The Modern British Drama: Tragedies

Ped. It was my master, Carlos, your own son. C. Bald. Oh, monstrous! monstrous! most unnatural!

Bel. Did he employ you to murder his own brother?

Ped. He did; and he was with us when 'twas done.

C. Bald. If this be true, this horrid, horrid tale,

It is but just upon me: Biron's wrongs
Must be revenged: and I the cause of all!
Fr. What will you do with him?
C. Bald. Take him apart-

I know too much.

[PEDRO goes in.

Vil. I had forgot-Your wretched, dying son Gave me this letter for you.

[Gives it to BALDWIN.

I dare deliver it. It speaks of me,

to have it read.

C. Bald. You know the hand. Bel. I know 'tis Biron's hand. C. Bald. Pray, read it.

SIR,

[BELFORD reads the letter.

Vil. How!-Did you know it, then?
C. Bald. Amazement all!

Enter CARLOS, with Officers.

Oh, Carlos! are you come? Your brother here,
Here, in a wretched letter, lays his death
To you and me-Have you done any thing
To hasten his sad end?

Car. Bless me, sir, I do any thing! Who, I?
C. Bald. He talks of letters that were sent to us;
I never heard of any. Did you know
He was alive?

Car. Alive! Heaven knows, not I.

C. Bald. Had you no news of him, from a report,

Or letter, never?

Car. Never, never I.

Bel. That's strange, indeed: I know he often

writ

To lay before you the conditions [To C. BALD,
Of his hard slavery: and more I know,
That he had several answers to his letters.
He said they came from you; you are his bro-
ther.

Car. Never from me.

Bel. That will appear.

The letters, I believe, are still about him; For some of them I saw but yesterday.

C. Bald. What did those answers say? Bel. I cannot speak to the particulars; But I remember well, the sum of them Was much the same, and all agreed, That there was nothing to be hoped from you: That 'twas your barbarous resolution To let him perish there.

C. Bald. Oh, Carlos! Carlos! hadst thou been a brother

Car. This is a plot upon me. I never knew He was in slavery, or was alive,

Or heard of him, before this fatal hour.

Eel. There, sir, I must confront you. He sent you a letter, to my knowledge, last night;

And you sent him word you would come to him. I fear you came too soon.

C. Bald. 'Tis all too plain.-Bring out that wretch before him.

[PEDRO produced, Car. Ha! Pedro there!-Then I am caught

indeed!

Bel. You start at sight of him;
He has confessed the bloody deed.
Car. Well, then, he has confessed,
And I must answer it.

Bel. Is there no more?

Car. Why, what would you have more? I know the worst,

And I expect it.

C. Bald. Why hast thou done all this?
Car. Why, that which damns most men has
ruined me;

The making of my fortune. Biron stood
Between me and your favour; while he lived,
I had not that; hardly was thought a son,
And not at all a-kin to your estate.
I could not bear a younger brother's lot,
To live depending upon courtesy-
Had you provided for me like a father,
I had been still a brother.

C. Buld. 'Tis too true!

I never loved thee, as I should have done:
It was my sin, and I am punished for it.
Oh! never may distinction rise again
In families; let parents be the same
To all their children; common in their care,
And in their love of them—I am unhappy,
For loving one too well.

Vil. You knew your brother lived; why did
you take

Such pains to marry me to Isabella?
Car. I had my reasons for❜t-

Vil. More than I thought you had.
Car. But one was this-

I knew my brother loved his wife so well,
That if he ever should come home again,
He could not long outlive the loss of her.

Bel. If you relied on that, why did you kill

him?

Car. To make all sure. Now, you are an swered all.

Where must I go? I am tired of your questions. C. Bald. I leave the judge to tell thee what thou art;

A father cannot find a name for thee.
But parricide is highest treason, sure,
To sacred nature's law; and must be so,
So sentenced in thy crimes. Take him away-
The violent remedy is found at last,
That drives thee out, thou poison of my blood,
Infected long, and only found in thee.

[CARLOS led off. Grant me, sweet Heaven! the patience to go through

The torment of my cure-Here, here begins
The operation-Alas! she's mad.

Enter ISABELLA distracted, held by her Women; I hair dishevelled; her little Son running in before, being afraid of her.

Vil. My Isabella! poor unhappy wretch! What can I say to her?

Isa. Nothing, nothing; 'tis a babbling world— I'll hear no more on't. When does the court sit?

