ACT I.

Sister! sister!

Whence com'st thou?

I come far.

What to do? Tell me—

To confer with you.

Yonder,—

What?

The castle there—

Well—

Contains my present care.

Briefly then thy care unfold.

Youthful both, and fair and true.

This was publish'd at their birth.

Right; and well 'tis known on earth.

Blest I wish them—

So do I.

Can you help them—

Certainly.

Hard task, I ween!

Hard the task, I know it well.

How perform it?—

Now I guess.

You contriv'd—

I did—

But—

What a situation am I in!—Is this figure really and truly Emmeline — the beloved and only daughter of great Northumberland? Every thing about me is so like a dream, that I am frighted to think I am awake.—O how weary I am of this dress! If I had known half that I should have suffered in it, all the fairies in the world should not have persuaded me to put it on.—If I resided here in this dis­guise the month of the king's hunting, I was to break the spell I was born under, and my life was to be happy—so the fairy told me!—Yet the time ex­pires to-morrow, and nothing has happened to me but vexation and disappointment. I must once more see this powerful yet decrepit being, who, though in­visible, is always within my call —This ring, which she gave me, convenes her: if I take it off and touch it thrice, she appears—Once—twice—thrice!

O fairy! my situation is such as I can bear no longer.

Patience; for it ends to-morrow.

To-morrow!—to-morrow is a thousand years—When the horse has all he can bear, a feather will break his back.

What's the matter?

Matter! why, in the first place, I have lived almost a month in a court—

That your sorrow?

That my sorrow! yes—I that have always lived in my father's principality, fair Northumberland, where a noble simplicity of manners shewed the heart to be open and undersigning; have, by your persuasion and assistance, left it for a place, where hypocrisy is avowed by the name of good breeding; where the most shameful licentiousness is justified as gallantry; dissi­mulation and perfidy, as address and good manage­ment; where self-interest is professed as the first prin­ciple of wisdom, and virtue and public spirit derided as extravagance and superstition.

But your dress was your defence.

O! it is my dress that exposes me to more than half that I suffer. When one of my own sex is in company, I am comparatively happy; but how unfit for a woman's ear is the conversation of men, when it is not restrained by knowing that a woman is present! I begin to fear that I should hot have thought so well even of those men I have been used to con­verse with, if they had appeared to me as they appear to each other.—The friendship and confidence of these lords of the creation, have almost robbed me, a weak woman, of my allegiance:—I am frighted at the thought of living among them.

Fear not vices you detest.

Fear not! but what must I hope? O fairy! if I have implicitly followed your instructions, if I have hidden them in my breast from every friend, [Page 6] and even from good Northumberland my father, let me no longer suffer the anguish of suspense.

Persevere; believe; confide.

But I have yet found no object worthy of my love.

I know the mystery of my fate—that the happiness of my life depends upon my seeing and making a friend of the most beautiful and accomplish'd of men, without one thought of love—Alas!—for­give my doubts, my fears—should you——

Hold! of foul mistrust beware——To [...]mor­row!—

Well then, till to morrow—

Soft—unhallowed feet are nigh!—Florimond—

O! that wretch haunts me like my shadow. To rally me for what he calls my virtue, seems to be his supreme delight; he is proud of his own insensi­bility to what gives me pain: the confusion he throws me into, he considers as a test of his own abilities and accomplishments; and as vanity is his predominant passion, he is so assiduous to secure the enjoyment of his superiority, that I can scarce escape him one hour in a day.

But how? where?—dear, dear fairy!—

Gone!—Mystery! perplexity, and distress! She sports too with my anxiety! I almost wish I had not trusted her: but 'tis too late—Here comes Flo­rimond, and my torment begins.

Ha! my little Gondibertus! have I found you?—What all alone

? Egad I was in hopes there had been a wench in the case, and that I might have given thee joy of thy reformation.

Sir, I chose to be alone. Solitude is some­times not only useful, but pleasant.

I have sufficient subject for meditation, Sir; and I hoped that, as there is a ball at the castle to­night, you would have been better engag'd than to watch my privacy.

What! better engag'd than to raise such a re­cruit for the beau monde, as thou art?—Come, come, thou shalt not thus steal away from good company to thyself.

Sir, upon my word, I'm fit company for none but myself at present.

Pshaw!—what always muzzy, with a dismal countenance as long as a taylor's bill! Come, chear up, boy, I've news for thee.

For me, Sir!

Aye, to divert thee I mean; that's all.

What, is it any thing uncommon then?

No faith, not very uncommon neither; tho' perhaps thou may'st make a wonder of it.—'Tis only an heiress that's just run away with a young fellow.

That, indeed, is not so uncommon as might be wish'd. But who is she? is she of any fashion?

Yes faith, she is of some fashion; Northum­berland's fair daughter Emmeline, that's all—

Oh!—

What, thy virtue is shock'd at the licent ous­ness of the age? Ha, ha, ha!—Or art thou a lover of the fair Emmeline's? hey!

