ACT I.

Siſter! ſiſter!

Whence com'ſt thou?

I come far.

What to do? Tell me—

To confer with you.

Yonder,—

What?

The caſtle there—

Well—

Contains my preſent care.

Briefly then thy care unfold.

Youthful both, and fair and true.

This was publiſh'd at their birth.

Right; and well 'tis known on earth.

Bleſt I wiſh them—

So do I.

Can you help them—

Certainly.

Hard taſk, I ween!

Hard the taſk, I know it well.

How perform it?—

Now I gueſs.

You contriv'd—

I did—

But—

What a ſituation am I in!—Is this figure really and truly Emmeline — the beloved and only daughter of great Northumberland? Every thing about me is ſo like a dream, that I am frighted to think I am awake.—O how weary I am of this dreſs! If I had known half that I ſhould have ſuffered in it, all the fairies in the world ſhould not have perſuaded me to put it on.—If I reſided here in this diſ⯑guiſe the month of the king's hunting, I was to break the ſpell I was born under, and my life was to be happy—ſo the fairy told me!—Yet the time ex⯑pires to-morrow, and nothing has happened to me but vexation and diſappointment. I muſt once more ſee this powerful yet decrepit being, who, though in⯑viſible, is always within my call —This ring, which ſhe gave me, convenes her: if I take it off and touch it thrice, ſhe appears—Once—twice—thrice!

O fairy! my ſituation is ſuch as I can bear no longer.

Patience; for it ends to-morrow.

To-morrow!—to-morrow is a thouſand years—When the horſe has all he can bear, a feather will break his back.

What's the matter?

Matter! why, in the firſt place, I have lived almoſt a month in a court—

That your ſorrow?

That my ſorrow! yes—I that have always lived in my father's principality, fair Northumberland, where a noble ſimplicity of manners ſhewed the heart to be open and underſigning; have, by your perſuaſion and aſſiſtance, left it for a place, where hypocriſy is avowed by the name of good breeding; where the moſt ſhameful licentiouſneſs is juſtified as gallantry; diſſi⯑mulation and perfidy, as addreſs and good manage⯑ment; where ſelf-intereſt is profeſſed as the firſt prin⯑ciple of wiſdom, and virtue and public ſpirit derided as extravagance and ſuperſtition.

But your dreſs was your defence.

O! it is my dreſs that expoſes me to more than half that I ſuffer. When one of my own ſex is in company, I am comparatively happy; but how unfit for a woman's ear is the converſation of men, when it is not reſtrained by knowing that a woman is preſent! I begin to fear that I ſhould hot have thought ſo well even of thoſe men I have been uſed to con⯑verſe with, if they had appeared to me as they appear to each other.—The friendſhip and confidence of theſe lords of the creation, have almoſt robbed me, a weak woman, of my allegiance:—I am frighted at the thought of living among them.

Fear not vices you deteſt.

Fear not! but what muſt I hope? O fairy! if I have implicitly followed your inſtructions, if I have hidden them in my breaſt from every friend, [6] and even from good Northumberland my father, let me no longer ſuffer the anguiſh of ſuſpenſe.

Perſevere; believe; confide.

But I have yet found no object worthy of my love.

I know the myſtery of my fate—that the happineſs of my life depends upon my ſeeing and making a friend of the moſt beautiful and accompliſh'd of men, without one thought of love—Alas!—for⯑give my doubts, my fears—ſhould you——

Hold! of foul miſtruſt beware——To [...]mor⯑row!—

Well then, till to morrow—

Soft—unhallowed feet are nigh!—Florimond—

O! that wretch haunts me like my ſhadow. To rally me for what he calls my virtue, ſeems to be his ſupreme delight; he is proud of his own inſenſi⯑bility to what gives me pain: the confuſion he throws me into, he conſiders as a teſt of his own abilities and accompliſhments; and as vanity is his predominant paſſion, he is ſo aſſiduous to ſecure the enjoyment of his ſuperiority, that I can ſcarce eſcape him one hour in a day.

But how? where?—dear, dear fairy!—

Gone!—Myſtery! perplexity, and diſtreſs! She ſports too with my anxiety! I almoſt wiſh I had not truſted her: but 'tis too late—Here comes Flo⯑rimond, and my torment begins.

Ha! my little Gondibertus! have I found you?—What all alone

? Egad I was in hopes there had been a wench in the caſe, and that I might have given thee joy of thy reformation.

Sir, I choſe to be alone. Solitude is ſome⯑times not only uſeful, but pleaſant.

I have ſufficient ſubject for meditation, Sir; and I hoped that, as there is a ball at the caſtle to⯑night, you would have been better engag'd than to watch my privacy.

What! better engag'd than to raiſe ſuch a re⯑cruit for the beau monde, as thou art?—Come, come, thou ſhalt not thus ſteal away from good company to thyſelf.

Sir, upon my word, I'm fit company for none but myſelf at preſent.

Pſhaw!—what always muzzy, with a diſmal countenance as long as a taylor's bill! Come, chear up, boy, I've news for thee.

For me, Sir!

Aye, to divert thee I mean; that's all.

What, is it any thing uncommon then?

No faith, not very uncommon neither; tho' perhaps thou may'ſt make a wonder of it.—'Tis only an heireſs that's juſt run away with a young fellow.

That, indeed, is not ſo uncommon as might be wiſh'd. But who is ſhe? is ſhe of any faſhion?

Yes faith, ſhe is of ſome faſhion; Northum⯑berland's fair daughter Emmeline, that's all—

Oh!—

What, thy virtue is ſhock'd at the licent ouſ⯑neſs of the age? Ha, ha, ha!—Or art thou a lover of the fair Emmeline's? hey!

