The British drama; a collection of the most esteemed tragedies, comedies, operas, and farces, in the English language

Mich. Sir, I repented.

B. Will. Repented! what's that? Dog, know your rank, and act as we command, or your heart's blood

Mich. What must I do?

[Frighted. B. Will. Do! you must show us the house, appoint the time and place, and lure your master thither-We'll take care of him without your trouble.

Green. So shall you purchase noble Mosby's friendship

And, by his friendship, gain his sister's love.
Mich. They'll murder me too, should I not
comply-
[Aside.

Green. Think on your love, your interest.
B. Will. Or your death.

Mich. To-night, soon as the abbey-clock strikes ten, [Trembling. Come to his house: I'll leave the doors unbarr'd: [ber; The left-hand stairs lead to my master's chamThere take him, and dispose him as you please. Green. This cannot fail.

Shake. Unless this love-sick coward thinks to deceive us.

Mich. I will not, by Heaven!

darest not.

B. Will. I believe thee; for, by hell, thou [Exeunt. Mich. Master, thy constant love and daily bounty

Deserve more grateful offices from Michael. [Exit, in tears. SCENE II.-A Room in ARDEN'S House.

At least, I liv'd in hopes I might be so:
For time, and gratitude, and Arden's love,
I hop'd, might quench my guilty flame for

you,

And make my heart a present worthy him.
Mos. And dost thou glory in thy perjuries?
In love, inconstancy alone's a crime.
Think on the ardour of our youthful passion,
Think how we play'd with love; nor thought
it guilt,

Till thy first falsehood, (call it not obedience,) Thy marriage with this Arden, made me desperate;

Think on the transports of our love renew'd, And

Alic. Hide the rest, lest list'ning winds should hear,

And publish to the world our shameful tale. Here let remembrance of our follies die.

Mos. Shall our loves wither in their early

bloom?

Alic. Their harvest else will be to both our shames.

Hast thou not made a monster of me, Mosby?
You should abhor me, I abhor myself.
When unperceiv'd I stole on Arden's sleep,
(Hell steel'd my heart, and death was in my
hand,)

Pale anguish brooded on his ashy cheek,
And chilly sweats stood shivering on his brow.
Relentless murder, at a sight so sad,
Gave place to pity; and, as he wak'd, I stood
Irresolute, and drown'd in tears.

Mos. She's lost,

And I, in vain, have stain'd my soul with blood. [Asule.

Alic. Give o'er, in time: in vain are your

attempts

[ed

Upon my Arden's life; for Heaven, that wrestThe fatal weapon from my trembling hand, Still has him in its charge.

Mos. Little she thinks,

That Arden's dead ere now.-It must be so; I've but that game to play, ere it be known.

[Aside.

Alic. I know our dang'rous state; I hesitate;

I tremble for your life; I dread reproach.
But we've offended, and must learn to suffer..
Mos. Then Arden lives in his Alicia bless'd,
And Mosby, wretched. Yet should chance
or nature

Lay Arden gently in a peaceful grave,
Might I presume to hope? Alicia, speak.
Alic. How shall I look into my secret
thoughts,

And answer what I fear to ask myself?

[A long pause.

Mos. Silence speaks best for me. His deat

once known,

I must forswear the fact, and give these tools
To public justice-and not live in fear. [Aside.
Thy heart is mine. I ask but for my own.
[To her.
Truth, gratitude, and honour, bind you to me,
Or else you never lov'd.

Alic. Then why this struggle?
Not lov'd! O had my love been justly plac'd,
As sure it was exalted and sincere,

I should have gloried in it, and been happy.
But I'll no longer live the abject slave
Of loose desire-I disclaim the thought.

Mos. I'll ask no more what honour should [deny; By Heaven, I never will.

Alic. Well, then, remember,
On that condition only, I renew
My vows. If time and the event of things
4 I

Should ever make it lawful, I'll be yours.

[Gives her hand. Mos. O, my full joys! Alic. Suppress thy frantic transports, My heart recoils; I am betray'd.-O give me My promis'd faith. [back

Mos. First, let the world dissolve.

Alic. There is no joy, nor peace, for you or

me:

All our engagements cannot but be fatal. Mos. The time may come when you'll have other thoughts;

"Till then, farewell.-[Aside.] Now, fortune,
do thy worst.
[Exit.
Alic. Mosby, return: he's gone, and I am
wretched.

I should have banish'd him my sight for ever.
You happy fair ones, whose untainted fame
Has never yet been blasted with reproach,
Fly from th' appearance of dishonour, far.
Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate:
To doubt, is treason in her rigid court;
But, if ye parley with the foe, you're lost.