What shall I say? my confusion will certainly betray me—'Twas only a sudden pain shot cross my bread—But what particulars do you hear?

Why it seems she got leave of her father to follow him hither; and it is just accidentally discovered, that she left his castle the next day, though she has not been here yet.

Well; but why do you therefore conclude, that she's gone off with a man?

Why only because the duke of Kent's son, Edgar, disappeared upon the same pretence, just at the same time; and both have been missing ever since.

And is this sufficient to authorize a positive assertion to the prejudice of a reputation, which hi­therto not slander itself has presum'd to stain?

Ha! ha! ha! Not slander itself has presum'd to stain! Ha, ha, ha.

O my heart! what new insult am I doom'd to suffer?—You'll excuse me, Sir, if, upon this occasion, I take the liberty to tell you, that your mirth is rather ill-timed; and—

Sir—do you know this fair lady, that you are so much disposed to become her knight-errant?

I must be cautious, or my zeal may discover me. Sir, though I should not know her, it is my point of honour, never to suffer the reputation of the absent to be wantonly sported away, upon mere circumstances and surmise.

Your point of honour!—why to be sure all this is very fine. But I'll tell you a secret, my dear— As unstain'd as you may think the fair Emmeline's reputation, there is a certain humble servant of yours, that shall be nameless, who has some small reason to think, that a certain piece of brittle ware, which she had the keeping of, may be a little crack'd—or so.

asideA wretch! who never saw me but in this disguise—You are well acquainted with her then?

Why—I am—

And pray, what kind of woman is she?

Why, she's a pretty—upon my word, a very pretty wench.

But is she tall, or short, or brown, or fair?

You have never seen her, you say?

No more than I do this moment.

Then I may venture—Why she is fair, tall, and slender; has a fine neck, a very fine neck! her limbs remarkably well turn'd, her leg and ancle the finest I ever saw—

Oh!

Aye—I thought I should set you a longing: but come, she's not to be had at present it seems; so no more of her.

I cannot so easily dismiss her as you may imagine; and yet, perhaps, you may mistake the reason.

Very likely, faith; but what is it?

Why I am astonish'd, that you make so light of what has happen'd to her; whether you consider it as the loss of a mistress, or whether as a misfortune to a woman you must be suppos'd to have lov'd, and to whom you must have had obligations of the strongest and most tender kind: one of these lights you must see it in.

Why, my dear, as to that, I am extreamly easy about losing her; for between you and I—I cou'd spare her. I must, indeed, confess, that I was very fond of her once; but 'faith, the obligations were all on her side—It's among ourselves.

O, my heart! what a monstrous com­pound of vanity and lies is this!—How so, pray sir?

Why, I us'd to meet her in her father's park night after night, at the risk of my life; and egad, what with the danger, and what with the fatigue, I grew tir'd of her; and, to tell you the truth, pro­vided her another lover, to make good my retreat. It's among ourselves.

Well said—and who was that, sir?

The very same Edgar that she is now run away with. I thought it would be a pretty thing for him; for he is one of your fighting fellows, that is never so happy as when he's in danger—but I'm sorry he has been so indiscreet.

Pray, Sir—excuse me—I don't pretend to question the truth of what you say; but there are some difficulties in the story, that I should be glad to have clear'd up—If you was so much in the lady Emmeline's good graces, and had, as you say, no dislike to her person, how came you not to think of marrying her? Such an alliance, I presume, would not have dishonoured you.—I shall confound him now.

Marrying her! Egad, she knew a trick worth two o'that. I would have married her; and I told her so: "My dear Florimond," says she,—her arm was then lying negligently cross my shoulder, thus,— and she look'd archly at me, thus,—‘My dear Flo­rimond, says she, why should you and I, that have now only the power of making each other happy, suffer a doating old priest to give us the power of making each other miserable? If you were to be my husband, you might cease to be my lover; and then,’ says she, with a most roguish leer, ‘perhaps I might be tempted to take another: you would tyrannize, I should rebel; you wou'd enjoy nothing but the hope of breaking my heart, and I should enjoy nothing but the hope of break­ing yours.’

Still, still, I draw upon myself more confusion.—But why then did she run away with Ed­gar? That must ruin her schemes, both of interest and pleasure.

Nay, how the devil can I tell that?

What, in your reveries!—Thou art now musing on some vartuous love, like an ever faithful lovyer tell death,—ha, ha, ha!—Come, come, pshaw, don't be a fool; some kind wench now would cure you—Egad, what think you of Elfrida?—Come along, we'll call at her apartment: perhaps she's dressing, and we shall be admitted to her toilet. Upon my soul, a fine figure of a woman! a little masculine, that's all; but take my word for it, a delicious morsel for all that!—Hark ye—, if you are not sheepish, she'll not be coy: it's among ourselves—I tell you, as a friend; 'faith I don't love to monopolize —I'll just tickle up her fancy a little, and leave you together. Come—

Pray, sir—

I will, 'faith.