What ſhall I ſay? my confuſion will certainly betray me—'Twas only a ſudden pain ſhot croſs my bread—But what particulars do you hear?

Why it ſeems ſhe got leave of her father to follow him hither; and it is juſt accidentally diſcovered, that ſhe left his caſtle the next day, though ſhe has not been here yet.

Well; but why do you therefore conclude, that ſhe's gone off with a man?

Why only becauſe the duke of Kent's ſon, Edgar, diſappeared upon the ſame pretence, juſt at the ſame time; and both have been miſſing ever ſince.

And is this ſufficient to authorize a poſitive aſſertion to the prejudice of a reputation, which hi⯑therto not ſlander itſelf has preſum'd to ſtain?

Ha! ha! ha! Not ſlander itſelf has preſum'd to ſtain! Ha, ha, ha.

O my heart! what new inſult am I doom'd to ſuffer?—You'll excuſe me, Sir, if, upon this occaſion, I take the liberty to tell you, that your mirth is rather ill-timed; and—

Sir—do you know this fair lady, that you are ſo much diſpoſed to become her knight-errant?

I muſt be cautious, or my zeal may diſcover me. Sir, though I ſhould not know her, it is my point of honour, never to ſuffer the reputation of the abſent to be wantonly ſported away, upon mere circumſtances and ſurmiſe.

Your point of honour!—why to be ſure all this is very fine. But I'll tell you a ſecret, my dear— As unſtain'd as you may think the fair Emmeline's reputation, there is a certain humble ſervant of yours, that ſhall be nameleſs, who has ſome ſmall reaſon to think, that a certain piece of brittle ware, which ſhe had the keeping of, may be a little crack'd—or ſo.

aſideA wretch! who never ſaw me but in this diſguiſe—You are well acquainted with her then?

Why—I am—

And pray, what kind of woman is ſhe?

Why, ſhe's a pretty—upon my word, a very pretty wench.

But is ſhe tall, or ſhort, or brown, or fair?

You have never ſeen her, you ſay?

No more than I do this moment.

Then I may venture—Why ſhe is fair, tall, and ſlender; has a fine neck, a very fine neck! her limbs remarkably well turn'd, her leg and ancle the fineſt I ever ſaw—

Oh!

Aye—I thought I ſhould ſet you a longing: but come, ſhe's not to be had at preſent it ſeems; ſo no more of her.

I cannot ſo eaſily diſmiſs her as you may imagine; and yet, perhaps, you may miſtake the reaſon.

Very likely, faith; but what is it?

Why I am aſtoniſh'd, that you make ſo light of what has happen'd to her; whether you conſider it as the loſs of a miſtreſs, or whether as a misfortune to a woman you muſt be ſuppos'd to have lov'd, and to whom you muſt have had obligations of the ſtrongeſt and moſt tender kind: one of theſe lights you muſt ſee it in.

Why, my dear, as to that, I am extreamly eaſy about loſing her; for between you and I—I cou'd ſpare her. I muſt, indeed, confeſs, that I was very fond of her once; but 'faith, the obligations were all on her ſide—It's among ourſelves.

O, my heart! what a monſtrous com⯑pound of vanity and lies is this!—How ſo, pray ſir?

Why, I us'd to meet her in her father's park night after night, at the riſk of my life; and egad, what with the danger, and what with the fatigue, I grew tir'd of her; and, to tell you the truth, pro⯑vided her another lover, to make good my retreat. It's among ourſelves.

Well ſaid—and who was that, ſir?

The very ſame Edgar that ſhe is now run away with. I thought it would be a pretty thing for him; for he is one of your fighting fellows, that is never ſo happy as when he's in danger—but I'm ſorry he has been ſo indiſcreet.

Pray, Sir—excuſe me—I don't pretend to queſtion the truth of what you ſay; but there are ſome difficulties in the ſtory, that I ſhould be glad to have clear'd up—If you was ſo much in the lady Emmeline's good graces, and had, as you ſay, no diſlike to her perſon, how came you not to think of marrying her? Such an alliance, I preſume, would not have diſhonoured you.—I ſhall confound him now.

Marrying her! Egad, ſhe knew a trick worth two o'that. I would have married her; and I told her ſo: "My dear Florimond," ſays ſhe,—her arm was then lying negligently croſs my ſhoulder, thus,— and ſhe look'd archly at me, thus,—‘My dear Flo⯑rimond, ſays ſhe, why ſhould you and I, that have now only the power of making each other happy, ſuffer a doating old prieſt to give us the power of making each other miſerable? If you were to be my huſband, you might ceaſe to be my lover; and then,’ ſays ſhe, with a moſt roguiſh leer, ‘perhaps I might be tempted to take another: you would tyrannize, I ſhould rebel; you wou'd enjoy nothing but the hope of breaking my heart, and I ſhould enjoy nothing but the hope of break⯑ing yours.’

Still, ſtill, I draw upon myſelf more confuſion.—But why then did ſhe run away with Ed⯑gar? That muſt ruin her ſchemes, both of intereſt and pleaſure.

Nay, how the devil can I tell that?

What, in your reveries!—Thou art now muſing on ſome vartuous love, like an ever faithful lovyer tell death,—ha, ha, ha!—Come, come, pſhaw, don't be a fool; ſome kind wench now would cure you—Egad, what think you of Elfrida?—Come along, we'll call at her apartment: perhaps ſhe's dreſſing, and we ſhall be admitted to her toilet. Upon my ſoul, a fine figure of a woman! a little maſculine, that's all; but take my word for it, a delicious morſel for all that!—Hark ye—, if you are not ſheepiſh, ſhe'll not be coy: it's among ourſelves—I tell you, as a friend; 'faith I don't love to monopolize —I'll juſt tickle up her fancy a little, and leave you together. Come—

Pray, ſir—

I will, 'faith.

