ACT I.

WHAT, will you never have done?—Here have I been three hours under your hands, and am scarce fit to be seen yet.

Oh, non, begar, you be ver fit to be seen—Me chalange all de friseur in Angleterre to shew so compleat, so degagee a gentilhomme as you—Mafoy, you seem de finished marqui—So gentilesse, von wou'd swear dere was not von drop of de Eng­lise blood in you.

You are a flattering rascal—But I like you the better for it—How do my cloaths become me?

Oh, admirable!

Do they sit easy?

Impossible to be better.

I think this suit will gain me credit in the world—A happy fancy, something of the true ton, without the least tincture of barbarism—What a great pity 'tis, Fourbe, we can't entirely introduce the Italian manners and customs here?

Ah, 'tis great pity indeed—de nation never will do any good till den.

Never—When do you expect the cargo from Venice?

Every day, Sir.

Is it consign'd to the Ambassador?

Ouy, Monsieur—all ver safe.

Or else those harpies, the custom-house offi­cers, wou'd be sure to seize it.

Ah, unconscionable!—to force de fine po­lishe gentilhomme, to take up wid de Englise ma­nufacture.

Fourbe, you are a sensible fellow.

Dat is by following your instructions, Sir.

You may take the suit I had made up, at landing here, by that ignorant English taylor.

Je vous suis oblige—I am sure dey are not fit to be seen.

Are the pictures sent home I bought yes­terday?

Ouy, Monsieur—and de ver fine collec­tion dey be.

Do you think so?—I never examined them.

No, Sir!

No—they bore a great price, and were sold for originals of Corregio and Titian; that was sufficient.

O l'ame généreuse!—How few have de ge­nerosity and taste like you.

Well, leave me, and give orders to admit visitors now.

Let me see—I was cursedly taken in last Night—Four hundred pieces—Umph!—Rather too dear for my experience. I shall be oblig'd, in my own defence, to be initiated into the mysteries of the family—I must, by all that's needful, else my venerable oaks that so long have rear'd their stately heads, will spee­dily tumble—Yet these are trifling vexations com­pared to that unlucky contract with Promise's Sister.

My Lord Promise, to wait upon your Ho­nour.

Shew him up—

What, Promise!—where the deuce have you hid yourself for the last fortnight?

Tho' buried in obscurity, yet busily employed, I assure you—But, hey day!—What can you be possibly dress'd for now?—You are not going to a masquerade?

No.

You don't intend this for a wedding suit, I hope?

No—Strike me into a non entity, if I do.

Ha! ha! ha!—Come, what's the real occasion?

To display my taste and elegance, and I think this will give a convincing proof of both.

Ha! ha! ha!—Upon my soul you make such large advances to the feminine gender, that in a little time 'twill be difficult to tell to which sex you belong.

I wou'd have it so—I do it to be distin­guished from the Tramontane—but I want to know where you have been?—I have hunted all the public places in London for you, without success; and I thought, if alive, I must have met you at one of them.

You find you are mistaken then—I can readily live without a continual round of dissipation, though to you it may be impossible—Your existence depends upon dress and fashion—I despise both—Even my pleasures are different from yours—I am wholly devoted to the charms of beauty, you, to those hourly discovered by your looking-glass.

And, pray, which are most harmless to man­kind? I who am amused by dress, and a passion for myself, or you, who, for a trifling gratification, [Page 4]are continually studying the ruin of every girl hand­some enough to attract your Notice?

Why, Jack, you have not spirit enough to make an attack upon any female, either in an ho­nourable, or any other manner—Now, the warmth of my constitution hurries me on to pleasures which you, tasteless mortals, never dream of.

And often exposes you to very disagreeable consequences—Witness Miss Standfield.

True, it sometimes happens so—but then I have courage to support myself under those diffi­culties—And now you mention her, I own she was a girl I lov'd more than I thought the levity of my na­ture cou'd admit of.

Yes, you gave a conspicuous proof of that.

I did—Her father, Major Standfield, was my particular friend; a man I had an un­common regard for—therefore I avoided meeting him afterwards, lest some unlucky chance shou'd lodge my sword in his bosom—That you'll allow was honourable.

Oh! humane and honourable to the highest degree.

Yes, after the many proofs of my skill in the sword, I could have no reason to doubt its success with an old man, so, to be entirely out of harm's way, I took that opportunity of gratifying my desire in visiting the principal courts of Europe.

To which accident I was indebted for the pleasure of your company home from Naples.

You was—During near five years resi­dence abroad, I have never even heard from the poor girl, though, upon my soul, I have often severe­ly felt for the unhappy situation I left her in—which plainly proves that I am not destitute of com­passion.

Oh! a miracle of tenderness!

In foreign climes, as well as at home, I was confirm'd in my favourite principle, that [Page 5]Women, if rightly attack'd, are sure to yield—I found you indeed an altered fellow, without either life or soul, nor cou'd my utmost endeavours arouse you—I wanted you to be a man of spirit; your ambition was to appear a first-rate Macaroni; you are returned fully qualified, and determined, I see, to shew the world what a contemptible creature an Englishman dwindles into, when he adopts the follies and vices of other nations.

Strike me speechless, George! if you are not devilish severe—but, par late liber amente—I can't take any thing ill you say—May ill-breeding be my portion, if I don't pity your want of taste!—Let me tell you, my Lord, 'tis we who enjoy all the real plea­sures of life, without any of its inconveniences—Love, I grant you, is not admitted into our system. We look upon it, at best, as a passion attended with so many disagreeable sensations, that it is not worth the pursuit.

What a fellow, for a girl of my sister's sense, to be united to!

'Tis true we do amuse ourselves sometimes with the ladies—imitate their manners—but care­fully avoid all serious connection with them—Oh. Lord! what a horrid thing love must be!—To take off all attention from ourselves, and study to be what you call manly, brave, noble, and generous, in order to appear amiable in the eyes of the fair—Ha! ha! ha!—No, no, by all that's ridiculous, it will never do.

Then has a pretty girl no influence on thee?

Not in the least—May the sun freckle me if she has! but as she regards my dress and conver­sation.

No you do not wish to make a conquest of one?

Not I, by all that's fashionable! Hearkee, Promise, do you think if I loved a girl, that I cou'd [Page 6]devote the time I do to the more essential business of decorating my person?—Look at me well, and an­swer truly.

No—that wou'd then be one of your least cares.

Then, may my cloaths mis-fit me! if I wou'd forego that happiness to possess all the graces the poets ever assembled in women!

You'll except my sister—How do you in­tend to manage in that affair?

Now you puzzle me—but, when I know myself, I'll tell you.

Have you seen her since you came home?

No, but I design it.

Take care, or you'll lose her—She's followed now by a brisker lover—But that I find wou'd be no misfortune to you—Don't you think our old dads were rather foolish when they signed that con­tract, which obliges you to marry each other, or for­feit thirty thousand pounds?

I am afraid I shall suffer by their folly—But who is the happy man?

Tom Clement, a worthy young fellow of family and fortune.

I don't know him.

I suppose not—Come, I'll introduce you to two of the loveliest angelic creatures the sun ever shone upon.

If you can convince me the sun shines up­on any one I love better than myself, you may; if not, excuse me—Pray, who are these lovely ange­lic creatures?

They are two of the fairest of Eve's daughters, whom I have just decoyed up to town, upon the old scheme.

Then I may conclude it was about them you were so busily employ'd during your late invi­sibility?

Right—Not having visited my father's eslate in the wilds of Yorkshire since my return from travel, I resolv'd upon an excursion thither—The romantic beauty of the country pleased me much, presenting an agreeable contrast to the place I had just left—On Sunday, knowing the church to be the only spot where I might pick and chuse the rustics to advantage, I resolved not to miss the op­portunity.

For shame, my Lord, have you so little re­ligion in you?

Much the same as yourself in that re­spect, my boy—There is only this difference, you cannot think, I will not—But how shall I express the astonishment which seized me upon beholding, amongst many of homely garb and feature, two of the sweetest girls nature ever formed.

So, so!—Fresh Game.

On enquiry, I found they were daughters to an old gentleman, whom a variety of misfortunes had drove to this part of the world as an asylum—The eldest was handsome enough to justify the dis­guises of Jove had he been on earth—But never was modesty, beauty, and native elegance so happily united as in the youngest—I am not adamant at any time, here I took fire in an instant—As soon as ser­vice was over, which I thought the longest ever per­formed, I introduced myself to the father and his two sylvan deities.

You have a laconic method, by all that's mo­dest!—Well, what success?

I think you need not ask that at any time—I seldom fail, even when circumstances are against me, much less when considered as the only son of the Earl of Witton, and heir to the estate many miles round about me—The father received me with the greatest respect; the daughters with a bewitching innocent diffidence, which gave fresh lustre to their encreasing charms.

And yet those very charms you are labouring to destroy.

Don't interrupt me—I soon found that nothing was to be done amongst those peaceful wilds—London was the only place where I cou'd manage them to my wish—They never had been there, and I gloried in being their introducer.

I shou'd have thought it a hard matter to have enticed them hither.

No, quite easy to me—A few days ingra­tiated me into the old gentleman's favour—Replete with every virtue which can warm the human heart, his honest unsuspecting mind has not an idea of de­ceit—Indeed, if he had, my plan was laid so well, he cou'd hardly have suspected it—Many years had he pass'd in this unfrequented vale, where he intomb'd one of the best of wives—Since her decease, his chief care has been the education of these two darling daughters—

Which for the future you are willing to ease him the trouble of—Very charitable, upon my word, my Lord.

To own a truth to you, Epicene, I often know I am acting wrong, tho' I have not courage enough to set myself right—Even in this case—Such is Mr. Lambton's character, so revered his good­ness, that I will freely confess, I never undertook any project of the like nature with half the remorse or compunction I did this.

You are an original, by all that's whimsi­cal!—How can you be so deliberately wicked?

I am not—Youth and the impetuous dic­tates of nature impel me—I dread to look back—Yet, cou'd I find but one of the sex above temptation, perhaps, I might be reclaim'd—But, no more, I want your immediate assistance in this affair.

Mine!

Yes, yours—don't be amaz'd—That was my errand hither.

The deuce it was!—to what end?

Why, as you are a particular friend, I'll spare you one of the girls.

I am much obliged to you, George, but I beg to be excused.

Ha! ha! ha!—Are you afraid of ventu­ring yourself with her? This is my business—Your House is very large, commodious, and retired.

Well, what of that?

Can't you spare me half of it, to remain entirely at my disposal during this affair?

Why, my House?

As this is a particular case, I cou'd not so well manage every thing at one of those common receptacles—Besides, if there shou'd be any noise, it cannot so easily be heard there.

Pray, let's hear your scheme?

I found that my father knew Mr. Lamb­ton, and intended, had he not been called abroad so suddenly, to have drawn him from obscurity; I, like a dutiful son, was resolved to fulfil his desires, there­fore counterfeiced a letter from him, inviting Mr. Lambton up to town, promising to provide hand­somely for him—Full of primitive simplicity, he im­mediately swallowed the bait, the family are just ar­rived in London, and I am about to consummate my project.

A hopeful one, I perceive.

Only to separate the daughters from the father, and, under pretence of visiting my sister, bring them hither.

How will you manage for a lady to represent her?

Suppose I dress you up? They are igno­rant of the world, and the deceit will easily pass up­on them.

No, that I think would be carrying the joke too far—

I did but jest, I have already provided one for the character—You'll have no objection tho', I hope, to lend me a helping hand upon the occasion?

Why, if you'll free me from any danger which may ensue on a discovery, I confess I shou'd like the frolic well enough.

Never fear—Yours will be an agreeable task, to entertain the eldest—She's wild and flighty, owing to the solitude she was educated in, yet fraught with such Innocence and simplicity, that had I not beheld her sister, every wish wou'd have been gratified in her.

So you want me to amuse her, while you be­siege your favourite object?

I do; who in such a situation, I think, cannot fail to surrender.

What do you imagine the father will be do­ing in the mean time?

I have taken care the shall not interrupt me, and now that matters are settled with you, I'll step and see how they do after their journey.

Do you hear, George, come back directly that I may know how to proceed.

As soon as possible—Not a minute is now to be lost, till that arrives which crowns my bliss in the enjoyment of love and beauty.