I must insist—

Nay, nay, come along, come along.

Sir, I must absolutely be excus'd at present.

Why, what a plague is it now that thou hast taken into thy head?

Sir, I have an affair that at present requires me to be alone; which I cannot farther explain, than—

Say no more, say no more,

Egad, I have guess'd it now—A challenge!—why, there's light enough for two people to cut one another's throats by, to be sure—I'll away—Well, my dear, if I must leave you to the dew and the moonshine, I must; but d'ye hear—'faith I'll to Elfrida—will you follow me? If you don't stay too long, you'll find an attendrissement, that you may be oblig'd to your humble servant for; that's all—it's among ourselves. —Adieu.

Why, fare thee well, thou—wretch, with­out a name—What will, what can become of me? [Page 12] What is it that prompts this fool, whom as I never knew, I never could provoke, to wrong me thus? is it a sacrifice to his vanity? or is it mere wantonness and sport?—Pray heav'n this fairy don't deceive me! —What shall I do?— I must see her, and take her counsel in this new distress.

Ha!—sure I dream!— Forlorn, deserted!—this per­fidious goblin!—Again I touch it; once —and twice —and thrice—and yet she is not here!—O I could— But though I see her not, she may be near me, to hear and punish the complaints which her unkindness forces from me—To whom can I now ease my heart!—O! sacred friendship!—but here I have no friend. El­frida —yes, she indeed, as if by some secret sympathy, claims my confidence; and my heart tells me, she de­serves it—Yes, I will trust her with my secret: she will be a witness for me against this slander, and as­sist me with her advice.

Here, give me the ribbons —Get you gone—I'll, call you, when I want you.

This lady has the strangest humours!

Was ever man in such ridiculous distress! I'm sure I ne'er knew any thing like it, since I was Edgar the son of Kent. Here have I had a young tempting girl fiddle-faddling about me these two hours to dress me, forsooth—with an officious handiness so provoking, that no virtue under that of a stockfish could endure it patiently. Yet an old woman upon these occasions I cannot bear: and, in short, I can no [Page 13] longer bear a young one—It is my fate, they say, to be miserable, if I don't get acquainted with the finest girl in England, without wishing for her; and I was told by a little goblin that started up before me, after it had led me, under the appearance of a Jack o' Lantern, into a wood, That if I could spend the king's hunting month here in this disguise, all would be right: but how my being in petticoats should make me less likely to love a fine girl, I cannot conceive! A fine girl, indeed, may be less likely to love me; but as to myself, it is high time for me to get into breeches, that I may get out of temptation. Here they flock about me—one sits down just before me, and, without any ceremony, ties her garter—another gets me to adjust her tucker.—I'm the witness of so many pranks, and the confidant of so many secrets! Then I have my hours of mortification too: I am tormented by a swarm of profligate fops, who try to debauch every woman they see, with as little concern as they take snuff: wretches, who are as destitute of love, as they are of virtue; and have as little enjoy­ment, as they have understanding! And here I'm ob­liged to mince, and pish, and fye,—and affect to blush,—'sdeath, when I'm bursting with indignation, and long to knock 'em down—I'll bear it no longer.

Ha! What again?

Again.

Art thou my good or evil genius? Tell me.

As you think me, you shall find me.

I will think thee then my good genius, for I would fain find thee so.

You must trust me too, or else—

Trust you!—Look at the figure I make here, and then judge if I have not trusted you.

But your virtue must be tried.

Tried!—By what new torments would you try it? Have I not suffered the two worst things in nature, temptation and suspense? Have not I—

No—you have not persevered: all is lost, if you give out.

Resolve my doubts then; torment me no longer with suspense: let me be certain of the event, and I will be an anchorite, in spight of this habit and all its works, a month longer.

Well—Observe me then, and learn.

What shall I learn?

Patience, Edgar!—Fare thee well. Ha, ha, ha!

Derided, and forsaken!—I doubt this is one of the wanton and mischievous elves, that tanta­lize poor mortals for their own diversion: however, as I have played in the farce so long, I'll not stop in the last scene.—

Ma'am, here's my lord Trifle has sent his compliments to your la'aship; and begs to know, whether he shall have the honour of waiting upon your la'aship to the ball.

My compliments, am much oblig'd to his lordship, but am engag'd.

Yes, ma'am.

Harkye—

Ma'am.

Has Gondibert call'd here this evening?

No, ma'am.

Nor sent?

No, ma'am.

There's a man, now, who might atone for the vices of the whole sex! I am so anxious to recom­mend [Page 15] myself to him, even in this disguise; and feel such a reluctance to do any thing that may disgust him, even while he thinks me a woman; that when he is present, I labour to make my manner suit with my appearance, I know not how, by a kind of involun­tary effort. How strange is the rapidity with which some minds unite!