I muſt inſiſt—

Nay, nay, come along, come along.

Sir, I muſt abſolutely be excus'd at preſent.

Why, what a plague is it now that thou haſt taken into thy head?

Sir, I have an affair that at preſent requires me to be alone; which I cannot farther explain, than—

Say no more, ſay no more,

Egad, I have gueſs'd it now—A challenge!—why, there's light enough for two people to cut one another's throats by, to be ſure—I'll away—Well, my dear, if I muſt leave you to the dew and the moonſhine, I muſt; but d'ye hear—'faith I'll to Elfrida—will you follow me? If you don't ſtay too long, you'll find an attendriſſement, that you may be oblig'd to your humble ſervant for; that's all—it's among ourſelves. —Adieu.

Why, fare thee well, thou—wretch, with⯑out a name—What will, what can become of me? [12] What is it that prompts this fool, whom as I never knew, I never could provoke, to wrong me thus? is it a ſacrifice to his vanity? or is it mere wantonneſs and ſport?—Pray heav'n this fairy don't deceive me! —What ſhall I do?— I muſt ſee her, and take her counſel in this new diſtreſs.

Ha!—ſure I dream!— Forlorn, deſerted!—this per⯑fidious goblin!—Again I touch it; once —and twice —and thrice—and yet ſhe is not here!—O I could— But though I ſee her not, ſhe may be near me, to hear and puniſh the complaints which her unkindneſs forces from me—To whom can I now eaſe my heart!—O! ſacred friendſhip!—but here I have no friend. El⯑frida —yes, ſhe indeed, as if by ſome ſecret ſympathy, claims my confidence; and my heart tells me, ſhe de⯑ſerves it—Yes, I will truſt her with my ſecret: ſhe will be a witneſs for me againſt this ſlander, and aſ⯑ſiſt me with her advice.

Here, give me the ribbons —Get you gone—I'll, call you, when I want you.

This lady has the ſtrangeſt humours!

Was ever man in ſuch ridiculous diſtreſs! I'm ſure I ne'er knew any thing like it, ſince I was Edgar the ſon of Kent. Here have I had a young tempting girl fiddle-faddling about me theſe two hours to dreſs me, forſooth—with an officious handineſs ſo provoking, that no virtue under that of a ſtockfiſh could endure it patiently. Yet an old woman upon theſe occaſions I cannot bear: and, in ſhort, I can no [13] longer bear a young one—It is my fate, they ſay, to be miſerable, if I don't get acquainted with the fineſt girl in England, without wiſhing for her; and I was told by a little goblin that ſtarted up before me, after it had led me, under the appearance of a Jack o' Lantern, into a wood, That if I could ſpend the king's hunting month here in this diſguiſe, all would be right: but how my being in petticoats ſhould make me leſs likely to love a fine girl, I cannot conceive! A fine girl, indeed, may be leſs likely to love me; but as to myſelf, it is high time for me to get into breeches, that I may get out of temptation. Here they flock about me—one ſits down juſt before me, and, without any ceremony, ties her garter—another gets me to adjuſt her tucker.—I'm the witneſs of ſo many pranks, and the confidant of ſo many ſecrets! Then I have my hours of mortification too: I am tormented by a ſwarm of profligate fops, who try to debauch every woman they ſee, with as little concern as they take ſnuff: wretches, who are as deſtitute of love, as they are of virtue; and have as little enjoy⯑ment, as they have underſtanding! And here I'm ob⯑liged to mince, and piſh, and fye,—and affect to bluſh,—'sdeath, when I'm burſting with indignation, and long to knock 'em down—I'll bear it no longer.

Ha! What again?

Again.

Art thou my good or evil genius? Tell me.

As you think me, you ſhall find me.

I will think thee then my good genius, for I would fain find thee ſo.

You muſt truſt me too, or elſe—

Truſt you!—Look at the figure I make here, and then judge if I have not truſted you.

But your virtue muſt be tried.

Tried!—By what new torments would you try it? Have I not ſuffered the two worſt things in nature, temptation and ſuſpenſe? Have not I—

No—you have not perſevered: all is loſt, if you give out.

Reſolve my doubts then; torment me no longer with ſuſpenſe: let me be certain of the event, and I will be an anchorite, in ſpight of this habit and all its works, a month longer.

Well—Obſerve me then, and learn.

What ſhall I learn?

Patience, Edgar!—Fare thee well. Ha, ha, ha!

Derided, and forſaken!—I doubt this is one of the wanton and miſchievous elves, that tanta⯑lize poor mortals for their own diverſion: however, as I have played in the farce ſo long, I'll not ſtop in the laſt ſcene.—

Ma'am, here's my lord Trifle has ſent his compliments to your la'aſhip; and begs to know, whether he ſhall have the honour of waiting upon your la'aſhip to the ball.

My compliments, am much oblig'd to his lordſhip, but am engag'd.

Yes, ma'am.

Harkye—

Ma'am.

Has Gondibert call'd here this evening?

No, ma'am.

Nor ſent?

No, ma'am.

There's a man, now, who might atone for the vices of the whole ſex! I am ſo anxious to recom⯑mend [15] myſelf to him, even in this diſguiſe; and feel ſuch a reluctance to do any thing that may diſguſt him, even while he thinks me a woman; that when he is preſent, I labour to make my manner ſuit with my appearance, I know not how, by a kind of involun⯑tary effort. How ſtrange is the rapidity with which ſome minds unite!

