Lucy. Nay, but if there is a necessity for your taking this step Soph. Ay, necessity is grown strangely commodious of late, and always compels us to do the very thing we have most a mind to. Lucy. Well, madam, but common humanity to -You must allow he has been young Mr Belfieldhardly treated. Soph. By me, Lucy? Lucy. Madam ! -No, madam, not by you; but 'tis charity to heal the wounded, though you have not been a party in the fray. Soph. I grant you!--You are a true female philosopher; you would let charity recommend you a husband, and a husband recommend you to charity-But I won't reason upon the matter; at least, not in the humour I am now: nor at this particular time: no, Lucy, nor in this particular spot: here it was, at this very hour yesterday, young Belfield surprised me. Lucy. And see, madam, punctual to the same lucky moment, he comes again; let him plead his own cause; you need fear no interruption; my lady has too agreeable an engagement of her own to endeavour at disturbing those of other people. [Exit LUCY. SCENE IV. Enter BELFIELD Junior. Bel jun. Have I then found thee, loveliest of women? O! Sophia, report has struck me to the heart; if, as I am told, to-morrow gives you to my brother, this is the last time I am ever to behold you. Soph. Why so, Mr Belfield? Why should our separation be a necessary consequence of our alli ance? Bel. jun. Because I have been ambitious, and cannot survive the pangs of disappointment. Soph. Alas! poor man! but you know where to bury your disappointments; the sea is still open to you; and, take my word for it, Mr Belfield, the man who can live three years, ay, or three months, in separation from the woman of his heart, need be under no apprehensions for his life, let what will befal her. Bel. jun. Cruel, insulting Sophia! when I last parted from you, I flattered myself I had left some impression on your heart—But in every event of my life, I meet a base, injurious brother; the everlasting bar to my happiness-I can support it no longer; and Mr Belfield, madam, never can, never shall, be yours. Soph. How, sir! never shall be mine! What do you tell me? There is but that man on earth with whom I can be happy; and if my fate is such, that he is never to be mine, the world, and all that it contains, will for ever after be indifferent to me. Bel. jun. I have heard enough; farewell! Soph. Farewell, sagacious Mr Belfield; the next fond female, who thus openly declares herself to you, will, I hope, meet with a more gallant recep tion than I have done. Bel. jun. How, what! is't possible? O Heavens ! Soph. What, you've discovered it at last? Oh, fie upon you! Bel. jun. Thus, thus, let me embrace my unexpected blessing! come to my heart, my fond o'erflowing heart, and tell me once again that my Sophia will be only mine. Soph. O man, man! all despondency one moment, all rapture the next! No question now, but you conceive every difficulty surmounted, and that we have nothing to do but to run into each other's arms, make a fashionable elopement, and be happy for life; and I must own to you, Belfield, was there no other condition of our union, even this project should not deter me; but I have better hopes, provided you will be piloted by me; for, believe me, my good friend, I am better acquainted with this coast than you are. Bel. jun. I doubt not your discretion, and shall implicitly surrender myself to your guidance. Soph. Give me a proof of it then by retreating from this place immediately; 'tis my father's hour for walking, and I would not have you meet ; besides, your brother is expected. Bel. jun. Ay, that brother, my Sophia, that brother brings vexation and regret whenever he is named; but I hope I need not dread a second injury in your esteem; and yet I know not how it is, but, if I were addicted to superstition Soph. And, if I were addicted to anger, I should quarrel with you for not obeying my injunctions with more readiness. Bel. jun. I will obey thee, and yet 'tis difficult -Those lips, which thus have blest me, cannot dismiss me without Soph. Nay, Mr Belfield, don't you well then-mercy upon us! who's coming here? Bel. jun. How, oh, yes! never fear; 'tis a friend; 'tis Violetta; 'tis a lady that I -What Soph. That you what, Mr Belfield?lady is it? I never saw her in my life before. Bel. jun. No, she is a foreigner, born in Portugal, though of an English family: the packet in which she was coming to England founder'd alongside of our ship, and I was the instrument of saving her life: I interest myself much in her