PHILLIS AT COURT; A COMIC OPERA Of THREE ACTS. As it is now performing, with great Applause, At the THEATRE-ROYAL In CROW-STREET, DUBLIN.
The Music by Signior TOMASO GIORDANI.
LONDON: Printed for J. WILLIAMS, at No. 38. next the Mitre Tavern, Fleet-Street. MDCCLXVII. [Price One Shilling.]
Advertisement.
IT may be proper to take notice, that the Title given this Piece, at present, is copied from the French of
Monsieur Favart;
whose
Caprices D' Amour, ou Ninette a la Cour,
the Author, Mr.
Lloyd,
confesses was the ground-work of his Piece, called the
Capricious Lovers.
In order to make that Piece entertaining, (and in conformity with the
Italian Burletta
) Musical Dialogues have been added towards the end of each Act; these are known among the Italians by the word
Finale,
and are deemed indispensably necessary in an entertainment of this sort. It is now presented to the Public with many alterations. Several Airs have been added, others again suppressed; and adapted to the talents of the different performers, some of them being Foreigners.
As it was necessary to alter the Title of this Opera, to that of
Phillis at Court,
on account of the alterations made in it, and to prevent one copy being taken for the other, 'tis hoped it will meet with the approbation of the Publick.
Dramatis Personae.
MEN.
Duke,
Mr.
Heaphy.
Frederick,
Mr.
Palmer.
Hobbinol,
Mr.
Vernel.
Damon,
Mr.
Massey.
Colin,
Mr.
Mahon.
WOMEN.
Princess Emily,
Miss
Slack.
Clara,
Miss
Ashmore.
Madamoiselle,
Signora
Spilletta.
Phillis,
Signora
Cremonini.
The action is supposed in Germany, part at a Farm, and part at Court.
DANCERS.
Signior
Francesco Giordani.
Signior a
Felice Marucci.
PHILLIS AT COURT.
ACT I.
SCENE I. An agreeable view of the country, with some cattle grazing at a distance.
Phillis
with a spinning wheel;
Colin
lying on the ground beside her.
AIR.
WHILE the cool and gentle breeze
Breathes its fragrance thro' the trees,
Clad in Robes of lively green
Nature graces all the scene;
From the sweetness of the place
Labour wears a chearful face.
Sure, I taste of joys sincere,
My true swain for ever near:
When with ceaseless toils oppress'd,
Wearied nature sinks to rest,
All my labours to beguile,
Love shall wake me with a smile.
Well, Colin to you I am betrothed, and to-morrow is fix'd for our wedding-day, let that thought make you chearful. Away, I prithee, love, your work calls you, remember that the fruit of your toils will soon be bestowed on me.
Do you bid me leave you then already? It is not in my power, I am so happy; will you, my dearest, grant me one boon before I go?
Name it.
Your hand that I may kiss it.
There—take it.
Now I am alive again. I'll to my labour straight; and, whilst I tye up my flax, you shall delight me with a song.
[Goes to the other side of the stage where some bundles of flax are lying.]
DUETTO.
Thus of thy tender love possess'd,
My heart is glad, my spirits blest;
Thy chearful looks, thy soul sincere,
Shall give the smile and wipe the tear.
No splendor guilds my homely scene,
My stores are few, my cottage mean,
But, if thy smile rewards my pain,
I'll think myself a wealthy swain.
BOTH.
No jealous thought shall stain my breast,
No fears alarm, no cares molest,
Pleas'd with the Swain / Nymph my hopes pursue,
For He / She is kind and I am true.
SCENE II.
Hobbinol
and
Damon.
Go your ways, for a pair of fond pidgeons. Ah! Damon, it was just so for all the world when I went a courting to our Cicely, there was such piping, singing, and dancing—ah, these were merry days—well, well—but they are all done and past.
True, neighbour, true, we have had our day, let the young ones begin now—the very thoughts or their approaching happiness makes my old nerves spring, and I could almost caper for joy, hody o'me, I grow young again at the sight of them.
AIR.
Tho' my features, I'm told,
Are grown wrinkled and old,
Dull wisdom I hate and detest,
Not a wrinkle is there,
Which is furrow'd by care;
And my heart is as light as the best.
When I look on my boys
They renew all my joys,
Myself in my children I see,
While the comforts I find
In the kingdom my mind,
Pronounce that my kingdom is free.
In the days I was young,
Oh! I caper'd and sung,
The lasses came flocking apace.
But now turn'd of threescore
I can do so no more,
Why, then, let my boy take my place.
Of our pleasures we crack,
For we still love the smack,
And chuckle o'er what we have been;
Yet, why should we repine,
You've had yours, I've had mine,
And, now, let our children begin.
What signify the great folk with their lace and their furbelow?—all is not gold that glistens.
Ay, ay, neighbour, many a sound looking sheep is rotten at heart—our pleasures may be as good though not so costly as theirs.
'Twas but last summer, Damon, that our squire got himself a wife, a parless fine lady, and a rich one too; yet, a body would believe that they came together only to live asunder—for madam lies in one bed, squire lies in another, and they are now like the two buckets of our town well—when one comes up, to'ther goes down, and if they happen to meet each other, you would think they had never seen one another before; adod, they live like—what do you call it there—the fine toy that your pedlers sell about the country—a weather house, I think they call it, when the woman steps cut, the man pops in. If this be the matrimony of your town folks, give me the country, I say.
I'll warrant it will not be so with our young couple, blessing light upon them; they think of nothing but the feast and the dance, and adod we'll dance at the wedding too.
Ah, ah—don't you remember, come Lammas 'twill be six and forty years agone, when I met Cicely at our feast.
AIR.
When the head of poor Tummas was broke
By Roger, who play'd at the wake;
And, Kate was alarm'd at the stroke,
And wept for poor Tumma's sake.
When his worship gave noggins of ale,
And the liquor was charming and stout:
O! these were the times to regale,
And we footed it rarely about.
Then our partners were buxom as does,
And we all were as happy as kings:
Each lad in his holy-day cloaths,
And the lasses in all their best things.
What merriment all the day long,
May the feast of our children prove such:
O
sooks, but I'll join in the song,
And I'll hobble about with my crutch.
Ay, it was that very day his worship was made justice of the peace and coram.
Yes, Damon, I remember, then Cicely and you came together for the first time. She was a rich wench, then, her cheeks were as fresh as a rose, and as red as a camarine pear. There was your dancing, Damon, when she and I were partners and—
HUNTING PIECE.
