ACT I.

SIR John Reſtleſs!—Sir John Reſt⯑leſs! thou haſt play'd the fool with a vengeance.—What devil whiſ⯑pered thee to marry ſuch a woman?—Robert,—you have been a faithful ſervant in my family, Robert, and I value you.—Did your lady go out at this door here into the park, or did ſhe go out at the ſtreet door?—

This door, Sir.

Robert, I will never live in a houſe again that has two doors to it.

Sir!

I will give warning to my landlord inſtantly.—The eyes of Argus are not ſufficient to watch the motions of a wife, where there is a ſtreet door, and a back door, to favour her eſcapes.

Upon my word, Sir, I wiſh—you will pardon my boldneſs, Sir,—I wiſh you would ſhake off this uneaſineſs that preys upon your ſpirits—It grieves me to the heart,—it does, in⯑deed, Sir, to ſee you in this way—Baniſh your ſuſpicions, Sir—you have conceived ſome ſtrange averſion, I am afraid, to my lady, Sir.

No, Robert; no averſion—in ſpite of me I doat upon her ſtill—

Then why will you not think generouſly, Sir, of the perſon you love?—my lady, I dare be ſworn—

Is falſe to me.—That embitters my whole life—I love her, and ſhe repays me with ingratitude, with perfidy,—with falſehood,—with—

I dare be ſworn, Sir, ſhe is a woman of honour.

Robert, I have conſidered you as a friend in my houſe—Don't you betray me too—Don't juſtify her—don't—

Dear Sir, if you will but give me leave—you have been an indulgent maſter to me, and I am only concerned for your welfare—You mar⯑ried my lady for love, and I have heard you ſo warm in her praiſe—why will you go back from thoſe ſentiments?—

Yes, I married her for love—Oh! love! love!—What miſchief doſt thou not occa⯑ſion in this world?—Yes, Robert; I married her for love.—When firſt I ſaw her I was not ſo much ſtruck with her beauty, as with that air of an in⯑genuous mind that appeared in her countenance;—her features did not ſo much charm me with their ſymmetry, as that expreſſion of ſweetneſs, that ſmile that indicated affability, modeſty, and compliance.—But, honeſt Robert, I was de⯑ceived—I was not a month married, when I ſaw her practiſing thoſe very ſmiles at her glaſs—I ſaw thro' the artifice; plainly ſaw there was no⯑thing natural in her manner, but all forced, all ſtudied, put on with her head-dreſs—I was alarm⯑ed; I reſolved to watch her from that moment, and I have ſeen ſuch things—

Upon my word, Sir, I believe you wrong her, and wrong yourſelf—you build on groundleſs ſurmizes;—you make yourſelf unhap⯑py, and my lady too; and by being conſtantly uneaſy, and never ſhewing her the leaſt love,—you'll forgive me, Sir,—you ſill her mind with ſtrange ſuſpicions, and ſo—

Suſpicions, Robert!

Yes, Sir; ſtrange ſuſpicions!—My lady finds herſelf treated with no degree of tender⯑neſs; ſhe infers that, your inclinations are fixed elſewhere, and ſo ſhe is become—you will par⯑don my blunt honeſty—ſhe is become downright jealous,—as jealous as yourſelf, Sir.—

Oh! Robert, you are little read in the arts of women; you little know the intrica⯑cies of their conduct; the mazes thro' which they walk, ſhifting, turning, winding, running into devious paths, but tending all thro' a laby⯑rinth [4]to the temple of Venus;—you cannot ſee, Robert, that all her pretences to ſuſpect me of infidelity are merely a counter-plot to cover her own looſe deſigns;—'tis but a gauze-covering, tho'—it is ſeen thro' and only ſerves to ſhew her guilt the more.

