[][]

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD: A TRAGEDY. AS IT IS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN COVENT-GARDEN. BY THE AUTHOR OF PERCY.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. M DCC LXXIX.

(Price One Shilling and Six Pence.)

[]

TO COUNTESS BATHURST, THIS TRAGEDY, IS VERY RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, AS A SMALL TRIBUTE TO HER MANY VIRTUES; AND AS A GRATEFUL TESTIMONY OF THE FRIENDSHIP WITH WHICH SHE HONOURS

HER MOST OBEDIENT, AND MOST OBLIGED, HUMBLE SERVANT, H. MORE.

PROLOGUE.

[]
Written by the AUTHOR,
and ſpoken by Mr. HULL.
OUR modern Poets ſcarce know how to chuſe
A ſubject worthy of the Tragic Muſe;
For Bards ſo well have glean'd th' Hiſtoric field,
That ſcarce one ſheaf th' exhauſted ancients yield;
And theſe, our timid author leaves to men,
For claſſic themes demand a claſſic pen:
Yet ſtill the wilds of fiction open lie,
A flow'ry proſpect, and a boundleſs ſky:
But hard the taſk the ſober path to chuſe,
And wand'ring Fancy's treacherous baits refuſe.
—She dares not touch the Drama's nobler ſtrings,
The fate of nations, and the fall of Kings;
The humbler ſcenes of private life ſhe ſhews,
A ſimple ſtory of domeſtic woes.
The weight of crowns, a kingdom's weal or woe,
How few can judge, becauſe how few can know!
But here you all may boaſt the Critic's art,
Here, all are judges—who poſſeſs a heart.
To govern Empires is the lot of few,
But all who live have paſſions to ſubdue;
And, ev'n by Patriots let it be confeſs'd,
Theſe Rebel Subjects ought to be ſuppreſs'd,
Theſe Ravagers which ſpoil the human breaſt.
Oh! deign to learn this obvious leſſon here!
The verſe is feeble, but the moral clear.
Your candour once endur'd our Author's lays,
Endure them now—that will be ample praiſe.

EPILOGUE.

[]
Written by R. B. SHERIDAN, Eſq
and ſpoken by Mr. LEE LEWES.
UNHAND me, gentlemen, by Heaven, I ſay,
I'll make a ghoſt of him who bars my way.
Behind the ſcenes.
Forth let me come—A Poetaſter true,
As lean as Envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive theſe female ſcribblers from the ſtage:
For ſcene or hiſtory, we've none but theſe,
The law of Liberty and Wit they ſeize
In Tragic—Comic—Paſtoral—they dare to pleaſe.
Each puny Bard muſt ſurely burſt with ſpite,
To find that women with ſuch fame can write:
But, oh, your partial favour is the cauſe,
Who feed their follies with ſuch full applauſe;
Yet ſtill our tribe ſhall ſeek to blaſt their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domeſtic life,
Wage with the Muſe's toils eternal ſtrife.
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conſpire to vex!
In ſtudious deſhabille behold her ſit,
A letter'd goſſip, and a houſewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her millener, and muſe,
Round her ſtrew'd room, a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wiſe;
Bills, Books, Caps, Couplets, Combs, a vary'd maſs,
Oppreſs the toilet, and obſcure the glaſs;
Unfiniſh'd here an Epigram is laid,
And there, a mantua-maker's Bill unpaid;
Here new-born Plays fore taſte the town's applauſe,
There, dormant Patterns pine for future gauze;
[vii] A moral Eſſay now is all her care,
A Satire next, and then a Bill of Fare:
A Scene ſhe now projects, and now a Diſh,
Here's Act the Firſt—and here—remove with Fiſh.
Now while this Eye in a fine phrenzy rolls,
That, ſoberly caſts up a Bill for Coals;
Black Pins and Daggers in one leaf ſhe ſticks,
And Tears and Thread, and Balls and Thimbles mix.
Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic ſong,
For years eſteem'd all houſehold ſtudies wrong;
When dire miſhep, though neither ſhame nor ſin,
Sappho herſelf, and not her Muſe, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims deſpotic power;
Soon Gothic hags the claſſic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup ſupplants the ſacred urn;
Nor books, nor implements eſcape their rage,
They ſpike the ink-ſtand, and they rend the page;
Poems and Plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus ſuffer at the ſtake,
And Ariſtotle's only ſav'd—to wrap plumb cake.
Yet, ſhall a woman tempt the Tragic Scene?
And dare—but hold—I muſt repreſs my ſpleen;
I ſee your hearts are pledg'd to her applauſe,
White Shakeſpear's ſpirit ſeems to aid her cauſe;
Well pleas'd to aid—ſince o'er his ſacred bier
A ſemale hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the greeneſt laurel that is worſhipp'd there.

Dramatis Perſonae.

[]
MEN.
WOMEN.

SCENE, Earl Guildford's Caſtle.

THE FATAL FALSEHOOD: A TRAGEDY.

[]

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE, an Apartment in Guildford Caſtle.
Enter BERTRAND.
WHAT fools are ſerious melancholy villains
I play a ſurer game, and ſcreen my heart
With eaſy looks, and undeſigning ſmiles;
And while my actions ſpring from ſober thought,
They ſtill appear th' effect of wild caprice,
And I, the thoughtleſs ſlave of giddy chance.
What but this frankneſs has engag'd the promiſe
Of young Orlando, to confide to me,
That ſecret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis dangerous, indiſcreet hypocriſy
To ſeem too good: I am the careleſs Bertrand,
[2] The honeſt, undeſigning, plain, blunt man:
The follies I avow cloke thoſe I hide,
For who will ſearch where nothing ſeems con⯑ceal'd?
'Tis rogues of ſolid, prudent, grave demeanor
Excite ſuſpicion; men on whoſe dark brow
Diſcretion, with his iron hand has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulneſs.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I cou'd honour, were he not the father
Of that aſpiring boy, who fills the gap
'Twixt me and fortune;—Rivers, how I hate thee!
Enter GUILDFORD.

How fares my noble uncle?

GUILDFORD.
Honeſt Bertrand!
I muſt complain we have ſo ſeldom met;
Where do you keep? believe me we have miſs'd you.
BERTRAND.
O, my good Lord, your pardon—ſpare me, Sir,
For there are follies in a young man's life,
And idle thoughtleſs hours which I ſhould bluſh
To lay before your wife and temperate age.
GUILDFORD.
Well, be it ſo—youth has a privilege,
And I ſhould be aſham'd could I forget
I have myſelf been young, and harſhly chide
The not ungraceful levity of youth.
Prudence becomes moroſeneſs, when it makes
A rigid inquiſition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth:
Foibles that ſhame the head on which old Time
[3] Has ſhower'd his ſnow, are then moſt pardonable,
And age has many a weakneſs of its own.
BERTRAND.
Your gentleneſs, my Lord, and mild reproof,
Correct the wandrings of miſguided youth,
More than rebuke, and ſhame it into virtue.
GUILDFORD.

Saw you my beauteous ward, the Lady Julia?

BERTRAND.
She paſt this way, and with her your fair daughter,
Your Emmelina.
GUILDFORD.
Call them both my daughters,
For ſcarce is Emmelina dearer to me,
Than Julia, the lov'd child of my adoption;
The hour approaches too, (and bleſs it, heaven,
With thy benigneſt, kindlieſt influence!)
When Julia ſhall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave ſon,
And richly pay him for his dangers paſt.
BERTRAND.
Oft have I wonder'd how the gallant Rivers,
Youthful and ardent, doating to exceſs,
Cou'd dare the dangers of uncertain war,
E'er marriage had confirm'd his claim to Julia.
GUILDFORD.
'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-ſoldier, and my friend;
He wiſh'd to ſee our ancient houſes join'd
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military proweſs,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
[4] To my young Rivers, on theſe terms alone,
That he ſhou'd early ſeek renown in arms;
And if he from the field return'd a conqueror,
That ſun which ſaw him come victorious home
Shou'd witneſs their eſpouſals. Yet he comes not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can deſert in arms enſure ſucceſs.
BERTRAND.

Yet fame ſpeaks loudly of his early valour.

GUILDFORD.
E'er ſince th' Italian Count, the young Orlando,
My Rivers' boſom friend has been my gueſt,
The glory of my ſon is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with ſuch joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal ſo warm,
As to his gen'rous heart pays back again
The praiſes he beſtows.
BERTRAND.
Orlando's noble,
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour moſt romantic, with ſuch graces,
As charm all womankind.
GUILDFORD.
And here comes one,
To whom the ſtory of Orlando's praiſe
Sounds like ſweet muſic.
BERTRAND.
What, yourcharming daughter?
Yes, I ſuſpect ſhe loves th' Italian Count
Aſide.
That muſt not be. Now to obſerve her cloſely.
[5] Enter EMMELINA.
GUILDFORD.
Come hither, Emmelina: we were ſpeaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accompliſh'd ſtranger?
EMMELINA.
(Confuſed.)
Sir, your pardon—
But as my father's gueſt, my brother's friend,
I do eſteem the Count.
GUILDFORD.
Nay, he has merit
Might juſtify thy friendſhip if he wanted
The claims thou mention'ſt; yet I mean to blame him.
EMMELINA.
What has he done that cou'd offend my father?
For you are juſt and are not angry lightly,
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.
GUILDFORD.
Nay 'tis not much:
Why does Orlando ſhun of late my preſence?
Why loſe that chearful and becoming ſpirit
Which lately charm'd us all? Rivers will chide us,
Shou'd he return, and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What ſays my child?
EMMELINA.
My Lord, when firſt my brother's friend arriv'd—
Be ſtill, my heart.
Aſide.
BERTRAND.
She dares not uſe his name,
Her brother's friend!
Aſide.
EMMELINA.
[6]
When firſt your noble gueſt
Came from that voyage, he kindly undertook
To eaſe our terrors for my Rivers' ſafety,
When we believ'd him dead, he ſeem'd moſt happy,
And ſhar'd the univerſal joy he gave.
Of late he is leſs gay; my brother's abſence
(Or I miſtake) diſturbs his friend's repoſe;
Nor is it ſtrange, one mind informs them both,
Each is the very ſoul that warms the other,
And both are wretched, or are bleſs'd together.
BERTRAND.

Why trembles my fair couſin?

EMMELINA.
Can I think
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger,
Nor feel a ſtrong emotion!
BERTRAND.
(Ironically.)
Generous pity!
But when that danger has ſo long been paſt,
You ſhou'd forget your terrors.
EMMELINA.
I ſhall never;
For when I think that danger ſprung from friend⯑ſhip,
That Rivers, to preſerve another's life,
Incurr'd this peril, ſtill my wonder riſes.
BERTRAND.
And why another's life? Why not Orlando's?
Such caution more betrays than honeſt freedom.
GUILDFORD.
He's ſtill the ſame, the gibing thoughtleſs Ber⯑trand,
Severe of ſpeech, but ignorant of malice.
Exit Guildford: Emmelina going.
BERTRAND.
[7]
Stay, my fair couſin; ſtill with adverſe eyes
You view me. Say had I Orlando's form,
I mean, were I like him your brother's friend,
Then wou'd your looks be turn'd thus coldly on me?
EMMELINA.
But that I know your levity means nothing,
And that your heart accords not with your tongue,
This wou'd offend me.
BERTRAND.
Come, confeſs the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuſcan rover,
Has won your eaſy heart, and given you his:
I know the whole, I'm of his ſecret council,
He has confeſs'd—
EMMELINA.

Ha! what has he confeſs'd.

