but servants, you know: we must have no likings, but our lord's, and must do as we are ordered. But what is the business, nurse? You have been in the family before I came into the world: what's the reason, pray, that this daughter-in-law, who has so good a report in everybody's mouth, is so little set by by my lord?

Nurse. Why, I tell you, Sampson, more or less; I'll tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding or diminishing.

Samp. Ay, marry, nurse!

Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have loved best, if he had as many as king Pyramus of Troy this Biron, as I was saying, was a lovely sweet gentleman; and, indeed, nobody could blame his father for loving him; he was a son for the king of Spain, heaven bless him! for I was his nurse. But now I come to the point, Sampson; this Biron, without asking the advice of his friends, hand over head, as young men will have their vagaries, not having the fear of his father before his eyes, as I may say, wilfully marries this Isabella.

Samp. How, wilfully! he should have had her consent, methinks.

Nurse. No, wilfully marries her; and, which was worse, after she had settled all her fortune upon a nunnery, which she broke out of to run away with him. They say they had the church's forgiveness, but I had rather it had been his father's.

Samp. Why, in good truth, I think our young master was not in the wrong, but in marrying without a portion.

Nurse. That was the quarrel, I believe, Sampson; upon this, my old lord would never see him; disinherited him: took his younger brother, Carlos, into favour, whom he never cared for before; and, at last, forced Biron to go to the siege of Candy,

where he was killed.

Samp. Alack-a-day, poor gentleman! Nurse. For which my old lord hates her, as if she had been the cause of his going there. Samp. Alas, poor lady! she has suffered for it; she has lived a great while a widow.

Nurse. A great while, indeed, for a young woman, Sampson.

Samp. Gad so! here they come: I won't venture to be seen. (They retire.)

Enter COUNT BALDWIN, followed by ISABELLA, and her child.

C. Bald. Whoever of your friends directed you, Misguided and abused you-there's your way: What could you expect from me?

Isa. Oh! I have nothing to expect on earth! But misery is very apt to talk:

I thought I might be heard.

C. Bald. What can you say?

Is there in eloquence, can there be in words
A recompensing pow'r, a remedy,

A reparation of the injuries,

The great calamities, that you have brought

On me and mine? You have destroyed those

hopes

I fondly raised, through my declining life,

To rest my age upon; and most undone me.

Isa. I have undone myself too.

C. Bald. Speak it again;

Say still you are undone; and I will hear you, With pleasure hear you.

Isa. Would my ruin please you?

C. Bald. Beyond all other pleasures. Isa. Then you are pleased, for I am most undone.

C. Bald. I pray'd but for revenge, and heav'n has heard,

And sent it to my wishes: these grey hairs
Would have gone down in sorrow to the grave,
Which you have dug for me, without the thought,
The thought of leaving you more wretched here.
Isa. Indeed I am most wretched.

I lost with Biron all the joys of life:
But now its last supporting means are gone.
All the kind helps that heaven in pity raised,
In charitable pity to our wants,
At last have left us: now bereft of all,
But this last trial of a cruel father,
To save us both from sinking. Oh, my child!
Kneel with me, knoek at nature in his heart:
Let the resemblance of a once-loved son
Speak in this little one, who never wrong'd you,
And plead the fatherless and widow's cause.
Oh, if you ever hope to be forgiven,
As you will need to be forgiven too,
Forget our faults, that heaven may pardon yours.
C. Bald. How dare you mention heav'n? Call to
mind

Your perjured vows; your plighted, broken faith
To heav'n, and all things holy; were you not
Devoted, wedded to a life recluse,
The sacred habit on, profess'd and sworn,
A votary for ever? Can you think
The sacrilegious wretch, that robs the shrine,
Is thunder-proof?

Isa. There, there began my woes.
Oh, had I never seen ny Biron's face,
Had he not tempted me, I had not fall'n,
But still continued innocent and free
Of a bad world, which only he had pow'r
To reconcile, and make me try again.

C. Bald. Your own inconstancy
Reconciled you to the world:
He had no hand to bring you back again,
But what you gave him. Circe, you prevail'd
Upon his honest mind: and what he did
Was first inspired by you.