Oh, neighbours, neighbours, all our ground is over-run with horses, hounds and huntsmen—they drive through the corn. Plague on all sportsmen, they are born to ruin us. Here, Roger, Tummas, quick, make haste, the gate stands open, shut it fast, for if we don't take care, they'll ravage all.
We must be patient, Colin, its the Duke's hunt.
A murrain take all hunts, I say—here are they hunting about every day and all day, and their fine sports, forsooth, must be our ruin: our labour is all in vain.—They are coming this way, I think, get in lads and lasses, these roaring fellows are keen sportsmen when they have our wives and daughters in chase.
Exeunt all but
Colin.
How I am terrified!—what if they should rob me of my Phillis.—'should, the very thought on't sets me mad with rage.
AIR.
Now Fury, vengeance, fire my mind,
My breast I like a chaldron find,
Thro' every vein now toiling,
Hark how my blood is boiling,
Roaring, rumbling,
Bubling, tumbling,
In the conflict tost
My reason's lost.
Sure no power on earth can ever,
From this heart my fair dissever.
SCENE III.
Enter
Duke
and
Frederick.
A country girl, good Sir; and is this the object of your adoration?
It is, and what is still more extraordinary, her wit charms me as much as her beauty.
A miracle.
She is inded a wonder, and I have been told that an old lady whose circumstances obliged her to dwell in retirement, has been the protectress of this sweet creature, and formed and cultivated her mind by an excellent education, leaving her possessed of the most amiable simplicity, a native frankness of temper, and an agreeable vivacity.
Does not your highness fear some imputation?
What signifies the blood she springs from? A handsome woman is naturally born above her condition.
But the princess Emily, Sir, her rank and fortune.
I confess them, yet my heart 'spite of myself, is on the point of proving faithless to her; I doat on this little rural innocent, and what is still more extraordinary, with but little hopes of success.
Is she so coy then? What! can she resist one of the first dukes in all Saxony.
AIR.
When first a princely lover tries
To pierce the artless female heart,
With panting fear oppress'd,
Each rising wish suppress'd.
The tim'rous nymph repels the dart,
In vain the soft deceiver sighs,
Till vanity soon lending aid,
The fond deluded fair's betray'd.
How romantic must I appear to you, when I own that I adore her; and, yet, which is perhaps the best proof, I have never dared to utter my passion.
But how can you hope to gain her heart without solicitation.
For that purpose I have at length retained a female solicitor, Mademoiselle, whom I have sent to exert all her artifice to win her to the court. I have no reliance but upon her skill; but here they come.—Let us retire, and watch their conversation.
SCENE IV.
Mademoiselle
and
Phillis.
Ah! ma chere, how you be so merry, so gay dans un etat si pauvre; you no live in de vorld.
The obscurity of my condition is the means of my happiness; what have I to disturb my tranquility?
Tranquillite, Oh! miserable; come, come, me know someting vou'd make dat little heart go pit a pat; you demand vat you please: you be satisfaite; der be de carosse, de coach, de diamond, de valets for Madame: you pay de visite, you be carry in de chair up and down, de grand hoop touch your head, and let me see, der be von two, tre, Laquais vid a flambeaux, de crie, by your leave, clear the vay there?
Alack-a-day, who will give me all these fine things?
You know, don't you: be a gentilhommes he come sometimes, pour la chase, to hunt.
Oh! that civil gentleman, who calls himself the duke's friend, he has promised to speak a word for us at court; and, to be sure, he'll do us real services, for he professes great regard.
Ah! Morbleu! your beauté command de l'amour de love, comme, you will briller at de court.
Ah! madam, I see you laugh at me, I am not designed for such fine folks, I should be ashamed to shew my face at court.
Point du tout, der be no shame at the court, der be des plaisir, de balls, de conversation, de letel badinage in de corner; you be dress in fine silk, de gold, de silver, de flounces, de mignonettes, then, ah! madame; your toilette.
Toilette, what's that?
De treasure of de fine ladies, der they embellish their charms nature'lle.
AIR.
Yes, that's a magazine of arms,
To triumph over time,
Whence beauty borrows half her charms,
And always keeps her prime;
At that, the prude, coquette and saint,
Industrious sets her face,
While powder, patch and wash and paint,
Repair or give a grace.
To arch the brow there lies the brush,
The comb to tinge the hair,
The spanish wool to give the blush
The pearl to die them fair.
Hence rise the wrinkled, old and grey,
In freshest beauty strong,
As Venus fair, as Flora gay,
As Hebe ever young.
This is past my comprehension. — I don't understand it.—Shall I grow handsomer at court?
Aye, to be sure.
I should like it vastly; I wish I was there, had I more charms, Colin, perhaps, might love me better.
Courage, try, Madame.
I have a good mind, and yet I am afraid;—but see yonder comes the gentleman who belongs to the Duke.
Exit
Mademoiselle.
SCENE V.
Good Morrow, fair maiden; what, still at your rustic employments; fie, fie, to bury such charms in the country is treason against beauty.—
Indeed, sir, your language is past my simple understanding, a fine outlandish gentlewoman was here but now, and she talked of riddles to me; pray, sir, can you explain them; she told me that there was a receipt at court to make beauty everlasting, and that somebody adores me; for my part I can't find out what she means.
Oh! Phillis.
Bless me, sir, you sigh, is there any thing gives you pain; what's the matter with you?
I love you, Phillis.
Is that all?—and so you love me.
Most sincerely.
I am glad on't.
Indeed!—
Ay, indeed, sir, surely, sir, you will not deny the request of her you love.
No, Phillis, no, name it and be satisfied.
You know, sir, they are continually hunting here from morning to night, if you have any interest, good sir, speak to the Duke that we may be no more troubled with him, for my part I can't find out what has possessed them to run over our fields in such a manner; for the pleasure of killing a little leverte, they'll destroy you forty acres of corn; only see.
Be satisfied—your request is already granted.
I thank you, sir, with all my heart, and above all, I beg you will never come here, for I don't like to see you.
What! how's that, Phillis? I hoped—
Hoped—pray what, sir?
You don't love me then.
I! not I, indeed, I love Collin.
Vexation! Who's Collin, who?
A young man in our parish who courts me, and has promis'd me marriage.
Consider, Phillis, do not throw away your affections, place them more properly, let me conjure you.
taking hold of her hand.
SCENE VI.
Enter
Colin.
Softly, softly, master, you may not touch our Phillis.
So, here is my worthy rival.
I pray, sir, do not hurt him.
Putting herself before Colin.
Be not alarmed pretty maiden, I come not here to cause unhappiness, he rests secure for me. If Colin is indeed so dear to you, be assured I am his friend.—Oh, that I could renounce this weakness.