BERTRAND.
That you are wondrous fair: nay, nothing far⯑ther;
How diſappointment fires her angry cheek!
Yourſelf have told the reſt, your looks avow it,
Your eyes are honeſt, nor conceal the ſecret.
EMMELINA.
Conceal! Virtue has nothing to conceal;
So far from dreading, it ſolicits notice,
And wiſhes every ſecret thought it harbours,
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to heav'n.
BERTRAND.
Yet mark me well, truſt not Orlando's truth;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of Flo⯑rence;
Bred in thoſe ſoſter climes, his roving heart
[8] Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue,
But laughs at tales of Britiſh conſtancy.
But ſee Orlando comes—perhaps to ſeek you,
With eyes bent downwards, and with folded arms,
Diſorder'd looks, and negligent attire,
And all the careleſs equipage of love,
He bends this way. Why does the mounting blood
Thus crimſon your fair cheek? He does not ſee us;
I'll venture to diſturb his meditations,
And inſtantly return.
Exit Bertrand.
EMMELINA.
No more, but leave me.
He's talkative but harmleſs, rude but honeſt,
Fuller of mirth than miſchief. See they meet—
This way they come; why am I thus alarm'd?
Oh for a little portion of that art,
Ungenerous men aſcribe to our whole ſex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart,
Is ſo unknowing of diſſimulation,
So little ſkill'd to ſeem the thing it is not,
That if my lips are ſtill, my looks betray me.
Enter ORLANDO and BERTRAND.
BERTRAND.

Now to alarm her heart, and ſearch out his.

Aſide.
ORLANDO.
We crave your pardon, beauteous Emmelina,
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts;
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams, or angels' wiſhes,
And gentle as the breaſt from whence they ſpring.
EMMELINA.
[9]
Be ſtill, my heart, nor let him ſee thy weakneſs.
Aſide.
We are much bound to thank you, couſin Ber⯑trand,
That ſince your late return, the Count Orlando
Appears once more among us.—Say, my Lord,
Why have you ſhunn'd your friends' ſociety?
Was it well done? My father bade me chide you;
I am not made for chiding, but he bade me;
He ſays, no more you riſe at early dawn
With him to chaſe the boar; I pleaded for you,
Told him 'twas ſavage ſport.
ORLANDO.

What was his anſwer?

EMMELINA.
He ſaid 'twas ſport for heroes, and made heroes;
That hunting was the very ſchool of war,
Taught our brave youth to ſhine in nobler fields,
Preſerv'd 'em from the ruſt of dull inaction,
Train'd 'em for arms, and fitted them for con⯑queſt.
ORLANDO.
O, my fair advocate! ſcarce can I grieve
To have done wrong, ſince my offence has gain'd
So ſweet a pleader.
BERTRAND.
(Aſide.)
So, I like this well;
Full of reſpect, but cold.
EMMELINA.
My lord, your pardon;
My father waits my coming, I attend him.
Exit.
BERTRAND.
In truth, my Lord, you're a right happy man;
Her parting look proclaims that you are bleſt;
[10] The crimſon bluſhes on her cheek diſplay'd
A gentle ſtrife 'twixt modeſty and love:
Diſcretion ſtrove to daſh the riſing joy,
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale.
My Lord, you anſwer not.
ORLANDO.
What ſhall I ſay?
Oh, could'ſt thou read my heart!
BERTRAND.
The hour is come
When my impatient friendſhip claims that truſt
Which I ſo oft have preſs'd, and you have promis'd.
ORLANDO.
I cannot tell thee; 'tis a tale of guilt;
How ſhall I ſpeak? my reſolution ſickens;
All virtuous men will ſhun me, thou wiltſcorn me,
And fly the foul contagion of my crime.
BERTRAND.
My boſom is not ſteel'd with that harſh prudence
Which wou'd reproach thy failings; tell me all;
The proudeſt heart loves to repoſe its faults
Upon a breaſt that has itſelf a tincture
Of human weakneſs; I have frailties too,
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine.
What, ſilent ſtill? Thou lov'ſt my beauteous couſin!
Have I not gueſs'd?
ORLANDO.
I own that ſhe has charms
Might warm a frozen ſtoic into love,
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world
They had renounc'd, and make religious men
Forgetful of their holy vows to heaven;
Yet Bertrand—come, I'll tell thee all my weak⯑neſs:
[11] Thou haſt a tender ſympathiſing heart,
And art not rigid to a friend's defects.
That heav'nly form I view with eyes as cold
As marble images of lifeleſs ſaints;
I ſee, and know the workmanſhip divine,
My judgment owns her exquiſite perfections,
But my rebellious heart denies her claim.
BERTRAND.

What do I hear! you love her not!

ORLANDO.
Oh, Bertrand!
For pity do not hate me; but thou muſt,
For am I not at variance with myſelf?
Yet ſhall I wrong her gentle truſting nature,
And ſpurn the heart I labour'd to obtain?
She loves me, Bertrand, Oh! too fure ſhe loves me,
Loves me with tendereſt, trueſt, chaſteſt paſſion;
Loves me, oh my curs'd fate! as I love— Julia.
BERTRAND.
Heard I aright? Did you not ſpeak of Julia?
Julia, the lovely ward of my good uncle?
Julia! the miſtreſs of your friend, of Rivers?
ORLANDO.
Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt,
Diſplay my crime in all its native horrors;
Tell me ſome legend of infernal falſchood,
Tell me ſome dreadful tale of perjur'd friendſhip,
Of truſt betray'd, and innocence deceiv'd;
Place the black chronicle before my eyes,
With added guilt and aggravated horror,
That I may ſee the evils which await me,
Nor pull ſuch fatal miſchiefs on my head,
As with my ruin muſt involve the fate
Of all I love on earth.
BERTRAND.
[12]

Juſt as I wiſh.

Aſide.
ORLANDO.
Thou know'ſt I left my native Italy,
Directed hither by the noble Rivers,
To eaſe his father's fears, who thought he fell
In that engagement where we both were wounded;
His was a glorious wound, gained in the cauſe
Of gen'rous friendſhip, for an hoſtile ſpear
Aim'd at my breaſt, Rivers in his receiv'd,
Sav'd my devoted life, and won my ſoul.
BERTRAND.

So far I knew, but what of Emmelina?

ORLANDO.
Whether her gentle beauties firſt allur'd me,
Or whether peaceful ſcenes, and rural ſhades,
Or leiſure, or the want of other objects,
Or ſolitude, apt to engender love,
Engag'd my ſoul, I know not, but I lov'd her.
We were together always, till the habit
Grew into ſomething like neceſſity:
When Emmelina left me I was ſad,
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came,
Her ſoft ſociety amus'd my mind,
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my ſoul.
'Twas gratitude, 'twas friendſhip, 'twas eſteem,
'Twas reaſon, 'twas perſuaſion, nay 'twas love.
BERTRAND.

But where was Julia?

ORLANDO.
Oh! too ſoon ſhe came,
For when I ſaw that wond'rous form of beauty,
I ſtood entranc'd, like ſome aſtronomer,
Who, as he views the bright expanſe of heaven,
Finds a new ſtar. I gaz'd, and was undone;
[13] Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina,
Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, truſting Rivers,
Forgot my faith, my friendſhip and my honour.
BERTRAND.

Does Julia know your love?

ORLANDO.
Forbid it heav'n!
What! think'ſt thou I am ſo far gone in guilt
As boldly to avow it? Bertrand, no,
For all the kingdoms of the ſpacious earth,
I wou'd not wrong my friend, or damn my honour.
BERTRAND.

Truſt me, you judge too hardly of yourſelf.

ORLANDO.
Think I have lodg'd a ſecret in thy breaſt,
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends;
Long have I ſtruggled with the fatal truth,
And ſcarce have dar'd to breathe it to myſelf;
For oh! too ſurely the firſt downward ſtep,
The treacherous path that leads to guilty deeds,
Is, to make vice familiar to the mind.
Exit.
BERTRAND.
Am I awake? No, 'tis deluſion all!
My wildeſt wiſhes never ſoar'd to this;
Fortune anticipates my plot; he loves her,
Not Emmelina, but the Lady Julia.
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will;
Poor puppet! thou haſt truſted to my hand
The ſtrings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin,
And make thee too the inſtrument of vengeance,
Of glorious vengeance on the man I hate.
Exit.
End of the Firſt Act.

ACT THE SECOND.

[14]
Enter JULIA and EMMELINA.
JULIA.
HOW many cares perplex the maid who loves!
Cares, which the vacant heart can never know.
You fondly tremble for a brother's life,
Orlando mourns the abſence of a friend,
Guildford is anxious for a ſon's renown;
In my poor heart your various terrors meet,
With added fears, and fonder apprehenſions;
They all unite in me, I feel for all,
His life, his fame, his abſence, and his love:
For he may live to bleſs a ſiſter's hopes,
May live to gratify impatient friendſhip,
May live to crown a father's houſe with honour,
May live to glory, and be dead to love.
EMMELINA.
Forbear theſe fears, they wound my brother's honour,
Julia! a brave man muſt be ever faithful;
Cowards alone dare venture to be falſe,
Cowards alone dare injure truſting innocence,
And with bold perjuries affront high heaven.
JULIA.
I know his faith, and venerate his virtues;
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave,
[15] That all his father's worth, his ſiſter's ſoftneſs,
Meet in his generous breaſt—and yet I fear—
Whoever lov'd like me, and did not fear?
Enter GUILDFORD.
GUILDFORD.
Where are my Friends, my daughter, where is Julia?
How ſhall I ſpeak the fulneſs of my heart?
My ſon, my Rivers, will this day return.
EMMELINA.

My deareſt brother!

JULIA.
Ha! my Rivers comes!
Propitious heaven!
EMMELINA.

And yet my Julia trembles.

JULIA.
Have I not cauſe? my Rivers comes! but how?
I dread to aſk, and yet I die to hear.
My Lord—you know the terms—
GUILDFORD.
He comes a conqueror!
He comes as Guildford's ſon ſhou'd ever come!
The battle's o'er, the Engliſh arms ſucceſsful,
And Rivers, like an Engliſh warrior, haſtens
To lay his laurels at the feet of beauty.
Exit.
JULIA.

My joy oppreſſes me!

EMMELINA.
And ſee, Orlando!
How will the welcome news tranſport his ſoul,
[16] And raiſe his drooping heart! with caution tell him,
Leſt the o'erwhelming rapture be too much
For his dejected mind.
Enter ORLANDO and BERTRAND.
JULIA.
My Lord Orlando,
Wherefore that troubled air? no more you dwell
On your once darling theme, you ſpeak no more
The praiſes of your Rivers; is he chang'd?
Is he not ſtill the gallant friend you lov'd,
As virtuous, and as valiant?
ORLANDO.
Still the ſame,
He muſt be ever virtuous, ever valiant.
EMMELINA.
If Rivers is the ſame, then muſt I think
Orlando greatly chang'd; you ſpeak not of him,
Nor long for his return, as you were wont.
How did you uſe to ſpend the live-long day,
In telling ſome new wonders of your friend,
Till night broke in upon th' unfiniſh'd tale,
And when 'twas o'er you wou'd begin again,
And we again wou'd liſten with delight,
With freſh delight, as if we had not heard it!
Does Rivers leſs deſerve, or you leſs love?
ORLANDO.
Have I not lov'd him? was my friendſhip cold?
When any prais'd his glories in the field,
My raptur'd heart has bounded at the tale!
Methought I grew illuſtrious from his glory,
And rich from his renown; to hear him prais'd,
More proud than if I had atchiev'd his deeds,
[17] And reap'd the full-blown harveſt of his fame.
How have I trembled for a life ſo dear,
When his too ardent ſoul, deſpiſing caution,
Has plung'd him in the foremoſt ranks of war,
As if in love with danger.
JULIA.
Valiant Rivers!
How does thy greatneſs juſtify my love!
BERTRAND.
He's diſtant far, ſo I may ſaſely praiſe him.
Aſide.
I claim ſome merit in my love of Rivers,
Since I admire the virtues that eclipſe me;
With pleaſure I ſurvey thoſe dazzling heights
My gay, inactive temper cannot reach.
EMMELINA.
Spoke like my honeſt couſin. Then, Orlando,
Since ſuch the love you bear your noble friend,
How will your heart ſuſtain the mighty joy
The news I tell will give you? Yes, Orlando,
Reſtrain the tranſports of your grateful friendſhip,
And hear, with moderation, hear me tell you
That Rivers will return—
ORLANDO.

How? when?

EMMELINA.

This day.

ORLANDO.

Impoſſible!

BERTRAND.

Then all my ſchemes are air.

Aſide.
EMMELINA.
[18]

To-day I ſhall embrace my valiant brother!

