SCENE I.—VENICE.—A Grotesque garden▪

TIS morn—bright Phoebus from his aether throne refulgent smiles; his magic light the earth illumines, drives sable night from view, and shews all nature rich by his magnificence. Each dreary waste and dampen'd lowly ground, reeking thro' heat, the sun exhaling dews to heaven's high summit. His orient reflecting beams ineffably rich, surpasses human comprehension!

Ah my dear friend Harr [...]; melancholy!

Your absence was the cause, where have [...]ou been? where past you the night away?

At the feast of Venus and Cupid.

Explain.

When we parted last night by accident, I [...]ravers'd streets, lanes, crooked and strait to find [...]ou, but in vain my search; the night being dark, I [...]t my way; heavy clouds were rising with great [...]elocity, and the hour being very late I despaired of [...]nding my lodgings—the warring elements thun­ [...]er'd o'er my head! the rain in torrents fell—the [Page 2] winds blew, as tho' boreas would have spent himself in a single blast—but oh, in the end what a lucky dog was I!

Your luck, if by your wardrobe I may judge, hath been in the swimming line.

True Harry, true. Ha, ha. ha.

Thou'rt in good spirits faith.

I spy'd a head by the lightnings flash, a monastery decay'd, and old, at which I soon arriv'd; under that convent I stow'd my half drown'd body, I had not long been there, e'er I observed a black fellow with a lanthorn in his hand, making toward me; the rain slackened, and I left the place to me [...] him, in hopes to gain from him information, that might find my home. He put his fingers to his mout [...] and whisteled very loud, I waited for a while, and he made a second noise still louder than the former— none answered him, and being curious, thinking [...] a signal, made bold myself to answer it, being hood [...]ed with my cloak, I came up to him, waiting th [...] event; he told me "his mistress was waiting im [...]patiently for my presence in her bed chamber, havin [...] but now hurried her gouty husband to bed." started at this so unexpected an event, knowing n [...] what to do—he perceiving not his mistake, resolve me upon the intrigue. I followed him first crou [...] ­ing a purse into his hand—he led me thro' an arch [...] gallery, and several windings till I felt almost lost the superb mansion; at length he opened a glass foldi [...] door, when an angel (for so I must call her,) appear before me—a sattin night gown was all that veil [...] her heavenly form, the wanton tresses careless han [...]ing on her alabaster neck, pictured to me Venus h [...] self; oh Harry, Harry, my throbbing bosom most burst—I was then in Elysium, transported [...]yond myself 'twixt love and hope! recovering mys [...] [Page 3] a little, the precious moment I improved, and extin­guish'd the waxen taper; at which she express'd sur­prise: I apologized in a quite low whisper and clasped her in my arms—Harry guess you the rest, for more I'll not tell thee about tha [...].

When will you leave off your rakish pranks?

When tongues forget to tell us love sick ditty's—when eyes forget to blandish languishing rays upon the heart—In short when women think no more of men, I'll hate them all, but not I'm sure till then.

Have you any thing more to expect from your fair dulcinea?

Nothing more from her I fear: but my rival! I have something to expect from him, I'll tell you the sequel—while I lay in amorous pastime, with this Venus, encircling, in pops a stranger, not know­ing who could thus intrude, I requested of the lady [...]o chide him; who, when she beheld shrieked aloud! he was the very person she thought then in her arms. I sprung from my downy repast, and bolted the door, which had been neglected; by my rival's assistance the lady had partly recovered her scattered senses. The husband had thrice thundered at the portal to know the c [...]use of the alarm. She entreated of us both to make our escape, for fear we should be discovered, and put one way there was left for flight.

Go on.

That was, taking a cold bath by a danger­ous leap from the back window.

And did you so,

No option was left me—I sprang in the water from the window, my rival followed—judge [...]he transition, from a warm bath to a cold one.

Did you learn the name of your rival?

His name is Signior Lorenzo. When we [Page 4] reached the shore, he demanded satisfaction; I told him I knew of now insult offered, I thought there­fore no satisfaction requisite; but that I would every day run the same risk, to be rewarded thus at night.

Then you have promised to fight him?

This morning at six o'clock.

'Tis a barbarous custom.

What serious again?

That honor sanctions, but morality more wise, more just, condemns. What a mistaken sense of honor; what votary's of vice. What toil, what peril do parents undergo for their progeny? Is this filial reverencial gratitude? the pride of the fond doating sire, and matrons tender care; a mind of many years cultivation; is matured to benefit society; for one rash step falls a voluntary sacr [...]fice, and leaves to endless inconsolable misery the fountain of his existence.

Think you Harry I am wrong? I am in­deed sorry if you do, but I know you are my friend, and would not willingly do me wrong. Think you I would unnecessarily plunge myself in danger, or a living creature on earth? when impetuous, foolish men for a trivial amour, will set a fellow creatures life in an awful b [...]llance, which reclining either way, may prove fatal to one or both, think you the omni­potent would prosper a wretch so baneful? Oh no indignant fate would pronounce sentence aloud, and hurl the unnatural aggressor to perdition.

That is weighty reasoning.

Could I with honour decline the combat, I would willingly indeed—but to be branded with a coward's name, I would not disgrace my country so. No American yet has disgraced our annals by in­glorious cowardice; nor shall it be said, that one o [...] [Page 5] Columbia's sons, though in a foreign land, did e'er forget the glorious inheritance of his ancestors.

It cannot be avoided always I confess, I will be your second.

Thank you my dear fellow, thanks; my conduct I cannot impeach as criminal, I have only stolen that from him, that would have been stolen by another. Come Harry we'll prepare and away; and as our cause is just so may it prosper.

SCENE II.

To avoid a combat so dangerous to us both, my council if you take will profit much; [...]ome reso­lute Bravo's I will procure, myself at their head will unawares, murder them for their presumption.

If thou'rt a man, that did not come from thy heart.

Signio [...]! friendship alone, and the preservation of thy life, (which to me is more precious than my own,) urg'd thus far my proffer'd kindness.

Friendship however great, when it promotes dishonour as a proof, debases manhood.

Indeed thou wrong'st me, and for my friend­ship 'tis hard to be thus us'd,

Forgive me Pedias, but thy advice I can­not take.

Act as thy will directs—here comes one whose martial front alone would strike the chickens dead—be prevailed upon Signior, he's coming quick upon us—should he procure the number requisite—

Well, well I consent.

Who goes there?

A friend to every villain—I hope you are the same, then you will be a friend to me.

By heaven 'tis one of my own band.

Hush!

Why Captain!—

Push on your life, seem not to know me.

Art thou a deep read vil­lain?

As for reading I never knew much about it, I could write pothooks and trammels once. But if you mean a fellow that does not fear the Devil, in­quisition, nor gog magog; if you mean one that ne­ver told the truth though it suited him best, if you mean one that can stop a man's whistling pipes in a twinkling; 'though I don't like to praise myself, I'm the very chap for your money.