happiness, and I beseech you, for my sake, to be kind to her. [Exit. Soph. He interests himself much in her happiness! he beseeches me, for his sake, to be -What am I to judge of all this? kind to her!. SCENE V. Enter VIOLETTA. Vio. Madam, I ask pardon for this intrusion; but I have business with you of a nature thatI presume I'm not mistaken, you are the young lady I have been directed to, the daughter of Sir Benjamin Dove? Soph. I am, madam; but won't you please to repose yourself in the house? I understand you are a stranger in this country. May I beg to know what commands you have for me? Mr Belfield has made me acquainted with some circumstances relative to your story; and, for his sake, madam, I shall be proud to render you any service in my power. Vio. For Mr Belfield's sake, did you say, madam? Has Mr Belfield named me to you, madam? Soph. Is there any wonder in that, pray? Vio. No, none at all. In any man else, such confidence would surprise me; but in Mr Belfield 'tis natural; there is no wondering at what he does. Soph. You must pardon me: I find we think differently of Mr Belfield. He left me but this minute, and in the kindest terms recommended you to my friendship. Vio. 'Twas he then that parted from you as I came up; I thought so; but I was too much agitated to observe him-and I am confident he is too guilty to dare to look upon me. Soph. Why so, madam? For Heaven's sake, inform me what injuries you have received from Mr Belfield: I must own to you, I am much interested in finding him to be a man of honour. Vio. I know your situation, madam, and I pity it; Providence has sent me here, in time, to save you, and to tell you Soph. What? To tell me what? oh! speak, or I shall sink with apprehension. Vio. To tell you, that he is—my husband. Soph. Husband! your husband? What do I hear? Ungenerous, base, deceitful Belfield! I thought he seem'd confounded at your appearance; every thing confirms his treachery; and I cannot doubt the truth of what you tell me. Vio. A truth it is, madam, that I must ever reflect on with the most sorrowful regret. Soph. Come, let me beg you to walk towards the house: I ask no account of this transaction of Mr Belfield's; I would fain banish his name from my memory for ever, and you shall this instant be a witness to his peremptory dismission. SCENE VI. . [Exeunt. Enter BELFIELD Junior and PATERSON. Bel. jun. And so, sir, these are her ladyship's commands, are they? Pat. This is what I am commissioned by Lady Dove to tell you: what report shall I make to her? Bel. jun. Even what you please, Mr Paterson; mould it and model it to your liking; put as many palliatives, as you think proper, to sweeten it to her ladyship's taste; so you do but give her to understand that I neither can nor will abandon my Sophia.Cease to think of her, indeed!-What earthly power can exclude her Bel. jun. Nay, Mr Paterson, don't assume such a menacing air; nor practise on my temper too far in this business. I know both your situation and my own; consider, sir, mine is a cause that would animate the most dastardly spirit; yours is enough to damp the most courageous. [Exit. Pat. A very short and sententious gentleman; but there is truth in his remark; mine is but a sorry commission, after all; the man's in the right to fight for his mistress; she's worth the venture; and if there were no way else to be quit of mine, I should be in the right to fight too: egad, I don't see why aversion shou'dn't make me as desperate as love makes him. Hell and fury! here comes my Venus. SCENE VII. Enter Lady Dove. Lady Dove. Well, Paterson, what says the fellow to my message? Pat. Says, madam! I'm ashamed to tell you what he says: he's the arrantest boatswain that ever I conversed with. Lady Dove. But tell me what he says. Pat. Every thing that scandal and scurrility can utter against you. Lady Dove. Against me! What could he say against me? Pat. Modesty forbids me to tell you. Lady Dove. Oh! the vile reprobate! I, that have been so guarded in my conduct, so discreet in my partialities, as to keep 'em secret, even from my own husband; but, I hope, he didn't venture to abuse my person. Pat. No, madam, no; had he proceeded to such lengths, I cou'dn't in honour have put up with it; I hope I have more spirit than to suffer any reflection upon your ladyship's personal accomplishments. Lady Dove. Well; but did you say nothing in defence of my reputation? Pat. Nothing. Lady Dove. No! Pat. Not a syllable! Trust me for that; 'tis the wisest way upon all tender topics to be silent; for he who takes upon him to defend a lady's reputation, only publishes her favours to the world; and therefore, I would always leave that office to a husband. Lady Dove. 