Upon my word, Sir John, I cannot ſee—

No, Robert; I know you can't—her ſuſpicions of me all make againſt her; they are but female ſtratagems, and yet it is but too true that ſhe ſtill is near my heart.—Oh! Robert, Robert, when I have watched her at a play, or elſewhere,—when I have counted her oglings, and her whiſperings, her ſtolen glances, and her artful leer, with the cunning of her ſex, ſhe has pretended to be as watchful of me—Diſſembling, falſe, deceitful woman!—

And yet, I dare aſſure you—

No more; I am not to be deceived; I know her thoroughly, and now,—now—has not ſhe eſcaped out of my houſe, even now?—

But with no bad deſign.

I am the beſt judge of that—which way did ſhe go?—

Acroſs the Park, Sir—that way, Sir—towards the Horſe-guards—

Towards the Horſe-guards!—there,—there,—there—the thing is evident;—you may go in, Robert.

Indeed, Sir, I—

Go in, I ſay; go in—

There is no perſuading him to his own good

Gone towards the Horſe-guards!—my head aches,—my forehead burns—I am cutting my [5]horns—Gone towards the Horſe-Guards!—I'll purſue her thither; if I find her, her uſual arti⯑fice will fail her—the time, the place, will all in⯑form againſt her.—Sir John! Sir John! you were a madman to marry ſuch a woman.—

Ha! my dear Bellmont—

Beverley!—I rejoice to ſee you.

Well! I ſuppoſe the ſame cauſe has brought us both into the Park; both come to ſigh amorous vows in the friendly gloom of yon⯑der walk;—Belinda keeps a perpetual war of love and grief, and hope and fear in my heart—and let me ſee—

how fares all here? I fancy my ſiſter is a little buſy here—

Buſy!—ſhe makes a perfect riot there—not one wink the whole night—Oh! Clariſſa, Clariſſa! her form ſo animated! her eyes ſo—

Prithee! truce; I have not leiſure to at⯑tend to her praiſe—a ſiſter's praiſe too!—Faith, the greateſt merit I ever could ſee in Clariſſa is, that ſhe loves you freely and ſincerely.

And to be even with you, Sir,—your Belinda, upon my ſoul, notwithſtanding all your laviſh praiſes, her higheſt perfection, in my mind, is her ſenſibility to the merit of my friend.

Oh! Bellmont, don't talk prophanely—Such a girl!

[6]But, my dear Bellmont, tell me honeſtly now, do you think ſhe has ever betrayed the leaſt regard for me?—

How can you, Beverley, you that have ſuch convincing proofs, how can you aſk ſuch a queſtion—that uneaſineſs of yours, that inqui⯑etude of mind—

Prithee now don't fix that character upon me—

It is your character, my dear Beverley: and inſtead of enjoying the object before you, you are ever looking back to ſomething paſt, or conjecturing about ſomething to come, and are your own ſelf-tormentor.

No, no, no; don't ſay ſo; I hate the very notion of ſuch a temper: the thing is, when a man loves tenderly as I do, ſollicitude and anxiety are natural; and when Belinda's father oppoſes my warmeſt wiſhes—

Why yes, the good Mr. Blandford is willing to give her in marriage to me.

The ſenſeleſs old dotard!—

Thank you for the compliment!—and my father, the wiſe Sir William Bellmont—

Is a tyrannical, poſitive, headſtrong—

There again I thank you—But in ſhort, the old couple, Belinda's father and mine, have both agreed upon the match, and they inſiſt upon compliance from their children; ſo that, accord⯑ing to them, I am to be married off-hand to your miſtreſs, and you and your ſiſter, poor Cla⯑riſſa, are to be left to ſhift for yourſelves.—

Racks and torment!—

Racks and torment!—Seas of milk and ſhips of amber, man!—we are ſailing to our [7]wiſhed for harbour, in ſpite of their machina⯑tions.—I have ſettled the whole affair with Cla⯑riſſa.—

Have you?

I have, and to-morrow morning makes me poſſeſſor of her charms.

My dear boy, give us your hand;—and then, thou dear rogue, and then Belinda's mine—

Well may you be in raptures, Sir; for here, here, here they both come—

A poetical reception truly!—But can't your paſſion inſpire you to a compoſition of your own Mr. Beverley?

