ACT I.

BUT madam!

But Sir! what can poſſibly have alarmed you thus? You ſee me quite unconcerned. I only tell you in a plain ſimple narrative manner — (this plaguy thread) — and merely by way of conver⯑ſation, that you are in love with Caelia; and where is the mighty harm in all this?

The harm in it, madam! have I not told you a [2] thouſand and a thouſand times that you were the only woman who could poſſibly make me happy?

Why aye, to be ſure you have, and ſworn a thouſand and a thouſand oaths to confirm that aſ⯑ſertion.

And am not I here now expreſsly to marry you?

Why that too is true—but—you are in love with Caelia.

Bleſs me, madam, what can I ſay to you? If it had not been for my attendance upon you, I had never known Caelia or her mother either, though they are both my relations. The mother has ſince indeed put ſome kind of confidence in me; ſhe is a widow you know—

And wants conſolation! The poor orphan too her daughter! Well, charity is an excellent virtue. I never conſidered it in that light before. You are vaſtly charitable, Mr. Modely.

It is impoſſible to talk with you.—If you will not do me juſtice, do it to yourſelf at leaſt. Is there any compariſon betwixt you and Caelia? Could any man of ſenſe heſitate a moment? She has yet no character. One does not know what ſhe is, or what ſhe will be; a chit, a green girl of fourteen or fifteen.

Seventeen at leaſt.—(I cannot undo this knot.)—

Well, let her be ſeventeen. Would any man of [3] judgment attach himſelf to a girl of that age? O' my ſoul, if one was to make love to her, ſhe would hardly underſtand what one meant.

Girls are not quite ſo ignorant as you may ima⯑gine, Mr. Modely; Caelia will underſtand you, take my word for it, and does underſtand you. As to your men of judgment and ſenſe, here is my brother now; I take him to be full as reaſonable as yourſelf, and ſomewhat older; and yet with all his philoſophy, he has brought himſelf to a de⯑termination at laſt, to fulfill the father's will, and marry this green girl. I am ſorry to tell you ſo, Mr. Modely, but he will certainly marry her.

Let him marry her. I ſhould perhaps do it my⯑ſelf, if I was in his place. He was an intimate friend of her father's. She is a great fortune, and was given to him by will. But do you imagine, my dear Araminta, that if he was left to his own choice, without any bias, he would not rather have a woman nearer his own years? He might al⯑moſt be her father.

That is true. But you will find it difficult to perſuade me, that youth in a woman is ſo inſur⯑mountable an objection. I fancy, Mr. Modely, it may be got over. Suppoſe I leave you to think of it.—(I cannot get this right.)—

Stay, dear Araminta, why will you plague me thus? Your own charms, my earneſtneſs, might prove to you —

I tell you I don't want proofs.

Well, well, you ſhall have none then. But give me leave to hope, ſince you have done me the honour to be a little uneaſy on my account —

Uneaſy!—I uneaſy!— What does the man mean? I was a little concerned indeed to give you uneaſineſs by informing you of my brother's in⯑tended marriage with Caelia. But—(this ſhuttle bends ſo abominably.)

Thou perplexing tyrant! Nay, you ſhall not go.—May I continue to adore you! you muſt not forbid me that.

For my part I neither command nor forbid any thing. Only this I would have you remember, I have quick eyes. Your ſervant.—(I wiſh this knotting had never come in faſhion.)

Quick eyes indeed! I thought my cunning here had been a maſter piece. The girl cannot have told ſure! and the mother is entirely on my ſide. They certainly were thoſe inquiſitive eyes ſhe ſpeaks of, which have found out this ſecret. Well, I muſt be more cautious for the future, and act the lover to Araminta ten times ſtronger than ever. One would not give her up till one was ſure of ſuc⯑ceeding in the other place.

Ha! ha! ha! well ſaid Modely!

Belmour! how the duce came you here?

How came I here? — How came you here— if you come to that? A man can't retire from the noiſe and buſtle of the world, to admire the beauties of the ſpring, and read paſtoral in an arbour, but impertinent lovers muſt diſturb his meditations.— Thou art the erranteſt hypocrite, Modely —

Hypocrite!—My dear friend, we men of gal⯑lantry muſt be ſo.—But have a care, we may have other liſteners for aught I know, who may not be ſo proper for confidantes.

You may be eaſy on that head. We have the garden to ourſelves. The widow and her daughter are juſt gone in, and Sir John is buſy with his ſteward.

The widow, and her daughter! Why, were they in the garden?

They juſt came into it, but upon ſeeing you and Araminta together, they turned back again.

On ſeeing me and Araminta? I hope I have no jealouſies there too. However I am glad Caelia knows I am in the garden, becauſe it may probably induce her to fall in my way, by chance you know, and give me an opportunity of talking to her.

Do you think ſhe likes you?

She does not know what ſhe does.

Do you like her?

Why faith, I think I do.

Why then do you purſue your affair with Ara⯑minta? and not find ſome honourable means of breaking off with her?

That might not be quite ſo expedient. I think Araminta the fineſt woman, and Caelia the prettieſt girl I know. Now they are both good fortunes, and one of them I am reſolved to have, but which —

Your great wiſdom has not yet determined. Thou art undoubtedly the vaineſt fellow living.— I thought you brought me down here now to your wedding?

'Egad I thought ſo too, but this plaguy little ruſtic has diſconcerted all my ſchemes. Sir John, you know, by her father's will, may marry her if he pleaſes, and ſhe forfeits her eſtate if ſhe marries any one elſe. Now I am contriving to bring it about, that I may get her, and her fortune too.

A very likely buſineſs, truly. So you modeſtly expect that Sir John Dorilant ſhould give up his miſtreſs, and then throw her fortune into the bat⯑gain, as an additional reward to the obliging man who has ſeduced her from him.

Hum! why I don't expect quite that. But you know, Belmour, he is a man of honour, and would not force her inclinations tho' he loved her to diſ⯑traction. —Come, come, he is quite a different creature from what you and I are.

Speak for yourſelf, good Sir; yet why ſhould you imagine that her inclinations are not as likely to fix upon him as you? He has a good perſon, and is ſcarce older than yourſelf.

That ſhews your ignorance; I am ten years younger than he is. My dreſs and the company I keep, give a youth and vivacity to me, which he muſt always want. An't I a man of the town? O that town, Belmour! Could I but have met theſe ladies there, I had done the buſineſs.

Were they never there?

Never.—Sir Harry Beverley, the father of this girl, lived always in the country, and divided his time between his books and his hounds. His wife and daughter ſeldom mixed with people of their own rank, but at a horſe-race, or a rural viſit. And ſee the effects! The girl, tho' ſhe is naturally genteel, has an air of ſimplicity.

But does not want ſenſe.

No, no!—She has a deviliſh deal of that kind of ſenſe, which is acquired by early reading. I have heard her talk occaſionally, like a queen in a tragedy, or at leaſt like a ſentimental lady in a comedy, [8] much above your miſſes of thirty in town, I aſſure you.—As to the mother—But ſhe is a charac⯑ter, and explains herſelf.

Yes, yes, I have read her. But pray how came it to paſs, that the father, who was of a different way of thinking in regard to party, ſhould have left Sir John guardian to his daughter, with the addi⯑tional clauſe too, of her being obliged to marry him.

Why that is ſomewhat ſurprizing. But the truth of the caſe was, they were thoroughly acquainted, and each conſidered party as the foible of the other. Sir Harry thought a good huſband his daughter's beſt ſecurity for happineſs, and he knew it was im⯑poſſible Sir John Dorilant ſhould prove a bad one.

And yet this proſpect of happineſs would you deſtroy.

No, no; I only ſee farther than Sir Harry did, and would increaſe that happineſs, by giving her a better huſband.

O! your humble ſervant, Sir.

Beſides, the mother is entirely in my intereſt, and by the by has a hankering after Sir John herſelf. ‘He is a ſober man, and ſhould have a woman of diſcretion for his wife, not a hoydening girl.’— 'Egad, Belmour, ſuppoſe you attacked the widow? The woman is young enough, and has an excellent jointure.

And ſo became your father-in-law.

You will have an admirable opportunity to⯑night; we are to have the fiddles you know, and you may dance with her.

When muſick ſoftens, and when dancing fires! Eh! Belmour!

You are vaſtly kind to Sir John, and would eaſe him I find of both his miſtreſſes. But ſuppoſe this man of honour ſhould be fool enough to reſign his miſtreſs, may not another kind of honour oblige him to run you through the body for deſerting his ſiſter?

Why faith, it may. However, it is not the firſt duel I have fought on ſuch an occaſion, ſo I am his man. Not that it is impoſſible but he may have ſcruples there too.

You don't think him a coward?

I know he is not. But your reaſoning men have ſtrange diſtinctions. They are quite different crea⯑tures, as I told you, from you and I.

You are pleaſed to compliment. But ſuppoſe now, as irrational as you think me, I ſhould find out a means to make this whole affair eaſy to you?

How do you mean?

Not by attacking the widow, but by making my addreſſes in good earneſt to Araminta.

I forbid that abſolutely.

What, do you think it poſſible I ſhould ſuc⯑ceed after the accompliſhed Mr. Modely?

Why faith between you and I, I think not, but I don't chuſe to hazard it.

Then you love her ſtill?

I confeſs it.

And it is nothing upon earth but that inſati⯑able vanity of yours, with a little tincture of ava⯑rice, that leads you a gadding thus?

I plead guilty. But be it as it will, I am deter⯑mined to purſue my point. And ſee where the little rogue comes moſt opportunely. I told you ſhe would be here. Go, go, Belmour, you muſt not liſten to all my love ſcenes.

Now for a ſerious face, a little upon the tragic; young girls are mighty fond of deſpairing lovers.

Mr. Modely!—are you here?—I am come to meet my mama—I did not think to find you here.

Are you ſorry to find me here, madam?

Why ſhould I be ſorry, Mr. Modely?

May I hope you are pleaſed with it?

I have no diſlike to company.

But is all company alike? Surely one would chuſe one's companions. Would it have been the ſame thing to you, if you had met Sir John Dorilant here?

I ſhould be very ungrateful if I did not like Sir John Dorilant's company. I am ſure I have all the obligations in the world to him, and ſo had my poor papa.

Whatever were your papa's obligations, his gratitude I am ſure was unbounded.—O that I had been his friend!

Why ſhould you wiſh that, Mr. Modely? — You would have had a great loſs in him.

I believe I ſhould. But I might likewiſe have had a conſolation for that loſs, which would have contained in it all earthly happineſs.

