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my dress.

Iron. Ay, like enough—but here comes my wild Indian, your savage there, is making off with lady, and in excellent temper, if her looks don't his daughter. belie her.

Sir Ben. Mercy on us! what am I to think of

all this? Enter LADY Dove.

Iron. What are you to think! Why, that it is Lady Dove. What's to do now, sir Benjamin ? a lie—that you are an ass—and that your wife is What's the matter that you send for your clothes? a termagant. My nephew is a lad of honour, and Can't you be contented to remain as you are? scorns to run away with any man's daughter, or Your present dress is well enough to stay at wife either, though, I think, there's little danger home in, and I don't know that you have any of that here--As for me, sooner than mess with call out of doors.

such a vixen, I'd starve: and so, sir Benjamin, I Iron. Gentle as a lamb, sir Benjamin ! wish you a good stomach to your dinner. Sir Ben, This attention of yours, my dear, is

[Erit IRONSIDES. beyond measure flattering! I am infinitely be Lady Dore. Insolent, unmannerly brute ! was holden to you; but you are so taken up with ever the like heard ? And you to stand tamely your concern on my account, that you overlook by! I declare I've a great mind to raise the serour old friend and neighbour, captain Ironsides. vants upon him, since I have no other defenders.

Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, you make yourself Thus am I for ever treated by your scurvy comquite ridiculous: this folly is not to be endured; panions ! you are enough to tire the patience of any woman Sir Ben. Be pacified, my dear! am I in fault? living.

But for Heaven's sake, what is become of my Sir Ben. She's quite discomposed; all in a danghter? flutter for fear I should take cold by changing Lady Dove. Yes, you can think of your

daughter; but she is safe enough for this turn; Iron. Yes, I perceive she has exceeding I have taken care of her for one while, and thus weak nerves.

You are much in the right to hu- I am rewarded for it. Am I a vixen am I a mour her.

termagant? Oh, had my first husband, had my Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin Dove, if you mean poor, dear, dead Mr Searcher heard such a word, that I should stay a minute longer in this house, he would have rattled him—But he-What do I insist upon your turning that old porpoise out I talk of? he was a man! yes, yes, he was, inof it: is it not enough to bring your nauseous deed, a man-As for yousea companions within these doors, but must I Sir Ben. Strain the comparison no farther, be compelled to entertain them? Foh! I shan't lady Dove ; there are particulars

, I dare say, in get the scent of bis tar-jacket out of my nostrils which I fall short of Mr Searcher. this fortnight.

Lady Dove. Short of him! I tell you what, Sir Ben. Hush, my dear lady Dove! for Hea- sir Benjamin ; I valued moře the dear grey-bound ven's sake, don't shame and expose me in this that hung at his button-hole, more than I do all manner ! how can I possibly turn an honest gen- the foolish trinkets your vanity has lavished on tleman out of iny doors, who has given me no offence in life?

Sir Ben. Your ladyship, doubtless, was the paLady Dove. Marry, but he has though, and ragon of wives: I well remember, when the poor great offence, too. I tell you, sir Benjamin, you inan laid ill at my borough of Knavestown, how are made a fool of.

you came flying on the wings of love, by the Sir Ben. Nay, now, my dear sweet love! be Exeter waggon, to visit hin before he died. composed.

Lady Dore. I understand your sneer, sir, and Lady Dove. Yes, forsooth, and let a young, despise it: there is one condition only, upon rambling, raking prodigal, run away with your which you may regain my forfeited opinion.daughter !

Young Belfield, who, with this old fellow, has de Sir Ben. How, what !

signs in hand of a dangerous nature, bas treated Lady Dove. A fine thing, truly, to be com me with an indignity still greater than what you posed

have now been a witness to. Shew yourself a Iron. Who is it your ladyship suspects of such man upon this occasion, sir Benjamin. a design?

Sir Ben. Any thing, dearest, for peace sake. Lady Dove. Who, sir? why, who but

Lady Dove. Peace sake! It is war, and not phew Robert? You flattered us with a false peace, which I require-But come, if you will hope he was dead; but, to our sorrow, we find walk this way, I'll lay the matter open to you. him alive, and returned; and now you are cajol

[È.reunt. ing this poor, simple, unthinking man, while your

me.

your ne

ACT III.

ence.