Could'st thou procure me a dozen?

No [...] that I can recommend [...]o strong as my­self— I know indeed many that pretend to rob, mur­der, ravish, and such petty tricks, but even in that, they are ungentlemanlike bunglers, demme—but for myself I have always had the credit of doing any thing in that genteel way, with the best grace of any other gentleman in all these parts. Why a night or two ago I made enough money to keep me a month in idleness.

How?

A mere trifle as a body may say, killing a bastard child, that's all.

Killing a child?

Yes, as good luck would have it, my cel­lebrity that way being suspected, I was sent for to do the job, the little nobody's child did squeak a [...] [Page 7] squall most damnably—fearful the little fellow might catch cold, I put my hat on his head, and my cloak round him. What is to be done with this little fel­low? says I—you must kill him says he, crouding a weighty purse into my hand—'tis done says I, put­ting it into my pocket. I left him—pop't off in a boat, hung an ornament round his neck, down he went to the bottom safe enough, and never said a word. A hundred such jobs a week, would keep me in style in a short time without any such labour.

Did't thou never know fear?

Bless you Sir, very often; I am always a­fraid a man will never pay, that does not pay before­hand, for such trifles are always cash jobs.

Take thou that, 'twill silence all thy scru­ples of conscience effectually.

I am your slave. How many men, women▪ children, orphans, babes, old maids, and bastards must I kill for this?

Bring with thee a dozen of the most daring villains thou knowest, and meet me here immediately,

When I find a person that is generous and tender hearted like myself, my conscience pricks me if I do not do him justice, and be punctual to my word and honour.

Noble Signior, what think'st thou now?

O What a wretch is that! he seem'd so sunk in villainy already the goading stings of concience can­not reach him.

You seem mov'd Lorenzo.

Then I seem not more than what I really do feel.

Will't thou not tell thy faithful Pedras of the cause?

That would avail but little towards remov­ing the weight upon my soul. Murdering innocence! O lovely innocence!

Why harp you upon those words? sure thou'rt not guilty.

D [...]d'st thou never before observe?

Oft have I m [...]rk'd thy tardy steps, thy downcast eye, with folded arms, and head reclining to the ear [...]h, and ever and ano [...], a heavy sigh stole from thy bosom, as if in that sigh you breath'd your life away.

Alas! my heart and bosom have long been strangers!

And stranger yet it appears to me that I have not been entrusted with the cause.

My heart's entom'd in the bowels of the watry gulph, 'twill never reign within my breast again!

Then do not rob me of my share of grief; let me partake of thine.

I scruple not thy fidelity now, I think I may in safety breathe to thee, the miseries with which my bosom's fraught. Six years have elaps'd since in the dead o [...]ig [...]t, when on the seas all was tranquil as heaven's list'ning cherubims; I was in possession of my love; my heart then was pure, then was un­polluted; never since that cars'd night have I known rest; absorb'd in sorrow I have ever been, bu [...] death alone can ease me of my pain; when on the vessel's d [...]ck myself and Flo [...]ella stood, exchanging vows of constancy and love; when all below was hush'd, at the midnight hour; h [...]r accents [...]o melodious dropt, she the air pregnated with such salubrious breath, am­brosial sweets engender'd on her lips! Oh! with what transport I press'd my lips to her's; possess'd [Page 9] [...]t once of all my hearts desire, created passions in [...]e that grew mad! passions which never before I [...]elt so stubborn, engrossed with violence my trembling [...]ame; my panting breast grew wild, and like a [...]antic man I clasp'd her in my arms, resolved to enjoy [...]y force those charms, which if patience had taken [...]e rein, but for a little while would have voluntarily [...]ielded to me!—sudden she sprang from my embrace, [...]d threw her body in the foaming surge! Oh! then [...]hat horror child my faultering soul! she sunk! she [...]rowned! and with her all my happiness forever!

Grieve not for the loss of her—the beautiou [...] [...]abella—

Sister to the unfortunate Florella.

Good heaven! thine own cousin?

Too true indeed—my hopes are blasted there; [...]uld I obtain her, methought 'twould in part remove [...]y melancholly. My last visit to Padua, Isabella [...]as the briliant meteor lighted me; her father tried to [...]ove her in my behalf in vain, for cold indifference perused in every leniament. Here comes the ruf­ [...]an crew, fell hate, and fixed defiance on their brows [...]throned—approach ye demons, ye whose damning [...]oks would fright hell's cabinet, and fill the world [...]ith horror to behold thee.

SCENE III.—In Padua.—A room in CELIO'S house.

The stifling flame rekindles, quickened by sighs flashes thro' my whole frame—the time so slowly glide away—each day to me is a year—each hour a month Oh, Henry why dost thou stay so long away? wer [...] thou fledged with the plumes of love; swift as a beard [...]ed Flecta thou would'st fly into my longing arms▪ But much I fear, when thou dost return, my sire wil [...] not let thee to my prison room.

Well my child, how passes time away?

Sadly indeed!

Right—so should it pass indurance. Wha [...] is the cause but thy disobedience? consent, alone, t [...] be Lorenzo's wife, shall ever set thee at liberty.

Yes, death will set me free!

Fear not, thy death is not yet so near; th [...] pretty face accords well with drooping melancholy.

Lorenzo's my relative.

No nearer than a cousin. Florella, when b [...] troth'd to him, made no such peevish plea.

Oh my poor sister! for her untimely death grief finds its vent in tears!

'Twas heavens decree.

Could heaven ordain, that to much pie [...] should be sacrificed? Lorenzo himself, confessed, th [...] in the midnight hour, they alone, where on the vesse [...] deck, when she by accident was drowned; this sto [...] does not link together well; though none have y [...] spoke dubious of its truth, I most strongly think▪

You do not think so! make him happy w [...] deserves thee; who deserved, and wo [...] Florella, b [...] fa [...]e forbade their unity.

Though he were the only man on earth, never would call him husband.

Then shal't thou not call me father; hear my malediction! if thou still art obstinate, by hea­ [...]en, I'll cast thee off forever, nor will I own thee as my child again.

That I could bear; but 'tis cruelty when [...]arents for lucre, make a traffic of their offsprings [...]eace! cast me forth in the wide world alone; and in [...]ome wild I'd stalk with naked fee [...], untill with bri­ [...]rs and with splinters torn, the gushing blood would [...]eave a trail behind! some running stream would moist my fever'd lips, and my parched tongue, would [...]oon find great releif! at night I would lay me down [...]o rest, a stone my pillow, or the naked earth; no [...]overing but the heavens to shield me! so each suc­ [...]essive day my time shall pass, till nature wearied [...]nd exhausted quite, resign myself a willing martyr, [...]ather than be wedded to Lorenzo!

I've heard your resolution; now farewel!

Yet one word more my [...]ather! I had a mother! thou didst dearly love her.

Why dost thou bring to my mind fresh, the loss of that precious treasure, which was dearer to me than my own existence?