I don't underſtand you.

He might have left his Caelia to me.

Dear, how you talk!

Talk, madam! —O I could talk for ever, would you but liſten to my heart's ſoft language, nor cruelly affect to diſbelieve when I declare I love you.

Love me, Mr. Modely?—Are not you in love with Araminta?

I once thought I was.

And do lovers ever change?

Not thoſe who feel a real paſſion. But there are falſe alarms in love, which the unpractiſed heart ſometimes miſtakes for true ones.

And were yours ſuch for Araminta?

Alas, I feel they were.

You don't intend to marry her then, I hope.

Do you hope I ſhould not marry her?

To be ſure I do. I would not have the poor lady deceived, and I would willingly have a better opinion of Mr. Modely than to believe him ca⯑pable of making falſe proteſtations.

To you he never could.

To me?—I am out of the queſtion.—But I am ſorry for Araminta, for I believe ſhe loves you.

If you can pity thoſe who love in vain, why am not I an object of compaſſion?

Dear Mr. Modely, why will you talk thus? My hand, you know, is deſtined to Sir John Do⯑rilant, [13] and my duty there does not even permit me to think of other lovers.

Happy, happy man! Yet give me leave to aſk one queſtion, madam.—I dread to do it, tho' my laſt glimpſe of happineſs depends upon your anſwer.

What queſtion?—Nay, pray ſpeak, I intreat it of you.

Then tell me, lovely Caelia, ſincerely tell me, were your choice left free, and did it depend upon you only to determine who ſhould be the maſter of your affections, might I expect one favourable thought?

It—it does not depend upon me.

I know it does not, but if it did?

Come, come, Mr. Modely, I cannot talk upon this ſubject. Impoſſibilities are impoſſibilities. — But I hope you will acquaint Araminta inſtantly with this change in your inclinations.

I would do it, but I dare not.

You ſhould break it firſt to Sir John.

My difficulty does not lie in the breaking it; but if I confeſs my paſſion at an end, I muſt no longer expect admittance into this family, and I could ſtill wiſh to talk to Caelia as a friend.

Indeed, Mr. Modely, I ſhould be loth myſelf to loſe your acquaintance; but — O here comes my mama, ſhe may put you in a method.

In any method, my dear, which decency and reſerve will permit. Your ſervant, couſin Modely. What, you are talking ſtrangely to this girl now?— O you men!

Your ladyſhip knows the ſincerity of my paſſion here.

Knows your ſincerity?

Well, well, what ſignifies what I know? —You was mentioning ſome method I was to put you in.

Mr. Modely, madam, has been confeſſing to me that he no longer loves Araminta.

Hum!—why ſuch things may happen, child. We are not all able to govern our affections. But I hope if he breaks off with her, he will do it with decency.

That, madam, is the difficulty.

What!—Is it a difficulty to be decent? Fie, fie, Mr. Modely.

Far be it from me even to think ſo, madam, before a perſon of your ladyſhip's reſerved beha⯑viour. But conſidering how far I have gone in the affair—

Well, well, if that be all, I may perhaps help you out, and break it to Sir John myſelf.—Not that I approve of roving affections I aſſure you.

You bind me ever to you.—But there is ano⯑ther cauſe which you alone can promote, and on which my eternal happineſs—

Leave us—leave us, couſin Modely. I muſt not hear you talk in this extravagant manner.—

— I ſhall bring it about better in your abſence. Go, go, man, go.

A pretty kind of a fellow really.—Now Caelia, come nearer, child: I have ſomething of impor⯑tance to ſay to you.—What do you think of that gentleman?

Of Mr. Modely, madam?

Ay Mr. Modely, my couſin Modely.

Think of him, madam?

Ay, think of him, child; you are old enough to think ſure after the education I have given you. Well, what anſwer do you make?

I really don't underſtand your Ladyſhip's queſ⯑tion.

Not underſtand me, child? Why I aſk you how you like Mr. Modely? What ſhould you think of him as a huſband.

Mr. Modely as a huſband! Why ſurely madam, Sir John —

Fiddle faddle Sir John; Sir John knows better things than to plague himſelf with a wife in lead⯑ing ſtrings.

Is your ladyſhip ſure of that?

O ho! would you be glad to have me ſure of it?

I don't know what I ſhould be glad of. I would not give Sir John a moment's pain to be miſtreſs of the whole world.

But if it ſhould be brought about without giv⯑ing him pain. Hey! Caelia—

I ſhould be ſorry for it.

Hey day!

For then he muſt think lightly of me.

What does the girl mean? Come, come, I muſt enter roundly into this affair. Here, here, ſit down, and tell me plainly and honeſtly without equivoca⯑tion or reſervation, is Modely indifferent to you? Nay, nay,—look me in the face; turn your eyes to⯑wards me. One judges greatly by the eyes, eſpe⯑cially in a woman. Your poor papa uſed to ſay that my eyes reaſoned better than my tongue. — Well, and now tell me without bluſhing, is Modely indifferent to you?

I fear he is not, madam, and it is that which perplexes me.

How do you feel when you meet him?

Fluttered.

Hum! —While you are with him?

Fluttered.

Hum! —When you leave him?

Fluttered ſtill.

Strong ſymptoms truly!

When Sir John Dorilant talks to me, my heart is ſoftened but not perplexed. My eſteem, my gratitude overflows towards him. I conſider him as a kinder father, with all the tenderneſs without the authority.

But when Mr. Modely talks?

My tranquility of mind is gone, I am pleaſed with hearing what I doubt is flattery, and when he graſps my hand —

Well, well, I know all that.—Be decent, child. —You need ſay no more, Mr. Modely is the man.

But, dear Madam, there are a thouſand obſtacles. —I am afraid Sir John loves me; I am ſure he eſteems me, and I would not forfeit his eſteem for the univerſe. I am certain I can make him an af⯑fectionate and an humble wife, and I think I can forget Mr. Modely.

Forget a fiddle! Don't talk to me of forgetting. I order you on your duty not to forget. Mr. Modely is, and ſhall be the man. You may truſt my prudence for bringing it about. I will talk with Sir John inſtantly.—I know what you are going to ſay, but I will not hear a word of it. Can you imagine, Caelia, that I ſhall do any thing but with the utmoſt decency and decorum?

I know you will not, madam; but there are de⯑licacies —

With which I am unacquainted to be ſure, and my daughter muſt inſtruct me in them. Pray, Caelia, where did you learn this nicety of ſentiments? Who was it that inſpired them?

But the maxims of the world —

Are altered, I ſuppoſe, ſince I was of your age. Poor thing, what world haſt thou ſeen? Notwith⯑ſtanding your delicacies and your maxims, Sir John perhaps may be wiſer than you imagine, and chuſe a wife of ſomewhat more experience.

May he be happy wherever he chuſes.—But dear madam —

Again? don't make me angry. I will poſitively not be inſtructed. Ay, you may well bluſh.— Nay, no tears—Come, come, Caelia, I forgive you. I had idle delicacies myſelf once. Lard! I remember when your poor papa —he, he, he— but we have no time for old ſtories. What would you ſay now if Sir John himſelf ſhould propoſe it, and perſuade the match, and yet continue as much your friend as ever, nay become more ſo, a nearer friend.

In ſuch a caſe, madam —

I underſtand you, and will about it inſtantly. B'ye Caelia; O how its little heart flutters!

It does indeed. A nearer friend? I hardly know whether I ſhould wiſh her ſucceſs or not — Sir John is ſo affectionate. Would I had never ſeen Mr. Modely! —Araminta too! what will ſhe ſay? — O I ſee a thouſand bad conſequences. I muſt follow her, and prevent them.

ACT II.

PRITHEE don't teize me ſo; I vow, couſin Modely, you are almoſt as peremptory as my daughter. She truly was teaching me decorum juſt now, and plaguing me with her delicacies, and her ſtuff. I tell you Sir John will be in the gar⯑den immediately, this is always his hour of walk⯑ing: and when he comes, I ſhall lay the whole affair before him, with all its concatenation of cir⯑cumſtances, and I warrant you bring it about.

I have no doubt, madam, of the tranſcendency of your ladyſhip's rhetorick; it is on that I entirely rely. But I muſt beg leave to hint, that Araminta already ſuſpects my paſſion, and ſhould it be openly declared, would undoubtedly prevail that inſtant with her brother to forbid me the houſe.

Why, that might be.

And tho' I told your daughter I did not care how ſoon it came to an eclairciſment, yet a woman of your ladyſhip's penetration and knowledge of [21] the world, muſt ſee the neceſſity of concealing it, at leaſt for a time. I beg pardon for offering what may have even the diſtant appearance of inſtruction. But it is Sir John's delicacy which muſt be princi⯑pally alarmed with apprehenſions of her diſregard for him; and I am ſure your ladyſhip's manner of doing it, will ſhew him where he might much better place his affections, and with an undoubted proſpect of happineſs.

Ay, now you talk to the purpoſe.—But ſtay, is not that Sir John coming this way?—It is I vow, and Araminta with him. We'll turn down this walk, and reaſon the affair a little more, and then I will come round the garden upon him.

You are very gallant, couſin Modely.

What do you drag me into the garden for? We were private enough where we were—and I hate walking.

Forgive me, my dear ſiſter; I am reſtleſs every where, my head and heart are full of nothing but this lovely girl.

My dear, dear brother, you are enough to ſpoil any woman in the univerſe. I tell you again and again, the girl is a good girl, an excellent girl, and will make an admirable wife. You may truſt one woman in her commendations of another; we are [22] not apt to be too favourable in our judgments, eſpecially when there is beauty in the caſe.

You charm me when you talk thus. If ſhe is really all this, how happy muſt the man be who can engage her affections. But alas! Araminta, in every thing which regards me, it is duty, not love, which actuates her behaviour. She ſteals away my very ſoul by her attentions, but never once expreſſes that heart-felt tenderneſs, thoſe ſym⯑pathetic feelings.

Ha—ha — ha!—O my ſtars!— Sympathetic feelings!—Why, would you have a girl of her age have thoſe ſympathetic feelings, as you call them! If ſhe had, take my word for it, ſhe would coquet it with half the fellows in town before ſhe had been married a twelvemonth. Beſides, Sir John, you don't conſider that you was her father's friend; ſhe has been accuſtomed from her infancy to reſpect you in that light; and our fathers friends, you know, are always old people, grey beards, philoſo⯑phers, enemies to youth, and the deſtruction of gayety.

But I was never ſuch.