JULIA.
You droop, my Lord: did you not hear her right?
She told you that your Rivers wou'd return,
To bleſs your friendſhip, and to crown our hopes
ORLANDO.
He is moſt welcome! Is he not my friend?
You ſay my Rivers comes.—Thy arm, good Ber⯑trand.
BERTRAND.
Joy to us all! joy to the Count Orlando!
Weak man, take care.
Aſide to Orlando.
EMMELINA.

My Lord! you are not well.

BERTRAND.
Surpriſe and joy oppreſs him; I myſelf
Partake his tranſports. Rouſe, my Lord, for ſhame.
EMMELINA.

How is it with you now?

ORLANDO.

Quite well—'tis paſt.

BERTRAND.

The wonder's paſt, and nought but joy remains.

Enter GUILDFORD and RIVERS.
GUILDFORD.
He's come! he's here! I have embrac'd my warrior;
Now take me, heav'n, I have liv'd long enough.
JULIA.
[19]

My Lord, my Rivers!

RIVERS.
'Tis my Julia's ſelf!
My life!
JULIA.

My hero! Do I then behold thee?

RIVERS.

Oh my full heart! expect not words, my Julia!

EMMELINA.

Rivers!

RIVERS.
My ſiſter! what an hour is this!
My own Orlando too!
ORLANDO.

My noble friend!

RIVERS.
This is ſuch prodigality of bliſs,
I ſcarce can think it real. Honeſt Bertrand,
Your hand, your's, my Orlando, your's, my father;
And as a hand, I have a heart for all;
Love has enlarg'd it, from exceſs of love
I am become more capable of friendſhip.
My deareſt Julia!
GUILDFORD.
She is thine, my ſon,
Thou haſt deſerv'd her nobly; thou haſt won her,
Fulfill'd the terms—
RIVERS.
Therefore I dare not aſk her;
I wou'd not claim my Julia as a debt,
But take her as a gift; and oh! I ſwear
[20] The deareſt, richeſt, choiceſt, nobleſt gift,
The bounty of indulgent heaven beſtows.
Guildford joins their hand.
JULIA.
Spare me, my Lord, you ſcarcely are return'd—
Confuſion ſtops my tongue—yet I will own
If there be truth or faith in woman's vows,
Then you have ſtill been preſent to this heart,
And not a thought has wander'd from its duty.
Exeunt Julia and Emmelina.
RIVERS.
(Looking afterJulia.)

Oh, generous Julia!

ORLANDO.
(Aſide to Bertrand.)

Mark how much ſhe loves him!

BERTRAND.
(Aſide to Orlando.)

Mere words, which the fond ſex have always ready.

RIVERS.
Forgive me, good Orlando, beſt of friends!
How my ſoul joys to meet thee on this ſhore!
Thus to embrace thee in my much lov'd England!
GUILDFORD.
England! the native ſoil, the land of heroes,
Where great Elizabeth the ſceptre ſways,
O'er a free, glorious, rich and happy people!
Philoſophy, not cloiſter'd up in ſchools,
The ſpeculative dream of idle monks,
Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large,
Wiſdom is wealth, and ſcience is renown.
Here ſacred laws protect the meaneſt ſubject,
The bread that toil procures fair freedom ſweetens,
And every peaſant eats his homely meal,
Content and free, Lord of his ſmall domain.
RIVERS.
[21]
Paſt are thoſe gothic days, and grant, kind heav'n,
They be forever paſt, when Engliſh ſubjects
Were born the vaſſals of ſome tyrant lord!
When free-ſoul'd men were baſely handed down
To the next heir, tranſmitted with their lands,
The ſhameful legacy from ſire to ſon!
GUILDFORD.
But while thy generous ſoul, my noble boy,
Juſtly abhors oppreſſion, yet revere
The plain ſtern virtues of our rough forefathers:
O never may the gallant ſons of England
Loſe their plain, manly, native character,
Forego the glorious charter nature gave'em,
Beyond what kings can give, or laws beſtow,
Of candour, courage, conſtancy, and truth!
Exeunt Guildford and Rivers.
ORLANDO.
Stay, Bertrand, ſtay—Oh, pity my diſtraction!
This heart was never made to hide its feelings;
I had near betray'd myſelf.
BERTRAND.
I trembled for you;
Remember that the eye of love is piercing,
And Emmelina mark'd you.
ORLANDO.
'Tis too much!
My artleſs nature cannot bear diſguiſe.
Think what I felt when unſuſpecting Rivers
Preſs'd me with gen'rous rapture to his boſom,
Profeſs'd an honeſt joy, and call'd me friend!
I felt myſelf a traytor: yet I ſwear,
[22] Yes, by that power who ſees the thoughts of men,
I ſwear I love the gallant Rivers more
Than light or life! I love, but yet I fear him:
I ſhrunk before the luſtre of his virtue—
I felt as I had wrong'd him—felt abaſh'd.
I cannot bear this conflict in my ſoul,
And therefore have reſolv'd—
BERTRAND.

On what?

ORLANDO.

To fly.

BERTRAND.

To fly from Julia?

ORLANDO.
Yes, to fly from all,
From every thing I love; to fly from Rivers,
From Emmelina, from myſelf, from thee:
From Julia? no—that were impoſſible,
For I ſhall bear her image in my ſoul,
It is a part of me, the deareſt part,
So cloſely interwoven with my being,
That I can never loſe the dear remembrance,
Till I am robb'd of life and her together.
BERTRAND.

'Tis cowardly to fly.

ORLANDO.

To ſtay is baſe.

BERTRAND.
Where wou'd you go? How loſt in thought he ſtands!
Aſide.
A vulgar villain now would uſe perſuaſion,
[23] And by his very earneſtneſs betray
The thing he meant to hide; I'll coolly wait,
Till the occaſion ſhews me how to act,
Then turn it to my purpoſe. Ho! Orlando!
Where wou'd you go?
ORLANDO.
To everlaſting ſolitude!
Yes, I will ſhroud my youth in ſome dark cell,
Where Diſappointment ſteals Devotion's name,
To cheat the wretched votary into ruin;
There will I live, in love with miſery;
Ne'er ſhall the ſight of mirth prophane my grief,
The ſound of joy ſhall never charm my ear,
Nor muſic reach it, ſave when the ſlow bell
Wakes the dull brotherhood to lifeleſs prayer.
Then, when the ſlow-retreating world recedes,
Deſires are dead, and burning paſſions cold,
And all things, but my Julia, are forgotten,
One thought of her ſhall fire my languid ſoul,
Warm the faint oriſon, and feed deſpair.
BERTRAND.
What! with monaſtic, lazy drones retire,
And chaunt cold hymns with holy hypocrites?
Firſt periſh all the ſex! forbid it manhood!
Where is your nobler ſelf? for ſhame, Orlando,
Renounce this ſuperſtitious, whining weakneſs,
Or I ſhall bluſh to think I call'd you friend.
ORLANDO.

What can I do?

BERTRAND.
(After a pauſe.)
Beg ſhe'll defer the marriage
But for one ſingle day; do this, and leave
The reſt to me: ſhe ſhall be thine.
ORLANDO.
[24]
How ſay'ſt thou?
What, wrong her virtue?
BERTRAND.
Still this cant of virtue!
This pompous ſhew of words without a meaning!
I grant that honour's ſomething, manly honour,
I'd fight, I'd burn, I'd bleed, I'd die for honour,
But what's this virtue?
ORLANDO.
Aſk you what it is?
Why 'tis what libertines themſelves adore;
'Tis the celeſtial colouring of beauty,
Which wakens gallantry, and fans deſire
Beyond the roſy lip, or ſtarry eye;
Nay, ſhe who miniſters to guilty pleaſures
Puts on its ſemblance when ſhe moſt wou'd pleaſe.
'Tis heaven's own energy, th'aetherial flame
Which animates cold beauty into ſpirit.
Exit.
Manet BERTRAND.
Curſe on his principles! Yet I ſhall ſhake them,
And bend his pliant ſpirit to my will,
Now while 'tis warm with paſſion, and will take
Whatever mould my forming hand will give it.
'Tis worthy of my genius! Then I love
This Emmelina—true ſhe loves not me—
But ſhou'd young Rivers die, his father's lands
On me devolve—Is Rivers then immortal?
Come—Guildford's lands, and his proud daugh⯑ter's hand
Are worth ſome thought: why what ſharp ſpurs to genius,
Are miſchief, poverty, revenge and love!
Exit Bertrand.
[25] Enter EMMELINA and RIVERS talking.
EMMELINA.
Yet do not blame Orlando, good my brother,
He's ſtill the ſame, that brave, frank heart you lov'd;
Only his temper's chang'd, he is grown ſad,
But that's no fault, I only am to blame;
Fond fooliſh heart, to give itſelf away
To one who gives me nothing in return!
RIVERS.

How's this! my father ſaid Orlando lov'd thee.

EMMELINA.
Indeed I thought ſo—he was kinder once;
Nay ſtill he loves, or my poor heart deceives me.
RIVERS.
If he has wrong'd thee! yet I know he could not;
His gallant ſoul is all made up of virtues,
And I would rather doubt myſelf than him.
Yet tell me all the ſtory of your loves,
And let a brother's fondneſs ſooth thy cares.
EMMELINA.
When to this caſtle firſt Orlando came,
A welcome gueſt to all, to me moſt welcome;
Yes, ſpite of maiden ſhame, and burning bluſhes,
Let me confeſs he was moſt welcome to me!
At firſt my fooliſh heart ſo much deceiv'd me,
I thought I lov'd him for my brother's ſake;
But when I cloſely ſearch'd this boſom traytor,
I found, alas! I lov'd him for his own.
RIVERS.
[26]
Bluſh not to own it, 'twas a well plac'd flame!
I glory in the merit of my friend,
And love my ſiſter more for loving him.
EMMELINA.
He talk'd of you, I liſten'd with delight,
And thought it was the ſubject only charm'd me;
But when Orlando choſe another theme,
Forgive me, Rivers, but I liſten'd ſtill
With undiminiſh'd joy—he talk'd of love,
Nor was that theme leſs grateful than the former.
I ſeem'd the very idol of his ſoul;
Rivers, he ſaid, would thank me for the friend⯑ſhip
I bore to his Orlando; I believ'd him.
Julia was abſent then—but what of Julia?
RIVERS.
Aye, what of her indeed? why nam'd you Julia?
You could not ſurely think? no that were wild.
Why did you mention Julia?
EMMELINA.
Nay 'twas nothing,
'Twas accident, nor had my words a meaning;
If I did name her, 'twas to note the time,
To mark the period of Orlando's coldneſs,
The circumſtance was caſual, and but meant
To date the time, it aim'd at nothing farther.
RIVERS.
'Tis very like, no more, I'm ſatisfied;
You talk as I had doubts; I have no doubts;
Why do you labour to deſtroy ſuſpicions
[27] Which never had a birth? is ſhe not mine?
Mine by the fondeſt ties of dear affection?
But did Orlando change at her return?
Did he grow cold? It could not be for that,
And yet you ſay 'twas at that time it happen'd.
Was it juſt then? I have no cauſe for aſking,
But for the love I bear my deareſt ſiſter.
EMMELINA.

'Twas as I ſaid.

RIVERS.
He loves thee, Emmelina:
Theſe ſtarts of paſſion, this unquiet temper
Betray how much he loves thee: yes, my ſiſter,
He fears to loſe thee, fears his father's will
May daſh his riſing hopes, nor give thee to him.
EMMELINA.
Oh, flatterer! thus to ſooth my eaſy nature
With tales of poſſible though doubtful bliſs!
Becauſe it may be true, my credulous heart
Whiſpers it is, and fondly loves to cheriſh
The feeble glimmering of a ſickly hope.
RIVERS.
This precious moment, worth a tedious age
Of vulgar time, I've ſtol'n from love and Juſia;
She waits my coming, and a longer ſtay
Were treaſon to her beauty, and my love.
Exeunt.
End of the Second Act.

ACT THE THIRD.