Dost thou remember her last dying words?

Her dying words?

A most affectionate, maternal, charge she gave me; and her last, last words to thee were, give [...]er to the man of her choice.

I must not hear you!

You must not leave me yet—I see you are moved—tears from your eyes [...]art forth, pity's remonstrance!

as you loved [...]er, and her last words, when in yours, her most [...]feless hand you pressed; you did not answer, for [...]our heart was full, labouring for vent; but indeed, [Page 12] your eyes spoke, and put the seal of heaven upon it.

Isabella! no more!—

I'll tell you all; then as a menial beggar, spurn me from you; my plighted vow is given to ano­ther.

What sayest thou!

To that gentleman who saved me from the ruffian's arms. — With what valour did he face the cursed band and beat them down: then for the first time love lighted his torch within my breast, and ever since has flamed unbounded; you gave him wel­come to your house, he left us, soon to return again; our hearts in mutual contact beat, and in heavens regis­ter our faith's enroll'd! Gratitude—

Gratitude, might turn the ballance in his fa­vor were he of our country born.

That matters not, the generous heart that beats with transport for a fellow creature's welfare, the country to whom he owes his birth, is rich indeed that can boast many such.

Your arguments are vainly used; you've nearly brought my feelings to an ebb.—But my will you've heard, if you love your father, be wise, and take his council.—

Stay yet a moment longer—no, he is gone, and I am left more wretched than before; should I re­main here, when my Henry returns, farewell hope; then despair to you I trust!—

SCENE IV—A grove,—Enter WALTER & HENRY.

Here we are at last, and no sign of my antagonist yet; 'tis past the hour appointed.

We have five min­utes yet to spare. What think you of the Italian ladies? you had a spec [...]men last night.

There is something in the Italian ladies so [Page 13] wanton, it sets me in a blaze; the sight of one of them sets my heart thumping for an hour.

Gentlemen, your most obedient, I think I have seen thy visage once before, Lorenzo?

Right.

Right or wrong you are determin'd to fight?

What think you I came for.

To ask my pardon for your unwarrantable challenge? but if I must send you to explore the lower regions, draw quickly: for I have no time to lose.

Ha assassins! villain thou dy'st.

SCENE I.—time Night—the Sea Shore.

Nights sable mantle now enrobes the world [...] the dashing waters seem to rip the shore, and ships deep freighted, plough the foaming main; where many in­nocents have closed their eyes in seas unfathomable. But oh, Florella! thy untimely death, would turn to tears, the flinty stones, and make all honest men look pale with horror. In cupid's chains once more I'm fettered, his magic shaft has pierced my heart so deep, nought but possession can exterminate. My rival, ha! my successful rival; while he lives, Lo­renzo [Page 44] dies—dies piecemeal. The goading thought still harasses my soul, stirs up fiery indignation strong within me, and flashes vindictive fury through my brain. One way to escape the labyrinth is left, to Isabella's maid I'll give all powerful gold, and she will aid me in my dark intent. At midnight, unex­pected, to her chamber I will steal, when if she reject my suit, loves furious passion will thrice nerve my limbs, and she a victim to my love shall fall.

SCENE II.—A room in CELIO'S House, in which ISABELLA is confined.

The risk we've run was great, therefore our gates shall be double barred, that henceforth we may live free from the attack of midnight russians, search­ing for their prey. Thy frght was great, but all is well again; prithee cast off that mournful veil, which clouds thy countenance, and look more lively, since the danger's o'er.

I cannot so soon get over the fear I had for your safety.

Henry where art thou now? perhaps he hath his mortal wound, and now expiring curses the hour he listened to me.

Isabella do not turn from me, but attend to what I am going to say, with an attentive ear, and mark me well—for it concerns your quiet, ever after.

What is it?

Lorenzo loves you! the choice I did not in­tend to give you ever again. My brother Flavio of­fered Florinda to marry Don Pedras, or go to a nun­nery. Now I give you your choice, to have Lorenzo, or go to a solitary convent, there to be immured for life?

Dissembling is vain, and but increases—

What?

I cannot dissemble, I will never marry Sig­nior Lorenzo.

Then to a nunnery you go.

[...]e not so rash.—Oh, for pity!

Yes, such pity as to the dogs I'd show; mar­ry him, and you will be ever happy—his fortune is great—a noble title too, which to posterity, would be handed down, and be an honour to your ancestors.

My suit I'd move in Henry's favour, but that I know you would not hear me speak—he that saved me from the ruffians fangs, and likewise you from the jaws of death, you cruelly forbid your house.

'Tis because he loves you.

No stronger motive, nor so good a plea, can ever be found to make him welcome.

This night is your last under my roof, 'tis no punishment to confine you here, your disdain of Lorenzo when he came to visit you, with a lover's fondness; you shall repent, and at last be glad to ac­cept of his proffer'd hand!

Never would I have believed from any one else, tho' they had sworn it, that you would thus have sacrific'd my peace forever. Never! never, will I give him my hand! sooner would I in charnel houses dwell, and rest my limbs upon the worm-ea­ten bones of mouldering mortals; in preference to the embrace of a loathsome man, who is an enemy to nature's sacred laws.

That is really as pretty a speech as tho' you had study'd to make an answer for me. Farewell; 'till the morning here you stay, after which you know your doom.

What will now become of me? my Henry I'm thankful escap'd unknown; I hope unhurt; I will persuade my father to let me pass one day more [Page 46] under his roof, promise to marry Lorenzo, get Hen­ry to come at night when all is silent, once more! Oh no, that is impossible now, the gates are doubly bar­red, and guarded too! Well is there no other way? must I submit to waste my days in solitary confine­ment, shut out forever from my Henry's sight? will heaven look on and suffer this?—

I think I have hit upon a plan that may succeed; this room by that door leads into another; the windows of which open in the garden, could I but bribe my maid to make interest with the porter to leave the garden gate open—I could that way easily admit him, and he will release me from my prison. I will not loose a moments time—Lu­cetta—

Lucetta, to-morrow I leave you, this night is my lust in this house.

Whither are you going,

To a Nunnery!

Would I could help it.

You can.

Then tell me. If it is in my power depend upon my assistance.

Are you on good terms with the porter?

Good terms? I guess so indeed, for we are as intimate as man and wife, as I may say.

Do you think? if you ask him, your influ­ence is great enough to persuade him to leave the garden gate open.

Influence indeed!—what I ask of him he dare not deny, but I never request more than modes­ty will justify.

Here is a purse for yourself, here another for the porter.—Now I will write a letter for you to carry to my Henry.

Ecod I'll keep both purses, and make the porter do what I like him to besides.

Go now my faithful girl, deliver this to my love, and return soon as possible; but be careful that you are not dis­cover'd by any body.

You need not caution me, 'tis not the first time by many.

