ACT I. SCENE 1.

See! my dear Dorcas, what we glean'd yeſter⯑day in Mr. Belville's fields!

Lord love thee! but take care of thyſelf: thou art but tender.

Indeed it does not hurt me. Shall I put out the lamp?

Do, dear: the poor muſt be ſparing.

Why do you ſigh, Dorcas?

I canno' bear it: its nothing to Phoebe and me, but thou waſt not born to labour.

Why ſhould I repine? Heaven, which depriv⯑ed me of my parents and my fortune, left me health, content, and innocence. Nor is it certain that riches lead to happineſs. Do you think the nightingale ſings the ſweeter for being in a gilded cage.

Sweeter, I'll maintain it than the poor little linnet which thou pick'ſt up half ſtarv'd under the hedge yeſterday, after its mother had been ſhot, and brought'ſt to life in thy boſom. Let me ſpeak to his honor, he's main kind to the poor.

Not for worlds, Dorcas, I want nothing: you have been a mother to me.

Wou'd I cou'd! wou'd I cou'd! I ha' work'd hard and 'arn'd money in my time; but now I am old and feeble, and am puſh'd about by every body.

More's the pity, I ſay: it was not ſo in my young time; but the world grows wicked every day.

Your age, my good Dorcas, requires reſt: go into the cottage, while Phoebe and I join the gleaners, who are aſſembling from every part of the village.

Many a time have I carried thy dear mother, an infant, in theſe arms: little did I think a child of her's would live to ſhare my poor pittance.—But I wo'not grieve thee.

What makes you ſo melancholy, Roſina? Mayhap it's becauſe you have not a ſweetheart? But you are ſo proud you won't let our young men come a-near you. You may live to repent being ſo ſcornful.

How ſmall a part of my evils is poverty! And how little does Phoebe know the heart ſhe thinks inſen⯑ſible! [8] The heart which nouriſhes a hopeleſs paſſion. I bleſt, like others, Belville's gentle virtues, and knew not that 'twas love. Unhappy! loſt Roſina!

To work, my hearts of oak, to work; here the ſun is half an hour high, and not a ſtroke ſtruck yet.

Hiſt! there's his honor. Where are all the lazy Iriſhmen I hir'd yeſterday at market?

Is it us he's talking of, Paddy? Then the devil may thank him for his good commendations.

You are too ſevere, Ruſtic, the poor fellows came three miles this morning; therefore I made them ſtop at the manor-houſe to take a little refreſhment.

God love your ſweet face, my jewel, and all thoſe that take your part. Bad luck to myſelf if I would not, with all the veins of my heart, ſplit the dew before your feet in a morning.

If I do ſpeak a little croſs, it's for your honor's good.

What a dickens does this girl do here? Keep back: wait till the reapers are off the field, do like the other gleaners.

If I have done wrong, Sir, I will put what I have glean'd down again.

How can you be ſo unfeeling, Ruſtic? ſhe is lovely, virtuous, and in want. Let fall ſome ears, that ſhe may glean the more.

Your honour is too good by half.

No more: gather up the corn ſhe has let fall. Do as I command you.

There, take the whole field, ſince his honor chuſes it.

I will not abuſe his goodneſs.

Upon my ſoul now, his honor's no churl of the wheat, whate'er he may be of the barley.

What bewitching ſoft⯑neſs! There is a bluſhing, baſhful, gentleneſs, an al⯑moſt infantine innocence in that lovely countenance, which it is impoſſible to behold without emotions! She turns this way: What bloom on that cheek! 'Tis the bluſhing down of the peach.

Good morrow, brother; you are early abroad.

My dear Charles, I am happy to ſee you. True, I find to the firſt of September.

I meant to have been here laſt night, but one of my wheels broke, and I was obliged to ſleep at a village ſix miles diſtant, where I left my chaiſe, and took a boat down the river at day-break. But your corn is not off the ground.

You know our harveſt is late in the north, but you will find all the lands clear'd on the other ſide the mountain.

And, pray, brother, how are the par⯑tridges this ſeaſon?

There are twenty coveys within ſight of my houſe, and the dogs are in fine order.

The game-keeper is this moment leading them round. I am fir'd at the ſight.

