, the amiable authoress, has thus explained her intentions, in her preface to the first edition : "The fable of this piece, taken from the Book of Ruth, (a fable equally simple, moral, and interesting,) has already furnished a subject for the beautiful episode of Palemon and Lavinia, in Thomson's Seasons, and a pleasing opera of Mons. Favart: of both I have availed myself as far as the difference of my plan would allow; but as we are not, however extraordinary it may appear, so easily satisfied with mere sentiments as our more sprightly neighbours, the French, I found it necessary to diversify the story, by adding the comic characters of William and Phebe, which I hoped might at once relieve and heighten the sentimental cast of the other personages of the drama." The Scene opens and discovers a rural prospect:| on the left side a little hill with trees at the top; a spring of water rushes from the side, and falls into a natural basin below: on the right side a cottage, at the door of which is a bench of stone. At a distance a chain of mountains. The manor-house in view. A field of corn fills up the scene. In the first act the sky clears by degrees, the morning vapour disperses, the sun rises, and at the end of the act is above the horizon: at the beginning of the second he is past the height, and declines till the end of the day. This progressive motion should be made imperceptibly, but its effect should be visible through the two acts. ACT I. After the trio, the sun is seen to rise: the door of the cottage is open, a lamp burning just with Ros. See! my dear Dorcas, what we gleaned yesterday in Mr. Belville's field! [Coming forward, and showing the corn at the door. Dor. Lord love thee! but take care of thyself: thou art but tender. Ros. Indeed it does not hurt me. Shall I put out the lamp? Dor. Do, dear; the poor must be sparing. Ros. Why do you sigh, Dorcas? Dor. I canno' bear it: it's nothing to Phebe and me, but thou wast not born to labour. [Rising, and pushing away the wheel. Ros. Why should I repine? Heaven, which deprived me of my parents, and my fortune, left me health, content, and innocence. Nor is it certain that riches lead to happiness. Do you think the nightingale sings the sweeter for being in a gilded cage? Dor. Sweeter, I'll maintain it, than the poor little linnet that thou pick'dst up half-starved under the hedge yesterday, after its mother had been shot, and brought'st to life in thy bosom. Let me speak to his honour, he's main kind to the poor. Ros. Not for the world, Dorcas; I want nothing; you have been a mother to me. Dor. Would I could! would I could! I ha' worked hard and arn'd money in my time: but now I am old and feeble, and am pushed about by every body.-More's the pity, I say; it was not so in my young time; but the world grows wickeder every day. Ros. Your age, my good Dorcas, requires rest; go into the cottage, whilst Phebe and I join the gleaners, who are assembling from every part of the village. Dor. Many a time have I carried thy dear mother, an infant, in these arms; little did I think a child of hers would live to share my poor pittance. But I wo'not grieve thee. [DORCAS enters the Cottage, looking back Phe. What makes you so melancholy, Rosina? Mayhap it's because you have not a sweetheart? But you are so proud, you won't let our young men come a near you. You may live to repent being so scornful." When William at eve meets me down at the How sweet is the nightingale's song; By her beams, without blushing, I hear him [ACT I. The blushing morn awakes the strain, Shall strike the sprightly lyre. Rust. [Without.] To work, my hearts of oak, to work; here the sun is half an hour high, and not a stroke struck yet. Enter RUSTIC, singing, followed by Reapers. See! where harvest crowns your toil. Laughing Plenty fills her horn. Should the peasant's labour fail? Crown the year, and cheer the swain. Rust. Hist! there's his honour. Where are all the lazy Irishmen I hired yesterday at market? Enter BELVILLE, followed by two IRISHMEN and Servants. 1 Irish. Is it us he's talking of, Paddy? Then the devil may thank him for his good commendations. Bel. You are too severe, Rustic; the poor fellows came three miles this morning; therefore I made them stop at the mangr-house to take a little refreshment. 