ACT I.

Lightly footed, my gay boys, and 'fore George, the girls tripped it with an air and sprightliness that does credit to the village dan­cing-master.

And we, do ye see, shall have a merry bout of it at our jubilee.

Yes, to-day old Nicholas plays the fool to the life—he is honey-moon struck, and re­marries Blanch, his wife, after drawing, kick­ing, plunging and flouncing with her, for fifty years in the matrimonial yoke.

But, why not have two weddings? If Lauretta would give me her pretty lilly white hand—

What say you girl?

I have not said a word.

Modest creature! She is ashamed to own how much she loves me! Though you did not say a word—I did. I said, if you would give me your pretty lilly white hand.

I'll lend it to you.

Why! hussey—

Never mind her; her familiarity shews affection.

Affection! yes, she has given you a striking proof, with a smack into the bargain.

Let's have no more wrangling.

I will have more wrangling, but no matter for that. I have orders from the jubi­lee bridegroom to broach a hogshead of old stingo—I'll give you a cup of liquor, my lads, so sprightly, 'twould set a friary and convent dancing! and so generous, 'twould infuse bene­volence into the heart of an usurer.

What noise was that?

Some villagers making merry.

Lead on, my boy—'tis well you found me in the forest, or I should have lost my way.

I may say 'tis well I found you—you have rewarded me generously.

And pray, my boy, what brought you so far into the wood?—

To look after a bird's nest, father.

Not to rob it, I hope. Your gen­tle heart, my child, would not disturb the happi­ness of the little feathered family. Consider what torture your parents would suffer, should some barbarous hand steal you from them.

Aye, very true; but I only went to leave food where the old birds could find it for their young.

Heaven bless my good boy—Where are we now, my little guide?

Not far from the great castle I told you of, with the high towers and deep ditch.—Don't you see

—O pardon me, good old man! I forgot you were blind; and I am [Page 5] sure, I would not insult your misfortune for the world!

I believe you—your nature is gen­tle; those who insult or ridicule their fellow-creatures, for personal misfortunes, are only the ignorant or the cruel.—What do you see, my lad?

Only a centinel on the battlements of the castle, with his cross-bow: but, father, you must be tired—rest upon this bench—there, go back two or three steps—

Thank you, my good-natured boy.—

A public-house stands just oppo­site, kept by a generous old soldier, and I'll go and see if they can let you have a bed; but don't stir till I return.

Never fear; the blind must re­main where they are placed.

I caution you, because, if any body goes nearer that castle, the soldiers have or­ders to seize and bring them before the Gover­nor;—but, la! I have forgot your name al­ready—

Fitzwilliam, my good Antonio; you hear I have not forgot yours.

You must know, then, Fitzwilliam, I have a secret to tell you.

Well, my boy, what is it?

Why, it is,—it is, that—I am very sorry—but I can't be your guide to-morrow.

That will be a great misfortune to me indeed: But why do you desert me, An­tonio?

It is because I am invited to my grandson's wedding.

Grandson! Have you a grand­son?

Bless me! I meant my grand­father.—My grandfather, you must know, ha­ving been married fifty years, marries my grand­mother over again to-morrow; so we are to have a jubilee according to the custom of our coun­try.

Then what shall I do for a con­ductor?

You shall have one of my school­fellows, a flighty rogue to be sure, very witty, but extremely mischievous—but I like you so well, I'll not trust you with him—no, I'll do better; I'll get you invited to my grandfather's wedding, so don't trouble yourself about to­morrow.—Heigh ho!

Why do you sigh, my lad?

Because I am very fond of—Oh, I am ashamed to tell you—What do you think I am fond of?

Of dancing, I suppose.

No, no—

What then?

Why, why, why—a little girl to be sure.—O my pretty Caroline.

He is gone, and I may now take a view of this fortress. Within the massy walls of such a place, perhaps the object of my long and weary search is confined—Richard, royal Richard, my general, my sovereign, my friend, [Page 8] may there pine out his precious life in bitter sor­row! The guards cannot suspect a man appa­rently old and blind. The gates of hell opened to the music of Orpheus, when animated by love—the gates of this castle shall open to me who am inspired by friendship.

Well, father; I have procured you a lodging, and here comes the landlord himself, but in such a passion with his daughter, about her sweetheart, you never heard the like.