It inſpires me with ſentiments, Madam, which I can't find words to expreſs.—Sucklin, Waller, Landſdown, and all our dealers in love⯑verſes, give but a faint image of a heart touched like mine.

Poor Gentleman! what a terrible tak⯑ing you are in! But if the ſonneteers cannot give an image of you, Sir, have you had recourſe to a painter, as you promiſed me—

I have Belinda, and here,—here is the humble portrait of your adorer.

Well! there is a likeneſs—but after all, there is a better painter than this gentleman, whoever he be.

A better!—now ſhe is diſcontented

where, Madam, can a better be found?—if mo⯑ney can purchaſe him—

Oh! Sir, when he draws for money he never ſucceeds—But when pure inclination prompts him, then his colouring is warm in⯑deed—He gives a portrait that endears the ori⯑ginal.—

Such an artiſt is worth the Indies.—

You need not go ſo far to ſeek him—he has done your buſineſs already—The limner I mean is a certain little blind god, called Love, and he has ſtamped ſuch an impreſſion of you here—

Madam, your moſt obedient,—and I can tell you, that the very ſame gentleman has been at work for you too.—

Oh! he has had a world of buſineſs upon his hands, for we two have been agreeing what havock he has made with us.

Yes, but we are but in a kind of fool's paradiſe here; all our ſchemes are but mere caſtle-building, which your father, Mr. Bell⯑mont,—and my dear Belinda,—yours too are moſt obſtinately determined to deſtroy.

Why as you ſay, they are determined that I ſhall have the honour of Belinda's hand in the country-dance of matrimony.

Without conſidering that I may like another partner better—

And without conſidering that I, forlorn as I am, and my ſiſter, there—who is as well inclined to a matrimonial game of romps as any girl in Chriſtendom, muſt both of us ſit down, and lead apes in hell, in ſpite of our ſtrongeſt in⯑clinations to mingle in the groupe.

But we have planned our own happi⯑neſs, and with a little reſolution we ſhall be ſuc⯑ceſsful [9]in the end I warrant ye.—Clariſſa, my an⯑gel, let us take a turn this way, and leave that love-ſick pair to themſelves—they are only fit company for each other, and we can find where⯑withal to entertain ourſelves.—

Ay! let us turn this way.—

What are you going to leave us, Cla⯑riſſa?—

Only juſt ſauntering into this ſide⯑walk—we ſha'nt loſe one another.—

Oh! you are ſuch a tender couple—you are not tired I ſee of ſaying pretty ſoft things to each other.—Well! well!—take your own way.—

And if I gueſs right, you are glad to be left together—Belinda.

Who I?—

You, my dear—

Not I truly—let us walk together.—

No, no, by no means—you ſhall be indulged—adieu!—we ſhall be within call.

My ſiſter is frankly in love with Bell⯑mont—I wiſh Belinda would act as openly to⯑wards me—I wiſh ſhe has not a lurking inclina⯑tion for Bellmont.

Well, Sir!—Thoughtful!—Oh! I'll call Mr. Bellmont back, if that is the caſe.—

She will call Mr. Bellmont back.

Well, Sir; am I to entertain you, or you me?—

Madam!—

Madam!—ha! ha! why you look as [10]if you were frightened—are you afraid of being left alone with me?—

Oh! Belinda, you know that is the hap⯑pineſs of my life;—but—

But what, Sir?—

I am afraid I have done ſomething to offend you.

To offend me!—

Yes, Belinda; I ſhould have been of the party laſt night; I own I ſhould; it was a ſuffi⯑cient inducement for me that you was to be there; it was my fault, and you I ſee are piqued at it.—

I piqued!

I ſee you are; and you was ſo laſt night too—I have heard it all, and in mere reſentment you directed all your diſcourſe to Mr. Bellmont.

If I did, it was merely accidental.