How these foolish passions transport the man! What are his raptures of love and beauty to the su­perior delights of a grand coup d'eclat at the dear, dear masquerade!

Thank heaven! we are safe ar­rived—'Twas a fatiguing journey for one of my years, and nothing could have induced me to revisit the world, but the hopes of you, my children, reap­ing some future advantage from it—As for myself, [Page 11]declined in the vale of life, I was content with my situation—I thankfully enjoyed the blessings of pro­vidence, nor envied the ideal happiness of those above me.

Indeed, papa, I think you were much in the right—For my part, I prefer a cottage with vir­tue, to a palace with guilt.

So do I, yet I think it possible to gain the palace without partaking of the guilt.

I'm afraid you'll find yourself mistaken, sister.

Perhaps not—Every Thing at present seems fair for it—Under the protection of so great a man as the Earl of Witton, what have we to fear?—Are not we to be introduced to Lord Promise's sister?—What may not she do for us?—I'm sure if I enjoy'd her fortune my heart would delight in find­ing out proper objects to make happy.

True, child, it shou'd be the province of those whom providence hath thus distinguished, and I acknowledge I've heard the best of characters of both—I am not apt lightly to distrust, yet when I reflect on our situation, it makes me dread a disap­pointment—Above two hundred miles from home—Our money almost exhausted in coming hither—Not even an acquaintance in London to apply to—And two daughters, in some degree objects of temptation, exposed to the snares of such a town as this, with on­ly an aged father to protect them—In such—

I can assure you, papa, you torment yourself with groundless chimeras—Could any one behave more politely than Lord Promise?—Did not he say you might depend upon his father's friendship for you—Is not his letter the greatest security—Sure­ly then you cannot hesitate a moment, in preferring affluence, to the indigence we have just quitted.

Daughter, he that possesses content is richer than a scepter'd monarch—What cares had I to disturb me at Monktown?—My honest friends and neighbours, during the many years I passed [Page 12]amongst them, regarded me as a father, friend, and Instructor. Poor people! my heart is with you still—But I must now go see that Ralph has got our little baggage sage, we need not expect to meet here with that fidelity and simplicity which characterizes our untaught villagers.

Still, sister, I find you have not a ve­ry favourable opinion of the cause which brought us hither.

I own I have not—Ever since leaving our peaceful dwelling, I know not why, but an unusual sadness has taken possession of me.

Oh, that's easily accounted for—It is because you left that dear, sweet, sighing swain of yours, Mr. Wilville, behind—Tho' Sir Harry Tem­ple was with him, yet I was not sad—Our journey, to me, seem'd enchantingly pleasant—Oh, Lud!—The swiftness of our expedition—the variety of ob­jects—the uncommon politeness we were treated with on the road—the amazing noise, hurry, and bustle we saw in coming hither, has filled my mind with images I never had the least Idea of before—Oh! happy, happy creatures, who continually enjoy such blessings without interruption.

Perhaps, not so happy as you imagine, sis­ter—There may be real enjoyments here as well as in retirement, but I am apt to think true content is easier to be found in the moss-grown cot, than the cloud-aspiring dome.

There again we differ—I am heartily weary of solitude, and leave to you the undisturbed enjoyment of going to rest with the sun, that, like him, you may be the harbinger of morn—treading the cowslip bending green, to visit your lowing herds, who constantly welcome and reward you with over­flowing bowls of nectar—at noon, feasting on pa­triarchal luxuries—towards eve—but let that suffice. Contrast it with what Lord Promise told us of a sine lady's life—Rising at noon—paying morning visits— [Page 13]dining at six—dressing—then whirling away to routs, balls, assemblies, masquerades, where brilliant com­pany, music, dancing, and card parties make the time glide insensibly away, till blushing morn un­folds the fringed curtains of the gilded east, and tears them unwillingly from their half enjoyed pleasures—If such a description be true, who, in their senses, wou'd have a doubt which to prefer?

Sister, we had better not entirely depend up­on all Lord Promise told us—A little time, I am afraid, will dispel the mist which overshadows your reason?

Then if it be a mist, sister, I never desire it to be removed—Adieu, I hope for ever, to those purling rills, deep embower'd shades, and fleecy nibblers of the plain, that hitherto have been our companions; a brighter scene now opens to my view, and if Sir Harry Temple knew but where to trace us, my joys then wou'd be compleat.

Flatter not yourself so much, Charlotte, as to imagine we have such power over them—To ac­cident only are we indebted for their acquaintance—nor have we a right to expect it to continue—'Tis true, they did us a signal piece of service in res­cuing us from such a crew of gypsies, who, meet­ing us where they did, wou'd probably have robb'd, perhaps murder'd us.

I shall ever remember their heroic be­haviour—How soon they dispersed and put to flight those dastardly wretches—Your fright gave you ad­ditional charms, and, notwithstanding your timidity and delicacy, you gave sufficient testimonies that your deliverer was not indifferent to you.

Too much otherwise, I fear, for my future peace.

The adventure was so much to my taste, that I enjoyed it—My champion, I thought, received my acknowledgments with surprize—Per­haps, [Page 14]he did not expect such language from the rus­ticity of our appearance.

Why, really, it was something uncommon.

We have often seen them since, and they as often offered up their vows—Our father seem'd pleas'd with their visits, knows both their families, and acknowledges them accomplish'd gen­tlemen.

'Tis true, he does, but appearances are oft deceitful—I confess Wilville raised emotions in my breast, I had till then been a stranger to—The confusion I was in, the danger he rescued me from, attended with such a tender, respectful behaviour, beyond what I had ever seen or imagined, made too deep an impression on me ever to be erased.

I shall keep you in countenance, for my heart, I believe, is in pretty near the same condi­tion.

I left the country with regret, as I had not an opportunity of acquainting him with our sudden departure—I wish, yet fear, to see him again—Pray heaven he be sincere in his professions! for I find the future happiness of my life depends upon it.

That you need not have the least doubt of—I dare say they were distracted on missing us, and have dispatch'd emissaries around the country in quest of us.

Hush, we are interrupted.

Mr. Lambton, I am heartily glad to see you—Welcome to London.

My Lord, I am much obliged to you for this favour.

Not in the least—Ladies, I am happy in seeing you look so well after your journey—I thought it impossible your charms could have received addi­tion, yet I find change of air, and extraordinary ex­ercise, have given encreasing lustre to the vermeil tincture of your cheeks.

My Lord, your politeness makes my girls blush.

There is no occasion for that, Sir, they were sufficiently captivating before—I rode post to town, Mr. Lambton, to apprise my father of your coming, but unluckily found him laid up in a fit of the gout.

I am sorry for it, my Lord.

Why, so am I, especially as it deprives him of the pleasure of welcoming you as he intend­ed—But, I hope, a few days will set him on his legs again, and then—not that he hath been idle, there is something in view, which, in all probability, will, in a very short time, make you ample amends for the injuries of fortune.

My Lord, you overwhelm me with kindness—I know not how to—

Not a word more—But, Mr. Lambton, my father has a particular request to make you.

I beg, my Lord, you'll let me know it.

That you'll accept of this—

—Nay, I must beg of you not to examine it till you are more at leisure

I fear, my Lord, 'tis some fresh obli­gation, and I have already received more than I can ever hope to return.

Do not mention it—Let me insist on your putting it up—You have it in your power amply to repay me.

My Lord!

Come, let's change the subject—My sis­ter, Lady Fanny Promise, having heard of your ar­rival, sends her compliments to the ladies, and if not too much fatigued, hopes for the pleasure of seeing them directly.

A [...] ▪ my Lord, I wish you'd excuse them—Girls, like mine, bred up in retirement, have not sufficient knowledge of the world, to render themselves agreeable to a lady of her rank and qua­lity.

They have those native graces of the mind and person, which are infinitely preferable—Where nature hath been so lavish, her handmaid art, at distance waits behind, conscious of her inability to add to their charms—What say you, ladies, will you favour me so far?

Just as my papa pleases, my Lord.

Well, my Lord, since you'll take the trouble of conducting them, tho' I am sure you do them too much honour.

Rather give myself too much pleasure, Sir.

My Lord, since you have my papa's permission, we'll beg a little time to adjust our dress.

Name it, ladies, and my chariot shall at­tend you.

About an hour, my Lord.

Very well, I shall in the mean while in­form my sister, that she may prepare for your recep­tion—Ladies, your most obedient—Nay, no cere­mony, Mr. Lambton.

Give me leave, my Lord, to wait up­on you down stairs.

Now, sister, don't you think my pre­sages will prove true? You see fortune already smiles upon us—I hope Lady Fanny will invite us to reside with her for the future.

How can you be so flighty?—Young as I am, every thing to me seems to wear a differe [...] aspect—I do not like Lord Promiso, nor this visit, and wish you had not so readily engaged yourself.

You never will have spirit enough to make a figure in the world—However, do not let us waste the time which shou'd be employ'd in dres­sing.

If you recollect, we need no great prepara­tion—our wardrobe is soon looked over.

Too true, and a mortifying recollec­tion it is.

Not in the least—Let not that disturb you, Charlotte—Happier far our humble state, cloathed in spotless innocence, and heaven-approving pover­ty, than if arrayed in all the splendid honours, and gilded trappings, of specious guilt and infamy.

ACT II.

THEN you are certain Epicene is re­turned?

Oh, very certain—I had it from my brother, whom I saw this morning, en passant—He has been at home above three weeks, and poor neg­lected I never once enquired after.

I find he's not one of your most passio­nate lovers.

Why no—not quite so violent inh is trans­ports as your brother—In short, I'm inform'd that he is now a finished petite maitre.

Then I'll answer that he's not a favourite of our sex.

Quite the contrary to a woman of spirit—Oh, I have not patience every day to see such crowds of mincing, whissling, powder'd Master Jemmys sill our public places, who only want to assume the pet­ticoat, to render them compleat Misses.

Ha! ha! ha! really they seem deter­mined to rob us of that distinction.

Don't you think it wou'd be a just retali­ation in us to claim the sword and breeches? I'm sure we shou'd become them as well as the best cox­comb of them all.

Suppose you try the experiment?

No, there I beg to be excused—At pre­sent I have other matters in my head—You must know that I have been meditating a pleasant revenge on Epicene for his contemptuous coldness.

He richly deserves it, and cou'd not have fallen into better hands, for you always discover'd an excellent head for contriving mischief.

I do love a little of it in my heart, and if you'll aid me on this occasion, I don't doubt but he'll prove a charming subject to work upon.

Oh, you can't oblige me more than by employing me.

Nay, I never doubted you, but here you'll have a difficult part to sustain.

So much the better, the more glory if I succeed—Come, let's hear.

You are entirely unknown to him, have been abroad, and are well acquainted with many of the places he travelled through.

I am.

Can't you pretend that you are a relation of some noble family whom you are intimate with?

Readily—I correspond with several he visited, who often mention'd him.

Very well then, you can easily frame a story of your falling in love with him there, and fol­lowing him over to England.

What good will that do?

A great deal—We must let your brother into the secret, as his assistance will be necessary—and, a propos, here he comes.

Madam, I received your orders, and flew upon the wings of—

Love to be sure—I thought so—Now for rhapsody of flames, darts, hearts, and eyes, all jumbled together to form a passionate declaration.

Charming, cruel girl! how can you thus—

I told you he was beginning—Very pretty tho'—Pray let's have it again—Charmingly cruel, or cruelly charming—it will do either way, and may serve now or any other time.

How can you take such pleasure in torment­ing a man who loves to the degree that I do?

Because the greatest pleasure our sex can enjoy is to torment—I'll not hear a word in answer— [Page 20]I have many times told you that nothing in nature can be more ridiculous than the enraptur'd effusions of two love-stricken creatures to a third person—There is now more interesting Business for you—Your rival is in London.

Who, Epicene?

Even he—Don't put on a serious face till you have more reason—You have often heard of the contract executed between Epicene's father and mine, by which they were mutually bound, that we, when of age, shou'd marry each other, or forfeit thirty thousand pounds.

I have.

His father is dead, and mine has long since repented the warmth of friendship which hurri­ed him on to so inconsiderate an act, and, as an atonement, often declared, cou'd I free myself from the obligation, his consent shou'd await the choice of my heart—In this situation, you shall win and wear me.

I accept the conditions, Madam—With so glorious a reward in view, I will either deliver you or perish in the attempt.