I'll teach you, sirrah, to bring messages to my daughter.

Father he must obey his master.

The message is from the gover­nor.

From the governor! lead me close to them Antonio.

I, I, I, choke with rage.

I come from the governor, insult me if you dare.

The governor, you dog, you foot licker, you spaniel, that fetches and carries for the hand that flogs you—I'll thrash you, sirrah, though you came from the devil, and every word you spoke conveyed a plague.

Hear me patiently.

I won't be patient.

Do hear him father.

I wont hear—I am not an ozier that bends to every blast—No, sirrah, I am an old British oak, and stand firm against any storm that blows upon me.

Good folks attend to my aged voice.

The rascal comes with a message to my daughter from a vile seducen.

Nay, be advised by me, and I will establish harmony among you.

Well, I will be advised, old fel­low—Here, Antonio, lead this minstrel into the house, he appears in want, and though indigent myself, poverty shall never pass my doors with­out relief.

Heaven will reward your bounty.

And do you get about your busi­ness, or, sirrah—

I'll report your insolence to the governor.

So one plague is gone thank Hea­ven, and—

Berghen shall never marry me, that's flat.

Yes he shall—curse me but he shall, and that's round. Why not marry you?

Because father, he's a clod of earth, a log of wood, a scare-crow, with a nose like a half ripe blackberry, and a face tawny and dirty as a new plucked carrot—see, father, leave our dispute to the priest of the parish—

The priest—no—I am not for ap­pealing to the church, there a man pays double costs, he pays for law and gospel.

Don't vex yourself, father.

I will vex myself, daughter.

The governor—

Would ruin you—

No matter for that—

Oh you minx.

Bless me here comes a stran­ger.

If it was not for the stranger I'd thrash your jacket—

Thrash the girl's jacket—pray don't make a stranger of me.

And pray who are you friend?

I am—starving with hunger.

And what's your business here.

My pleasure is my business, and my business has always been my pleasure.—

[Page 12]But, friend, I want your assistance for a fair damsel I have left in the forest; a beautiful crea­ture, and of quality, who has unfortunately separated from her attendants—she sits by the ruins of an old building, where she waits my return.

Come in good fellow refresh your­self, and I'll then attend you to the lady—you came in a lucky time; we have a matrimonial jubilee to be celebrated here this evening, be­tween an old couple—

In their dotage I presume—I was married once, but am now, thank Heav'n, a widower.

Well, perhaps we may find you a second wife here.

Oh, no, my first wife rest her soul, is at peace in that earth whereon she waged eternal war; and for her sake I am resolved ne­ver to venture upon another.

I am in some degree recover­ed, and will go on.

Dear lady, you had best wait the return of the guide—we may be lost in the laby­rinth of this forest.

Heaven will direct us—or per­haps death relieve me from the oppressing grief that weighs me to the grave—Well, I will pre­serve my determination, and within the walls of a convent, seclude myself from the world.

Holloa! holloa!

Heaven protect us—

Your prayer is heard—Here's your guardian angel.

Have you discovered any place where I can lodge—

Yes lady, but not the convent you spoke of—I have found a house with plenty of eating and drinking, and dancing and fiddling, and the landlord will be here in an instant—But sure you have no intention of hiding your handsome face in a convent.

And why not sir—

Because I think those who are in, wish to get out; and the doors of them ought to be shut against all virgins, who are not either so old, so ugly, or so ill-natured, as to despair of getting husbands—and that such places are only proper retreats for bad faces.

But there virtue is sure of an asylum.

Virtue! Oh! If virtue does not find protection in herself, stone walls, bolts, or bars, will afford her very little security.

Holloa—

Here, old boy, here—

You have found the lady!

Yes, but she is found to be lost—she is going into a convent.

Lady, I have an humble cottage near at hand, where you may rest in security—Lauretta lend the lady your arm.

Thank you, courteous maiden, for I am much fatigued—but Heaven must be obeyed, and it is our duty not to question its dispensations.

Come, old blind boy, I'll have some more wine, it's fitting for a man in love.

And are you deeply in love, my honest fellow?

Deep! almost drowned. A mur­rain on him for an urchin; he has been a Will­o'-the-Wisp to I. He leads one aside as I walk, and throws me into the ditch—Scarce a day passes since I fell over heart and soul in love, but I have fallen over head and ears in the mire.