Ma'am, there's count Florimond.

Did not I tell you—

Yes, ma'am; and I told him,—but he said he knew your la'aship was at home, and that he must see you.

Must see me!

Yes, ma'am; and though I told him your la'aship was a-dressing, yet he would follow me.—O Lord, he's the strangest man!—He's here, an please your la'aship.—

What a farce must I now act! Pray heav'n it has not a tragical catastrophe!

My dear goddess!

Lard, how can you be so monstrous rude!— bursting into one's dressing-room—and putting one into such flurries—

That your heart beats in concert with mine.— The dear toilet is not more the altar of beauty, than of love.—Permit me the honour, ma'am, of assisting to place that envied ornament on your bosom.

Lard, Sir!—I beg—not for the world — you quite confound me—

My life! My angel!—

Nay then there is no expedient—

Ma'am!—

I protest, ma'am,—

And I protest, Sir,—

Ma'am, I beg—

And I beg, Sir,—

O—Ma'am, your most humble servant.

Sir—I am under very great obligations to you—but I would not have you tickle up her fancy any more, upon my account—

Duce take you!—I wish you had been as near her as I was.

Lord, Sir—I'm in such a flurry—I, I, I, I'm very sorry I should have been provok'd to any thing so unbecoming the delicacy of my sex.

Upon my soul, so am I too—Sir, your humble servant.

You have no reason to apologize for your in­dignation, [Page 17] madam; though your blow was something spirited, I must confess.

I'm in such confusion, sir—and he has made me such a figure!—to treat me with indecent familiarities!

Dear madam, compose yourself, and think no more of him. He has not been much better com­pany to me, than he has to you, I'll assure you.

Lord, sir, you surprise me!—Pray, what impertinence has he been guilty of to you?

He has been filling my ears with scandal, madam; a subject which seems to be equally suitable both to his abilities and disposition! He has been telling me, that Edgar—

Who, sir?

Edgar, madam, the son of the earl of Kent—

What of him, sir?—what scandal has he spread of Edgar?—

Ha! so interested!—She loves him, sure.

Let me conjure you, sir, if this wretch has said any thing to dishonour Edgar, you would tell it to me.

It must be so—Your very earnestness forbids me, madam.

I know I'm mov'd, and you must think it strange.

Strange, indeed!—

Perhaps, 'tis stranger still than you can think.

Your manner, madam—

No matter — Forms and modes become trifles too small for notice, when they stand in com­petition with a friend's good name.

Her love is to distraction—She frights me, and is not to be trusted—

Let me conjure you—tell me—

I cannot tell you, madam.

Cannot!

I ought not—Trust me there are reasons— Let it suffice that in the story I have heard, a lady's honour is as much concern'd as Edgar's; that the slander cannot interest you, more than me; that I will do my utmost to make it's falsehood so notorious, that it cannot be believ'd; and I entreat that, as you tender your peace, you would as yet enquire no far­ther—I know myself not proof against your importu­nity; and therefore you will excuse me, if, having no other way, I save myself by flight.

Curse on this cumbersome habit! I cannot overtake him. Was ever any thing so vexatious! I have been defam'd by some scandalous falsehood, and I must do my honour justice—I can, at a small ex­pence of dissimulation, get that wretch, Florimond, to repeat to me all that he has told to Gondibert: I will do it—and I will as yet lie in ambush under this dis­guise, to make sure of my blow.

She's gone!—What can I, or what ought I to do? If I had told her the story, I must have disco­vered myself to convince her it could not be true: but who knows what a jealous woman might have thought upon finding the very person, who is said to have gone off with her lover, in so strange a disguise! —Yet she will certainly contrive to hear it from Flori­mond; and then, good heaven! what will she suffer, [Page 19] if I do not convince her that it is false!—I must, I will trust her—I have no other chance to save her, but by making a discovery, which, if I had really gone off with Edgar, it is certain I should not have made, especially to her. But I must not intrude upon her now: I will plant myself where I may intercept her before she can see Florimond, and trust to gene­rous friendship for the event.

ACT II.

AYE—she was obliged to be angry, be­cause that fool Gondibert appear'd just in the critical minute at the door—pox take him!—I might have known it was not natural, by her over­doing it—it was, indeed, overdone with a vengeance! But now she's in the pannicks, lest I should resent it. Now she has something to say—and—if I am disen­gag'd,—she will be glad to meet me upon the terrace. If I should humble her now, and not meet her—but that would be cruel. I will, however, take some state upon me—I will look a little formal; it may save me some trouble in my future advances.—Here she comes.

Sir, I hope you will not take any advantage of my weakness—

Weakness! pox on you— Your weakness don't lie in your arm, I'm sure o'that.

Or suppose, sir, that whatever reason I may have for desiring this meeting—What airs the wretch gives himself!