Plague on the friendship of the fox, who comes in such a civil leering way to steal away the chickens,—if you must needs pamper yourself with a delicate morsel, e'en look for it elsewhere.
DUETTO.
Be calm, I pray, my true love, dear,
You know not what you're doing,
A lord is in our presence here,
Affront may prove our ruin.
How can I e'er believe him such,
These crafty wiles pursuing.
My lord, you honour me too much.
—
to Duke.
A plague on both your wooing.
Oh! prithee, cease your idle prate,
Your folly must undo us,
You know not, from a man so great,
What favour my come to us.
Believe not what the courtiers swear,
They ruin whilst they're civil;
I thank you, sir, for all your care.
—
to Duke.
Such kindness is the devil.
I was in hopes my tenderness might have won upon you, the happy Colin, I perceive, interests you more: may he be the means of compleating your happiness, tho' I am rewarded with afflictions. But your will shall be my law. Adieu, remember, think upon my love, and be assured of every service in my power.
Exit.
SCENE VII.
Thank heaven, the coast is clear, and all is calm again.
Indeed, Colin, you treated the gentleman much too roughly.—He is a lord, and he has promised to carry me to court.
To court! and will you go?
To be sure, why not, they say it is a charming place, we'll go together, love.
Hear me, Phillis, nothing that's handsome is safe at court; his design is to betray you, which you don't seem to suspect. He talked to you about love, why did you listen to him, Phillis?
What if he did talk about love, his love is hopeless; and your courtiers are too well bred to offend against good manners.
Yes, yes, they are such sort of folks to be sure— you have found them so.
Why do you suspect me, I only give ear to such discourse to laugh at it, to laugh with you, my dear Colin, remain secure in that assurance.
O, no doubt, that is charming and fine; but don't I see him at this very moment lurking about and staring upon you, as if he'd look you through and through; and he is not yet gone about his business, go home to your own cottage, to-morrow you are to be my wife, go along without any more to do, I tell you it must be so
I can't.
You must.
I won't.
You shall.
Mighty well, Colin, I don't deserve this, at your hands; let me alone.
AIR.
Be not so cross and rude,
You vex, you hurt me—oh—
My lord is much too good,
To see me treated so.
His lordship's tender care,
Shall keep me free from harm;
I'll tell him all, I swear—
O lud! you break my arm.
SCENE VIII.
Enter
Duke
and
Frederick.
Insolent villain, release her this instant.
Let us alone, sir, I beseech you, 'tis our own affair, and you have nothing to do with us.
Stand off fellow, it is the Duke.
The Duke; you the Duke!
Yes, I endeavoured to conceal my rank, that your love might be disinterested, but to preserve you I will now use my own authority—come hither.
The Duke—the Devil!
Aside.
Come, Phillis, and adorn my court, there your beauty shall shine with all its advantages, and partake with the sovereign the homage of all hearts.
Yes, sir, I will go with you.
Then Frederick, to you I commit the charge of conducting my fair one to court.
Exit.
(to Colin)
Henceforth you shall learn to prize me better.
Was ever such perfidy!
AIR.
Go, seek some nymph os humbler lot,
To share thy board and deck thy cot,
With joy I
the simple youth
Who holds me light, or doubts my truth.
Thy breast for love too wanton grown,
Shall mourn its peace and pleasure flown;
Nor shall my faith reward a swain
Who doubts my love, or thinks me vain.
SCENE IX.
A plague take the whole sex, say I, they are as light as chaff and fickle as the wind.
Enter
Madamoiselle
and
Hobbinol.
Well, madam, I congratulate you, you'll go with us to court; such charms were never designed for a country village.
Oui Madame, you come vid us to court; 'tis pity, en verite, that beauty comme la votre be bury dans grosfierete de la campagne.
I scarce know what to resolve—I feel my heart flutter with eagerness, joy and fear.
Fear—what fear—you shall be adored, loved and admired by all—oui, madame, the sovereign of all de lord and de envy des toutes les dames.
I burst with rage.
Aside.
Banish from your heart every doubt, and prepare yourself for unbounded happiness and good fortune.
I can hold no longer—I have a mind to break his head.
Aside.
goes for a cudgel.
Allons, madame, courage, you go to pleasure, fortune, and grandeur.
(discovering himself.)
Stand off there, all of you: let the girl alone, or I'll let you feel the weight of this cudgel.
Hold, hold, are you mad? give me your stick.
I won't.
My sword shall answer this insolence.
Part them for heaven's sake.
QUINTETTO.
I fear not your sword,
Though you be a lord,
You may swagger and stare,
Come on if you dare.
You unmannerly knave,
Do you know whom you brave?
You're saucy and rude,
How dare you intrude.
Ah! Colin, forbear,
Alas! sir, take care.
For heaven's sake be quie
Don't raise such a riot.
The time yet may come,
When I'll pay you home:
My cudgel / rapier shall teach you.
If e'er I can reach you.
I pray you have done,
For pity begone,
O fortune accurst!
With vexation I / rage, I shall burst.
ACT II.
SCENE I. A Toilet, Phillis dressing.
Madamoiselle
and
Clara.
AIR.
THANK you ladies, for your care,
But I pray you both forbear,
Sure I am all o'er scratches,
That your curious hands must place,
Such odd spots upon my face,
With your pencils, paint and patches.
How I totter in my gait,
From a dress of so much weight,
With my robe too dangling after,
Could my Colin now but see,
What a thing they've made of me,
Oh he'd split his sides with laughter.
You have made a strange figure of me indeed at last, these things are wonderous aukward to me, pray let's have done.
A leetel more rogue for votre ladyship silvous plait.
Ladyship! don't laugh at me.
Von lettel bit more.
More daubing! have done. I"ll no more on't.
Your diamonds, madam.
O how they sparkle—but there are some flowers—pho, they have no smell—every thing is unnatural here, beauty is but a painted sign, all is impostor even to the very flowers.
These flowers, ma'am, are made to please the sight, not the smell, and in this instance they excell those of nature.
Quelle amiable figure.
How immensely elegant—horrid creature!
Aside.
[overhearing]
What did you say?
You'll be the object of general adoration, all the world will feel the force of your charms.
Charms! are these your charms? I hardly know myself; and yet after all, a peacock, a jay, or a butterfly is drest ten times finer. Here are gold, and silver, and jewels, and ribbands of all the colours in the rainbow—a great hoop that hides my real figure, washes that take away my natural complexion, shoes that will cripple me, and stays that make me crooked. I wish I was in my own cloaths again.
AIR.
When late a simple rustic lass,
I rov'd without constraint;
A stream was all my locking-glass,
And health my only paint.