Heroically spoken—"None but the brave deserve the fair"—Ha! ha! ha!—No great danger at present I believe—Come, follow me, and if I don't put you into a method of obtaining Epicene's part of the bond, and amply revenging yourself on him at the same time, then say, for once, a woman failed in plotting and contriving.

A Gentleman to wait on you, my Lady.

Conduct him up stairs—

—Let me beg of you to retire for a few moments—As soon as the Gentleman is gone, I'll inform you of my whole design.

Major Standfield!—Is it possible I see you again!—Where, in the name of wonder, have you buried yourself these four years past?

Oh, Lady Fanny! wou'd to heaven I had been buried, and mix'd my mouldering ashes with my ancestors, before I reached these years of sorrow!

Bless me, Major! what's the matter?

Nothing, Madam—I beg your pardon—Pray, where's your brother?—I learn he's return'd from travel.

Upon my honour I don't know—Have you any particular business with him?

A little, Madam, but it will soon be settled.

I hope nothing disagreeable has happen'd? How does Miss Standfield?—What cou'd be her rea­son for withdrawing so suddenly from town, and li­ving ever since in such impenetrable obscurity?

Oh, Lady Fanny! you once profess'd a friendship for her—But 'tis no matter—nothing can now atone for injuries like mine!—

For the love of heaven, Major, explain yourself.

I can't, Madam, 'till I see Lord Promise.

Nay, pray; I conjure you, tell me—Can I serve you? If I can, my friendship and fortune are both at your service.

Your worth, Madam, wou'd, if possible, atone for your brother's villany.

Villany!

Yes, Lady Fanny, the worst of villany—The wretch who wantonly deprives the credulous virgin of her innocence and peace of mind, deserves an epithet much worse than that.

Has my brother been such a wretch?

He has, Madam—Pardon my thus disturb­ing you with a repetition of my wrongs, I thought to have conceal'd them 'till I had found their author—But griefs like mine will force their way—After six-and-twenty years spent in the service of my country, I vainly hoped to pass my latter days in ease and tranquillity, blest, as I thought myself, in a daughter, where grace and modesty united to adorn the curious workmanship of heaven.

Pray go on, I am all attention.

Lord Promise, Madam, whom unsuspecting­ly I admitted to my inmost friendship, in an evil hour, gain'd on the fond affection of an artless girl, and, for a few moments unworthy gratification, plunged a dagger in a father's breast, and entailed eternal infamy, shame, and sorrow on the very crea­ture, whom honour should have obliged him to pro­tect

Merciful powers!—Can I be related to fuch a monster—Now do I readily account for the fettled melancholy which preyed upon the lovely girl before she quitted London, and which I in vain urged her to disclose—But why did you not inform me of this before?

An indignant shame tied up my tongue—My hand, tho' old, I hoped was not quite unnerved, on that alone I relied for satisfaction—Yet there I was disappointed, to avoid my resentment he quitted the kingdom—Defeated of my revenge, I retired to a little retreat in the farthest part of Devonshire, ta­king with me the tear-concealing, yet almost grief-consumed object of his loose desires.

Poor Eugenia!—Little did I suspect the cause of your retreat, if I had, you shou'd not have gone without a partner in your sorrows.

How can souls so nearly allied by nature, dif­fer so much in sentiment!—There, a few months af­ter, I was presented with a grandson—An event which almost deprived the wretched mother of life, in giving birth to the innocent fruit of their guilty commerce.

What an affecting story!

We have lived ever since in the utmost pri­vacy, waiting an opportunity for revenge or justice. Last week I received intelligence from a friend, whom I entrusted with the secret, that he was re­turned; this hastened me up to town with my little family—Hitherto he hath evaded my search—This [Page 23]house I thought the most likely place to find him, and—

Dear Major, I am happy in meeting with you—For the love of mercy suspend your anger—Perhaps I may procure you reparation, at least, as far as 'tis in his power to make it.

Believe me, Madam, I had much rather have redress from equity than the sword—else shou'd I now have conceal'd my purpose—But, if the first fail, I am determined to have recourse to the lat­ter—If I fall, my sorrows fall with me, and he will have the glory of compleatly finishing the misfortunes of an unhappy family.

I hope there will be no fear of that—Pray is Miss Standfield still in town?

She is, Madam.

Might I hope for the pleasure of seeing her here?

I am afraid, my Lady, that will be impossi­ble—There is a conscious inferiority attending fallen innocence, which dreads to look up at the unble­mished front of virtue.

To me, that should not be—From our earliest acquaintance I always esteem'd her as a friend, but now, I love her as a sister—Let me en­treat you to conduct her hither.

I will try, Madam, if I can persuade her to it.

Nay, but immediately—You must not attempt to meet Lord Promise first.

I shall not, Madam.

Depend upon my utmost endeavours to re-establish your peace and honour, upon the most permanent basis.

Your good wishes, Lady Fanny, I am afraid exceed your abilities to perform—Nevertheless, we are equally obliged to you—My daughter shall wait upon you—Take her under your protection, Ma­dam, and ease a father of some part of his vital-prey­ing cares.

Most gladly—Haste her hither without the least delay.

As soon as possible, Madam.

Oh, and I must insist on seeing my little nephew at the same time—He shall be part of my charge.

Your Ladyship shall be obliged.

Poor Man! his story has raised a powerful advocate in my breast—What a libertine is my bro­ther!—I am shock'd at his wickedness, and tremble for the consequences—Yet, how to reform him?—A task, I am afraid, beyond my abilities, tho' still, I think, nature's seeds, however ill the cultivation, were designed to raise the noblest fruits—I will at­tempt it, and may some power benignant inspire me with the means to reclaim a brother, and re­lieve a friend!

Now, my good Ralph, I begin to have some hopes of you.

Efaith, Miss, 'tis more than I have of myself. Wounds and heart!—I think I look more like a hog in armour, than any thing of christian flesh and blood.

I own you have not all the ease and elegance I cou'd wish, but it can't be helped, and you must do your best

And bad enough, I am afraid, that will be—You wou'd make me be thrust up in this manner—I'm sure I was easier and better in my own shapes—Now, pray may I ask, what is all this mighty rout about?

I am going to visit a lady of quality, and you must attend me—Put on your best behavi­our, for very likely there will be some grand compa­ny there

Then, I think, Miss, you had better leave me behind.

Why so?

Because I am sure I shall be dashed—For tho' I am reckon'd as tight a lad, and as feat a dancer as any at our maying, yet, if you'll believe me, I can scarce pull up courage enough to shew my shapes amongst the lasses, and you know we have some prime ones.

I must encourage him a little—

But you cannot imagine what an alteration there is in you now—That dress becomes you wonderfully, and you look quite graceful.

Yes, I always was said to have grace—Master himself often told me that I was a gracious lad.

No, but I mean that you are genteel.

Oh—Why, for certain, all the lasses used to prefer me for my gentility.

Very well then—be ruled by me, Ralph, and I don't doubt but every thing will suc­ceed to my wish.

Mayhap they may—I'm sure, Miss, I will do all in my power to serve you, for never from me if I don't love you heartily.

Love me!

Ay, may I be shot if I don't, as well as if you were my own sister—Nay, why shou'dn't I?—I must be very ungrateful indeed, if I did not—I'm sure master has been more than a father to me.

I believe you are gratitude itself—When my fortunes are accomplished you shall not go unrewarded.

Well, well, don't let that concern you—Be sure now, when we are abroad, you ask me to talk as little as possible.

Yes, yes, the less you speak the better.

Adad, I believe it will—You may tell them I am dumb, if you please.

No, that will not do neither—All I want of you is to behave very mannerly, and avoid telling any stories about our mode of living in the country.

Oh, let me alone, I'll be bound to be cunning enough for the best of them—Not but, if they are fond of stories, I can match them there too, for I can tell plenty.

Stories?

Ay, I can tell them the story of St. George and the Dragon, or Valentine and Orson, or twenty as good—I am very famous for them, and have told them an hundred times over—You shall hear me—hem! hem!—There was a certain valiant knight who—who—

—Nay, nay, hear me out.

No, no, Ralph—be but silent, and do as well as you can.

Not ready yet, sister?

Yes, I've been only giving a few in­structions to my servant here.

Pray, sister, what occasion for him to attend us?

Oh, very great—Consider the figure we shou'd make without one servant to wait upon us.

Better none than him—Has my father seen him thus?

No, my dear, I don't intend he shall till I return.

Well, I think you are very wrong—but you must have your way—Come, the coach has been waiting some time.

Pray, Miss, am I to go within side the coach or without?

O, without side, by all means.

An't I to hold up your tail as you go in and out?

No, fool; come along.

Mr. Varnish, your servant—I was told you went out, Sir, and have waited impatiently for your return.

I am sorry I shou'd make you wait—Pray, Sir, what are your commands with me?

This house, I suppose, is yours, Sir?

It is, Sir, at your service.

Lord Promise, I presume, hired these lodgings for us?

His Lordship informed me you was a parti­cular friend of his, and requested, as a favour, that I wou'd accommodate you, to prevent the inconveni­ences attending common lodgings.

His Lordship was very good—I ima­gine, Sir, you are well acquainted with him?

I have had the honour of knowing his Lord­ship these several years past.

I beg your pardon, Sir, for being so inquisitive—My reason was, an ambiguous note his Lordship put into my hand at leaving this, which you are to explain.

What was it, pray, Sir?

A draft for an hundred pounds, with these words—‘I hope Mr. Lambton will accept of this triste as an earnest of my wishes to serve him. I dare not be more explicit at present, but Mr. Varnish can fully inform him of particulars. PROMISE’

True, Sir, his Lordship has repos'd that con­fidence in me.

Well, Sir, I shall take it as a favour if you'll explain his meaning.

With all my heart, Sir—Lord Promise is a Nobleman of the strictest honour and greatest gene­rosity.

I don't doubt it, Sir.

I assure you his generosity is unbounded—I have seen such instances of it as wou'd amaze you.

Indeed, I have, since my short know­ledge of him, experienced many proofs of his bene­volence.

Oh, dear Sir, nothing to his desires or inten­tions—The moment he saw you and your family, he was resolv'd to serve you.

How few Noblemen have such great­ness of soul!

Very few indeed, Sir—He observed, with concern, that you had lived many years in the world to little purpose.

How, Sir? I hope not—I endeavour­ed to fulsil the will of him who placed me in such a situation, and that I thought the principal end of my creation—If I have erred, I trust he will forgive me.

Dear Sir, you mistake my meaning—He found you grown grey in obscurity, without the least reward for such merit.

Yes, Sir, I've had the greatest reward that cou'd possibly have been bestow'd upon me here.

Really, Sir!—What was it, pray?

The testimony of a good conscience.

I am glad to find it so, Sir—tho' 'tis more than I can say for myself

—But Lord Promise wishes to reward such goodness in this world—He has many relations of great dignity in the world—They have heard your character from the Earl, and you may depend upon being speedily provided for.

How shall I acknowledge so many un­merited obligations?

Very easily—I hope, Mr. Lambton, your long retirement from the world has not contracted your notions of life?

I believe not, Sir—On the contrary, the long heart-felt serenity I've enjoy'd, has expand­ed every grateful and noble thought within me.

Nay, I shou'd not wonder at it—Persons long buried in solitude, are apt to look with a gloomy aspect on the harmless amusements of the world—And those things, in their nature perfectly innocent, they, with a cynic severity, condemn as absolutely criminal.

Far otherwise with me, I assure you, Sir—I look on all mankind as my brethren, as such I love, and wou'd, if possible, serve them—For sure­ly that wretch must be dead to all feelings, whose bosom admits not that heav'n-born child of mercy, sweet charity.

I am very glad, Sir, to find you have such enlarged notions—Can you then be so chimerical as to prefer an empty name, a few imaginary virtues, to solid substantial happiness?

I don't comprehend you.

In a word then, Lord Promise is captivated with the beauty of your youngest daughter, and it will be your own fault if you do not pass the re­mainder of your days in ease and tranquillity.

Lord Promise in love with my daugh­ter?—it cannot be.

Truth, every syllable, Sir.

Good heav'n! can he—but I won't disturb myself—He has not sure any dishonourable designs on my poor child?

Lord Promise, Sir, is all honour and gene­rosity.