The second bribe I have receiv'd this day; one from my lady, and one from Signior Lorenzo, who is to come in her chamber soon; what's his business with her, is none of mine, as long as I am paid—but I'm afraid he'll raise the devil with her.

Honest, faithful girl, I am now content,— I'll dream of nothing but my future happiness.

Lo, on the downy couch her charms! who [...]ould resist so heavenly a form? her heaving snowy [...]reast might tempt a saint! Oh! that it were possi­ [...]le some honest way to prove my true affections [...]ut am I not compell'd to this extremity? has she [...]ot treated me with deadly scorn? she has; and that [...]o me is excuse sufficient. When from her slumbers [Page 48] awak'd, finding herself with me alone, she may alarm the house, and I be caught in mine own snare—I am impatient, yet dread the encounter. The fatal mo­ment has at last arriv'd, that decides my happiness or my misery eternal—

—Oh! enthusiastic kiss! still. still asleep!—

What monster art thou?

No monster, but your willing slave.

Then instantly leave me, or I will alarm the house.

I will be civil.

Then shew it by leaving me. How came you here?

Love's torch guided me hither. O God, what tortures are there, so terrible, so tormenting, as uncontrouling passion?

Wretched Lorenzo!

I am indeed the veriest wretch that ever was created. Where you myriads of miles distant from me, never would I rest, or know repose, till I had you in possession. If you have the least pity or compassion, do not let me despair.

What's your business with me at this late hour? It does not signify an honest meaning—your countenance betrays your intentions; whatever they might have been, are now dishonorable and base; and had I ever harboured a thought to encourage you in your suit, this one attempt to blast my honour, would banish it forever from my bosom.

Isabella, stay.

How, dare you stop me?

I cannot answer you—I am so far advanced [Page 49] I cannot now retreat—my shame you will disclose— my infamy, will be the sport of every bragadocia's tongue, and every menial wretch will point at me as I pass.

If you do not let me depart, I will raise the house!

If you make the least noise, by which I shall be discovered, by heaven, you die.

What! would you have the heart to murther a defenceless woman?

My fate is desperate! for a long time have I gazed upon those charms, which has kindeled a flame that almost consumer me! my temper is as inexora­ble, as the hyrcanian tyger. 'Twere best for you to save yourself! think of it well, for if you refuse me now your love, this minute shall be your last.

Now inhuman savage! glut yourself with your own cou­sins blood.

I cannot! I thought no deed too bloody for me, now to act. No I will not kill thee; first will I improve the precious moment, then put a period to my own existence.

Oh, for heavens sake, have mercy!

Your struggling is vain. Dare not to cry for help.

Kill me! Oh, kill me, but do not use me thus.

Mine you shall be, tho' this embrace should be my very last. I will not loose this opportunity.—

Oh, Henry! Henry, where art th [...] now?

Nay then! thus will I force you to my will.

How differen [...] are mortals changed by death.

At what gaze you, with such attention?

Florella, thy sister! behold her palid cheek.

Your crimes have drove you mad! do not harm me.

I will not! pray leave me not alone. That face, that once astonished all the world, with its in­comparable vivid hue, is now turned pale. Those socke [...]s, wherein brilliants darted their lustre, and far out shone the chrysolite, I behold no more. The felm curtain is let down. If they are in the bosom of the ocean lodged, that vast fountain will never again know night. Thy lips, once like the damask rose, is now the colour of the hyacinth! Oh, does she no [...] look pityful? what flinty substance would not dissolve in teas to behold her?

What is the cause of this distemperature?

Why hast thou come hither at this [...]ture Oh tell me the cause? I have not for six years [...]ehel [...] thee, untill now. Isabella, speak to her.

I look, where you direct your eyes so steady but I see nothing.

What, not see her? can it be my fanc [...] draws so perfect lineaments? Oh no, 'tis impossible

See where she goes! she's gone

I will now depart, and leave y [...] unmolested. Isabella, I have done thee wrong, cannot repair thy feelings, so much injured by m [...] But trust me, I am truly penitent.

Oh, leave me then!

I will. But let me take thy forgiveness with me?

I forgive you.

Will you never tell this strange adventure?

I never will.

Nor expose my rashness, in which passion, hurried me beyond myself?

I promise.

Then all good angels guard thy slumbers.

SCENE II.—A room in FLAVIO's House.

We had a cursed time of it, sure enough, but, as we escaped with whole bones, we where lucky indeed. The letter I have now received, unravels the mystery. She says, Celio sitting up late, dis­covered her window open, which he commanded her to shut, but a few moments before we arrived.

What more?

I had despaired, and given up all hopes, till I received this epistle.

What think you? have I not all sure now?

'Egad I think so indeed, your window [Page 52] schemes I cannot say I am very fond of, but I am at your service. Flavio is obstinately bent upon Florin­da's marrying Don Pedras or he'll send her to a nunnery likewise. She has solemnly promised to ac­cept no hand but mine. You first make sure of Isa­bella, then will I marry Florinda. We must both [...]hare the same fate. I will wait for your success.

I have spoke to a Friar, whom I expect here every minute, to look into my wardrobe for a disguise, to prevent a discovery, which would prove fatal to the poor Franciscan.

Should you fail in this attempt—

We cannot fail.—But here comes the right reverend father.

Welcome father, what news?

We have no time for politics now.

We will lose no time in equiping your holy ship, What masquerade, brave father, suits you best?

Shew me thy wardrobe, and out of it, I will select something of the holy order.

Take your choice of my whole wardrobe.

Surely satan hath been among you.

The best disguise in the world,

Fye, fye son, would you have one of the holy order of Francisco, where the robes of the se­ducer of all—for shortness called the devil.

Oh, mercy, defend me! here is all the devil, sure enough.

So the inside is pure when you put it on, the devil will do you no harm, for 'tis only his skin.

Well son, if you will have it so—

Succeed in this and I will make your fortune old boy.

Well son, you must give me some assisance, for I have not dealt with the [...]amily before.

Will you have the horns put on first?

Oh, fye, fye! the last thing. Horns are aukward things, and many wear them, that would rather not. I have long suspected that I felt them growing. I will wear the breeches first.

You need not try them on now, I do not doubt they will fit you very well, there are strings behind, that will let out the dress. Remember, to­morrow night, ready equiped, to meet me here at twelve.

I will not fa [...]l. By our holy order this is not exactly right—if I am found out in this intrigue, 'twill be a ruinous stroke.

'Tis well! your plans, shall now be stoped after this night you breathe no more.

SCENE III.—Sea shore.—LORENZO discovered sleeping on a rock—Moon and star light—The hor­izon becomes obscured by degrees with heavy clouds. Thunder and lightning, then a heavy crash—The sea is envelloped in flames—after which FLORELLA rises from the ocean. Music.

Sleep on Lorenzo, though I come for thee! I am Florella—I am she who to save me from thy sinful lust committed my body to the ocean. My immortal parts are now in heaven, where thou canst never come! Farewell, remember that I came for thee.

