ACT I. SCENE 1.

See! my dear Dorcas, what we glean'd yester­day in Mr. Belville's fields!

Lord love thee! but take care of thyself: thou art but tender.

Indeed it does not hurt me. Shall I put out the lamp?

Do, dear: the poor must be sparing.

Why do you sigh, Dorcas?

I canno' bear it: its nothing to Phoebe and me, but thou wast not born to labour.

Why should I repine? Heaven, which depriv­ed me of my parents and my fortune, left me health, content, and innocence. Nor is it certain that riches lead to happiness. Do you think the nightingale sings the sweeter for being in a gilded cage.

Sweeter, I'll maintain it than the poor little linnet which thou pick'st up half starv'd under the hedge yesterday, after its mother had been shot, and brought'st to life in thy bosom. Let me speak to his honor, he's main kind to the poor.

Not for worlds, Dorcas, I want nothing: you have been a mother to me.

Wou'd I cou'd! wou'd I cou'd! I ha' work'd hard and 'arn'd money in my time; but now I am old and feeble, and am push'd about by every body.

More's the pity, I say: it was not so in my young time; but the world grows wicked every day.

Your age, my good Dorcas, requires rest: go into the cottage, while Phoebe and I join the gleaners, who are assembling from every part of the village.

Many a time have I carried thy dear mother, an infant, in these arms: little did I think a child of her's would live to share my poor pittance.—But I wo'not grieve thee.

What makes you so melancholy, Rosina? Mayhap it's because you have not a sweetheart? But you are so proud you won't let our young men come a-near you. You may live to repent being so scornful.

How small a part of my evils is poverty! And how little does Phoebe know the heart she thinks insen­sible! [Page 8] The heart which nourishes a hopeless passion. I blest, like others, Belville's gentle virtues, and knew not that 'twas love. Unhappy! lost Rosina!

To work, my hearts of oak, to work; here the sun is half an hour high, and not a stroke struck yet.

Hist! there's his honor. Where are all the lazy Irishmen I hir'd yesterday at market?

Is it us he's talking of, Paddy? Then the devil may thank him for his good commendations.

You are too severe, Rustic, the poor fellows came three miles this morning; therefore I made them stop at the manor-house to take a little refreshment.

God love your sweet face, my jewel, and all those that take your part. Bad luck to myself if I would not, with all the veins of my heart, split the dew before your feet in a morning.

If I do speak a little cross, it's for your honor's good.

What a dickens does this girl do here? Keep back: wait till the reapers are off the field, do like the other gleaners.

If I have done wrong, Sir, I will put what I have glean'd down again.

How can you be so unfeeling, Rustic? she is lovely, virtuous, and in want. Let fall some ears, that she may glean the more.

Your honour is too good by half.

No more: gather up the corn she has let fall. Do as I command you.

There, take the whole field, since his honor chuses it.

I will not abuse his goodness.

Upon my soul now, his honor's no churl of the wheat, whate'er he may be of the barley.

What bewitching soft­ness! There is a blushing, bashful, gentleness, an al­most infantine innocence in that lovely countenance, which it is impossible to behold without emotions! She turns this way: What bloom on that cheek! 'Tis the blushing down of the peach.

Good morrow, brother; you are early abroad.

My dear Charles, I am happy to see you. True, I find to the first of September.

I meant to have been here last night, but one of my wheels broke, and I was obliged to sleep at a village six miles distant, where I left my chaise, and took a boat down the river at day-break. But your corn is not off the ground.

You know our harvest is late in the north, but you will find all the lands clear'd on the other side the mountain.

And, pray, brother, how are the par­tridges this season?

There are twenty coveys within sight of my house, and the dogs are in fine order.

The game-keeper is this moment leading them round. I am fir'd at the sight.

But where is my little rustic charmer? O! there she is: I am transported. Pray, [Page 12] brother is not that the little girl whose dawning beauty we admir'd so much last year?

It is, and more lovely than ever. I shall dine in the field with my reapers to-day, brother, will you share our rural repast, or have a dinner prepar'd at the manor-house?

By no means: pray let me be of your party: your plan is an admirable one, especially if your girls are handsome: I'll walk round the field, and meet you at dinner-time.

Come this way, Rustic; I have some orders to give you.

Lead the dogs back, James, the Captain won't shoot to-day

Indeed? so close? I don't half like it.

That's a good girl! Do as I bid you, and you shan't want encouragement.

O, no; I dare say she won't. So Mrs. Phoebe.

And so, Mr. William, if you go to that!