Your case is pitiable.

Pitiable! I say it is a devilish case.—You must know that I am in love with that there Lauretta, you heard abuse me a while ago, as she passed by. Some folks say she dis­likes me, but I know she loves me.

And you're the best judge.

To be sure I am; though, ecod, she has never said so; but what of that! a fel­low like me can easily guess at such things; and I can tell which way the wind blows, when I see a weather-cock, as well as another.—Were you ever in love?

Who has been free from it; but, alas! remembrance lives in my breast, and hope has fled.

Good Heav'n! that air sinks into my heart, and melts my soul with tenderness.

Come, Master La Bruce, as you call yourself, we will take a cup with this musi­cal old beggar.

Ecod, so we will; let me tell you, he can pay his club with a good song.

Father, father, the poor lady had like to have fainted; but says, if the blind man would sing that song near her chamber door, which she heard as she went through the hall, it would revive her spirits.

He shall wait on her immediately.

But not till he hears my song—It is a good cure for love, if I could only take it; but I am like your doctors, who never make use of their own physic.

ACT II.
SCENE as at the opening.—Enter LA BRUCE, BERGHEN, Peasants carrying Baskets of Flowers; several others, Male and Female, following with Nosegays.—An old Couple, &c.—A Dance.

I would hold some secret talk with you, do you see.

Do you take me for a fool—I tell you I can see, hear, and understand, therefore out with your private talk, without more words.

That's a house.

Now, though I should go over the whole world, that there house would be still before my eyes—for I loves old Morgan's daugh­ter—that lives in it.—Heigh-ho!

Heigh-ho! why, if you sigh on at this rate, you'll want breath to court with. Will you follow my advice? Not a fellow living understands woman better than I do.

To be sure I will. You have tra­velled, do you see me, and knows life—Now I am—am—ecod! I am a kind of a fool in these things; and you must know, since I have fallen into love, or rather since love has fallen into me [Page 23] —I don't know what I am—but to be sure you know the world—

I am a Frenchman, and no French­man travels till he knows the world. The ways of the world are his means, my lad—France is the only place in the world where a man can learn to live upon nothing—

On nothing! Ecod, that's thin diet—I should like to learn how you were taught to live upon nothing.

I was taught to live upon nothing by losing every thing—The leeches of Paris sucked up my patrimony; its pleasures I found pains; its sweets, bitters. I there met with gen­tlemen who purchased upon credit, but never paid—tradesmen, who set up business to be bro­ken down—merchants, who ruined themselves to save fortunes—and ladies—

Aye! what of the ladies?

I was first taught experience from the ladies of the town.

Ecod, the ladies of the country could have taught you experience enough.

At the gaming-table I learned wisdom, by being convinced I was a fool; the courtezans plucked a little wool from me; but the black-legged shepherds sheered my sheep's carcase to the skin.—But see, your mistress ap­pears.

And with a nosegay for I—I's war­rant.

Then farewell; come to me when you leave her, and I'll give you some instruc­tions in courtship.

I am the subject of that song.

What! so early abroad to tor­ment me!

Early—early do you say—as if one would sleep that loves you—as if one wouldn't [Page 25] get up at day-break to gaze upon you the longer.

There are other folks, who sleep no more than you—but go off—I'll have nothing to say to you.

Nothing to say to me—Oh! do you forget what a hearty welcome you used to give me at home and abroad—how you used to smile upon me in the fields and in the house—don't you remember you could neither sing mat­tins nor vespers for looking at me.

But now I have seen somebody I like ten thousand times better, who has made a tender impression upon my heart.

Heigh ho! but did not I make the first tender impression?

Never.

Oh Lauretta—Lauretta—Don't you remember once in the garden—ecod I do—and once in the field—did'nt you tell me then I had made a tender impression on your heart!

I hate you—

O dear—heigh ho—Is it for this I have rode before you to market—bought you nice top knots, scarlet garters and gilt ginger­bread?

Did I ever ask you for them?

Didn't you take them—haven't I helped you over styles, and carried you across [Page 26] ditches—is it for this I have given you two young hedge hogs and a pet pole-cat?—but there is no gratitude in woman-kind—

Gratitude! you can't dance—

I have money.

But with all your money you can't pay compliments.

I can pay every thing I owe; I have plenty in my house.