I hope so—Gracious powers! how I tremble—Where are my children?—I'll stop their going till I have an explanation of this affair.

I met the young ladies going out, Sir, just as I came in hither.

Going, where?

To visit my Lady Fanny Promise.

Are you sure of that?

Quite certain, Sir, I knew the carriage and livery—I must keep him in suspence till the business is over.

I am something easier—They'll certain­ly be safe with her—When do they return?

In about two hours.

Well!—Is Ralph, my servant, in the house?

No, Sir, he attended the ladies.

I am glad of it—I can rely upon his honesty and fidelity.

Dear Sir, let me beg of you to calm your emotion—Your apprehensions are groundless, I can assure you.

They may be so—In the mean time I request you'll return this note to his lordship—I must first know the nature of the obligations he wou'd confer upon me—Perhaps they may be such as an honest, tho' poor man, wou'd be above receiving.—

Upon my word, Sir, you must excuse me—I dare not accept it without my Lord's knowledge—I shall wait upon him directly, and on my return hope fully to satisfy all your scruples—In the mean time make yourself perfectly easy—You have only to rely on Lord Promise, and rest contented

I am not much read or skill'd in the ways of mankind, yet I do not like this man's words or looks—Both seem to bear a double meaning—I am far from being easy in my mind!—Wou'd I had never come hither!—My poor unfledged young ones! I am afraid your father, in his latter days, has, by one imprudent action, involv'd you both in ruin! but I must now make the best of it—Thou never failing refuge of confiding innocence, guard and di­rect our trembling footsteps thro' this mazy laby­rinth of darkness and uncertainty!

ACT III.

WELL, Tom, have you heard anything of the girls yet?

No—I've searched every place where there was the least likelihood of intelligence, but all to no purpose—Have you done any good?

Not I, by Gad!—All my efforts have been fruitless—I am almost distracted!—What unlucky dogs we were to leave them just at that critical junc­ture!—Or who cou'd imagine they wou'd have taken flight during the little time we were absent?

Nothing cou'd equal my astonishment on mis­fing them—Unkind Maria, not even to leave a line behind to account for this sudden revolution—

Wilville, it must certainly be some unfore­seen accident which cou'd drive them up so unexpec­tedly.

Some fatal one, I fear—'tis a mystery I am wretched till I unravel—I'm sure we lost no time in the pursuit—and all along I flatter'd myself with the hopes of overtaking them on the road.

Ay, so did I—We drove jehu like for it—and yet the cursed post-boys cou'd not get on fast enough to satisfy my impatience—Zounds! I wou'd have outstript the wind, and surpass'd all the fables of antiquity to have caught them—the last stage I was almost sure of it—they were not above half an hour before—Such a disappointment is enough to turn the brain of a philosopher!

Really, Temple, I did not think you were so desperately entangled before.

Nor I, by my soul—I did not know half the power the wild baggage had over me 'till I missed her. [Page 32]Who the devil cou'd suppose I shou'd be taken with so romantic an oddity?—And yet, may I perish if I was not struck with her more than any woman I ever saw before.

That is to me amazing—I think there is as great a difference between her and her sister as pos­sible.

True, there is a great difference indeed.

Maria possesses that sweetness, that affability, that gentleness of manners which must—

O damn it, Tom! let's have no more of that sickening stuff—I hate such sft killing creatures who lull me to sleep with their insipidity—Not but some­times I like a scene of the pathetic, by way of con­trast—but, in general, they have too much opiate to suit my constitution—No, give me the girl of fancy, who soars above the region of vulgar mortals, and scorns to tread the beaten paths of dull discretion—Such a charmer is always new—each day discovers fresh incentives to love, and we are lost in the plea­sing charms of dear variety.

O brave! you improve in soridity—But this is a subject we shall never fall out about—Do you take your mistress and her dear variety, leave to me the enjoyment of endless, undescribable happiness in the possession of her sister.

Egad, I wish I cou'd—

Alas! these are lovers rhapsodies, and do not in the least contribute to the recovery of them.

Do you know that Lord Promise they came up to town with?

Only by sight.

What's his character?

That of a profess'd rake—He is the only son of the Earl of Witton, a nobleman, who is now abroad, as much respected for his virtue as his dignity—Was he at home, my first application shou'd be to him, as I am certain he has too much honour to countenance his son in any base ungenerous action.

Hearkee, Tom—I'll go directly and call him to an account, and if he does not give me a satisfac­tory answer to my enquiries about the girls, sacri­fice him to my vengeance.

Hold, hold, be not so rash—You have not the least chance to gain any intelligence that way—I am equally interested with you, and as firmly deter­mined to use my endeavours to find them—I believe they were invited up to town by him, on some infa­mous design, and tremble lest he should succeed in his attempts.

And yet you have the patience coolly to talk in this manner—By heaven, I'll find him out, tho' surrounded by a thousand imps of darkriess, and force him to give me satisfaction.

Believe me, Temple, I have as much courage as you, tho' not of that flaming kind—I wish for an opportunity of rescuing these victims from his infer­nal clutches, not of signalizing my valour—He has too much spirit for so bad a heart—What wou'd be the consequence of such a meeting? Perhaps the sending one of us totally unprepared to that judg­ment seat, where justice must be heard, tho' it wounds the breast of soft-eyed mercy.

I own, Wilville, you are in the right—My heart is always open to conviction—We will go calm­ly to work; I will be guided by you—Can you point out any feasible method?

Let's try every means probable—I know his llow traveller, Jack Epicene—I can't say that he's [...] favourite of mine, yet on this occasion he may be useful—'Tis very likely he is in his confidence, per­haps an assistant in this affair—Our best way will be to sound him first—We'll thither directly, probably we may learn something which will give us light to proceed further.

With all my heart—Let's about it immedi­ately, for never shall I have a moment's ease while the girl I adore is in danger.

Now, Polly, quite in readiness I see—Is Epicene at hand to assist you?

He is, my Lord; but pray don't you think it must be a great mortification to one, who loves as I do, to become the instrument of your de­signs upon others?

I confess 'tis disagreeable, but you shall not lose by your compliance.

Unhappy minute, which put it in your power thus to command me!—

My pretty fair moralist, I have more agreeable business on my hands now than reasoning with you—Only manage this affair with dexterity, and leave reflections to follow—They'll come fast enough of themselves.

'Tis a wicked office I have undertaken; my heart goes against it.

No qualms now, Polly—I thought I had removed these scruples?

The stings of conscience, my Lord, are not so easily quieted—Necessity, not inclination, obliges me to join with you.

Then I am the more obliged to your ne­cessity.

My Lord, the ladies are just arrived.

Away to the drawing-room to receive them—I'll retire for a few moments—On my en­trance, remember to call Miss Lambton out, and take care that we are not interrupted.

This way, Ladies; if you please, I'll con­duct you to my Lady's apartment.

Very well, friend, we follow you.

Hold, my honest lad; suppose you and I go into the kitchen to take a little refreshment, and leave the ladies to themselyes; don't you think it will be as well?

As well! Ecod, a great deal better—I thought as how Miss was a fool, to dizen me out in this man­ner for folks to laugh and shout at me—but if ever they catch me behind a coach again in this trim, why my name is not Ralph Clumsey.

Oh, you must not mind such trifling acci­dents—You'll be used to them soon.

Shall I?—By the Lord Harry, but I won't tho'—for if Master will stay here, he shall stay by himself, and so I'll tell him—But, young man, for the love of charity, give me a drink, for I have not breath to talk.

Come, my boy, follow me, and I will soon make you forget all your distresses in a jug of right old stingo.

Mercy be praised! there are some honest peo­ple in this town.

How happy am I, my dear Maria, in en­tertaining you in this manner—I have long'd to give vent to the effusions of my heart, and own to you how much I lov'd.

My Lord!

Yes, Maria, I lov'd from the first moment I saw you, with an irresistible impulse.

Is it possible, my Lord?

As true as that you are beautiful—Love prompted me to this contrivance, and it has succeed­ed to my wishes—I have now the idol of my soul in [Page 36]my possession, and nothing but death shall ever se­parate us.

Good heav'ns! am I betray'd then?

Betray'd, my charmer! no, far from it—Can you call it betraying to live in endless felicity with him who adores you?—To be sole disposer of my life, my fortune, my happiness?—Come, thou tempting love-inviting fair one, let us not waste the precious moments which may be better spent in dis­solving transports!

Away, my Lord, you cannot surely mean to use me thus!

Fear nothing, my beauteous angel!—No earthly power shall now disturb our joys—Do you but smile, and kindly bless me with your endless charms, malicious deities may look with envy down on our superior bliss—Come, come to my arms, let me gently, tenderly press you to comply—

Hold, for pity's sake!—

—In the name of all that's good, all that's powerful, I con­jure you to hear me!—for a few moments hear me.

Now for a stroke of the pathetic—What a pleasure to have the tender supplicating creatures on their knees to one—

—Rise first—Do not alarm yourself, my sweet girl!—You have every thing to hope for, nothing to be apprehensive of.

Whose house are we in at present, my Lord?

A person [...] entirely devoted to me.

Oh, my fluttering heart!—And is not that lady who received us your sister?

As opposite to her as vice is to virtue.

Ye high-protecting powers who behold my distress, relieve me now, or I am lost for ever!

My lovely innocent, you torment yourself with groundless apprehensions—You are with a man who adores you, who wou'd lacrifice his life to con­vince you of his truth and constancy.

Give me a proof of it, my Lord, by resto­ring me to my liberty.

Demand any other proof but that, and I will satisfy you—Make me happy, and possess every thing I can bestow—'Tis not in my power to marry you or I would, but I can make you an offering of what few wives enjoy, an undivided heart—Your father shall be made easy for life—Your sister shall partake of our felicity—All will owe their happiness to you, and my behaviour must oblige you to confess that my love and generosity shall deserve the sur­render you make—The devil's in't if this won't do—I'm sure l've almost talk'd myself into a behef of the truth of it—

And do you think it possible, my Lord, that all the riches of the East cou'd tempt me a moment to deviate from the paths of virtue?—No, destitute as I am at this instant of a friend, except in heaven—conscious of being entirely in your power, without the least human means to escape—yet, such is my reliance on providence, that I am regardless of the consequences—You may kill me, if you please, but you cannot triumph over my innocence—and I have this consolation in the midst of my distress, that there is a being will amply revenge my cause, and reward my trivial sufferings.

What the devil's the matter with me, that I am affected thus?

You hesitate, my Lord—If your breast be susceptible of pity or manly sentiment, do not take an ungenerous advantage of the helpless condition you have reduced me to, nor give me cause to look upon you as the destroyer of my peace and tranquil­lity.

Surely persuasive force dwells on her hea­venly accents!—There must be some magic power in virtue, when it can charm even such a son of vice as I am!

A mighty conquest you have gain'd, indeed, my Lord!—Deceiv'd a poor old man, who near had reach'd his journey's end, without this fatal stroke to [Page 38]help it, and thus betray'd to ruin his two unsuspect­ing daughters!—Oh, my father! little did your fond honest heart imagine the reward preparing for your toilsome journey hither.

Certainly I have been long deceived!—Virtue is more than a name, or I could never feel these heart-rending compunctions—I must retire, or she'll make a compleat proseylite of me—

You have a sister, my Lord, whom you dearly love, an honour'd parent, whose life, per­haps, depends on her prosperity, what must you think of that man who wantonly endeavours to de­stroy so fair a prospect?—How much nobler he, who, commanding his passions, gives proof of his great­ness of soul, by acknowledging his errors and ma­king every atonement in his power?

Why thus agitated, Maria?—By heav'n you've no cause—I love you to distraction, and can­not live without you—Yet I will not force your incli­nations—I am not that monster neither—My tender­ness, my generosity, my respect shall rather gain you.

My Lord, if you have the least tenderness, the least humanity in your nature, restore me to those, I am united to by duty and inclination.

And lose my hopes for ever—it cannot be, 'tis too great a sacrifice.

Leave me then but for a few minutes, till I try to recollect my scatter'd spirits.

Say you'll think kindly of me.

How can I so far contradict my heart?

Will you endeavour it?

I will—if possible.

How like a scoundrel I look now, defeated of my purpose!

Be compos'd, Madam, I leave you in perfect security, and hope my excess of pas­sion will, in some measure, plead my excuse for what is past.