Isa. Not for myself, for I am past the hopes
Of being heard, but for this innocent;
And then I never will disturb you more.

C. Bald. I almost pity the unhappy child:
But being yours-

Isa. Look on him as your son's;

And let his part in him answer for mine.

Oh, save, defend him, save him from the wrongs, That fall upon the poor!

C. Bald. It touches me,

And I will save him. But to keep him safe,
Never come near him more.

Isa. What! take him from me?

No, we must never part; 'tis the last hold
Of comfort I have left; and when he fails
All goes along with him: Oh! could you bo
The tyrant to divorce life from my life?
I live but in my child.

| No, let me pray in vain, and beg my bread
From door to door, to feed his daily wants,
Rather than always lose him.

C. Bald. Then have your child, and feed him with your prayers. Away!

Isa. Then heaven have mercy on me!

[Exit, with Child. C. Bald. You rascal slave, what do I keep you

for? How came this woman in?

Samp. Why, indeed, my lord, I did as good as tell her before, my thoughts upon the matter.

C. Bald. Did you so, sir? Now, then, tell her mine: tell her I sent you to her. There's one more to provide for. Begone, go all together. Take any road but this to beg or starve in, but never, never see me more.

[He drives them off before him.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-The Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS, meeting.

Vil. My friend, I fear to ask-but IsabellaThe lovely widow's tears, her orphan's cries, Thy father must feel for them? No; I read, I read their cold reception in thine eyes. Thou pitiest them, though Baldwin-but I spare

him

For Carlos' sake; thou art no son of his. There needs not this to endear thee more to me. (Embrace.)

Car. My Villeroy, the fatherless, the widow,
Are terms not understood within these gates.
You must forgive him, sir; he thinks this woman
Is Biron's fate, that hurried him to death:
I must not think on't, lest my friendship stagger.
My friend's, my sister's mutual advantage,
Have reconciled my bosom to its task.

Vil. Advantage! think not I intend to raise
An interest from Isabella's wrongs.
Your father may have interested ends

In her undoing; but my heart has none;
Her happiness must be my interest,
And that I would restore.

Car. Why, so I mean.

These hardships, that my father lays upon her.
I'm sorry for, and wish I could prevent;

But he will have his way. Since there's no hope
From her prosperity, her change of fortune
May alter the condition of her thoughts,
And make for you.

Vil. She is above her fortune.

Car Try her again. Women commonly love
According to the circumstances they are in.
Vil. Commonly women may.

No, though I live but in the hopes of her,
And languish for th' enjoyment of those hopes;
I'd rather pine in a consuming want

Of what I wish, than have the blessing mine,
From any reason but consenting love.
Oh! let me never have it to remember,

I could betray her coldly to comply:

When a clear, gen'rous choice bestows her on me,

I know to value the unequall'd gift:

I would not have it, but to value it.

SCENE II-A House.

ISABELLA and Nurse discovered. Isabella's son at play.

Isa. Sooner or later, all things pass away,
And are no more. The beggar and the king,
With equal steps, tread forward to their end;
Swallows distinction first, that made us foes;
The reconciling grave
Then all alike lie down in peace together.
When will that hour of peace arrive for me?
In heav'n I shall find it. Not in heaven,
If my old tyrant father can dispose
Of things above. But there his interest
May be as poor as mine, and want a friend
As much as I do here.

Nurse. Good madam, be comforted.

(Weeping.)

Isa. Do I deserve to be this outcast wretch, Abandon'd thus, and lost? But 'tis my lot, The will of heav'n, and I must not complain: I will not for myself; let me bear all

The violence of your wrath; but spare my child;
Let not my sins be visited on him.

They are; they must; a general ruin falls
On everything aboutme: thou art lost,
Poor nurse, by being near me.

Nurse. I can work, or beg, to do you service.
Isa. Could I forget

What I have been, I might the better bear
What I am destined to. Wild, hurrying thoughts
Start every way from my distracted soul,
To find out hope, and only meet despair.
What answer have I?