Ma'am, there's count Florimond.

Did not I tell you—

Yes, ma'am; and I told him,—but he ſaid he knew your la'aſhip was at home, and that he muſt ſee you.

Muſt ſee me!

Yes, ma'am; and though I told him your la'aſhip was a-dreſſing, yet he would follow me.—O Lord, he's the ſtrangeſt man!—He's here, an pleaſe your la'aſhip.—

What a farce muſt I now act! Pray heav'n it has not a tragical cataſtrophe!

My dear goddeſs!

Lard, how can you be ſo monſtrous rude!— burſting into one's dreſſing-room—and putting one into ſuch flurries—

That your heart beats in concert with mine.— The dear toilet is not more the altar of beauty, than of love.—Permit me the honour, ma'am, of aſſiſting to place that envied ornament on your boſom.

Lard, Sir!—I beg—not for the world — you quite confound me—

My life! My angel!—

Nay then there is no expedient—

Ma'am!—

I proteſt, ma'am,—

And I proteſt, Sir,—

Ma'am, I beg—

And I beg, Sir,—

O—Ma'am, your moſt humble ſervant.

Sir—I am under very great obligations to you—but I would not have you tickle up her fancy any more, upon my account—

Duce take you!—I wiſh you had been as near her as I was.

Lord, Sir—I'm in ſuch a flurry—I, I, I, I'm very ſorry I ſhould have been provok'd to any thing ſo unbecoming the delicacy of my ſex.

Upon my ſoul, ſo am I too—Sir, your humble ſervant.

You have no reaſon to apologize for your in⯑dignation, [17] madam; though your blow was ſomething ſpirited, I muſt confeſs.

I'm in ſuch confuſion, ſir—and he has made me ſuch a figure!—to treat me with indecent familiarities!

Dear madam, compoſe yourſelf, and think no more of him. He has not been much better com⯑pany to me, than he has to you, I'll aſſure you.

Lord, ſir, you ſurpriſe me!—Pray, what impertinence has he been guilty of to you?

He has been filling my ears with ſcandal, madam; a ſubject which ſeems to be equally ſuitable both to his abilities and diſpoſition! He has been telling me, that Edgar—

Who, ſir?

Edgar, madam, the ſon of the earl of Kent—

What of him, ſir?—what ſcandal has he ſpread of Edgar?—

Ha! ſo intereſted!—She loves him, ſure.

Let me conjure you, ſir, if this wretch has ſaid any thing to diſhonour Edgar, you would tell it to me.

It muſt be ſo—Your very earneſtneſs forbids me, madam.

I know I'm mov'd, and you muſt think it ſtrange.

Strange, indeed!—

Perhaps, 'tis ſtranger ſtill than you can think.

Your manner, madam—

No matter — Forms and modes become trifles too ſmall for notice, when they ſtand in com⯑petition with a friend's good name.

Her love is to diſtraction—She frights me, and is not to be truſted—

Let me conjure you—tell me—

I cannot tell you, madam.

Cannot!

I ought not—Truſt me there are reaſons— Let it ſuffice that in the ſtory I have heard, a lady's honour is as much concern'd as Edgar's; that the ſlander cannot intereſt you, more than me; that I will do my utmoſt to make it's falſehood ſo notorious, that it cannot be believ'd; and I entreat that, as you tender your peace, you would as yet enquire no far⯑ther—I know myſelf not proof againſt your importu⯑nity; and therefore you will excuſe me, if, having no other way, I ſave myſelf by flight.

Curſe on this cumberſome habit! I cannot overtake him. Was ever any thing ſo vexatious! I have been defam'd by ſome ſcandalous falſehood, and I muſt do my honour juſtice—I can, at a ſmall ex⯑pence of diſſimulation, get that wretch, Florimond, to repeat to me all that he has told to Gondibert: I will do it—and I will as yet lie in ambuſh under this diſ⯑guiſe, to make ſure of my blow.

She's gone!—What can I, or what ought I to do? If I had told her the ſtory, I muſt have diſco⯑vered myſelf to convince her it could not be true: but who knows what a jealous woman might have thought upon finding the very perſon, who is ſaid to have gone off with her lover, in ſo ſtrange a diſguiſe! —Yet ſhe will certainly contrive to hear it from Flori⯑mond; and then, good heaven! what will ſhe ſuffer, [19] if I do not convince her that it is falſe!—I muſt, I will truſt her—I have no other chance to ſave her, but by making a diſcovery, which, if I had really gone off with Edgar, it is certain I ſhould not have made, eſpecially to her. But I muſt not intrude upon her now: I will plant myſelf where I may intercept her before ſhe can ſee Florimond, and truſt to gene⯑rous friendſhip for the event.

ACT II.

AYE—ſhe was obliged to be angry, be⯑cauſe that fool Gondibert appear'd juſt in the critical minute at the door—pox take him!—I might have known it was not natural, by her over⯑doing it—it was, indeed, overdone with a vengeance! But now ſhe's in the pannicks, leſt I ſhould reſent it. Now ſhe has ſomething to ſay—and—if I am diſen⯑gag'd,—ſhe will be glad to meet me upon the terrace. If I ſhould humble her now, and not meet her—but that would be cruel. I will, however, take ſome ſtate upon me—I will look a little formal; it may ſave me ſome trouble in my future advances.—Here ſhe comes.

Sir, I hope you will not take any advantage of my weakneſs—

Weakneſs! pox on you— Your weakneſs don't lie in your arm, I'm ſure o'that.