[Exit.

SCENE III.-A Room in ARDEN'S House. ARDEN and FRANKLIN sitting together on a couch: ARDEN, thoughtful.

Frank. Nay, wonder not.-Though every circumstance

Thus strangely met to prove the lady false, And justify the husband's horrid vengeance; Yet it appears to every honest eye,

(Too late for the poor lady,) she was wrong'd. Ard. Is't possible?

Frank. Ay, very possible:

He lives that proves it so. Conceal'd from justice,

He pines with ceaseless sorrow for his guilt, And each hour bends him lower towards his

grave.

Ard. I know thy friendship, and perceive its drift. [wrong'd.

I'll bear my wrongs-for sure I have been Do I but think so, then! What fools are men, Whom love and hatred, anger, hope, and fear, And all the various passions, rule by turns, And in their several turns alike deceive?

Frank. To cast away, and on suspicion only, A jewel, like Alicia, were to her Unjust, and cruel to yourself.

[Clock strikes ten.

Frank. I thought it not so much.

Ard. Why, thus it is:

Our happy hours are few, and fly so swift,
That they are past ere we begin to count 'em:
But, when with pain and misery oppress'd,
Anticipating Time's unvarying pace,
We think each heavy moment is an age.
Frank. Come, let's to rest. Impartial as the

grave,

Sleep robs the cruel tyrant of his power, Gives rest and freedom to the o'erwrought

slave,

And steals the wretched beggar from his want. Droop not, my friend; sleep will suspend thy And time will end them.

[cares,

Ard. True, for time brings death, The only certain end of human woes. Sleep interrupts, but waking, we're restor'd To all our griefs again. Watching and rest, Alternately succeeding one another, Are all the idle business of dull life,

What shall we call this undetermin'd state, This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless oceans, [tend? That whence we came, and that to which we Is it life, chequer'd with the sleep of death? Or death, enliven'd by our waking dreams? But we'll to Led. Here, Michael, bring the lights.

Enter MICHAEL, with lights. Heaven send you good repose.

[Gives FRANKLIN a candle.

Frank. The like to you.
Mich. Shall I attend you, Sir?
Frank. No, no, I choose to be alone. Good
night.

[Exit FRANKLIN. MICHAEL attends his master with the other light, and returns. Mich. I, who should take my weapon in my hand,

And guard his life with hazard of my own, With fraudful smiles have led him, unsuspecting,

Quite to the jaws of death-But I've an oath. Mosby has bound me with a horrid vow, Which if I break, these dogs have sworn my

death.

[latch. I've left the doors unbarr'd.-Hark! 'twas the They come I hear their oaths, and see their daggers

Insulting o'er my master's mangled body, While he for mercy pleads. Good master, live: ['em

I'll bar the doors again. But, should I meet What's that?-I heard 'em cry, where is this

coward?

Arden once dead, they'll murder me for sport. Help-call the neighbours-Master-Franklin -help.

Enter ARDEN and FRANKLIN, undressed.
Ard. What dismal outcry's this?
Frank. What frights thee, Michael?
Mich. My master!-Franklin!
Ard. Why dost tremble so?

Mich. I dream'd the house was full of thieves and murderers. [Trem ling.

Ard. Dream'd! what, awake! Are all the doors made fast?

Mich. I think they are.

Ard. I'll go and see myself. [Exit ARDEN. Frank. You made a fearful noise.

Mich. Did I?—

Ard. [Within.] Why, Michael!

Frank. You tremble still.-Has any one been here?

Mich. No, I hope not. My master will be angry.

Yet, but for Green, these bloody rogues had¦ She eats, nor sleeps. Her lovely, downcast

kill'd me.

We must desist-Franklin and sweet Maria
Have promis'd, at Alicia's own request,
To interfere-

Mos. Such ever be the employ

Of him I hate.

Mich.-The mourning fair, all chang'd,

By me conjures you, (and with tears she
spake it,)

Not to involve yourself and her in ruin,
By seeking to renew a correspondence,
She has renounc'd for ever.

Mos. How! confusion!

Mich. And hopes, (as Heaven, in answer
to her prayers,

Hath reconcil'd her duty and affection,)
You will approve her resolution—

Mos. Doubtless!

Mich. And learn, by her example, to subdue

Your guilty passion

Mos. Ha, ha, ha! exquisite woman!

eyes,

That us'd to gladden each beholder's heart,
Now wash the flinty bosom of the earth.
Her troubled breast heaves with incessant
sighs,
[blast
Which drink the purple streams of life, and
Her bloom, as storms the blossoms of the
spring.

But sure her prayers must quickly reach high
Heaven,

Relenting Arden kindly sooth her sorrows.
And her lost peace restore.