You may imagine ſo; but you always had a grave turn. I hated you once myſelf.

Dear Araminta!

I did as I hope to live; for many a time has your averſion to dancing hindered me from having a fiddle.—By the by, remember we are to have the fiddles [23] to-night.—But let that paſs: As the caſe now ſtands, if I was not already ſo near akin to you, you have the temper in the world which I ſhould chuſe in a huſband.

That is obliging, however.

Not ſo very obliging perhaps neither. It would be merely for my own ſake, for then would I have the appearance of the moſt obedient ſympathetic wife in the univerſe, and yet be as deſpotic in my govern⯑ment as an eaſtern monarch. And when I grew tired, as I probably ſhould do, of a want of contradiction, why, I ſhould find an eaſy remedy for that too— I could break your heart in about a month.

Don't trifle with me, 'tis your ſerious advice I want; give it me honeſtly as a friend, and ten⯑derly as a ſiſter.

Why I have done it, fifty times. What can I ſay more? If you will have it again you muſt. This then it is in plain terms.—But you are ſure you are heartily in love with her?

Pſhaw!

Well then, that we will take for granted; and now you want to know what is right and proper for you to do in the caſe. Why, was I in your place, I ſhould make but ſhort work with it. She knows the circumſtances of her father's will, therefore, would I go immediately to her, tell her how my heart ſtood inclined, and hope ſhe had no objections to comply, with what it is not in her power to refuſe.

You would not have me talk thus abruptly to her?

Indeed I would. It will ſave a world of trouble. She will bluſh perhaps at firſt, and look a little aukward, (and by the by ſo will you too); but if ſhe is the girl I take her for, after a little irreſolute geſture, and about five minutes converſation, ſhe will drop you a curteſy with the demure humility of a Veſtal, and tell you it ſhall be as you and her mama pleaſes.

O that it were come to that!

And pray what hinders it? Nothing upon earth but your conſummate prudence and diſcretion.

I cannot think of marrying her, till I am ſure ſhe loves me.

Lud, Lud!—why what does that ſignify? If ſhe conſents is not that enough?

Her gratitude may induce her to conſent, rather than make me unhappy.

You would abſolutely make a woman mad.

Why, could you think of marrying a man who had no regard for you.

The caſe is widely different, my good caſuiſtical brother; and perhaps I could not — unleſs I was very much in love with him.

And could you then?

Yes I could—to tell you the truth I believe I ſhall.

What do you mean?

I ſhall not tell you.—You have buſineſs enough of your own upon your hands.

Have you any doubts of Modely?

I ſhall keep them to myſelf if I have. For you are a wretched counſellor in a love caſe.

But dear Araminta—

But dear Sir John Dorilant, you may make your⯑ſelf perfectly eaſy, for you ſhall poſitively know no⯑thing of my affairs. As to your own, if you do not inſtantly reſolve to ſpeak to Caelia, I will go and talk to her myſelf.

Stay, lady Beverley is coming towards us.

And has left my ſwain yonder by himſelf.

Suppoſe I break it to her?

It is not a method which I ſhould adviſe; but do as you pleaſe.—I know that horrid woman's ſen⯑timents very exactly, and I ſhall be glad to have her teized a little

— I'll give you an op⯑portunity [26] by leaving you; and ſo adieu, my dear ſentimental brother!

We'll change partners if you pleaſe, madam —

Poor miſtaken creature! how fond the thing is!—

Your ſervant, Sir John.

Your ladyſhip's moſt obedient. —

I— I— have wanted an opportunity of ſpeaking to you, Sir John, a great while.

And I, madam, have long had an affair of conſe⯑quence to propoſe to your ladyſhip.

An affair of conſequence to me! — O Lud— you will pleaſe to ſpeak, Sir.

Not till I have heard your ladyſhip's com⯑mands.

What, muſt women ſpeak firſt? Fie, Sir John—

— Well then, the matter in ſhort is this, I have been long thinking how to diſ⯑poſe of my girl properly. She is grown a woman you ſee, and tho' I who am her mother ſay it, has her allurements.

Uncommon ones indeed.

Now I would willingly conſult with you how to get her well married, before ſhe is tainted with the indecorums of the world.

It was the very ſubject which I propoſed ſpeak⯑ing to you upon.— I am ſorry to put your lady⯑ſhip in mind of a near and dear loſs—But you re⯑member Sir Harry's will.

Yes, yes, I remember it very well. Poor man! it was undoubtedly the only weak thing he was ever guilty of.

Madam!

I ſay, Sir, John we muſt pardon the ſailings of our deceaſed friends. Indeed his affection for his child excuſes it.

Excuſes it!

Yes indeed does it. His fondneſs for her might naturally make him wiſh to place her with a perſon of your known excellence of character; for my own part, had I died, I ſhould have wiſhed it myſelf.—I don't believe you have your equal in the world.— Nay, dear Sir John, 'tis no compliment.—This I ſay might make him not attend to the impropriety of the thing, and the reluctance a gentleman of your good ſenſe and judgment muſt undoubtedly have to accede to ſo unſuitable a treaty. Eſpecially as he could not but know there were women of diſcre⯑tion in the world, who would be proud of an al⯑liance where the proſpect of felicity, was ſo inviting and unqueſtionable.

What women, madam? I know of none.

Sir John!—That is not quite ſo complaiſant me⯑thinks—to our ſex, I mean.

I beg your pardon, madam; I hardly know what I ſay. Your ladyſhip has diſconcerted every thing I was going to propoſe to you.

Bleſs me, Sir John!—I diſconcerted every thing? How pray? I have been only talking to you in an open friendly manner, with regard to my daughter, our daughter indeed I might call her, for you have been a father to her. The girl herſelf always ſpeaks of you as ſuch.

Speaks of me as a father?

Why, more unlikely things have happened, Sir John.

Than what, madam?

Dear Sir John!—You put ſuch peremptory queſ⯑tions, you might eaſily underſtand what one meant methinks.

I find, madam, I muſt ſpeak plain at once.— Know then, my heart, my ſoul, my every thought of happineſs is fixed upon that lovely girl.

O aſtoniſhing! Well, miracles are not ceaſed, that's certain. But every body, they ſay, muſt do a fooliſh [29] thing once in their lives.—And can you really and ſeriouſly think of putting Sir Harry's will in execution?

Would I could!

To be ſure the girl has a fine fortune.

Fortune! I deſpiſe it. I would give it with all my ſoul to any one who could engage me her af⯑fections.—Fortune! dirt.

I am thunderſtruck! —

O madam, tell me, ſincerely tell me, what me⯑thod can I poſſibly purſue to make her think fa⯑vourably of me! You know her inmoſt ſoul, you know the tender moments of addreſs, the eaſy avenues to her unpractiſed heart. Be kind, and point them out.

I vow, Sir John, I don't know what to ſay to you. — Let go my hand. — You talked of my diſconcerting you juſt now, I am ſure you diſ⯑concert me with a witneſs.—

I did not think the man had ſo much rapture in him. He ſqueezed my hand with ſuch an emphaſis! I may gain him perhaps at laſt.

Why will you not ſpeak, madam? Can you ſee me on the brink of deſperation, and not lend a friend⯑ly hand to my aſſiſtance?

I have it.—

—Alas, Sir John, what [30] ſignifies what I can do! Can I anſwer for the incli⯑nations of a giddy girl?

You know ſhe is not ſuch; her innocent mind is yet untainted with the follies of her ſex. And if a life devoted to her ſervice, without a wiſh but what regards her happineſs, can win her to be mine —

Why that might go a great way with an unpre⯑judiced mind. But when a firſt paſſion has taken place.

What do you mean?

To tell you the truth, I am afraid the girl is not ſo untainted as you imagine.

You diſtract me. — How—when — whom can ſhe have ſeen?

Undoubtedly there is a man.

Tell me who, that I may — No, that I may give her to him, and make her happy whatever be⯑comes of me.

That is generous indeed.—So — ſo.

But 'tis impoſſible. I have obſerved all her mo⯑tions, all her attentions, with a lover's eye incapa⯑ble of erring.—Yet ſtay— has any body written to her?

There are no occaſion for letters, when people are in the ſame houſe together.

Confuſion!

I was going to offer ſome propoſals to you, but your ſtrange declaration ſtopped me ſhort.

You propoſals? —You?—Are you her a better in the affair? — O madam, what un⯑pardonable crime have I committed againſt you, that you ſhould thus conſpire my ruin? Have not I always behaved to you like a friend, a brother? — I will not call you ungrateful.

Mercy on us! —The man raves.— How could it poſſibly enter into my head, or the girl's either, that you had any ſerious thoughts of marrying her? But I ſee you are too much diſcompoſed at preſent, to admit of calm reaſoning. So I ſhall take ſome other opportunity.—Friend—Brother — Un⯑grateful!—Marry come up!— I hope, at leaſt, you will not think of forcing the poor girl's inclinations! Ungrateful indeed!

Not for the univerſe.—Stay, madam.—She is gone.— But it is no matter. I am but little diſ⯑poſed for altercation now. Heigh ho! —Good heaven! can ſo ſlight an intercourſe have effected all this? — I have ſcarce ever ſeen them together. O that I had been born with Belmour's happy ta⯑lents of addreſs. — Addreſs!— 'tis abſolute ma⯑gick, 'tis faſcination — Alas! 'tis the rapidity of real paſſion. — Why did Modely bring him hither to his wedding? Every thing has conſpired againſt me. He brought him, and the delay of the lawyers has kept him here. Had I taken Araminta's advice a poor fortnight ago, it had not been in the power of fate to have undone me. — And yet ſhe might [32] have ſeen him afterwards, which would at leaſt have made her duty uneaſy to her.—Heigh ho!

I tell you, I heard them very loud! and I will ſee what is the matter. O! here is my brother alone.

O Araminta!—I am loſt beyond redemption.

Dear brother, what can have happened to you?

Mr. Modely, you could not intend it; but you have ruined me.

I, Sir John!

You have brought a friend with you, who has pierced me to the very ſoul.

Belmour!

He has ſtolen my Caelia's affections from me.

Belmour!

This muſt he a miſtake, but I'll humour it.

It cannot be, who can have told you ſo?

Her mother has been this inſtant with me, to make propoſals on the ſubject.

For Belmour!

She did not abſolutely mention his name, but I [33] could not miſtake it. For ſhe told me the favoured lover was under the ſame roof with us.

I could not have believed it of him.