No, it was deliberately done;—forgive my raſh folly in refuſing the invitation—I meant no manner of harm—

Who imagines you did, Sir?—

I beg your pardon, Belinda, you take offence too lightly—

Ha! ha! what have you taken into your head now?—this uneaſineſs is of your own making—I have taken nothing ill, Sir—

You could not but take it ill; but by all that's amiable about you, I meant not to in⯑cur your diſpleaſure—forgive that abrupt anſwer I ſent—I ſhould have made a handſomer apo⯑logy.—

Apology!—what occaſion was there for any thing more?—you ſaid you was pre-en⯑gaged, did not you?

I ſaid ſo; I own it, and beg your par⯑don—

Beg my pardon! for what? ha! ha!

I only meant—

Ha! ha! can you think I ſee any thing in your meſſage to be offended at, Sir?

Where you were concerned, I own I ſhould have expreſſed myſelf with more delicacy, than thoſe haſty words, I am engaged, and can't wait upon you to-night. I ſhould have told you that my heart was with you, though neceſſity dragged me another way—but this omiſſion you reſent⯑ed—I could learn, ſince, the ſpirits you were in the whole evening, though I enjoyed nothing in your abſence—I could hear the ſallies of your wit, the ſprightlineſs of your converſation, and on whom your eyes were fixed the whole night.

They were fixed upon Mr. Bellmont, you think!

Ay! and fixed with delight upon him; ſeemed negociating the buſineſs of love before the whole company.

Upon my word, Sir, whoever is your author, he has miſinformed you; and let me tell you, you alarm me with theſe fancies, and you know I have often told you that you are of too refining a temper—you create for yourſelf ima⯑ginary miſunderſtandings, and then are ever en⯑tering into explanations—I aſſure you, Mr. Be⯑verley, this watching for intelligence, from the ſpies and miſrepreſenters of converſation, betrays the ſymptoms of jealouſy, and I would not be married to a jealous man for the world.—

Now ſhe is ſeeking occaſion to break off.—

Jealouſy, Ma'am, can never get admiſſion into my breaſt, I am of too generous [12]a temper; a certain delicacy I own I have; I value the opinion of my friends, and when there are circumſtances of a doubtful aſ⯑pect, I am glad to ſet things in their true light;—and ſurely, Belinda, if I do ſo with others, ſurely with you on whom my happineſs depends to deſire a favourable interpretation of my words and actions—

But theſe little humours may grow up, and gather into the fixed diſeaſe of jealouſy at laſt.—

And there now,—there goes a lady who is a victim to her own fretful imagina⯑tion—

Who is the lady pray?—

My lady Reſtleſs;—walk this way, and I will give you her whole character—I am not acquainted with her ladyſhip, but I have heard much of her—this way—this way—

What do theſe ſervants mean?—there is ſome⯑thing going forward here—I will be let in or I will know the reaſon why—

but in the mean time, Sir John can let any body he pleaſes out at the ſtreet-door—I'll run up the ſteps here, and obſerve.

Who rung this bell?—I don't ſee any body—and yet I am ſure the bell rung.—Well, Mrs. Marmalet, you will be going, I ſee.—

Yes, Mrs. Tattle; I muſt be going; I'll run acroſs the Park, and I ſhall ſoon get to Groſvenor-Square—when ſhall I ſee you at our houſe?—

Oh! the Lord knows when I ſhall be able to get out—my lady leads us all ſuch lives—Oh! I wiſh I had ſuch another place as you have of it.—

Heaven be praiſed! I have nothing to complain of.

No, that you have not: Lord! when ſhall I get ſuch a gown as that you have on by my lady—She will never fling off ſuch a thing, and give it to a poor ſervant.—Worry, worry, worry herſelf, and every body elſe too—

No; there is nobody ſtirring that way—what do I ſee?—a huſſy coming out of my houſe!

Well, I muſt be gone, Mrs. Tattle—fare you well—

She is dizoned out too! Madam is! why did not you open the door, Tattle, when I rung?—

I came as ſoon as poſſible, madam.

Who have you with you here?—what is your buſineſs, miſtreſs?

