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.
SCENE 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.
[ROSINA going to put out the lamp, DORCAS
looks after her, and sighs; she returns
hastily.

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
affectionately at ROSINA.

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
stile,

How sweet is the nightingale's song;
Of the day I forget all the labour and toil,
Whilst the moon plays yon branches among.

By her beams, without blushing, I hear him
complain,

[ACT I.

The blushing morn awakes the strain,
Awakes the tuneful choir;
But sad Rosina ne'er again

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.
Rust. See, ye swains, yon streaks of red,
Call you from your slothful bed;
Late you till'd the fruitful soil;
See! where harvest crowns your toil.
Cho. Late you till'd the fruitful soil;

See! where harvest crowns your toil.
Rust. As we reap the golden corn,

Laughing Plenty fills her horn.
What would gilded pomp avail
Should the peasant's labour fail?
Cho. What would gilded pomp avail

Should the peasant's labour fail?
Rust. Ripen'd fields your cares repay,
Sons of labour, haste away;
Bending, see the waving grain
Crown the year, and cheer the swain.
Cho. Bending, see the waving grain

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,
I will put what I have gleaned down again.
[She lets fall the ears she had gleaned.
Bel. How can you be so unfeeling, Rustic?
Let fall

And believe every word of his song:
You know not how sweet 'tis to love the dear She is lovely, virtuous, and in want.

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
others, Belville's gentle virtues, and knew not
that 'twas love. Unhappy, lost Rosina!

The morn returns in saffron dress'd,
But not to sad Rosina rest.

some ears, that she may glean the more.
Rust. Your honour is too good by half.
Bel. No more: gather up the corn she has
let fall. Do as I command you.

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
way: what bloom on that cheek! 'Tis the
blushing down of the peach.

Her mouth, which a smile,
Devoid of all guile,

Half opens to view,
Is the bud of the rose,
In the morning that blows,
Impearl'd with the dew.
More fragrant her breath
Than the flower-scented heath
At the dawning of day;
The hawthorn in bloom,
The lily's perfume,

Or the blossoms of May.
Enter CAPTAIN BELVILLE in a riding dress.
Capt. B. Good morrow, brother; you are
early abroad.

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,
And gain more than pheasant or hare-
Gain health by the sports of the day.
Mark! mark! to the right hand, prepare-
See Diana!-she points!-see, they rise-
See, they float on the bosom of air!

Fire away! whilst loud echo replies
Fire away!

Hark! the volley resounds to the skies!
Whilst echo in thunder replies!

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 sha'n't break my heart, Mrs. Phebe.

Will. I've kiss'd and I've prattled to fifty
fair maids,

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;
He looks like a squire of high degree
When dress'd in his Sunday clothes.
Will. I've kiss'd and I've prattled, &c.
Phe. There's fifty young men, &c.

[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,
Sweetly wears the joyous day;
Cheerful glows my artless breast,
Mild content the constant guest.

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-
Ros. I understand you, Sir; your compas-
sion does not extend to old women.
Capt. B. Really-I believe not.

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.
Rust. For whom, Sir?

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.
Bel. But I don't see Rosina. Dorcas, you
must come too, and Phebe.

Dor. We can't deny your honour.
Ros. I am asham'd; but you command, Sir.
Enter CAPTAIN BELVILLE, followed by the
Reapers.

Bel. By this fountain's flowery side,
Dress'd in nature's blooming pride,
Where the poplar trembles high,
And the bees in clusters fly;
Whilst the herdsman on the hill
Listens to the falling rill:
Pride and cruel scorn, away:

Let us share the festive day.

Ros. & Bel. Taste our pleasures ye who may,
This is Nature's holiday.

Simple Nature ye who prize,
Life's fantastic forms despise.

Cho. Taste our pleasures ye who may,
This is Nature's holiday.

Capt. B. Blushing Bell, with downcast eyes,
Sighs, and knows not why she sighs-
Tom is near her-we shall know-
How he eyes her-Is't not so?

Cho. Taste our pleasures ye who may,
This is Nature's holiday.

Will. He is fond, and she is shy;

He would kiss her;-fie!-oh, fie!
Mind thy sickle, let her be;
By and by she'll follow thee.

Cho. Busy censors, hence away;
This is Nature's holiday.

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,
This is Nature's holiday.