The British drama

In you, 'twas avarice, insolence, and pride.

B. Will. Do! you must shew us the house, | In me, 'twas foolish guilt and disobedience; appoint the time and place, and lure your master thither-We'll take care of him, without trouble.

your

Mos. 'Twas love in me, and gratitude in you. Alic. 'Twas insolence in you, meanness in me, And madness in us both. My careful parents, In scorn of your presumption and my weakness, Gave me in marriage to a worthy gentleman, Of birth and fortune equal to my own. Three years I lived with him without reproach, And made him in that time the happy father Of two most lovely children. I too was happy; At least I lived in hopes I might be so: For time, and gratitude, and Arden's love, I hoped might quench my guilty flame for you, And make my heart a present worthy him.

Mos. And dost thou glory in thy perjuries? In love, inconstancy alone is a crine. Think on the ardour of our youthful passion; Think how we played with love; nor thought it guilt,

Till thy first falsehood; call it not obedience! Thy marriage with this Arden made me despe

My promised faith!

Mos. First, let the world dissolve.

Alic. There is no joy, nor peace for you, or

me:

All our engagements cannot but be fatal.
Mos. The time may come, when you'll have
other thoughts;

Till then, farewell.-[Aside.] Now, fortune, do
thy worst.
[Exit.
Alic. Mosby, return- -He's gone, and I am

wretched.

I should have banished him my sight for ever.
You happy fair ones, whose untainted fame
Has never yet been blasted with reproach,
Fly from the appearance of dishonour far.
Virtue is arbitrary, nor admits debate :
To doubt is treason in her rigid court;

I'll bear my wrongs, for sure I have been wronged.
Do I but think so then! What fools are men,
Whom love and hatred, anger, hope, and fear,
And all the various passions, rule by turns,
And in their several turns alike deceive?

Frank. To cast away, and on suspicion only,
A jewel, like Alicia, were to her

Unjust, and cruel to yourself. [Clock strikes ten.]
Good night,

The clock has strucken ten.

Ard. I thought it more.

Frank. I thought it not so much.

Ard. Why, thus it is:

Our happy hours are few, and fly so swift,
That they are past ere we begin to count them:
But, when with pain and misery opprest,
Anticipating Time's unvarying pace,
We think each heavy moment is an age.

Frank. Come, let us to rest. Impartial as the

Ard. True, for time brings death,
The only certain end of human woes.
Sleep interrupts, but, waking, we're restored
To all our griefs again. Watching and rest,
Alternately succeeding one another,
Are all the idle business of dull life.
What shall we call this undetermined state,
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless oceans,
That, whence we came, and that, to which we
tend?

Is it life chequered with the sleep of death?
Or death enlivened by our waking dreams?
But we'll to bed. Here, Michael, bring the lights!
Enter MICHAEL with lights.

But, if ye parley with the foe, you're lost. [Exit. Heaven send you good repose.

SCENE III.-Another room in Arden's house. ARDEN and FRANKLIN sitting together on a couch: ARDEN thoughtful.

Frank. Nay, wonder not. Though every cir

[Gives Franklin a candle.
Frank. The like to you.
Mich. Shall I attend you, sir?
Frank. No, no, I choose to be alone. Good
night.

[Exit Franklin. Michael attends his master
with the other light, and returns.]
Mich. I, who should take my weapon in my
hand,

And guard his life with hazard of my own,
With fraudful smiles have led him, unsuspecting,
Quite to the jaws of death. But I've an oath.
Mosby has bound me with an horrid vow,
Which if I break, these dogs have sworn my

death.

I've left the doors unbarred. Hark! 'twas the latch.

3 P

Ard. To bed,

Enter ARDEN and FRANKLIN, undressed at se- And, as you prize my favour, be more careful.

veral doors.

[Exit Michael. Frank. Tis very cold. Once more, my friendArd. Good night.

[Exit Arden.