SCENE I.— The seu-shore before Goodwin's Vio. Fair, or dark complexioned ? cabin,

Fanny. Of a most lovely complexion; 'tis her

greatest beauty, and ail pure nature, I'll be anEnter VIOLETTA and Fanny.

swerable; then, her eyes are so soft, and so smiVio. And when is this great match of Mr ling; and as for her hairBelfield's to be?

Vio. Hey-day! why, where are you rambling, Fanny. Alas, madam! we look to hear of it cbild? I am satisfied; I make no doubt she is a every day.

consummate beauty, and that Mr Belfield loves Vio. You seem to consider this event, child, her to distraction. [ Aside.] I don't like this girl as a mistortune to yourself: however others may so well as I did; she is a great talker; I am be affected by Mr Beltield's marrying Miss Dove, glad I did not disclose my mind to her; I'll go to you I conceive it must be matter of indiffer in, and determine on some expedient. [Erit.

Funny. Alas, poor lady! as sure as can be, Fanny. I have been taught, madam, to consi- she has been crossed in love; nothing in this der no esent as matter of inditference to me, world besides could make her so miserable. But by which good people are made unhappy. zure I see Mr Francis; if falling in love leads to Miss Suphy is the best young lady living ; Mr such misfortunes, 'tis fit I should get out of his Beineld is

way.

(Exit. l'io. Hold, Fanny! do step into the house; in my writing-box you will find a letter sealed, but

SCENE II. without a direction; bring it to me. [Erit FanNY.) I have been writing to this base man, for I

Enter FRANCIS and PHILIP. want fortitude to support an interview. What Fran. Wasn't that your sister, Philip, that ran if I unbosoined myself to this girl, and entrusted into the cabin? the letter to her conveyance? She seems exceed Phi. I think it was. ingly honest, and, for one of so mean a condi Frun. You've made a good day's work on't: tion, uncommonly sensible; I think I may safe- the weather coming about so fair, Í think we've ly confide in her. Well, Fanny !

scarce lost any thing of value, but the ship;

didn't you meet the old captain as you came Enter FANNY.

down to the creek? Fanny. Here is your letter, madam.

Phi. I did; he has been at sir Benjamin Viv. I thank you; I trouble you too much; | Dove's, here, at Cropley-castle, and is come back but thou art a good-natured girl, and your atten in a curious humour. tion to me shall not go unrewarded.

Fran. So! so! I attended my young master Funny. I am happy to wait on you; I wish I thither at the same time; how came they not to could do or say any thing to divert you; but my return together? discourse can't be very amusing to a lady of Phi. That I can't tell. Come, let's go in, and your sort; and talking of this wedding seems to refresh ourselves.

Ereunt. have made you more melancholy than you was before.

SCENE III. l'io. Come hither, child; you have remarked my disquietude; I will now disclose to you the

Enter Sophia Dove, and Lucy WATERS. occasion of it: you seem interested for Miss Dove; I am touched with her situation : you Sophia. Indeed, and indeed, Miss Lucy Wateli me, she is the best young lady living. ters, these are strong facts which you tell me;

Funny. Oh, madam! if it were possible for and, I do believe, no prudent woman would engage an anges to take a human shape, she must be with a man of Mr Andrew Beltield's disposition :

but what course am I to follow ? and how am I Vio. 'Tis very well; I commend your zeal; to extricate myself froin the embarrassments of you are speaking now of the qualities of her my situation ? mind.

Lucy. Truly, madam, you have but one reFanny. Not of them alone; she has not only fuge that I know of. the virtues, but the beauties of an ange

Sophia. And that lies in the arms of young l'io. Indeed! Pray, tell me, is she so very adventurer. O, Lucy, Lucy! this is a flattering handsome?

prescription; calculated rather to humour the Funny. As fine a person as you could wish patient, than to remove the discase. to see.

Lucy. Nay, but if there is a necessity for your Vio. Tall?

taking this stepFanny. About your size, or rather taller. Sophia. Ay, necessity is grown strangely com

one.

hold you.

modious of late, and always compels us to do Sophiu. What, you've discovered it at last ? the very thing we have most a mind to.