My buſineſs, madam!

In confuſion too!—the caſe is plain—you come here after Sir John, I ſuppoſe—

I come after Sir John, madam!

Guilt in her face! yes, after Sir John; and Tattle, you are in the plot againſt me; you were favouring her eſcape, were you?—

I favour her eſcape, madam!—there is no occaſion for that.—This is Mrs. Marmalet, madam, an acquaintance of mine, madam, that is come to ſee me—

Oh! very fine, miſtreſs! you bring your creatures after the vile man, do you?—

I aſſure you, madam, I am a very ho⯑neſt girl—

Oh! I dare ſay ſo—where did you get that gown?

La! ma'am!—I came by it honeſtly—my lady Conqueſt gave it to me—I live with my lady Conqueſt, madam—

What a complexion ſhe has!—how long have you lived in London?

Three years, madam.

In London three years with that complexion! it can't be—but perhaps ſhe is painted—all theſe creatures paint—you are all ſo many painted dolls

no—it does not come off—ſo, Mrs. Tattle, you bring your freſh country girls here to my houſe, do you?—

Upon my credit, ma'am—

Don't tell me—I ſee thro' this affair—Go you about your buſineſs, miſtreſs, and let me never ſee you about my doors again—go—go—

Lord, ma'am, I ſhan't trouble your houſe—Mrs. Tattle, a good day—here's a deal to do, indeed—I have as good a houſe as her's to go to—

There, there, there;—ſee there;—ſhe goes off in a huff! the way with them all—ay! I ſee how it is, Tattle,—you falſe, un⯑grateful—that [15]gown was never given her by a woman—ſhe had that from Sir John.—Where is Sir John?—

Sir John an't at home, ma'am?

Where is he?—where is he gone?—when did he go out?—

I really don't know, ma'am—

Tattle, I know you fib now—But I'll ſift this to the bottom.—I'll write to my lady Conqueſt to know the truth about that girl that was here but now.

You will find I told you truth, ma⯑dam—

Very well, Mrs. Pert,—I'll go and write this moment,—ſend Robert to me to give me an account of his maſter—Sir John, Sir John, you will diſtract me—

Ay! but that quickneſs, and that extreme ſenſibility is what I am afraid of.—I po⯑ſitively would not have a jealous huſband for the world—

By heaven! no earthly circumſtance ſhall ever make me think injuriouſly of you.—Jealouſy!—ha! ha!—it is the moſt ridiculous paſſion—ha! ha!

You may laugh, Sir; but I know your over-refining temper too well, and I abſo⯑lutely will have it in our marriage-articles, that I muſt not be plagued with your ſuſpicions.

I ſubſcribe, ma'am—

I will have no enquiries where I am going to viſit; no following me from place to place; and if we ſhould chance to meet, and you ſhould perceive a man of wit, or a pretty fel⯑low, [16]ſpeaking to me, I will not have you fidget⯑ting about on your chair, knitting your brow, and looking at your watch—‘My dear, is it not time to go home?—my love, the coach is waiting:’—and then, if you are prevailed upon to ſtay, I will not have you converſe with a "yes, Sir," and a "no, Sir," for the reſt of the evening, and then wrangle with me in the chariot all the way home, and not be commonly civil to me for the reſt of the night—I poſi⯑tively will have none of this—.

Agreed, ma'am, agreed—

And then you ſhan't tell me you are going out of town, and then ſneak in privately to the play, or to Ranelagh, merely to be a ſpy upon me—and I poſitively will admit no curio⯑ſity about my letters—if you were to open a let⯑ter of mine, I ſhould never forgive you—I do verily believe, if you were to open my letters I ſhould hate you—

I ſubſcribe to every thing you can aſk—you ſhall have what female friends you pleaſe; looſe your money to whom you pleaſe; dance with what beau you pleaſe; ride out with whom you pleaſe; go to what china ſhop you pleaſe; and, in ſhort, do what you pleaſe, without my attempting to bribe your footman, or your maid to—

Oh! lud! Oh! lud! that is in the very ſtrain of jealouſy—Heaven deliver me!—there is my father yonder, and Sir William Bell⯑mont with him—Fly—this inſtant, fly, Mr. Be⯑verley, down that walk—any where—

You promiſe then—

Don't talk to me now—what would you be at?—I am yours, and only yours; unal⯑terably [17]ſo—Fly—Mr. Beverley, be gone, and leave me—

I obey, madam—I am gone.