But where is my little ruſtic charmer? O! there ſhe is: I am tranſported. Pray, [12] brother is not that the little girl whoſe dawning beauty we admir'd ſo much laſt year?

It is, and more lovely than ever. I ſhall dine in the field with my reapers to-day, brother, will you ſhare our rural repaſt, or have a dinner prepar'd at the manor-houſe?

By no means: pray let me be of your party: your plan is an admirable one, eſpecially if your girls are handſome: I'll walk round the field, and meet you at dinner-time.

Come this way, Ruſtic; I have ſome orders to give you.

Lead the dogs back, James, the Captain won't ſhoot to-day

Indeed? ſo cloſe? I don't half like it.

That's a good girl! Do as I bid you, and you ſhan't want encouragement.

O, no; I dare ſay ſhe won't. So Mrs. Phoebe.

And ſo, Mr. William, if you go to that!

A new ſweetheart, I'll be ſworn; and a pret⯑ty comely lad he is: but he's rich, and that's enough to win a woman.

I don't deſarve this of you, William: But I'm rightly ſarved, for being ſuch an eaſy fool. You think, mayhap, I'm at my laſt prayers; but you may find yourſelf miſtaken.

You do right to cry out firſt; you think belike that I did not ſee you take the poſy from Harry.

And you belike that I did not catch you tying up one of the cornflowers and wild roſes for the miller's maid: But I'll be fool'd no longer; I have done with you, Mr. William.

I ſhan't break my heart, Mrs. Phoebe. The miller's maid loves the ground I walk on.

Stay, and hear me, Roſina. Why will you fatigue yourſelf thus? Only homely girls are born [14] to work.—Your obſtinacy is vain; you ſhall hear me.

Why do you ſtop me, Sir? My time is preci⯑ous. When the gleaning ſeaſon is over, will you make up my loſs?

Yes.

Will it be any advantage to you to make me loſe my day's work?

Yes.

Would it give you pleaſure to ſee me paſs all my days in idleneſs?

Yes.

We differ greatly then, Sir. I only wiſh for ſo much leiſure as makes me return to my work with freſh ſpirit. We labour all the week, 'tis true; but then how ſweet is our reſt on Sunday!

Meer prejudice, child: you will know better. I pity you, and will make your fortune.

Let me call my mother, Sir. I am young, and can ſupport myſelf by my labour; but ſhe is old and helpleſs, and your charity will be well beſtow'd. Pleaſe to transfer to her the bounty you intended for me.

Why—as to that—

I underſtand you, Sir; your compaſſion does not extend to old women.

Really—I believe not.

You are juſt come in time, mother. I have met with a generous gentleman, whoſe charity inclines him to ſuccour youth.

'Tis very kind.—And old age—

He'll tell you that himſelf.

I thought ſo—Sure, ſure, 'tis no ſin to be old.

You muſt not judge of me by others, honeſt Dorcas. I am ſorry for your misfortunes, and wiſh to ſerve you.

And to what, your honor, may I owe this kindneſs?

You have a charming daughter—

I thought as much. A vile, wicked man.

Beauty like hers might find a thouſand reſources in London: the moment ſhe appears there, ſhe will turn every head.

And is your honour ſure her own won't turn at the ſame time?

She ſhall live in affluence, and take care of you too, Dorcas.

I gueſs your honor's meaning; but you are miſtaken, Sir. If I muſt be a trouble to the dear child, I had rather owe my bread to her labor than her ſhame.

Theſe women aſtoniſh me: but I won't give it up ſo.

A word with you, Ruſtic.

I'm in a great hurry, your honour: I am going to haſten dinner.

I ſhan't keep you a minute. Take theſe five guineas.

For whom, Sir?

For yourſelf. And this purſe.

For whom, Sir?

For Roſina: They ſay ſhe is in diſtreſs, and wants aſſiſtance.

What pleaſure it gives me to ſee you ſo chari⯑table! You are juſt like your brother.

Prodigiouſly.

But why give me money, Sir?

Only to—Tell Roſina there is a per⯑ſon who is very much intereſted in her happineſs.

How much you will pleaſe his honor by this! He takes mightily to Roſina, and prefers her to all the young women in the pariſh.

Prefers her! Ah! you ſly rogue!

Your honor's a wag; but I'm ſure I meant no harm.

Give her the money, and tell her ſhe ſhall never want a friend: but not a word to my brother.