You can't dress with an air.

Nay listen—sweet Lauretta—

Marry you! why, why—O here comes Guillot from my dear Florestine—I will never marry you.

Never marry me, I won't believe it—she loves me after all—

Curse this fellow, I am so afraid of he—

Well, master Berghen, still poach­ing about this house! what do you want? who do you look for, and what are you thinking about—

What do I want? why I want to go about my business—

What am I doing here? why, I's doing nothing I's asham'd of—what am I thinking of? why, why, why, ecod it shall out—I's thinking as how, d'you hear, 'tis very odd you should follow me to this here place.

While you follow Lauretta I'll attend you like your shadow, stick to you close as torments to a guilty conscience.

Lord have mercy on us.

Ah, dear Mr. Guillot, don't beat the poor devil with that great stick—

There now, I tells you she's fond of I—

Did I ever tell you so?

You never told me you were not, and that's the same thing.

And have you no answer to the governor's letter.

Give him this nosegay, and tell him I send it with all my heart—

You shall hear again from him shorely, and be happy with him yet, if you per­severe in refusing that clown—

A clown—

Yes, a clown—so get about your business, honest man.

She rejects me—

An impudent minx, instruction is thrown away upon her—and you too dolt; your head is like a funnel, pour advice into one ear, and it runs out at the other without stopping—I won't be in a passion, but get out—

Here, here is the villainous gover­nor's letter—

Oh! this girl will break my heart—but no matter for that—

Lead me towards the castle, my good Antonio; I like to feel the warmth of the early sun, and to breathe the pure air that accom­panies its rising.

You are so kind to me, I would lead you all over the world.

What lies this baggage must have told me—I'll make an example of this gover­nor—seduce my daughter! but he's a governor! [Page 30] what's that to me, I'll have my revenge, and he's not the first governor who has deserved pu­nishment—fire and fury, yes, I'll find somebody who can read—

—ah my good old fellow, can you read.

Do not mock me pray—the Turks with hot irons deprived me of sight.

Poor fellow, but I am blind myself, blind with rage.

I can read, master—

Then read this letter—

I can not make out this German writing—it is so in and out, zig zag, like a chever de freze.

And read it out loud and distinct.

"Charming Lauretta"—

O the villain! he would charm her into disgrace! you must know this letter comes from the governor of that castle to my daughter.

From the governor! but go on Antonio.

‘My heart can scarce contain its joy, at the assurance you have given me of your constant love.’

Her assurance! yes, yes, she has assurance enough with a vengeance—go on—

‘If the prisoner committed to my care,’

The prisoner!

Why the devil do you interrupt the boy.

‘If the prisoner committed to my care, permit me to go out, I will come and throw my self,’

I would to Heav'n he would throw himself from the top of the castle into the bottom of the ditch.

Be calm, why do you interrupt the boy? begin that last sentence again.

‘If the prisoner committed to my care, permit me to come out, I will throw myself at your feet—but if this night,’ here some words torn away with breaking open the seal.

Aye, aye, that's my fault; but no matter for that.

‘Let me know by Guillot, at what hour I may have the happiness of speak­ing to you—your sincere and constant lover, Florestine.’

Meet her at night!

Why, friend, you are agitated on this business—why should the love of the gover­nor to your daughter—the honour—

The devil—

Why so passionate?

I am a Welshman

Be calm—

No, I'll storm—I am from a coun­try, where virtue, though reduced to poverty, is better respected than vice wallowing in riches.

From Wales—

Yes, and a soldier, who would ra­ther see his daughter wife to the meanest pea­sant, than mistress to the most dignified lord—

Let me press your hand.

I fought in Palestine—against Sa­ladine.

Ah! In Palestine.

Aye, under Coeur de Lion—Richard of England—the greatest soldier of the age.

But now a miserable prisoner!

My king a prisoner!

Don't interrupt, but mark—Fearing that perfidy which he had often experi­enced from the monarch of France, the noble Richard attempted to reach England in disguise; but being discovered by Leopold, duke of Aus­tria, was by him seized, and basely given up to Henry the Emperor, who now holds him priso­ner in some obscure part of his dominions—But tell me, honest soldier, why prefer this country to your own?

