Of ever coming there?

Vil. I do not blame you;

You have a brother's right to be concern'd
For his untimely death.

Car. Untimely death, indeed!

Vil. But you must not say I was the cause.

Car. Not you the cause! Why, who should murder him?

We do not ask you to accuse yourself;

But I must say, that you have murder'd him;
And will say nothing else, till justice draws
Upon our side, at the loud call of blood,
To execute so foul a murderer.

Bel. Poor Biron! is this thy welcome home?
Maur. Rise, sir; there is a comfort in revenge,
Which is left you.
(To C. Baldwin.)

Car. Take the body hence.

(Biron carried off.)

C. Bald. What could provoke you?
Vil. Nothing could provoke me

To a base murder, which, 1 find, you think
Me guilty off. I know my innocence;
My servants, too, can witness, that I drew
My sword in his defence, to rescue him.
Bel. Let the servants be called,
Egm. Let's hear what they can say.

Cur. What they can say! Why, what should

servants say?

Open that door.

(Door opens, and PEDRO is brought forward by Vi leroy's Servants.) Here's one can tell you all.

Ped. All, all: save me but from the rack, I'll confess all.

Vil. You and your accomplices design'd

To murder Biron? Speak.

Ped. We did.;

Vil. Did you engage upon your private wrongs, Or were employ'd?

Ped. He never did us wrong.

Vil. You were set on, then?

Ped. We were set on.

Vil. What do you know of me?

Ped. Nothing, nothing:

You saved his life, and have discover'd me.

Vil. He has acquitted me,

If you would be resolved of any thing,

He stands upon his answer.

Bel. Who set you on to act this horrid deed ?

C. Bald. I'll know the villain; give me quick his

(Gives it to C. Baldwin.)

I dare deliver it. It speaks of me,

I pray to have it read.

C. Bald. You know the hand?
Bel. I know 'tis Biron's hand.

C. Bald, Pray read it. (Bedford reads the letter.) Sir,-1 find I am come only to lay my death at your door. I am now going out of the world, but cannot forgive you, nor my brother Carlos, for not hindering my poor wife, Isabella, from marrying with Villeroy; when you both knew, from so many letters, that I was alive. BIRON.

Vil. How did you know it, then?
C. Bald. Amazement all!

Enter CARLOS, with Officers.

Oh, Carlos! are you come. Your brother here,
Here, in a wretched letter, lays his death
To you and me. Have you done anything
To hasten his sad end?

Car. Bless me, sir! I do anything? who, I?
C. Bald. He talks of letters that were sent to us.
Inever heard of any. Did you know

He was alive?

Car. Alive! Heaven knows, not I.

C. Bald. Had you no news of him, from a report, Or letter, never?

Car. Never, never, I.

Bel. That's strange, indeed: I know he often writ

To lay before you the condition

(To C. Baldwin.)

Between me and your favour; while he lived,
I had not that; hardly was thought a son,
And not at all akin to your estate.

I could not bear a younger brother's lot,
To live depending upon courtesy.

Had you provided for me like a father,

I had been still a brother.

C. Bald. 'Tis too true;

I never loved thee as I should have done;

It was my sin, and I am punish'd for't.
Oh, never may distinction rise again
In families! let parents be the same

To all their children; common in their care,
And in their love of them. I am unhappy.
For loving one too well.

Vil. You knew your brother lived; why did you take

Such pains to marry me to Isabella?

Car. I had my reasons for't.

Vil. More than I thought you had.
Car. But one was this:

I knew my brother loved his wife so well,

That, if he ever should come home again,
He could not long outlive the loss of her.
Bel. If you rely'd on that, why did you kill him?
Car. To make all sure. Now you are answer'd
all.

Where must I go? I am tired of your questions.
C. Bald. I leave the judge to tell thee what thou
art;

A father cannot find a name for thee.
Take him away.
(Carlos led off.)
Grant me, sweet heav'n! the patience to go
through

The torment of my cure. Here, here begins
The operation. Alas! she's mad,

Enter ISABELLA, distracted; and her child running from her.

Vil. My Isabella, poor, unhappy wretch! What can I say to her?