Nor do I yet.—

There muſt certainly be ſome miſtake in it; at the worſt, I am ſure I can prevail ſo far with Bel⯑mour, as to make him drop his pretenſions.

You cannot make her ceaſe to love him.

Time may eaſily get the better of ſo young a paſſion.

Never, never; ſhe is too ſincere, too delicately ſenſible.

Come, come, you muſt not think ſo; it is not yet gone ſo far, but that it may be totally forgotten.— Now for a maſter-ſtroke to clench the whole—

In the mean time, Sir John, I have the ſatisfaction of acquainting you, that my affair, with Araminta's leave, draws very near a concluſion. The lawyers have finiſhed their papers, and I only now wait for your peruſal of them.

Well ſaid!

I ordered the writings to be laid upon your table.

What does he mean?

Dear Mr. Modely, you ſhall not wait a moment for me. I will diſpatch them inſtantly. I feel the [34] want of happineſs too ſeverely myſelf, to poſtpone it in others. I leave you with my ſiſter; when ſhe names the day, you may depend upon my concur⯑rence.

I hope, madam, you are now convinced of my ſincerity.

I am abſolutely ſtruck dumb with your aſſurance.

Madam!

You cannot mean all this.

Why not, madam?

Why, don't you know that I know—

I cannot help a lady's knowledge or imagina⯑tions. All I know is, that it is in your power to make me either the happieſt or moſt miſerable man in the whole creation.

Well, this is aſtoniſhing.

I am ſorry, madam, that any unguarded behavi⯑our of mine, any little playful gallantries, ſhould have occaſioned ſurmiſes, which—

Serious, as I hope to live.

Is it not enough to make one ſerious, when the woman one has purſued for years, almoſt with ado⯑ration, is induced by mere appearances to doubt [35] the honourableneſs of one's intentions. Have you not heard me this moment apply to your brother, even in the midſt of his uneaſineſs.—I little ex⯑pected where the difficulty would lie.

Well, well, poor thing, I won't teize it any lon⯑ger; here, there, take my hand.

Duped by Jupiter. —

— O my ever⯑laſting treaſure! And when, and when ſhall I be happy?

It ſhall depend upon yourſelf.

To-morrow, then, my angel, be the day. O Araminta, I cannot ſpeak my tranſport.—And did you really think that I was in love with Caelia?

Why, as a proof of my future ſincerity, I muſt confeſs I did.

I wonder how you could.

Come, come, there were grounds enough for a woman in love to go upon.

But you are now perfectly eaſy?

Why, yes, I think I am.—But what can my brother mean about Belmour?

It is ſome trick of the widow's.

I dare ſay ſhe meant you.

Poſſibly ſhe might; you know her motives.

Yes, yes, her paſſion for my brother is pretty no⯑torious. But the wretch will be miſtaken.—To⯑morrow, you ſay?

To-morrow, my adorable.

It ſhall be as you pleaſe.—But my ſituation is ſo terribly aukward, that I muſt break from you. Adieu!

Upon my ſoul ſhe is a fine woman; and loves me to diſtraction; and what is ſtill more, I moſt un⯑doubtedly love her.—I have a good mind to take her.—Yet not to have it in my power to ſuc⯑ceed in the other place, would call my parts in queſtion.—No, no; — I muſt not diſparage my parts neither.—In order to be a great character, one ſhould go as near being a rogue as poſſible. I have a philoſopher's opinion on my ſide in that, and the practice of half the heroes and politicians in Europe.

ACT III.

CAELIA in love with me! Egad the thing is not impoſſible; my friend Modely may have been a little miſtaken. Sir John was very ſerious when he told me of it; and though I proteſted to him that I had never made the leaſt advances, he ſtill perſiſted in his opinion.—The girl muſt have have told him ſo herſelf.—Let me recollect a little. —She is always extremely civil to me; but that indeed ſhe is to every body.—I do not remember any thing particular in her looks; but I ſhall watch them more narrowly the next time I ſee her.—She is very handſome; and yet in my opi⯑nion, notwithſtanding Modely's infidelity, Ara⯑minta is much the finer woman.—Suppoſe— No, that will not do.

So, ſo, Mr. Belmour, I imagined I ſhould find you here; this is the lover's corner. We have all had our reveries in it. But why don't you talk louder, man? You ought, at leaſt, to give me my revenge in that. My ſoliloquies, you know, are eaſily over-heard.

I never deſignedly over-heard them, Mr. Modely; nor did I make any improper uſe of the accident.

Grave, very grave, and perfectly moral! And ſo this is all I am to have for the loſs of my miſ⯑treſs.—Heigh ho!

Your raillery is a little unſeaſonable, Mr. Mode⯑ly; for to ſpeak plainly, I begin to ſuſpect that this is ſome trick of yours, to dupe me as well as Sir John Dorilant.

Upon my honour, no, if we muſt be ſerious: it may be a miſtake, but not intended on my ſide, I can aſſure you. Come, come, if the girl really likes you, take her. If I ſhould prove the happy man, give me joy, and there's an end of it.

I fancy you are uſed to diſappointments in love, they ſit ſo eaſy upon you. Or rather I ſhould ſup⯑poſe, in this caſe, you are pretty ſure of your ground.

Neither, upon my ſoul; but a certain Je ne ſcai quoy, a Gayete de Coeur which carries me above misfortunes: ſome people call it vanity.

And are not abſolutely miſtaken. But what becomes of Araminta all this while?

I ſhall marry her, I believe, to-morrow.

Marry her?

Yes, Sir John is at this very moment looking over the ſettlements.

I don't underſtand you.

And yet it is pretty plain, methinks. I tell you I am to be married to-morrow. Was it not time to make ſure of one miſtreſs, when you was running away with the other?

You know I have no ſuch intentions.—But are you really ſerious? Have you laid aſide your deſigns upon Caelia?

Not ſo, neither.

What do you mean then by your marriage with Araminta? Why won't you unriddle this affair to me?

Becauſe it is at preſent a riddle to myſelf, and I expect lady Beverley here every moment to reſolve the enigma.

Was it a ſcheme of her's?

Certainly, and I partly gueſs it, but will not un⯑boſom till I know it fully.—Come, come, with all that gravity of countenance and curioſity, you muſt leave me inſtantly; the lady will be here, and the plot unravelled, and then—

I ſhall expect to be ſatisfied.

Ha! ha! ha! or elſe you fight me, I ſuppoſe. Why, ſo you may; and ſo may Sir John Dorilant too, and faith with ſome colour of reaſon. But my comfort is, that I have experience on my ſide, and if I ſurvive the rencounter, I ſhall be a greater hero than ever amongſt the ladies, and be eſteemed in all companies as much a man of honour as the beſt of you.

Dear couſin Modely, I am all over in an agita⯑tion; we ſhall certainly be diſcovered; that devil Araminta —

What of her, madam?

Is now with her brother talking ſo eagerly— Oh! I ſaw the villainous changes in her counte⯑nance; I would have given the world to have over⯑heard their converſation.—Come, come, you muſt adviſe me inſtantly.

Your ladyſhip muſt firſt let me into the ſecret. I am abſolutely in a wood with regard to the whole affair. What is all this of Caelia and Belmour?

Nothing, nothing at all; an errant dilemma of the fooliſh man's own making, which his imper⯑tinent ſiſter will immediately clear up to him, and then all muſt out.

But how came Belmour ever to be mentioned in the caſe?

Dear, dear, he never was mentioned. I muſt confeſs that I was ſo provoked with Sir John's un⯑natural behaviour, that I could not help telling him that Caelia had a lover, and in the houſe too. Your ſituation with regard to Araminta made him never dream of you, and conſequently all his ſuſpicions turned on Belmour.

But you did not ſay that that lover had made his addreſſes to Caelia?

I don't know what I might ſay; for he uſed me like a Turk. But whatever I ſaid I can unſay it again.

Why, if I might venture to advice a perſon of your lady's ſagacity —

O ay, with all my heart, couſin Modely. For though I may ſay it without vanity, that nobody has a more clear apprehenſion of things when the mental faculty is totally undiſturbed; yet, when I am in a trepidation, nobody upon earth can be more glad of advice.

Why, then, madam, to ſpeak with reverence, I ſhould hope your ladyſhip would ſee the neceſſity of keeping me as concealed as poſſible. It is the young lady's paſſion, not mine, which muſt have the principal influence. Sir John Dorilant's pecu⯑liarity of temper is ſuch—

Yes, yes, he has peculiarity enough, that's cer⯑tain.

And it is there, madam, as the weakeſt part, that our attack will be the ſureſt. If ſhe confeſſes an inclination for me, not both the Indies, added to her fortune, could induce him to marry her.

That is honourable, however, couſin Modely. But he is a horrid creature, notwithſtanding.

I grant it, madam; but a failure in an improper purſuit may recal his reaſon, and, as he does not want underſtanding, teach him to ſearch for hap⯑pineſs where only it is to be expected.

He! he! I am ſo angry with him at preſent, that I really believe I ſhould refuſe him.

Your ladyſhip muſt not be too cruel.

Why, I confeſs it is not in my nature; but— bleſs me, here they come.—Let us run down this walk directly, for they muſt not ſee us to⯑gether.

Come along, I ſay, you dragged me into the garden juſt now, and I will command in my turn. Talk to her you muſt, and ſhall. The girl has ſenſe and ſpirit when ſhe is diſengaged from that [43] horrid mother of her's; and I have told her you wanted her, and in this very ſpot.

You cannot feel, Araminta, what you make me ſuffer. But ſooner or later it muſt come to this, and therefore I will aſſume a reſolution, and be rid of all my doubts at once.

I tell you, this nonſenſe about Belmour is merely a phantom of her mother's raiſing, to ſound your intentions, and promote her own.

Thus far is certain, that Belmour diſclaims all knowledge of the affair, and with an appearance of ſincerity; but even that is doubtful. Beſides, they are not his, but her inclinations which give me any concern. It is the heart I require. The life⯑leſs form, beauteous as it is, would only elude my graſp; the ſhadow of a joy, not the reality.

Dear, dear, that men had but a little common ſenſe; or that one could venture to tell them what one knows of one's own ſex! I have a good mind to be honeſt.—As I live, the girl is coming. —I'll ſpeed her on the way. Courage, brother, Voila!

How ſhall I begin with her?—What ideots are men when they have a real paſſion! ridiculous, beneath contempt. —

—Suppoſe —I will not ſuppoſe; the honeſt heart ſhall ſpeak its faithful dictates, and if it fails, — why, let it.

Araminta tells me, Sir, that you had ſomething to ſay to me.