SCENE IV—A room in FLAVIO's House.

'Tis strange; Lorenzo is no where to be found'—This letter may be of most essential service to us both, I have explored the garden every part of it, not a room in the house, have I left unsearch'd, yet nothing can I find of Lorenzo.—Ha! yes, one there yet remains, one in which I have not look'd, but I cannot expect to find him there.

SCENE V.—Another room in FAVIO's House.— LORENZO discovered lying on a couch.

What ho! Lorenzo!

Wait but a moment, I am not yet prepared!—

For heaven's sake what alarms you thus?

Is it possible! or is it not?—

What mean you?

Are we on earth, or in the infernal regions? who are you?

Pedras.

My eyes yet are dim! like hail, the cold sweat in large drops roll down my icy cheeks!—Art thou indeed my friend;

You have ever esteem'd me such.

How can I repay thee!

For what?

Snatching me from purgatory! where are we now?

Under your father's roof.

Is it possible? give me thy hand! give me [Page 55] ocular demonstration! let me feel some flesh that's mortal beside my own.

'Tis really so! I am more easy now, the convulsive spasms have almost let me. Oh!

Heavens! what can be the cause of this? awake; Lorenzo!—rouse thee from this torpid state.

—Oh! I am very faint— my slow return of pulse, summons to their native spring my scatter'd senses!—surely this is not the place where but this moment legions of fiends were torturing my soul!—and at last 'twas but a dream!

But a dream.

Aye Pedras 'twas nothing but a mere dream! —But oh! a dream so fraught with terror, ne'er vi­sited the human frame before! 'tis almost impossible to tell! description would but mock reality. 'Twas naught but a flight of ideal fancy that quicken'd re­pose, and fasten'd the rocks of hell upon me, which I now have scarce shook off!

Think no more of it. I pray you be calm.

Command the raging tornado be calm. Bid the dread thunder of immortal Jove to cease threatning destruction, and the roaring winds to blow no more! thou wilt be as soon obey'd!

Of what did you dream?

Methought I lay upon a towering rock, whose fathom base lodg'd in the sea—The silver moon unclouded, and the twinkling stars, look'd more than common brilliant—when lo at distance a dark cloud with imperious frown advanc'd, and veil'd the heavens; the troubled ocean beat, and foam'd against the rock on which I lay—when looking down into the wat'ry steep I beheld Florella; she spoke to me a dreadful summons. Then Angels from Heaven descended, in whose arms her fleeting soul, majestically was born— [Page 56] celestial strains accompanied her to the realms of im­mortal bliss!—She disappear'd, the dashing waters still'd, they turn'd to blood! and dire contention rose among the billows—Blood turn'd [...]o flames, and all was hell around me!—She cast her yelling evil spirits forth, who with menacing ghastly grins, seiz'd me trembling, convicted, and hurld'd me in the fiery gulph desponding! then in this vast abyss I lay, [...]tun'd by the violent shock; the tortures I endured, are not describable!

The more you think of this, the less happy you will be.

Oh that I had wak'd even then!—I was sur­rounded now on every side by those dread wretches, in each their left hands was held a flambeau, and in their right a forked spear; their jubilee at my being one of them, they signified by gesticulation most horrid, and wildly dancing round me!—of a sudden all this ghastly band stood still, their eyes beam'd terror and dismay, and from out their mouths they delug'd fire and smoke; I was seiz'd, and drag'd from out this everlasting fire and plac'd on a river's bank below— the waters up and down—far as my eyes could reach, on either side, were lin'd by those that brought me thither—on me all their basilisk eyes were rivetted— I saw on the opposite side a boat coming towards me, soon as it arriv'd, one voice alone, aloud ex­claim'd—for all on the instant spoke, "Follow us, and mingle with the dam'd!"—but with so terrible, and vaunting peals, my ears for some long time fan­cied the sound of roaring thunder!—almost petrified I stood—they forc'd me in—they then put off—and when we gain'd the centre of the stygian flood, the tumultuous discord of those yelling fiends were horrible! those who lin'd the river far and near now instant all assembled round, menacing, with [Page 57] their flambeaus destruction, and belching flames! as though each with the mineral combustion of mount Ae [...]na, or mount Vesuvius were pregnant; the boat then sunk in a flame of fire, and I awoke from out that sleeping torture, the effect of which though I were to live for ages, would never be from memory eras'd.

This indeed is most wonderful!

O God! when will I have rest?—What shall I do to shake this terror off, that weighs so heavy on my soul? when e'er I lay me down to rest— 'stead of repose; my couch is contaminated—'tis the rendezvous of friends, who wake me frantic from my slumbers.

No more of this; think of your Isabella. I have been in search of thee, but being ta'en so long a time, attentively to hear this ill vision, I had forgot a letter I have found, directed to your rival, which he, I suppose by accident has lost. From your Isabella.

My Isabella! what does it contain of mo­ment?

To-morrow night—twelve o'clock is the hour appointed—a Friar, with Henry by the back way, thro' the garden ascends into her chamber, and he is there to make them one. No doubt his friend goes with him.

We will counteract their project! we must be there before them. That name was music to my ears.

But I cannot shake entirely off this dream of futurity—still it clings its iron gripe around m [...], and hugs me to my fate. Henry must die; so must his friend Walter, no other way is left.

Thus, by one fatal blow, we'll end at once those two destroyers of our peace.

In truth my spirits are quite low, strength do not desert me now, hold up my frame a little longer. [Page 58] Don Pedras we will consult, and advise the most speedy, and surest method of revenge, But the sins I have already accumulated on my head, dulls the edge of my resolution, that I cannot sheath my en­mity in the heart of my rival.

SCENE VI.—A room in FLAVIO's House.

I cannot think where I have lost the letter. But never mind, so it does not fall into the hands of my rival, I have nothing to fear. Are you still suc­cesful with Florinda?

She has promised to go with me at a mo­ments warning, wherever my will directs. Flavio intends inclosing her in a nunnery to-morrow, should you not succeed this night, they both will be placed in bondage together.

Reflection will but mar our hopes—so, soon as possible we will be ready—take our Servants, and doubly arm ourselves. I like not the looks of Lorenzo, nor his friend Don Pedras, tho' they have profer'd so much kindness; there is a certain some­thing still lurks behind their faces that warns me to be wary, Lorenzo's jealousy of me, and love for Isabella, if the letter should fall into his hands, wou'd enrage him to that degree, our lives might be in danger.

We will defy them, unless, assassin like, they sink beneath the brute creation; though that they've done already.

Our time is short, we must depart immedi­ately.

SCENE VII.—Time night.—CELIO's garden, the rear of his house is discovered, in the back ground.— A well decayed and old stands under ISABELLA's window.

What hour now?

'Tis near the time.

Our hiding places we must now seek out, or we may be discovered. Withdraw behind that arbour —I'll watch their coming.