The charms I boast, (alas how few!)
I gave to not nature's care:
As vice ne'er spoil'd their native hue,
They could not want repair.
Pardonne moi, votre ladyship sing mighty vell, pon my vord, but you want de bon ton.
Aye, there it is, your ladyship has no Italian expression, which is the life and soul of all musick, the very essence of harmony. Your singers of taste will run up and down the ladder of sounds from the cellar up to the garret, now rumbling along till they make your ears crack again, and then in the piano they expire like a swan to their own melody. In our favourite composition we are not contented with making the sound an echo to the sense, but by a happy tumbling of both together, create the most agreeable confusion of harmony in the universe.
It may be very fine, but I don't like it; this taste, as you call it, seems to have declared war against nature, and turned all her works topsy-turvy; pray shall I meet with all these fopperies at court?
Court, madam, abounds with curiosities; there you will meet a thousand objects to entertain you; there are your pretty little creatures with high heels to their shoes, and solitaires round their necks, that look so lady-like you would think they were women with swords by their sides: then there are your precise puppets trotting along with formal bands under their chins, and plastered wigs upon their head, whispering strange nothings in your ear, and exhibiting at one view the most whimsical combination of pride and servility.
AIR.
How strange the mode which truth neglects,
And rests all beauty in defects!
But we by homely nature taught,
Tho' rude in speech, are plain in thought.
Come, then, I long to be there, let us to court.
I'ave de honour to present milady vid her fan.
Dear me, what use can I make of this?
This is a wonderful instrument, its exercise is various and elegant.
I vill tell you, I vil shew you de use, madame.
AIR.
For various purpose serves the fan,
As thus—a decent blind;
Between the sticks to peep at man,
Nor yet betray your mind.
Each action has a meaning plain,
Resentment's in the snap,
A flirt expresses strong disdain,
Consent a gentle tap.
All passions will the fan disclose,
All modes of female art,
And to advantage sweetly shews
The hand, if not the heart.
'Tis folly's sceptre, first design'd
By love's capricious boy,
Who knows how lightly all mankind
Are govern'd by a toy.
SCENE II.
Enter
Duke
and
Frederick.
Yes, Frederick, I do observe, nay, pity her though from her delicacy she has not hitherto upbraided me, I perceive the princess entertains strong suspicions, which you know are but too well grounded.
Yet those, my lord, are easily removed.
And how?
Your highnesse's orders have already done it, for what you promised Phillis will be a proof, by which Emily cannot suspect that this amour has any thing real in it. When this same Colin, whom the young madam doats on, comes to court, his love will be a blind for your's.
True, I have sent for him, but what then?— pray explain.
The aukward simplicity of country lovers, must make an agreeable contrast with the elegance of court manners, an amusement only fit for laughter, as such only you designed it, for that purpose you brought them hither for entertainment and observation, the princess cannot suspect your designs upon Phillis when her own Collin is permitted to be with her, and you will easily find means to compass your intentions when all suspicions are quieted.
AIR.
The harsh resolve O yet with-hold,
Forbear her gentle heart to grieve,
If only painful truth is told,
'Tis mercy to deceive.
Our wishes aid each slight disguise,
And love the place of truth supplies.
But see, the princess comes—I would avoid her.
Exeunt
SCENE III.
Enter
Emily
and
Clara.
He shuns me, Clara, alas! 'tis now beyond all doubt.
Do not torment yourself, and create imaginary affliction.
AIR.
Ourselves too often we deceive,
And wrong our judgment to believe,
When thinking harshly of the swain,
We cheat our hopes and brood on pain.
With the generality of women, I confess, the heart is not so much affected as their vanity is hurt by the fickleness of their lovers. Self-love is too often the link which unites their souls, but the only interest which sways my bosom is the purest and tendered affection.
Believe me, madam, the Duke is no stranger to your tenderness—he will return it.
You would comfort me, I see—perhaps I am alarm'd, from too slight a cause, however, watch their steps if you regard your mistress.
AIR.
If tyrant love with cruel dart,
Transfix the maidens tender heart,
Of easy faith and fond belief.
She hugs the dart and aids the thief.
Till left her helpless state to mourn,
Neglected, loving and forlorn,
She finds, while grief her bosom stings,
As well as darts the god has wings.
But who is this the Duke brings with him—oh, 'tis the village nymph, he so much doats on. I must observe them.
Exit.
SCENE IV.
Enter
Phillis
and
Duke.
Well, what think you of the court, does it delight you, Phillis?
It is the seat of wonders: every thing changes character here; the men are quite different; I met one who is the lord of the manor in our neighbourhood, a very proud gentleman amongst us, he carries his head so high and so fierce, and threatens folks with his cane in the country if they do but look upon him; here he was bowing and scraping and cringing like a spaniel. Why are they so complaisant here, these great folks who terrify and domineer over us in the country? Does the court make them so much better? No, I believe, if they do any good here, 'tis only to get a right to do something bad elsewhere.
I hear you with pleasure; did not the brilliancy and politeness of the court surprize you.
Oh! they were extravagantly polite, indeed, they paid their compliments with wonderful civility and ran over my person and features in a loud whisper with the most minute observation—upon my word she's a mighty pretty right thing, quite an angel for the country, what a poor little innocent it is, what an air she has, what a walk, what a voice.—
Oh that is meer pleasantry—they'll be more careful by and by, and shew you infinitely more respect, they will be eager
o invent new diversions for you, the will read your wishes in your eyes, and I my dear will serve them as a model.
SCENE V.
Enter
Emily
and
Clara.
So, madam, you have made a noble conquest. Suffer me I beseech you to pay my homage where the Duke pays his.
Nay, but Emily, you misunderstand—
Your superior charms—
to Phil.
Pray, madam, do not mock me.
Don't disturb yourself, my lord, my presence interrupts, I see. I will retire.
to the Duke.
Stay, stay, we have no secret to talk of. The Duke and I—
I understand you, madam, it were wonderful, indeed, if charms like yours had not most terrible effects:
AIR.
I must approve your highness flame,
Your passion for the fair;
And all the world must feel the same,
Who marks her shape and air.
A mein so rich in ev'ry grace,
Her manners so polite,
Such beauty beaming from her face,—
Was ever such a fright!
So, then, the Duke is her lover, yes, yes, I plainly perceive it. Upon my word, this place abounds with very odd customs
(
to the
Duke)
can you divide your heart to two at a time
(
to
Emily)
the Duke loves me too, madam, he has sworn it.
(ironically to the
Duke
)
Meer pleasantry, that's all.
Nay, but I assure you.
to Emi.