Isa. Nothing, nothing; 'tis a babbling world; I'll hear no more on't. When does the court sit?

I have a cause to try.

Isa. What have you done with him? He was here but now;

I saw him here. Oh, Biron, Biron! where,
Where have they hid thee from me? He is gone.
But here's a little flaming cherubim-
Will nothing do? I did not hope to find
Justice on earth; 'tis not in heav'n neither.
Biron has watch'd his opportunity-
Softly; he steals it from the sleeping gods,
And sends it thus-Ha, ha, ha!
Now I laugh at you; I defy you all,
You tyrant murderers!

(Stabs herself.)

JUN.

PLAY

SIR JOHN CONTRAST.

CONTRAST.

RASHLY.

RENTAL. LA NIPPE.

CORPORAL DRILL.

ANNETTE

CORPORAL SNIP.

SOPHIA.

TRUMORE.

RALPH. SERGEANT SASH.

HUNTSMEN.

PEGGY.

RECRUITS.

MOLL FLAGGON.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Ann.

Both.

At the close of the Overture, a peal of bells is heard at a distance, the curtain continuing down; when the peal is nearly finished, the curtain rises and discovers a magnificent Entrance to a Park, with a View of a Gothic Castle on an eminence at a distance. On the side scene, near the park-gate, the outside of a small neat Farm-house, with a bank of iurf before the door, on which SOPHIA and ANNETTE are seated, and at work. Annette throws down her work, and runs to meet PEGGY, who enters immediately on the other side. Sophia continues to work pensively.

DUET.-PEGGY AND ANNETTE,
Peggy Hark! hark! the merry peal!

My spirits are all prancing;
Your looks declare the joy you feel.

(To Annette.)

My little heart is dancing.
When the merry bells go ding, ding,
My heart beats time as I trip along;
And my eyes impart

How light my heart;

While all the burden of my song,
Fal, fal la, ding, ding, dong.

Peggy. Keep it up, jolly ringers; ding, ding, dong! and away with it again; it puts my spirits quite in a heyday. I never hear a merry peal but my heart beats time to it.

Ann. Ay, and your tongue too, Peggy.

Peggy. To be sure I do rattle away; but when good nature sets a woman's tongue a-going, they must have very bad ears for music who wish to stop it. What say you, my little foreigner?

Ann. You know, Peggy, my spirits are generally in time and tune with yours. I was out of my wits for your coming back, to know what was going on. Is all this for the wake?

Peggy. Wake! a hundred wakes together wouldn't make such a day as this is like to be. Our new landlord, who has bought all this estate of Castle Manor, has arrived; and Rental, the steward, who went up to London upon the purchase, is with him, and is to be continued steward. He has been presenting him all the tenants, and they are still flocking up to the castle to get a sight of Sir John-Sir John

Ann. What is his name?

Peggy. I declare I had almost forgot it, though I've heard all about him-Sir John Contrast, knight and baronet, and as rich as Mexico. An ox is to be roasted whole, and all the country will be assembled; such feasting and dancing!

Ann. Oh, how I long to see it! I hope papa will let us go; don't you, sister? (To Sophia.)

Sophia. No, indeed, my hopes are just the reverse; I hate nothing so much as a crowd and a noise. Enjoy the gaiety for which your temper is so well fitted, Annette; but do not grudge me what is equally to mine, retirement.

Ann. I grudge it you only, Sophy, because it nourishes pain, which sprightly objects would convert to pleasure.

AIR.-ANNETTE.

A nightingale sung in a sycamore grove;
A lover he listen'd, with sighs, to the lay;

'Twas sweet, but all plaintive, like languishing love Heigho!" cried the lover, "ah, well-a-day!" The lover quite restless that night found his pillow, Went to sleep in despair and still dreamt of the willow.

The lover he listen'd next morn to a lark,

Whose song better sooth'd him because it was gay; His hope grew more strong, as his mind grew less dark:

"Heigho!" he renounc'd, and “ah, well-a-day!” The lover that night sweetly slept on his pillow, And dreamt of gay garlands; ne'er once of the willow.