—I say, sir, that you would not suppose—I cannot contain myself!—

Poor soul! what confusion! I will relax a little of my severity.

Madam, I will suppose nothing, but that you have given me another oppor­tunity of hearing your commands.

I think, sir, you was telling Gondibert a cer­tain affair between you, and Edgar, and a lady; and something that, by his manner of telling it, I could not very well understand.

Aye—a very good introduction—a love-story is a most excellent prelude to a love-scene— I perceive we are to adjourn—Why, madam, a certain fair lady, call'd Emmeline, has thought fit to make Edgar as happy, as any man can be made, except him, madam, whom you shall please to honour with the same favour—Upon my soul, she's a fine creature!

Sir, your compliments really put me so out of countenance—that I shall blush to death—

Your blushes are so becoming, madam, that—

Give me leave, sir, to entreat, that you would at present spare my confusion, and tell me all the particulars of that affair which have come to your knowledge.

Aye—she wants a luscious description now.

Why, madam, I presume that Edgar, being fir'd with the charms of Emmeline, first gaz'd lan­guishingly upon her; caught her eyes the first time they were casually turn'd upon him; when, in a soft confusion, she hastily turn'd her look downward and blush'd; he took her hand, first pressing it gently in his own, then raising it to his lips; then, madam, I presume he might proceed to—

Sir!—I shall certainly be out of patience, and knock him down

—Sir, if you have any desire to oblige me—or have any expectations, sir, of favours—Not, sir, that I—

My dear angel, keep me no longer in sus­pense; let me know your commands, that I may ful­fil the condition of—

Hold, Sir—You must then, without farther delay or interruption, give me a di­rect answer to a few short questions.

Why, madam, it shall then be in your own way.

First then, Sir, are you acquainted with Edgar, the young heir of Kent?

Why, madam, to proceed implicitly as you direct, I believe there are few persons who know more of that gentleman, than your humble servant.

Matchless impudence!—And pray, Sir, what kind of a youth is he?

I see by her curiosity she don't know him—Why, madam, the youth is a, a, a, rather soft—a green youth, madam, as we say—

Sir, these are terms that I do not perfectly comprehend: and, therefore, I beg you would be more explicit.

Why then, explicitly, madam, he is, upon my soul, a shallow fellow—a very shallow fellow, faith—It's among ourselves.

He is.

He is indeed, madam.—The poor devil has some aukward good nature, and I have a kindness for him; but, between you and I, he'll never be so much a man of honour as I could wish him—

How, villain!—

Ma'am—!

What have I done!

To think of villainy in people that, by their rank, are set up as examples to others, quite transports me out of myself.—Heigh ho!—It has quite overcome me.

What a terrible virago it is!—May I presume, madam, to lend you my hand.

It is over, Sir——I'm so subject to flur­ries—and my poor nerves are so shattered.— I'm extremely obliged to you for this character of Edgar— To have been guilty of any thing base!—

Very base, I assure you, madam.

Sir.—

Ma'am—

Fore Gad, she's mad!— and upon my soul in my opinion damnably mischievous.

—

Give me leave, sir—as well as I am able— to ask you what in particular has—but I see company coming—If we walk this way, we shall avoid them.

Avoid them!—Heaven forbid!—Per­haps, madam, another time—

Sir, I shall die, if my curiosity is not gra­tified.

Madam—at present I am—

Sir, I beg—for my reputation, that we may not be surpriz'd together, while I am in this disorder.

By no means, madam—let us part this mo­ment—If you'll go off one way, I'll go the other.

O not for the world!—To be seen to part hastily, upon being observed together, would be the subject of eternal scandal.—Let me beg the favour of your arm—

Lard Gad, madam!—

Sir?—

You'll pinch it through—

Lord, Sir, 'tis my fright—One naturally clasps any thing hard in a fright.

Sister! sister!

——Here am I.

Florimond, the caitiff vile—

She's gone out, and I have unfortunately missed her—She is certainly got to Florimond—Ha! yonder they are—Yes, it is certainly so—What vio­lent emotion!—Now they move hastily forward— Now she stops short—her gestures are scarce femi­nine—Now she recovers herself—Florimond too seems to be frighted out of his gallantry, and extremely willing to put an end to the conversation—'Tis over! he leaves her, and she comes this way.—Yes, I will open my whole heart to her; not for my sake now, but her own. Whatever are the first fallies of her surprize and passion, she must at length feel and re­turn my friendship.—Here she comes: I must not accost her too abruptly.

Ha! Gondibert—I know the generous rea­son, now, of his reserve. In this disguise, what could my interest in Edgar appear to him, but love!—and if it had been so, how must I have been hurt by what he had to tell me!—But he is not less interested in the lady—so he said—Sure then he is to Emmeline, what he thought Edgar was to me!—Let me then repay his generous kindness; let me discover, not only what, but who I am, to convince him that the tale is false, which, if true, must destroy his peace.