You need not be under any apprehensions on my account, for my part I love Colin.
to Emi.
Yes, yes, Colin is her love, and Colin shall come. I told you so
(
to
Emily)
don't give any credit.
I believe nothing.
'Twas but a whim that caused all this; for I imagined the rustic simplicity of these peasants, might make an agreeable contrast with the refined manners of our courtiers.
(forcing a laugh)
A very ridiculous project, truly. Oh! we shall be charmingly amused, come, let us hear some of her prattle.—Well, my dear, and how do you like the court!
May I speak, my lord?
Oh, what you please.
Then, if I must fairly confess the truth, I am heartily tired of this horrid place; where every object I perceive seems a contradiction to common sense; their whole design is to reverse nature; where people are for ever busy in doing nothing; where they eat without appetite, and lie down without rest, where their mirth is all grimace, and their pleasure nothing but perpetual noise.
Her observation, madam, to me seems perfectly just; groves and retirements are your only places for innocence and simplicity.
AIR.
Along your verdant lowly vale,
Calm Zepbyr breathes a gentle gale,
But rustling thro' the lofty trees,
It swells beyond the peaceful breeze.
Thus free from envy's poison'd dart,
You beast a pure unruffled heart;
While jarring thoughts our peace desorm,
And swell our passions to a storm.
And, pray, when is she to return to her village again, is she to go to-morrow?
No, sir, to night, to night, I beseech you, the sooner the better.
Come, come, then, let us leave her to prepare for her journey, and indulge her meditation on her beloved Colin; your servant my dear.
Adieu, Phillis, don't be uneasy, your Colin will soon be here.
Exeunt Duke and Emily.
Your servant, my dear, a mighty pretty subject to laugh at, truly; e'en keep your Duke to yourself, I want none of him, I am sure, I did not come here to look for him.
(weeping)
I have nothing to reproach myself with, only let them suffer me to go, and I shall be happy. Is it my fault, what have I to do with it? If Colin was to treat me so, instead of making myself so pleasant with other folks; I should die for grief.
Exit.
Enter
Mademoiselle.
Votre servante, I have de message from the Duke pour vous maame.
Message to me! What does his highness command?
You know Colin, he be arrive at de court, le prince bid you and I to try vid our charms to engager his heart to make an impression.
I understand it, to detach him from Phillis, and breed a quarrel between them; well, for my part, I shall enter into the scheme very sincerely; I know Colin, he is a smart lad, and I can never see any objection to a little amusement with a handsome young fellow— but sure, I see him yonder, coming this way—let us first stand aside, and observe him.—
SCENE VI.
AIR.
Plague take such folks,
Their whims, their jokes,
With their nonsense, rant and riot
This calls me clown,
That shoves me down,
Can a body ne'er be quiet.
So push'd about,
Thrust in, thrust out,
In a tumult, noise and hurry,
I'm squeez'd to death,
I've lost my breath,
And my wits run hurry, scurry.
Here have they dragged me out of the country to make a fool and laughing stock of me; a parcel of servants, I think they called them, though I took them for lords, they were all so be-laced and be-ruffled, have put me into this dress farsooth, in spite of my teeth, and what have I to do with these tawdry trappings; I want nothing in this world but mine own sweet-heart, Phillis; they came truly to fetch me hither, and yet I can't find her; a plague upon 'em, every thing distracts me: I know not whether I stand on my head or my legs.
I'll e'en go and accost him—sir, sir.
Lud, lud, what can this fine lady want with me, how she surveys me; I believe she'll look me through and through.
Pray, sir, what occasion can have brought you to court?
Me, I only come to look for our Phillis.
Who, sir, Phillis!
Yes, a tight lass of our parish, who has promised to be my wife, but she has left me in the lurch.
You amaze me! That is scarce possible.
Aye, forsooth, but it's true.
But after all, sir, why should that give you any manner of uneasiness: a person of your figure, I am sure, has it always in his power to make a better choice: you were never made to be treated with disdain. I tell you so, sir, as a friend.
A friend to me madam: Lord I never saw you before in my life.
Upon my word, sir, I wish you well.
E moi ausfi, ah Monsieur you be charmant, my heart vill not refuse to love you.
You too madam! and without knowing me. Oh this is the fine French lady.
Aside.
(Aside)
I have de seetle secret intention pour my self.) Oh, mensieur les gens de your condition be very vell known.
You have a certain air in your countenance, an appearance in your dress.—
Oh madam, upon my word.—
Which sufficiently explain themselves to my eyes.
O, as to that, your ladyship.—
Ah der be gran de politesse, you be so polite, morbleu.
Politeness! I polite! indeed, madam, I don't pretend to know any thing of the matter. To be sure I was always counted a civil body, and I know how to keep my distance, and doff my hat, for I know that's good manners for certain, when one talks to a great lady.
But you be un gentil homme.
A gentleman, I a gentleman! O lud, O lud.
But you be too modeste; dat be of no service at court.
Yes, yes, forsooth I am a country gentleman.
And that, sir, is all in all, that is a sufficient recommendation, and a peculiar protection.
(Aside)
Ods bud, but I believe these ladies sure have taken a fancy to me, they had good reason indeed who told me, one need but shew ones face at court to make ones fortune.
Bless me, what a charming figure, what ease, what elegance; Oh, sir, if you come hither to make your fortune, you cannot fail of success; come, come, you shall be my servant.
Non, non, don't mind vat she say, Monsieur, if you vill marry me, I have de l'argent, I vill give you de money, de lace coat, de coach.
Why, to be sure, madam, to a poor fellow like me.—
O heavens! what ails me, I am so dizzy I can hardly stand, lord how my heart flutters.
O madam, madam, shall I assist you.
No sir, I thank you, not at all; I begin to recover, I feel myself grow better apace.
Indeed, madam, you frighten me, what would you have me do, pray spake, madam.
You must—O, sir, spare my blushes, lord how I tremble—you must—love me a little—can you, will you.
This can be no trick. It grieves me to see her in such a taking, I'll e'en pretend to fall in love with her.
Stay, sir, come vid me, I vill make your fortune.
Adad, I must have something about me, more than I dreamt of, to make such quick impressions on ladies of such high fashion. I don't know what to resolve—I have a great mind to.—
Phillis
enters behind.
O heavens what do I see.
Will you agree to my proposal.
Vill you give me your hand; do you doubt, am I so disagreeable.
Am I so frightful?
Why, ladies, sure you make a jest of a country lad here—Is it possible—can I believe my senses.
(behind)
Grant me patience!
I protest sur mon honour.
I sware.—
Why then—I never was hard hearted in my days.