That, my Lord, I must judge of from your future conduct.

Sure, if the sex but knew how amiably commanding a virtuous woman appears, even in the eyes of an abandon'd libertine, the most thoughtless wou'd shun the paths of vice.

What a precipice am I on!—'Tis dreadful to look around—yet I trust that power which hither­to has saved, will still preserve me!—My father! where are now thy silver locks!—destitute of suc­cour, thy hapless child cannot comfort thee!—Oh, Wilville! thou once rescued me—now indeed I want thy relieving hand—My sister too!—perhaps at this instant struggling in the toils of infamy!—Dreadful thought!—I will seek her out, offer my feeble aid, and either escape or perish together!

Ha! ha! ha!—Oh, Miss Lambton, fye up­on such rusticated notions—I find, my Lady, we shall have a great deal of trouble before we can give her the true ton.

I hope your Ladyship will pity the se­verity of my fortune—Tho' buried in solitude, my heart has long wished to move in the circle of high­life, and it now expands at the approaching prospect which you have assured me of.

You may depend upon it—under my protection you shall be introduced into the politest assemblies.

If Miss will entrust herself to my care, I will gladly join in the charge with your Ladyship, and answer for her improvement.

Directed by so profest a master, I'm sure she cannot fail.

I do think I am tolerably well qualified—Sup­pose us now, Miss, in the Pantheon, or any other fashionable place—instead of standing with a modest country diffidence, and a confusion which increases [Page 40]the unfaded roses of your cheeks—sweep along the room with all the becoming ease and assurance of a true-bred woman of fashion—pull out your glass, survey the objects round with a contemptuous dis­dain—Oh, my dear Lady Squander—

—I am immensely glad to see you—Have you heard the news?—Oh, I am ready to die at the thoughts of it—Ha! ha! ha!—Only the grave Mrs. Scruple de­tected last night with a captain of the guards—Mrs. Trifle—

—I am happy in seeing you abroad—I was informed you intended retiring into the country on the death of your monkey—

—No, Madam, but I design to­morrow night seeing Garrick's alteration of Hamlet. Oh, pray do bring Pompey along with you, it is a creature of infinite humour, and will relieve my too great attention to the play—Ha! ha! ha!

I own, Sir, I have very little idea of the description you have been giving me, and hope you'll forgive my simplicity in asking whether modes­ty and innocence are fashionable qualities at these assemblies?

Umph!—why faith I can't say that they are—They indeed attract the notice of the first couple in the kingdom, otherwise names of no great conse­quence now in the world.

I am very sorry for it.

Sorry, why so?

Because, charmed as I am with the brilliant scenes before me, I wou'd not purchase them with the loss of either.

May I renounce the pleasures of Italy, if the girls brain is not turned!

I beg pardon for my company; but Miss, if you please, I want to speak a few words to you.

Speak to me?

Yes, Miss, if you'll go down stairs I'll tell it you.

You had better spare her that trouble, friend, by telling it here.

May hap I won't, tho'—

You may let it alone then; but the lady shall not stir, so get along about your business, fellow.

But I say she shall, and let me see who'll hin­der her.

Who'll hinder her?—I, you scoundrel—

Will you?—We'll try that—

Hold, Ralph—for heaven's sake, what's the matter?

Oh, Miss, I have found it all out!—I over­heard the whole story in the kitchen—they are all in a plot to murder and ravish you and I and Miss Ma­ria, and keep us here for ever, so come along and let us find out master.

Impossible!

Impossible, indeed, Miss, the fool's drunk.

Drunk! no, nor mad neither, and I will have you out, Miss, or die for it.

That you shall, villain!—

Nay, you have mistaken your man, I be­lieve—

Help! murder! help!

Get up again, you shall have fair play.

Curse your play—help! murder! help!

I fancy you'll not be in a hurry to meddle with a bit of Yorkshire stuff again.

What's the meaning of all this noise and violence?

Ask him there, he has more reason to tell you than I.

By all that's devilish, Promise, that barbarian had nigh put an end to my being—Keep him off till I get away—I thought him a tool, but if ever I am [Page 42]again deceived, may I suffer tenfold what I have done now!

Oh, my Lord, I beg of you to unfold this mystery, my servant says there is a plot formed to detain us here.

There is, Madam—Nay, start not—'tis time to undeceive you—I have now no interest in letting you continue longer in your error—Thererfore view every object in its proper light—

Gracious goodness! where will this end!

This house you are close confined in, with­out a possibility of escape—As a confirmation, ad­vance, Madam, no longer Lady Fanny Promise, but Miss Spence for the future.

Ay, I thought what it would all come to—I'll be hang'd if I did not.

I am so overwhelm'd with surprise and astonishment, that I know not what to say.

Miss Lambton, you are safe for the pre­sent, that lady will attend you into another room—As for this champion who signalised himself so valiantly in your defence, he may be troublesome—convey him into the street, he'll improve his talent, and meet with plenty of adventures there.

Ay, but two words to that bargain—you must have my leave first.

Stop, Ralph—Surely, my Lord, my servant's fidelity ought not to subject him to ill usage. I will rely upon your honour for my safety here, and hope you will extend it to him.

Miss Lambton, I pity your confusion, and will not stay to encrease it—Dismiss your fears—Let your servant retire—he shall not be molested—and you have my honour for your protection.

Bye, Miss, if there be law or justice in Eng­land, you shan't stay long here.

For heaven's sake tell me, is my sister in this house?

She is, Madam.

May I not see her, pray?

Not at present, Madam; but don't let that disturb you—I can assure you she is well and safe.

Does my father know where we are?

I am sorry, Madam, I am not permitted to answer your questions to your satisfaction.

What will become of us!—Thus are my dreams of happiness vanished—The enraptured scenes my fancy drew existed but in imagination—now in their stead, each way I turn around, nought present themselves but shame, despair, and infamy!

ACT IV.

MY dear Wilville, I am very much obli­ged to you for this visit, I intended call­ing on you in a few days.

On me; for what, pray?

Psha! a trisle—There's a subscription amongst a few of us men of taste to raise ten thousand pounds, to divide between three Italian singers and two capi­tal French dancers, to be invited over for that pur­pose next winter. That sum, with what the mana­gers can give, benefits, and a few tristing presents, will enable them to live tolerably genteel, and oblige foreigners to confess that no nation out-does us in ge­nerosity to strangers—Will you make one?

I can't say that I have the least inclination, and must think half that sum bestow'd on natives of merit and character, wou'd be infinitely more laudable.

May I renounce every thing that's foreign if I think so—for in my opinion, a man cannot give a greater proof of the remains of old English barba­rism, than by encouraging natives, let their merit be ever so deserving—'tis as great a vulgarism, and as much out of fashion, as relieving the poor of the pa­rish one lives in.

I shan't dispute the matter with you now, having business, to us, or much greater moment—You know Lord Promise?

Who, George?—perfectly, few know him better—He just parted from me—

As I guess'd—

—Did he mention what occasion'd his return to town so soon?

Oh, now I suspect what you are about—You want to share the spoil—Ay, I know the whole sto­ry [Page 45]—Two damn'd fine girls he brought up with him. When he's tired, I suppose, he intends introducing them on the town.

The town, Sir!—That the villain dares not.

Sir!

Hold, Temple, restrain the impetuosity of your temper.

Confound my intellects! if there is not some mystery in this affair!

Yes, Sir, there is a mystery which you must unravel, or I shall have recourse to disagreeable me­thods to oblige you.

Tom, is your friend apt to be lunatic?—For bubble me at Arthur's, if I undersrand a syllable he says.

No trifling, Sir; inform me where the ladies are this instant, or give me immediate satisfaction.

Upon my soul, Sir! I'll give you every rea­sonable satisfaction you can desire—But for fighting you must excuse me, as I think it damn'd unreason­able!

Put up! here comes Promise in right time to answer for himself.

Epicene! I want to—Who the devil are these!

I suppose you are Lord Promise?

I am, Sir—Give me leave to demand your [...]me?

Temple.

I have not the honour of knowing you.

I believe we shall be better acquainted be­fore we part.

Very possible.

Give me leave to ask, my Lord, what you have done with the Lambton Family?

The Lambton Family!

Yes, my Lord, 'tis a plain question, and re­quires an immediate answer.

First, Sir, let me know who you are, that in this peremptory manner demands it?

One that is determin'd to make you render a strict account of them.

Indeed!—I will then—They are under my protection.

Restore them directly to their liberty.

I will not.

You shall.

Who dares attempt to make me!

I!—

And I!

What! do you intend to assassinate me? But were you arm'd an hundred fold, thus I defy you—

No, my Lord, I scorn the thought.

Gentlemen! for heaven's sake be calm!—What the devil's the matter?—Will nothing content ye but cutting one another's throats?—I'm sure if you had the aversion to blood I have, you'd be peace­able enough.

Give up the ladies, my Lord.

You shall have my life first.

You must defend it well, or I will—Meet me to-morrow morning at six in the park, there to de­cide our differences.

Depend upon me.

No, 'tis I who have most reason, and mush insist on satisfaction first.

Patience, Gentlemen!—One at a time—Let me dispatch one first, and then I shall chastize the insolence of the other at my leisure.

Be not too sure—Meet me with a second at the time appointed.

May an eternal stigma brand my name if I disappoint you!

Till then farewel!

By all that's terrible! I am glad they are gone, for I was cursedly afraid they wou'd have turn'd their fury upon me.

Who are these mettlesome sparks?

I know but one of them, Wilville—The other fiery one, I believe, is Sir Harry Temple.

I have heard of them both, but cannot imagine by what unlucky accident they came to the knowledge of these girls—Epicene, I am going to do you great honour.

Well, let's hear.

You shall be my second in this affair.

Sink me into everlasting oblivion, if I will!

You cannot be in earnest?

I am, by all that's serious!

What's your reason?

George, you are a man of courage, and these affairs may be an amusement to you—I, on the con­trary, have an aversion to a sword out of its scabbard, much more to its being lodg'd in my body.

Then you positively refuse?

If ever I draw a sword again, after my late disaster, except it be to break a lamp, frighten a waiter, or pink an old woman, where I am sure my courage will not be put to the trial, may I never re­taste the life-giving air of the continent.

You are a contemptible fellow, below my anger—

Hearkee, Promise, another word of comfort, Major Standfield is in town—What, fight him too?

Very possible—I confess I have work enough upon my hands at present—But there is no [...]etreating, and I dare do any thing but think.

May I be despis'd by every person of fashion if this fighting, even when there's a reasonable occa­sion, is not the most ridiculous thing in nature!

A lady below stairs, Sir, desires to see you.

A lady to see me!—Who is she?

I can't tell, Sir.

—Shew her up—

What business can a lady possibly have with me!—Here she comes—Umph!—Veil'd!—a foreigner by her air.

—Madam, your most obedient—Please to be seated—I think myself greatly honour'd by this visit—Pray, may I have the favour of knowing what has occasion'd it.

Oh! Sir!

Madam!

Pity my confusion—and—and—

And what, Madam?

Spare the blushes which force themselves even thro' this veil of shame!

—Heyday!—A fine girl by all that's delicate, and confoundedly in love with me, or I am greatly mistaken!—

—Compose your­self, my dear, you have nothing to be alarm'd at—May I be electrified by your charms, if I am not a man of the nicest honour—Withdraw that cloud, and throw yourself wholly on my protection.

O! these well-known sounds!—But I will rely on your generosity, and reveal my hapless story—Behold this face—

—then judge of my unhappy destiny!

Whither does all this tend to!

Think how severe must be my reflections, when, impell'd by love, I forsake relations, friends, country, every tender tie of nature and affection, and sacrifice them all for your dear, dear sake!

For mine, Madam?—May I be offer'd up a victim on the altar of Venus, if I can comprehend the meaning of all this!

Do you not know me then?

Never saw you before, to my knowledge—Strike me blind if I did!

Then I am irremediably undone!—Un­kind Epicene! thus to slight a maid who adores you.

Pray, Madam, where do you say I have had that pleasure?

Have not you been in Italy?

I have.

Were you not intimate at Pisa with the noble family of Bentivolio?

I was, Madam.