Or ſuppoſe, ſir, that whatever reaſon I may have for deſiring this meeting—What airs the wretch gives himſelf!

—I ſay, ſir, that you would not ſuppoſe—I cannot contain myſelf!—

Poor ſoul! what confuſion! I will relax a little of my ſeverity.

Madam, I will ſuppoſe nothing, but that you have given me another oppor⯑tunity of hearing your commands.

I think, ſir, you was telling Gondibert a cer⯑tain affair between you, and Edgar, and a lady; and ſomething that, by his manner of telling it, I could not very well underſtand.

Aye—a very good introduction—a love-ſtory is a moſt excellent prelude to a love-ſcene— I perceive we are to adjourn—Why, madam, a certain fair lady, call'd Emmeline, has thought fit to make Edgar as happy, as any man can be made, except him, madam, whom you ſhall pleaſe to honour with the ſame favour—Upon my ſoul, ſhe's a fine creature!

Sir, your compliments really put me ſo out of countenance—that I ſhall bluſh to death—

Your bluſhes are ſo becoming, madam, that—

Give me leave, ſir, to entreat, that you would at preſent ſpare my confuſion, and tell me all the particulars of that affair which have come to your knowledge.

Aye—ſhe wants a luſcious deſcription now.

Why, madam, I preſume that Edgar, being fir'd with the charms of Emmeline, firſt gaz'd lan⯑guiſhingly upon her; caught her eyes the firſt time they were caſually turn'd upon him; when, in a ſoft confuſion, ſhe haſtily turn'd her look downward and bluſh'd; he took her hand, firſt preſſing it gently in his own, then raiſing it to his lips; then, madam, I preſume he might proceed to—

Sir!—I ſhall certainly be out of patience, and knock him down

—Sir, if you have any deſire to oblige me—or have any expectations, ſir, of favours—Not, ſir, that I—

My dear angel, keep me no longer in ſuſ⯑penſe; let me know your commands, that I may ful⯑fil the condition of—

Hold, Sir—You muſt then, without farther delay or interruption, give me a di⯑rect anſwer to a few ſhort queſtions.

Why, madam, it ſhall then be in your own way.

Firſt then, Sir, are you acquainted with Edgar, the young heir of Kent?

Why, madam, to proceed implicitly as you direct, I believe there are few perſons who know more of that gentleman, than your humble ſervant.

Matchleſs impudence!—And pray, Sir, what kind of a youth is he?

I ſee by her curioſity ſhe don't know him—Why, madam, the youth is a, a, a, rather ſoft—a green youth, madam, as we ſay—

Sir, theſe are terms that I do not perfectly comprehend: and, therefore, I beg you would be more explicit.

Why then, explicitly, madam, he is, upon my ſoul, a ſhallow fellow—a very ſhallow fellow, faith—It's among ourſelves.

He is.

He is indeed, madam.—The poor devil has ſome aukward good nature, and I have a kindneſs for him; but, between you and I, he'll never be ſo much a man of honour as I could wiſh him—

How, villain!—

Ma'am—!

What have I done!

To think of villainy in people that, by their rank, are ſet up as examples to others, quite tranſports me out of myſelf.—Heigh ho!—It has quite overcome me.

What a terrible virago it is!—May I preſume, madam, to lend you my hand.

It is over, Sir——I'm ſo ſubject to flur⯑ries—and my poor nerves are ſo ſhattered.— I'm extremely obliged to you for this character of Edgar— To have been guilty of any thing baſe!—

Very baſe, I aſſure you, madam.

Sir.—

Ma'am—

Fore Gad, ſhe's mad!— and upon my ſoul in my opinion damnably miſchievous.

—

Give me leave, ſir—as well as I am able— to aſk you what in particular has—but I ſee company coming—If we walk this way, we ſhall avoid them.

Avoid them!—Heaven forbid!—Per⯑haps, madam, another time—

Sir, I ſhall die, if my curioſity is not gra⯑tified.

Madam—at preſent I am—

Sir, I beg—for my reputation, that we may not be ſurpriz'd together, while I am in this diſorder.

By no means, madam—let us part this mo⯑ment—If you'll go off one way, I'll go the other.

O not for the world!—To be ſeen to part haſtily, upon being obſerved together, would be the ſubject of eternal ſcandal.—Let me beg the favour of your arm—

Lard Gad, madam!—

Sir?—

You'll pinch it through—

Lord, Sir, 'tis my fright—One naturally claſps any thing hard in a fright.

Siſter! ſiſter!

——Here am I.

Florimond, the caitiff vile—

She's gone out, and I have unfortunately miſſed her—She is certainly got to Florimond—Ha! yonder they are—Yes, it is certainly ſo—What vio⯑lent emotion!—Now they move haſtily forward— Now ſhe ſtops ſhort—her geſtures are ſcarce femi⯑nine—Now ſhe recovers herſelf—Florimond too ſeems to be frighted out of his gallantry, and extremely willing to put an end to the converſation—'Tis over! he leaves her, and ſhe comes this way.—Yes, I will open my whole heart to her; not for my ſake now, but her own. Whatever are the firſt fallies of her ſurprize and paſſion, ſhe muſt at length feel and re⯑turn my friendſhip.—Here ſhe comes: I muſt not accoſt her too abruptly.

Ha! Gondibert—I know the generous rea⯑ſon, now, of his reſerve. In this diſguiſe, what could my intereſt in Edgar appear to him, but love!—and if it had been ſo, how muſt I have been hurt by what he had to tell me!—But he is not leſs intereſted in the lady—ſo he ſaid—Sure then he is to Emmeline, what he thought Edgar was to me!—Let me then repay his generous kindneſs; let me diſcover, not only what, but who I am, to convince him that the tale is falſe, which, if true, muſt deſtroy his peace.