—You need not shun me, sir; I have now nothing to ask, that you would wish to con­ceal: I have only to request, that you would forgive me for having violated your injunction, not to satisfy the curiosity you had raised. I am apprized of your kind, your generous motive; and it has inspired my breast with all that it is possible I should feel for you, a grateful and ardent friendship.

Your love, madam, I make no doubt, is fixed on a much nobler and more deserving object.— Edgar, I presume—

My connection with Edgar, sir, is indeed, in some sense, the reason why your merit cannot make an impression, which I am not ashamed to say it might otherwise have done: and yet, sir, let me confess that I am not affected by the story of his disappearing with Emmeline, as you might reasonably imagine, be­cause I know for certain that it cannot be true.

Ha! that it cannot be true—

I now owe your friendship a discovery, if in­deed it is a discovery, which I was prompted by mere regard to myself to have made before: I think there is a connection between you and Emmeline, that—

There is, indeed, a connection, madam— a secret, which you convince me it is now in vain to affect to hide—

Let me then claim it—But let me first, as a pledge of that friendship which I hope shall end but with our lives, give, for your secret, mine.—

Do then, nor keep me longer in suspense; for still, the more we talk, the more I am perplexed.

What can her secret be!

Why then, in the first place, sir,—I am— a man —

A man!—Good Heav'n! what will become of me!

And now, let me at once embrace you as a friend: punctilios and forms no longer part us—

What ails my friend?

O! you have ruined all my pleasing project— prevented—but no matter—

This is amazing! For heaven's sake, what d'ye mean?—You was not sure enamoured of my per­son—

O! no—You still mistake —

Then tell me my mistake; for we may now converse on even terms: our hearts may now be opened to each other, without the forms and the re­serve prescribed in friendships with the softer sex.

O! still you wander, wide and wider still— I cannot speak—

You must—There is a secret, which, but now, your heart was ready to reveal—

And then I thought it known—but now—

Now my warm heart has claimed you for my friend—

And now to tell it is impossible—I cannot tell it—and if I could, you would not find the friend­ship that you hope—

I sicken at his sight—Oh my heart!

I'm all perplexity and wonder!—Your co­lour comes and goes, like a sick girl's—

—You trem­ble!—Heavens! he faints!—

By all my wonder and my joy, a woman!—How lovely her confusion!—O let my bosom warm thee back to life! Look up, and trust the honour of my love: you shall not whisper what you would conceal; nor will I seem to know it.

O! let me hide me from myself—my sex thus known—in this disguise! Where shall my con­scious blushes find a veil!—Who are you? Tell me, that I may hide me from your sight for ever.

O! no—On that condition, let me ne'er be known.

Yet tell me—trust me—

Trust thee! Yes, with my life I'd trust thee. Thy friend—O! know me by a softer name— is Kent's young heir; that Edgar you have heard so falsely and so wantonly traduc'd.

Still wonders crowd on wonders!

I dream myself, or this is all enchantment.

So might you think, indeed, if more you knew me.

Let me then know thee more, whom now I know as the most fair and gentle of thy sex; whom yet I saw and lov'd without desire—my pledge of happiness!—May I be thine!—but yet I rave—thy fate was not like Edgar's—

Spare me—thy words have pow'r, which yet thou know'st not.

O! take me from the rack! My thoughts grow wild!—There is, indeed, a maid, whose fate I've heard was such as mine—that Emmeline —O! hea­v'n, that Emmeline, in whom I thought thy interest, love!—O! yes, it must, it shall—thou, thou art she!

Leave me, or I shall die with my confusion—

Let me support thee, hide thee in my breast, where thou shalt breathe thy answer in a sigh.—Art thou not Emmeline, my fated love?

If Emmeline be thy fated love—I am—

Still let me clasp thee close, and closer still; calm all the tumults of thy feeling mind, and sooth thee into confidence by love.

No, let me now retire: for, in this dress, I cannot bear to see myself, or you.

Yet stay—forgive the violence I do you— My fame and yours are wantonly traduc'd; 'tis fit that we do justice to them both, and punish the traducer.

He is not worth resentment.

He is for others sakes, though not his own. —I have a thought, would Emmeline but join—

Tell me then quickly.

Send him a challenge in behalf of Emmeline, as Gondibert; and meet him, not as Gondibert, but Emmeline: I will take care to be present, not as El­frida but Edgar: he will then be self-convicted as a liar, by knowing neither of the persons he has de­fam'd; and we may farther punish him as we please.

Well, I will try at this: but now dismiss me.

Farewel, my love!—How has the hand of heav'n vouchsafed to guide me through all the mazes of my fate, to bliss! Even my revenge, my justice [Page 30] rather, upon that wretch, whose very folly is inve­nom'd, shall be compleat—But a mind so base can never be brave—Suppose he should not come—He's here.