[28]
SCENE, a Garden.
EMMELINA.
WHY do my feet unbidden ſeek this grove?
Why do I trace his ſteps? I thought him here?
This is his hour of walking, and theſe ſhades
His daily haunt; oft have they heard his vows:
Ah! fatal vows which ſtole my peace away!
But now he ſhun's my preſence; yet who knows,
He may not be ungrateful, but unhappy;
Yes, he will come to clear his paſt offences,
With ſuch prevailing eloquence will plead,
So mourn his former coldneſs and neglect,
And by ten thouſand graceful ways repair them,
That I ſhall think I never was offended.
He comes, and every doubt's at once diſpell'd;
'Twas fancy all, he never meant to wrong me.
Enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.
Why at this hour of univerſal joy,
When every heart beats high with grateful rap⯑ture,
And pleaſure dances her enchanting round,
O tell me why, at this auſpicious hour,
You quit the joyful circle of your friends?
"Rob ſocial pleaſures of its ſweeteſt charm,
[29] "And leave a void ev'n in the happieſt hearts,
"An aching void which only you can fill?"
Why ſeek alone theſe unfrequented ſhades.
Theſe gloomy haunts unfit for blooming beauty,
But made for meditation and misfortune?
EMMELINA.
I might retort the charge, my lord Orlando,
And aſk you how the boſom-friend of Rivers,
Whom he has held deep-rooted in his heart,
Beyond a brother's dearneſs, ſav'd his life,
And cheriſh'd it when ſav'd beyond his own,
I might enquire, why when this Rivers comes,
After long tedious months of expectation,
Alive, victorious, and as firm in friendſhip
As fondneſs cou'd have wiſh'd, or f [...]ncy feign'd;
I might enquire why thus Orlando ſhuns him,
Why thus he courts this melancholy gloom,
As if he were at variance with delight,
And ſcorn'd to mingle in the general joy?
ORLANDO.
Oh, my fair monitreſs! I have deſery'd
Your gentle cenſure.
EMMELINA.
You will then grow chearful,
Nor give your friends, who love you, room for blame.
Julia complains too of you.
ORLANDO.
Ah! does Julia?
If Julia chides me I have erred indeed,
For harſhneſs is a ſtranger to her nature.
But why does ſhe complain? O tell me where⯑fore?
That I may ſoon repair th' unwilling crime,
And prove my heart was guiltleſs of the offence.
EMMELINA.
[30]

Why ſo alarm'd?

ORLANDO.

Alarm'd!

EMMELINA.

Indeed you ſeem'd ſo.

ORLANDO.
Sure you miſtake. Alarm'd? oh no I was not;
There was no cauſe—I cou'd not be alarm'd
Upon ſo ſlight a ground. Something you ſaid,
But what I know not of your friend.
EMMELINA.

Did I?

ORLANDO.
That Julia was diſpleas'd—was it not ſo?
'Twas that, or ſomething like it.
EMMELINA.
She complains
That you avoid her.
ORLANDO.
How! that I avoid her?
Did Julia ſay ſo? ah! you have forgot—
It cou'd not be.
EMMELINA.

Why are you terrified?

ORLANDO.
No.
Not terrified—I am not—but were thoſe
Her very words? you might miſtake her mean⯑ing;
[31] Did Julia ſay Orlando ſhun'd her preſence?
Oh, did ſhe, cou'd ſhe ſay ſo?
EMMELINA.
If ſhe did,
Why this diſorder? there's no cauſe.
ORLANDO.
No cauſe?
O there's a cauſe of dearer worth than empire!
Quick let me fly, and find the fair upbraider,
Tell her ſhe wrongs me, tell her I wou'd die
Rather than meet her anger.
Emmelina faints.
Ah, you faint!
What have I ſaid? curſe my imprudent tongue!
Look up, ſweet innocence! my Emmelina—
My gentle friend awake! look up, fair creature!
'Tis your Orlando calls.
EMMELINA.
Orlando's voice!
Methought he talk'd of love—nay do not mock me,
My heart is but a weak, a very weak one;
I am not weil—perhaps I've been to blame.
Spare my confuſion.
Exit Emmelina.
ORLANDO.
So! I've betray'd my ſecret,
And ſtruck a poiſon'd dagger to her heart,
Her innocent heart. Why what a wretch am I!
Ruin approaches, ſhall I tamely meet it,
And [...] with deſtruction till it blaſt me?
No I will ſly thee, Julia, fly for ever.
He, ſly! what then becomes of Emmelina?
Shah I abandon her? it muſt be ſo,
[32] Better eſcape with this poor wreck of honour,
Than hazard all by ſtaying.—Rivers here?
Enter RIVERS.
RIVERS.
The ſame. My other ſelf! my own Orlando!
I came to ſeek thee; 'twas in thy kind boſom,
My ſuffering ſoul repos'd its ſecret cares,
When doubts and difficulties ſtood before me;
And now, now when my proſperous fortune ſhines,
And gilds the ſmiling hour with her bright beams,
Shall I become a niggard of my bliſs,
Defraud thee of thy portion of my joys,
And rob thee of thy well-earn'd claim to ſhare them?
ORLANDO.
That I have ever lov'd thee, witneſs Heaven!
That I have thought thy friendſhip the beſt bleſ⯑ſing
That mark'd the fortune of my happier days,
I here atteſt the ſovereign judge of hearts!
Then think, O think what anguiſh I endure,
When I declare, in bitterneſs of ſpirit,
That we muſt part—
RIVERS.

What does Orlando mean?

ORLANDO.
That I muſt leave thee, Rivers, muſt renounce
Thy lov'd ſociety.
RIVERS.
Thou haſt been wrong'd,
Thy merit has been ſlighted; ſure, my father,
Who knew how dear I held thee—but he cou'd not—
ORLANDO.
[33]
He is all goodneſs; no—there is a cauſe—
Seek not to know it.
RIVERS.
Now, by holy friendſhip!
I ſwear thou ſhalt not leave me; what, juſt now?
When I have ſafely paſs'd ſo many perils,
Eſcap'd ſo many threat'ning deaths? return'd
To the kind arms of long deſiring friendſhip;
And now, when I expected ſuch a welcome,
As happy ſouls in paradiſe beſtow,
Upon a new inhabitant, who comes
To taſte their bleſſedneſs, you coldly tell me,
You will depart; it muſt not be, Orlando.
ORLANDO.

It muſt, it muſt.

RIVERS.

Ah, muſt! then tell me wherefore?

ORLANDO.
I wou'd not dim thy dawn of happineſs,
Nor ſhade the brighter beams of thy good for⯑tune,
With the dark ſullen cloud that hangs o'er mine.
RIVERS.
Is this the heart of him I call'd my friend?
Full of the graceful weakneſs of affection,
How have I known it bend at my requeſt!
How loſe the power of obſtinate reſiſtance,
Becauſe his friend intreated! This, Orlando?
How is he chang'd!
ORLANDO.
[34]
Alas, how chang'd indeed!
How dead to every reliſh of delight?
How chang'd in all but in his love for thee!
Yet think not that my nature is grown harder,
That I have loſt that ductile, yielding heart;
Rivers, I have not—oh! 'tis ſtill too ſoft;
Ev'n now it melts, it bleeds in tenderneſs—
Farewel!—I dare not truſt myſelf—farewel!
RIVERS.

Then thou reſolv'ſt to go?

ORLANDO.

This very day.

RIVERS.
What do I hear? To-day? It muſt not be;
This is the day that makes my Julia mine.
ORLANDO.

Wed her to-day?

RIVERS.
This day unites me to her;
Then ſtay at leaſt till thou behold'ſt her mine.
ORLANDO.

Impoſſible! another day were ruin.

RIVERS.
Then let me fly to Julia, and conjure her
To bleſs me with her hand this very hour.
ORLANDO.

Oh! no, no, no.

RIVERS.
[35]
I will: in ſuch a cauſe
Surely ſhe will forego the rigid forms
Of cold decorum; then, my beſt Orlando,
I ſhall receive my Julia from thy hand;
The bleſſing will be doubled! I ſhall owe
The precious gift of love to ſacred friendſhip!
ORLANDO.

Can'ſt thou bear this, my heart?

RIVERS.
Then, my Orlando,
Since thy unkind reſerve denies my heart
Its partnerſhip in this thy hoard of ſorrows,
I will not preſs to know it; thou ſhalt go,
Soon as the holy prieſt has made us one:
For oh! 'twill ſooth thee in the hour of parting,
To know l'm in poſſeſſion of my love,
To think I'm bleſt with Julia, to reflect
Thou gav'ſt her to my arms, my bride! my wife!
ORLANDO.

Ah! my brain turns!

RIVERS.
'Tis as I thought; I'll try him.
Aſide.
Now anſwer me, Orlando, and with truth;
Hide nothing from thy friend—doſt thou not love?
ORLANDO.

Ha! how! I am betray'd! he reads my ſoul.

RIVERS.
Haſt thou with all that tenderneſs of nature,
Preſerv'd thy boſom from love's ſoft infection?
[36] Has conquering beauty never touch'd thy ſoul?
Come, come, I know full well—
ORLANDO.
Ha! doſt thou know?
And knowing, doſt thou ſuffer me to live?
And doſt thou know my guilt, and call me friend?
He mocks but to deſtroy me!
RIVERS.
Come, no more;
Love is a proud, an arbitrary God,
And will not chuſe as rigid fathers bid;
I know that thine has deſtin'd for thy bride
A Tuſcan maid, but hearts diſdain all force.
ORLANDO.

How's this? what, doſt thou juſtify my paſſion?

RIVERS.
Applaud it—glory in it—will aſſiſt it.
She is ſo fair, ſo worthy to be lov'd,
That I ſhou'd be thy rival, were not ſhe
My ſiſter.
ORLANDO.

How?

RIVERS.

She is another Julia.

ORLANDO.
I ſtood upon a fearful precipice—
I'm giddy ſtill—oh, yes! I underſtand thee—
Thy beauteous ſiſter! what a wretch I've been!
Oh, Rivers! too much ſoftneſs has undone me.
Yet I will never wrong the maid I love,
Nor injure thee; firſt let Orlando periſh!
RIVERS.
[37]

Be more explicit.

ORLANDO.
For the preſent ſpare me.
Think not too hardly of me, noble Rivers!
I am a man, and full of human frailties.
When I am ready to depart, I'll ſee thee,
Clear all my long accounts of love and honour,
Remove thy doubts, embrace thee, and expire.
Exit Orlando.
Manet RIVERS.
It muſt be ſo—to what exceſs he loves her!
Yet wherefore not demand her? for his birth
May claim alliance with the proudeſt fortune.
Sure there's ſome hidden cauſe—perhaps—ah, no!
Turn from that thought, my ſoul! 'twas vile ſuſ⯑picion.
'Tis true their faiths are different—then his father,
Auſtere and rigid, dooms him to another.
That muſt not be—theſe bars ſhall be remov'd;
I'll ſerve him with my life, nor taſte of bliſs.
'Till I have ſought to make Orlando happy.
Exit.
Re-enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.
Wed her to-day? wed her perhaps this hour?
Haſten the rites for me? I give her to him?
I ſtand a tame ſpectator of their bliſs?
I live a patient witneſs of their joy?
Firſt let this dagger drink my heart's warm blood.
Takes a dagger from his boſom, then ſees Julia.
The ſorcereſs comes! oh, there's a charm about her,
Which holds my hand, and makes me wiſh to live.
[38] I ſhudder at her ſight! open thou earth,
And ſave me from the peril of her charms!
Puts up the dagger.
Enter JULIA.
JULIA.
Methought I heard the cry of one in pain,
From hence it came; ah, me! my lord, Orlando!
What means that ſad, that agonizing voice?
Thoſe ſighs which rend your heart? thoſe frantic looks?
Indeed, I'm terrified. What wou'd you do?
ORLANDO.

Die.

JULIA.
Talk you of death? renounce the fatal thought;
Live for my ſake, Orlando.
ORLANDO.
Yes, whole ages,
Wou'd nature but extend the narrow limits
Of human life ſo far.
JULIA.
And for the ſake
Of Rivers; live for both; he ſends me here
To beg you wou'd delay your purpos'd parting;
His happineſs, he ſwears, if you are abſent
Will be but half compleat.
ORLANDO.
Is it to night?
This marriage, Julia, did you ſay to-night?
JULIA.
[39]

It is, and yet you leave us.

ORLANDO.
No—I'll ſtay,
Since you command, ſtay and expire before you.
JULIA.

What mean you?

