near.

Baron S. That you may do yourself. [Exit. Stra. The last anxious moment of my life draws I shall see her once again; I shall see her on whom my soul dotes. Is this the language of an injured husband? What is this principle which we call honour? Is it a feeling of the heart, or a quibble in the brain? I must be ressolute: it cannot now be otherwise. Let me speak solemnly, yet mild: and beware that nothing of reproach escape my lips. Yes, her penitence is real. She shall not be obliged to live in mean dependence: she shall be mistress of herself, she shall (Looks round, and shudders.) Ha! they come. Awake, insulted pride! protect me, injured honour!

Enter MRS. HALLER, COUNTESS WINTERSEN, and BARON STEINFORT.

Mrs. H. (Advances slowly, and in a tremor: the Countess attempts to support her.) Leave me now, I beseech you. (Approaches the Stranger, who, with averted countenance, and in extreme agitation, awaits her address.) My lord!

Stra. (With gentle tremulous utterance, and face still turned away.) What would you with me, Adelaide?

Mrs. H. (Much agitated.) No-for heaven's sake! I was not prepared for this. Adelaide!-No, no. For heaven's sake!-Harsh tones alone are suited to a culprit's ear.

Stra. Endeavouring to gwe his voice firmness.) Well, madam!

Mrs. H. Oh! if you will ease my heart, if you will spare and pity me, use reproaches.

Stra. Reproaches!-Here they are; here on my sallow cheek, here on my hollow eye, here in my faded form; these reproaches I could not spare you.

Mrs. H. Were I a hardened sinner, this forbearance would be charity; but I am a suffering penitent, and it overpowers me, Alas! then I must be the herald of my own shame; for where shall I find peace, till I have eased my soul by my confession?

Stra. No confession, madam: I release you from every humiliation. I perceive you feel that we must part for ever.

Mrs. H. I know it; nor come I here to supplicate your pardon; nor has my heart contained a ray of hope that you would grant it. All I dare ask is, that you will not curse my memory.

Stra. No; I do not curse you: I shall never curse you.

Mrs. H. From the conviction that I am unworthy of your name, I have, during three years abandoned it. But this is not enough: you must have that redress which will enable you to choose another-another wife; in whose chaste arms may

This paper

will be necessary for the purpose; it contains a written acknowledgement of my guilt. (Offers it trembling.)

Stra. Tearing it.) Perish the record for ever! No, Adeleide; you only have possessed my heart; and, I am not ashamed to own it, you alone will reign there for ever. Your own sensations of virtue, your resolute honour, forbid you to profit by my weakness; and even if-Now, by heaven this is beneath a man!-But never, never will another fill Adelaide's place here.

Mrs. H. Then nothing now remains but that one sad, hard, just word - farewell!

Stra. Stay a moment. For some months we have, without knowing it, lived near each other. I have learnt much good of you: you have a heart open to the wants of your fellow-creatures. I am happy that it is so: you shall not be without the power of gratifying your benevolence. I know you have a spirit that must shrink from a state of obligation. This paper, to which the whole remnant of my fortune is pledged, secures your independence, Adelaide; and let the only recommendation of the gift be, that it will administer to you the means of indulging in charity, the divine propensity of your

nature.

Mrs. H. Never! To the labour of my hands alone will I owe my sustenance. A morsel of bread, moistened with the tear of penitence, will suffice my wishes, and exceed my merits. It would be an additional reproach to think that I served myself, or even others from the bounty of a man whom I had so deeply injured. Stra. Take it, madam; take it.

Mrs. H. I have deserved this. But I throw myself upon your generosity: have compassion on me!

Stra. (Aside.) Villain! of what a woman hast thou robbed me! (Puts up the paper.) Well, madam, I respect your sentiments, and withdraw my request; but on condition, that if ever you shall be in want of anything, I may be the first and only person in the world to whom you will make application.

Mrs. H. I promise it, my lord.

Stra. And now I may, at least, desire you to take back what is your own-your jewels. (Gives her the casket.)