Oh, fie upon you ! Lucy. Well, madam, but common humanity to Bel. jun. Thus, thus, let me embrace my unyoung Mr Belfield

-You must allow he has expected blessing: come to my heart, my fond, been hardly treated.

overflowing heart, and tell me once again that Sophia. By me, Lucy?

my Sophia will be only mine! Lucy. Madam! No, madam, not by you; but Sophia. O, man, man! all despondency one 'tis charity to heal the wounded, though you have moment, all rapture the next. No question now not been a party in the fray.

but you conceive every difficulty surmounted, Sophia. I grant you. You are a true female and that we have nothing to do but to run into philosopher; you would let charity recommend each other's arms, make a fashionable elopeyou a husband, and a husband recommend you to ment, and be happy for life? and I must own to charity-But I won't reason upon the matter; you, Belfield, was there no other condition of at least, not in the humour I am now; not at our union, even this project should not deter this particular time: no, Lucy, nor in this parti- me; but I have better hopes, provided you will cular spot; for here it was, at this very hour, be piloted by {me ; for, believe me, my good yesterday evening, young Belfield surprised me. friend, I am better acquainted with this coast Lucy. And see, madam, punctual to the same

than you are. lucky moment, he comes again! let him plead his Bei

. jun. I doubt not your discretion, and own cause; you need fear no interruption; shall implicitly surrender myself to your guimy lady has too agreeable an engagement of her dance. own, to endeavour at disturbing those of other Sophia. Give me a proof of it, then, by retreapeople.

[Erit. ting from this place immediately; 'tis my father's

hour for walking, and I would not have you Enter BELFIELD, jun.

meet; besides, your brother is expected. Bel. jun. Have I, then, found thee, loveliest of Bel. jun. Ay, that brother, my Sophia, that women? 0! Sophia, report has struck me to the brother, brings vexation and regret whenever he heart; if, as I am told, to-morrow gives you to is named ! but I hope, I need not dread a second my brother, this is the last time I amn ever to be injury in your esteem; and yet I know not how

it is, but if I was addicted to superstition Sophia. Why so, Mr Belfield? Why should Sophia. And if I was addicted to anger, I our separation be a necessary consequence of our should quarrel with you for not obeying my inalliance?

junctions with more readiness. Bel. jun. Because I have been ambitious, and Bel. jun. I will obey thee, and yet 'tis difficult. cannot survive the pangs of disappointment. Those lips, which thus have blest me, cannot dis

Sophia. Alas, poor man! but you know where miss me withoutto bury your disappointments; the sea is still Sophia. Nay, Mr Belfield, don't you—well, open to you; and, take my word for it, Mr Bel- then-mercy upon us ! who's coming here? field, the mau who can live three years, ay, or Bel. jun. How! oh, yes! never fear; 'tis a three months, in separation from the woman of friend; 'tis Violetta ; 'tis a lady that Ihis heart, need be under no apprehension for his Sophia. That you what, Mr Belfeld? What life, let what will befall her.

lady is it! I never saw her in my life before. Bel

. jun. Cruel, insulting Sophia! when I last Bel. jun. No, she is a foreigner, born in Porparted from you, I flattered myself I had left tugal, though of an English family : the packet, some impression on your heart-But in every in which she was coming to England, foundered event of my life, I meet a base, injurious bro- along-side of our ship, and I was the instrument ther; the everlasting bar to my happiness—Iof saving her life: I interest myself much in her can support it no longer; and Mr Belfield, ma- happiness, and I beseech you, for my sake, to be dam, never can, never shall be yours.

kind to her.

(Erit. Sophia. How, Sir! never shall be mine? Sophia. He interests himself much in her bapWhat do you tell me? There is but that man on piness; he beseeches me, for his sake, to be kind earth with whom I can be happy; and if my fate to her-What am I to judge of all this? is such, that he is never to be mine, the world, and all that it contains, will for ever after be in

Enter VIOLETTA. different to me.

Vio. Madam, I ask pardon for this intrusion: Bel. jun. I have heard enough; farewell ! but I have business with you of a nature that-I

Sophia. Farewell, sagacious Mr Belfield! the presume I'm not mistaken; you are the young next fond female, who thus openly declares her- lady I have been directed to, the daughter of sir self to you, will, I hope, meet with a more gal- Benjamin Dove? lant reception than I have done.

Sophia. I am, madam; but wont you please to Bel. jun. How! what! is't possible? O, Hea- repose yourself in the house? I understand yoa vens!

are a stranger in this country. May I beg to

know what commands you have for me? Mr Bel Pat. Sir! field has made me acquainted with some circum Bel. jun. Nay, Mr Paterson, don't assume stances relative to your story: and, for his sake, such a menacing air; nor practise on my temper madam, I shall be proud to render you any ser too far in this business. I know both your situavice in my power.

tion and my own. Consider, sir, mine is a cause Vio. For Mr Belfield's sake, did you say, ma- that would animate the most dastardly spirit; dam? Has Mr Belfield nained me to you, ma- your's is enough to damp the most courageous. dam?