-What! to sell innocent

You look like one of the pale judges here;
Minos, or Radamanth, or

I have heard of you.

acus

I have a cause to try, an honest one;

Will you not hear it? Then I must appeal

To the bright throne-Call down the heavenly

gone

But here's a little flaming cherubim-
Child. Oh, save me, save me!

[Running to BALDWIN. Isa. The Mercury of Heaven, with silver wings,

Impt for the flight, to overtake his ghost,
And bring him back again!

Child. I fear she'll kill me.

C. Bald. She will not hurt thee.

[She flings away. Isa. Will nothing do? I did not hope to find Justice on earth; 'tis not in heaven neither. Biron has watched his opportunitySoftly; he steals it from the sleeping gods, And sends it thus[Stabs herself.

Vil. She's gone, and all my joys of life with
her!-

Where are your officers of justice now?
Seize, bind me, drag me to the bloody bar!
Accuse, condemn me; let the sentence reach
My hated life- -No matter how it comes;

I'll think it just, and thank you as it falls.
Self-murder is denied me; else how soon
Could I be past the pain of my remembrance!
But I must live, grow grey with lingering grief,
To die at last in telling this sad tale.

C. Bald. Poor wretched orphan of most
wretched parents!

'Scaping the storm, thou'rt thrown upon a rock,

To perish there. The very rocks would melt,
Soften their nature, sure, to foster thee;
I find it by myself: my flinty heart,
That barren rock, on which thy father starved,
Opens its springs of nourishment to thee.
There's not a vein but shall run milk for thee.
Oh, had I pardoned my poor Biron's fault,
His first, his only fault-this had not been!
To erring youth there's some compassion due;
But while with rigour you their crimes pursue,
What's their misfortune, is a crime for you.
Hence, learn offending children to forgive:
Leave punishment to Heaven-'tis Heaven's pre-
rogative.
[Exeunt omnes.

VOL. I.

2 H

EPILOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MRS VERBRUGGEN.

Now tell me, when you saw the lady die,
Were you not puzzled for a reason why?
A buxom damsel, and of play-house race,
Not to out-live th' enjoyment of a brace!
Were that the only marriage curse in store,
How many would compound to suffer more,
And yet live on, with comfort, to threescore.
But on our Erits there is no relying,
We women are so whimsical in dying.
Some pine away for loss of ogling fellows:
Nay some have died for love, as stories tell us.
Some, say our histories, though long ago,
For having undergone a rape, or so,
Plung'd the fell dagger, without more ado.

But time has laugh'd those follies out of fashion,

And sure they'll never gain the approbation
Of ladies who consult their reputation.
For if a rape must be esteemed a curse,
Grim death and publication make it worse.
Should the opinion of the world be try'd,
They'll scarce give judgment on the plaintiff's
side;

For all must own, 'tis most egregious nonsense,
To die for being pleas'd with a safe conscience.
Nay, look not on your fans, nor turn away,
For tell me, ladies, why d'you marry, pray,
But to enjoy your wishes as you may?

As when, in hostile times, two neighbouring states
Strive by themselves, and their confederates;
The war at first is made with awkward skill,
And soldiers clumsily each other kill,
Till tine, at length, their untaught fury tames,
And into rules their heedless rage reclaims;
Then every science by degrees is made
Subservient to the man-destroying trade;
Wit, wisdom, reading, observation, art;
A well-turn'd head to guide a generous heart:
So it may prove with our contending stages,
If you will kindly but supply their wages;
Which you with ease may furnish, by retrenching
Your superfluities of wine and wenching.
Who'd grudge to spare, from riot and hard drink-
ing,

To lay it out on means to mend his thinking?
To follow such advice you should have leisure,
Since what refines your sense, refines your plea-

To virgin favours, fools have no pretence;
For maidenheads were made for men of sense,
'Tis not enough to have a horse well bred,
To shew his mettle, he must be well fed:
Nor is it all in provender and breed;

He must be try'd, and strain'd to mend his speed:
A favour'd poet, like a pamper'd horse,
Will strain his eye-balls out to win the course.
Do you but in your wisdoms vote it fit
To yield due succours to this war of wit,
The buskin with more grace should tread the
stage,

Love sigh in softer strains, heroes less rage:
Satire shall show a triple row of teeth,
And comedy shall laugh your fops to death:
Wit shall refine, and Pegasus shall foam,
And soar in search of ancient Greece and Rome,
And, since the nation's in the conquering fit,
As you by arms, we'll vanquish France in wit:
The work were over, could our poets write
With half the spirit that our soldiers fight.