Mrs. H. (Opens it in violent agitation, and her tears burst upon it.) How well do I recollect the sweet evening when you gave me these! That evening my father joined our hands, and joyfully 1 pronounced the oath of eternal fidelity: it is broken This locket you gave me on my birthday that was a happy day. We had a country feast: how cheerful we all were! This bracelet I received after my William was born!-No! take them, take them! I cannot keep these, unless you wish that the sight of them should be an incessant reproach to my almost broken heart. (Gives them back.)

Stra. (Aside.) I must go: my soul and pride will hold no longer. (Turning towards her.) Farewell! Mrs. H. Oh! but one minute more! an answer to but one more question. Feel for a mother's heart! Are my children still alive? Stra. Yes, they are alive. Mrs. H. And well?

Countess, who places herself behind the Stranger; he himself walks with the boy behind Mrs. Haller.)

Stranger, who is in violent agitation throughout this | scene, remains in silent contention between honour and affection.) Oh! let me behold them once again! let me once more kiss the features of their father in his babes, and I will kneel to you, and part with them for ever. (She kneel, and he raises her.)

Stra. Willingly, Adelaide! This very night: I expect the children every minute. They have been brought up near this spot. I have already sent my servant for them: he might, ere this time, have returned. I pledge my word to send them to the castle, as soon as they arrive; there, if you please, they may remain till day-break to-morrow, then they must go with me, (The Countess and Bar. S., who, at a little distance, hare listened to the whole conrersation with the warmest sympathy, exchange signals. Baron S. goes into the hut, and soon returns with FRANCIS and the children: he gives the girl to the

Mrs. H. In this world, then, we have no more to say-(Seizing his hand.)-Forget a wretch, who never will forget you: and when my penance shall have broken my heart; when we again meet in a better world

Stra. There, Adelaide, you may be mine again. Mrs. H. and Stra. Oh! oh! (Parting. But, as they are going, she encounters the boy, and he the girl) Children. Dear father! dear mother!

[They press the children in their arms with speechless affection; then tear themselves away, gaze at each other, spread their arms, and rush into an embrace. The Children run, and cling round their parents.-Exeunt.

Me back so far, but I may boldly speak

The honour of my house, you've done me wrong.
You may remember (for I now will speak,
And urge its baseness) when you first came home
From travel, with such hopes as made you look'd

on,

By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation;
Pleas'd with your growing virtue, I receiv'd you;
Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits;
My house, my table, nay, my fortune, too;
My very self was yours; you might have us'd me
To your best service; like an open friend

I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine:

Pri. Have you not wrong'd me?

Jaf. Could my nature e'er

Have brook'd injustice, or the doing wrongs, I need not now thus low have bent myself, To gain a hearing from a cruel father. Wrong'd you?

Pri. Yes, wrong'd me! In the nicest point,

You treacherously practis'd to undo me; Seduc'd the weakness of my age's darling, My only child, and stole her from my bosom. Oh, Belvidera!

Jaf. 'Tis to me you owe her; Childless you had been else, and in the grave Your name extinct; no more Priuli heard of.

You may remember, scarce five years are past,
Since in your brigantine you sail'd to see
The Adriatic wedded by our duke;
And I was with you: your unskilful pilot
Dash'd us upon a rock; when to your boat
You made for safety: enter'd first yourself,
Th' affrighted Belvidera following next,
As she stood trembling on the vessel's side,
Was, by a wave, wash'd off into the deep;
When instantly I plung'd into the sea,
And buffeting the billows to her rescue,
Redeem'd her life to half the loss of mine.
Like a rich conquest, in one hand I bore her,
And with the other dashed the saucy waves,
That throng'd and press'd to rob me of my prize.
I brought her, gave her to your despairing arms:
Indeed you thank'd me; but a nobler gratitude
Rose in her soul: for from that hour she loved me,
Till for her life she paid me with herself.

Pri. You stole her from me; like a thief you stole her,

At dead of night! that cursed hour you chose
To rifle me of all my heart held dear.