'Tis true; and if Sir Benjamin had any heart Pat. Come, come, my dear lady, don't be too severe upon Sir Benjamin; many men of no better appearance than Sir Benjamin have shewn themselves perfect heroes: I know a whole fa Enter Sir BENJAMIN DOVE. Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, I want to have a little discourse in private with you. Sir Ben. With me, my lady? Lady Dove. With you, Sir Benjamin; 'tis upon a matter of a very serious nature; pray sit down by me. I don't know how it is, my dear, but I have observed of late, with much concern, a great abatement in your regard for me. Sir Ben. Oh, fie, my lady, why do you think so? What reason have you for so unkind a suspicion ? Lady Dove. 'Tis in vain for you to deny it; I am convinced you have done loving me. Sir Ben. Well now, I vow, my dear, as I am a sinner, you do me wrong. Lady Dove. Look'e, Sir Benjamin, love like mine is apt to be quick-sighted; and, I am persuaded, I am not deceived in my observation. Sir Ben. Indeed, and indeed, my Lady Dove, you accuse me wongfully. Lady Dove. Mistake me not, my dear, I do not accuse you; I accuse myself; I am sensible there are faults and imperfections in my temper. Sir Ben. Oh! trifles, my dear; mere trifles. Lady Dove. Come, come, I know you have led but an uncomfortable life of late, and I am afraid I have been innocently, in some degree, the cause of it. Sir Ben. Far be it from me to contradict your ladyship, if you are pleased to say so. Lady Dove. I am sure it has been as I say; my over-fondness for you has been troublesome and vexatious; you hate confinement, I know you do; you are a man of spirit, and formed to figure in the world. Sir Ben. Oh! you flatter me. Lady Dove. Nay, nay, there's no disguising it; you sigh for action; your looks declare it: this alteration in your habit and appearance puts it out of doubt; there is a certain quickness in your eye; 'twas the first symptom that attracted my regard; and I am mistaken, Sir Benjamin, if you don't possess as much courage as any man. Sir Ben. Your ladyship does me honour. Lady Dove. I do you justice, Sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. Why, I believe, for the matter of I have as much as my neighbours; but courage, 'tis of a strange perverse quality; for, as some VOL. IV. | spirits rise with the difficulties they are to encounter, my courage, on the contrary, is always greatest when there is least call for it. Lady Dove. Oh! you shall never make me believe this, Sir Benjamin; you cou'dn't bear to see me ill used, I'm positive you cou’dn't. Sir Ben. 'Tis as well, however, not to be too sure of that. [Aside. Lady Dove. You cou'dn't be so mean-spirited, as to stand by and hear your poor dear wife abused and insulted, and Sir Ben. Oh! no, by no means, 'twould break my heart; but who has abused you and insulted you, and Lady Done. Who? Why, this young Belfield that I told you of. Sir Ben. Oh! never listen to him; a woman of your years should have more sense than to mind what such idle young fleerers can say of you. Lady Dove. [Rising.] My years, Sir Benjamin! -Why, you are more intolerable than he is; but let him take his course; let him run away with your daughter; it shall be no further concern of mine to prevent him. Sir Ben. No, my dear, I have done that effectually. Lady Dove. How so, pray? Sir Ben. By taking care he sha'n't run away with my estate at the same time. Some people lock their daughters up to prevent their eloping; I've gone a wiser way to work with mine, let her go loose, and locked up her fortune. Lady Dove. And, o' my conscience, I believe you mean to do the same by your wife; turn her loose upon the world, as you do your daughter; leave her to the mercy of every freebooter; let her be vilified and abused; her honour, her reputation, mangled and torn by every paltry privateering fellow that fortune casts upon your coasts. Sir Ben. Hold, my lady, hold! young Belfield didn't glance at your reputation, I hope, did he? Lady Dove. Indeed but he did though, and therein I think every wife has a title to her hus band's protection. Sir Ben. True, my dear; 'tis our duty to plead, but yours to provide us with the brief." Lady Dove. There are some insults, Sir Ben jamin, that no man of spirit ought to put up with; and the imputation of being made a wittol of, is the most unpardonable of any. Sir Ben. Right, my dear; even truth you know is not to be spoke at all times. Lady Dove. How, sir! would you insinuate any thing to the disparagement of my fidelity? but choose your side, quarrel you must, either with him or with me. Sir Ben. Oh! if that's the alternative, what a deal of time have we wasted!