A new sweetheart, I'll be sworn; and a pret­ty comely lad he is: but he's rich, and that's enough to win a woman.

I don't desarve this of you, William: But I'm rightly sarved, for being such an easy fool. You think, mayhap, I'm at my last prayers; but you may find yourself mistaken.

You do right to cry out first; you think belike that I did not see you take the posy from Harry.

And you belike that I did not catch you tying up one of the cornflowers and wild roses for the miller's maid: But I'll be fool'd no longer; I have done with you, Mr. William.

I shan't break my heart, Mrs. Phoebe. The miller's maid loves the ground I walk on.

Stay, and hear me, Rosina. Why will you fatigue yourself thus? Only homely girls are born [Page 14] to work.—Your obstinacy is vain; you shall hear me.

Why do you stop me, Sir? My time is preci­ous. When the gleaning season is over, will you make up my loss?

Yes.

Will it be any advantage to you to make me lose my day's work?

Yes.

Would it give you pleasure to see me pass all my days in idleness?

Yes.

We differ greatly then, Sir. I only wish for so much leisure as makes me return to my work with fresh spirit. We labour all the week, 'tis true; but then how sweet is our rest on Sunday!

Meer prejudice, child: you will know better. I pity you, and will make your fortune.

Let me call my mother, Sir. I am young, and can support myself by my labour; but she is old and helpless, and your charity will be well bestow'd. Please to transfer to her the bounty you intended for me.

Why—as to that—

I understand you, Sir; your compassion does not extend to old women.

Really—I believe not.

You are just come in time, mother. I have met with a generous gentleman, whose charity inclines him to succour youth.

'Tis very kind.—And old age—

He'll tell you that himself.

I thought so—Sure, sure, 'tis no sin to be old.

You must not judge of me by others, honest Dorcas. I am sorry for your misfortunes, and wish to serve you.

And to what, your honor, may I owe this kindness?

You have a charming daughter—

I thought as much. A vile, wicked man.

Beauty like hers might find a thousand resources in London: the moment she appears there, she will turn every head.

And is your honour sure her own won't turn at the same time?

She shall live in affluence, and take care of you too, Dorcas.

I guess your honor's meaning; but you are mistaken, Sir. If I must be a trouble to the dear child, I had rather owe my bread to her labor than her shame.

These women astonish me: but I won't give it up so.

A word with you, Rustic.

I'm in a great hurry, your honour: I am going to hasten dinner.

I shan't keep you a minute. Take these five guineas.

For whom, Sir?

For yourself. And this purse.

For whom, Sir?

For Rosina: They say she is in distress, and wants assistance.

What pleasure it gives me to see you so chari­table! You are just like your brother.

Prodigiously.

But why give me money, Sir?

Only to—Tell Rosina there is a per­son who is very much interested in her happiness.

How much you will please his honor by this! He takes mightily to Rosina, and prefers her to all the young women in the parish.

Prefers her! Ah! you sly rogue!

Your honor's a wag; but I'm sure I meant no harm.

Give her the money, and tell her she shall never want a friend: but not a word to my brother.

All's safe, your honor.

[Page 17] I don't vastly like this business. At the Captain's age this violent charity is a little duberous. I am his honor's servant, and it's my duty to hide nothing from him. I'll go seek his honor; O here he comes.

Well, Rustic, have you any intelligence to communicate?

A vast deal, Sir. Your brother begins to make a good use of his money: he has given me these five guineas for myself, and this purse for Rosina.

For Rosina!

'Tis plain he loves her? Obey him exactly; but as distress renders the mind haughty, and Rosina's situation requires the utmost de­licacy, contrive to execute your commission in such a manner that she may not even suspect from whence the money comes.

I understand your honor.

Have you gained any intelligence in respect to Rosina?

I endeavour'd to get all I could from the old woman's grandaughter; but all she knew was, that she was no kin to Dorcas, and that she had had a good bringing-up: but here are the labourers.

"Let the cloth be laid on these sheaves. Be­hold the table of happiness!" But I don't see Rosina. Dorcas, you must come to, and Phoebe.

We can't deny your honor.

I am asham'd; but you command, Sir.

ACT II.

THIS purse is the plague of my life: I hate mo­ney when it is not my own. I'll e'en put in the five guineas he gave me for myself: I don't want it, and they do. But I hear the cottage door open.

I am just going, Rosina, to carry this thread to the weaver's.

This basket is too heavy for you: pray let me carry it.

No, no.

If you love me, only take half: this evening, or to-morrow morning, I will carry the rest.

There, be angry with me if you please.