I have, madam.—Come forward, Miſs Be⯑verley.—Would you chuſe to ſit.—

—

You are not afraid of catching cold?

Not in the leaſt, Sir.

I know ſitting in the open air has that effect upon ſome people—but your youth and con⯑ſtitution. — Did my ſiſter ſay any thing concern⯑ing the ſubject I would ſpeak to you upon?

She only told me, Sir, that it was of moment.

It is of moment, indeed, Caelia.—But you muſt not think that I am angry.

Angry, Sir!

I don't mean angry.—I am a little confuſed; but I ſhall recover myſelf preſently.—

—Nay, pray ſit, Miſs Beverley. —Whatever I feel myſelf, I would not diſturb you.—

—The affair I would ſpeak to you upon is this:—You remember your father perfectly?

And ever ſhall.

Indeed he was a good man, Miſs Beverley, a virtuous man, and felt tenderly for your happi⯑neſs. —Thoſe tears become you, and yet, me⯑thinks, I would not provoke them. —When he died, he left you to my care.

Which alone made his loſs ſupportable.

Are you ſincere in what you ſay?

I ſhould be ungrateful indeed, if I was not.

Nay, you are ſincerity itſelf.—O Caelia

—But I beg your pardon, I am aſſuming a liberty I have no right to take, till you allow it.

Sir!

I ſee I have alarmed you.—Retire Miſs Be⯑verley.—I'll ſpeak to you ſome other time.—

—Caelia, Miſs Beverley,— pray come back, my dear.—I am afraid my behaviour is rather too abrupt.—Perhaps, too, it may diſ⯑pleaſe you.

I can be diſpleaſed with nothing from you, Sir; and am ready to obey you, be your commands what they will.

Command, Caelia! —that's a hard word.

I am ſorry it offends you.

You know beſt, Caelia, whether it ought to of⯑fend me—would I could read the ſentiments of your heart! Mine are but too apparent.—In ſhort, my dear, you know the purport of your father's will— dare you fulfil it?

To the minuteſt circumſtance.—It is my duty.

Ah, Caelia, that word duty deſtroys the obliga⯑tion.

Sir!—

I don't know how it is, but I am afraid to aſk you the only queſtion, which ſincerely anſwered, could make me happy—or miſerable.

Let me beg of you, ſir, to aſk it freely.

Well then — is your heart your own?

O Caelia, that heſitation confirms my fears. You cannot anſwer in the affirmative, and have too much humanity for what I feel, to add to my torments. —Good God! — and is it poſſible, that an acquaint⯑ance of a few days, ſhould entirely obliterate the at⯑tentive aſſiduity, the tender anxieties which I have ſhewn for years!—But I underſtand it all too well. Mine were the aweful, though heart-felt attentions of a parent; his, the ſprightly addreſs of a preſum⯑ing lover. His eaſy aſſurance has won upon your affections, and what I thought my greateſt merit, has undone me.

You were ſo good, ſir, a little while ago, to pity [47] my confuſion; pity it now, and whilſt I lay my heart open before you, be again that kind, that ge⯑nerous friend, which I have always found you.

Go on.

It is in vain for me to diſſemble an ignorance of your meaning, nor would I if I could. I own I have been too much pleaſed with Mr. Modely's conver⯑ſation.

Modely's?

Let me go on.—His intended marriage with Araminta, gave him a freedom in this family which it was not my buſineſs to reſtrain. His attentions to my mother, and the friendly manner in which he executed ſome commiſſions of conſequence to her, gave him frequent opportunities of talking to me. I will confeſs too, that his appearance and his man⯑ner ſtruck me. But I was ſo convinced of his real paſſion for Araminta, that I never dreamt of the leaſt attachment to me, till—

Till what, when— Modely?—Why, he is to be married to my ſiſter to-morrow or next day.

I know it was ſo intended, but his behaviour this morning, and the interceſſions of my mother, had, I own, won upon me ſtrangely, and induced me to believe that I only was the object of his purſuits.

I am thunderſtruck! —

My mother made me clearly perceive that the [48] completion of his marriage would be an injury to Araminta. She told me too, ſir, that you yourſelf would be my adviſer in the affair, and even per⯑ſuad me to accept it.

O the malicious woman!

In that indeed I perceive ſhe greatly erred. And I only mean this as a confeſſion of what is paſt, and of what is now at an end for ever.—For the fu⯑ture, I give myſelf to your guidance alone, and am what you direct.—

Thou amiable ſoftneſs! —No, Caelia, how⯑ever miſerable I may be myſelf, I will not make you ſo; it was your heart, not your hand I aſpired to. As the former has been ſeduced from me, it would be an injuſtice to us both to accept of the latter. As to Mr. Modely, and Lady Beverley, I have not deſerved this treachery from them, and they ſhall both feel my reſentment.

Sir!

She told me indeed there was a favoured lover, and my ſuſpicions fell very naturally upon Belmour. Nay, even now, nothing but that lovely ſincerity— which undoes me—could make me credit this vil⯑lainy of Modely.—O Caelia! what a heart have I loſt!

You cannot, ſhall not loſe it; worthleſs as it is, 'tis yours, and only yours, my father, guardian, lover, huſband!

Hey day! what a ſcene is here! What is the matter with ye both.

O ſiſter! that angel goodneſs, that mirror of her ſex, has ruined me.

Ruined you! how?

Nay, I am not the only ſufferer, Modely is as falſe to you, as her mother is to all of us.

I don't underſtand you.

You will too ſoon. My ſuſpicions of Belmour were all a chimaera; it is your impious Modely who has poſſeſſion of her heart.—To me ſhe is loſt ir⯑recoverably. —

Stay, brother.

I cannot, my ſoul's too full.

Pray, miſs Beverley, what is the meaning of all this?

I cannot ſpeak —

I'll be hang'd if this fellow Modely has not talk⯑ed you into an opinion, that he is in love with you; indeed, my dear, your youth and inexperience may lead you into ſtrange ſcrapes; and that mother of [50] yours is enough to turn any girl's head in the uni⯑verſe. Come, come, unriddle this affair to me.

Alas! madam▪ all I know is, that the only man I ever did, or ever can eſteem, deſpiſes me, and, I fear, hates me.

Hates you! he doats upon you to diſtraction.— But pray, did Modely ever make any ſerious ad⯑dreſſes to you?

Alas! but too often.

The hypocrite! but I'll be even with him. — And your mother, I ſuppoſe, encouraged him? An infamous woman! But I know her drift well enough.—

Where is my poor girl? I met Sir John Dori⯑lant in ſuch a furious way, that he ſeems to have loſt all common civility. What have they done to you, child?

Done to her? What has your ladyſhip done to her? I knew your little artifices long ago, but—

My artifices! Mrs. Araminta.

Your artifices, lady Beverley; but they are all to no purpoſe; the girl has too good an underſtand⯑ing to be impoſed upon any longer; and your boaſt⯑ed [51] machinations are as vain and empty in their ef⯑fect, as in their contrivance.

What does the woman mean? But the loſs of a lover, I ſuppoſe, is an excuſe for ill-breeding! Poor creature! if the petulancy of thy temper would let me, I could almoſt pity thee. The loſs of a lover is no agreeable thing; but women at our time of life, Mrs. Araminta, muſt not expect a laſting paſ⯑ſion.

Scarce any at all I believe, if they go a wooing themſelves. For my part, I have had the ſatisfac⯑tion of being ſollicited however. And I am afraid my ruſtic brother never gave your ladyſhip's ſollici⯑tations even the ſlighteſt encouragement. How was it? Did you find him quite hard-hearted? No bowels of compaſſion for ſo accompliſhed a damſel?

Dear madam! dear Araminta!

Stand away, child. — Deſert, madam, is not al⯑ways attended with ſucceſs, nor confidence neither. There are ſome women ſo aſſured of their conqueſt, as even to diſguſt a lover on the very day of marriage.

Was my behaviour ever ſuch?

I really cannot ſay, Mrs. Araminta; but the world, you know, is cenſorious enough, when a match is broken off ſo near its concluſion, as gene⯑rally to charge the inconſtancy of the lover on ſome defect in his miſtreſs.

I defy him to produce any.

And yet he has certainly left you; ‘Never, ah never to return.’

Inſolent!

Dear Araminta!

But your ladyſhip may be miſtaken even in that too. I may find him at his ſollicitations again; and if I do —

You'll take him.

Take him? —Daggers and poiſon ſooner.

Poor creature!—Come, Caelia, words do but ag⯑gravate her misfortune. We only diſturb her. You ſee, my dear, what are the effects of too vio⯑lent a paſſion. It may be a leſſon for your future conduct.

Look you, lady Beverley, don't provoke me.

Why, what will you do?

For heaven's ſake, madam —

I fancy, Mrs. Araminta, inſtead of quarrelling, we had better join forces. If we could but get this girl out of the way, we might both ſucceed.

You are a wicked woman.—

Poor creature! ſhall I ſay any thing to my couſin Modely for you? You know I have weight with him.

Yes, madam; you may tell him that his connec⯑tions with you, have rendered him ridiculous; and that the revenge of an injured woman is never con⯑temptible.

Poor creature!—Come along, child.

ACT IV.

THIS fatal ſpot, which draws me to it almoſt involuntarily, muſt be the ſcene of another interview.—Thank heaven I have recovered my⯑ſelf. Nor ſhall any miſery which I may ſuffer, much leſs any proſpect of a mean revenge, make me act unbecoming my character.

Well, brother, I hope you are reſolved to marry this girl.

Marry her, my dear Araminta? Can you think it poſſible, that I ſhould have ſo prepoſterous a thought? No, my behaviour ſhall deſerve her, but not over-rule her inclinations. Were I to ſeize the tender opportunity of her preſent diſpoſition, the world would aſcribe it to her fortune; and I am ſure my deceaſed and valuable friend, however kindly he meant to me in the affair, never intend⯑ed that I ſhould make his daughter unhappy.

But I tell you ſhe loves you; and you muſt and ſhall marry her.

Ah ſiſter, you are willing to diſpoſe of her any way. That worthleſs lover of yours ſtill hangs about your heart, and I have avoided ſeeing him on your account, as well as Caelia's.

To ſhew how miſtaken you are in all this, I have given him up totally. I deſpiſe, and hate him; nay I am upon the brink of a reſolution to give myſelf to another.

I am, I aſſure you; his friend Mr. Belmour is by no means indifferent on my ſubject.