—Step with me into my library, and I'll pen him a challenge immediately. 20 [Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I.-The Cabin, with a View of the Sea, as before. Enter PHILIP and LUCY WATERS. Phil. How I have loved you, Lucy, and what I have suffered on your account, you know well en ough; and you shou❜dn't now, when I am strug gling to forget you, come to put me in mind of past afflictions: go, go, leave me: I pray you leave me. Lucy. Nay, Philip, but hear me. Phil. Hear you, ungrateful girl! you know it has been all my delight to hear you, to see you, and to sit by your side; for hours have I done it; for whole days together: but those days are past: I must now labour for my livelihood; and, if you rob me of my time, you wrong me of my subsis tence. Lucy. O! Philip, I am undone if you don't pro tect me. Phil. Ah! Lucy, that, I fear, is past prevention. Lucy. No, Philip, no, I am innocent; and, therefore, persecuted by the most criminal of men: I have disclosed all Mr Belfield's artifices to Miss Sophia, and now am terrified to death; I saw him follow me out of the Park, as I was coming hither, and I dare not return home alone; indeed, Philip, I dare not. Phil. Well, Lucy, step in with me, and fear nothing; I see the 'squire is coming. He who can refuse his protection to a woman, may he never taste the blessings a woman can bestow! [Exeunt. SCENE II. Enter BELFIELD Senior. Bel. sen. Ay, 'tis she! Confusion follow her! How perversely has she traversed my projects with Sophia!-By all that's resolute, I'll be revenged. My brother too returned- -Vexatious circumstance! there am I foiled again—Since first I stepped out of the path of honour, what have I obtained?-O treachery! treachery! if thou canst not in this world make us happy, better have remained that dull formal thing, an honest man, and trusted to what the future might produce. Enter PHILIP. Bel. sen. So, fellow, who are you? Phil. A man, sir; an honest man. Bel. sen. A saucy one, methinks. of your cabin; there's a young woman within I must have a word with. Phil. If 'tis Lucy Waters you would speak with Bel. sen. If, rascal! It is Lucy Waters I would speak with; that I will speak with ; and, spite of your insolence, compel to answer whatever I please to ask, and go with me wherever I please to carry her. Phil. Then, sir, I must tell you, poor as I am, she is under my protection: you see, sir, I am armed; you have no right to force an entrance here; and, while I have life, you never shall. Bel. sen. Then be it at your peril, villain, if you oppose me. [They fight. Enter PATERSON, who beats down their swords. Pat. For shame, Mr Belfield! what are you about? Tilting with this peasant? Bel. sen. Paterson, stand off. Pat. Come, come, put up your sword. Bel. sen. Damnation, sir! what do you mean? Do you turn against me?-Give way, or by my soul, I'll run you through. Enter Captain IRONSIDES and SKIFF. Iron. Hey-day! what the devil ails you all? I thought the whole ship's company had sprung a mutiny.- -Master and I were taking a nap together for good fellowship; and you make such a damn'd clattering and clashing, there's no sleeping in peace for you. Bel. sen. Come, Mr Paterson, will you please to bear me company, or stay with your new acquaintance? Iron. Oh ho! my righteous nephew, is it you that are kicking up this riot? Why, you ungracious profligate, would you murder an honest lad in the door of his own house-his castle-his castellum?-Are these your fresh-water tricks? Bel. sen. Your language, Captain Ironsides, savours strongly of your profession; and I hold both you, your occupation, and opinion, equally vulgar and contemptible. Pat. Come, Mr Belfield, come: for Heaven's sake let us go home. Iron. My profession! Why, what have you to say to my profession, you unsanctified whelp you? I hope 'tis an honest vocation to fight the enemies of one's country; you, it seems, are for mur. Phil. The injurious are apt to think so; how-dering the friends; I trust, it is not for such a ever I ask pardon: as your riches make you too proud, my honesty perhaps makes me too bold. Bel. sen. O! I know you now; you are son to that old fellow I thought proper to discharge from my farm; please to betake yourself from