The SCENE-Surinam, a colony in the West-Indies; at the time of the action of this Tragedy,

in the possession of the English.

SCENE I.

ACT I.

as long as they live, and poor women be thought decaying and unfit for the town at one or two and twenty. I'm sure we were not seven years in London.

Well. Not half the time taken notice of, sister. The two or three last years we could make nothing of it, even in a vizard mask; not in a vi

Enter WELLDON following LUCY. Lucy. What will this come to? What can it end in? You have persuaded me to leave dear England, and dearer London, the place of the world most worth living in, to follow you a hus-zard mark, that has cheated many a man into an band-hunting into America: I thought husbands grew in these plantations.

Well. Why, so they do, as thick as oranges, ripening one under another. Week after week they drop into some woman's mouth: 'Tis but a little patience, spreading your apron in expectation, and one of 'em will fall into your lap at

last.

Lucy. Ay, so you say, indeed.

Well. But you have left dear London, you say: Pray, what have you left in London that was very dear to you, that had not left you before?

Lucy. Speak for yourself, sister.

Well. Nay, I'll keep you in countenance. The young fellows, you know, the dearest part of the town, and without whom London had been a wilderness to you and me, had forsaken us a great while.

Lucy. Forsaken us! I don't know that they

ever had us.

Well. Forsaken us the worst way, child; that is, did not think us worth having; they neglected us, no longer designed upon us, they were tired of us. Women in London are like the rich silks, they are out of fashion a great while before they

wear out.

Lucy. The devil take the fashion, I say.

Well. You may tumble 'em over and over at their first coming up, and never disparage their price; but they fall upon wearing immediately, lower and lower in their value, till they come to the broker at last.

Lucy. Ay, ay, that's the merchant they deal with. The men would have us at their own scandalous rates: their plenty makes them wanton, and in a little time, I suppose, they won't know what they would have of the women themselves. Well. O yes, they know what they would have. | They would have a woman give the town a pattern of her person and beauty, and not stay in it so long to have the whole piece worn out. They would have the good face only discover'd, and not the folly that commonly goes along with it. They say there is a vast stock of beauty in the nation, but a great part of it lies in unprofitable hands; therefore, for the good of the public, they would have a draught made once a quarter, send the decaying beautics for breeders into the country, to make room for new faces to appear, to countenance the pleasures of the town.

Lucy. 'Tis very hard, the men must be young

old acquaintance. Our faces began to be as familiar to the men of intrigue, as their duns, and as much avoided. We durst not appear in public places, and were almost grudged a gallery in the churches: Even there they had their jests upon us, and cried,-she's in the right on't, good gentlewoman! since no man considers her body, she does very well indeed to take care of her soul. Lucy. Such unmannerly fellows there will always be.

Well. Then you may remember, we were reduced to the last necessity, the necessity of making silly visits to our civil acquaintance, to bring us into tolerable company. Nay, the young innsof-court beaux, of but one term's standing in the fashion, who knew nobody, but as they were shewn 'em by the orange-women, had nicknames for us: How often have they laughed out,-There goes my landlady; is not she come to let lodgings yet?

Lucy. Young coxcombs, that knew no better. Well. And that we must have come to. For your part, what trade could you set up in? You would never arrive at the trust and credit of a guinea-bawd: You would have too much business of your own, ever to mind other people's. Lucy. That is true, indeed.

Well. Then, as a certain sign that there was nothing more to be hoped for, the maids at the chocolate houses found us out, and laugh'd at us: our billets-dour lay there neglected for wastepaper: we were cry'd down so low, we could not pass upon the city; and became so notorious in our galloping way, from one end of the town to t'other, that at last we could hardly compass a competent change of petticoats to disguise us to the hackney-coachmen: and then it was near walking afoot indeed.

Lucy. Nay, that I began to be afraid of.

Well. To prevent which, with what youth and beauty was left, some experience, and the small remainder of fifteen hundred pounds a-piece, which amounted to bare two hundred between us both, I persuaded you to bring your person for a venture to the Indies. Every thing has succeeded in our voyage: I pass for your brother: One of the richest planters here happening to die just as we landed, I have claimed kindred with him. So, without making his will, he has left us the credit of his relation to trade upon: We pass for his cousins, coming here to Surinam chiefly

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