Peggy. Well said, ma'amselle; though I hate the French in my heart, as a true English woman ought, I'll be friends with their sunshine as long as I live, for making thy blood so lively in thy veins. Were it not for Annette and me, this house would be worse than a nunnery.

Sophia. Heigho!

Ann. Ay, that's the old tune; it's all night long, sigh, sigh! pine, pine! I can hardly get a wink of sleep.

Peggy. And how is it ever to end? The two fathers, yours and your lover's, are specially circumstanced to make a family alliance. A curate, with forty pounds a year, has endowed his son with two fine qualities to entail his poverty, learning and modesty; and my gentleman (my master, heaven bless him!) is possessed of this mansion, a farm of a hundred acres, a gun, and a brace of spaniels. I should have thought the example so long before your eyes, of living upon love, might have made you

Sophia. Charmed with it, Peggy; and so indeed I am: it was the life of a mother I can never forget. I do not pass an hour without reflecting on the happiness she diffused and enjoyed.

Peggy. Then if you'd follow her example, put a little less sorrow in your sentiment, and a little more sunshine in your countenance, and never sacrifice the main chance for moonshine.

Sophia. Consider my situation, Peggy. Pey. To be sure I do, and that's why I want you to consider my advice. Helpless souls! you haven't a single faculty to make the pot boil between you. I should like to see you at work in a dairy; your little nice fingers may serve to rear an unfledged linnet, but would make sad work at cramming poultry for market.

Sophia. But you, my good Peggy, ought not to upbraid me; for you have helped to spoil me, by taking every care and trouble off my hands: the humility of our fortunes ought to have put us more upon a level.

Peggy. That's a notion I can't bear. I speak my mind familiarly to be sure, because I mean no harm; but I never pretend to more than a servant, and you were born to be a lady: I'm sure on't; see it, as sure as the gipsies, in every turn of your countenance.

Sophia. Have done, Peggy, or you'll make me seriously angry: this is your particular day of non

sense.

Peggy. No nonsense, but a plain road to fortune. Our young landlord, Sir John Contrast's son, is expected ever hour; now, get but your silly passion for Trumore out of your head, and my life on't, 'twill do. I dreamt last night I saw you with a bunch of nettles instead of a nosegay, and that's a sure sign of a wedding: let us watch for him at the park gate, and take your aim; you eyes will carry further, and hit surer, than the best gun your fa

ther has.

Ann. Peggy, how odd you are.

Peggy. Yes, my whole life has been an oddity; all made up of chequers and chances; you don't know half of it; but Margery Heartease is always honest and gay, and has a joke for the best and worst of times.

AIR.(Original.) → PEGGY.

I once was a maiden, as fresh as a rose, And as fickle as April weather;

I

I lay down without care, and I wak'd from repose,
With a heart as light as a feather.

I work'd with the girls, I play'd with the men,
I was always or romping or spinning;
And what if they pilfer'd a kiss now and then?
I hope 'twas not very great sinning.

I married a husband as young as myself,
And for every frolic as willing;

Together we laugh'd when we had any pelf,

And we laugh'd when we had not a shilling. He's gone to the wars; heav'n send him a prize! For his pains he is welcome to spend it; My example, I know, is more merry than wise, But, lord help me! I never shall mend it.

Ann. It would be a thousand pities you eve should

Peggy. But here comes your father and Rental, the steward; they seem in deep discourse. Sophia. Let us go in, then; it might displease my father to interrupt them.

[Exit into the house.

Peggy. Go thy ways, poor girl; thou art more afraid of being interrupted in discoursing with thy own simple heart.

Ann. Peggy, when do you think my sighing tim will come?

Peggy. Don't be too sure of yourself, miss; there is no age in which a woman is so likely to be infected with folly, as just when she arrives at what they call years of discretion.

[Exeunt into the house.

Enter RASHLY and RENTAL.

Rent. But you are the only tenant upon the manor that has not congratulated our new landlord upor, taking possession of his purchase.

Rash. Strange disposition of events! that he, of all mankind, should be purchaser in this country! (Aside.) I must not see Sir John Contrast.

Rent. Why so? he is prepared; in giving him an account of his tenants, your name wasn't forgot.

Rash. And pray, my friend, how did you describe me?