SCENE IV.-Changes to the street before Arden's
door; the door shut.

Enter BLACK WILL, and SHAKEBAG.
B. Will. Zounds! Michael has betrayed us;
The doors are fast. Away, away-Disperse.
[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-An Inn, the Flower-de-Luce.

MOSBY and MICHAEL.

Mich. Though I with oaths appealed to con-
scious Heaven,

That Arden rose, and shut the doors himself,
Yet, but for Green, these bloody rogues had kill-

ed me.

We must desist-Franklin and sweet Maria
Have promised, at Alicia's own request,

To interfere.

Mos. Such ever be the employ

Of him I hate!

Mich. The mourning fair, all changed,

Bid opportunity and fortune wait;
And all to be forsaken for a husband!
By Heaven, I am glad he has so oft escaped,
That I may have him murdered in her sight!
Enter GREEN.

Green. How strange a providence attends this
man!

'Tis vain to strive with Heaven.-Let's give it o'er.

Mos. No; when I do, may I be curst for ever, Hopeless to love, and hate without revenge! May I ne'er know an end of disappointment, But, prest with hard necessity, like thee,

By me conjures you (and with tears she spake it), Live the contempt of my insulting foe!

Not to involve yourself, and her, in ruin,

By seeking to renew a correspondence,

She has renounced for ever.

Mos. How! confusion!

Green. I scorn the abject thought. Had he a

life

Hung on each hair, he dies !—If we succeed,

Mich. And hopes, as Heaven, in answer to her This very night Maria shall be thine.

prayers,

Hath reconciled her duty and affection,

You will approve her resolution

Mos. Doubtless!

Mich. And learn, by her example, to subdue Your guilty passion.

Mos. Ha, ha, ha! exquisite woman!

So! rather than not change, she'll love her husband!

But she will not persevere.

Mich. Yes, sure she will.

Mos. Have I, then, slighted her whole sighing

sex,

Mich. I am a man again.

Mos. I've thought a way,

[To Michael.

That may be easy under friendship's mask,
Which to a foe suspected may be hard.
Green. Friendship! impossible.

Mos. You know him not.

You, with your ruffians, in the street shall seek
him.

I follow at some distance. They begin
(No matter how) a quarrel, and at once
Assault him with their swords.-Straight I ap-

Mar. Never was anguish, never grief, like hers:
She eats, nor sleeps. Her lovely downcast eyes,
That used to gladden each beholder's heart,
Now wash the flinty bosom of the earth.
Her troubled breast heaves with incessant sighs,
Which drink the purple streams of life, and blast
Her bloom, as storms the blossoms of the spring.
But sure her prayers must quickly reach high
Heaven,

Relenting Arden kindly soothe her sorrows,
And her lost peace restore.

Frank. Their mutual peace, Maria!
For his can ne'er be found but in Alicia.
Ashamed to view the face of man or day,
As Mosby's name was written on his brow,
He cheerless wanders; seeks the darkest gloom,
To hide his drooping head, and grieves alone.
With a full heart, swoln eyes, and faltering tongue,
He sometimes, seeking to beguile his grief,
Begins a mournful tale: But straight a thought
Of his imagined wrongs, crossing his memory,
Ends his sad story, ere the half be told.
O may our pains, with wished success, be crowned!
Enter ARDEen.

Ard. No, Franklin, no; your friendly cares are
vain :

Were I but certain she had wronged my bed,
I then might hate her, and shake off my woes;
But thus perplexed, can never taste of comfort!
Frank. O Jealousy! thou bane of social joys!
Oh! she's a monster, made of contradictions!
Let truth, in all her native charms, appear,
And, with the voice of harmony itself,
Plead the just cause of innocence traduced;
Deaf as the adder, blind as upstart greatness,
She sees nor hears! And yet let Slander whisper,
Or evil-eyed Suspicion look oblique,

Rumour has fewer tongues than she has ears;
And Argus's hundred eyes are dim and slow,
To piercing Jealousy's!