All's ſafe, your honor.

[17] I don't vaſtly like this buſineſs. At the Captain's age this violent charity is a little duberous. I am his honor's ſervant, and it's my duty to hide nothing from him. I'll go ſeek his honor; O here he comes.

Well, Ruſtic, have you any intelligence to communicate?

A vaſt deal, Sir. Your brother begins to make a good uſe of his money: he has given me theſe five guineas for myſelf, and this purſe for Roſina.

For Roſina!

'Tis plain he loves her? Obey him exactly; but as diſtreſs renders the mind haughty, and Roſina's ſituation requires the utmoſt de⯑licacy, contrive to execute your commiſſion in ſuch a manner that ſhe may not even ſuſpect from whence the money comes.

I underſtand your honor.

Have you gained any intelligence in reſpect to Roſina?

I endeavour'd to get all I could from the old woman's grandaughter; but all ſhe knew was, that ſhe was no kin to Dorcas, and that ſhe had had a good bringing-up: but here are the labourers.

"Let the cloth be laid on theſe ſheaves. Be⯑hold the table of happineſs!" But I don't ſee Roſina. Dorcas, you muſt come to, and Phoebe.

We can't deny your honor.

I am aſham'd; but you command, Sir.

ACT II.

THIS purſe is the plague of my life: I hate mo⯑ney when it is not my own. I'll e'en put in the five guineas he gave me for myſelf: I don't want it, and they do. But I hear the cottage door open.

I am juſt going, Roſina, to carry this thread to the weaver's.

This baſket is too heavy for you: pray let me carry it.

No, no.

If you love me, only take half: this evening, or to-morrow morning, I will carry the reſt.

There, be angry with me if you pleaſe.

No, my ſweet lamb, I am not angry: but be⯑ware of men.

Have you any doubts of my conduct, Dor⯑cas?

Indeed I have not, love; and yet I am un⯑eaſy.

Now; now whilſt they turn their heads.

I have diſpos'd of your money, Sir.

Come this way.

Go back to the reapers, whilſt I carry this thread.

I'll go this moment.

But as I walk but ſlow, and 'tis a good way, you may chance to be at home before me, ſo take the key.

I will.

Roſina to be at home before Dor⯑cas? How lucky! I'll ſlip into the houſe, and wait her coming, if 'tis till midnight.

Let nobody go into the houſe.

I'll take care; but firſt I'll double-lock the door.

Good lack! What is here? a purſe as I live!

How?

Come, and ſee; 'tis a purſe indeed.

Heavens! 'tis full of gold!

We muſt put up a bill at the church gate, and reſtore it to the owner. The beſt way is to carry the [22] money to his honor, and get him to keep it till the owner is found. You ſhall go with it, love.

Pray excuſe me, I always bluſh ſo—

'Tis nothing but childiſhneſs: but his honor will like your baſhfulneſs better than too much courage.

I cannot ſupport his preſence—my embarraſſ⯑ment—my confuſion—a ſtronger ſenſation than that of gratitude agitates my heart—Yet hope in my ſituation were madneſs.

Pray, William, do you know of any body that has loſt a purſe?

I knows nothing about it.

Dorcas, however has found one.

So much the better for ſhe.

You will oblige me very much if you will carry it to Mr. Belville; and beg him to keep it till the owner is found,

Since you deſire it, I'll go: it ſhan't be the lighter for my carrying.

That I am ſure of, William.

There is William; but I'll pretend not to ſee him.

That's Harry's poſy; the ſlut likes me ſtill.

That's a copy of his countenance, I'm ſartin; he can no more help following me nor he can be hang'd.

I'm ready to choak wi' madneſs, but I'll not ſpeak firſt an I die for't.

I can't bear it no longer—you vile, ungrateful, parfidious—But its no matter—I can't think what I could ſee in you,—Harry loves me, and is a thouſand times more handſomer.

He's yonder a reaping: ſhall I call him?

My grandmother leads me the life of a dog; and its all along of you.

Well, then ſhe'll be better temper'd now.

I did not value her ſcolding of a braſs farthing, when I thought as how you were true to me.

Wasn't I true to you? Look in my face, and ſay that.

"I ſee Kate waiting for me. Bye, Phoebe."

"Good bye to you."