And is this revenge on yourſelf, a proof of your want of paſſion for him?—Ah Araminta!—Come, come, my dear, I own I think him unworthy of you, and would reſent his uſage to the utmoſt, did not I clearly perceive that it would appear mercenary in myſelf, and give real pain both to you and Caelia.

I actually don't know what to ſay to you.

You had better ſay nothing. Your ſpirits at preſent are too much alarmed.—I have ſent for Caelia hither, a ſhort hour may determine the fates of all of us. I know my honourable intentions will give her great uneaſineſs. But it is my duty which exacts them from me.—You had better take a turn or two in ſome other part of the garden;— I ſee my ſteward coming this way:—I may want your aſſiſtance but too ſoon.

Have you brought thoſe papers I bad you look out?

Yes, Sir. But there is the gentleman within to wait upon your honour, concerning the eſtate you intended to purchaſe. It ſeems a mighty good bargain.

I cannot ſpeak to him now.

Your honour always uſed to be punctual.

Alas! Jonathan, I may be punctual again to⯑morrow.—Give me the papers. Did Miſs Beverley ſay ſhe would come to me?

Immediately, Sir. But I wiſh your honour would conſider, ſuch bargains as theſe do not offer every day.

Heigh ho!

It joins ſo conveniently too to your honour's own eſtate, within a hedge as I may ſay.

Prithee don't plague me.

Nay, 'tis not my intereſt, but your honour's. Tho' that indeed I may call my intereſt, for I am ſure I love your honour.

I know thou doſt, Jonathan, and I am too haſty, [57] —but leave me now.—If the gentleman will do me the favour of ſtaying all night, I may ſatisfy him in the morning. My head and heart are too full now for any buſineſs which concerns my fortune.

Something goes very wrong with my poor maſ⯑ter. Some love nonſenſe or other I ſuppoſe— I wiſh all the women were in the bottom of the ſea, for my part.

I thought it requiſite, Sir John, as I heard you had ſomething of importance to tranſact with my daughter, to wait upon you with her.

Was that neceſſary, madam?—I begged the fa⯑vour of Miſs Beverley's company only.

But a mother, you know, Sir John, who has a tender concern for her child —

Should ſhew it upon every occaſion.

I find, Sir John, there is ſome miſunderſtanding at preſent, which a woman of prudence and expe⯑rience might be much better conſulted upon, than a poor young thing, whoſe—

Not at all, madam; Caelia has all the prudence I require, and our preſent converſation will ſoon be over.

Nay, Sir John, to be ſure I am not afraid of truſt⯑ing my daughter alone with you. A man of your diſcretion will undoubtedly be guilty of no impro⯑priety. But a third perſon ſometimes, where the parties concerned are a little too much influenced by their paſſions, has occaſioned very ſubſtantial, and very uſeful effects. I have known ſeveral in⯑ſtances of it, in the courſe of my experience.

This, madam, will not be one of them.—How teizing!

I find, Sir John, that you are determined to have your own way, and therefore I ſhall ſhew you by my behaviour, that I know what good manners re⯑quire, tho' I do not always meet with the ſame treatment from other people.

Now, Caelia, we are alone, and I have many excuſes to make to you for the impaſſioned ſallies of our late converſation; which I do moſt ſincere⯑ly.—Can you pardon them?

Alas! Sir, 'tis I who ought to intreat for pardon.

Not in the leaſt, madam, I have no blame to caſt upon you for any part of your conduct. Your youth and inexperience, joined to the goodneſs of your heart, are ſufficient apologies for any ſhadow of indiſcretion which might appear in your behavi⯑our. I am afraid mine was not ſo irreproachable. However, Caelia, I ſhall endeavour to make you all the amends in my power; and to ſhew you that [59] it is your happineſs, not my own, which is the ob⯑ject of my anxiety.

Your father's will is but too clear in its inten⯑tions. But the purity of his heart never meant to promote my felicity at the expence of yours. You are therefore, madam, entirely at liberty from this moment, to make your choice where you pleaſe. This paper will entitle you to that authority, and this will enable you to beſtow your fortune where you beſtow your hand.—Take them, my dear! —Why are you ſo diſturbed?—Alas, Caelia, I ſee too plainly the cauſe of theſe emotions. You only wiſh the happy man to whom you have given your heart, loved you as I do!—

But I beg pardon; and will only add one cau⯑tion, which my duty demands of me, as your guardian, your protector, and your father's friend. —You have been a witneſs of Modely's tranſacti⯑ons with my ſiſter. Have a care therefore, Caelia; be ſure of his firm attachment before you let your own hurry you into a compliance. Theſe papers give you up all power on my part; but as an ad⯑viſer, I ſhall be always ready to be conſulted.

My tears and my confuſion have hitherto hin⯑dered me from anſwering; not the invidious ſug⯑geſtion which you have ſo cruelly charged me with. What friend, what lover have I, to engroſs my at⯑tentions? I never had but one, and he has caſt me off for ever.—O, Sir, give me the papers, and let me return them where my ſoul longs to place them.

No, Caelia, to accept them again, would im⯑peach the juſtice of my whole proceeding. It [60] would make it look like the mean artifice of a mercenary villain, who attempted to gain by ſtra⯑tagem what his merits did not entitle him to.— I bluſh to think of it.—I have performed my office. Be miſtreſs of yourſelf, and let me fly from a com⯑bat to which I find myſelf unequal.

Hiſt! hiſt! he has juſt left her, and in a fine ſituation for my approaches.—If you are not yet ſatisfied, I will make up all differences with you another time.—Get into the arbour, and be a witneſs of my triumph. You ſhall ſee me, like another Caeſar, Come, See—and Overcome.

If it is not an interruption, madam, when I find you thus alone —

I would chuſe to be alone.

Madam!

In ſhort, Mr. Modely, your behaviour to me of late is what I can by no means approve of. It is unbecoming your character as a man of honour, and would be a ſtain to the ingenuous modeſty of my ſex for me to ſuffer it.

You ſurprize me, madam. Can the adoration of an humble love, the timid advances of a man [61] whom you beauty has undone, be ſuch unpardonable offences?

Nay, madam, you muſt not leave me!

Riſe, Sir, or I am gone this moment.—I thought of flying from you, but my ſoul diſdains it. —Know then, Sir, that I am miſtreſs of myſelf, miſtreſs of my fortune, and may beſtow my hand wherever my heart directs it.

My angel! —

What do you mean?

That you make the moſt ſincere of lovers, the happieſt of mankind. The addition of your for⯑tune will add ſplendor to our felicity; and the frowns of diſappointed love, only heighten our en⯑joyments.

Oh thou vile one!—How does that cruel generous man who has rejected me, riſe on the compariſon!

Rejected you?—Sir John Dorilant?

Yes, Mr. Modely, that triumph at leaſt is yours. I have offered myſelf, and been refuſed. My hand and fortune equally diſdained. But may perpetual happineſs attend him, where'er his honeſt, honeſt heart ſhall fix!

O, madam, your inexperience deceives you. He knows the integrity of your mind, and truſts to that for recompence. His ſeeming diſintereſted⯑neſs is but the ſurer method of compleating his utmoſt wiſhes.

Blaſphemer, ſtop thy tongue. The purity of his intentions is as much above thy malice, as thy imi⯑tation.

Well, child, what has the man ſaid to thee? Couſin Modely, your ſervant; you find our plot would not take, they were too quick upon us.— Hey day! what has been doing here?

O, madam, you are my only refuge; a wretch on the brink of deſpair flies to you for protection. That amiable creature is in full poſſeſſion of herſelf and fortune, and yet rejects my tendereſt ſolli⯑citations.

Really!—What is all this? Tell me, Caelia, has the man actually given up all right and title to thee real and perſonal? Come, come, I muſt be a principal actreſs, I find, in this affair.—Decency and decorum require it.—Tell me, child, is it ſo?

Sir John Dorilant, madam, with a generoſity peculiar to himſelf, (cruel generoſity!) has cancelled every obligation which could confine my choice. [63] Theſe papers confirm the freedom he has given me —and rob me of all future comfort.

Indeed! I did not expect this of him; but I am heartily glad of it. Give me the papers, child.

No, madam!—Uſeleſs as they are, they are yet my own.

Uſeleſs?—What do you mean? Has the baſe man laid any other embargo on thee, child?

I cannot bear, madam, even from you, to hear Sir John Dorilant treated with diſreſpect.— Uſeleſs! —Yes, they ſhall be uſeleſs. Thus, thus I tear them into atoms, and diſdain a liberty which but too juſtly reproaches my conduct. Your ad⯑vice, madam, has already made me miſerable, but it ſhall not make me ungrateful or unjuſt.

I am aſtoniſhed, I never ſaw the girl in ſuch a way before. Why this is errant diſobedience, couſin Modely. I muſt after her, and know the bottom of it.—Don't deſpair.

Come, See, Overcome! — O poor Caeſar!

You think I am diſconcerted now?

Why really I ſhould think ſomething of that kind.

You never were more miſtaken in your life. — Egad 'tis a ſpirited girl. She and Sir John Dori⯑lant were certainly born for one another. I have a [64] good mind to take compaſſion of them, and let them come together. They muſt and ſhall be man and wife, and I will e'en go back to Ara⯑minta.

Thou haſt a moſt aſtoniſhing aſſurance.

Huſh!—ſhe is coming this way—get into your hole again and be dumb. — Now you ſhall ſee a ſcene of triumph indeed.

Have a care, Caeſar, you have the Britons to deal with.

What, are they gone? and my wretch here by himſelf?—O that I could diſſemble a little!—I will, if my heart burſts for it.—O, Mr. Modely, I am half aſhamed to ſee you;—but my brother has ſigned thoſe odious writings.

Then thus I ſeize my charmer.

Agreeable raſcal!—Be quiet, can't you, you think one ſo forward now.

I cannot, will not be reſtrained, when the dear object of my wiſhes meets me with kind compli⯑ance in her eyes and voice!—To-morrow! — 'Tis an age, why ſhould we wait for that? To⯑night, my angel, to-night may make us one, and the fair proſpect of our halcyon days even from this hour begin.

Who would not think this fellow, with his blank verſe now, was in earneſt? But I know him tho⯑roughly.—Indeed Mr. Modely, you are too preſ⯑ſing, marriage is a ſerious thing. Beſides, you know, this idle buſtle betwixt my brother and Caelia, which you ſeem to think me ignorant of, and which you, in ſome meaſure, tho' undeſignedly I dare ſay, have occaſioned, may obſtruct us a little.