From necessity—My father having been killed in a quarrel, by the lord of the ma­nor, about some game, while I was in Palestine, on my return I revenged his death, and wound­ed [Page 33] his enemy, which forced me to fly the place of my nativity; but no matter for that—I now only feel for my king.

Then you loved Richard.

Loved him! lived for him.

And would die for him—

Damn me if I would not.

Good old man, I have some­thing to ask you

Tell me truely what has my father been saying to you?

Is it you who are called the charm­ing Lauretta?

Some folks call me so for a nick-name

Then, your father is very angry with you, charming Lauretta. He knows the contents of the letter from your lover Florestine, governor of the castle.

Florestine is my lover's name, indeed! but who read the letter to my father?

Not I, for I am blind—my little conductor there read it.

I am very sorry for it.

But, father, did not you desire me to read it.

Well, no matter; but what did the letter say—

That if it was not for the prisoner under his care—Who is this prisoner?

No body but my Florestine knows who he is.

Your Florestine would throw him­self at your feet to-night.

Would he!

He says he would, as I hope to be married to my sweet Caroline.

He will come to you this very night.

Oh! I fear to meet him—

Pray do—for I declare I know not whom to trust—but your manner, your age, and above all your blindness, which prevents you from seeing my blushes, gives me assurance. But, now I think on it—who told you I was charming?

Alas! the unhappy blind conceive the beauty of a woman from the sweetness of her voice, and the softness of her skin.

And the blind, I suppose, shew their approbation as you do, by squeezing the hand—Don't you say I have charms?

True, my girl.

And so says Florestine—but, indeed, my good old friend, if it had not been for my father's hasty temper, I should have told him every thing that passed between me and the Go­vernor.

So then, in expectation of a fa­vourable opportunity to acquaint your father with the Governor's passion, you intend to re­ceive him at night. Lauretta, you must not confide too much in your innocence.

Well, my little friend, are we near the castle?

Yes, father, just at the parapet, where you desired me to lead you.

That's well—take this mo­ney and provide me some refreshment—

I sha'n't be long—

If my king be imprisoned within this castle, the morning is so calm, my voice will penetrate to the furthest cell—

—I will sing the ode with which love for Berengeria inspired Richard's breast.

Answer directly—Do you know who just now sung with you?

I suppose some tender-hearted Christian, who joined my lay as he passed by.

You must to prison—

If you are soldiers, you'll be mer­ciful—humanity is as congenial to a brave soul as courage—O! do not add to the misery of an old warrior, whom the cruel Turks have depriv­ed of sight.

You must to the Governor, and perhaps your blindness may save your life.

The Governor—lead me to him. I have nothing to fear, and have information of the most serious consequence to communicate.

Here comes the Governor; but take care you speak truth, for death would be the consequence of his detecting you in a false­hood.

Where is the noble Governor?

Here, old man, close to your side.

I have business of the utmost im­portance to communicate.

Speak truth—deception will be punished with death.

Alas, Sir! loss of sight is worse than death—how could a poor blind man deceive you? But are you alone?

Retire—

—What have you to say?

The charming Lauretta—

Ha! What of her?

Has read to me the letter she re­ceived from you—

I thought her father had got it.

True.

Well, my good friend—

Oh! you are at this side now—Aye, now I am your good friend—How love softens the voice and changes the sentiment in an instant! But Lauretta desires me to tell you, you may come this evening at any time most agreeable to yourself.

My friend, direct me. How can it be?

A jubilee ball is given at her fa­ther's, and you may come under pretence of a­musement.

Your singing on the parapet then, was merely for the purpose of getting to speak with me.

For no other purpose—and Lau­retta contrived the scheme.

Ingenious creature! her wit is equal to her beauty.—Well, my friend, you may go, and pray excuse the harsh usage you have re­ceived—

But, Sir,

—Oh, you are on this side now—Lest the soldiers should suspect my commission, had not you best scold me before I depart.

You are right.—A cunning old pandar, I warrant.—

ACT III.
SCENE—A Hall in MORGAN's House.

WELL, what do you say? What does Lauretta say?

Say—why, I say that old Mor­gan has appointed me steel-key in waiting over the cellar, and if you do not drink as you ought, why—you shall go sober to bed.

Have you done any thing for me?

O yes, I have done for you, and I am done for—I have been tasting, and scraping, bowing, and introducing myself to every hogs­head in the cellar.—Here's my gentleman-usher.

