[]ANNETTE and LUBIN: A COMIC OPERA.

SCENE I.

If the houſen of your great folks in town are larger, and a got more chambers than ours, I can tell 'em thoſe within lead ſadder lives—Here Annette and I are happier than a king and queen—one branch the more, if we are cold, keeps out the wind and the rain—If we are warm, one branch the leſs lets in the air to fan us—and, when the ſun ſcorches up the leaves, away trudge I, as I did this morning, to the wood, and bring home a new houſe upon my back—Annette will be ſtruck all of a heap when ſhe comes home, to ſee how gay we look

Ah, there ſhe is! I'll work away without ſeeming to mind her.

SCENE II.

Here I am—I am quite out of breath!

You have been a good while gone!

I am ſure I run as faſt as ever I could.

Yes, you have made yourſelf all in a heat—what did you run ſo faſt for?

Oh, that was only as I come back again—when I leave you I go ſlow enough—Oh! dear, how fine we are!

Not very fine, Annette; but it will be main pretty when thou art within it.

Ah! Lubin, how glad I was to come back to thee!—En't we much happier than the people in town?

Happier!—a thouſand times; on the fineſt days in all the year they ſhut themſelves up in a parcel of quarries; Is it not true that our cabin is prettier than their fine priſons which they call palaces?

For my part, I wonder they don't come, in the fine weather, and live, two and two, in a little hut, as we do—Have you ſeen, Lubin, their carpets they are ſo fond of?—Lord, they en't a quarter ſo pretty as a bed of daiſies!

And, Annette, haſt thee obſerved how they try to make their walls look like the country, by ſticking a parcel of pictures about them?—They ſay, too, it coſts them a mint of money; if that's the caſe, I am ſure they are great fools, for our pictures here are ten times handſomer; and we have them for nothing.

Dear me! t'other day, when I carried ſome milk to my lord's. I heard a band of muſick too—Lord, Lubin, what a terrible noiſe! I could not help ſaying, if they wanted muſick, why did not they come and hear our nightingales?

Well ſaid, Annette!

Ah! but, dear Lubin, I met that naſty Bailly again; and he ſays he'll come and ſcold thee for loving me ſo much.

Oh! he will, will he▪—I'll give him as good as he brings—'tis a plaguy ſtrange thing they can't let us alone—I'cod, in our village, the folks no ſooner ſee two people happy, but they try to make them as miſerable as they can.

Indeed he frightens me out of my wits—I can't tell thee what a heap of ſtuff he ſays—that we are couſins; and that we love one an⯑other—I am ſure I thought all we did was out of good-will; but he ſhewed me, as plain as could be, that it was all love, and that love is a terrible thing.

Never mind them, Annette,—we'll be happy in ſpight of them—I'll go and ſee that the ſheep don't ſtray from the valley—and then you ſhall hear what I'll ſay to Mr. Bailly.

SCENE III.

I don't care if they won't let me love Lubin, I'll never love any body, eſpecially after being to him as I am.—Poor ſoul, what pains he takes for me, and then we have neither kin nor kind!—and as I often ſays, who ſhould love us if we don't love one another?

E'nt you aſhamed of yourſelf?

Lord! you frightened me out of my wits.

Are theſe the leſſons of your late mo⯑ther?—The poor woman!

Why what's the matter with you?—You are always in a paſſion.

Did ſhe inſtruct you to liſten to the men?

Oh Lord! I never does any ſuch thing.

And Lubin, you baggage, Lubin!

How!—How's this, you have granted him then—

Every thing, I can aſſure you—I ſhould be ſorry indeed if Lubin and I had any thing to refuſe one another.

What confidence!—And pray tell me, the firſt time this misfortune happened to you, did it not thunder and lighten? Did not the ſun hide itſelf?

Oh no, 'twas the fineſt day I ever ſaw in all my life.

But do you know what a crime you have been guilty of?

I don't know what a crime is—But for what has happened, I can ſafely ſwear, 'twas all done out of love and kindneſs; and not out of malice the leaſt bit in the world.

You are couſins, I tell you.

Well, ſuppoſe we are?

Suppoſe you are! Why in that conſiſts the crime.—My Lord is hunting hard by, he muſt be made acquainted with this affair.—Lord! Lord! What will this world come to?

SCENE IV.