Not at all, my dear; an amuſement en paſſant; the meer raillery of gallantry on my ſide, to oblige her impertinent mother (who, you know, has a penchant for Sir John herſelf) was the whole in⯑ſignificant buſineſs. Perhaps, indeed, I was ſome⯑thing blameable in it.

Why really I think ſo, in your ſituation. But are you ſure it went no farther? nothing elſe paſſed between you?

Nothing in nature.

Dear me, how miſtaken people are. I cannot ſay that I believed it; but they told me, that you had actually propoſed to marry her, that the girl was near conſenting, and that the mother was your friend in the affair.

The mere malice, and invention of lady Bever⯑ley.

And there is not a word of truth in it then?

Not a ſyllable.—You know my ſoul is yours.

O thou villain!—I thought to have kept my temper, and to have treated you with the contempt you deſerve; but this inſolence is intolerable. Can you imagine that I am a ſtranger to your proceed⯑ings? a deaf, blind ideot?—O I could tear this fooliſh heart, which, cheated by its paſſion, has encouraged ſuch an inſult.—How, how have I deſerved this treatment?

By holy faith!—by every power above! you, and you only are the paſſion of my ſoul.—May every curſe —

Away, deceiver—theſe tears are the tears of re⯑ſentment. My reſolution melts not in my eyes. 'Tis fixed, unalterable! You might imagine from the gayety of my temper, that it had its levity too. But know, Sir, that a woman who has once been duped, defies all future machinations.

Hear me, madam —nay, you ſhall hear me.—

Shall!—inſufferable inſolence!—Go, Sir; for any thing which regards me, you are free as air, free as your licentious principles. Nor ſhall a thought of what I once eſteemed you, diſturb my future quiet. There are men who think me not con⯑temptible, and under whoſe protection I may ſhel⯑ter my diſgrace. — Unhand me—this is the laſt time I ſhall probably ever ſee you; and I may tell you in parting, that you have uſed me cruelly; and that Caelia knows you as perfectly as I do.

Caeſar aſhamed!—and well he may i'faith. Why, man, what is the matter with you? Quite dumb? quite confounded? Did not I always tell you that you loved her?

I feel it ſenſibly.

And I can tell you another ſecret.

What's that?

That ſhe loves you.

O that ſhe did!

Did!—Every word, every motion of paſſion through her whole converſation betrayed it invo⯑luntarily. I wiſh it had been otherwiſe.

Why?

Becauſe I had ſome thoughts of circumventing you. But I find it will be in vain. Therefore purſue her properly, and ſhe is yours.

O never, Belmour, never.—I have ſinned beyond a poſſibility of pardon. That ſhe did love me, I have had a thouſand proofs, which like a brain⯑leſs [68] ideot I wantonly trifled with. What a piti⯑ful raſcal have I made myſelf?

Why in that I agree with you; but don't de⯑ſpair, man; you may ſtill be happier than you de⯑ſerve.

With what face can I approach her? Every cir⯑cumſtance of her former affection, now riſes in judgment againſt me. O Belmour! ſhe has taught me to bluſh.

And I aſſure you it becomes you mightily.

Where can I apply?—How can I addreſs her? All that I can poſſibly do, will only look like a mean artificial method, of patching up my other diſappointment.

More miracles ſtill! She has not only taught you to bluſh, but has abſolutely made a man of honour of you!

Raillery is out of ſeaſon.

Mrs. Araminta, Sir, deſires to ſpeak with you.

With me?

No, Sir, with Mr. Belmour.

With me?

Yes, Sir.

Where is ſhe?

In the cloſe walk by the houſe, Sir.

And alone?

Entirely, Sir.

I wait upon her this inſtant.

Belmour, you ſhall not ſtir.

By my faith but I will, Sir.

She ſaid there were men to whom ſhe could fly for protection. By my ſoul ſhe intends to propoſe herſelf to you.

And if ſhe does, I ſhall certainly accept her offer.

I'll cut your thtoat if you do.

And do you think to fright me by that? I fancy I can cut throats as well as other people. Your ſervant. If I cannot ſucceed for myſelf, I'll ſpeak a good word for you.

What can this mean?—I am upon thorns till I know the event. I muſt watch them. —No, that is diſhoneſt. — Diſhoneſt! How virtuous does a real paſſion make one!—Heigh ho!

He ſeems in great haſte to go to her. He has [70] turned into the walk already.—That abominable old faſhioned cradle work makes the hedges ſo thick, there is no ſeeing through them.—An open lawn has ten thouſand times the beauty, and is kept at by leſs expence by half.—Theſe curſed unnatural chairs are always in the way too.

What a miſerable dog am I? —I would give an arm to know what they are talking about.— We talk of female coquettes! By my ſoul we beat them at their own weapons!—Stay—one ſtratagem I may yet put in practice, and it is an honeſt one.—The thought was lucky.—I will about it inſtantly. Poor Modely!—How has thy vanity reduced thee?

ACT V.

YOU find, Mr. Belmour, that I have ſeen your partialities, and like a woman of ho⯑nour I have confeſſed my own. Your behaviour to your friend is generous beyond compariſon, and I could almoſt join in the little ſtratagem you pro⯑poſe, merely to ſee if he deſerves it.

Indeed, madam, you miſtake him utterly. Vanity is his ruling vice; an idle affectation of ſuc⯑ceſs among the ladies, which makes fools admire, and boys envy him, is the maſter paſſion of his giddy heart. The ſevere checks he has met with to-day, have ſufficiently opened his underſtanding; and the real poſſeſſion of one valuable woman, whom he dreads to loſe, will ſoon convince him how de⯑ſpicable his folly has made him.

I am afraid, Mr. Belmour, a man who has half his life been purſuing bubbles, without perceiving their inſignificance, will be eaſily tempted to re⯑ſume [72] the chace. The poſſeſſion of one reality will hardly convince him that the reſt were ſhadows. And a woman muſt be an ideot indeed, who thinks of fixing a man to herſelf after marriage, whom ſhe could not ſecure before it. To begin with in⯑ſenſibility, O fie, Mr. Modely.

You need not fear it, madam; his heart—

Is as idle as our converſation on the ſubject. I beg your pardon for the compariſon; as I do, for having ſent for you in this manner. But I thought it neceſſary that both you and Mr. Modely ſhould know my real ſentiments, undiſguiſed by paſſion.

And may I hope you will concur in my propoſal?

I don't know what to ſay to it, it is a piece of mummery which I am ill ſuited for at preſent. But if an opportunity ſhould offer, I muſt confeſs I have enough of the woman in me, not to be inſen⯑ſible to the charms of an innocent revenge.—But this other intricate buſineſs, if you can aſſiſt me in that, you will oblige me beyond meaſure. There are two hearts, Mr. Belmour, worthy to be united! Had my brother a little leſs honour, and ſhe a little leſs ſenſibility—But I know not what to think of it.

In that, madam, I can certainly aſſiſt you.

How, dear Mr. Belmour?

I have been a witneſs, unknown to Caelia, to ſuch a converſation, as will clear up every doubt Sir John can poſſibly have entertained.

You charm me when you ſay ſo.—As I live, here comes my brother. — Stay; is not that wretch Modely with him? He is actually. What can his aſſurance be plotting now?—Come this way, Mr. Belmour; we will watch them at a diſ⯑tance, that no harm may happen between them, and talk to the girl firſt! The monſter!—

They are together ſtill! —

But let me reſume my nobler ſelf.

Why will you follow me, Mr. Modely? I have purpoſely avoided you.—My heart ſwells with in⯑dignation.—I know not what may be the con⯑ſequence.

Upon my honour, Sir John—

Honour, Mr. Modely! 'tis a ſacred word. You ought to ſhudder when you pronounce it. Honour has no exiſtence but in the breaſt of truth. 'Tis the harmonious reſult of every virtue combined. — You have ſenſe, you have knowledge; but I can aſ⯑ſure you, Mr. Modely, tho' parts and knowledge, without the dictates of juſtice, or the feelings of hu⯑manity, may make a bold and miſchievous member of ſociety even courted by the world, they only, in my eye, make him more contemptible.

This I can bear, Sir John, —becauſe I have deſerved it.

You may think, perhaps, it is only an idle af⯑fair with a lady, what half mankind are guilty of, and what the conceited wits of your acquaintance will treat with raillery. Faith with a woman! ri⯑diculous! —But let me tell you, Mr. Modely, the man who even ſlightly deceives a believing and a truſting woman, can never be a man of honour.

I own the truth of your aſſertions. I feel the aweful ſuperiority of your real virtue. Nor ſhould any thing have dragged me into your preſence, ſo much I dreaded it, but the ſincereſt hope of making you happy.

Making me happy, Mr. Modely! —You have put it out of your own power.—

—You mean, I ſuppoſe, by a reſignation of Caelia to me.

Not of Caelia only, but her affections.

Vain, and impotent propoſal!

Sir John, 'tis not a time for altercation.— By all my hopes of bliſs here and hereafter, you are the real paſſion of her ſoul.—Look not ſo unbelieving: by heaven 'tis true; and nothing but an artful inſinuation of your never intending to marry her, and even concurring in our affair, could ever have made her liſten one moment to me.

Why do I hear you? — O Mr. Modely, you touch my weakeſt part.

Cheriſh the tender feelings, and be happy.

Is it poſſible that amiable creature can think and talk tenderly of me? I know her generoſity; but generoſity is not the point.

Believe me, Sir, 'tis more; 'tis real unaffected paſſion. Her innocent ſoul ſpeaks through her eyes the honeſt dictates of her heart. In our laſt conference, notwithſtanding her mother's com⯑mands; notwithſtanding, what I bluſh to own, my utmoſt ardent ſolicitations to the contrary, ſhe perſiſted in her integrity, tore the papers which left her choice free, and treated us with an indig⯑nation which added charms to virtue.

O theſe flattering ſounds!—Would I could believe them!

Belmour, as well as myſelf, and lady Beverley, was a witneſs of the truth of them. I thought it my duty to inform you, as I know your delicacy with regard to her. And indeed I would in ſome meaſure endeavour to repair the injuries I have offered to your family, before I leave it for ever. —O Sir John, let not an ill-judged nicety debar you from a happineſs, which ſtands with open arms to receive you. Think what my folly has loſt in Araminta; and, when your indignation at the affront is a little reſpited, be bleſt yourſelf, and pity me. —

— They are together ſtill; but I will go round that way to the houſe.