— Let me not reflect on what I have done, nor what I am about to do—once done I'll think no more—but how can I forget? when the crimes I have commit­ted, freezes every nerve. Murder! Oh, to that sound am I inur'd, though never hear it but my soul recoils! —Ha! they come! the long wish'd for hour is come, when to my hated rival I will guide the glit­tering steel, or leaden death quite home to his heart.

The clock has struck, and no appearance of my charmer at her window yet.

Withdraw, should any a­larm be given, immediately come to this spot; to our relief.

Now time and opportunity serve.

Hist—Henry is it you?

'Tis the herald of immortal bliss·

O heavenly sound—'tis my Henry speaks.

If thou will't call him so, for that sweet [...]ound to me is still more pleasing than an angels [...]hisper.

Where is the Friar?

He is at hand, to make us happy.

Think you not your steps are traced? that villain Lorenzo, much I fear from him.

Be [...]ot alarmed my love, this dear moment is most precious, let us lose no time.

Oh Henry!

Why that sigh, so deep?

Aye deep indeed—it searched the inmost re­cess of my heart, something that is ill divining, throb'd at my breast—oh much I fear for you.

If it be like mine, 'tis the voice of love that wakens with the peal.

It may be so. To reach the window safely, here have I a ladder, made of ropes.

Be no [...] alarmed my love. A Friar, masqued in the devils habit, I have brought with me; fearing our in [...]ent might be discover'd. I have brought with me my friend Walter likewise, with our servants.

Come then be speedy. I thought I heard a noise.

Friar, mount you first.

After you is manners. I never did such a thing in my life,

Throw then, ceremony aside, and obey me.

Well here I go, neck or nothing.

SCENE I.—A Wine cellar in CELIO's House. Se­veral pipes and quarter casks standing—Bottles, demijons, &c.

This is a happy country—he must be a fool who would not live in i [...]—what a pity it is we was'nt b [...]r [...] gentlemen, then we might be always drunk— and not fear the devil.

No, [...]or the devil fear us—but I am al­ways afraid of him.

That's because you are a cowardly dog. But I care for no gentleman, no [...] I—getting a little tos­ticated, it makes a body feel so happy—ha! ha, he! he!—Come, some more of the excellent campaign for me.—Here is confusion to the moorish laws.

Where is Lucett, my old piece?

I never knew you to drink, but you always thought of women.

Drinking is somehow like the priming of a gun—but no more of that, it hurts my delicacy.

Damn your delicacy say I.

And damn your impudence say I.

I mean't no harm.

No, no—no harm was meant, we are all jovial fellows alike. I am as good a man as any b [...]dy

You are only a boy—feel your face.—To drown all amosity I'll give you a song.

Aye, aye, a song.

Bravo, bravo!—

He sings a good song.

A go [...]d song may be badly sung:

SCENE II.—Inside of a Nunnery.

Oh Florinda, snail-creeping time is tedious, our mutual destiny we will with patience bear; let sorrow drink quite dry her bitter cup▪ she her thirst may quench, that in after ages we may remain a great memento of constancy and love.

Must we then forever here remain, never more to scent the fragrant budding rose, or violets perfume; nor walter steal to these longing arms to heal my wounded heart? my spirits ebb apace, and soon will I fall a sacrifice, if not released from this drear solit [...]ry shrine—Oh! is there no ho [...]e?

I cannot cheer thee with one ray of hope— I cannot co [...]jure up one phantom favourable, that I shall behold my love, or thee thy Walter in this world again.

When time with wrinkled front steals o'er the Parents head, with hoary locks most venerably 'thron'd—when vital spirits have forgot to flow, they of their former pleasures think no more, but doom with austere visage wrath eclips'd their darling tender progeny, to everlasting wretchedness and woe!

Florinda dear, oh listen, listen do.

Merciful heaven! 'twas my Walter's voice. Did'st thou not hear?

Isabella! dear, hear thy Henry too.

Oh blessed sound! how my heart beats? 'twas Henry's voice.

SCENE III.—Outside of the Convent.

Can we contrive no plan, whereby we may succeed in liberating those lovely prisoners?

There is none that we can think of, but set a woman's ingenuity to work, and if she does not succeed in any thing, no matter what it is, I would have a poor opinion of her.

Then you trust to their extricating them­selv [...]s.

No surer dependence rely on me—a wo­man's invention never fails, back'd with love's pas­sion—no prison is strong enough—No balwark, tho' environ'd by barb [...]d steeds of chiva [...]ry, but the sex would sap; put two together, and the devil himself [Page 65] would stand but a poor chance against them.

You seem lively notwithstanding our ill success last night.

That would be but trifling, had not Flavio and Celio put their daughters in this monkish taber­nacle.

Have you a suspicion who those bravo's were, by whom we were attack'd last night [...]?

That villain Lorenzo, and his good friend Don Pedras, I'll be sworn. They must have found the letter you lost, which has betray'd us. We must pack up our baggage, and be off from the house, however.

Whither shall we go?

To Pedrillo's in the next street, from thence after we have obtain'd the objects of our adoration, we'll fly from those shores to our native land Ame­rica—where the bright sun each morn beams freedom, and independence.

What has become of the unfortunate Friar?

I cannot tell.

Ah! here he comes—how he has made his retreat good without a discovery is unaccountable.

By his walk he appears much fatigued.

Welcome!—thrice welcome most honoura­ble, most venerable, mostt ragicomic father.

Oh, what a world of sin is this! what mise­rable sinners are we all!

With one exception father. Thou'rt not a sinner, tho' by thy garb, and outward 'meanour, thou art the father of all sin.

If it be so—I think thou art the most devil­ish of all my children. O wicked abominable world. O such a night, such a night was never passed in purgatory,

You have then gone through your purgation Your sins are purg'd away.

My fat is purg'd away you mean. Last night pull'd down my belly at such a rate, 'twill take a wonderful deal to fill it to its original size.

Where have you been all night?

At the bottom of the sinful well—which is under that abominable window. Oh I have lost a deal of marrow fat. I am more hungry than a wolf—put a quill down my throat, and blow in it you would puff me up like a bladder—Oh! for a bottle of sack!

How did you contrive to sack that strongly fortified well?

I took it by storm.

By storm!

Truly son I took it by storm, for it did rain most terribly before I got out of it. Holy St. Fran­cis only knows how long I was getting to the bottom, but I believe I was not very tedious.

How did you escape from the well?

By crawling out at the bottom.

Ha, ha, ha,—The top you mean.

I am right; the bottom—there I lay stun­n [...]ed by the violent fall—and then I began to dream— I dream'd I was in purgatory, and there I was like to stick, for I thought all poisonous hissing serpents were playing round about my face; and lo! when I awoke, these serpents were nothing but frogs, "and by my veracity one taking me to be a Frenchman had actually got into my mouth, and I gave him a very hard bite before he found out his mistake"^*—I at­tempted after coming a little to myself to clamber out at the top, which I had nearly reached when a [Page 67] stone on which my whole weight bore, dislodg'd and down falls the stone, and myself to the bottom again. "I smash'd some of the French diable gentry be­low, for they did croak most shockingly."^§

You have not yet got out, but just where you left off before.