May all your joys in her prove false, like mine:
A sterile fortune, and a barren bed,
Attend you both; continual discord make
Your days and nights bitter and grievous; stiil
May the hard hand of a vexatious need
Oppress and grind you; till at last, you find
The curse of disobedience all your portion.

But's happier than me: for I have known
The luscious sweets of plenty; every night
Have slept with soft content about my head,
And never walk'd but to a joyful morning;
Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn,
Whose Blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the
ripening.

Pri. Home, and be humble; study to retrench;
Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall,
Those pageants of thy folly:

Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife
To humble weeds, fit for thy little state:
Then, to some suburb cottage both retire;
Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and
starve-

Home, home, I say.

[Exit.

Jaf. Yes, if my heart would let meThis proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are hateful to my eyes, Fill'd and damm'd up with gaping creditors, Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring. I've now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love and pleas'd with ruin. Oh, Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife; And we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more.

Enter PIERRE.

Pier. My friend, good-morrow;

cers,

I once was happy.

Jaf. You use me thus, because you know my soul Is fond of Belvidera. You perceive

My life feeds on her, therefore thus you treat me.
Oh! could my soul ever have known satiety;
Were I that thief, the doer of such wrongs,
As you upbraid me with, what hinders me
But I might send her back to you with contumely,
And court my fortune where she would be kinder?
Pri. You dare not do't.

Jaf Indeed, my lord I dare not.

My heart that awes me, is too much my master: Three years are past, since first our vows were plighted,

During which time, the world must bear me witness,

I've treated Belvidera like your daughter,
The daughter of a senator of Venice:
Distinction, place, attendance, and observance,
Due to her birth, she always has commanded.
Out of my little fortune I've done this;

Because (though hopeless e'er to win your nature)
The world might see I loved her for herself:
Not as the heiress of the great Priuli.

Pri. No more.

Jaf. Yes, all: and then adieu for ever.

To bind the hands of bold, deserving rogues,
That fools and cowards might sit safe in power,
And lord it uncontroll'd above their betters.
Jaf. Then honesty is but a notion?
Pier. Nothing else;

Like wit, much talk'd of, not to be defin'd:

He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't,
Tis a ragged virtue. Honesty! no more on't.
Jaf. Sure, thou art honest!

Pier. So, indeed, men think me;
But they're mistaken, Jaffier: I'm a rogue
As well as they;

A fine, gay, bold-fac'd villain, as thou seest me.
'Tis true, I pay my debts, when they're contracted:
I steal from no man; would not cut a throat,
To gain admission to a great man's purse,
Or a whore's bed! I'd not betray my friend,
To get his place or fortune; I scorn to flatter
A blown-up fool above me, or crush the wretch
beneath me;

Yet, Jaffier, for all this, I'm a villain,

Jaf. A villain!

Pier. Yes, a most notorious villain; To see the sufferings of my fellow creatures, And own myself a man: to see our senators Cheat the deluded poople with a shew Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of.

Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds;
Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow;
Drive us, like wrecks, down the rough tide of
power,

Whilst no hold's left to save us from destruction.
All that bear this are villains, and I one,
Not to rouse up at the great call of nature,
And check the growth of these domestic spoilers,
That make us slaves, and tell us, 'tis our charter.
Jaf. I think no safety can be here for virtue,
And grieve, my friend, as much as thou, to live
In such a wretched state as this of Venice,
Where all agree to spoil the public good;
And villains fatten with the brave man's labours.
Dier. We've neither safety, unity, nor peace;
For the foundation's lost of common good;
Justice is lame, as well as blind, amongst us;
The laws (corrupted to their ends that make 'em)
Serve but for instruments of some new tyranny,
That ev'ry day starts up, t' enslave us deeper.
Now could this glorious cause but find out friends,
To do it right, oh, Jaffier! then might'st thou
Not wear these seals of woe upon thy face;
The proud Priuli should be taught humanity,
And learn to value such a son as thou art.

I dare not speak, but my heart bleeds this mo

ment.

Jaf. Curs'd be the cause, though I thy friend be part on't:

Let me partake the troubles of thy bosom,

For I am us'd to misery, and perhaps

May find a way to sweeten't to thy spirit.