(Discovering herself)
Oh, villain, have I caught you—now look upon me, is it thus you reward your Phillis?
Phillis, what do I see, Phillis.
You false man, it is Phillis, I have found you now.
QUARTETTO.
Ah, traytor! vain, I see
Your beast of love sincere,
But vengeance soon shall free
This bosom from its care.
From blame this bosom's free,
Reproaches then forbear,
My heart is fixt on thee,
And boasts of love sincere.
You pouting creature never mind.
If she upbraids you I'll be kind.
No longer shy, no longer cloy,
Come dwell with us, with love and joy.
Was mortal ever so distrest?
But three to one are odds too great.
Go, savage wretch, that faithless breast
Is now the object of my hate.
Those wanton curls, those meaning eyes,
That graceful shape, that roguish air!
Bids every soft emotion rise,
And something stirs,—I don't know where.
By turns to each inclin'd,
Suspense distracts my mind:
'Tis torment too severe,
For flesh and blood to bear:
To end the strife, 'twixt you and me,
I wish the devil had the three.
aside.
Well, is it not provoking,
Im vext with all my joking,
And ev'ry art in vain I try:
Was ever maid so spighted?
To see myself thus slighted,
And such fine ladies by.
Fine sport to destroy my own ease,
By striving my neighbour to teaze:
Well, sure, here's a comical set,
Of impertinents very well met.
From tyrant love proceeds our care,
Love's cruel empire who can bear!
Begone then love, fly far away,
No more thy dictates we obey:
A poor reward thy votaries gain,
A moment's bliss, and age of pain.
ACT III.
SCENE I. A Street.
Hobbinol
and
Damond.
AYE, aye, neighbour, your fine folk, for all their vapouring and bouncing, are no honester than they should be. Who would have thought that our Phillis would have been sent for to court!
Sent for, quoth a; no Damon, trapanned, drawn in by artifice.—Lord! what a parcel of nonsense of teeth, and lips, and ivory, and coals and diamonds did some of these puppets pour out before the wenches in our village, till the maids grew so fantastic that they did not know their heads from their tails.
Fair words cover foul dealings; give me plain speech▪ and plain manners, I say.
By my troth, Gaffer, I never could abide these leg making gentry, who bow, and scrape, and palaver, with their hats stuck like gizzards, under their arms; and all the while they mean no more by their civility than to cukold the husband, or debauch the daughter.
Thank heaven, Hobbinol, we have none of those vices; we are not so polite, and in good truth, I envy none of those sort of folk.
AIR.
Tho my dress, as my manners, is simple and plain,
A rascal I hate, and a knave I disdain;
My dealings are just, and my conscience is clear.
And I'm richer than those that have thousands a year.
Tho' bent down with age, and for sporting uncouth,
I feel no remorse from the follies of youth;
I still tell my tale, and rejoice in my song,
And my boys think my life not a moment too long.
Let the courtiers, th
se dealers in grin and grimace,
Creep under, dance over, for title or place;
Above all the titles that flow from a throne,
That of honest I prize, and that title's my own.
But sure they cannot mean mischief to our young couple, since my boy Colin has been sent for to court with all haste, and to meet your Phillis, they said. Body o'me, how their eyes will sparkle when they meet each other! I'll warrant you now she is as melancholy as a turtle that has lost its mate.
But for my part, Hobbinol, I cannot abide the thoughts of her being at court; why the place is for all the world like a fair, full of nonsense, noise and shew.
Aye, neigbour, they keep fair here all the year round, and a plentiful market too, only the goods now and then are a little stale.
A plague take their town manners, I say, though I doff my hat never so low, and bespeak them never so civilly, they do but laugh in my face; adod, I think we have been as proper folks as the best of them in our time. They mun keep their flaunts and fleers to themselves. It is a wonderment to me, neighbour, how we found our way hither.
Or how we escaped whole from so many dangers. I thought I should have had my body squeezed to death by one of those fidgetting fellows, with poles in his hands, and a chair at his backside, who thrust me into the kennel almost under the wheel of a coach, and then surlily cried out—"by your leave"—Had I known that had been the way of asking, civil question, ecod! but I would have had my crutch ready to have given him an answer.
Well, well, these disasters are at an end now.
True, Gaffer, true, we mun not bide here, we must try what we can to recover our children; and for my part, I do think Colin will be perfect mad if he misses his dear Phillis.
Exeunt.
SCENE II. An Antichamber in the Palace.
Enter
Frederick, Phillis,
and
Madamoiselle.
I am sorry Colin's inconstancy should give you so much distress; accidents of that sort, are so common here, nobody regards them; a little farther acquaintance with court, will convince you the failing is too general to deserve much blame.
AIR.
From flower to flower the Butterfly,
O'er fields, or gardens ranging:
Sips sweets from each, and flutters by,
And all his life is changing.
Thus roving man new objects sway,
By various charms delighted:
Whilst she who pleases most to-day,
To-morrow shall be flighted.
Faithless, faithless Colin! and pray Madamoiselle, does Colin know the duke designs to visit me?
Oui, oui, he be informed long since, poor soul.
The news of it has affected him, no doubt.
Certainement madame, pour a little quarter of an hour or so.
I beheld him run up and down, stamping and tearing, and raving and rending like a madman, then he'd stop short of a sudden, and folding his arms like a lover despairing beside a clear stream, heave a desperate sigh, with the most rueful length of face mortal ever beheld.
Vraiment it was pitoyable case.
AIR.
Oh! 'twould pierce a heart of stone,
To hear him roar and blubber:
So great a lover ne'er was known,
—Nor e'er so great a lubber.
Like little master left alone,
By gay mamma forsaken:
With hiecup, sob, and sigh and groan,
His heart is almost breaking.
But like the rest of his sex, sorrow took no fast hold of him, 'twas but an April shower, and all was fair again.
Indeed, were it not for his treachery, I could almost find in my heart to pity him—But I find myself strangely fatigued; your pleasures here pall the mind, without entertaining it, my spirits are quite overpowered.
I am glad of it, now, now you begin to have the bon ton—I was sure your ladyship could not be so long amongst the polite world without catching the manners of it. 'Tis nothing but nerves, and fashionable vapours. A thing of course.
Vapours and weak nerves, why can it be a fashion to be sick!
O lord! its downright ungenteel to be otherwise, your ruddy complexion, and active limbs, may do very well for a dairy maid in the country; but here they are perfectly unnecessary, nay, absolutely improper. Lord ma'm it is as unfashionable for a fine lady to be without a complaint, as to be out of debt.