But I am getting out as fast as my tongue will carry me. Most unmercifully [...]mitten, I attempt­ed to rise again but had not strength. There lay I bruised and jam'd in this hole—I recomended my soul to the supreme, though in truth good son I began to grow uneasy—fearing he would not hear me. I be­held a light thro' the hollow crevices of the stone wall, which I looked upon as a warning to prepare for the other country—I thought where my soul would go! dying with so heavy a sin upon my head—I heard some persons begin to sing, when I found there was nothing but the wall between me, and Celio's wine cellar, where his Servants were carousing—I set to work with fresh spirits—I tumbled out the sto [...]es, till I had made a hole large enough for myself to creep thro'—the Servants seeing, as they thought, the devil, crawling out of this ancient well, took to their drunken heels, and ran tumbling over each other frighten'd as bad as—

You at the report of the pistols, last night.

I believe so indeed—hem!

Here is that will lighten your heart, and weigh down your pocket.

Thank you son. Come to my cell, and I'll give you absolution, gratis. But I have not finished yet, my unfortunate story. Having got clear from the house undiscovered, two great dogs standing in the street, fell foul of me—thanks to the rotten dress [Page 68] that saved my flesh—I tore one of the horns from off my head, and p [...]y'd about them lustily—they was glad e [...]ough to quit—every one that see me [...]tar'd. The women squall'd! among them I know not what mischief I may have done, but my intentions were pure.

We have no doubt of the purity of your intentions, among the women, father.

Wisely said indeed son. Farewell! If I can do any thing more in your way, I am your humble Servant.

Remember, and send home the dress. We will now to Flavio's, take a round in his garden, bid him farewell, and leave his house.

SCENE IV.—Night. FLAVIO's Garden.

The moon upon her other throne, darting pale illumine o'er the frowning night! the winds gently disordering the verd [...]nt leaves, from which the sweet scented air waf [...]s, seems to refresh my drooping me­lanc [...]olly. Isabella much I fear to me is lost forever. W [...]re my rival dead, some hope [...]otwithstanding I am so stongly repuls'd, might yet remain. Destiny bears his shield now o'er his head—but poison or daggers must, and shall, soon terminate his life! tho' my ill fa [...]ed stars thwart me in every attempt, h [...] must at last fall a victim to my artifice.

Signior, well met.

Why this haste?

I bring thee news. Our rivals I have over­heard. They suspect most s [...]rongly you, and like­wise me, being the persons by whom they were as­sailed, last night—they intend leaving the house, [Page 69] now is our only chance—this evening when they walk (which every night they do) into this garden, we will unawares, unseen, spring on them both, and we will rid at o [...]ce the world [...]f those lo [...]th some weeds, then we will stand u [...]rivalled.

Well council'd Don Pedras—'tis near the time they walk. This, it cannot fail. But I am too credulous—I have before been as sure, and have been defeated.

Think of nothing now, but success.

This is the main walk—station yourself and wait their coming on the left. Here on the opposite side shall be my po [...]t—on their appro [...]ch plunge home your stilletto to the hilt. I hear some noise, quick to your post.

Assassins! thank heaven my coat is more my friend than thou.

I have made sure of Don Pedras. Exercise is good for the health.

My sword pierced Lorenzo's head; he stagger'd and made his escape. I cannot but lament your c [...]ming to my aid, as I think he would not have fled but being c [...]mpelled by superior strength.

I run Don Pedras through the gu [...]s, and I thought you might be in danger from Lorenzo. An assassin should be shewn no mercy.

Lorenzo will [...]ccuse us of something crimin­al! I dread the consequence.

We must away imediately—each moment longer that we stay is fraught with danger.

They're gone, and left Don Pedras wel­tering in his blood—surely they know me not. To good account my night's work is turn'd at last, tho' not in faith the way I wish'd it. Mayhap he is not yet quite dead, 'twill be a friendly office then to help him. What ho [...]! Don Pedras!

Oh thou prophetic seer!

Art thou then alive my friend?

Is it Lorenzo's voice?

It is.

Help me! help me quick away, or we shall be discover'd! the alarm in the house, e'er this is given; quick, quick, for I am faint, very faint, through loss of blood.

Thy death is certain. Thy wound is very deep.

Not mortal, do assist me.

While you live I will; but thou hast not one minute of life.

I hope death is not so near.

If he lives, 'twill dicover my guilt. If he dies, to the world once more I am inno­cent in their eyes▪—Never before did the pangs which now I feel make such impression on me.

Thanks Lorenzo, thanks—Thy strength but not thy simpathy can remove me.

Look up thou matyr'd friend; friendship now must undergo a wondrous test; death now is on­ly left to ea [...]e thy miseries—Impulse to relieve the [Page 71] suff [...]rings of my friend, to cut short the thread of life already str [...]nded, labouring with conscience guil­ty and a mortal wound, forces me to this extremety.

Hold, hold, have mercy! Oh God forgive my sins as I forgive my murderer!

Death now has grappled with thee close, and safety's reassumed his marred throne, where guilt reigns umpire. Did I murder him? No, he was al­ready kill'd, and I but d [...]m'd him before his time.— Shuddering conscience at such horrid perpetrations recoil, but I am so inur'd now to scenes of horror, methinks I could face unmov'd the grim visag'd fronts of cockatrice ey'd fiends, legions on legions.

I must remain no longer here, but to a Surgeon; then contrive means to unload suspicion's weight.—

SCENE V.—A room in CELIO's house.

Our daughters are safe enough, the two Americans to morrow leave us.

Where [...]o go?

To an inn, in the next street.

Can you guess the cause?

The cause is obvious enough; no hopes has Walter of Florinda, he can never extricate her from her prison, and Henry shares the fate of his friend. Gratitude got them in my favour, I will bestow every thing but my daughter, she must be married to Don Pedras.

And thy virtuous son to my daughter;— when our children have been in the Nunnery less than a week, with downcast eyes and virgin blushing cheeks, they each will say, I'll marry whom you please. Then will my old heart dance, and thine [Page 72] my brother will be transported too, we will feel young again, seeing our children happy, once mar­ried, love comes of course.

Then will hours fly swiftly o'er our heads, as minutes did before; the two Americans will recon­cile themselves, and all will be happily settled.

Oh Sir, Sir, Sir—

What noise was that?

What is the matter Fool?

Your daughters both are happy as kings!

What mean you?

I mean nothing but what I have said.

But what have you said?

I have said enough, if you knew all. I'll tell you, but I'm sure you will not have patience to hear so unreli [...]hious a story.

Speak to the purpose, or I'll knock you thro' the wall.

Then there would be an end of the story.— The short and longn [...]ss of the whole is this—Florin­da and Isabella, both have flown away,

What escap'd?