Gad take me—this damn'd madwoman is cer­tainly fated to be my death.

Sir, I am so shock'd when I reflect upon the indecorums that my passions have made me guilty of to you, and my poor spirits are so flurried, that I really am not able to make my 'pology.

Ma'am, I'm extreamly sorry—and ma'am— I must absolutely fly from your ladyship's apology.—

Sir, I must beg the favour of your ear for a few minutes—I hope, sir, you will pardon my con­fusion—I have something to say to you, sir, that— Let me beg, sir, that you would come a little nearer—

Pox on her—she wants to fasten her damn'd claws upon me again—

Your com­mands, madam, always do me honour—And upon my soul always leave me black and blue.

I have just heard, sir, something that has flustered me to such a degree—

Aye—another fright! she'll certainly lay hold of me—

Ma'am—a, a, a, I hope there's no danger threatens your ladyship.—

Not directly me, sir; nor indeed much danger to you: but I was willing you should be prepared—

Danger—prepared—for heav'n's sake, ma­dam, what d' ye mean?

Why Gondibert, sir—you'll excuse my free­dom—Lard, that I should be so indiscreet—I'm sen­sible, that the interest I take in the affair, may be liable to constructions of such a nature—that—

Lord, ma'am, if there is any villainous de­sign against me, I beseech you to let me know it—

Perhaps we had better change our ground; some villain may be taking aim at me as I stand.

You need not be under such apprehensions, sir; it is a matter of no consequence—It is only, that Gondibert is to send you a challenge, for the liberty you have taken with lady Emmeline; that's all—

Oh, if it's only an intention of Gondibert to cut my throat, to be sure that's a matter of no con­sequence—A bloody-minded ruffian▪

Why, sir, to my certain knowledge, Gondibert knows no more of a sword, than a girl of eighteen; and has not a grain more courage.

Why, as to that, madam—

As to that, sir, I am confident it would make no difference to you; but as I know he won't fight, and only presumes upon an insolent opinion, that count Florimond's courage is as questionable as his own—

How, madam!

Lard, sir, if you are so violent, I shall cer­tainly fall into my tremors—I shall certainly want the support of your arm.

Mercy upon me! and I shall want but very little killing afterwards, if you do.

I say, sir, I think he should be properly expos'd; and I hope you'll act accordingly.

Madam—excuse me—a coward is my aver­sion; and you may depend upon his being chastised with most exemplary severity— but I should be sorry to mistake his character

—You know he won't fight?—

Sir, if you suspect my vera­city—

O! Lord, madam—no, not in the least.

You'll excuse me, sir: I am really asham'd —of the liberty I have taken—Sir, your humble servant.

Madam, your most obedient—Thank heav'n, she's gone—It was a lucid interval; but it would not have been of much longer continuance. I'm oblig'd to her though, for her information—indeed am I— Egad, I'll make a figure in this business—But if the challenge is coming, I must be at home to receive it.

Wherefore, wherefore?

Tell me.

Tell me.

What is finish'd?

What is plann'd?

Peace—the sisters are at hand.

This is the place, and this is the time—but I see no signs of my little Gondibertus—Ha! here comes a bona roba, whom I have not the honour to know—Egad this affair will turn out with an eclat— very much to my honour—I'll make the most of it: I'll let her into my business here, without seeming to see her.

A poltron! not to meet me upon his own challenge— I'll make him know what it is to insult a man of ho­nour [Page 34] —If the wretch had met me, I would have given him his life; but now to spare him—a scandal to man­kind! Ha!

'Death, interrupted and discovered! —

Madam—I protest—I am confounded—I am afraid that my natural impetuosity has a, a, a—

Sir, I am very sorry that I shou'd have in­truded upon your privacy; but, perhaps, I have pre­vented something that would have had worse con­sequences.

Madam, I am not at liberty—

By the few words, sir, which just now invo­luntarily escaped you, I know that you are waiting here upon an affair of honour—but I intreat—

Madam, it is impossible—nothing but his life can atone for the insult.

You will excuse a woman, though a stranger, sir, upon such an occasion: may I intreat to know, sir, who has had the misfortune to incur the resent­ment of a gentleman, who seems so little to deserve ill treatment, and so able to punish it?

Madam, you do me honour—She is making advances already

—Why, madam, as the treat­ment I have received makes it an act of justice to tell, what I should otherwise rather die than discover, I will comply with your request—Hem! A little dirty dependant upon the court here, madam, one Gondi­bert, thought fit to send me a challenge, upon account of something I happened to say concerning a lady, in whole good graces I happen'd to be, and whom a foolish young fellow that I was a friend to has thought fit to run away with; and, madam, though I have so far treated him like a gentleman, as to accept his challenge, he has not come to the place appointed, and it is now half an hour past the time.

Methinks I see somebody at a distance, coming this way; perhaps that may be the gentleman—

Ah! egad that's certainly he—

Now if he should not be a coward at last—Madam a, a, a, for God's sake retire —for—a, a, a.