No, my sweet lamb, I am not angry: but be­ware of men.

Have you any doubts of my conduct, Dor­cas?

Indeed I have not, love; and yet I am un­easy.

Now; now whilst they turn their heads.

I have dispos'd of your money, Sir.

Come this way.

Go back to the reapers, whilst I carry this thread.

I'll go this moment.

But as I walk but slow, and 'tis a good way, you may chance to be at home before me, so take the key.

I will.

Rosina to be at home before Dor­cas? How lucky! I'll slip into the house, and wait her coming, if 'tis till midnight.

Let nobody go into the house.

I'll take care; but first I'll double-lock the door.

Good lack! What is here? a purse as I live!

How?

Come, and see; 'tis a purse indeed.

Heavens! 'tis full of gold!

We must put up a bill at the church gate, and restore it to the owner. The best way is to carry the [Page 22] money to his honor, and get him to keep it till the owner is found. You shall go with it, love.

Pray excuse me, I always blush so—

'Tis nothing but childishness: but his honor will like your bashfulness better than too much courage.

I cannot support his presence—my embarrass­ment—my confusion—a stronger sensation than that of gratitude agitates my heart—Yet hope in my situation were madness.

Pray, William, do you know of any body that has lost a purse?

I knows nothing about it.

Dorcas, however has found one.

So much the better for she.

You will oblige me very much if you will carry it to Mr. Belville; and beg him to keep it till the owner is found,

Since you desire it, I'll go: it shan't be the lighter for my carrying.

That I am sure of, William.

There is William; but I'll pretend not to see him.

That's Harry's posy; the slut likes me still.

That's a copy of his countenance, I'm sartin; he can no more help following me nor he can be hang'd.

I'm ready to choak wi' madness, but I'll not speak first an I die for't.

I can't bear it no longer—you vile, ungrateful, parfidious—But its no matter—I can't think what I could see in you,—Harry loves me, and is a thousand times more handsomer.

He's yonder a reaping: shall I call him?

My grandmother leads me the life of a dog; and its all along of you.

Well, then she'll be better temper'd now.

I did not value her scolding of a brass farthing, when I thought as how you were true to me.

Wasn't I true to you? Look in my face, and say that.

"I see Kate waiting for me. Bye, Phoebe."

"Good bye to you."

Let's part friendly howsomever. Bye, Phoebe: I shall always wish you well.

Bye, William.

My heart begins to melt a little.—

I lov'd you very well once, Phoebe; but you are grown so cross, and have such vagaries—

I'm sure I never had no vagaries with you, William. But go, mayhap Kate may be angry.

And who cares for she? I never minded her [Page 25] anger, nor her coaxing neither, till you were cross to me.

O the father! I cross to you, William?

Did not you tell me this very morning as how you had done wi' me?

One word's as good as a thousand. Do you love me, William?

Do I love thee? Do I love dancing on the green better than thrashing in the barn? Do I love a wake? a harvest-home?

Then I'll never speak to Harry again the longest day I have to live.

I'll turn my back o' the miller's maid the first time I meet her.

Will you indeed, and indeed?

Marry, will I; and more nor that, I'll go speak to the parson this moment—

I'm happier—zooks, I'm happier nor a lord or a squire of five hundred a year.

"Why dost talk of Lords and squires, Wil­liam? we poor folks are happier by far, if so be we are but content. Did not the parson bid us mind how the storm bow'd the great trees on the hills, whilst the lit­tle shrubs in the valley ne'er bent a head for the mat­ter?"

"Thou say'st true, Phoebe."

I tremble at the impression this lovely girl has made upon my heart. My chearfulness has left me, and I am grown insensible even to the delicious plea­sure of making those happy who depend on my pro­tection.

"Here's his honor, Phoebe: wait for me at the stile.

Please your honor, I am sent to tell you Dorcas and Rosina have found a purse.

Does any body claim it?

No, Sir.

Let them keep it, William.

But they charg'd me, please your honor, to give it you.

Go, William and carry it back.

He put it there himself: I thought so; 'tis so like him. I shall, your honor."

Since the sun rose, I have been in continual exercise; I feel exhausted, and will try to rest a quar­ter of an hour on this bank.

What do I see? Mr. Belville asleep? I'll steal softly—at this moment I may gaze on him without blushing.

The sun points full on this spot; let me fasten these branches together with this ribbon, and shade him from its beams—yes—that will do—But if he should wake—

How my heart beats; One look more—Ah! I have wak'd him—

What noise was that?

"He is angry—How unhappy I am!—How I tremble!"