Have you introduced my case to Lauretta?

What sweet lips she has?

Whose lips?

The lips of the cask of Canary.

Will Lauretta marry me?

You speak like an ass.

An ass—

Yes; but not like Balaam's ass; he was a great orator—he was the first that ever pre­sented a petition or remonstrance—

Will Lauretta marry me?

Marry! yes, marry she will—you're a pretty fellow, and young; and, let me tell you, those are a valuable articles in the market of matrimony; but while you are thinking of marriage—I am thinking—what do you think of—

I am thinking as how you are a rogue, who has cheated me out of my money; but I knows she loves me, and will go to her myself.

I say, while you're talking of marrying, I am thinking of falling down dead—dead drunk—so you shall hear my epitaph—to be chalked on a cask head—while I lie under—under, all along—under the spigot, with the wine pouring into my mouth—Come, listen to my epitaph—

The conduct of this minstrel is mysterious—his blindness must have been an imposition; every note he sung rouz'd to my re­membrance the golden hours of peace and love.

We were in hopes, lady, you wou'd not have departed till after the jubilee.

My business is urgent—pray accept of this

and, hereafter, you may experience more ample reward for your hos­pitality.

Your bounty, lady, is far above our deserts—in being hospitable, we only did our duty: but the old man, who pleased you so much with his singing, has miraculously recover­ed his sight—and requests to speak with you di­rectly, on business of importance.

Of importance! then shew him in—

What business can he have with me—my heart beats, as foreboding some great misfortune—

Well, Sir, you have desired to be introduced to me.

It is true, lady; and in soliciting the honour, I have experienced the difficulty of obtaining admission to the great, even to be of service to them.—

From whom, pray, and where did you learn the plaintive air I heard you sing with so much taste?

That secret, lady, can only be communicated to the Queen of England.

Sir!

To royal Richard's consort, before whom I kneel.—

Am I betrayed?

No, lady, but known.

Who are you? speak!

My long and faithful services in­spire me to hope that Blondel, your minstrel, is not quite forgotten.

What! loyal Blondel! Blon­del, who attended my Richard to the the wars? Oh, tell me! tell me, does my sovereign live?

A full year has elapsed since mis­fortune parted us.

But is my King alive?

From the moment we separated, I have sought him through innumerable dangers, and I have this day discovered—

That he is dead! O my im­patient heart!

No Lady, royal Richard lives.

Then Heav'n has heard my prayers!

Lives a prisoner in yonder castle.

A prisoner—Oh! but then he lives.

Yes, lives and loves with unre­mitting constancy—within this hour I heard him invoke your name with all the fervency of an in­fant passion.

Oh, sir, your King—my King—my Richard.

Lady be not rash—

What have I to fear? our worthy, honest host is your countryman; and surely an English King has no secret, but he may confide in the integrity of a loyal English sub­ject—Richard—

What of my sovereign—

Is alive!

Long may he live!

Is a prisoner—

He must be freed!

Such zeal will work wonders—but let prudence rectify the bounding spirit of loyalty.

Lady, there are a noble troop of gentlemen arrived, who enquire after you.

My faithful friends from whom I separated in the forest—shew them in:

faithful Blondel, these are men of ap­proved valour and undoubted honour.

May I inquire, my most gracious Queen, what accident brought you here.

Love! duty!—Duty to my husband, inspired by love. I am on my way to the Emperor's court, to solicit Richard's li­berty, which had he continued to refuse, I should, in person, have implored assistance from every power in Europe.

My gallant friends, our se­paration was a fortunate event—I have discovered the place of your king's confinement.

So I have run about the world to a fine purpose—promoted to a tapstership in Ger­many, and may now feed upon sour-crout and rhe­nish—A fellow of my genius too—a poet—a Hea­ven-born poet—none of your regular made ones—at a translation now, I and three more, could extract from the dullest of all Opera's a capital kind of romantic entertainment—then for originality!

Did my father call?

No, it was I call'd, I have a call upon you, and you must answer my call; poor Berghen has—

Met with some accident to keep him at home I hope.

Let me look in your face—poor soul, you're very ill.

You really think so—Are you a doctor?

No man better acquainted with physic, but my conscience would never allow me [Page 56] to play booty with sickness, and live by the death of my fellow creatures—but see, child, your complaint is love, and for that I have no objec­tion to prescribe.