Ard. No more, no more:

I know its plagues; but where's the remedy?
Mar. In your Alicia.

Frank. She shall heal these wounds.

Ard. She's my disease, and can she be my cure? My friends should rather teach me to abhor her, To tear her image from my bleeding heart!

ous wrongs,

I'll meet, with honourable confidence,
The offending wife, and look the honest husband.
Frank. Maria, we'll withdraw: even friend-
ship here

Would seem impertinence.

[Exeunt Franklin and Maria. Ard. Be still, my heart!

ALICIA enters, not seeing ARDEN. Alic. How shall I bear my Arden's just reproaches!

Or can a reconcilement long continue,
That's founded on deceit? Can I avow
My secret guilt!-No; at so mean a thought
Abandoned infamy herself would blush.
Nay, could I live with public loss of honour,
Arden would die to see Alicia scorned.
He's here! earth open! hide me from his sight!
Ard. Guilt chains her tongue! Lo! silent,

self-condemned,

With tearful eyes, and trembling limbs, she stands. Alic. Fain would I kiss his footsteps; but that look,

Where indignation seems to strive with grief,
Forbids me to approach him.

Ard. Who would think,
That anguish were not real?
Alic. I'm rooted here!

Ard. Those tears, methinks, even if her guilt were certain,

Might wash away her pains.

Alic. Support me, Heaven!

Ard. Curse on the abject thought! I shall relapse To simple dotage. She steals on my heart, She conquers with her eyes. If I but hear her voice,

Nor earth, nor Heaven, can save me from her snares!

O! let me fly if I have yet the power. Alic. O Arden! do not, do not leave me thus! [Kneels, and holds him.

[She falls to the ground.

Ard. And canst thou, Can woman pity, whom she hath undone? Why dost thou grasp my knees? what wouldst thou say,

If thou couldst find thy speech?

Alic. O! mercy, mercy!

Ard. Thou hast had none on me; let go my hand!

Why dost thou press it to thy throbbing heart,
That beats-but not for me?

Alic. Then may it ne'er beat more!
Ard. At least, I'm sure it did not always so.
Alic. For that my soul is pierced with deep

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Thou treasure of more worth than mines of gold!
I will not doubt my happiness. Thou art,
Thou wilt be mine, ever, and only mine.

Alic. I am, I will. I ne'er knew joy till now.
Ard. This is our truest, happiest, nuptial day.
To-night, thou knowest, according to my custom,
Our yearly fair returning with St Valentine,
I treat my friends. I go to countenance
Their honest mirth, and cheer them with my
bounty.

'Till happy night, farewell! My best Alicia, How will our friends rejoice, our foes repine, To see us thus !

[Exit.

Alic. Thus ever may they see us!
The wandering fires, that have so long misled me,
Are now extinguished, and my heart is Arden's.
The flowery path of innocence and peace
Shines bright before, and I shall stray no longer.
Whence then these sighs, and why these floods of
tears?

Sighs are the language of a broken heart,
And tears the tribute each enlightened eye
Pays, and must pay, for vice and folly past.
And yet
the painfullest virtue hath its pleasure:
Though dangers rise, yet, peace restored within,
My soul collected shall undaunted meet them.
Though trouble, grief, and death, the lot of all,
On good and bad without distinction fall,
The soul, which conscious innocence sustains,
Supports with ease these temporary pains;
But stung with guilt, and loaded with despair,
Becomes itself a burden none can bear. [Exit.

SCENE III.-The street. People at a distance, as at a fair.

Enter ARDEN on one side, and BLACK WILL and SHAKEBAG on the other, GREEN directing them.

B. Will. Shakebag, you'll second me—S’blood, give the way. [Jostles Arden. Shakebag. May we not pass the streets?

Ard. I saw you not.

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The British drama, Volumen1