This ribbon I have seen before, and on the lovely Rosina's bosom—

I will hide myself in the house.

Heavens! a man in the house!

Now, love assist me!

Why do you fly thus, Rosina! "What can you fear? You are out of breath."

O, Sir!—my strength fails—

Where is he?—A gentleman pursued me—

Don't be alarm'd 'twas my brother—he could not mean to offend you.

Your brother? Why then does he not imitate your virtues? Why was he here?

Forget this; you are safe. But tell me, Rosi­na, for the question is to me of importance? have I not seen you wear this ribbon?

Forgive me, Sir; I did not mean to disturb you. I only meant to shade you from the too great heat of the sun

To what motive do I owe this tender atten­tion?

Ah, Sir! Do not the whole village love you?

"At this moment, Rosina, think me a brother; or a friend a thousand times more affectionate than a brother." You tremble; why are you alarm'd!

Unveil your whole heart to me, Rosina. The graces of your form, the native dignity of your mind which breaks through the lovely simplicity of your de­portment, a thousand circumstances concur to convince me you were not born a villager.

To you, Sir, I can have no reserve. A pride, I hope an honest one, made me wish to sigh in secret over my misfortunes.

They are at an end.

Dorcas approaches, Sir; she can best relate my melancholy story.

His honor here? Good lack! How sorry I am I happen'd to be from home. Troth, I'm sadly tir'd.

Why would you insist on going? Indeed Sir, she will kill herself.

Will you let me speak with you a moment alone, Dorcas?

Sure will I, your honor. Rosina, take this basket.

I'll "put the rest of the thread in, and" run with it to the weaver's.

Rosina has taken that bye road: run in­stantly, and execute my orders, but be prudent, and watch the moment.

Will your honor please to walk into our homely cottage?

I thank you, Dorcas, but 'tis pleasanter here: sit down by me on the bench.

"Dear soul! not a bit of pride."

Rosina has referr'd me to you, Dorcas, for an account of her birth, which I have long suspected to be above her present situation.

To be sure, your honor, since the dear child gives me leave to speak, she's of as good a family as any in England. Her mother, sweet lady, was my bountiful old master's daughter, Squire Welford of Lincolnshire.

What happiness! But go on.

He was a noble gentleman, and nobody's enemy but his own. His estate was seiz'd for a mort­gage of not half its value, just after young madam was married, and she ne'er got a penny of her portion. They say, if Rosina had a friend, she might get the estate again by paying the mortgage.

And her father?

Was a brave gentleman too, a colonel: A charming couple they were, and lov'd one another so, it would have done your heart good to see them. His honor went to the Eastern Indies, to better his fortune, and Madam would go wi' him. The ship was lost, and they with all the little means they had, went to the bottom. Young Madam Rosina was their only child; they left her at school; but when this sad news came, the mistress did not care for keeping her, so the dear child has shar'd my poor morsel.

'Tis enough, Dorcas: you shall not repent your kindness to her. But her father's name?

Martin; Colonel Martin.

I am too happy: he was the friend of my fa­ther's heart: a thousand times have I heard him la­ment his fate. Rosina's virtues shall not go unrewarded.

Yes, I know'd it wou'd be so. Heaven never forsake's the good man's children.

I have another question to ask you, Dorcas, and answer me sincerely; is her heart free?

To be sure, she never would let any of our young men come a-near her, and yet—

Speak: I am on the rack.

I'm afear'd—she mopes and she pines—But your honor wou'd be angry—I'm afear'd the Cap­tain—

Then my foreboding heart was right! 'Tis well, Dorcas; I see my brother yonder, leave us.

I'll go seek for the dear child.

I wish it was over; I'm not quite easy.

I thought you intended to shoot to-day, bro­ther?

No; I chang'd my mind.

You fancied it pleasanter chatting with Ro­sina?

With Rosina?

O, don't affect ignorance, I saw you come out of her cottage.

True, yes; I had forgot. Fatigu'd with the heat, I enter'd the house, and finding nobody there, threw myself on the bed, and fell asleep: that was all, I assure you.

Not quite: for whom was the purse intended? Come, brother, you love her.

Just as I love all pretty women: one must be amus'd in the country.

I see plainly the source of all your errors, bro­ther: an early acquaintance with the worst part of the sex, has given you an unfavourable idea of the best. But time will correct that mistake; "your heart is [Page 32] noble, and therefore cannot but be charm'd with Vir­tue when she comes led by the Loves and the Graces." Be sincere with me, brother; do you think Rosina loves you?