ORLANDO.
That I'll periſh at the feet
Of—Rivers.
JULIA.
Tell your ſorrows to my lord;
Upon his faithful breaſt, repoſe the weight
That preſſes you to earth.
ORLANDO.
Tell him? Tell Rivers?
Is he not your's? Does not the prieſt now wait
To make you one? take care, take care, my heart:
What leiſure can a happy bridegroom find,
To think upon ſo loſt a wretch as I am?
You hate me, Julia.
JULIA.
Hate you? how you wrong me!
Live to partake our joy.
ORLANDO.

Hope you for joy?

JULIA.
Have I not cauſe? am I not lov'd by Rivers?
Rivers, the beſt, the braveſt of his ſex!
Whoſe valour fabled heroes ne'er ſurpaſs'd,
[40] Whoſe virtues teach the young, and charm the old;
Whoſe graces are the wonder of our ſex,
And envy of his own.
ORLANDO.
Enough! enough!
But, Julia, if you wou'd not here behold me,
Stretch'd at your feet a lifeleſs bloody corſe,
Promiſe what I ſhall now requeſt.
JULIA.

What is it?

ORLANDO.
That till to-morrow's ſun, I aſk no longer,
You will defer this marriage.
JULIA.
Ha! defer it?
Impoſſible; what wou'd my Rivers think?
ORLANDO.
No matter what; 'tis for his ſake I aſk it;
His peace, his happineſs, perhaps his life
Depends on what I aſk.
JULIA.
His life! his life!
Some dreadful thought ſeems lab'ring in your breaſt;
Explain this horrid myſtery.
ORLANDO.
I dare not.
If you comply, before to-morrow's dawn,
All will be well, the danger paſt, then finiſh
Theſe—happy nuptials; but if you refuſe
[41] Tremble for him you love, the altar's ſelf
Will be no ſafeguard from a madman's rage.
JULIA.
What rage? what madman? what remorſeleſs villain?
Orlando—will not you protect your friend?
Think how he loves you—he would die for you—
Then ſave him, on my knees, I beg you ſave him—
Kneels.
Oh! guard my Rivers from this bloody foe.
ORLANDO.
Dearer than life I love him—aſk no more,
But promiſe in the awful face of heaven,
To do what I requeſt—and promiſe further,
Not to diſcloſe the cauſe.
JULIA.

Oh ſave him! ſave him!

ORLANDO.
'Tis to preſerve him that I aſk it: promiſe
Or ſee me fall before you
He draws the dagger, ſhe ſtill kneeling.
JULIA.
I do promiſe.
Hide, hide that deadly weapon—I do promiſe.
Riſes.
How wild you look! you tremble more than I.
I'll call my Rivers hither.
ORLANDO.
Not for worlds.
If you have mercy in your nature, Julia,
Retire. Oh leave me quickly to myſelf;
[42] Do not expoſe me to the ſtrong temptation
Which now aſſaults me;—Yet you are not gone.
JULIA.
Be more compos'd; I leave you with regret.
As ſhe goes out.
His noble mind is ſhaken from its ſeat!
What may theſe tranſports mean? heav'n guard my Rivers!
As Julia goes out, enter Bertrand, he ſpeaks behind.
BERTRAND.
Why, this is well; this has a face; ſhe weeps,
He ſeems diſordered.—Now to learn the cauſe,
And then make uſe of what I hear by chance,
As of a thing I knew.
He liſtens.
ORLANDO.
After a pauſe.
And is ſhe gone?
Her parting words ſhot fire into my ſoul,
Did ſhe not ſay ſhe left me with regret?
Her look was tender, and the ſtarting tear,
Fill'd her bright eye; ſhe left me with regret—
She own'd it too.
BERTRAND.
'Twill do.
Comes forward.
What have you done?
The charming Julia is diſſolv'd in woe,
Her radiant eyes are quench'd in floods of tears,
For you they fall; her bluſhes have confeſs'd it.
ORLANDO.
For me? what ſay'ſt thou? Julia weep for me!
Yet ſhe is gentle, and ſhe wou'd have wept
For thee, for any who but ſeem'd unhappy.
BERTRAND.
[43]

Ungrateful!

ORLANDO.

How?

BERTRAND.
Not by her tears, I judge,
But by her words not meant for me to hear.
ORLANDO.
What did ſhe ſay? What didſt thou hear, good Bertrand?
Speak—I'm on fire.
BERTRAND.
It is not ſafe to tell you.
Farewel! I wou'd not injure Rivers.
ORLANDO.
Stay,
Or tell me all, or I renounce thy friendſhip.
BERTRAND.
That threat unlocks my tongue, I muſt not loſe thee.
Sweet Julia wept, claſp'd her fair hands, and cried
Why was I left a legacy to Rivers,
Robb'd of the power of choice? ſeeing me ſhe ſtarted,
Wou'd have recal'd her words, bluſh'd, and retir'd.
ORLANDO.
No more; thou ſhalt not tempt me to my ruin;
Deny what thou haſt ſaid, deny it quickly,
E'er I am quite undone; for oh! I feel
[44] Retreating virtue touches its laſt poſt,
And my loſt ſoul now verges on deſtruction.
—Bertrand! ſhe promis'd to defer the marriage.
BERTRAND.
Then my point's gain'd, that will make Rivers jealous.
Aſide.
She loves you.
ORLANDO.
No, and even if ſhe did
I have no hope.
BERTRAND.
You are too ſcrupulous.
Be bold and be ſucceſsful, ſure of this,
There is no fault a woman ſooner pardons
Than that of which her beauty is the cauſe.
ORLANDO.
Shall I defraud my friend? he bled to gain her?
What! rob the dear preſerver of my life
Of all that makes the happineſs of his?
And yet her wondrous beauty might excuſe.
Nay almoſt ſanctify a perjury.
My ſoul is up in arms, my reaſon's loſt,
And love and rage, and jealouſy and honour,
Pull my divided heart, and tear my ſoul.
Exit.
Manet BERTRAND.
Rave on, and beat thy wings; poor bird! thou'rt lim'd,
And vain will be thy ſtruggles to get looſe.
—How much your very honeſt men lack prudence!
Tho' all the nobler virtues fill one ſcale,
Yet place but indiſcretion in the other,
In worldly buſineſs, and the ways of men,
[45] That ſingle folly ſhall weigh down the balance,
While the aſcending virtues kick the beam.
Here's this Orlando now, of rareſt parts,
Honeſt, heroic, frank and generous,
As inexperience of mankind can make him:
Yet ſhall this ſingle weakneſs, this imprudence
Pull down the heavieſt plagues upon his head,
And ſnare his heedleſs ſoul beyond redemption:
While dull unfeeling hearts, and frozen ſpirits,
Sordidly ſafe, ſecure, becauſe untempted,
Look up, and wonder at the generous vice,
They wanted wit to form, and ſouls to dare.
End of the Third Act.

ACT THE FOURTH.

[46]
SCENE, an Apartment.
EMMELINA.
HOW many ways there are of being wretched!
The avenues to happineſs how few!
When will this buſy, fluttering heart be ſtill?
When will it ceaſe to feel, and beat no more?
Ev'n now it ſhudders with a dire preſage
Of ſomething terrible it fears to know.
Ent'ring, I ſaw my venerable father,
In earneſt conference with the Count Orlando;
Shame and confuſion fill'd Orlando's eye,
While ſtern reſentment fir'd my father's cheek.
And look, he comes, with terror on his brow!
He ſees me, he beholds his child, and now
The terror of his look is loſt in love,
In fond, paternal love.
Enter GUILDFORD.
GUILDFORD.
Come to my arms,
And there conceal, that ſweet, that aſking eye,
Leſt it ſhou'd read what I wou'd hide for ever,
Wou'd hide from all, but moſt wou'd hide from thee,
Thy father's grief, his ſhame, his rage, his tears.
EMMELINA.
[47]

Tears! heaven and earth! behold my father weeps!

GUILDFORD.
He who has drawn this ſorrow from my eyes,
Shall pay me back again in tears of blood.
'Tis for thy ſake, my child.
EMMELINA.
For me, for me?
Hear, heaven, and judge; hear, heaven, and puniſh me!
If any crime of mine—
GUILDFORD.
Thou art all innocence,
Juſt what a parent's fondeſt wiſh wou'd frame;
No fault of thine e'er ſtain'd thy father's cheek,
For if I bluſh'd it was to hear thy virtues,
And think that thou waſt mine; and if I wept
It was from joy and gratitude to heaven,
That made me father of a child like thee.
Orlando!—
EMMELINA.

What of him?

GUILDFORD.
I cannot tell thee;
An honeſt ſhame, a virtuous pride forbids.
EMMELINA.

Speak.

GUILDFORD.

Canſt thou not gueſs and ſpare thy father?

EMMELINA.
[48]
Perhaps—perhaps I can—and yet I will not:
Tell me the worſt while I have ſenſe to hear.
Thou wilt not ſpeak—nay never turn away;
Doſt thou not know that fear is worſe than grief?
There may be bounds to grief, fear knows no bounds;
"In grief we know the worſt of what we feel,
"But who can tell the end of what we fear?"
Grief mourns ſome ſorrow paſt, and therefore known,
But fear runs wild with horrible conjecture.
GUILDFORD.
Then hear the worſt, and arm thy ſoul to bear it.
He has—he has—Orlando has refuſed thee.
EMMELINA.
(After a long pauſe.)

'Tis well—'tis very well—'tis as it ſhou'd be.

GUILDFORD.
Oh, there's an eloquence in that mute woe,
Which mocks all language. Speak, relieve thy heart,
Thy burſting heart; thy father cannot bear it.
Am I a man? no more of this, fond eyes!
I am grown weaker than a chidden infant,
While not a ſigh eſcapes to tell thy pain.
EMMELINA.
See, I am calm; I do not ſhed a tear;
The warrior weeps, the woman is a hero!
GUILDFORD.
(Embraces her.)
My glorious child! now thou art mine indeed!
Forgive me, if I thought thee fond and weak.
I have a Roman matron for my daughter,
[49] And not a feeble girl. And yet I fear,
For oh! I know thy tenderneſs of ſoul,
I fear this ſilent anguiſh but portends
Some dread convulſion fatal to thy peace.
EMMELINA.
I will not ſhame thy blood; and yet, my father
Methinks thy daughter ſhou'd not be refus'd?
Refus'd? It has a harſh, ungrateful ſound;
Thou ſhoud'ſt have found a ſofter term; refus'd?
And have I then been held ſo cheap? Refus'd?
Been treated like the light ones of my ſex,
Held up to ſale? been offer'd, and refus'd?
GUILDFORD.
Long have I known thy love, I thought it mutual;
To ſpare thy bluſhes met the Count—
EMMELINA.
No more:
I am content to know I am rejected;
But ſave my pride the mortifying tale,
Spare me particulars of how, and when,
And do not parcel out thy daughter's ſhame.
No flowers of rhetoric, no arts of ſpeech
Can change the fact—Orlando has refus'd me.
GUILDFORD.
He ſhall repent this outrage.
EMMELINA.
Think no more on't:
I'll teach thee how to bear it; I'll grow proud,
As gentle ſpirits ſtill are apt to do
When cruel ſlight, or killing ſcorn falls on them.
Come virgin dignity, come female pride,
Come wounded modeſty, come ſlighted love,
[50] Come ſcorn, come conſcious worth, come, black deſpair!
Support me, arm me, fill me with my wrongs!
Suſtain this feeble ſpirit!—But for thee,
But for thy ſake, my dear, fond, injur'd father,
I think I cou'd have borne it.
GUILDFORD.
Thou haſt a brother;
He ſhall aſſert thy cauſe.
EMMELINA.
Firſt ſtrike me dead!
No, in the wild diſtraction of my ſpirit,
This mad, conflicting tumult of my ſoul,
Hear my fond pleading—ſave me from that curſe;
Thus I adjure thee by the deareſt ties,
Kneels.
Which link ſociety; by the ſweet names
Of Parent and of Child; by all the joys
Theſe tender claims have yielded, I adjure thee
Breathe not this fatal ſecret to my brother;
Oh tell him not his ſiſter was refus'd,
That were conſummate woe, full, perfect ruin!
I cannot ſpeak the reſt, but thou can'ſt gueſs it
And tremble to become a childleſs father.
Exit Emmelina.
GUILDFORD.
What art thou, Life! thou lying vanity!
Thou promiſer, who never mean'ſt to pay!
Yet let me not complain; I have a ſon,
Juſt ſuch a ſon as heaven in mercy gives,
When it wou'd bleſs ſupremely; he is happy;
His ardent wiſhes will this day be crown'd,
He weds the maid he loves; in him, at leaſt,
My ſoul will taſte felicity.—He's here;
He ſeems diſorder'd.
[51] Enter RIVERS.
Not ſeeing Guildford.
RIVERS.
Yes, I fondly thought
Not all the tales which malice might deviſe,
Not all the leagues combined hell might form
Cou'd ſhake her ſteady ſoul.
GUILDFORD.
What means my ſon?
Where is thy bride?
RIVERS.