Let's part friendly howſomever. Bye, Phoebe: I ſhall always wiſh you well.

Bye, William.

My heart begins to melt a little.—

I lov'd you very well once, Phoebe; but you are grown ſo croſs, and have ſuch vagaries—

I'm ſure I never had no vagaries with you, William. But go, mayhap Kate may be angry.

And who cares for ſhe? I never minded her [25] anger, nor her coaxing neither, till you were croſs to me.

O the father! I croſs to you, William?

Did not you tell me this very morning as how you had done wi' me?

One word's as good as a thouſand. Do you love me, William?

Do I love thee? Do I love dancing on the green better than thraſhing in the barn? Do I love a wake? a harveſt-home?

Then I'll never ſpeak to Harry again the longeſt day I have to live.

I'll turn my back o' the miller's maid the firſt time I meet her.

Will you indeed, and indeed?

Marry, will I; and more nor that, I'll go ſpeak to the parſon this moment—

I'm happier—zooks, I'm happier nor a lord or a ſquire of five hundred a year.

"Why doſt talk of Lords and ſquires, Wil⯑liam? we poor folks are happier by far, if ſo be we are but content. Did not the parſon bid us mind how the ſtorm bow'd the great trees on the hills, whilſt the lit⯑tle ſhrubs in the valley ne'er bent a head for the mat⯑ter?"

"Thou ſay'ſt true, Phoebe."

I tremble at the impreſſion this lovely girl has made upon my heart. My chearfulneſs has left me, and I am grown inſenſible even to the delicious plea⯑ſure of making thoſe happy who depend on my pro⯑tection.

"Here's his honor, Phoebe: wait for me at the ſtile.

Pleaſe your honor, I am ſent to tell you Dorcas and Roſina have found a purſe.

Does any body claim it?

No, Sir.

Let them keep it, William.

But they charg'd me, pleaſe your honor, to give it you.

Go, William and carry it back.

He put it there himſelf: I thought ſo; 'tis ſo like him. I ſhall, your honor."

Since the ſun roſe, I have been in continual exerciſe; I feel exhauſted, and will try to reſt a quar⯑ter of an hour on this bank.

What do I ſee? Mr. Belville aſleep? I'll ſteal ſoftly—at this moment I may gaze on him without bluſhing.

The ſun points full on this ſpot; let me faſten theſe branches together with this ribbon, and ſhade him from its beams—yes—that will do—But if he ſhould wake—

How my heart beats; One look more—Ah! I have wak'd him—

What noiſe was that?

"He is angry—How unhappy I am!—How I tremble!"

This ribbon I have ſeen before, and on the lovely Roſina's boſom—

I will hide myſelf in the houſe.

Heavens! a man in the houſe!

Now, love aſſiſt me!

Why do you fly thus, Roſina! "What can you fear? You are out of breath."

O, Sir!—my ſtrength fails—

Where is he?—A gentleman purſued me—

Don't be alarm'd 'twas my brother—he could not mean to offend you.

Your brother? Why then does he not imitate your virtues? Why was he here?

Forget this; you are ſafe. But tell me, Roſi⯑na, for the queſtion is to me of importance? have I not ſeen you wear this ribbon?

Forgive me, Sir; I did not mean to diſturb you. I only meant to ſhade you from the too great heat of the ſun

To what motive do I owe this tender atten⯑tion?

Ah, Sir! Do not the whole village love you?

"At this moment, Roſina, think me a brother; or a friend a thouſand times more affectionate than a brother." You tremble; why are you alarm'd!

Unveil your whole heart to me, Roſina. The graces of your form, the native dignity of your mind which breaks through the lovely ſimplicity of your de⯑portment, a thouſand circumſtances concur to convince me you were not born a villager.

To you, Sir, I can have no reſerve. A pride, I hope an honeſt one, made me wiſh to ſigh in ſecret over my misfortunes.

They are at an end.

Dorcas approaches, Sir; ſhe can beſt relate my melancholy ſtory.

His honor here? Good lack! How ſorry I am I happen'd to be from home. Troth, I'm ſadly tir'd.

Why would you inſiſt on going? Indeed Sir, ſhe will kill herſelf.

Will you let me ſpeak with you a moment alone, Dorcas?

Sure will I, your honor. Roſina, take this baſket.