She has a few palpitations, I believe; but the little fool does not know what ails her.

'Tis enough; since she loves you, you shall marry her.

Marry her? Do I hear right?

Why do you smile? she is amiable, and merits to be treated with respect.

Respect? I shall expire—Respect—a little gleaner! no power of face can stand this.

Hear me, Sir.

But pray, Charles, since she is so very respectable, why not marry her yourself?

I wish her partiality for you did not pre­vent my taking your advice. To obviate every objec­tion, she is your equal; the daughter of Col. Martin, and intitled to a share of her grandfather's estate. In the mean time, obtain her consent, and a third of my fortune is yours.

This alters the case extremely, brother: Rosina in herself—But let us find her.

Whither are you going, brother?

Only to—S'death! What shall I say? I am ruin'd if my fellows meet her—

Help, for Heaven's sake, Sir! I have lost my child!—she is carried away—

Rosina?

Don't be alarm'd—let me go—

I heard her cries, and ran to the place; but she was gone.—

I fly to save her.

With me, Sir,—I will not lose sight of you. Rus­tic, hasten instantly with our Reapers. Dorcas, you will be our guide.

Don't be frighted, Sir; the Irishmen have rescued her; she is just here.

Dry your tears, my jew­el; we have done for them.

Have you sav'd her? I owe you more than life.

Faith, good woman, you owe nothing at all. I'll tell your honor how it was. My comrades and I were crossing the meadow, going home, when we saw them first; and hearing a woman, cry, I look'd up, and saw them putting her into a skiff against her will. Says I, Paddy, is not that the clever little crater that was glaning in the field with us this morning? "'Tis so, sure enough," says he. "By St. Patrick," says I, "there's enough of us to rescute her." With that we ran for the bare life, waded up to the knees, laid about us bravely with our shillelays, knock'd them out of the skiff, and brought her back safe: and here she comes, my jewel.

I canno' speak—Art thou safe?—

I dread to find the criminal.

Your honor need not go far afield, I believe; it must have been some friend of the Captain's, for his French valet commanded the party.

I confess my crime; my passion for Ro­sina hurried me out of myself.

"Was my house, Sir, chosen for the scene of your ungovern'd licentiousness?" You have dis­honor'd me, dishonor'd the glorious profession you have embrac'd.—But be gone, I renounce you as my brother, and resume my ill plac'd friendship.

Your indignation is just; I have offended almost past forgiveness. Will the offer of my hand repair the injury?

If Rosina accepts it, I am satisfied.

What I have done, Rosina, was the effect of a too tender love. Ought you to punish it? Accept my hand.

Will you, Sir, suffer?—This hope is a second insult. Whoever offends the object of his love is unworthy of obtaining her.

This noble refusal paints your character. I know another, Rosina, who loves you with as strong, though purer ardor: the timidity inseparable from real love has hitherto prevented his declaring himself—but if allowed to hope—

Do not, Sir, envy me the calm delight of pas­sing my independent days with Dorcas, in whom I have found a mother's tenderness.

Bless thee, my child; thy kindness melts my heart.

Do you refuse me too then, Rosina?

You, Sir? You?—Sure I am in a dream!

What do I hear?

Rosina may I hope?

My confusion—my blushes—

"'Tis enough; I see I am rejected.

"'Tis the first time in your life, I believe, "that you ever were mistaken.

"Then I am happy!" My life! my Rosina!

I am punish'd; but I have too well de­serv'd it.

Do you speak to his honour, William.

No; do you speak, Phoebe.

I am asham'd—William and I, your honour—William pray'd me to let him keep me company—so he gain'd my good-will to have him, if so be my grandmo­ther consents.

If your honour would be so good to speak to Dorcas.

Dorcas, you must not refuse me any thing to­day. I'll give William a farm.

Your honour is too kind—take her, William, and make her a good husband.

That I will, dame.

Thank your honour.

What must I do with the purse, your honour; Dorcas would not take it.

I believe my brother has the best right.

'Tis yours, William; dispose of it as you please.

Then I'll give it to our honest Irishmen, who fought so bravely for Rosina.

You have made a good use of it, William; nor shall my gratitude stop here.

Allow me to retire, brother, and learn at a distance from you to correct those errors into which the fire of youth, and bad example, have hurried me. When I am worthy of your esteem, I will return, and demand my rights in your affection.

You must not leave us, brother: the man who wishes to be virtuous is already become so. Resume the race of honour; be indeed a soldier, and be more than my brother—be my friend. Dorcas, you have a mo­ther's right in Rosina, and must not leave us.