—You need not ſhun me, ſir; I have now nothing to aſk, that you would wiſh to con⯑ceal: I have only to requeſt, that you would forgive me for having violated your injunction, not to ſatisfy the curioſity you had raiſed. I am apprized of your kind, your generous motive; and it has inſpired my breaſt with all that it is poſſible I ſhould feel for you, a grateful and ardent friendſhip.

Your love, madam, I make no doubt, is fixed on a much nobler and more deſerving object.— Edgar, I preſume—

My connection with Edgar, ſir, is indeed, in ſome ſenſe, the reaſon why your merit cannot make an impreſſion, which I am not aſhamed to ſay it might otherwiſe have done: and yet, ſir, let me confeſs that I am not affected by the ſtory of his diſappearing with Emmeline, as you might reaſonably imagine, be⯑cauſe I know for certain that it cannot be true.

Ha! that it cannot be true—

I now owe your friendſhip a diſcovery, if in⯑deed it is a diſcovery, which I was prompted by mere regard to myſelf to have made before: I think there is a connection between you and Emmeline, that—

There is, indeed, a connection, madam— a ſecret, which you convince me it is now in vain to affect to hide—

Let me then claim it—But let me firſt, as a pledge of that friendſhip which I hope ſhall end but with our lives, give, for your ſecret, mine.—

Do then, nor keep me longer in ſuſpenſe; for ſtill, the more we talk, the more I am perplexed.

What can her ſecret be!

Why then, in the firſt place, ſir,—I am— a man —

A man!—Good Heav'n! what will become of me!

And now, let me at once embrace you as a friend: punctilios and forms no longer part us—

What ails my friend?

O! you have ruined all my pleaſing project— prevented—but no matter—

This is amazing! For heaven's ſake, what d'ye mean?—You was not ſure enamoured of my per⯑ſon—

O! no—You ſtill miſtake —

Then tell me my miſtake; for we may now converſe on even terms: our hearts may now be opened to each other, without the forms and the re⯑ſerve preſcribed in friendſhips with the ſofter ſex.

O! ſtill you wander, wide and wider ſtill— I cannot ſpeak—

You muſt—There is a ſecret, which, but now, your heart was ready to reveal—

And then I thought it known—but now—

Now my warm heart has claimed you for my friend—

And now to tell it is impoſſible—I cannot tell it—and if I could, you would not find the friend⯑ſhip that you hope—

I ſicken at his ſight—Oh my heart!

I'm all perplexity and wonder!—Your co⯑lour comes and goes, like a ſick girl's—

—You trem⯑ble!—Heavens! he faints!—

By all my wonder and my joy, a woman!—How lovely her confuſion!—O let my boſom warm thee back to life! Look up, and truſt the honour of my love: you ſhall not whiſper what you would conceal; nor will I ſeem to know it.

O! let me hide me from myſelf—my ſex thus known—in this diſguiſe! Where ſhall my con⯑ſcious bluſhes find a veil!—Who are you? Tell me, that I may hide me from your ſight for ever.

O! no—On that condition, let me ne'er be known.

Yet tell me—truſt me—

Truſt thee! Yes, with my life I'd truſt thee. Thy friend—O! know me by a ſofter name— is Kent's young heir; that Edgar you have heard ſo falſely and ſo wantonly traduc'd.

Still wonders crowd on wonders!

I dream myſelf, or this is all enchantment.

So might you think, indeed, if more you knew me.

Let me then know thee more, whom now I know as the moſt fair and gentle of thy ſex; whom yet I ſaw and lov'd without deſire—my pledge of happineſs!—May I be thine!—but yet I rave—thy fate was not like Edgar's—

Spare me—thy words have pow'r, which yet thou know'ſt not.

O! take me from the rack! My thoughts grow wild!—There is, indeed, a maid, whoſe fate I've heard was ſuch as mine—that Emmeline —O! hea⯑v'n, that Emmeline, in whom I thought thy intereſt, love!—O! yes, it muſt, it ſhall—thou, thou art ſhe!

Leave me, or I ſhall die with my confuſion—

Let me ſupport thee, hide thee in my breaſt, where thou ſhalt breathe thy anſwer in a ſigh.—Art thou not Emmeline, my fated love?

If Emmeline be thy fated love—I am—

Still let me claſp thee cloſe, and cloſer ſtill; calm all the tumults of thy feeling mind, and ſooth thee into confidence by love.

No, let me now retire: for, in this dreſs, I cannot bear to ſee myſelf, or you.

Yet ſtay—forgive the violence I do you— My fame and yours are wantonly traduc'd; 'tis fit that we do juſtice to them both, and puniſh the traducer.

He is not worth reſentment.

He is for others ſakes, though not his own. —I have a thought, would Emmeline but join—

Tell me then quickly.

Send him a challenge in behalf of Emmeline, as Gondibert; and meet him, not as Gondibert, but Emmeline: I will take care to be preſent, not as El⯑frida but Edgar: he will then be ſelf-convicted as a liar, by knowing neither of the perſons he has de⯑fam'd; and we may farther puniſh him as we pleaſe.

Well, I will try at this: but now diſmiſs me.

Farewel, my love!—How has the hand of heav'n vouchſafed to guide me through all the mazes of my fate, to bliſs! Even my revenge, my juſtice [30] rather, upon that wretch, whoſe very folly is inve⯑nom'd, ſhall be compleat—But a mind ſo baſe can never be brave—Suppoſe he ſhould not come—He's here.