The more I observe your manners here, the more they surprise me.—But there is a scheme come into my head: were it not possible Mademoiselle that Colin might be conceal'd somewhere hereabouts, that he may overhear our intercourse?
Sans doubte, madame, but pourquoi for what purpose?
The dearest in the world, revenge,
Ah, dat be the most delicious morsel.
And the injustice he has done you by his suspicions, deserves the worst of mortifications from your hands.
Well, then, sir, to you and Mademoiselle I leave the management of this affair. The Duke will be delighted with it. Adieu, I shall attend his highness's pleasure.
Exeunt Fred. and Mad
If Colin blames me now, 'tis not without reason, but I will still surprise him more, he shall be satisfied as to the interview between the Duke and me, and if my contrivance succeeds, the princess too shall be served— Alas! why came I hither? Is it the air I breathe which poisons all my peace? At home my only thought was mirth; there all was tranquillity, pleasure and happiness▪
AIR.
When far from fashion's gilded scence,
I breath'd my native air;
My thoughts were calm, my mind serene,
No doubtings harbour'd there.
But now no more myself I find,
Distraction rends my breast;
Whilst hopes and fears disturb my mind,
And banish all my rest.
SCENE III.
Enter
Emily
and
Clara.
So, Clara, I still find her here, you see. The so much boasted charms of the country, will I fear lose all their relish after the splendour of a court.
Love, madam, is undoubtedly very intoxicating, and it is no wonder if the addresses of a duke turn the brain of an ignorant village lass.
AIR.
Flatt'ring hopes the mind deceiving
Easy faith too often cheat,
Woman fond and all believing,
Loves and hugs the dear deceit.
Noisy shews of pomp and riches,
Cupid's tricks to catch the fair,
Lowly maids too oft bewitches
Flatt'ry is the beauty's snare.
So, then, you will not leave us yet. The court has stronger attractions than you were aware of Phillis.
Alas! madam, did it depend upon my choice, I would be far off. The pleasures of this place are lost upon me, they are too artificial for us simple folks, who are the servants of nature.
Quit then, as fast as you can, a place so contrary to your matters: I would not delay a moment. Alas! why cannot I shake off this troublesome pomp and pageantry of courts?
AIR.
Return, sweet lass, to flocks and swains.
Where simple nature mildly reigns,
Where love is every shepherd's care,
And every nymph is kind as fair.
The court has only tinsel toys,
Insipid mirth and idle noise,
But rural joys are ever new,
While nymphs are kind, and shepherds true.
Upon my word, ladies, you reason excellently well in your turn. I perceive the advice of every body flows from self-interested motives. You would most obligingly inform me that my presence displeases you, madam; I heartily believe it—But, now I think on it, I can't go yet, 'tis absolutely impossible. I have a particular engagemement with the Duke.
With the Duke!
Yes, with the Duke; oh, you will laugh exceedingly.—
Laugh! I laugh! how?
The Duke you know is in love with you.
(sighs)
And what then?
Then! why he desires an interview with me.
Which you have granted, I suppose.
Oh, doubtless. It is not for folks in such an humble situation as mine to refuse so great an honour, and, indeed, after so many instances of friendship and protection, it were a sin to deny so small a request. But, I see, Madam, you are discompos'd.
Who I! not I, not in the least.
I can't abide to be thought ungrateful.
So then, Phillis, after all this parade of honour, and virtue, and love, you can make an assignation.
Come, come, don't be suspicious; where you dread a rival, you may find a friend. I pity your uneasiness, madam, nor will I ever be the cause of adding to it. Come, then with me, and, if possible, endeavour to forget your jealous resentment. I warrant you all will be well yet.
SCENE IV. An apartment with a couch and table.
Colin
solus.
I am ruined, undone. They have bewitch'd her they have given her something to steal away her heart, and yet I can scarce believe it—It is impossible—What Phillis meet the Duke alone! alas! it is but too true,—here behold me in the very chamber—can I yet doubt? Ah! that couch, that tell-tale couch suggests enough to make me shudder;—what an object for a faithful sweet heart, such as I am! What alarms! what violent emotions it raises! —My folly has aggravated her to an entire neglect of me—Well, heaven be thank'd, I am not quite friendless yet.—The good natur'd gentlewoman who was so civil to me before, has sent me hither whether I may over-hear all;—let me see, I'll conceal myself under this table, and from thence observe what passes, and if I find my suspicions true, I know how to be reveng'd for the trick she has play'd me. Yes, thou cruel hard-hearted Phillis, I'll suddenly break out and shame you—in midst of your joys I'll tell you to your face that you are a false ungrateful hussey, and then—I'll go hang myself, and then —you shall never see me more—
AIR.
My tender heart now bleeds in vain,
My tears she sees with cold disdain,
Ah! spare me cruel fair!
Give one kind look, I ask no more,
My lost repose again restore,
Nor leave me to despair.
[After the song Colin hides himself under the table.]
SCENE V.
Enter
Duke
and
Phillis.
Well, my lord, you find me your obedient servant down to the ground; what would your highness have with me?
Can that be a question now—ah, Phillis, does not the tenor of my whole behaviour explain itself to you? Come, come, you know I love you.
Colin peeping from under the table speaks in a low voice.
I can scarce contain.
Alas! my lord, I was born to humbler hopes, and your highness can never be at a loss for a more worthy subject.
More worthy—surely, Phillis, you take a pleasure in creating my misery.
No, I would rather wish to make you happy.
(Very well!)
Alas! I have wish'd, I have sigh'd a long time for a heart without guile, a heart that was simple and ingenious, a happiness not to be met with at court.
Oh, my lord, that happiness you have always in your own power.
(Oh! he'll take the hint I'll warrant).
My power; do you approve my passion then? am I so blest.
Indeed I will not hesitate one moment to make you so.
(Oh! she will not hesitate.)
Why then my charmer, should we linger? My spirits are all in arms, and my heart flutters with expectation.
(So things are in a very ticklish way I perceive.)
Pray, my lord—make allowances for a young country maid, I am so asham'd, so confounded at seeing myself alone with you, I can never stand it;—you must permit me to snuff the candles out.
The stage darken'd.
(Oh, very modest indeed.)
(aside.)
So, so, my country girl is not altogether unexperienced.—Well, my love,—whither are you going?
Only to be satisfied that the doors are fasten'd, I so dread the princess, she is continually on the watch.
she steals out, and pushes the princess in.
(aside.)
How my heart beats,—I shall never have courage to approach him.—
Come, my charmer, share the transports of my passion.
(Hark.—What are they about?—I am terrified—all silence—nay then my rival triumphs.)
The princess breaks from the duke.
Pray my lord—
(aside)
what a situation am I brought into?—
The duke catches her again.