Dear me, I am all in a twitter—What wickedneſs have poor Lubin and I been guilty of? For after all we have done no harm to any body.

What's the matter, Annette?—You are crying.

Oh Lubin, the Bailly has been here, and he ſays that we have been guilty of a crime—Do you knowwhat a crime is, Lubin?

A crime!—Yes, a crime is a very wicked thing—'Tis a crime to take away a life, but I never heard 'twas a crime to give it.—The Bailly is an old fool, and does not know what he ſays.

I am ſure he is a wicked man to come here and make me all in a tremble.—I could cry my eyes out!—The poor child will hate its mother, the Bailly told me ſo—and we have been guilty of a ſin.

What ſin, my dear Annette?

Ay, ay, we may think, but 'twill be no eaſy matter to find any harm we have done;—hang it, Annette, let them talk till their hearts ach, and let us love one another in ſpight of them.

The Bailly ſaid my Lord was a coming this way, and he'd acquaint him with it.

Wounds, Annette, I deſires no better!—My Lord is kindneſs itſelf, that every body [19] knows, and we ſhould be the firſt unfortunate folks that went away from him with heavy hearts.

Dear Lubin! I ſhan't be able to look at him.

Never fear.

Here comes the Bailly—I'll hide myſelf.

SCENE V.

Oh, ho, you are come, Mr. Bailly.

O you vile wretch! how dare you look me, or any other honeſt man, in the face, after abuſing the loſt Annette?

Vile wretch, in your teeth, Mr. Bailly.—Annette is not loſt, ſhe is in our cabin—'tis you, with your meddling, has vexed her, and put a heap of ſtuff in her head.

What, you pretend you have not robb'd her of what ought to be deareſt to her in the world?

Me!—of what?

Of what!—her innocence, and her honour!

I tell you I love her more than my life; and if I have done her any wrong, here I ſtand to make it good—Marry us! who hinders you?—I'cod we deſires no better.

'Tis impoſſible! and you muſt be ſepa⯑rated for ever.

You are a wicked man to propoſe ſuch a thing, Mr. Bailly; who's to take care of An⯑nette and her innocent child?—me be ſeparated from her—you ſhall kill me firſt, I can tell you that.

The law will oblige you to it.

The law ſhall do no ſuch thing.

Oh the little impudent raſcal, how he rails againſt the law!

Oh the great wicked men, to want me to leave Annette! Come here, Annette.

SCENE Laſt.

Here comes my Lord; we ſhall hear what you'll ſay to him.

I ſhan't be afraid to tell him the truth, any more than you. Come here, Annette, don't be aſham'd; here is his Honour's Lordſhip.

Your Lordſhip is acquainted with the af⯑fair, and here and pleaſe you are the criminals.

My Lord, if it ſhall pleaſe you, I'll tell you the long and the ſhort on't. The Bail⯑ly here ſays, that we muſt be married to have children, and that we can't be married, becauſe we are couſins; and ſo, that being, we are guilty of a great ſin; and that all the world will cry out ſhame of us; and that if any harm happens in the country, we ſhall be the cauſe of it.—In ſhort, and pleaſe your Lordſhip's honour, the Bailly gives us to the Devil; and ſo, as a body may ſay, we recommend ourſelves to your Lord⯑ſhip.

My children, the Bailiff is right—But comfort yourſelves, and tell me ingenuouſly the whole truth.

There! did not I tell you his Lordſhip [22] would be kind to us? Speak to his honour, An⯑nette.

And ſo, my Lord, you ſee what has happened; and if I have done any harm, I ſhall die with ſhame.

Pray don't let Annette die, my Lord—I ſhould die too, and that would be a pity.—If you could but have ſeen how we lived together before this Old Bailly came and frighten'd us ſo, Nothing was ever ſo gay—All that vexes us is, he ſays my child won't know its father nor mo⯑ther, and that it will reproach us with its birth.

'Twill reproach me in my grave then.

They really intereſt me—Don't afflict yourſelves, you are not criminal, you are only unfortunate: if you were rich, you might obtain a permiſſion to love and be united: 'tis not juſt that, becauſe you are poor, you ſhould be de⯑nied ſo equitable a deſire.—I'll take this matter upon myſelf, and the week ſhall not paſs before I procure a diſpenſation from the church, to re⯑ward your innocence and affection as it deſerves.