Gad take me—this damn'd madwoman is cer⯑tainly fated to be my death.

Sir, I am ſo ſhock'd when I reflect upon the indecorums that my paſſions have made me guilty of to you, and my poor ſpirits are ſo flurried, that I really am not able to make my 'pology.

Ma'am, I'm extreamly ſorry—and ma'am— I muſt abſolutely fly from your ladyſhip's apology.—

Sir, I muſt beg the favour of your ear for a few minutes—I hope, ſir, you will pardon my con⯑fuſion—I have ſomething to ſay to you, ſir, that— Let me beg, ſir, that you would come a little nearer—

Pox on her—ſhe wants to faſten her damn'd claws upon me again—

Your com⯑mands, madam, always do me honour—And upon my ſoul always leave me black and blue.

I have juſt heard, ſir, ſomething that has fluſtered me to ſuch a degree—

Aye—another fright! ſhe'll certainly lay hold of me—

Ma'am—a, a, a, I hope there's no danger threatens your ladyſhip.—

Not directly me, ſir; nor indeed much danger to you: but I was willing you ſhould be prepared—

Danger—prepared—for heav'n's ſake, ma⯑dam, what d' ye mean?

Why Gondibert, ſir—you'll excuſe my free⯑dom—Lard, that I ſhould be ſo indiſcreet—I'm ſen⯑ſible, that the intereſt I take in the affair, may be liable to conſtructions of ſuch a nature—that—

Lord, ma'am, if there is any villainous de⯑ſign againſt me, I beſeech you to let me know it—

Perhaps we had better change our ground; ſome villain may be taking aim at me as I ſtand.

You need not be under ſuch apprehenſions, ſir; it is a matter of no conſequence—It is only, that Gondibert is to ſend you a challenge, for the liberty you have taken with lady Emmeline; that's all—

Oh, if it's only an intention of Gondibert to cut my throat, to be ſure that's a matter of no con⯑ſequence—A bloody-minded ruffian▪

Why, ſir, to my certain knowledge, Gondibert knows no more of a ſword, than a girl of eighteen; and has not a grain more courage.

Why, as to that, madam—

As to that, ſir, I am confident it would make no difference to you; but as I know he won't fight, and only preſumes upon an inſolent opinion, that count Florimond's courage is as queſtionable as his own—

How, madam!

Lard, ſir, if you are ſo violent, I ſhall cer⯑tainly fall into my tremors—I ſhall certainly want the ſupport of your arm.

Mercy upon me! and I ſhall want but very little killing afterwards, if you do.

I ſay, ſir, I think he ſhould be properly expos'd; and I hope you'll act accordingly.

Madam—excuſe me—a coward is my aver⯑ſion; and you may depend upon his being chaſtiſed with moſt exemplary ſeverity— but I ſhould be ſorry to miſtake his character

—You know he won't fight?—

Sir, if you ſuſpect my vera⯑city—

O! Lord, madam—no, not in the leaſt.

You'll excuſe me, ſir: I am really aſham'd —of the liberty I have taken—Sir, your humble ſervant.

Madam, your moſt obedient—Thank heav'n, ſhe's gone—It was a lucid interval; but it would not have been of much longer continuance. I'm oblig'd to her though, for her information—indeed am I— Egad, I'll make a figure in this buſineſs—But if the challenge is coming, I muſt be at home to receive it.

Wherefore, wherefore?

Tell me.

Tell me.

What is finiſh'd?

What is plann'd?

Peace—the ſiſters are at hand.

This is the place, and this is the time—but I ſee no ſigns of my little Gondibertus—Ha! here comes a bona roba, whom I have not the honour to know—Egad this affair will turn out with an eclat— very much to my honour—I'll make the moſt of it: I'll let her into my buſineſs here, without ſeeming to ſee her.

A poltron! not to meet me upon his own challenge— I'll make him know what it is to inſult a man of ho⯑nour [34] —If the wretch had met me, I would have given him his life; but now to ſpare him—a ſcandal to man⯑kind! Ha!

'Death, interrupted and diſcovered! —

Madam—I proteſt—I am confounded—I am afraid that my natural impetuoſity has a, a, a—

Sir, I am very ſorry that I ſhou'd have in⯑truded upon your privacy; but, perhaps, I have pre⯑vented ſomething that would have had worſe con⯑ſequences.

Madam, I am not at liberty—

By the few words, ſir, which juſt now invo⯑luntarily eſcaped you, I know that you are waiting here upon an affair of honour—but I intreat—

Madam, it is impoſſible—nothing but his life can atone for the inſult.

You will excuſe a woman, though a ſtranger, ſir, upon ſuch an occaſion: may I intreat to know, ſir, who has had the misfortune to incur the reſent⯑ment of a gentleman, who ſeems ſo little to deſerve ill treatment, and ſo able to puniſh it?

Madam, you do me honour—She is making advances already

—Why, madam, as the treat⯑ment I have received makes it an act of juſtice to tell, what I ſhould otherwiſe rather die than diſcover, I will comply with your requeſt—Hem! A little dirty dependant upon the court here, madam, one Gondi⯑bert, thought fit to ſend me a challenge, upon account of ſomething I happened to ſay concerning a lady, in whole good graces I happen'd to be, and whom a fooliſh young fellow that I was a friend to has thought fit to run away with; and, madam, though I have ſo far treated him like a gentleman, as to accept his challenge, he has not come to the place appointed, and it is now half an hour paſt the time.