Do you not remember they were once vi­sited by their neice, Julia?—I am that unhappy maid—At first sight I lov'd, and time has only served to confirm me in my hopelss flame—I wrote, but virgin-modesty forbad my sending it—At last, hear­ing of your return to England, the long-suppress'd passion grew too violent to be conceal'd—I resolv'd to follow you—escap'd from my friends—brav'd all the perils of so long a voyage, and am now come to cast myself at your feet, there to receive the reward of my constancy, or, at once, put an end to my suf­ferings—

I am petrified with astonishment!—Rise, Ma­dam—

Not till your cruel heart is softned!—By letters from a friend, who was privy to my flight, I am inform'd my brother, to whose care I was entrust­ed on my parents death, has traced my steps to Eng­land, nay, is this very moment in London, in search of me, perhaps entering this house, when, such is [...]is impetuous temper, and refin'd notions of honour, that your life will be in danger from his resentment, and immediate death must be my portion.

What an unlucky affair this is!—Rise, for heaven's sake, Madam!

Never—here will I cling 'till I've won you to pity me!

'Tis false!—I know she's here, and will have vengeance!

Oh gracious!—my brother's voice!—What will be the consequence!

The devil it is!—Let me entreat you to rise.

No, cruel, obdurate man!

Confusion!—then my fears are true!—Have I at last found thee, thou shame to thy sex?—As for you, villain, draw, and desend your unworthy life.

Hold, Sir, I beseech you hold!—May I be condemn'd to everlasting infamy, if I am not entire­ly innocent in this affair!

Innocent!—but I waste time in parlying with such a wretch—draw, or this instant is your last.

Help! murder! help!

Another such word and you are a dead man.

I'm afraid I am a dead man indeed—For pi­ty's sake, Madam, convince your brother of his mis­take.

Alas, Sir! what can I say?—He will be­lieve nothing from me; you had best own the truth.

I see your guilt confounds you—Is this the grateful return you make to such unmerited acts of hospitality and kindness?—to seduce the niece of so noble a house—a house that prides itself on the puri­ty of its blood, and the number of princes allied to it. Could not the largeness of her fortune tempt you to demand her honourably in marriage, without having recourse to such base methods?

Eternal stupefaction seize me, if I am not so surpriz'd at this whole affair, that I have not power to answer.

Hard-hearted Epicene, so long to resist the entreaties of one that loves as I do—Accept my hand and fortune—perhaps my brother kindly will forgive all errors past.

Well, Sir, what say you to that?—now I'll put your honour to the utmost proof—If I oblivio­nize [Page 51]all former failings, are you willing to do her justice?

Really, Sir, if you'll allow me to speak with­out offending you, I must say that this whole transac­tion is a perfect riddle to me—for if I knew any thing of you, her, or her honour, 'till this instant, may I be confin'd and embalm'd alive!

Then since you trifle, your doom is seal'd.

Will nothing else content you but my marrying this lady?

Nothing.

You are sure you have an unconquerable af­fection for me?—

I think I have given sufficient proofs of it.

Curse your proofs and you too, my dear—

—You promise, if I marry this lady, I shall possess her fortune, which you say is ample?—

Without doubt.

And you, Madam, promise, that immediate­ly after marriage you will, according to the present fashionable mode, provide yourself with a Cicesbeo?

you may depend upon it.

Some comfort that—

—I shall be per­mitted to reside in any part of Italy I please, no mat­ter how far distant from my lady here—

Nothing more reasonable.

As I shall give you an unlimited liberty, Ma­ [...]m, to have what friends you please at your petite [...]uppers, or elsewhere, you, on your part, promise not to take it ill if in public or private I always treat you with the polite coldness and indifference of a hus­band?

O, by no means, I do not wish to appear particular, and I am sensible that hardly any thing but the name of marriage exists now.

Nor you, Sir, when the harmless frolic takes you, be for cutting my throat again?

Umph!—Why, on my sister's account, I shall forego that pleasure,

Since the devil will have me married, I think I cou'd not have had more reasonable terms.

Give me your hand, now I find you are a man of honour.

Oh, zounds! I had forgot—I am engag'd al­ready.

How, Sir?

I am, by all that's miserable!

Very well, Sir—you know the consequence.

What an unfortunate creature am I!—But hear me—I am already engag'd to marry another la­dy, or forfeit thirty thousand pounds.

A trifle!—forfeit it.

My fortune will not enable me.

My sister's shall—Come, since I find words will not bind you, stronger ties shall—sit down, write your consent to marry my sister, under penalty of losing your whole estate.

Dear Sir, this is superlatively cruel!

No alternative—this or that—

O that I durst fight!—Well, I must submit—

—Your name, Madam.

What, don't you know that already?

No, curse me if I do!

Julia Bentivolio.

Julia Bentivolio—

—Umph—umph—there, Sir—will that satisfy you?

I promise—umph—marry—Julia Bentivolio—forteiture whole fortune—John Epi­cene—ay, ay, this will do—Now, sister, I give you leave to embrace your husband.

Husband!—What harmony in the name!

With rapture do I fold the darling of my wishes!

Zounds! my dear, not so violent in your em­braces!—'tis the most unfashionable thing in nature.

I am sorry to interrupt your bliss, but, Julia, you must retire with me, if the ardency of your pas­sion will allow you to live a few hours without her.

Wou'd I had never seen her!—

I expect, Sir, you'll give immediate orders for the solemnization of your nuptials—and not to delay your happiness by unnecessary preparations, I kindly intend to celebrate them this evening.

Now, brother, you are kind indeed!—Adieu, my best beloved!

Adieu, my future torment!—Married!—no, I'll hang myself out of the way, and at once prevent my troubles!—And yet I have not the heart to de­prive the world of such a pattern of elegance and dress—What, if I dispute this consent at law, as forc'd and illegal?—yes, and perhaps have myself run thro' the body before its determin'd—No, I must be married—devilish hard luck!—Oh, my unfortu­nate stars!—to what a dilemma am I reduced—either to fight or marry.

Come, no more whining—have not I agreed to the sisters being together at your request? what wou'd you be at?—is there any harm done to them?

No, but how long will they remain so?

As long as I am master of my passions, not a bit longer—I think I have had an uncommon share of patience in this affair—for such a perverse obstinate baggage I never before met with.

Happy wou'd our sex be, if all, like her. were proof against the false attacks of perjur'd, faith­less men.

Better as it is, child—You wou'd then be too near perfection for us mere frail mortals to ap­proach—Go, go, imitate your betters, think of re­pentance when you past the power of sinning.

Well, Varnish, our schemes hitherto have proved abortive—You are almost preach'd into a reformee by a grey-headed old man—and I have been fairly foiled by a green girl—What a couple of cursed fools!—This conscience is a plaguy troublesome companion.

Ah, my Lord, we never can do any good while we listen to it.

You must to Mr. Lambton again—tempt him once more—offer any terms you please—tell him the deed is done—try, if possible, to persuade him to write to his daughter that he approves of it—that may go a great way with her—about it directly. I shall wait your return before I attempt any thing further.

How if I don't succeed?

Ask me no questions, Varnish—I am al­most distracted—Sure never was so strange a com­pound of love, libertinism, generosity, and honour!

I am, however, glad, Charlotte, that your eyes are at last opened to see the fallacy of your wild ideas.

Say no more, sister, I am heartily asham'd and mortified already—I begin to see things in a new light, but my experience had like to have cost me dear.

Enough, my dear, to be sensible of having acted wrong, is pain sufficient to the ingenious mind, therefore I have done—What do you think of our [Page 55]present situation?—for my part—but we are inter­rupted—

Ladies, if you'll please to walk into the next room tea is ready.

Excuse us, Madam; in the present pertur­bation of our minds, refreshment is not worth a thought.

I am sensible, ladies, the part I have acted in this affair must make me appear odious in your eyes, as it has contemptible in my own, yet, if you will but hear me—

Too much have we heard already, to be any longer impos'd upon.

Believe me, I do not mean it.

Oh, vice! what power has thou attain'd, when thou wear'st the semblance that virtue us'd to pride in!—A form like yours, surely, never was de­sign'd to be an instrument in a scheme so detestable.

Abhorr'd be the hour I ever was!

If I can read aright, you are not one of those who are harden'd in the ways of guilt—Your appear­ance speaks you sprung from parents who wou'd hide their heads in shame at your unhappy conduct—Have you unwarily deviated from the paths of virtue? add not to your crimes by endeavouring to make others equally wretched.

What shall I say to gain belief?—Ap­pearances, I own, are strong against me—but black as I may seem, hear but my melancholy story, and then refuse me pity if you can.

Proceed, and be assured we wish to find it so.

Behold before you the only, and once prided daughter, of an ancient happy couple, as Love and Hymen ever yet united—to myself alone I owe my ruin—unmindful of their precepts, and trusting in the force of my imaginary charms, I fell unthinkingly in the fatal snare laid by the most art­ful [Page 56]of men—Lord Promise triumph'd over my inno­cence—To conceal my shame, I left my tender pa­rents, and ventur'd into the world destitute of for­tune, friends, or virtue!

Unhappy consequences of one false step!

Fatally so, indeed!—Deserted, despis'd, and hateful to myself, I cou'd only have recourse to the author of my ruin—for a while he behav'd with tenderness, cool indifference succeeded, and I was soon oblig'd to give place to newer objects—What cou'd I do? my dependance was solely upon him—I bore my fate with resignation, conscious of having deserv'd it, but when he oblig'd me to act a part in your deception, my remorse grew too violent to be stifled—Thank heav'n he has hitherto fail'd in his de­signs—and I am now come with a determin'd reso­lution either to effect your deliverance, or share your fate while you remain here.

Then we have still some hopes, and provi­dence has not yet deserted us!—But what's to be done? how get from these unhallow'd walls?

That will be a difficult task▪ I am afraid, guarded as you are by his watchful emissaries.

Pray, do you know Sir Harry Temple?

Not in the least, Madam.

Nor a Mr. Wilville?

I can't recollect that I do.

Nay, if you did, 'twou'd be to no purpose, they, alas! are many miles from hence—all hopes of relief from them are vain—But do you know Lord Promise's Sister?

I have slight knowledge of her.

I believe she will be the only probable means of our delivery—Suppose you throw yourself upon her generosity—confess your whole affecting story, and relate our cruel detention—I think, if her breast be not totally void of every feminine virtue, she will pity you, and protect us.

Alas, Madam, Iscarce can gather cou­rage to approach her; yet to release you, and in some measure atone for past offences, I wou'd submit to any thing, however humiliating.

Then let me persuade you to go thither.

Well, Madam, I will.

But this instant—consider our situation—a moment's delay may put it out of her power to re­lieve us.

I'll go directly—in the mean time pray take a dish of tea, and recruit your exhausted spirits.

You'll return as soon as possible.

Depend upon it.

Come, sister, let us endeavour to compose ourselves, and call to mind that from adversity oft spring our choicest blessings.

My daughters not yet return'd, nor any news of Lord Promise!—I am almost distracted!

Oh, Sir, you are come—well—now I hope my fears are over—Where are my children?

Safe, Sir; very safe, I assure you.

My blessing on you for the news!—May I not expect them home soon?

Why, Sir, they have been so agreeably en­tertain'd since they went abroad, that you must not [...] impatient if they don't return quite so soon as you expected.

My poor girls!—they have indeed seen very little of the world, nor have they any thing to recommend them to the company they are in, except it be their innocence and virtue.

Really, Mr. Lambton, you have reason to be proud of them—they charm every one with their behaviour—Lady Fanny loves them already like sisters, nay, she says it will be their own faults, if [Page 58]they do not always rank so in her esteem, as her hap­piness is wound up in theirs.

Her goodness is too much, too much for such unworthy objects—for how is it possible they can contribute to her happiness?

I have told you, Sir, how violently fond my Lord is of Miss Maria—every minute encreases his passion, and it is now arriv'd at such a pitch, that he cannot live an hour without her.

Live an hour without her!—You can­not mean it, sure?

Upon my word, Sir, I do—You are a happy man, Mr. Lambton, to be father to so beautiful a daughter!—make yourself perfectly easy—your for­tune is made for ever.

Oh, wou'd to heav'n I cou'd!—For goodness sake, Sir, explain your dark ambiguous meaning.

I am come, Sir, to congratulate you on the happy change of your affairs—Lord Promise has al­ready obtain'd a vacant place of two hundred pounds a year for you; Miss Maria has five hundred pounds yearly settled upon her during life, besides house, equipage, servants, and—

How!—hold, for the love of charity! On what conditions were all these things obtain'd?