Frank. Their mutual peace, Maria!
For his can ne'er be found but in Alicia.
Asham'd to view the face of man or day,
As Mosby's name was written on his brow,
He cheerless wanders; seeks the darkest gloom
To hide his drooping head, and grieve alone.
With a full heart, swol'n eyes, and falt'ring
tongue,

He sometimes, seeking to beguile his grief,

So! rather than not change, she'll love her Begins a mournful tale: but straight, a thought

husband!

But she will not persevere.

Mich. Yes, sure, she will.

Mos. Have I then slighted her whole sigh

ing sex,

Bid opportunity and fortune wait;
And all, to be forsaken for a husband!
By Heaven, I am glad he has so oft escap'd,
That I may have him murder'd in her sight.

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Of his imagin'd wrongs crossing his memory,
Ends his sad story ere the half be told.

O may our pains with wish'd success be
crown'd.

Were I but certain she had wrong'd my bed,
I then might hate her, and shake off my woes;
But, thus perplex'd, can never taste of comfort.

Frank. O jealousy! thou bane of social joy!
Oh! she's a monster, made of contradictions!
Let truth in all her native charms appear,
And with the voice of harmony itself
Plead the just cause of innocence traduc'd;
Deaf as the adder, blind as upstart greatness,
And yet, let slander
She sees nor hears.

whisper,

Rumour has fewer tongues than she has ears;
And Argus' hundred eyes are dim and slow,
To piercing jealousy's,—

Ard. -No more, no more

I know its plagues, but where's the remedy?
Mar. In your Alicia.

Frank. She shall heal these wounds.

Ard. She's my disease, and can she be my

cure?

My friends should rather teach me to abhor her,
To tear her image from my bleeding heart.
Mar. We leave that hateful office to the fiends.
Frank. If you e'er lov'd, you'll not refuse to
see her:

You promis'd that.
Ard. Did I?

Frank. Indeed, you did.

Ard. Well, then, some other time.
Frank. No, see her now.

Ard. Franklin, I know my heart, and dare
not see her:

I have a husband's honour to maintain,
I fear the lover's weakness may betray.
Let me not do what honour must condemn,
And friendship blush to hear.

Frank. That Arden never will.

Mar. Did you but know her grief-
Ard. Am I the cause?

Have I, just Heaven, have I e'er injur'd her?
Yet I'm the coward. O prepost'rous fear!
See, where she comes-Arm'd with my num-
'rous wrongs,

I'll meet with honourable confidence
Th' offending wife, and look the honest hus-
band.

Frank. Maria, we'll withdraw-even friend- Thou inconsistent spring of grief and joy, ship here Whence bitter streams and sweet alternate

Would seem impertinence.
Ard. Be still, my heart.

[Exeunt. [ALICIA enters, not seeing ARDEN. Alic. How shall I bear my Arden's just reproaches!

Or can a reconcilement long continue,
That's founded on deceit! Can I avow
My secret guilt?-No-At so mean a thought
Abandon'd infamy herself would blush.
Nay, could I live with public loss of honour,
Arden would die to see Alicia scorn'd.
He's here; earth, open-hide me from his
sight.

Ard. Guilt chains her tongue. Lo! silent,
self-condemn'd,
[stands.
With tearful eyes and trembling limbs she
Alic. Fain would I kiss his footsteps-but
that look,

Where indignation seems to strive with grief,
Forbids me to approach him.

Ard. Who would think,

Alic. Am I at last,

In error's fatal mazes long bewilder'd,
Permitted here to find my peace and safety!
Ard. Dry up thy tears; and tell me, truly
tell me,

Has my long-suffering love at length prevail'd,
And art thou mine, indeed?

Alic. Heaven is my witness,

I love thee, Arden; and esteem thy love
Above all earthly good. Thy kind forgiveness
Speaks to my soul that peaceful calm confirm'd,
Which reason and reflection had begun.

Ard. Thou'rt cheaply purchas'd with unnumber'd sighs, [tience, With many a bitter tear, and years of paArd. Those tears, methinks, even if her guilt Thou treasure of more worth than mines of

That anguish were not real?
Alic. I'm rooted here.

were certain,

Might wash away her pains.
Alic. Support me, Heaven!

Ard. Curse on the abject thought. I shall
relapse

To simple dotage. She steals on my heart,
She conquers with her eyes. If I but hear her
voice,
[snares.
Nor earth nor heaven can save me from her
O! let me fly-If I have yet the power.
Alic. O Arden! do not, do not leave me
thus.
[Kneels, and holds him.
Ard. I pray thee, loose thy hold.
Alic. O never, never.
Ard. Why should I stay to tell thee of my

wrongs,

gold.