Methinks I ſee ſomebody at a diſtance, coming this way; perhaps that may be the gentleman—

Ah! egad that's certainly he—

Now if he ſhould not be a coward at laſt—Madam a, a, a, for God's ſake retire —for—a, a, a.

Sir, I believe it will not be neceſſary; for I'm pretty ſure now, that the gentleman is a friend of mine—

A friend of yours, madam! pray who is he?

A gentleman, ſir, who, I am ſure, will be extreamly glad to be better known to you.

Yes, 'tis he, 'tis Edgar! With what elegance and dignity he looks the man!

How ſoft, how lovely in her female dreſs!

Sir, as we are now no longer alone, I may confeſs, that I am not altogether a ſtranger to your perſon or your merit.

Sir, this is

a gentleman to whom both you and I have ſome obligations, which I believe he is not at preſent aware of.

Upon my word, madam, you abſolutely con⯑found me—this exceſſive honour—is it poſſible that I ſhould have been ſo happy, as to confer obligations— pray, madam, may I crave the honour of your name?

Do you not at all recollect that lady, ſir?

Upon my ſoul, ſir, I cannot ſay that I do.

Who, now, do you think it can poſſibly be, of all that your polite generoſity has oblig'd?

Let me periſh, ſir, if I can tell.

Why, ſir, that lady is one Emmeline; with whom, as ſhe tells me, you was formerly moſt inti⯑mately acquainted; and whom you lately converſed with, ſir, in diſguiſe, by the name on Gondibert: it's among ourſelves.—What! quite confounded, ſir!

Ha! ha! ha! confound⯑ed! Ha! ha! ha! No, no, ſir: you have had your jeſt, and I have had mine. I knew well enough who I was talking to, when I play'd upon the little Gon⯑dibertus—Ah! I thought I ſhould make you ſmart for your frolic—I told Elfrida my whole ſcheme—

You told Elfrida your whole ſcheme—

But pray, ſir, as you did not know my per⯑ſon in my own dreſs, how came you to know me in diſguiſe?

Why, madam, to confeſs the truth, I was let into the ſecret by a friend.

Egad, this goes ſwimmingly.—

Well, ſir; but pray give me leave to bring you acquainted with a perſon, who, I'm ſure, you are at preſent totally a ſtranger to—Pray, who do you think I am?

Heaven knows! but I wiſh I was fairly out of your clutches—Upon my ſoul, ſir, I have not the honour to know you, any otherwiſe than as a gentleman, whom I ſhould be extremely proud to conſider as my friend.

Why, ſir, I have the honour to be one Ed⯑gar; a very ſhallow fellow, ſir, that you had ſome kindneſs for, becauſe he was aukwardly good-natured: I have alſo had the honour to receive ſeveral of your civilities, under the name of Elfrida—It's among ourſelves.

Sir, your moſt humble ſervant—I have at this time ſome urgent buſineſs—

So have I, ſir; and therefore you muſt not leave me yet—You may remember, ſir, that you told me your whole ſcheme to puniſh Emmeline for her frolick, and to mortify her with ſtories of herſelf by way of joke.

Sir, I beſeech you—

Sir, I am extremely ſorry for the occaſion; but as this lady has not got her fighting cloaths on, [37] you muſt excuſe me if I take her challenge upon my⯑ſelf; and ſo ſir—

—it's among ourſelves.

What has my thoughtleſs indiſcretion done!

Ah, dear ſir, now you are too ſerious—

This muſt not be—For heav'ns ſake, Edgar, hear me!

Fear not, my love—Sir, whatever you may think, this is but ſport to what is to follow—and ſo, ſir, without more words—

O Lord, ſir!—I beſeech you, madam—

For my ſake, Edgar—

Truſt me—Draw, ſir, or—

Sir, I don't deſire to do you any harm; I don't, upon my ſoul, ſir.

Scoundrel, coward, draw!

Conſider, Edgar—

Ay, do, dear ſir, conſider—

Conſider what?

That I am but a poor, miſerable, lying cox⯑comb, ſir—Indeed, ſir, I am—

It is better to diſmiſs him, Edgar, as be⯑neath your reſentment.

So it is, indeed, ſir—a great deal better.

He is worthy only of contempt.

It is very true indeed, ſir,

Art thou not a wretch, without the leaſt principle of truth or honour?

Yes, ſir.

Art thou not infamous, as a ſlanderer and a coward?

Yes, ſir.

Have not thy very follies the malignity of vices; and is it not a diſgrace to nature, to conſider thee as a man?

Any thing, dear ſir, if you will but ſpare my life.—If you chuſe any other ſatisfaction, ſir; if you would be content to kick me into ſome dark corner, [38] and leave me, I ſhould think myſelf under infinite ob⯑ligations to you.

Hence then—and be thyſelf thy puniſhment!

Ha!—Fear not, my Emmeline! It is a friendly pow'r, familiar to my ſight.

What! is ſhe known to you?—My friend! my guide!

And mine!—

Riſe both, both bleſt!——

Forgive my diffidence—When my heart ac⯑cuſed you, I was overwhelmed with diſtreſs!—Your promiſe to come at my call, was not fulfill'd.

I came not, that I might ſend you hither:

Your friendſhip was the parent of your love.

I too have need of your forgiveneſs! pardon my diſtruſt.

She's gone! the kind propitious ſpright, that has led us, hoodwink'd, to the happineſs, which, ſeeing, we had miſs'd.

Let us then haſte to follow her laſt advice; for I can truſt her now.

Edgar, Edgar, Edgar!

Hark! What voice?

Perhaps ſome other kind and inviſible be⯑ing—There's muſic too—

It comes, another tiny ſpright—It cannot mean us ill—It beckons you—