O name her not.

GUILDFORD.

Not name her?

RIVERS.
No: if poſſible, not think of her,
Wou'd I cou'd help it:—Julia! oh my Julia!
Curſe my fond tongue! I ſaid I wou'd not name her;
I did not think to do it, but my heart
Is full of her idea; her lov'd image
Fills all my ſoul, and ſhuts out other thoughts;
My lips enamour'd of the darling ſound,
Dwell on her name, and all my talk is Julia.
GUILDFORD.
'Tis as it ſhould be; e'er the midnight bell
Sound in thy raptur'd ear, this charming Julia
Will be thy wife.
RIVERS.

No.

GUILDFORD.
[52]

How?

RIVERS.

She has refus'd.

GUILDFORD.

Say'ſt thou?

RIVERS.

She has.

GUILDFORD.
Why who wou'd be a father!
Who that cou'd gueſs the wretchedneſs it brings,
But wou'd entreat of heaven to write him child⯑leſs?
RIVERS.
'Twas but a little hour ago we parted,
As happy lovers ſhou'd; but when again
I ſought her preſence, with impatient haſte,
Told her the prieſt, the altar, all was ready,
She bluſh'd, ſhe wept, and vow'd it cou'd not be;
That reaſons of importance to our peace
Forbad the nuptial rites to be perform'd
Before to-morrow.
GUILDFORD.
She conſents to-morrow?
She but defers the marriage, not declines it.
RIVERS.
Mere ſubterfuge! mere female artifice!
What reaſon ſhou'd forbid our inſtant union?
Wherefore to-morrow? wherefore not to-night?
What difference cou'd a few ſhort hours have made?
Or if they cou'd, why not avow the cauſe?
GUILDFORD.
[53]
I have grown old in camps, have liv'd in courts;
The toils of bright ambition have I known,
Woo'd greatneſs and enjoy'd it, till diſguſt
Follow'd poſſeſſion; ſtill I fondly look'd
Beyond the preſent pain for diſtant joy,
Look'd for the hour of honourable eaſe
When, ſafe from all the ſtorms and wrecks of fate,
My ſhatter'd bark at reſt, I might enjoy
An old man's bleſſings, liberty and leiſure,
Domeſtic happineſs, and ſmiling peace.
The hour of age is come! I feel it here,
Its ſorrows, pains, infirmities and cares,
But where, oh where's th' untaſted peace it pro⯑mis'd?
Exit Guildford.
RIVERS.
I wou'd not deeper wound my father's peace
By telling him the cauſe of my reſentment.
I muſt ſeek further; yet I know too much.
It muſt be ſo—his grief, his ſudden parting:
Fool that I was, not to perceive at once—
But friendſhip blinded me, and love betray'd.
Bertrand was right, he told me ſhe was chang'd,
And wou'd, on ſome pretence, delay the marriage,
I hop'd 'twas malice all.—Yonder ſhe comes,
Diſſolv'd in tears; I cannot ſee them fall,
And be a man; I will not, dare not meet her,
Her blandiſhments wou'd ſooth me to falſe peace,
And if ſhe aſk'd it, I ſhou'd pardon all.
Exit.
[54] Enter JULIA.
JULIA.
Stay, Rivers, ſtay, barbarian! hear me ſpeak;
Return, inhuman!—beſt belov'd! return,
Oh! I will tell thee all, reſtore thy peace,
Kneel at thy feet, and ſue for thy forgiveneſs.
He hears me not—alas! he will not hear.
Break, thou poor heart, ſince Rivers is unkind.
Enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.

Julia in tears?

JULIA.
Alas! you have undone me!
Behold the wretched victim of her promiſe?
I urg'd, at your requeſt, the fatal ſuit
Which has deſtroy'd my peace; Rivers ſuſpects me,
And I am wretched.
ORLANDO.
Better 'tis to weep
A temporary ill, than weep forever;
That anguiſh muſt be mine.
JULIA.
Ha! weep for ever?
Can they know wretchedneſs who know not love?
ORLANDO.

Not love! oh, cruel friendſhip! tyrant honour!

JULIA.

Friendſhip! alas, how cold is that to love!

ORLANDO.
[55]
Too well I know it; both alike deſtroy me,
I am the ſave of both, and more than either
The ſlave of honour.
JULIA.
If you then have felt
The bitter agonies—
ORLANDO.
Talk you of agonies?
You who are lov'd again? oh, they are mine,
The pangs, the agonies of hopeleſs paſſion,
Yes, I do love—I doat, I die for love.
JULIA.

I underſtand you—Emmelina!

ORLANDO.
(Falls at her feet.)

Julia!

JULIA.

How?

ORLANDO.
Nay never ſtart—I know I am a villain;
I know thy hand is deſtin'd to another,
That other is my friend, that friend the man
To whom I owe my life. Yes, I adore thee;
Spite of the black ingratitude adore thee;
I doat upon my friend, and yet betray him,
I'm bound to Emmelina, yet forſake her,
I love the noble Rivers more than life,
But Julia more than honour.
JULIA.
Hold? aſtoniſhment
Has ſeal'd my lips; whence ſprung this monſtrous daring?
ORLANDO.
[56]
(Riſes.)

From deſpair.

JULIA.

What can you hope from me?

ORLANDO.
Death! I nor hope, nor look for aught but death.
Think'ſt thou I need reproof? think'ſt thou I need
To be reminded that my love's a crime?
That every moral tie forbids my paſſion,
And angry heaven will ſhow'r it's vengeance on me?
But mark—I do not, will not, can't repent;
I do not even wiſh to love thee leſs;
I glory in my crime. Come, crown my miſery,
Triumph, exult in thy pernicious beauty,
Then ſtab me with the praiſes of my rival,
The man on earth—whom moſt I ought to love.
JULIA.
I leave thee to remorſe, and to that penitence
Thy crime demands.
(Going.)
ORLANDO.

A moment ſtay.

JULIA.

I dare not.

ORLANDO.
Hear all my rival's worth, and all my guilt.
The unſuſpecting Rivers ſent me to thee,
To plead [...]is cauſe; I baſely broke my truſt,
And, like a villain, pleaded for myſelf.
JULIA.
[57]
Did he? Did Rivers? Then he loves me ſtill—
Quick let me ſeek him out.
ORLANDO.
(Takes out the dagger.)
Firſt take this dagger,
Had you not forc'd it from my hand to-day,
I had not liv'd to know this guilty moment:
Take it, preſent it to the happy Rivers,
Tell him to plunge it in a traytor's heart,
Tell him his friend, Orlando, is that traytor,
"Tell him Orlando forg'd the guilty tale,
"Tell him Orlando is the only foe,"
Who at the altar wou'd have murder'd Rivers,
And then have died himſelf.
JULIA.

Farewel—repent—think better.

Exit Julia.
As ſhe goes out, he ſtill looks after her.
Enter RIVERS.
RIVERS.

Turn, villain, turn.

ORLANDO.

Ha! Rivers here?

RIVERS.

Yes, Rivers.

ORLANDO.
Gape wide, thou friendly earth, for ever hide me,
Rife Alps, ye cruſhing mountains bury me.
RIVERS.
[58]

Nay, turn, look on me.

ORLANDO.
Rivers! oh, I cannot,
I dare not, I have wrong'd thee.
RIVERS.
Doubly wrong'd me;
Thy complicated crimes cry out for vengeance,
ORLANDO.

Take it.

RIVERS.
But I wou'd take it as a man.
Draw.
Rivers Draws.
ORLANDO.

Not for a thouſand worlds.

RIVERS.
Not fight?
Why thou'rt a coward too as well as villain:
I ſhall deſpiſe as well as hate thee.
ORLANDO.
Do;
Yet wrong me not, for if I am a coward,
'Tis but to thee; there does not breathe the man,
Thyſelf excepted, who durſt call me ſo
And live; but, oh! 'tis ſure to heaven and thee.
I am the verieſt coward guilt e'er made.
Now as thou art a man revenge thyſelf;
Strike!
RIVERS.
No, not ſtab thee like a baſe aſſaſſin,
But meet thee as a foe.
ORLANDO.
[59]

Think of thy wrongs.

RIVERS.

I feel them here.

ORLANDO.

Think of my treachery.

RIVERS.

Oh, wherefore waſt thou falſe? how have I lov'd thee!

ORLANDO.
Of that no more: think of thy father's grief,
Of Emmelina's wrongs—
RIVERS.

Provoke me not.

ORLANDO.

Of Julia—

RIVERS.
Ha! I ſhall forget my honour,
And do a brutal violence upon thee,
Wou'd tarniſh my fair fame. Villain, and coward!
Traytor! will nothing rouſe thee.
ORLANDO.
(Drawing.)
Swelling heart!
Yet this I have deſerv'd, all this, and more.
As they prepare to fight, enter EMMELINA haſtily.
EMMELINA.
Lend me your ſwiftneſs lightnings—'tis too late.
See they're engag'd—oh no—they live, both live.
Hold, cruel men!
RIVERS.
[60]

Unlucky! 'tis my ſiſter.

EMMELINA.
Ye men of blood! if yet you have not loſt,
All ſenſe of human kindneſs, all compaſſion,
If ever you were dear to one another,
If ever you deſire or look for mercy.
When in the wild extremity of anguiſh,
You ſupplicate that judge who has declared
That vengeance is his own—Oh, hear me now,
Hear a fond wretch whom miſery has made bold,
Spare, ſpare each other's life—ſpare your own ſouls.
ORLANDO.
(To Rivers.)

Why has thy lagging vengeance been ſo ſlow?

EMMELINA.
Does death want engines? is his power grown weak?
"Has fell diſeaſe forgotten to deſtroy?"
Are there not peſtilence, and ſpotted plagues?
Devouring deluges, conſuming fires,
Earthquakes, and hurricanes, and haggard famine,
That man muſt periſh by the hand of man,
Nay, to complete the horror, friend by friend?
RIVERS.
What! ſhall I then endure this outrage tamely?
Is honour nothing?
EMMELINA.
Honour! 'tis a phantom,
Who having nothing ſolid in himſelf,
Decks his thin form in the bright robe of virtue:
Honour! I know him well, 'tis the fell demon
Who ſeeds on orphans tears, and widows groans,
[61] And ſlakes his impious thirſt in human blood.
"Tis the arch-fiend's prime inſtrument of miſchief,
"His grand device to people his dark realms
"With noble ſpirits, who but for this curſt honour
"Had been at peace on earth, or bleſs'd in heaven."
With this falſe honour Chriſtians have no com⯑merce,
Religion diſavows, and truth diſowns it.
ORLANDO.
(Throws away his ſword.)

An angel ſpeaks, and angels claim obedience.

RIVERS.
(To Orlando.)

This is the heart thou haſt wrong'd.

EMMELINA.
(Comes up to Orlando.)
I pity thee;
Calamity has taught me how to pity;
Before I knew diſtreſs my heart was hard,
But now it melts at every touch of woe,
"Baneful proſperity corrupts the heart,
"But wholeſome ſufferings bring it back to virtue;
Rivers, he once was good and juſt like thee.
Who ſhall be proud and think he ſtands ſecure,
If thy Orlando's falſe?
RIVERS.

Think of his crime.