Yes, and for consolation I tell you they are marricated by this time.

To whom?

That they will tell you.

Oh cursed hour!

I'll tell you how all may yet be mamicably settled.

Say how?

Leave 'em to themselves, and they'll depent of their folly.

If my daugter is really married, then fare­well comfort in this life forever,

I guess they are comfortable enough, by this time.

Answer me, how made they their escape?

You'll laugh when you hear it, tho' now you look so plaguy grum. Ha, ha, ha, who would a thought it—the two fat Monks fast asleep in the two ladies beds.

What the Monks in bed with my daughter?

You put the worst destruction upon things; the two Monks are fast and tight asleep snoring like hogs in a mudgutter.

Did you see our daughters in bed with them?

They didn't let me see that, ha, ha, ha, the snoring codgers, I believe will sleep 'till after they are dead, if they don't mind what they are about; they got asleep the sweetest way in the world—eating sweetmeats, and now they look as sour as vinegar.— The Friars was striped as naked, as if they had just come into the world, and put to bed by your daughters, who made their escape with the Friar's scowls on, I think you call um—and the Abbess took 'em to be the two Monks that now are snorting in bed▪

Celio let's pursue them.

They will stay till you come. I pinched 'em, and kicked 'em, but I could not wake um from their snortification. The Abbess guess'd the ladies put lodrum in their sweetmeats, makes um snort so.

I must learn the truth of this fool's story— If it is so, by heaven, I'll spurn her in the street, she dare approach me.

SCENE VI and Last.—A room in CELIO's House.

Alas! [...]o news of our disobedient children. Foolish girls—happy had I been to have seen my daughter a corpse, and [...]o stand on the brink of eterni­ty myself, rather than have had my house dishonour'd.

Sir, sir, there be sir, a man by the do [...]r.— I ax'dum what he wanted, and he said nothing, I told him he shou [...]d have it, for he wanted to see you a bit.

What appearance?

He looks for all the world like, I do'nt know what.

Conduct him in.

Perhaps some news of our run away children.

I come, Signior Celio and Signior Flavio, from your daughters.

Where are they. Are they both married?

They are.

Oh, cursed disobedience! Oh.

Oh, my lost child!

As friend and confid [...]nte of the two fond pair, I here stand before you—they are about to de­part.

Whither?

To America.

Tell Florinda to depart, I ne'er will own her again.

And tell Isabella likewise, for me; a fathers malediction shall pursue her through the wo [...]ld.

Think F [...]a [...]i [...]—Celio, think if you aban­don your children; if you deny natures b [...]unty, a parent's blessing, the omnipotent ru [...]r of the universe would double his malediction on that fathers head who unmoved, would hear a l [...]vely suppliant child, sue to him for pard [...]n.

Don Pedras lays in the g [...]rden, dead.

What new accident is? this

As Don Pedras, and myself, in the garden were taking our usu [...]l walk, we heard a din of wea­pons, we ran to the spo [...], and beheld the two Americans fighting resolutely against midnight bra­voes, on whom we instan [...]ly ru [...]hed—Don Pedras re­ceiv'd two mortal wounds and f [...]ll—we three then remained to co [...]b [...]t the ass [...]ssins, who fled. D [...]n Pedras in my arms expired, and his dying breath blessed thee and Florinda.

Why is thy head bound up.

A slight wound I received in rescuing my friends.

Your sis [...]er's married.

And mine too Lorenzo, who was to have been thy wife.

Ha, married! hadst thou labori­ously studied f [...]r myriad [...] of years to end my life, thou needst but sum up all in two emphatic words, Isabel­la's married! to send me to perdition.

F [...]llow and stop him should he at empt his own life.

Don Pedras is dead. I forgive Florinda,

tell her to return to me with her husband, and I will grant my blessing to them both.

Tell Isabella from me the same.

Heaven bless you as I do.

I f [...]rgive you.

But why is thy blessing so coolly bestow'd?

The severe wound my son received in his head last night, in those gentlemen's defence, in which conflict Don Pedras was kill'd makes me feel uneasy.

Since we are not accus'd we will not tell Lorenzo's perfidy. 'Twould break Flavio's and Florinda's heart to hear the truth.

I followed Signior Lorenzo, he took from out his pocket a phial, which contained as I sup [...] ▪ some mortal dregs, he swallow'd them before I [...] prevent him.

Farewell! for dread eternity and me are link­ed together. One short minute and I am no more!

Oh my son, in my mind already dead!

Didst thou know my unworthiness of life thou wouldst not regret the los [...] of me▪

The mortal draught will let me tell no more.

Why w [...]rt thou so rash?

A enging heaven demanded, I have obeye'd. Were [...] my sins absol [...]ed, I'd die i [...] peace—

'Tis meet th [...]t I should die with all my sins upon my head, but even then I could not suffer the pangs, that I have immerged on my fellow creatures. I have no face to ask forgive­ness, th [...]' I have h [...]d the heart to p [...]rpetrate deeds too horrid ever to be named again.

You have my pardon.

And likewise mine.

You have no cause to pity me, my heart has bee [...] c [...]ld and in­vincible to the voice of nature and of virtue—hard as the adamantine rock—I have been penitent, the next moment have sin'd again! were I new b [...]rn and inno­cent, I feel that now wi [...]hin me, tha [...] nothing could tempt me ever again to s [...]ray in the end [...]ess paths of vice.

I do pity and forgive you.

Tho' thou art all goodness, all purity, and matchless innocence, 'tis more than I could have ho­ped, much more indeed than I deserve. My soul i [...] much lighter by thy pard [...]ns, wherein my sins were center'd mos [...]ly.

H [...]! what sud­den bolt was that shot before my eye [...], like a meteor's long fiery trail? and now it leaves a pulse behi [...]d! Oh! the poison with impetuous power rushes thro' [Page 78] every vein, each sinew artery!—my tongue cleaves to it's clammy roof!—And now the ague's rack begins to [...]hake my joints—the rolling ice, from off my forehead drops, and chattering teeth, are pre­lud [...]s to usher in the shaft of death!—my heart feels big within me, 'tis ready to burst!—It must have ven [...]—Oh! for a co [...]ling draught to quench my burn­ing tongue!—my eyes grow big, and all around seems like a crim [...]on cloud about me.

Heaven have mercy on my distracted brother.

Call not on heaven for mercy!—I have too little deserv'd it—Hark! what noise was that I heard as though some sepu [...]chre, had op'd its yawn­ing vault, grating the rusty hinges, leaving wide the en [...]rance to mortality?—Hark! the tempest in my brain increases, does none hear the roar but me? the clamorous discord!—

My heart is breaking.

The strings of mine are already stretched be [...]ond their natural compass!—Florella has the jes­ses in her hand, and gives them to the tormenting fiends below!—The gnashing Spectres, hark how they yell and ghastly men [...]cing they now begin to pull. My heart is rent in twain!—