Oh!
(A sigh, monstrous! I can hold no longer.)
He comes from under the table.
Torture, fury, rage, despair,
This much injur'd bosom tear,
Go, perjur'd treach'rous maid,
Why am I thus betray'd?
Prevented—O confusion!
Such insolent intrusion,
Swift vengeance shall attend.
Was ever such disgrace!
In pity to my case,
Ye powers assistance lend.
Wretch begone, from anger fly,
Your threats I scorn, your rage defy.
Good folk—be calm I pray,
Phillis enters with lights, followed by Clara and Mademoiselle, they all stare at seeing each other.
Why all this mighty fray?
Must you look big and bluff, sir?
To
Col.
Forbear, my dear, that fault to blame.
Which rose from love to you,
Amaz'd, expos'd, I blush for shame,
What shall I say? what shall I do?
This is pastime more rare!
It delights me I swear.
Hopes and fears my soul involve,
Which way turn? on what resolve?
Well here's some plot,
Sure some mistake.
I hardly breathe.
I scarce can speak.
How will this end!
What can it mean?
Here's something strange,
I can't explain.
ALL.
Oh! hows tormenting! how severe!
The plagues that love is doom'd to bear.
(to Duke.)
Now, Sir, you are master of that treasure you so long desired; be happy in the possession of it.—And now, Colin, what is become of your jealousy? Take care how you harbour again a fiend which destroys all peace.
I begin to revive again.
Assured as I am of your inconstancy, I might perhaps break out into reproaches, but your conduct afflicts me more than it offends, and makes me happy without being violent. I see, Sir, I have lost your heart.
(going)
(stopping her.)
Stay, stay, my princess, our hearts were not design'd for such separation; Phillis, it is true, by thus enlightening my bewildered senses, has humbled me sufficiently; and I should blush indeed, if I did not endeavour to imitate her; her example shall excite me, and if my revived affections are worthy of a return, Hymen shall unite us on this day.
Love surely may excuse its own frailties—oh! Phillis, let me embrace thee, how much do I owe to your friendship!—how shall I reward you?
Leave that to Colin, madam, for from him alone I expect it. Come,
Colin
endeavour to mend your errors; here take my hand, now you know all my vengeance.
AIR.
Again in rustic weeds array'd,
A simple swain, a simple maid,
O'er rural scenes with joy we'll rove,
By dimpling brook, or cooling grove.
The birds shall strain their little throats,
And warble wide their merry notes,
Whilst we converse beneath the shade.
A happy Swain, and happy maid.
Nor shall thou be deceived—let us away with haste. We will be married straight, this is true joy indeed; what need of so much mystery to be happy; but however, Sir, I pray you leave off your hunting on our grounds. Peace and quietness are better than all the honours in the world.
May heaven protect you both, live long in peace and happiness, and share my bounties as you please.
Enter
Frederick.
Here are two old men come after Colin, and Phillis, they make such a bustle and clamour one would think they were stark staring mad.
Oh! Bring them in. The happiness will now be general, indeed.
(
To
Emily)
what uneasiness has my folly produced! But—
(without)
I tell you, I will have my daughter.
(without)
Give me my son, I say, body o' me, you smock fac'd chitterling. Oh, that I was but three score for your sake.
Don't talk to me, my own's my own, and I will come in.
Good heaven! my father.
Enter
Hobbinol
and
Damon.
So, so, we have found you now—Adod, but we have not. They do nothing but make fools of us, I think.
For my part, I believe, it is the land of lies; I did not want such fine folks, our search is after a couple of stray'd children, and they told us they were here
(going up to Colin.)
I pray you, sir, can you tell me any tidings?
(discovering him.)
Ods my life, its my own boy Colin; I am transported, I am overjoyed,—and why did not you answer your father, you dog?—only see, Damon, how they have bedizen'd him, a—looks for all the world like the king in the puppet-shew.
(to Dam.)
And here, too, is your Phillis, sir, it is no wonder you should not discover me through this disguise.
Have I recovered thee at last, my child! my neighbour, and I have had a wearisome pursuit after thee.
All is well that ends well, father; we shall now be as happy as the day is long, thanks to the duke there; in truth we are much obliged to him.
Oblig'd! quoth-a; yes, yes, I suppose you are oblig'd.
AIR.
No doubt but your fool's-cap has known,
His highness obligingly kind.
—
Odzooks, I could knock the fool down,
Was e'er such a cuckoldy hind?
To be sure, like a good-natur'd spouse,
You've lent him a part of your bed,
He has fitted the horns to your brows,
And I see them sprout out of your head.
To keep your wife virtuous and chaste,
The court is a wonderful school,—
My lord you've an excellent taste,—
And son you're a cuckoldy fool.
If your lady should bring you an heir,
The blood will flow rich in his veins.
Many thanks to my lord for his care—
You dog I could knock out your brains.
I scorn to be any man's slave,
I know what is proper and right.
You talk, sir, exceedingly brave—
You puppy get out of my sight.
Dear father, ne'er trust to report,
My Phillis is true to her swain,
Then why this fine jaunt up to court?
You dupe, you're a cuckold in grain.
Be not so distrustful, old friend; I have seen my error, and repent it. The temporary uneasiness you have found, in the loss of your children, will be amply compensated in the happiness of to day. Here
(taking Emily by the hand)
my affections are settled. Phillis merits no suspicions; and, if mutual love happily rewarded, can ensure a blessing upon earth, her union to day with Colin shall effect it. Come, come, we shall all be happy.
You may be perfectly satisfied, sir, your fears are all groundless. It is from the conviction of her innocence, and by her interposition, that all parties are reconciled. Surely you ought to be satisfied on this point, when you see, I am.
to Hob.
Say you so? why then, come hither, children, heaven bless you—body o'me, but I cry for joy.
Let me join my blessing too. And now, adod, I'm as gay as a lark, and as light as a cork.
From this hour my bliss commences. How sweet it is to gain the affection of a heart which owes all its charms to innocence and simplicity! but to find one without guile in the midst of courts, whose honesty of nature is not corrupted, though it is cultivated by art, makes up my peculiar felicity.
CHORUS.
Let care no more my peace annoy,
Nor jealous fears, our bliss destroy,
While constancy and love sincere,
Rewards each blest, each happy pair.
For thee ay love shall ever burn,
Thou art my fondest aim.
May love shall yield thee sweet return,
I burn with equal flame.
No care shall e'er my soul annoy,
No fears my bliss destroy.
For thee my love shall burn.
My love shall yield return.
My love shall yield return.
Oh, this is perfect joy.
FINIS.