What can this mean? — He cannot intend to deceive me; he ſeems too ſincerely affected.— I muſt, I will believe him. The mind which ſuſ⯑pects injuſtice, is half guilty of it itſelf.—Talks tenderly of me? Tore the parpers? Treated them with indignation? Heavens! what a flow of ten⯑der joy comes over me! — Shall Caelia then be mine? How my heart dances! O! I could be wondrous fooliſh!—Well, Jonathan.

The gentleman, Sir —

What of the gentleman? I am ready for any thing.

Will wait upon your honour to-morrow, as you are not at leiſure.

With all my heart. Now or then, whenever he pleaſes.

I am glad to ſee your honour in ſpirits.

Spirits! Jonathan! I am light as air.—Make a thouſand excuſes to him; — but let it be to⯑morrow, however, for I ſee lady Beverley coming this way.

Heaven bleſs his good ſoul! I love to ſee him merry.

If I don't interrupt you, Sir John —

Interrupt me, madam? 'tis impoſſible.

For I would not be guilty of an indecorum, even to you.

Come, come, lady Beverley, theſe little bicker⯑ings muſt be laid aſide. Give me your hand, lady. Now we are friends

—How does your lovely daughter?

You are in mighty good humour, Sir John; perhaps every body may not be ſo.

Every body muſt be ſo, madam, where I come; I am joy itſelf.

"The jolly god that leads the jocund hours!"

What is come to the man? — Whatever it is, I ſhall damp it preſently. —

— Do you chuſe to hear what I have to ſay, Sir John?

You can ſay nothing, madam, but that you con⯑ſent, and Caelia is my own. —Yes, you your⯑ſelf have been a witneſs to her integrity. Come, indulge me, lady Beverley. Declare it all, and let me liſten to my happineſs.

I ſhall declare nothing, Sir John, on that ſub⯑ject: what I have to ſay is of a very different im⯑port. — In ſhort, without circumlocution, or [78] any unneceſſary embarraſſment to entangle the af⯑fair, I and my daughter are of an opinion, that it is by no means proper for us to continue any longer in your family.

Madam!

This is what I had to declare, Sir John.

Does Caelia, madam, deſire to leave me?

It was a propoſal of her own.

Confuſion!

And a very ſenſible one too, in my opinion. For when people are not ſo eaſy together, as might be expected, I know no better remedy than parting.

Sure, this is no trick of Modely's, to get her away from me?—He talked too himſelf, of leav⯑ing my family immediately.—I ſhall relapſe again.

I find, Sir John, you are ſomewhat diſconcert⯑ed: but, for my part —

O torture!

I ſay, for my part, Sir John, it might have been altogether as well, perhaps, if we had never met.

I am ſorry, madam, my behaviour has offended you, but—

Leave the houſe indeed! Come, come, you ſhall ſpeak to him.— What is all this diſorder for? Pray, brother, has any thing new happened? — That wretch has been before-hand with us—

Nothing at all, Mrs. Araminta; I have only made a very reaſonable propoſal to him, which he is pleaſed to treat with his and your uſual in⯑civility.

You wrong us, madam, with the imputation. —

—I thought, Miſs Beverley, I had al⯑ready given up my authority, and that you were perfectly at liberty to follow your own inclinations. I could have wiſhed, indeed, to have ſtill aſſiſted you with my advice; and I flattered myſelf that my preſence would have been no reſtraint upon your conduct. But I find it is otherwiſe. My very roof is grown irkſome to you, and the inno⯑cent pleaſure I received in obſerving your growing virtues, is no longer to be indulged to me.

O Sir, put not ſo hard a conſtruction upon what I thought a blameleſs proceeding. Can it be won⯑dered at, that I ſhould fly from him, who has twice rejected me with diſdain?

With diſdain, Caelia?

Who has withdrawn from me even his parental tenderneſs, and driven me to the hard neceſſity of avoiding him, leſt I ſhould offend him farther.

I know how much my inexperience wants a faithful guide; I know what cruel cenſures a ma⯑licious world will paſs upon my conduct; but I muſt bear them all. For he who might protect me from myſelf, protect me from the inſults of li⯑centious tongues, abandons me to fortune.

O Caelia!—have I, have I abandoned thee? —Heaven knows my inmoſt ſoul how it did rejoice but a few moments ago, when Modely told me that your heart was mine!

Modely!—Did Modely tell you ſo? — Do you hear that, Mr. Belmour?

He did, my ſiſter, with every circumſtance which could increaſe his own guilt, and her in⯑tegrity.

That was honeſt, however.

I thought it ſo, and reſpected him accordingly. O he breathed comfort to a deſpairing wretch! but now a thouſand thouſand doubts crowd in up⯑on me. He leaves my houſe this inſtant; nay, may be gone already. Caelia too is flying from me,—perhaps to join him, and with her hap⯑pier lover, ſmile at my undoing!—

I burſt with indignation!—Can I be ſuſpected [81] of ſuch treachery? Can you, Sir, who know my every thought, harbour ſuch a ſuſpicion?—O ma⯑dam, this contempt have you brought upon me. A want of deceit was all the little negative praiſe I had to boaſt of, and that is now denied me.

Come away, child.

No, madam. I have a harder taſk ſtill to per⯑form.

To offer you my hand again under theſe circum⯑ſtances, thus deſpicable as you have made me, may ſeem an inſult. But I mean it not as ſuch.—O Sir, if you ever loved my father, in pity to my orphan ſtate, let me not leave you. Shield me from the world, ſhield me from the worſt of misfortunes, your own unkind ſuſpicions.

What fooling is here? Help me, Mr. Belmour. —There, take her hand. — And now let it go if you can.

O Caelia! may I believe Modely? Is your heart mine?

It is, and ever ſhall be.

Tranſporting extacy!—

I ſhould, think Sir John, a mother's conſent — tho' Mrs. Araminta, I ſee, has been ſo very good to take that office upon herſelf.

I beg your pardon, madam; my thoughts were too much engaged. — But may I hope for your concurrence?

I don't know what to ſay to you; I think you have bewitch'd the girl amongſt you.

Indeed, lady Beverley, this is quite prepoſterous. —Ha!—He here again!—Protect me, Mr. Belmour.

Madam, you need fly no where for protection: you have no inſolence to fear from me. I am humbled ſufficiently, and the poſt-chaiſe is now at the door to baniſh me for ever.— My ſole buſineſs here is, to unite that virtuous man with the moſt worthy of her ſex.

Thank you for the compliment—Now, Mr. Belmour.

You may ſpare yourſelf that trouble, couſin Mode⯑ly; the girl is irrecoverably gone already.

May all the happineſs they deſerve attend them!

I cannot leave her.

Mr. Modely, is there nobody here beſides, whom you ought to take leave of?

I own my parting from that lady

ſhould not be in ſilence; but a conviction of my guilt ſtops my tongue from utterance.

I cannot ſay I quite believe that; but as our af⯑fair may make ſome noiſe in the world, for the ſake of my own character, I muſt beg of you to declare before this company, whether any part of my conduct has given even a ſhadow of excuſe for the inſult I have received. If it has, be honeſt, and proclaim it.

None by heaven; the crime was all my own, and I ſuffer for it juſtly and ſeverely—with ſhame I ſpeak it, notwithſtanding the appearances to the contrary, my heart was ever yours, and ever will be.

I am ſatisfied; and will honeſtly confeſs, the ſole reaſon of my preſent appeal was this, that where I had deſtined my hand, my conduct might ap⯑pear unblemiſhed.

Confuſion!—then my ſuſpicions were juſt.

Siſter!

Araminta!

What do ye mean? What are ye ſurprized at? —The inſinuating Mr. Modely can never want miſtreſſes any where. Can he, Mr. Belmour? You know him perfectly.

Diſtraction!—Knows me? Yes, he does know me. The villain! though he triumphs in my ſufferings, knows what I feel!—You, madam, are juſt in your ſeverity, from you I have deſerved every thing; the anguiſh, the deſpair which muſt attend my future life comes from you like heaven's avenging miniſter!—But for him —

O for a ſword! — But I ſhall find a time, and a ſevere one.—Let me go, Sir John—

I'll carry on the farce no longer.—Raſh incon⯑ſiderate madman! The ſword which pierces Mr. Belmour's breaſt, would rob you of the beſt of friends.—This pretended marriage, for it is no more, was merely contrived by him, to con⯑vince me of your ſincerity.—Embrace him as your guardian angel, and learn from him to be virtuous.

O madam, let me ſtill plead for him. Surely when a vain man feels himſelf in the wrong, you cannot deſire him to ſuffer a greater puniſhment.

I have done with fooling.— You told me to⯑day, lady Beverley, that he would never return to me.

And I told you at the ſame time, madam, that if he did—you would take him.

In both you were miſtaken. —Mr. Modely, your laſt behaviour to Caelia and my brother, ſhews a generoſity of temper I did not think you capable [85] of, and for that I thank you. But to be ſerious on our own affair, whatever appearance your preſent change may carry with it, your tranſactions of to-day have been ſuch, that I can never hereafter have that reſpect for you, which a wife ought to have for her huſband.

I am ſorry to ſay it, Mr. Modely, her deter⯑mination is, I fear, too juſt. Truſt to time how⯑ever, at leaſt let us part friends, and not abruptly. We ſhould conceal the failings of each other, and if it muſt come to that, endeavour to find out ſpe⯑cious reaſons for breaking off the match, without injuring either party.

To ſhew how willing I am to conceal every thing, now I have had my little female revenge, as my brother has promiſed us the fiddles this evening, Mr. Modely, as uſual, ſhall be my part⯑ner in the dance.

I have deſerved this ridicule, madam, and am humbled to what you pleaſe.

Why then, brother, as we all ſeem in a ſtrange dilemma, why may'nt we have one dance in the garden? it will put us in good humour.

As you pleaſe, madam.—Call the fiddles hither, —Don't deſpair Mr. Modely.

I will not dance, poſitively.

Indeed but you ſhall, madam; do you think I will be the only diſconſolate ſwain who wants a partner? Beſides, you ſee there are are ſo few of us, [86] that we muſt call in the butler and the ladies maids even to help out the figure.

Come, lady Beverley, you muſt lay aſide all ani⯑moſities. If I have behaved improperly to you to⯑day, I moſt ſincerely aſk your pardon, and hope the anxieties I have been under will ſufficiently plead my excuſe; my future conduct ſhall be irre⯑proachable.

Here have I placed my happineſs, and here ex⯑pect it. O Caelia, if the ſeriouſneſs of my beha⯑viour ſhould hereafter offend you, impute it to my infirmity; it can never proceed from want of affection.