I will not doubt my happiness. Thou art,
Thou wilt be mine, ever and only mine.

Alic. I am, I will. I ne'er knew joy 'till

now.

Ard. This is our truest, happiest nuptial day.
To-night, thou knowest, according to my cus-
tom,
Our yearly fair returning with St. Valentine,
I treat my friends. I go to countenance
Their honest mirth, and cheer them with my
bounty.

Till happy night, farewell. My best Alicia,
How will our friends rejoice, cur foes repine,
To see us thus?

[me,

Alic. Thus ever may they see us!
The wandering fires, that have so long misled
Are now extinguish'd, and my heart is Ar-
den's.

The flowery path of innocence and peace
Shines bright before, and I shall stray no
longer.

Whence then these sighs, and why these
floods of tears?

Sighs are the language of a broken heart,
And tears the tribute each enlighten'd eye
Pays, and must pay, for vice and folly past.
And yet the painful'st virtue hath its pleasure:
Though dangers rise, yet, peace restor❜d with-
in,

My soul collected shall undaunted meet them.
Though trouble, grief, and death, the lot of
all,

On good and bad, without distinction, fall;
The soul which conscious innocence sustains,
Supports with ease these temporary pains;
But, stung with guilt, and loaded by despair,
Becomes itself a burden none can bear.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.-The Street.
People at a distance, as at a Fair.
Enter ARDEN on one side, and BLACK WILL and
SHAKEBAG on the other, GREEN directing
them.

B. Will. Shakebag, you'll second me
S'blood give the way. [Jostles ARDEN.
Shake. May we not pass the streets?
Ard. I saw you not.

Mos. O, bloody dogs! attempt a life so precious!

B. Will. This is a fury, George.

[BLACK WILL and SHAKEBAG beaten off. Shake. I've pink'd him though—

Ard. Villains, come back; and finish your design.

Mos. Shall I pursue them, Sir?
Ard. Not for the world-
Mosby! amazing generosity!
Mos. I hope you are not hurt.
Ard. Pierc'd to the heart-

Mos. Forbid it, Heaven! quick, let me fly for help.

Ard. With sharp reflection :-Mosby, I can't

bear

Frank. May you be ever happy in your wife: But

Ard. Speak-But what? Let's have no riddles here.

Can she be innocent, and Mosby guilty? Frank. To speak my thoughts, this new officious fondness [ever. Makes me su-pect:-I like him worse than Ard. Because I like him better. What a churl!

Frank. You're credulous, and treat my serious doubts

With too much levity. You vex me, Arden, [Exit. Ard. Believe me, friend, you'll laugh at this [Exit the other way.

hereafter.

MOSBY, having watched FRANKLIN out, re-enters with GREEN.

Mos. The surly friend has left him-As 1 wish'd

Flies headlong to our snare: now to inclose
You see how eagerly the foolish fowl [him.
At eight the guests are bidden to his banquet,
Keeps home with his Alicia. He'll secure
And only Michael, of his numerous train,
The keys of all the doors, and let you in
With my two trusty blood-hounds. Alicia
Averse at present-
[seems

Green. She'll not dare betray us.
Mos. Not when the deed is done. We know

too much;

She'll be our prisoner, and shall be observ'd.
Towards evening, then upon a slight pretence
To pass an hour at draughts, (a game he loves,)
I'll draw this husband home. You'll be pre-
In th' inner room, (Michael will show it you,)
par'd
Till, at a signal given, you all rush forth,
And strangle him.

Green. Good-'tis a death that leaves
No bloody character to mark the place.
Mos. Howe'er, come all provided with your
daggers.

Do you seek Michael, I'll instruct the rest.
Green. What shall the signal be?
Mos. These words in the game,

"I take you now."

Green. Arden! thou'rt taken now, indeed. Mos. His body, thrown behind the abbey

wall,

Shall be descried by the early passenger Returning from the Fair.-My friend, thy hand

Shakes it?-Be firm, and our united strength With ease shall cast dead Arden to the earth. Green. Thanks to his foolish tenderness of

soul.

Mos. True; he, who trusts an old invet'rate foe,

Bares his own breast, and courts the fatal blow. [Excunt.

ACT V.

SCENE 1.-ARDEN'S House.
ALICIA, alone.

What have I heard! Is this the house of
Arden?

[him, Oh! that the power which has so often sav'd Would send his guardian angel to him now, To whisper in his ear his present danger! Fly, Arden, fly; avoid this fatal roof," Where murder lurks, and certain death awaits thee: [hence, Wander-no matter where-Turn but from

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