Enter SAMPSON.

Samp. Why, truly, very little to the purpose: like a Jew as he is, he says you have had more already than the jewels are worth; he wishes you would rather think of redeeming them, than expect any more money upon them.

[Exit.

Isa. So: poverty at home, and debts abroad!
My present fortune bad: my hopes yet worse!
What will become of me?

This ring is all I have left of value now;
'Twas given me by my husband; his first gift
Upon our marriage: I've always kept it
With my best care, the treasure next my life:
And now but part with it to support life,
Which only can be dearer. Take it, nurse,
'Twill stop the cries of hunger for a time;
Take care of it;

Manage it as the last remaining friend

That would relieve us. [Exit Nurse.] Heav'n can only tell

Where we shall find another. My dear boy!
The labour of his birth was lighter to me
Than of my fondness now; my fears for him
Are more, than in that hour of hovering death,
They could be for myself. He minds me not;
His little sports have taken up his thoughts.
Oh, may they never feel the pangs of mine!

Came from a friend.

Vil. I understand it so.

I'll serve her for herself, without the thought

[Exit.

Of a reward.

Cor. Agree that point between you. If you marry her any way, you do my business. I know him: what his generous soul intends Ripens my plots. I'll first to Isabella. I must keep up appearances with her too.

[Exit.

When no thought brings me comfort?

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Oh, madam! you are utterly ruined and undone; your creditors of all kinds are come in upon you; they have mustered up a regiment of rogues, that are come to plunder your house, and seize upon all you have in the world; they are below. What will you do, madam?

Isa. Do nothing! no, for I am born to suffer.

Enter CARLOS.

Car. Oh, sister! can I call you by that name, And be the son of this inhuman man, Inveterate to your ruin?

Do not think I am akin to his barbarity.
I must abhor my father's usage of you.
Can you think

Of any way that I may serve you in?
But what enrages most my sense of grief,
My sorrow for your wrongs, is, that my father,
Foreknowing well the storm that was to fall,
Has order'd me not to appear for you.

Isa. I thank your pity; my poor husband fell
For disobeying him; do not you stay
To venture his displeasure too for me.
Car. You must resolve on something.
Isa. Let my fate

Determine for me: I shall be prepared:
The worst that can befall me is to die.

Hark, they are coming: let the torrent roar:
It can but overwhelm me in its fall;
And life and death are now alike to me.

[Exit.

[Exeunt, the Nurse leading the Child.

SCENE III.-Ante-chamber in Isabella's house.

CARLOS and VILLEROY, with Officers.

Vil. No farther violence

The debt in all is but four thousand crowns;
Were it ten times the sum, I think you know
My fortune very well can answer it.

You have my word for this: I'll see you paid.
Offi. That's as much as we can desire; so we
have the money, no matter whence it comes.
Vil. To-morrow you shall have it.
Car. Thus far all's well.

And now my sister comes to crown the work.

(Aside.)

Isa. (Within.) Where are those rav'ning bloodhounds, that pursue

In a full cry, gaping to swallow me?

Enter ISABELLA, Nurse, and Chill.

I meet your rage, and come to be devour'd:
Say, which way are you to dispose of me;
To dungeons, darkness, death!

Car. Have patience.

Isa. Patience!

I have no further ends than to redeem you
From fortune's wrongs; to shew myself, at last,
What I have long profess'd to be, your friend:
Allow me that; and to convince you more,
That I intend only your interest,

Forgive what I have done, and in amends
(If that can make you any, that can please you)
I'll tear myself for ever from my hopes,
Stifle this flaming passion in my soul,
And mention my unlucky love no more.

(Aside.)

(Going.)

Isa. This generosity will ruin me.
Vil. Nay, if the blessing of looking on you
Disturbs your peace, I will do all I can
To keep away, and never see you more.
Car. You must not go.

Vil. Could Isabella speak

Those few short words, I should be rooted here,
And never move but upon her commands.
Car. Speak to him, sister; do not throw away
A fortune that invites you to be happy.
In your extremity he begs your love;
And has deserved it nobly. Think upon
Your lost condition, helpless and alone.