EMMELINA.
Oh, think of his temptation! think'twas Julia;
Thy heart cou'd not reſiſt her, how ſhou'd his?
It is the very error of his friendſhip;
Your ſouls were fram'd ſo very much alike,
He cou'd not chuſe but love whom Rivers lov'd.
ORLANO.
[62]
Think'ſt thou there is in death a pang like this?
Strike, my brave friend, be ſudden and be ſilent.
Death, which is terrible to happy men,
To me will be a bleſſing; I have loſt
All that cou'd make life dear; I've loſt my friend,
I've ſtab'd the peace of mind of that fair creature,
I have ſurviv'd my honour; this is dying!
The mournful fondneſs of officious love
Will plant no thorns upon my dying pillow,
No precious tears embalm my memory,
But curſes follow it.
EMMELINA.
See Rivers melts;
He pities thee.
ORLANDO.
I'll ſpare thy noble heart
The pain of puniſhing; Orlando's ſelf
Revenges both.
Goes to ſtab himſelf with the dagger.
EMMELINA.

Barbarian! kill me firſt.

RIVERS.
(Snatching the dagger.
Thou ſhalt not die, I ſwear I love thee ſtill;
That ſecret ſympathy which long has bound us,
Pleads for thy life with ſweet but ſtrong intreaty.
Thou ſhalt repair the wrongs of that dear ſaint,
And be again my friend.
ORLANDO.

Oh, hear me.

EMMELINA.
No.
I cannot ſtoop to live on charity,
[63] And what but charity is love compell'd?
I've been a weak, a fond, believing woman,
Eaſy, 'tis true, beyond my ſexes ſoftneſs,
But with a woman's weakneſs, I've her pride;
I lov'd with virtue, yet I fondly lov'd;
That paſſion fix'd my fate, determin'd all,
And ſtain'd the colour of my life with woe.
Hearts that love well, love long, they love but once.
My peace thou haſt deſtroy'd, my honour's mine:
She who aſpir'd to gain Orlando's heart,
Shall never owe Orlando's hand to pity.
Exit Emmelina.
ORLANDO.
(After a pauſe)

And I ſtill live!

RIVERS.
Farewel! ſhou'd I ſtay longer
I might forget my vow.
ORLANDO.

Yet hear me, Rivers.

Exit Rivers, Orlando following.
Enter BERTRAND on the other ſide.
BERTRAND.
How's this? my fortune fails me, both alive!
I thought by ſtirring Rivers to this quarrel,
There was at leaſt an equal chance againſt him.
I work inviſible, and like the tempter,
My agency is ſeen in its effects.
Well, honeſt Bertrand! now for Julia's letter.
Takes ok! a letter.
This fond epiſtle of a love ſick maid.
I've ſworn to give, but did not ſwear to whom.
Give it my love, ſaid ſhe, my deareſt lord:
Riv [...]rs ſhe [...]ant; there's no addreſs—that's lucky.
[64] Then where's the harm? Orlando is a lord,
As well as Rivers, loves her too as well.
Breaks open the letter.
I muſt admire your ſtile—your pardon, fair one.
Runs over it.
Do I not tread in air, and walk on ſtars?
There's not a word but fits Orlando's caſe
As well as Rivers';—tender to exceſs—
No name—'twill do; his faith in me is boundleſs;
Then, as the brave are ſtill, he's unſuſpecting,
And credulous beyond a woman's weakneſs.
Going out he ſpies the dagger.
Orlando's dagger—ha! 'tis greatly thought.
This may do noble ſervice; ſuch a ſcheme!
My genius catches fire! the bright idea
Is form'd at once, and fit for glorious action.
Exit.
End of the Fourth Act.

ACT THE FIFTH.

[65]
SCENE, the Garden.
BERTRAND.
TWAS here we were to meet; where does he ſtay?
This compound of ſtrange contradicting parts,
Too flexible for virtue, yet too virtuous
To make a glorious, bold, ſucceſsful villain.
Conſcience, be ſtill; preach not remorſe to me;
Remorſe is for the luckleſs, failing villain:
He who ſucceeds repents not; penitence
Is but another name for ill ſucceſs.
Was Nero penitent when Rome was burnt?
No: but had Nero been a petty villain,
Subject to laws and liable to fear,
Nero perchance had been a penitent.
He comes:—This paper makes him all my own.
Enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.
At length this wretched, tempeſt beaten bark
Seems to have found its haven: I'm reſolv'd;
My wav'ring principles are fix'd to honour;
My virtue gathers force, my mind grows ſtrong,
I feel an honeſt confidence within,
A precious earneſt of returning peace.
BERTRAND.
[66]
Who feels ſecure ſtands on the verge of ruin.
[Aſide.
Truſt me it joys my heart to ſee you thus:
What have I not attempted for your ſake!
My love for you has warp'd my honeſt nature,
And friendſhip has infring'd on higher duties.
ORLANDO.

It was a generous fault.

BERTRAND.
Yet 'twas a fault.
Oh for a flinty heart that knows no weakneſs,
But moves right onward, unſeduc'd by friend⯑ſhip,
And all the ſoft affections of the ſoul!
ORLANDO.
This is my laſt farewel; abſence alone
Can prop my ſtagg'ring virtue.
BERTRAND.
You're reſolv'd:
Then Julia's favours come too late.
ORLANDO.

What mean'ſt thou?

BERTRAND.
Nay, nothing: I renounce thoſe weak affections
Which have miſled us both; I too repent,
And will return the letter back to Julia.
ORLANDO.
Letter? what letter? Julia write to me?
I will not ſee it.—What wou'd Rivers ſay?
Bertrand! he ſav'd my life:—I will not ſee it.
BERTRAND.
[67]
I do not mean you ſhou'd; nay I refus'd
To bring it you.
ORLANDO.

Refus'd to bring the letter?

BERTRAND.

Yes, I refus'd at firſt.

ORLANDO.
Then thou haſt brought it?
My faithful Bertand!—come.
BERTRAND.

'Twere beſt not to ſee it.

ORLANDO.
Not ſee it? how, not read my Julia's letter?
An empire ſhou'd not bribe me to forbear.
Come, come.
BERTRAND.
Alas how frail is human virtue:
My reſolution melts, and tho' I mean not
To truſt you with the letter, I muſt tell you
With what a thouſand, thouſand charms ſhe gave it.
Take this, ſaid ſhe, and as Orlando reads it,
Attend to every accent of his voice,
Watch every little motion of his eye,
Mark if it ſparkles when he talks of Julia,
If when he ſpeaks, poor Julia be the theme,
If when he ſighs his boſom heave for Julia;
Note every triſling act, each little look,
For, oh! of what importance is the leaſt
To hapleſs Julia.
ORLANDO.
[68]
The delicious poiſon
Has tainted all my ſoul! give me the letter.
Bertrand offers it, Orlando refuſes
Ha! where's the virtue which but now I boaſted?
'Tis loſt, 'tis gone—conflicting paſſions tear me,
I am again a villain.—Give it—no;
A ſpark of honour ſtrikes upon my ſoul.
Take back the letter; take it back, good Ber⯑trand!
Spite of myſelf compel me to be juſt:
I will not read it.
BERTRAND.
How your friend will thank you!
Another day makes Julia his for ever.
Even now the great pavilion is prepared,
There will the nuptial rites be ſolemniz'd,
Julia already dreſs'd in bridal robes,
Like ſome fair victim.—
ORLANDO.
O no more, no more.
What can ſhe write to me?
BERTRAND.

Some prudent counſel.

ORLANDO.
Then wherefore fear to read it? come, I'll venture:
What wondrous harm can one poor letter do?
The letter—quick—the letter.
BERTRAND.

Since you force me.

Gives it.
ORLANDO.
[69]
Be firm, ye ſhivering nerves. It is her hand.
Reads.
"To ſpare my bluſhes Bertand brings you this.
How have you wrong'd me! you believed me falſe;
'Twas my compaſſion for your friend deceiv'd you.
Meet me at midnight in the great Pavilion;
Till then avoid my preſence; from that hour
My future life is your's; your once-lov'd friend
I pity and eſteem, but you alone
Poſſeſs the heart of Julia."
This to me!
I dream, I rave, 'tis all Elyſium round me,
And thou, my better angel! this to me?
BERTRAND.

I'm dumb: oh Julia, what a fall is thine?

ORLANDO.
What is it ſuch a crime to love? away—
Thy moral comes too late; thou ſhoud'ſt have urg'd
Thy caution ſooner, or not urg'd at all;
Thou ſhoud'ſt—alas! I know not what I ſay—
But this I know, the charming Julia loves me,
Appoints a meeting at the dead of night!
She loves! The reſt is all beneath my care.
BERTRAND.
Be circumſpect; the hour is juſt at hand;
Since all is ready for your purpos'd parting,
See your attendants be diſpos'd aright,
Near the Pavilion Gate.
ORLANDO.
[70]

Why ſo?

BERTRAND.
Why ſo?
Make Julia the companion of your flight;
'Tis what ſhe means, you muſt not mind her ſtrug⯑gles;
A little gentle violence perhaps,
To make her yield to what ſhe had reſolv'd,
And ſave her pride, ſhe'll thank you for it after.
ORLANDO.
Take her by force? I like not that; O Bertrand,
There is a mutinous ſpirit in my blood,
That wars againſt my conſcience.—Tell my Julia,
I will not fail to meet her.
BERTRAND.
I obey.
Be near the garden; I ſhall ſoon return.
Exit Bertrand.
ORLANDO.
This giant ſin whoſe bulk ſo lately ſcar'd me,
Shrinks to a common ſize; I now embrace
What I but lately fear'd to look upon.
Why what a progreſs have I made in guilt!
Where is the hideous form it lately wore?
It grows familiar to me; I can think,
Contrive, and calmly mediate on miſchief,
Talk temp'rately of ſin, and cheriſh crimes
I lately ſo abhorr'd, that had they once
But glanc'd upon the ſurface of my fancy
I had been terrified. Oh conſcience! conſcience!
Exit Orlando.
[71] Scene changes to another part of the Garden. A grand Pavilion. The moon ſhining.
Enter RIVERS in a melancholy attitude.
RIVERS.
Ye dear, ye well known ſcenes of former bliſs!
Scenes which I hop'd were fated to beſtow
Still dearer bleſſings in a beauteous bride!
Thou gay pavilion which art dreſs'd ſo fair
To witneſs my eſpouſals, why, ah! why
Art thou adorn'd in vain? Yet ſtill I court thee,
For Julia lov'd thee once:—dear faithleſs Julia!
Yet is ſhe falſe? Orlando ſwore ſhe was not:
It may be ſo; yet ſhe avoids my preſence,
Keeps cloſe from every eye, but moſt from mine.
Enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.
Ha! Rivers here? wou'd I had ſhunn'd his walks?
How ſhall I meet the man I mean to wrong?
RIVERS.
Why does Orlando thus expoſe his health
To this cold air?
ORLANDO.

I aſk the ſame of Rivers?

RIVERS.
Becauſe this ſolitude, this ſilent hour
Feeds melancholy thoughts, and ſooths my ſoul.
My Julia will not ſee me.
ORLANDO.

How?

RIVERS.
[72]
She denies me
Admittance to her preſence.
ORLANDO.
Aſide.
Then I'm loſt,
Confirm'd a villain, now 'tis plain ſhe loves me.
RIVERS.
She will not pardon me this ſingle fault
Of jealous love, tho' thou hadſt clear'd up all.
ORLANDO.
Wait 'till to-morrow, all will then be known.
RIVERS.
Wait 'till to-morrow! Look at that pavilion;
All was prepar'd; yes, I dare tell thee all,
For thou art honeſt now.
ORLANDO.
Aſide.

That wounds too deeply.

RIVERS.
Soon as the midnight bell gave the glad ſum⯑mons,
This dear pavilion had beheld her mine.
ORLANDO.
All will be well to-morrow.—
(Aſide.)—
If I ſtay
I ſhall betray the whole.—Good night, my Rivers.
RIVERS.

Good night; go you to reſt; I ſtill ſhall walk.

Exit Orlando.
RIVERS.
[73]
Yes, I will trace her haunts; my too fond heart
Like a poor bird that's hunted from its neſt,
Dares not return, and knows not how to go;
Still it delights to hover round the ſpot
Which lately held its treaſure; eyes it ſtill,
And with heart-breaking tenderneſs ſurveys
The ſcene of joys which never may return.
Exit.
Scene changes to another Part of the Garden.
Re-enter ORLANDO.
ORLANDO.
Did he ſay reſt? talk'd he of reſt to me?
Can reſt and guilt aſſociate? but no matter,
I cannot now go back; then ſuch a prize
Wou'd make archangels forfeit their allegiance.
I dare not think; reflection leads to madneſs.
Enter BERTRAND.
Bertrand! I was not made for this dark work;
My heart recoils—poor Rivers!
BERTRAND.