Well, let me hear your cure.

Will you assist me?

To be sure, if I see occasion.

Why, child, you need only look into the fields, the air, the sea; look to the doves, billing and cooing, the sparrows chatter­ing and chirping, all two by two.

Your mother's not to be found.

She's gone to the green with the garland.

Then 'tis time to prepare for the dance.

A dance, father?

Yes, my dear girl!

Dear girl! 'tis a long time fa­ther since you were so kind—oh, that my dear Florestine was to be my partner.

Attend to me—he shall be your partner.

Ah! ha! they have begun the dance, and with sweet warlike music; and now by St. George I'll have a partner—yes, Master Governor, you and I will have a dance together.

It is in vain to attempt opposition.

Morgan, I call on you for assistance.

I thought you called upon my daughter.

O, mercy! 'tis the voice of Flo­restine, and in distress.

Now, Richard, now for freedom.

Pray stand back, let me have him all to myself.

Sir, you are in our power—do not disgrace your courage by rashness.

Dear father intercede for him.

He would have seduced you.

No, indeed, his love was ho­nourable.

Honourable—

I lament the fate of Richard, but can never consent to betray my duty.

Then we'll do ours—force him a­way, and confine him safe.

I have left a guard upon the Go­vernor, and on his person we have found the key of the postern gate.

The key! give it to me, and I will guide you, my brave countrymen, to the prison. I have been all over the fortification before now, and know every turn and passage in it.

Then come on—Richard must now be free, or we must perish.

Soldiers strike home! &c.

Lady, our plan has succeeded—the Governor is in custody, and your gallant at­tendants are now arming for an attack on the castle—

You elate my heart with joy—but my Richard shall reward you—and sure, if the purest friendship that ever influenced a sensi­ble heart, can insure success, you, honest Blon­del, have a right to expect it.

Your presence, lady, inspires us; your prayers will strengthen our courage—'tis for our king we fight—he is guardian of his peo­ple's rights, and the arm that is raised against his life strikes at their most precious liberties—

I will retire to my chamber, and implore the aid of heaven to inspire every heart in the glorious cause of freedom and of Richard—

This key opens the outward gate, that stands before the draw-bridge—see how proudly the Emperor's Eagle flies—but I have brought St. George's flag—

Which we'll place—

You mean, which I'll place in its stead.

Are there any women in the castle?

Women! why no—but suppose there were, when a soldier meets a woman, even in the very storm of fight—let him remember he has a mother, wife, daughter, sister, or sweet­heart.

Fellow-soldiers, are you all deter­mined?

All, all—though it is a forlorn hope.

Who says a forlorn hope!

A noble hope he meant. What fate can a soldier hope for more glorious, than dying to give his sovereign freedom!

Besides the garrison are not above fifty—not more than two to one against us.

Open the gate—Keep a silent step till we are all in.

And then, huzza—I shall roar as if the devil blew a trumpet in my throat—

Long live Richard, king of Eng­land.

My gallant friends, my heart o'er­flows with gratitude—

My love, my queen, my life.

And now, Sir, what have you to say to my daughter?

I never intended wrong against her; the same principles which forbid me to as­sassinate the person of a man, command me to protect, not injure the honour of a woman.

Here I owe much

Restore him his sword—he is a good soldier, and cannot make an ill use of it.—Sir, your fidelity to your sovereign, and humane discharge of your trust, merit my respect, and insure my protection.

O, if that be the case, take Lau­retta with all my heart.

Your honest host too, my queen, must be rewarded—

we'll knight him—

No honours for me, an't please your Majesty, any little snug place in the house­hold will do—we have too many knights in these days—

Then you will all attend us to England.

—

—From whence an express is just arrived, with in­telligence that the people, to satisfy the avarice of the Emperor, and relieve their King, have raised the enormous ransom demanded.

See, my queen, the church has poured forth her treasures—the nobility their re­venues—every class of my subjects have vied in loyalty.

And to the honour of my fair countrywomen, they have parted with their jewels and ornaments to aid the glorious cause.

With their principal ornaments they can never part—beauty they inherit from na­ture—virtue they derive from heaven.

To friendship and love I owe my liberty and life. It was a noble emulation of the most generous passions, and where they are nur­tured, every other attribute of a virtuous mind must flourish.