ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I. Before COUNT BALDWIN's House.
Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS.

Car. THIS

HIS Constancy of yours will establish an immortal reputation among the women.

Vil. If it would establish me with IsabellaCur. Follow her, follow her: Troy town was won at last.

Vil. I have follow'd her these seven years, and now but live in hopes.

Car. But live in hopes! Why, hope is the ready road, the lover's baiting-place; and for aught you know, but one stage short of the possession of your mistress.

Vil. But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making than hers; and proceed rather from my wishes, than any encouragement she has given me.

Car. That I can't tell: the sex is very various: there are no certain measures to be prescribed or followed, in making our approaches to the women. All that we have to do, I think, is to attempt 'em in the weakest

part. Press them but hard, and they will all fall under the necessity of a surrender at last. That favour comes at once; and sometimes when we least expect it.

Vil. I shall be glad to find it so.

her.

I'm going to visit

Car. What interest a brother-in-law can have with her, depend upon.

Vil. I know your interest, and I thank you.

Car. You are prevented; see, the mourner comes; She weeps, as seven years were seven hours; So fresh, unfading, is the memory

Of my poor brother's, Biron's, death:

I leave you to your opportunity.

[Exit Villeroy.

Though I have taken care to root her from our house,

I would transplant her into Villeroy's-
There is an evil fate that waits upon her,
To which, I wish him wedded-Only him:
His upstart family, with haughty brow

(Though Villeroy and myself are seeming friends),
Looks down upon our house; his sister too,
Whose hand I ask'd, and was with scorn refus'd,
Lives in my breast, and fires me to revenge.-
They bend this way-

Perhaps, at last, she seeks my father's doors;
They shall be shut, and he prepar'd to give
The beggar and her brat a cold reception.
That boy's an adder in my path-they come,
I'll stand apart, and watch their motions.

[Exit.

Re-enter VILLEROY, with ISABELLA and her little Son.
Isa. Why do you follow me? you know I am
A bankrupt every way; too far engag'd
Ever to make return; I own you have been
More than a brother, you have been my friend;
And, at a time when friends are found no more,
A friend to iny misfortunes.

Vil. I must be always your friend.

Isa. I have known, and found you

Truly my friend; and would I could be yours;
But the unfortunate cannot be friends:

Pray be gone,

Take warning, and be happy.
Vil. Happiness!

There's none for me without you: Riches, name,
Health, fame, distinction, place, and quality,
Are the encumbrances of groaning life,

To make it but more tedious without you.
What serve the goods of fortune for? To raise
My hopes, that you at last will share them with me.
Isa. I must not hear you.

Vil. Thus, at this awful distance, I have serv'd
A seven year's bondage-Do I call it bondage,
When I can never wish to be redeem'd?
No, let me rather linger out a life

Of expectation, that you may be mine,
Than be restor'd to the indifference
Of seeing you, without this pleasing pain:
I've lost myself, and never would be found
But in these arms.

Isa. Oh, I have heard all this!

But must no more- -the charmer is no more:

My buried husband rises in the face

Of my dear boy, and chides me for my stay:

Canst thou forgive me, child?

Child. Why, have you done a fault? You cry as if you had. Indeed now, I've done nothing to offend you: but if you kiss me, and look so very sad

I shall cry too.

Isa. My little angel, no, you must not cry;
Sorrow will overtake thy steps too soon:
I should not hasten it.

Vil. What can I say?

The arguments that make against my hopes
Prevail upon my heart, and fix me more.
When yet a virgin, free, and undispos'd,
I lov'd, but saw you only with my eyes;
I could not reach the beauties of your soul:
I have since liv'd in contemplation,

upon me,

And long experience of your growing goodness:
What then was passion, is my judgment now,

Through all the several changes of your life,
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you.

Isa. Nay, then I must be gone. If you're my friend, If you regard my little interest;

No more of this.

I'm going to my father; he needs not an excuse
To use me ill pray leave me to the trial.

Vil. I'm only born to be what you would have me,

The creature of your power, and must obey;
In every thing obey you. I am going:
But all good fortune go along with you.
Isa. I shall need all your wishes-

Lock'd! and fast!

Where is the charity that us'd to stand
In our forefathers' hospitable days

At great men's doors, ready for our wants,
Like the good angel of the family,

With open arms taking the needy in,

[Exit. [Knocks.

To feed and clothe, to comfort and relieve 'em? Now even their gates are shut against their poor. [She knocks again.

Enter SAMPSON.

Sam. Well, what's to do now, I trow? You knock as loud as if you were invited; and that's more than I heard of: but I can tell you, you may look twice about you for a welcome, in a great man's family, before you find it, unless you bring it along with you.

Isa. I hope I bring my welcome along with me: Is your lord at home? Does count Baldwin live here still? Sam. Ay, ay, count Baldwin does live here; and I am his porter: but what's that to the purpose, good woman, of my lord's being at home?

friend?

Isa. Why, don't you know me, Sam. Not I, not I, mistress; I may have seen you before, or so, but men of employment must forget their acquaintance; especially such as we are never to be the better for. [Going to shut the Door.

Enter Nurse, having overheard him.
Nurse. Handsomer words would become you, and

mend your manners, Sampson. Do you know who you prate to?

Isa. I'm glad you know me, nurse.

Nurse. Marry, heav'n forbid, madam, that I should ever forget you, or my little jewel: pray go in-[Isabella goes in with her Child] Now my blessing go along with you, wherever you go, or whatever you are about. Fie, Sampson, how couldst thou be such a Saracen? A Turk would have been a better Christian, than to have done so barbarously by so good a lady.

Sam. Why look you, nurse, I know you of old: by your good will you would have a finger in every body's pie, but mark the end on't; if I am called to account about it, I know what I have to say.

Nurse. Marry, come up here; say your pleasure, and spare not. Refuse his eldest son's widow, and poor child, the comfort of seeing him! She does not trouble him so often.

Sam. Not that I am against it, nurse, but we are but servants, you know: we must have no likings but our lord's; and must do as we are ordered. But what is the business, nurse? You have been in the family before I came into the world: what's the reason, pray, that this daughter-in-law, who has so good a report in every body's mouth, is so little set by, by my lord?

Nurse. Why, I tell you, Sampson, more or less: I'll tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding or diminishing.

Sam. Ay, marry, nurse.

Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have lov'd 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; God 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.