[Erit Bel. jun. Sophia. Is there any wonder in that, pray? Pat. A very short and sententious gentleman :

Vio. No; none at all. If any man else, such but there is truth in his remark. Mine is but a cootdence would surprise me; but, in Mr Bel- sorry commission, after all. The man is in the field, 'tis natural; there is no wondering at what right to fight for his mistress ; she's worth the he does.

venture; and, if there was no way else to be Sophia. You must pardon me: I find we think quit of mine, I should be in the right to fight, differently of Mr Belfield. He left me but this too: egad, I don't see why aversion should not minute, and, in the kindest terms, recommended make me as desperate as love makes him. Hell you to my friendship.

and fury! here comes my Venus ! Vio. 'Twas he, then, that parted from you as

Enter LADY Dove. I came up? I thought so; bit I was too inuch agitated to observe hiin—and I am confident he Lady Dove. Well, Paterson, what says the felis to guilty to dare to look upon me.

low to my message? Sophia. Why so, madamn? For fleaven's sake, Pat. Says, madam! I'ın ashamed to tell you inforin me what injuries you have received from what he says: he's the arrantest boatswain that Mr Belfield; I must own to you, I am much in- ever I conversed with. terested in finding him to be a man of honour. Lady Dove. But tell ine what he says.

l'io. I know your situation, madam, and I pitv Pat. Every thing that scandal and scurrility it. Providence has sent me here, in tine to save can utter against you. you, and to tell you

Lady Dove. Against me! What could he say Sophia. What? To tell me what? Oh! speak, against me? or I shall sink with apprehension !

Pat. Modesty forbids me to tell you. Vio. To tell you, that he is my hushand! Lady Dove. "Oh! the vile reprobate ! I, that

Sophia. Husband ! your husband? what do I have been so guarded in my conduct, so discreet hear! ungenerous, base, deceitful Beltield! I in my partialities, as to keep them secret, even thought he seemed confounded at your appear from my own husband; but, I hope, be did not ance; every thing confirins his treachery; and I venture to abuse my person? cannot doubt the truth of what you tell me. Pat. No, madam, wo; had he proceeded to

Vio. A truth it is, madam, that I must ever such lengths, I could not in honour fave put up reflect on with the most sorrowful regret. with it; I hope I have more spirit than to suffer

Sophia. Come, let me beg you to walk to any reflections upon your ladyship’s personal acwards the house. I ask no account of this tran-complishments. saction of Mr Belfield's. I would fain banish his Lady Dove. Well; but did you say nothing in name from my memory for ever; and you shall defence of my reputation ? this instant be a witness of his peremptory dis

Pat. Nothing. mission.

[Exeunt. Lady Dove. No? SCENE VI.

Pat. Not a syllable! Trust me for that; 'tis

the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be siEnter BELFIELD jun. and Paterson.

ient; for he, who takes upon him to defend a Bel. jun. And so, sir, these are her ladyship’s lady's reputation, only publishes her favours to commands, are they?

the world; and, therefore, I would always leave. Pat. This is what I am commissioned by lady that office to a husband. Dove to tell you : what report shall I make to Lady Dove. 'Tis true; and, if sir Benjamin her?

had any heartBel. jun. Even what you please, Mr Paterson; Pat Come, come, my dear lady, don't be too mould it and model it to your liking; put as severe upon sir Benjamin : many men, of no betmany palliatives, as you think proper, to sweeten ter appearance than sir Benjamin, have shown it to her ladyship's taste; so you do but give her themselves perfect heroes : Í knw a whole fato understand, that I neither can, nor will abandou mily, that, with the limbs o: ladies, have the my Sophia. Cease to think of her, indeed! hearts of lions. Who can tell but your husband What earthly power can exclude her idea from may be one of this sort ? my thoughts? I am surprized lady Dove should Lady Dove. Ah! think of sending me such a message ; and I wou Pat. Well, hut try him ; tell him how you have der, sir, that you should consent to bring it. been used, and see what his spirit will prompt Vol. II.