Rent. As what I always found you, an honest man. One can go no further than that word in the praise of a character; therefore, to make him better acquainted with yours, I was forced to tell him the worst I knew of you.

Rash. Good Rental, what might that be?

Rent. I told him you had the benevolence of a prince, with means little better than a peasant; that, consequently, your family was often indebted to your gun (at which you were the best hand in the country) for the only meat in your kitchen. Rash. And what said he to the gun?

kind, when, in fact, he is only out of humour with himself.

Rent. I always thought you must have been bred above the station I saw you in; but I never guessed how much. Could you immediately submit to such a change of situation?

Rash. No; I thought of different professions to support the rank of a gentleman: after various trials, I found I wanted suppleness for some of my pursuits, and talent, perhaps, for others; and my last resource was a cottage and love, in the most literal sense of both. My Anna was equally fitted for a cottage as a court. Her person, her accomplishments, her temper, the universal charm of society, made our new life a source of delight.

AIR.(Original.)-RASHLY.

Encompass'd in an angel's frame,

An angel's virtues lay;

Too soon did heav'n assert the claim.
And call its own away.

My Anna's worth, my Anna's charms,
Must never more return:

What now shal fill these widow'd arms?
Ah me! my Anna's urn!

Rash. His son!

Rent. Yes, his only son, in fact; the eldest, it seems was turned out of doors twenty years ago, for a marriage against his consent. This is by a second wife, and declared to be his heir. He gives him full rein to run his own course, so he does not marry; and by all accounts, a fine rate he goes at. Rash. But what is becoming of the elder? Rent. Nobody knows; but the old servants, who remember him, are always lamenting the change. Rash. You know him well?

Rent. What do you mean?

Rash. A discovery that will surprise you. I have lived with you the many years we have been acquainted, an intimate friend and an impostor.

Rent. An impostor?

Rash. Your new master, the purchaser of this estate is an obstinate father; I am a disinherited son: put these circumstances together, and instead of Rashly call me

Ront. Is it possible? Rash. Call me Contrast.

Rent. Mr. Rashly, Sir John Contrast's son? Rash. Even so; for the sole offence of a marriage with one of the most amiable of womankind, I received one of Sir John's rescripts, as he calls the signification of his pleasure, with a note of one thousand pounds, and a prohibition of his presence for ever. I knew his temper too well to reply.

Rent. You must know him best; I had conceived him of a disposition more odd than harsh.

Rash. You are right; but this oddity has all the effects of harshness. Sir John Contrast has ever thought decision to be the criterion of wisdom and is as much averse to retract an error as a right action. In short, in his character, there is a continual variance between a good heart and a perverse head; and he often appears angry with all man

Rash. No, my friend, he is inflexibility itself. I mean to fly him. It must be your part to dispose of my farm and little property.

Rent. Your resolution is too hasty. I pretend to no skill in plotting; but I think I see my way clearly in your case. Dear sir, be advised by me. La. N. (Without.) Holloa! countryman! do you belong to the lodge?

Rash. Heyday! what strange figure have we here?

Rent. As I live, the young heir's gentleman. I got acquainted with his character when I was in London to solicit the stewardship, and it is as curious as his master's.

Rash. What countryman is he?

Rent. True English by birth; he took his foreign name upon his travels, to save his master's reputation. Nothing is so disgraceful, now-a-days, as to be waited upon by your own countryman: pray be contented to

Enter LA NIPPE, affectedly dressed.

La N. Halloa, countryman! which is the nearest way-What, Mr. Rental? faith, the sun was so much in my eyes, I did not know you.

Rent. Welcome to Castle Manor, Mr. Homestall; I forget your French name.

La N. La Nippe, at your service; and when you see me thus equipped, I hope you'll forget my English one; for though you see me thus metamorphosed, I have modesty enough left to blush at hearing it, for having defaced English oak with plaster of Paris.

Rent. Pray, how came you to be on foot?

La N. A spring in the chaise broke at the bottom of the hill; the boy was quite a bore in tying it up, so I took out my luggage, and determined to walk home.

Rash. The prettiest little package I ever saw.
Rent. What may it contain?