Pier. Too soon 'twill reach thy knowledge.
Jaf. Then from thee

Let it proceed. There's virtue in thy friendship,
Would make the saddest tale of sorrow pleasing,
Strengthen my constancy, and welcome ruin.
Pier. Then thou art ruined!
Jaf. That I long since knew;

I and ill fortune have long been acquainted.
Pier. I pass'd this very moment by thy doors,
And found them guarded by a troop of villains;
The sons of public rapine were destroying.
They told me, by the sentence of the law,
They had commission to seize all thy fortune:
Nay, more, Priuli's cruel hand had sign'd it.
Here stood a ruffian with a horrid face,
Lording it o'er a pile of massy plate,
Tumbled into a heap for public sale;
There was another, making villainous jests
At thy undoing: he had ta'en possession
Of all thy ancient, most domestic ornaments,
Rich hangings intermix'd and wrought

gold;

'The very bed, which on thy wedding night Receiv'd thee to the arms of Belvidera, The scene of all thy joys, was violated

with

By the coarse hands of filthy, dungeon villains,
And thrown amongst the common lumber.
Jaj. Now thank heaven-

Pier. Thank heaven! for what?
Jaf. That I'm not worth a ducat.

Pier. Curse thy dull stars, and the worse fate of
Venice,

Where brothers, friends, and fathers, all are false;

Where there's no truth, no trust; where inno

cence

Stoops under vile oppression, and vice lords it.
Hadst thou but seen, as I did, how, at last,
Thy beauteous Belvidera, like a wretch,
That's doomed to banishment, came weeping forth,
Shining through tears, like April suns in showers,
That labour to o'ercome the cloud that loads 'em:

But when I think what Belvidera feels,
The bitterness her tender spirit tastes of,
I own myself a coward: bear my weakness:
If throwing thus my arms about thy neck,
I play the boy, and blubber in thy bosom.
Oh! I shall drown thee with my sorrows.
Pier. Burn,

First, burn and level Venice to thy ruin.
What, starve like beggars' brats, in frosty weather,
Under a hedge, and whine ourselves to death!
Thou or thy cause shall never want assistance,
Whilst I have blood or fortune fit to serve thee:
Command my heart, thou'rt every way its master."
Jaf. No, there's a secret pride in bravely dying.
Pier. Rats die in holes and corners, dogs run
mad;

Man knows a braver remedy for sorrow:
Revenge, the attribute of gods; they stamp'd it,
With their great image, on our natures. Die!
Consider well the cause, that calls upon thee:
And, if thou'rt base enough, die then. Remember
Thy Belvidera suffers; Belvidera!
Die-damn first-What! be decently interr'd
In a church-yard, and mingle thy brave dust
With stinking rogues, that rot in winding-sheets,
Surfeit-slain fools, the common dung o' th' soil!
Jaf. Oh!

Pier. Well said, out with't, swear a little.

L

Jaf. Swear! By sea and air; by earth, by heav'n, and hell,

I will revenge my Belvidera's tears.

Hark thee, my friend-Priuli-is-a senator.

Pier. A dog.

Jaf. Agreed.

Pier. Shoot him.

Jaf. With all my heart.

No more; where shall we meet at night?
Pier. I'll tell thee;

On the Rialto, every night at twelve,

I take my evening's walk of meditation;

There we two will meet, and talk of precious Mischief.

Jaf. Farewell.

Pier. At twelve.

[Exit Pierre.

Jaf. At any hour; my plagues
Will keep me waking.
Tell me why, good heaven,
Thou mad'st me what I am, with all the spirit.
Aspiring thoughts, and elegant desires,
That fill the happiest man? Ah, rather, why
Didst thou not form me sordid as my fate,
Base-minded, dull, and fit to carry burthens?
Why have I sense to know the curse that's on
me?

Is this just dealing, nature?-Belvidera!
Poor Belvidera!

Enter BELVIDERA.
Bel. Lead me, lead me, my virgins,