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"And heav'n's reward of well-deservers here,"
"Would prove a plague to me; to see you always,
"And never see you mine! still to desire,
"And never to enjoy !"

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 upon me, 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;
"Those pious tears you hourly throw away

"Upon the grave, have all their quick'ning charms, "And more engage my love, to make you mine :" 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,

And long experience of your growing goodness:
What then was passion, is my judgment now,
Thro' 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; you see, I grant you all

That friendship will allow be still my friend;
That's all I can receive, or have to give.

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 to her.

Samp. 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?

Count Baldwin lives here still?

Samp. 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?

Isa. Why, don't you know me, friend?

Samp. 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, Nurse enters, 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 goin-[Isa

bella goes in with her Chiid.] 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.

Samp. 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.

Samp. 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.

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"Nurse. Nay, that's true, Sampson.

"Samp. Besides, what I did was all for the best : "I have no ill will to the young lady, as a body may say, upon my own account; only that I hear she is poor; and indeed I naturally hate your decay'd gentry: they expect as much waiting upon as when " they had money in their pockets, and were able to "consider us for the trouble.

"Nurse. Why, that is a grievance indeed in great "families, where the gifts, at good times, are better "than the wages. It would do well to be reformed."

Samp. 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.

Samp. 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, "Samp. How! King Pyramus of Troy! Why, "how many had he?”

"Nurse. Why, the ballad sings he had fifty sons; "but no matter for that." This Biron, as I was say. ing, 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.

Samp. How, wilfully! he should have had her consent, methinks.

Nurse. No, wilfully marries her; and, which was worse, after she had settled all her fortune upon a nunnery, which she broke out of to run away with him. They say they had the church's forgiveness, but I had rather it had been his father's.

Samp. Why, in good truth, "these nunneries, I "see no good they do. I think the young lady was

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