Sir, I believe it will not be necessary; for I'm pretty sure now, that the gentleman is a friend of mine—

A friend of yours, madam! pray who is he?

A gentleman, sir, who, I am sure, will be extreamly glad to be better known to you.

Yes, 'tis he, 'tis Edgar! With what elegance and dignity he looks the man!

How soft, how lovely in her female dress!

Sir, as we are now no longer alone, I may confess, that I am not altogether a stranger to your person or your merit.

Sir, this is

a gentleman to whom both you and I have some obligations, which I believe he is not at present aware of.

Upon my word, madam, you absolutely con­found me—this excessive honour—is it possible that I should have been so happy, as to confer obligations— pray, madam, may I crave the honour of your name?

Do you not at all recollect that lady, sir?

Upon my soul, sir, I cannot say that I do.

Who, now, do you think it can possibly be, of all that your polite generosity has oblig'd?

Let me perish, sir, if I can tell.

Why, sir, that lady is one Emmeline; with whom, as she tells me, you was formerly most inti­mately acquainted; and whom you lately conversed with, sir, in disguise, by the name on Gondibert: it's among ourselves.—What! quite confounded, sir!

Ha! ha! ha! confound­ed! Ha! ha! ha! No, no, sir: you have had your jest, and I have had mine. I knew well enough who I was talking to, when I play'd upon the little Gon­dibertus—Ah! I thought I should make you smart for your frolic—I told Elfrida my whole scheme—

You told Elfrida your whole scheme—

But pray, sir, as you did not know my per­son in my own dress, how came you to know me in disguise?

Why, madam, to confess the truth, I was let into the secret by a friend.

Egad, this goes swimmingly.—

Well, sir; but pray give me leave to bring you acquainted with a person, who, I'm sure, you are at present totally a stranger to—Pray, who do you think I am?

Heaven knows! but I wish I was fairly out of your clutches—Upon my soul, sir, I have not the honour to know you, any otherwise than as a gentleman, whom I should be extremely proud to consider as my friend.

Why, sir, I have the honour to be one Ed­gar; a very shallow fellow, sir, that you had some kindness for, because he was aukwardly good-natured: I have also had the honour to receive several of your civilities, under the name of Elfrida—It's among ourselves.

Sir, your most humble servant—I have at this time some urgent business—

So have I, sir; and therefore you must not leave me yet—You may remember, sir, that you told me your whole scheme to punish Emmeline for her frolick, and to mortify her with stories of herself by way of joke.

Sir, I beseech you—

Sir, I am extremely sorry for the occasion; but as this lady has not got her fighting cloaths on, [Page 37] you must excuse me if I take her challenge upon my­self; and so sir—

—it's among ourselves.

What has my thoughtless indiscretion done!

Ah, dear sir, now you are too serious—

This must not be—For heav'ns sake, Edgar, hear me!

Fear not, my love—Sir, whatever you may think, this is but sport to what is to follow—and so, sir, without more words—

O Lord, sir!—I beseech you, madam—

For my sake, Edgar—

Trust me—Draw, sir, or—

Sir, I don't desire to do you any harm; I don't, upon my soul, sir.

Scoundrel, coward, draw!

Consider, Edgar—

Ay, do, dear sir, consider—

Consider what?

That I am but a poor, miserable, lying cox­comb, sir—Indeed, sir, I am—

It is better to dismiss him, Edgar, as be­neath your resentment.

So it is, indeed, sir—a great deal better.

He is worthy only of contempt.

It is very true indeed, sir,

Art thou not a wretch, without the least principle of truth or honour?

Yes, sir.

Art thou not infamous, as a slanderer and a coward?

Yes, sir.

Have not thy very follies the malignity of vices; and is it not a disgrace to nature, to consider thee as a man?

Any thing, dear sir, if you will but spare my life.—If you chuse any other satisfaction, sir; if you would be content to kick me into some dark corner, [Page 38] and leave me, I should think myself under infinite ob­ligations to you.

Hence then—and be thyself thy punishment!

Ha!—Fear not, my Emmeline! It is a friendly pow'r, familiar to my sight.

What! is she known to you?—My friend! my guide!

And mine!—

Rise both, both blest!——

Forgive my diffidence—When my heart ac­cused you, I was overwhelmed with distress!—Your promise to come at my call, was not fulfill'd.

I came not, that I might send you hither:

Your friendship was the parent of your love.

I too have need of your forgiveness! pardon my distrust.

She's gone! the kind propitious spright, that has led us, hoodwink'd, to the happiness, which, seeing, we had miss'd.

Let us then haste to follow her last advice; for I can trust her now.

Edgar, Edgar, Edgar!

Hark! What voice?

Perhaps some other kind and invisible be­ing—There's music too—

It comes, another tiny spright—It cannot mean us ill—It beckons you—