5 X

him to do. A-propos ! here the gentleman, lieve this, sir Benjamin; you could not bear to comes : if he won't light, 'tis but what you ex- see me ill used; I'm positive you could not. pect; if he will, who can tell where a lucky ar Sir Ben. 'Tis as well, however, not to be too row may hit? [Exit Par. sure of that.

Aside.

Lady Dove. You could not be so mean-spiritEnter Sir BENJAMIN Dove.

ed, as to stand by and hear your poor dear wife Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, I want to have a abused and insulted, and little discourse in private with you.

Sir Ben. Oh! no, by no means; 'twould break Sir Ben. With me, my lady?

my heart; but, who has abused you and insulted Lady Dove. With you, sir Benjamin ; 'tis upon you, and a matter of a very serious nature; pray, sit down Lady Dove. Who? Why, this young Belfield, by me. I don't know how it is, my dear, but I that I told you of. have observed, of late, with much concern, a

Sir Ben. Oh! never listen to bim! A woman great abatement in your regard for me.

of your years should have more sense than to mind Sir Ben. Oh! fie, my lady, why do you think what such idle young fleerers can say of you. so? What reason have you for so unkind a sus Lady Dove. (Rising.] My years, sir Benjapicion?

min! Why, you are more intolerable tban he is! Lady Dore. 'Tis in vain for you to deny it; I but let him take his course; let him run away am convinced you have done loving me.

with your daughter; it shall be no further conSir Ben. Well

now,

I vow, my dear, as I am a cern of mine to prevent him. sinner, you do me wrong..

Sir Ben. No, my dear, I've done that effecLady Dode. Look'e, sir Benjamin, love, like tually. mine, is apt to be quick-sighted; and, I am per Lady Dove. How so, pray? suaded, I am not deceived in my observation. Sir Ben. By taking care he shan't run away

Sir Ben. Indeed, and indeed, niy lady Dove, with my estate at the same time. Some peoplo you accuse me wrongfully.

lock their daughters up to prevent their eloping. Lady Dove. Mistake me not, my dear, I do I've gone a wiser way to work with mine ; let her not accuse you; I accuse myself; I am sensible go loose, and locked up her furtune. there are faults and imperfections in my temper. Lady Dove. And, on my conscience, I believe

Sir Ben. Oh! trifles, my dear, mere trifles. you mean to do the same by your wife; turn her

Lady Dore. Come, come, I know you have led loose upon the world, as you do your daughter; but an uncomfortable life of late, and, I am leave her to the mercy of every free-booter; let afraid, I've been innocently, in some degree, the ber be vilified and abused; her honour, her repucause of it.

tation, mangled and torn by every paltry privaSir Ben. Far be it from me to contradict your teering fellow that fortune casts upon your coasts. ladyship, if you are pleased to say so.

Sir Ben. Hold, my lady, hold! young Belfield Lady Dove. I am sure it has been as I say; did not glance at your reputation, I hope ! did my over-fondness for you has been troublesome he? and vexatious; you hate confinement, I know Lady Dove. Indeed, but he did though; and you do ; you are a man of spirit, and formed to therein, I think, every wife has a title to her figure in the world.

husband's protection. Sir Ben. Oh, you flatter me !

Sir Ben. True, my dear; 'tis our duty to plead, Lady Dove. Nay, nay, there's no disguising it; but your's to provide us with the brief. you sigh for action; your looks declare it: this Lady Dove. There are some insults, sir Benalteration in your habit and appearance, puts it jamin, that no man of spirit ought to put up with; out of doubt: there is a certain quickness in and the imputation of being made a wittol of, is your eye; 'twas the first symptom that attracted the most unpardonable of any. my regards; and, I am mistaken, sir Benjamin, Sir Ben. Right, my dear; even truth, you koow, if you don't possess as much courage as any man. is not to be spoke at all times. Sir Ben. Your ladyship does me honour. Lady Dove. How, sir! would you insinuate any Ludy Dove, I do you justice, sir Benjamin. thing to the disparagement of my fidelity ? but

Sir Ben. Why, I believe, for the matter of choose your side; quarrel you must, either with courage, I have as much as my neighbours; but him, or with me. 'tis of a strange perverse quality; for, as some Sir Ben. Oh! if that's the alternative, what a spirits rise with the difficulties they are to en-deal of time have we wasted! Step with me counter, my courage, on the contrary, is always into my library, and I'll pen him a challenge imgreatest when there is least call for it.

mediately

(Ercunt. Ludy Dove. Oh! you shall never make me be

1

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