I'll "put the reſt of the thread in, and" run with it to the weaver's.

Roſina has taken that bye road: run in⯑ſtantly, and execute my orders, but be prudent, and watch the moment.

Will your honor pleaſe to walk into our homely cottage?

I thank you, Dorcas, but 'tis pleaſanter here: ſit down by me on the bench.

"Dear ſoul! not a bit of pride."

Roſina has referr'd me to you, Dorcas, for an account of her birth, which I have long ſuſpected to be above her preſent ſituation.

To be ſure, your honor, ſince the dear child gives me leave to ſpeak, ſhe's of as good a family as any in England. Her mother, ſweet lady, was my bountiful old maſter's daughter, Squire Welford of Lincolnſhire.

What happineſs! But go on.

He was a noble gentleman, and nobody's enemy but his own. His eſtate was ſeiz'd for a mort⯑gage of not half its value, juſt after young madam was married, and ſhe ne'er got a penny of her portion. They ſay, if Roſina had a friend, ſhe might get the eſtate again by paying the mortgage.

And her father?

Was a brave gentleman too, a colonel: A charming couple they were, and lov'd one another ſo, it would have done your heart good to ſee them. His honor went to the Eaſtern Indies, to better his fortune, and Madam would go wi' him. The ſhip was loſt, and they with all the little means they had, went to the bottom. Young Madam Roſina was their only child; they left her at ſchool; but when this ſad news came, the miſtreſs did not care for keeping her, ſo the dear child has ſhar'd my poor morſel.

'Tis enough, Dorcas: you ſhall not repent your kindneſs to her. But her father's name?

Martin; Colonel Martin.

I am too happy: he was the friend of my fa⯑ther's heart: a thouſand times have I heard him la⯑ment his fate. Roſina's virtues ſhall not go unrewarded.

Yes, I know'd it wou'd be ſo. Heaven never forſake's the good man's children.

I have another queſtion to aſk you, Dorcas, and anſwer me ſincerely; is her heart free?

To be ſure, ſhe never would let any of our young men come a-near her, and yet—

Speak: I am on the rack.

I'm afear'd—ſhe mopes and ſhe pines—But your honor wou'd be angry—I'm afear'd the Cap⯑tain—

Then my foreboding heart was right! 'Tis well, Dorcas; I ſee my brother yonder, leave us.

I'll go ſeek for the dear child.

I wiſh it was over; I'm not quite eaſy.

I thought you intended to ſhoot to-day, bro⯑ther?

No; I chang'd my mind.

You fancied it pleaſanter chatting with Ro⯑ſina?

With Roſina?

O, don't affect ignorance, I ſaw you come out of her cottage.

True, yes; I had forgot. Fatigu'd with the heat, I enter'd the houſe, and finding nobody there, threw myſelf on the bed, and fell aſleep: that was all, I aſſure you.

Not quite: for whom was the purſe intended? Come, brother, you love her.

Juſt as I love all pretty women: one muſt be amus'd in the country.

I ſee plainly the ſource of all your errors, bro⯑ther: an early acquaintance with the worſt part of the ſex, has given you an unfavourable idea of the beſt. But time will correct that miſtake; "your heart is [32] noble, and therefore cannot but be charm'd with Vir⯑tue when ſhe comes led by the Loves and the Graces." Be ſincere with me, brother; do you think Roſina loves you?

She has a few palpitations, I believe; but the little fool does not know what ails her.

'Tis enough; ſince ſhe loves you, you ſhall marry her.

Marry her? Do I hear right?

Why do you ſmile? ſhe is amiable, and merits to be treated with reſpect.

Reſpect? I ſhall expire—Reſpect—a little gleaner! no power of face can ſtand this.

Hear me, Sir.

But pray, Charles, ſince ſhe is ſo very reſpectable, why not marry her yourſelf?

I wiſh her partiality for you did not pre⯑vent my taking your advice. To obviate every objec⯑tion, ſhe is your equal; the daughter of Col. Martin, and intitled to a ſhare of her grandfather's eſtate. In the mean time, obtain her conſent, and a third of my fortune is yours.

This alters the caſe extremely, brother: Roſina in herſelf—But let us find her.

Whither are you going, brother?