Conditions! none, Sir—Lord Promise is too generous to exact any—all he desires in return, is to be assur'd of Miss Maria's unalterable love and con­stancy.

Merciful powers! how is my old ago­nizing heart torn by a thousand different emotions! If you have any humanity in you, answer me truly—Are my Lord's designs upon my daughter honour­able, or not?

Entirely, Sir, upon my credit.

I wish I may find them so.

'Tis true, it is not in his power to marry her; what of that, you cannot surely be so weak and blind [Page 59]to your own interest, as to stand on mere punctilio? In every other respect she will be more than his wife—and as to—

Stop your licentious tongue! nor dare to insult the virtuous poverty of my white hairs!

Insult, Sir! the farthest thing in the world from my thoughts—Can you term it insult to be at once seated above the—

Thou pander—look on me well—con­sider whom you tempt—a father—Then think, whe­ther worlds ought to bribe me to deviate a moment from my duty.

But, allowing your sentiments their utmost weight, will you not patiently bear an evil which cannot be removed?

What, more mystery!—Pray, pray ex­plain yourself, and let me know the worst of my un­happy fate.

Miss Maria, Sir, not so insensible of my Lord's favours, has kindly rewarded him with every return in her power to bestow.

Then all is over!—break heart-strings, break at once, and end this miserable being!—

—Yet, 'tis, it must be false!—Her mind, pure and spotless as new-drifted snow, cou'd not so soon be tainted—No, my child you cou'd not, wou'd not sell your innocence, nor part with that jewel of inestimable price!

To what end, Sir, shou'd I now impose on you?—Your daughter has accepted of my Lord's love and tenderness—she now has sent me to request you'd make yourself easy at what has happen'd, and, as soon as your first emotions are over, will be glad to see you; in the mean time, if you will write her word that you are satisfied with her conduct, and happy, she will be compleatly so.

Tantalize not such a wretch as me with the name of happiness!—Oh, cruel, cruel girl, thus to pierce the bosom of a tender, doting father! [Page 60]May every—no, I will not curse her—curse, where I so many thousand times have bless'd—'twou'd be un­natural—Let then the never-ceasing sting of con­science at last work her to repentance—Where is she? lead me to her, that if she has any spark of vir­tue yet remaining in her, I may awaken it—

Hold, Sir—that at present is impossible.

Impossible, Sir!—What power shall hinder me?

I must, Sir—in compassion to your mind thus agitated, I must.

Compassion, said'st thou?—if thou hast the least tincture of it in thy composition, have pity on a wretched father, born down with age and sor­rows—torture me not in this manner, 'tis too much for my feeble nature long to support—let me but see my children, and I shall be easier.

To-morrow you shall.

To-morrow's an age to one in doubt like me—Stranger as I am, I'll find my way to Lady Fanny's.

Your efforts are vain—this house you are con­fin'd in, till you have a proper sense of my Lord's kindness, and agree to his proposals—Your daugh­ters, tho' very safe, are not at his sister's, nor can your utmost diligence find them out—I'll leave you an hour to consider of this affair—Either accept the offers to make you and your children happy for life, or be oblig'd to return into the country to-morrow morning without them—

Stay! for mercy's sake stay!—Kill me, but do not ask me to be acces­sary to my children's dishonour!

He's gone—O, Charlotte!—Maria!—The comforts of my declining years at once torn from me!—and in such a manner—condemn'd to everlasting infamy—'tis too much!—Unhappy, poor old man! who now will close thy eyes, and receive thy dying blessing? O, where are all my dreams of felicity!—those days [Page 61]I hop'd to spend amongst the prattling lispers of my daughters!—all vanish'd, and real anguish now suc­ceeds—I dare not think—it may be dangerous—

—Yet, something whispers comfort to my wound­ed soul—I will, if possible, be patient, and put my confidence in that being who never fails to succour the afflicted heart in the hour of calamity!

ACT V.

HA! ha! ha!—Upon my word, Lu­cy, you have manag'd this affair ad­mirably, beyond my expectations—We shall now proceed to the second part of the scene, and if we don't torment him to some purpose, why I am great­ly deceived.

Never fear, I'll second you—But you can't imagine how I'm affected with Miss Spence's relation of the Miss Lambtons confinement.

Not more than I am, I assure you—poor girls! I am impatient 'till we go to their relief.

Two Gentlemen, my Lady, Sir Harry Tem­ple and Mr. Wilville, desire to speak with you.

Hey-day! more adventures!—Wait on them up—

What can they want with me? something relating to my righteous brother, I suppose—I must beg of you, my dear, to retire for a minute or two, and as soon as these gentlemen are gone, we'll proceed to Epi­cene's together.

Pardon this intrusion, my Lady, which no thing but the nature of our business cou'd excuse.

There needs none, Sir.

Necessity, Madam, obliges us, after every other method has fail'd, to trouble you—We are in search of two ladies, whom your brother has decoy'd up to twon, and by force secretes, spite of our utmost endeavours to sind out and release them.

I was right I find—

—Your search is at an end, Gentlemen, if you mean Mr. Lamb­ton's family, who came to town this morning.

We do—Is it possible you can have heard of them?

I have, and was contriving means for their deliverance when you came in.

How fortunate!—Dear Lady, let us fly to give them liberty, and prevent the evils they are threatned with.

Hold, Sir; not so fast—trust all to my management, and I'll ensure you success.

You shall be our tutelar deity on this occa­sion, only consider our impatience.

I do, therefore will not waste time in use­less ceremonies—do you know Epicene?

Perfectly well.

You must accompany me thither directly, on our way I'll explain every thing, and give you proper instructions how to behave.

Lead on, Madam, and may our success ex­ceed our wishes.

Strike me deaf at an opera, Promise, if ever I was in such a dilemma before!—No, not even in Naples, when that cursed affair happen'd which forced me to live a month with Squalitini the bur­letta singer.

And so the brother absolutely obliged you to sign a contract.

Absolutely; for, when his sword was drawn, had he insisted on my binding myself to a tobacco planter, to work in his plantations the remainder of my life, I cou'd not have refused him.

What a spiritless dog!—Well, but was the Signiora handsome?

Devilishly so—But what was that to me?—Had she the beauty of Venus, the chastity of Diana, and the wisdom of Minerva—all these joined toge­ther [Page 64]cou'd not have gained her admission into the Co­terie, or let me into the secret at the next Newmar­ket meeting.

Quite the contrary, I believe.

Of what use are a woman's good qualities then?—If my destiny will have me yoked, give me a fashionable wife, who will raise a man's reputation in the world.

Pray, how is that to be done?

Only by following the example of every day—eloping before the honey-moon is over—obtaining a divorce—and exalting the happy man to a level with the greatest names of the present age.

Very clever indeed.

Oh, almost as certain a road to fame as mo­dern patriotism—But I have not told you all my mis­fortunes—This visit has destroyed an immense deal of happiness I had in petto.

Ay! How so?

I intended to have cut a distinguishing figure at the next masquerade, in the character of a French milliner.

Which this accident has prevented?

It has by all that's cruel!—For what Gusto cou'd I have, or how cou'd I possibly display my ta­lents under such an embarrassment?

True—The world will sustain an irrepara­ble loss—But what do you think my sister will say to you upon this occasion?

May I be annihilated! if that does not giv [...] me the greatest concern—She's a lady of the nicest discernment, and if she has unalterably fix'd her affec­tions on me, so as to drive her to some act of despe­ration, I shou'd never forgive myself.

Lady Fanny Promise desires to speak with you, my Lord.

Shew her up.

Your sister!—Zounds, what shall I do?—I am quite unprepar'd for this rencontre.

Faith, so am I; her coming, I am afraid, bodes no good to either of us—retire you, and leave me to manage her.

My dear boy, help me out of this difficulty, and command me to eternity.

She has not sure got a hint of what I am about, if she has, I must shift ground directly.

Brother, I am glad to see you.

That's more than I can say by you—

Sister, your servant—What, my little rogue Cle­ment!—I'll lay my life some mischief's on foot now, for no other cause cou'd have brought you both hither.

You are a prophet, brother—Come, tell us now whether we shall succeed or no?

Where two women join their heads toge­ther, I think they are a match for the grand mischief maker.

Thank you!—You had best take care of yourself—

—Pray, where is that pretty gentle­man, your travelling companion?

Who, Epicene?

The fame.

Somewhere in the house, I suppose—Is your business with him?

It is, and we are come to beg your assist­ [...]nce.

In what?

Only to plague him a little.

Poor devil! he's pretty well prepar'd to your hand, I assure you.

How! has he told you of his whimsical situation?

We were just talking of it when you inter­rupted us—but, how the deuce came you to know it?

Because I contriv'd it.

You contriv'd it!

Yes—behold the distress'd Lady Julia Bentivolio.

Ha! ha! ha!—Upon my soul a glorious joke! ha! ha! ha!—Is it possible he can be so duped?—Well, what am I to do?

Withdraw 'till a convenient time, then ap­pear, and add to his distress, by insisting on the per­formance of his contract with me.

Ha! ha! ha! excellent!—I understand you—you cou'd not have oblig'd me more highly than by letting me into the secret—ha! ha! ha!—If I don't mortify him—

Away then, and send him up—but not the least hint of what we are about.

No, not for the world.

And when that's over, my good brother, I shall take you to task in a manner you little suspect. I think my plans are pretty well laid now, and can hardly fail of success—This confiding in him, lulls him to perfect security.

Well, what am I to do?

Retire to your brother, but place your­selves within hearing, and when you think your pre­sence necessary, both second me, and join in the at­tack—Stay, take my last orders—when I have done with Epicene, and begun upon my brother, do you march off unperceiv'd, and lead up the reinforce­ments in regular order.

Never fear me—this will be a curious piece of generalship.

Ay, girl; and, if we succeed, we shall deserve statues raising to our memories—march.

Row, dow! dow! dow! row! dow!

Bravo!—mum!—

Dear Lady Fanny, this is so great an ho­nour—

And, I am afraid, so unwish'd for—

Wrong not your own charms so far as to ima­gine I wish not to devote my whole life to their con­templation.

But it must be at a distance tho', I find—Come, come, Mr. Epicene, 'tis in vain to disguise my unhappy fate, tho' your politeness won'd gloss it over—be ingenuous, and confess you have not a heart to bestow.

Alas, Lady Fanny, our affections are not to be commanded—if they were, I swear by all that's beautiful, I know not a more deserving object.

O feeble, weak attractions!—they cannot hold in chains the only man I ever wish'd to conquer!

Upon my soul, this is very distressing!

Yet, who can behold that assemblage of every thing noble and manly, without pitying, ra­ther than condemning the violence of my unreturn'd affection!

Far gone, by all that's affecting!—And yet what a proper sense she entertains of my merit!

Not a word to give me hopes!—Sure if I lay aside the native modefty of my sex, the object be­fore me will sufficiently justify me to the world—You must, nay, you shall comply.

Egad, if I don't take care, she may go greater lengths than I desire—

—Believe me, Lady Fanny, an unlucky accident has render'd it utterly impossible for me to do you the justice you deserve—notwithstanding I love, nay, adore you more than any of your sex.—

Except me, Mr. Epicene!

Confusion!—what will become of me!

Why does my love turn away?—What woman's this, who seems to take an interest in you?

One, Madam, that has a prior claim to you, and is resolv'd to assert it.

Indeed!—this is some artifice—I see thro' the weak device, and will soon defeat it—brother!

The brother!—this is too much!

Mr. Epicene, I am very glad to see you.

I wish with all my heart I could return the compliment.

I am come rather sooner than I at first in­tended; but when I consider'd the violence of your passion for my sister, I cou'd no longer retard your happiness.

You are too good!—too good, upon my soul!

Well, Sir, shall the ceremony be immediately per [...]orm'd?

If the ceremony at tyburn was perform'd, I shou'd have a happy riddance from my plagues!

I know not what right, Sir, you, or that lady has to my husband.

Your husband!—How, Sir, are you married to that lady?

No, Sir—not that I know of.

Oh, well—are you ready and willing to mar­ry my sister?

Very ready, Sir—but cursedly unwilling!

Nay, then, I must have recourse to other means—O brother! brother! come and right an in­jur'd sister!

