Enter JAFFIER. Jaf. Hold: eyes, be dry; Heart, strengthen me to bear This hideous sight, and humble me, to take The last forgiveness of a dying friend, Betrayed by my vile falsehood, to his ruin. Oh, Pierre! Pier. Yet nearer. Jaf. Crawling on my knees, And prostrate on the earth, let me approach thee: I can't forget to love thee. Prithee, Jaffier, than e'er Suffer'd the shameful fate, thou'rt going to taste of. stead! Jaf. Why? [Pointing to the wheel. Pier. Is't fit a soldier, who has lived with honour, Fought nations' quarrels, and been crowned with conquest, Be exposed a common carcase on a wheel? Pier. Speak! is it fitting? Pier. Yes; is it fitting? Pier. I'd have thee undertake Pier. I'll make haste. Oh, Jaffier! Though thou'st betrayed me, do me some way justice. Jaf. No more of that: thy wishes shall be sa tisfied; I have a wife, and she shall bleed: my child, too, Yield up his little throat, and all I have crimes enough to give it its full load, Going away, PIERRE holds him. Pier. No-this-no more. [He whispers JAFFIER. Pier. Come, now I'm ready. [He and JAFFIER ascend the scaffold. Captain, you should be a gentleman of honour; Keep off the rabble, that I may have room To entertain my fate, and die with decency. Come. [Takes off his gown, executioner prepares to bind him. Fri. Son. Pier. I thank you, sir. You'll think on't? Jaf. It won't grow stale before to-morrow. Pier. Now, Jaffier! now I'm going. Now [Executioner having bound him. Jaf. Have at thee, Thou honest heart, then-here! [Stabs him. [Stabs himself. And this is well too. Fri. Damnable deed! Within your walls; let plagues and famine waste A token, that with my dying breath I blessed her, And the dear little infant left behind me. Dies. Offi. Bear this news to the senate, And guard their bodies, till there's further orders. Heaven grant I die so well! [Scene shuts upon them. SCENE IV. Soft Music-Enter BELVIDERA distracted, led by two of her women, PRIULI and Servants. Pri. Strengthen her heart with patience, pitying Heaven! Bel. Come, come, come, come, come, nay, come to bed, Prithee, my love! The winds; hark how they whistle; And the rain beats: Oh! how the weather shrinks me! You are angry now, who cares? Pish, no indeed, Chuse then; I say you shall not go, you shall not; Whip your ill-nature; get you gone then. Oh! Are you returned? See, father, here he's come again: Am I to blame to love him? O, thou dear one, Why do you fly me? Are you angry still then? Jaffier, where art thou? father, why do you do thus? Stand off, don't hide him from me. He's here somewhere. Stand off, I say: What, gone? Remember it, ty rant: EPILOGUE. THE text is done, and now for application; And though against him causeless hatreds rise, And serves a cause too good to let him fear: ISABELLA; OR, THE FATAL MARRIAGE. ALTERED FROM SOUTHERN. PROLOGUE. SPOKEN BY MRS BRACEGIRDLE. WHEN once a poet settles an ill name, There are some authors too who offer battle, And with their time and place, maul Aristotle. Ask what they mean; and, after some grimace, They tell you, twelve's the time; and for the place, The chocolate-house, at the looking-glass. To please such judges, some have tir'd their brains, And almost had their labour for their pains: After a twelvemonth vainly spent in plotting, These mettled critics cry 'tis good for nothing; But wiser authors turn their plots upon you, And plot to purpose when they get your money. ACT I. SCENE I.-Before Count BALDWIN's House. Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS. Car. This constancy of yours will establish an Immortal reputation among the women. Vil. If it would establish me with IsabellaCar. Follow her, follow her: Troy town was won at last. Vil. I have followed her these seven years, and now but live in hopes. Car. But live in hopes! Why, hope is the ready road, the lover's baiting-place; and, for aught you know, but one stage short of the possession of your mistress. Vil. But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making than her's; and proceed rather from my wishes, than any encouragement she has given me. Car. That I cannot tell the sex is very various; there are no certain measures to be prescribed or followed, in making our approaches to the women. All that we have to do, I think, is to attempt them in the weakest part. Press them but hard, and they will all fall under the necessity of a surrender at last. That favour comes at once; and sometimes when we least expect it. Vit. I shall be glad to find it so. Car. You will find it so. Every place is to be taken, that is not to be relieved: she must comply. Vil. I am going to visit her. Car. What interest a brother-in-law can have with her, depend upon. Vil. I know your interest, and I thank you. Car. You are prevented; see, the mourner comes; She weeps, as seven years were seven hours; I would transplant her into Villeroy's- Perhaps, at last, she seeks my father's doors; [Retires. Enter VILLEROY, with ISABELLA and her little Son. Isa. Why do you follow me? you know I am A bankrupt every way; too far engaged Ever to make return: I own you have been More than a brother to me, my friend; And at a time when friends are found no more, A friend to my misfortunes. Vil. I must be always your friend. Isa. I have known, and found you Truly my friend; and would I could be yours; But the unfortunate cannot be friends: Fate watches the first motion of the soul, To disappoint our wishes; if we pray For blessings, they prove curses in the end, To ruin all about us. Pray, be gone; Take warning, and be happy. Vil. Happiness! There's none for me without you: Riches, name, me. Long life itself, the universal prayer, Isa. I must not hear you. Vil. Thus, at this awful distance, I have served A seven years' bondage-Do I call it bondage, When I can never wish to be redeemed? No, let me rather linger out a life Of expectation, that you may be mine, Than be restored to the indifference Of seeing you, without this pleasing pain: I've lost myself, and never would be found, But in these arms. Isa. Oh, I have heard all this! But must no more--the charmer is no more: Child. Why, have you done a fault? You cry as if you had. Indeed now, I have done nothing to offend you: but if you kiss me, and look se very sad upon me, I shall cry too. Isa. My little angel, no, you must not cry; Vil. What can I say! The arguments that make against my hopes Prevail upon my heart, and fix me more; Those pious tears you hourly throw away Upon the grave, have all their quickening charms, And more engage my love, to make you mine: |