1 Irish. Bless your sweet face, my jewel, and all those who take your part. Bad luck to myself, if I would not, with all the veins of my heart, split the dew before your feet in a morning. [To BELVILLE. Rust. If I do speak a little cross, it is for your honour's good. [The Reapers cut the corn, and make it into sheaves. ROSINA follows, and gleans. Rust. [Seeing ROSINA.] What a dickens does this girl do here? Keep back; wait till the reapers are off the field; do like the other gleaners. Ros. [Timidly.] If I have done wrong, Sir, And believe every word of his song: swain, Whilst the moon plays yon branches among. [During the lust stanza, WILLIAM appears at the end of the scene, and makes signs to PHEBE; who, when it is finished, steals softly to him, and they disappear. Ros. How small a part of my evils is poverty! And how little does Phebe know the heart she thinks insensible! the heart which nourishes a hopeless passion. I blessed, like The morn returns in saffron dress'd, some ears, that she may glean the more. Rust. There, take the whole field, since his honour chooses it. [Putting the corn into her apron. Ros. I will not abuse his goodness. [Retires, gleaning. Irish. Upon my soul now, his honour's no churl of the wheat, whate'er he may be of the barley. Bel. [Looking after ROSINA.] What bewitching softness! There is a blushing, bashful gentleness, an almost infantine innocence, in that lovely countenance, which it is impossible to behold without emotion! She turns this Her mouth, which a smile, Half opens to view, Or the blossoms of May. Bel. My dear Charles, I am happy to see you. True, I find, to the first of September. Capt. B. I meant to have been here last night, but one of my wheels broke, and I was obliged to sleep at a village six miles distant, where I left my chaise, and took a boat down the river at day-break. But your corn is not off the ground. Bel. You know our harvest is late in the north; but you will find all the lands cleared on the other side the mountain. Capt. B. And pray, brother, how are the partridges this season? Bel. There are twenty covies within sight of! my house, and the dogs are in fine order. Capt. B. The gamekeeper is this moment leading them round. I am fired at the sight. By dawn to the downs we repair, With bosoms right jocund and gay, Fire away! whilst loud echo replies Hark! the volley resounds to the skies! In thunder replies, And resounds to the skies, Fire away! Fire away! Fire away! But where is my little rustic charmer? O! there she is: I am transported. [Aside.] Pray, brother, is not that the little girl, whose dawning beauty we admired so much last year? I Bel. It is, and more lovely than ever. shall dine in the field with my reapers to-day, brother will you share our rural repast, or have a dinner prepared at the manor-house? Cupt. B. By no means: pray let me be of your party: your plan is an admirable one, especially if your girls are handsome. I'll walk round the field, and meet you at dinner time. [Exeunt BELVILLE and RUSTIC. CAPTAIN BELVILLE goes up to ROSINA, gleans a few ears, and presents them to her; she refuses them and runs out; he follows her. Enter WILLIAM, speaking at the Side-scene. Will. Lead the dogs back, James; the captain won't shoot to-day. [Sceing RUSTIC and PHEBE behind.] Indeed, so close! I don't half like it. Enter RUSTIC and PHEBE. Rust. That's a good girl! Do as I bid you, and you sha'n't want encouragement. [He goes up to the Reapers, and WILLIAM comes forward. Will. O no, I dare say she won't. So, Mrs. Phebe! Phe. And so, Mr. William, if you go to that! Will. A new sweetheart, I'll be sworn; and a pretty comely lad he is: but he's rich, and that's enough to win a woman. Phe. I don't desarve this of you, William : but I'm rightly sarved for being such an easy fool. You think, mayhap, I'm at my last prayers; but you may find yourself mistaken. Will. You do right to cry out first; you think belike that I did not see you take that posy from Harry. Phe. And you, belike, that I did not catch roses, for the miller's maid; but I'll be fooled you tying up one, of corn-flowers and wild no longer; I have done with you, Mr. Wil liam. The miller's maid loves the ground I walk on. Will. I've kiss'd and I've prattled to fifty And chang'd them as oft, d'ye see; But of all the fair maidens that dance on the green The maid of the mill for me. Phe. There's fifty young men have told me fine tales, And call'd me the fairest she; But of all the gay wrestlers that sport on the green, Young Harry's the lad for me. Will. Her eyes are as black as the sloe in the hedge, Her face like the blossoms in May, Her teeth are as white as the new shorn flock, Her breath like the new-made hay. Phe. He's tall and he's straight as the poplar tree, His cheeks are as fresh as the rose; [Exeunt on different sides of the Stage. ROSINA runs across the Stage; CAPTAIN BELVILLE following her. Capt. B. Stay and hear me, Rosina. Why will you fatigue yourself thus? Only homely girls are born to work.