My sister! why do you call in this alarm­ing manner?

I'm wrong'd, basely wrong'd, and have not the least hopes of redress, except from you.

For the love of charity, Promi [...]e, come and right me—'tis I have most need of it.

What's the reason of this confusion?—Who are you, Sir?

Carlino Bentivolio—brother to this lady.

Ay, George, this is the damn'd fierce Italian who bully'd me so to-day—I wish'd for you then.

Well, sister—to you—

I claim my contract.

You are determined to urge your claim?

I am.

Lookee, Epicene, I profess myself your friend—

A thousand thanks, my dear boy?

And as a proof of my friendship, I will this instant—

What? what?

Sacrifice you, unless you do my sister jus­tice.

Oh, mercy on me!

This moment agree to marry her, or im­mediate death's your portion.

I will—I will!

How, Sir? have not you pro­mised this lady that satisfaction?

Yes, I have—I am distracted between them! Really, gentlemen, I am but a man, if you expect to find me more, you'll be devilishly mistaken—If I can oblige the ladies, I will—only determine between yourselves whether I must marry one or both of them, and I shall obey you.

I see you are almost below my notice.

I wish I was entirely so.

I find I must be an umpire in this affair—Come, Epicene, if you wish to be deliver'd from your thraldom, you must make some humiliating concessions.

Heav'n knows, any thing that's in my power, I will.

In the first place, you must ask pardon of these ladies, and, thro' them, of the whole sex, for the cold unanimated, unworthy ideas, you always entertain's of those master-pieces of nature.

I do.

Next, you must acknowledge you have not courage enough to attempt, nor sense sufficient to prize, the least of their favours.

I acknowledge.

You must now say after me—

Well!

I confess, that a Macaroni is the most insignificant—insipid—useless—contemptible being—in the whole crea­tion—Very well, you are docile, I find—Lastly, you must entirely quit the appearance of such a des­picable species, and endeavour to assume the Man.

That's hard, nay, I am afraid impossible—You may as well bid me shake off my existence.

For shame!—Think who you sprung from, a race of hardy, virtuous, conquering Britons, and blush at your own degenerate exotic effeminan­cy—But I have done, and be assur'd, my sole motive was to set you up a glass, wherein you might behold a faithful image—As to my sister, I can prevail on her to resign her right in you—here, exchange bonds, and never presume to trouble her more.

If I do, may the combined plagues of Egypt be my portion!

It now only remains to satisfy that lady.

Which will be easily done, my Lord, here, Sir, is your contract, nor shou'd any conside­ration unite me to so reprehensible a character.

Ha! ha! ha!

Strike me to the antipodes, Madam, if I am not heartily oblig'd to you!

Ha! ha! ha!—Come, 'tis time to drop the mask—Sister, I wish you joy of your deliverance! If I divine aright, you can now bestow your hand up­on a more worthy object—Clement, take her, take what that foolish puppy had not understanding enough to value.

You are very obliging, brother—and since 'tis so, I own he has deserv'd me—Here, accept my hand; but, have a care, if you repent, I shall not so easily forego my claim as I did to that gentleman.

When I do, may I, like him, be the deserving object of ridicule!

I am thunderstruck!—what's all this?—is not your name Carlino Bentivolio?

No, Sir, my name's Clement, at your ser­vice—Ha! ha! ha!

Ha! ha! ha!

Nor yours, Madam Julia Bentivolio?

Lucy Clement, if you please, Sir—Ha! ha! ha!

I perceive I have been most egregiously bub­bled here!—Ladies and Gentlemen, you have been highly diverted at my expence—I own I deserve it, and begin to see my folly—As a proof, give me leave to withdraw for the present, and get perfect in the ca­techism you was pleased to teach me.

Stay, Mr. Epicene—after your confession, it wou'd be ungenerous to torment you farther—What a great pity 'tis my brother can't be made as sensible of his errors, and reform too.

Pray, my good sister, what errors wou'd your great wisdom correct?

Only a few trisling ones, brother—such as that humane delight you take in suducing the in­nocent and unwary of our sex, and those harmless consequences generally attending—

Stop, child, this is no time for such lec­tures.

The best time in the world, brother, our auditors are friends, and they, I am sure, will excuse my inability.

Ay, ay, Madam, go on—he never spared me.

In short, your licentiousness is grown to such a pitch, that unless providence, out of its great [Page 72]goodness, timely interposes and awakens in you a sense of your guilt, you must tremble at its just pu­nishments.

Pshaw! stuff!—have done with this ser­monizing.

Patience, brother, I am only beginning.

Bravo! Lady Fanny!—to him, he begins to flinch already.

But as example enforces precept, give me leave to illustrate my argument.

What can she mean?

Behold, here is one of the many objects whom you have wantonly plung'd into endless misery.

Miss Spence! then I am betray'd, and all's over.

What, confus'd!—chear up, here are more friends—

These are the two ladies you entrusted to my care—you see I can give a very good account of them—they are come to return you thanks for your friendly invi­tation up to town—you may expect the father soon on the same errand.

Ha! ha! ha!—I believe 'tis my turn to ca­techize now—Come, ask pardon of these ladies, and of the whole sex, for the loose, profligate ideas you always entertain'd of their virtue.

Epicene, you grow troublesome.

Ha! ha! ha!—Nay, Promise—

—you was always an apt scholar—say after me—I confess—that a libertine—is the most wicked—dangerous—remorseless—lawless—aban­doned being—in the whole creation.

What, brother—not a word?

Yes, sister, many—'tis past—the strug­gle's over, and I will give way to conscience—That I have been a profess'd libertine I own—before you all I own it, but'tis with the sincerest regret—To atone [Page 73]for past mischiefs is impossible—a patriarchal life wou'd be too short—I have followed an ignis fatuus, and am bewilder'd in inextricable paths of error—too late the delusion vanish'd—not even an herculean arm can save me now from sinking.

Courage, brother—we must not presume to set bounds to infinite mercy.

Of you, ladies, who happily fell not in my snares, I entreat forgiveness—I beseech you par­don each offence against you and virtue—To Miss Spence, 'tis not in my power to make atonement in any measure adequate to the wrongs I have done her—What can, shall be done—I know her circumstances, and she may depend upon being provided for in such a manner, as, for the future, to set her above temp­tation.

Why, Promise, this is noble—these are ge­nuine fruits of reformation.

Now, gentlemen, you may appear, and I hope all animosi­ty between you will be no more remembered.

More witnesses of my shame!—they are welcome—I design'd, gentlemen, to have injur'd you in the tenderest point, but heaven providential­ly interpos'd, and turned, what I intended as the blackest crime, into the means of future blessings.

Mention it not, my Lord—the original gene­rous, tho' misled heart, when awak'd from its le­thargy of vice, oft-times arises more bright and active from its late obscurity.

Where are my children? give me room—I must—I will embrace them!—do I once more fold you in my arms!—no force or fraud shall ever separate us more!

You need not fear it, Sir—I, who alone was author of your ills, shall study to make your life to come one series of continued happiness—Thou good old man, can'st thou forgive the wrongs I've done thee?

My Lord, I shou'd ill deserve the name you honour me with, if I cou'd not only for­give, but bless, the worst of enemies, even as I hope myself to be forgiven—and may that power who de­lights in acts of mercy, further every good and no­ble thought!

May I forfeit all pretensions to reformation, if the old gentleman's benignity won't make me, un­fashionable as it may appear, visit the inside of a church oftener than I have done.

Gentlemen, I am happy in seeing you here so unexpectedly—to what fortunate accident do I owe this pleasure?

To the desire alone, Sir, of serving you and these ladies—and lucky as we are in meeting with you, give us leave to hope we may participate in the general joy.

If 'tis in my power you may be assur'd of it.

We both have lov'd your daughters some time—you must have observ'd the particularity of our behaviour, as we wish'd not to conceal it—our families and fortunes are well known to you—since we came hither, they have owned we were not in­different to them—perhaps a father's authority might—

No, Gentlemen, my children shall never be commanded into marriage—'tis my duty to advise, but not compel them.

No great compulsion, I'll answer, Mr. Lambton—they'd cry their eyes out to be refus'd.

What say you, girls?

I own, Sir, Mr. Wilville's good qualities have made an impression on me never to be erased, and, authorized by you, I will readily give my hand where my heart is irrevocably engag'd.

That's a good girl—Come, Miss Lamb­ton, don't let your younger sister out-do you.

The dread that my past behaviour is inexcusable, has hitherto kept me silent—I am con­scious of its impropriety, and have nothing to offer in defence, but my simplicity and ignorance of the world.

You cannot offer a better plea to the think­ing heart.

Well, gentlemen, if you can descend to match with girls whose virtue is all their portion—

Name it not, Sir—As the beginning of our love was disinterested, so shall be the completion—They want no addition of fortune, and are in them­selves treasures beyond what imperial greatness cou'd bestow.

Nobly spoken—and now, Mr. Lambton, give me leave to make such a provision for you, as shall testify a proper sense of my past conduct, and in which I am certain my father on his return will readily concur.

How devilish generous this love and honour makes people.

But yet I miss a faithful servant, who ought to share his master's joy.

He well deserves it—be it my business to reward him, and for ever discard those minions of vice, who too long have prey'd upon me.

Now, brother, you have with a truly no­ble Spirit acknowledg'd every failing you have been charged with—can you have constancy to persevere?

I think so

Nay, I have a severe trial yet to come—a fiery ordeal—but you must endure it before you can be perfect.

That I can never be—but in the name of wonder, what new mystery have you yet to unravel?

Turn your eyes this way, and view the man who once was proud to call you friend.

Major Standfield!—'tis too much!—I cannot, dare not stand his presence.

You can, and must, brother—he is not come to hurt your mind with keen reproaches, but rather to pour the healing balm of peace into the corroding wounds of vice, which long have rankled in your breast.

No, no, it cannot be—I do not hope for­giveness—Major, I bare my breast—there is no way but this to expiate guilt like mine.

There is, my Lord, a nobler way—a way which earth and heav'n must both approve—prepare yourself for more wonder.

O, all ye powers! what is it I behold?—Can it be real, or is it the phantom of my Eugenia, risen from the dead, to set my crimes in full array be­fore me?—I must, I will embrace it!—Ha! it sinks!—help to support her—look down ye bright celestial inhabitants of glory, and restore this injur'd saint to life!

Oh, my Lord, these wild effusions of a heart overpower'd with love and tenderness speak well the unrestrain'd dictates of its owner—but I must curb its transports—Look here, another object demands your fondest care.

Can it be possible such happiness is in store for me! am I father too?

You are, my Lord, if you'll own the obliga­tion.

Own it! ay, prouder of that title than to be hail'd an Indian monarch!—My cherub! my lit­tle cherub! receive a father's first embraces!—Now, my Eugenia, we are met, never to be separated more.

Hear me, my Lord—That I have lov'd you, nay, that I shall continue to do so while life keeps her seat, is the only excuse I can offer for my frailty—I have hitherto obey'd my father's will, per­mit [Page 77]me now to follow the dictates of my own—Had I my innocence, and was mistress of the untold trea­sures of the east—all that the sun surveys in his di­urnal round, you shou'd be master of it—but cover'd with infamy as I am, tho' you cou'd raise me to the utmost pinnacle where star-crown'd virtue ought to sit—a conscious pride wou'd forbid the exaltation.

Zounds! a charming girl! what a pity 'tis she shou'd be lost to the world.

Is then my dream of bliss destroy'd?—my new-found blessing, turn that way, and intercede with your inexorable mother—tell her my peace here and hereafter depends upon her receiving my peni­tential vows.

My Lord, the honey-dropping tongue of seraphic eloquence cannot move me to change my purpose—I have now attain'd my utmost wishes, to see you thoroughly sensible of your failings, and wou'd fain retire to that peaceful cottage which this event has drawn me from, there, with my little rose­lipp'd comforter, pass my future hours in undisturbed solitude.

Press her no farther, brother—leave it to time—when she is sufficiently assured of your steady perseverance in the paths of rectitude, the love she acknowledges for you may probably induce her at last to reward your constancy.

Now, Lady Fanny, with your leave, we'll retire and celebrate the surprizing events of this happy day, events which must fully manifest to every boholder, that however virtue may for a time be opprest and held in durance, yet is it always the pe­culiar, and never-deserted favourite, of rewarding Providence.