What of Rivers?

ORLANDO.

I've ſeen him.

BERTRAND.

Where?

ORLANDO.

Before the great pavilion.

BERTRAND.
(Aſide.)
That's lucky, ſaves me trouble, were he abſent,
Half of my ſcheme had fail'd.
ORLANDO.
[74]
He's moſt unhappy;
He wiſh'd me reſt, ſpoke kindly to me, Bertrand;
How, how can I betray him?
BERTRAND.
He deceives you;
He's on the watch, elſe wherefore now abroad,
At this late hour? beware of treachery.
ORLANDO.

I am myſelf a traytor.

BERTRAND.
Come, no more,
The time draws near, you know the cypreſs walk,
'Tis dark.
ORLANDO.

The fitter for dark deeds like mine.

BERTRAND.
I have prepared your men, when the bell ſtrikes
Go into the pavilion; there you'll find
The bluſhing maid, who with faint ſcreams per⯑haps
Will feign reſentment. But you want a ſword.
ORLANDO.

A ſword!—I'll murder no one—why a ſword?

BERTRAND.
'Tis prudent to be arm'd; no words, take mine;
There may be danger, Julia may be loſt,
This night ſecures or loſes her for ever.
The cypreſs walk—ſpare none who look like ſpies.
ORLANDO.
(Looking at the ſword.)
How deeply is that ſoul involv'd in guilt,
Who does not hold communion with it's thought,
Nor aſk itſelf what it deſigns to do!
Exit Orlando.
BERTRAND.
[75]
Thus far propitious fortune fills my ſails;
Yet ſtill I doubt his milkineſs of ſoul;
My next exploit muſt be to find out Rivers,
And, as from Julia, give him a feign'd meſſage,
To come in haſte to the pavilion gate;
There ſhall Orlando's well-arm'd ſervants meet him,
And take his righteous ſoul from this bad world;
If they ſhou'd fail, his honeſt couſin Bertrand
Will help him onward in his way to heav'n.
Then, this good dagger which I'll leave beſide him,
Will, while it proves the deed, conceal the doer;
'Tis not an Engliſh inſtrument of miſchief,
And who'll ſuſpect good Bertrand wore a dagger?
To clear me further, l've no ſword—unarm'd—
Poor helpleſs Bertrand! Then no longer poor.
But Guildford's heir, and lord of theſe fair lands.
Exit Bertrand.
Enter ORLANDO on the other ſide.
ORLANDO.
Draw thy dun curtain round, oh, night! black night!
Inſpirer and concealer of foul crimes!
Thou wizard night! who conjur'ſt up foul thoughts,
And mak'ſt him bold who elle wou'd ſtart at guilt;
Beneath thy horrid veil he dares to act,
What in broad day he wou'd not dare to think.
Oh, night! thou hid'ſt the dagger's point from men,
But can'ſt thou ſcreen th' aſſaſſin from himſelf?
Shut out the eye of heaven? extinguiſh conſcience?
Or heal the wounds of honour? Oh, no, no, no!
Yonder ſhe goes—the guilty, charming Julia!
My genius drives me on—Julia, I come.
Runs off.
[76] SCENE, the Pavilion.
An arch'd Door, through which JULIA and her Maid come forward on the Stage.
JULIA.
Not here? not come? look out, my faithful Anna.
There was a time—oh, time for ever dear!
When Rivers wou'd not make his Julia wait.
Perhaps he blames me, thinks the appointment bold,
Too daring, too unlike his baſhful Julia;
But 'twas the only means my faithful love
Devis'd to ſave him from Orlando's raſhneſs.
I have kept cloſe, refus'd to ſee my Rivers;
Now all is ſtill, and I have ventur'd forth,
With this kind maid, and virtue for my guard.
Come, we'll go in, he cannot ſure be long.
They go into the Pavilion.
Enter ORLANDO, his ſword drawn and bloody, his hair diſhevell'd.
ORLANDO.
What have I done? a deed that earns damnation.
Where ſhall I fly? Ha! the pavilion door!
'Tis open—it invites me to freſh guilt;
I'll not go in—let that fall'n angel wait,
And curſe her ſtars as I do.
The midnight Bell ſtrikes.
Hark! the bell!
Demons of darkneſs, what a peal is that!
Again! 'twill wake the dead—I cannot bear it.
'Tis terrible as the laſt trumpet's ſound!
That was the marriage ſignal! powers of hell,
What bleſſings have I blaſted! Rivers!—Julia!
Julia comes out.
JULIA.
[77]

My Rivers calls; I come, I come.—Orlando!

ORLANDO.
Yes,
Thou beautiful deceiver! 'tis that wretch.
JULIA.

That perjur'd friend.

ORLANDO.

That devil!

JULIA.
I'm betray'd.
Why art thou here?
ORLANDO.
Thou canſt make ruin lovely,
Or I wou'd aſk, why did'ſt thou bring me here?
JULIA.

I bring thee here?

ORLANDO.

Yes, thou, bright falſehood! thou.

JULIA.
No, by my hopes of heaven! where is my Ri⯑vers?
Some crime is meant.
ORLANDO.
(Catches her hand.)
Julia! the crime is done.
Doſt thou not ſhudder? art thou not amaz'd?
Art thou not cold, and blaſted with my touch?
Is not thy blood congeal'd? does no black horror
Fill thy preſaging ſoul? look at theſe hands;
Julia! they're ſtain'd with blood; blood, Julia, blood!
Nay, look upon them.
JULIA.

Ah! I dare not.—Blood!

ORLANDO.
[78]
Yes, thou dear falſe one, with the nobleſt blood,
That ever ſtain'd a dark aſſaſſin's hand.
Had not thy letter with the guilty meſſage
To meet thee here this hour, blinded my honour,
And wrought my paſſion into burning phrenzy,
Whole worlds ſhou'd not have bribed me.
JULIA.
Letter and meſſage?
I ſent thee none.
ORLANDO.
Then Bertrand has betray'd me,
And I have done a deed beyond all reach,
All hope of mercy—I have murder'd Rivers.
JULIA.

Oh!

(She falls into her maid's arms.)
ORLANDO.
Here's the reward which love prepar'd for mur⯑der!
Thus hell rewards its inſtruments!
Enter GUILDFORD, with Servants.
GUILDFORD.
Where is he?
Where is this midnight murderer? this aſſaſſin?
This is the place Orlando's ſervant nam'd.
ORLANDO.
The ſtorm comes on. 'Tis Guildford, good old man!
Behold the wretch accurſt of heaven and thee.
GUILDFORD.

Accurſt of both indeed. How, Julia fainting?

ORLANDO.
She's pure as holy truth; ſhe was deceiv'd,
And ſo was I.
GUILDFORD.
[79]

Who tempted thee to this?

ORLANDO.

Love, hell, and Bertrand.

JULIA.
(Recovering.)
Give me back my Rivers,
I will not live without him.—Oh, my father!
GUILDFORD.
Father! I'm none; I am no more a father;
I have no child; my ſon is baſely murder'd,
And my ſweet daughter at the fatal news
Is quite bereft of reaſon.
ORLANDO.
Seize me, bind me:
If death's too great a mercy let me live:
Drag me to ſome damp dungeon's horrid gloom,
Deep as the centre, dark as my offences;
Come, do your office, take my ſword: oh, Ber⯑trand,
Yet, e'er I periſh, cou'd it reach thy heart!
hey ſeize Orlando.
JULIA.

I will not long ſurvive thee, oh, my Rivers.

Enter RIVERS with the Dagger.
RIVERS.
Who calls on Rivers with a voice ſo ſad,
So full of ſweetneſs?
GUILDFORD.

Ah, my ſon!

JULIA.

'Tis he, 'tis he!

[Julia and Rivers run into cach other's arms. Or⯑lando breaks from the guards and falls on his knees.]
ORLANDO.
[80]
He lives, he lives, the god-like Rivers lives!
Hear it, ye hoſt of heaven! witneſs ye ſaints,
Recording angels tell it in your ſongs,
Breathe it celeſtial ſpirits to your lutes,
That Rivers lives!
JULIA.

Explain this wonderous happineſs.

RIVERS.
'Twas Bertrand whom Orlando killed; the tray⯑tor
Has with his dying breath confeſs'd the whole.
ORLANDO.

Good ſword, I thank thee!

RIVERS.
In his confuſion
Orlando miſs'd the path he was to take,
And paſs'd thro' that where Bertrand lay conceal'd,
To watch th' event; Orlando thought 'twas me,
And that I play'd him falſe; the walk was dark.
In Bertrand's bloody hand I found this dagger,
With which he meant to take my life; but how
Were you alarm'd?
GUILDFORD.
One of Orlando's men,
Whom wealth cou'd never bribe to join in mur⯑der—
ORLANDO.

Murder! I bribe to murder?

RIVERS.
No, 'twas Bertrand
Brib'd them to that curſt deed; he lov'd my ſiſter.
ORLANDO.
[81]

Exquiſite villain!

GUILDFORD.
Fly to Emmelina,
If any ſpark of reaſon yet remain,
Tell her the joyful news.—Alas ſhe's here!
Wildly ſhe flies—Ah, my diſtracted child!
Enter EMMELINA diſtracted.
EMMELINA.
Off, off! I will have way! ye ſhall not hold me:
I come to ſeek my love; is he not here?
Tell me, ye virgins, have ye ſeen my love,
Or know you where his flocks repoſe at noon?
My love is comely—ſure you muſt have ſeen him,
'Tis the great promiſer! he who vows and ſwears,
In truth he might deceive a wiſer maid.
I lov'd him once, he then was innocent,
He was no murderer then, indeed he was not,
He had not killed my brother.
RIVERS.
Nor has now;
Thy brother lives.
EMMELINA.
I know it—yes, he lives
Among the cherubim. Murd'rers too will live:
But where? I'll tell you where—down, down, down down.
How deep it is! 'tis fathomleſs—'tis dark!
No—there's a pale blue flame—ah, poor Orlando!
GUILDFORD.

My heart will burſt.

ORLANDO.
[82]

Pierce mine and that will eaſe it.

EMMELINA.
(Comes up to her father.)
I knew a maid who lov'd—but ſhe was mad—
Fond fooliſh girl! Thank heav'n I am not mad;
Yet the afflicting angel has been with me;
But do not tell my father, he wou'd grieve,
Sweet, good, old man—perhaps he'd weep to hear it:
I never ſaw my father weep but once,
I'll tell you when it was—I did not weep;
'Twas when—but ſoft, my brother muſt not know it,
'Twas when his poor fond daughter was refus'd.
GUILDFORD.

Who can bear this?

ORLANDO.

I will not live to bear it.

EMMELINA.
(Comes up to Orlando.)
Take comfort, thou poor wretch! I'll not ap⯑pear
Againſt thee, nor ſhall Rivers; but blood muſt,
Blood will appear; there's no concealing blood.
What's that? my brother's ghoſt—it vaniſhes;
Catches hold of Rivers.
Stay, take me with thee, take me to the ſkies;
I have thee faſt; thou ſhalt not go without me.
But hold—may we not take the murd'rer with us?
That look ſays no. Why then I'll not go with thee.
Yet hold me faſt—'tis dark—I'm loſt—I'm gone.
Dies.
ORLANDO.
[83]
One crime makes many needful: this day's ſin
Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man!
My boſom bleeds for thee; thy child is dead,
And I the cauſe. 'Tis but a poor atonement,
But I can make no other.
Stabs himſelf.
RIVERS.

What haſt thou done?

ORLANDO.
Fill'd up the meaſure of my ſins. Oh, mercy!
Eternal goodneſs pardon this laſt guilt!
Rivers, thy hand—ah me! farewel! forgive.
Dies.
The curtain falls to ſoft muſic.
End of the Fifth Act.

Appendix A Lately publiſhed, by the ſame Author.

[]

Printed for T. Cadell in the Strand.

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License