-Your obstinacy is vain; you shall hear me. Ros. Why do you stop me, Sir? My time is precious. When the gleaning season is over, will you make up my loss? Capt. B. Yes. Ros. Will it be any advantage to you to make me lose my day's work? Capt. B. Yes. Ros. Would it give you pleasure to see me pass all my days in idleness? Capt. B. Yes. Ros. We differ greatly then, Sir. I only wish for so much leisure as makes me return to my work with fresh spirit. We labour all the week, 'tis true; but then how sweet is our rest on Sunday? 244 Whilst with village maids I stray, ROSINA. Capt. B. Mere prejudice, child; you will Know better. I pity you, and will make your fortune. Ros. Let me call my mother, Sir; I am young, and can support myself by my labour; but she is old and helpless, and your charity will be well bestowed.-Please to transfer to her the bounty you intended for me. Capt. B. Why- -as to that- Enter DORCAS. I Ros. You are just come in time, mother. have met with a generous gentleman, whose charity inclined him to succour youth. Dor. 'Tis very kind.- And old ageRos. He'll tell you that himself. Dor. I thought so.-Sure, sure, 'tis no sin to [Goes into the Cottage. be old. Capt. B. You must not judge of me by others, honest Dorcas.-I am sorry for your misfortunes, and wish to serve you. Dor. And to what, your honour, may I owe this kindness? Capt. B. You have a charming daugh ter Dor. I thought as much. A vile, wicked man! Capt. B. Beauty like hers might find a thou[Aside. sand resources in London; the moment she appears there, she will turn every head. Dor. And is your honour sure her own won't turn at the same time? Capt. B. She shall live in affluence, and take care of you too, Dorcas. Dor. I guess your honour's meaning; but you are mistaken, Sir. If I must be a trouble to the dear child, I had rather owe my bread to her labour than to her shame. [Goes into the Cottage, and shuts the door. Capt. B. These women astonish me; but I won't give it up so. Enter RUSTIC, crossing the stage. A word with you, Rustic. Rust. I am in a great hurry, your honour; I am going to hasten dinner. Capt. B. I sha'n't keep you a minute. Take these five guineas. Rust. For whom, Sir? Capt. B. For yourself. And this purse. Capt. B. For Rosina; they say she is in distress, and wants assistance. Rust. What pleasure it gives me to see you so charitable! You are just like your brother. Cupt. B. Prodigiously. Rust. But why give me money, Sir? Capt. B. Only to-tell Rosina there is a person who is very much interested in her happiness. Rust. How much you will please his honour by this. He takes mightily to Rosina, and prefers her to all the young women in the parish. Capt. B. Prefers her! Ah! you sly rogue! [Laying his hand on RUSTIC's shoulder. Rust. Your honour's a wag; but I'm sure I meant no harm. [ACT I. | Capt. B. Give her the money, and tell her she shall never want a friend; but not a word to my brother. Rust. All's safe, your honour. [Exit CAPTAIN At the captain's age, this violent charity is a BELVILLE.] I don't vastly like this business. little duberous. I am his honour's servant, and it's my duty to hide nothing from him. I'll go seek his honour; O, here he comes. Enter BELVille. Bel. Well, Rustic, have you any intelligence to communicate? to make good use of his Rust. A vast deal, Sir. me these five guineas for myself, and this purse for Rosina. Your brother begins money; he has given Bel. For Rosina! "Tis plain he loves her. renders the mind haughty, and Rosina's situa[Aside.] Obey him exactly; but, as distress tion requires the utmost delicacy, contrive to execute your commission in such a manner that she may not even suspect from whence the money comes. Rust. I understand your honour. Bel. Have you gained any intelligence in respect to Rosina? the old woman's grand-daughter; but all she Rust. I endeavoured to get all I could from and that she had had a good bringing-up; but knew was, that she was no kin to Dorcas, here are the labourers. Enter DORCAS, ROSINA, and PHEBE. Dor. We can't deny your honour. Bel. By this fountain's flowery side, Let us share the festive day. Ros. & Bel. Taste our pleasures ye who may, Simple Nature ye who prize, Cho. Taste our pleasures ye who may, Capt. B. Blushing Bell, with downcast eyes, Cho. Taste our pleasures ye who may, Will. He is fond, and she is shy; He would kiss her;-fie!