Though now you have a friend, the time must

come

That you will want one; him you may secure
To be a friend, a father, husband to you.
Isa. A husband?

Car. You have discharged your duty to the dead And to the living: 'tis a wilfulness Not to give way to your necessities, That force you to this marriage. Nurse. What must become of this poor innocence? (To the Child.)

Car. He wants a father to protect his youth,
And rear him up to virtue: you must bear
The future blame, and answer to the world,
When you refuse the easy, honest means
Of taking care of him.

Isa. Do not think I need

Your reasons to confirm my gratitude.
I have a soul that's truly sensible
Of your great worth, and busy to contrive,
If possible, to make you a return.

Vil. Oh, easily possible!

(To Villeroy.)

Isa. It cannot be your way: my pleasures are Buried, and cold in my dead husband's grave; And I should wrong the truth, myself, and you, To say that I can ever love again.

I owe this declaration to myself;

But as a proof that I owe all to you,

If, after what I have said, you can resolve

To think me worth your love-Where am I going?

You cannot think it; 'tis impossible.

Vil. Impossible!

Isa. You should not ask me now, nor should I

Isa. I give you all,

My hand: and would I had a heart to give:

But if it ever can return again,

"Tis wholly yours.

Vil. Oh, ecstacy of joy!

Leave that to me. If all my services,

If all that man can fondly say or do,
Can beget love, love shall be born again.
Oh, Carlos! now my friend, and brother too:
And, uurse, I have eternal thanks for thee.
[Exeunt Nurse and Child.
This night you must be mine,
Let me command in this, and all my life
Shall be devoted to you.

Isa. On your word,

Never to press me to put off these weeds,

Which best become my melancholy thoughts,

You shall command me.

Vil. Witness, heaven and earth,

Against my soul, when I do any thing

To give you disquiet.

Car. I long to wish you joy,

Vil. You'll be a witness of my happiness? Car. For once I'll be my sister's father,

And give her to you.

Vil. Next my Isabella,

Be near my heart: I am for ever yours.

ACT III.

SCENE I-Count Baldwin's House.

[Exeunt.

Enter COUNT BALDWIN and CARLOS.

C. Bald. Married to Villeroy, say'st thou?
Car. Yes, my lord.

Last night the priest perform'd his holy office.
And made them one.

C. Bald. Misfortune join them!
And may her violated vows pull down
A lasting curse, a constancy of sorrow
On both their heads.

Car. Soon he'll hate her;

Though warm and violent in his raptures now,
When full enjoyment palls his sicken'd sense,
And reason with satiety returns,

ller cold constrain'd acceptance of his hand

Will gall his pride, which (though of late o'erpower'd

By stronger passions) will, as they grow weak,
Rise in full force, and pour its vengeance on

ber,

C. Bald. Now, Carlos, take example to thy aid;

Let Biron's disobedience, and the curse
He took into his bosom, prove a warning,
A monitor to thee, to keep thy duty
Firm and unshaken.

Car. May those rankling wounds,
Which Biron's disobedience gave my father,
Be heal'd by me!

C. Bald. With tears I thank thee, Carlos;
And may'st thou ever feel those inward joys,
Thy duty gives thy father; but, my son,
We must not let resentment choke our justice;
'Tis fit that Villeroy know he has no claim
From me, in right of Isabella. Biron,

(Whose name brings tears) when wedded to this

woman,

I will be sure my interest will not suffer
By these his high, refined, fantastic notions
Of equity and right. What a paradox

Is man! My father here, who boasts his honour,
And even but now was warm in praise of justice,
Can steel his heart against the widow's tears,
An infant's wants: the widow and the infant
Of Biron: of his son, his fav'rite son.
"Tis ever thus, weak minds who court opinion,
And dead to virtuous feeling, hide their wants
In pompous affectation. Now to Villeroy-
Ere this his friends, for he is much belov'd,
Crowd to his house, and with their nuptial songs
Awake the wedded pair: I'll join the throng,
And in my face, at least, bear joy and friendship.