Only to—S'death! What ſhall I ſay? I am ruin'd if my fellows meet her—

Help, for Heaven's ſake, Sir! I have loſt my child!—ſhe is carried away—

Roſina?

Don't be alarm'd—let me go—

I heard her cries, and ran to the place; but ſhe was gone.—

I fly to ſave her.

With me, Sir,—I will not loſe ſight of you. Ruſ⯑tic, haſten inſtantly with our Reapers. Dorcas, you will be our guide.

Don't be frighted, Sir; the Iriſhmen have reſcued her; ſhe is juſt here.

Dry your tears, my jew⯑el; we have done for them.

Have you ſav'd her? I owe you more than life.

Faith, good woman, you owe nothing at all. I'll tell your honor how it was. My comrades and I were croſſing the meadow, going home, when we ſaw them firſt; and hearing a woman, cry, I look'd up, and ſaw them putting her into a ſkiff againſt her will. Says I, Paddy, is not that the clever little crater that was glaning in the field with us this morning? "'Tis ſo, ſure enough," ſays he. "By St. Patrick," ſays I, "there's enough of us to reſcute her." With that we ran for the bare life, waded up to the knees, laid about us bravely with our ſhillelays, knock'd them out of the ſkiff, and brought her back ſafe: and here ſhe comes, my jewel.

I canno' ſpeak—Art thou ſafe?—

I dread to find the criminal.

Your honor need not go far afield, I believe; it muſt have been ſome friend of the Captain's, for his French valet commanded the party.

I confeſs my crime; my paſſion for Ro⯑ſina hurried me out of myſelf.

"Was my houſe, Sir, choſen for the ſcene of your ungovern'd licentiouſneſs?" You have diſ⯑honor'd me, diſhonor'd the glorious profeſſion you have embrac'd.—But be gone, I renounce you as my brother, and reſume my ill plac'd friendſhip.

Your indignation is juſt; I have offended almoſt paſt forgiveneſs. Will the offer of my hand repair the injury?

If Roſina accepts it, I am ſatisfied.

What I have done, Roſina, was the effect of a too tender love. Ought you to puniſh it? Accept my hand.

Will you, Sir, ſuffer?—This hope is a ſecond inſult. Whoever offends the object of his love is unworthy of obtaining her.

This noble refuſal paints your character. I know another, Roſina, who loves you with as ſtrong, though purer ardor: the timidity inſeparable from real love has hitherto prevented his declaring himſelf—but if allowed to hope—

Do not, Sir, envy me the calm delight of paſ⯑ſing my independent days with Dorcas, in whom I have found a mother's tenderneſs.

Bleſs thee, my child; thy kindneſs melts my heart.

Do you refuſe me too then, Roſina?

You, Sir? You?—Sure I am in a dream!

What do I hear?

Roſina may I hope?

My confuſion—my bluſhes—

"'Tis enough; I ſee I am rejected.

"'Tis the firſt time in your life, I believe, "that you ever were miſtaken.

"Then I am happy!" My life! my Roſina!

I am puniſh'd; but I have too well de⯑ſerv'd it.

Do you ſpeak to his honour, William.

No; do you ſpeak, Phoebe.

I am aſham'd—William and I, your honour—William pray'd me to let him keep me company—ſo he gain'd my good-will to have him, if ſo be my grandmo⯑ther conſents.

If your honour would be ſo good to ſpeak to Dorcas.

Dorcas, you muſt not refuſe me any thing to⯑day. I'll give William a farm.

Your honour is too kind—take her, William, and make her a good huſband.

That I will, dame.

Thank your honour.

What muſt I do with the purſe, your honour; Dorcas would not take it.

I believe my brother has the beſt right.

'Tis yours, William; diſpoſe of it as you pleaſe.

Then I'll give it to our honeſt Iriſhmen, who fought ſo bravely for Roſina.

You have made a good uſe of it, William; nor ſhall my gratitude ſtop here.

Allow me to retire, brother, and learn at a diſtance from you to correct thoſe errors into which the fire of youth, and bad example, have hurried me. When I am worthy of your eſteem, I will return, and demand my rights in your affection.

You muſt not leave us, brother: the man who wiſhes to be virtuous is already become ſo. Reſume the race of honour; be indeed a ſoldier, and be more than my brother—be my friend. Dorcas, you have a mo⯑ther's right in Roſina, and muſt not leave us.