-oh, fie! Cho. Busy censors, hence away; Rust. & Dor. Now we'll quaff the nut-brown ale, Then we'll tell the sportive tale; All is jest, and all is glee, All is youthful jollity. Cho. Taste our pleasures ye who may, Rust. This purse is the plague of my life; I hate money when it is not my own. I'll e'en put in the five guineas he gave me for myself: I don't want it, and they do. They certainly must find it there. But I hear the cottagedoor open. [Retires a little. Enter DORCAS and ROSINA from the Cottage. DORCAS with a great basket on her arm, filled with skeins of thread. Dor. I am just going, Rosina, to carry this thread to the weaver's. Ros. This basket is to heavy for you: pray let me carry it. [Takes the basket from DORCAS, and sets it down on the bench. Dor. No, no. [Peevishly. Ros. If you love me, only take half; this evening, or to-morrow morning, I will carry the rest.-[Takes part of the skeins out of the basket and lays them on the bench, looking affectionately on DORCAS.] There, be angry with me if you please. Dor. No, my sweet lamb, I am not angry; but beware of men. Ros. Have you any doubts of my conduct, Dorcas ? Dor. Indeed I have not, love, and yet I am uneasy. Enter CAPTAIN BELVILLE, unperceived. Go back to the reapers, whilst I carry this thread. Ros. I'll go this moment. Dor. But as I walk but slow, and 'tis a good way, you may chance to be at home before me; so take the key. Ros. I will. Capt. B. [Aside, while DORCAS feels in her pockets for the key.] Rosina to be at home before Dorcas! How lucky! I'll slip into the house, and wait her coming, if 'tis till midnight. [He goes unperceived by them into the Cottage. Dor. Let nobody go into the house. Ros. I'll take care; but first I'll double-lock the door. [While she is locking the door, Dorcas, going to take up the basket, sees the purse. Dor. Good lack! "What is here! a purse, as I live! Ros. How! Dor. Come, and see; 'tis a purse indeed. Ros. Heavens! 'tis full of gold. Dor. We must put up a bill at the churchgate, and restore it to the owner. The best way is to carry the money to his honour, and get him to keep it till the owner is found. You shall go with it, love. Ros. Pray excuse me, I always blush so. Dor. 'Tis nothing but childishness; but his 245 Sweet transports, gentle wishes, go! In vain his charms have gain'd my heart; Since fortune, still to love a foe, And cruel, duty bid us part. Ah! why does duty claim the mind, And part those souls which love has join'd? Enter WILLIAM. Pray, William, do you know of any body that has lost a purse? Will. I knows nothing about it. Ros. Dorcas, however, has found one. Ros. You will oblige me very much if you I will carry it to Mr. Belville, and beg him to keep it till the owner is found. Will. Since you desire it, I'll go: it shan't be the lighter for my carrying. Ros. That I am sure of, William. Enter PHEBE. [Exit. Phe. There's William; but I'll pretend not to see him. Henry cull'd the floweret's bloom, [Throws away her nosegay. While she is singing WILLIAM turns, looks at her, whistles, and plays with his stick. Will. That's Harry's posy; the slut likes me still. Phe. That's a copy of his countenance, I'm sartin; he can no more help following me nor he can be hang'd. [Aside; WILLIAM crosses ugain, singing. Of all the fair maidens that dance on the green, The maid of the mill for me. I'll not speak first, an I die for't. [WILLIAM sings, throwing up his stick and Will. Her eyes are as black as the sloe in the hedge, Her face like the blossoms in May. Phe. I can't bear it no longer-you vile, ungrateful, parfidious-But it's no matter can't think what I could see in you Harry loves me, and is a thousand times more handsomer. [Sings, sobbing at every word. Of all the gay wrestlers that sport on the green, Young Harry's the lad for me. Will. He's yonder a reaping, shall I call him? [Offers to go. Phe. My grandmother leads me the life of a dog; and it's all along of you. Will. Well, then she'll be better tempered now. Phe. I did not value her scolding a brass farthing, when I thought as how you were true to me. Hh |