the door skip-jack as thee art to fleer at my profession. Master, did'st ever hear the like? Skiff. Never, captain, never: for my own part, I am one of few words; but, for my own part, I always thought, that to be a brave seaman, like Iron. Your father was an honest gentleman: your mother, though I say it that should not say it, was an angel; my eyes ache when I speak of her: aren't you ashamed, sirrah, to disgrace such parents? My nephew Bob, your brother, is as honest a lad, and as brave as ever stept between stem and stern; a' has a few faults indeed, as who is free? But you, Andrew, you are as false as a quickBand, and as full of mischief as a fire-ship. Bel. sen. Captain Ironsides, I have but little time to bestow on you; if you have nothing else to entertain me with, the sooner we part the better. Iron. No, sir, one thing more, and I have done with you; they tell me you're parliament-man here for the borough of Knavestown: the Lord have mercy upon the nation, when such fellows as thou art are to be our law-makers! For my own part, I can shift; I'll take shipping, and live in Lapland, and be dry-nurse to a bear, rather than dwell in a country where I am to be governed by such a thing as thou art. Bel. sen. By your manners I should guess you had executed that office already; however, lose no time, fit out a new Charming Sally, and set sail for Lapland: 'tis the properest place for you to live in, and a bear the fittest companion for you to keep. [Exeunt BELFIELD and PATERSON. Iron. Hark'e, Philip, I forgot to ask what all this stir was about? Phil. Sir, if you please to walk in, I will inform you. Iron. With all my heart. A pragmatical, impertinent coxcomb! Come, master, we'll fill a pipe, and hear the lad's story within doors. I never yet was ashamed of my profession, and I'll take care my professsion shall have no reason to be ashamed of me. [Exeunt. SCENE III. Enter BELFIELD Junior and SOPHIA. Soph. Ha! he seems confounded! Guilty beyond all doubt. Bel. jun. By Heaven I'll no longer be the dupe to these bad humours: Lucy Waters, Violetta, every woman she sees or hears, alarms her jealousy, overthrows my hopes, and rouses every passion into fury. Well, madam, at length I see what you allude to; I shall follow your advice, and consult my Violetta; nay, more, consult my happiness; for with her, at least, I shall find repose; with you, I plainly see there can be none. Soph. 'Tis very well, sir; the only favour you can now grant me is never to let me see you again; for, after what has passed between us, every time you intrude into my company, you will commit an insult upon good breeding and humanity. Bel. jun. Madam, I'll take care to give you no further offence. [Exit. Soph. Oh! my poor heart will break ! Soph. O, sir! if you have any love for me, don't name that base treacherous wretch to me any [Exit. more. Sir Ben. Upon my word, I am young Mr Bel field's most obsequious servant: a very notable confusion truly has he been pleased to make in my family. Lady Dove raves, Sophia cries; my wife calls him a saucy inipudent fellow, my daughter says he's a base treacherous wretch; from all which I am to conclude, that he has spoke too plain truths to the one, and told too many lies to the other; one lady is irritated because he has refused favours; the other, perhaps, is afflicted because he has obtained 'em. Lady Dove has peremptorily insisted upon my giving him a challenge; but, to say the truth, I had no great stomach to the business till this fresh provocation; I perceive now I am growing into a most unaccountable rage; 'tis something so different from what I ever felt before, that, for what I know, it may be courage, and I mistake it for anger; I never did quarrel with any man, and hitherto no man ever quar Bel. jun. Madam, madam, will you not vouch-relled with me: egad, if once I break the ice, it safe to give me a hearing? Soph. Unless you could recall an act no earthly power can cancel, all attempt at explanation is vain. sha'n't stop here: if young Belfield doesn't prove me a coward, Lady Dove shall see that I am a man of spirit.Sure I see my gentleman coming hither again. [Steps aside. Enter BELFIELD Junior. Bel. jun. What meanness, what infatuation possesses me, that I should resolve to throw myself once more in her way! but she's gone, and yet I may escape with credit. Sir Ben. Ay, there he is, sure enough: by the mass I don't like him: I'll listen a while, and discover what sort of a humour he is in. Bel. jun. I am ashamed of this weakness: I am |