Now are they putting their wiſe heads toge⯑ther to thwart all my ſchemes of happineſs—but love, imperious love, will have it otherwiſe—

Sir William, ſince we have agreed upon every thing—

Why yes, Mr. Blandford, I think every thing is ſettled—

Why then we have only to ac⯑quaint the young people with our intentions, and ſo conclude the affair—

That is all, Sir.

As to my girl, I don't mind her nonſenſe about Beverley—ſhe muſt do as I will have her.

And my ſon too, he muſt follow my directions.—As to his telling me of his love for Clariſſa, it is all a joke to me—Children muſt do as their parents will have them.—

Ay! ay! ſo they muſt; and ſo they ſhall—hey! here is my daughter—So Be⯑linda!—well, my girl, Sir William and I have agreed, and ſo you are to prepare for marriage, that's all—

Marriage with Mr. Beverley, Sir?

Mr. Beverley!

You know you encouraged him your⯑ſelf, Sir—

Well, well! I have changed my mind on that head—my friend, Sir William, here offers [18]you his ſon—do as I would have you—have a care, Belinda—

But, Sir—

But, madam, I will be obeyed—You don't like him, you ſay—but I like him—and that's ſufficient for you—

And ſo it is, Mr. Blandford;—if my ſon pretended to have a will of his own, I ſhould let him know to the contrary—

And can you, Sir William, againſt our inclination force us both?

Hold your tongue, Belinda; don't provoke me—What makes you from home?—go your ways back to Queen's-Square directly, and ſettle your mind; for I tell you once for all I will have my own way.—Come, Sir William, we will ſtep to the lawyer's chambers.—Go home, Belinda, and be obſervant of my commands.—Come along, Sir William—what did you ſay?—you mutiny, do you?—don't provoke me—You know, Belinda, I am an odd ſort of a man when provok'd—Look ye here—mind what I ſay; I won't reaſon with you about the matter; my power is abſolute, and if you offer to rebel, you ſhall have no huſband at all with my con⯑ſent—I'll cut you off with a ſhilling; I'll ſee you ſtarve—beg an alms—live miſerable—die wretched—in ſhort, ſuffer any calamity without the leaſt compaſſion from me—if I ſhould find you an undutiful girl at laſt—ſo there's one word for all—

What will become of me?—his in⯑humanity overcomes me quite—I can never con⯑ſent—the very ſight of this picture is enough to forbid it—Oh! Beverley,—you are the maſter [19]of my heart—I'll go this inſtant—and—hea⯑vens! I can ſcarce move—

No tidings of her far or near—

How I tremble!—I ſhall fall—no help—

What do I ſee!—a young lady in diſtreſs!

Oh!—(faints in his arms, and drops the picture.)

She is fallen into a fit—Would my ſervants were in the way—

Where can this barbarous man be gone to?—Ha!—under my very win⯑dow!—

How cold ſhe is!—quite cold—

How familiar he is with her!—

And yet ſhe looks beautiful ſtill—

Does ſhe ſo?—

Her eyes open—how lovely they look!—

Traitor!

Her cheek begins to colour—well, young lady, how fare you now?—my dear.

My dear, too—

Heavens! where am I?—In a ſtrange gentleman's arms all this time!

Repoſe yourſelf there, or will you ſtep into my houſe?

No, truly, ſhan't ſhe—vile man!—But I will ſpoil your ſport—I will come [20]down to you directly, and flaſh confuſion in your face—

Where do you live, madam?

In Queen's-Square, Sir—

I will wait upon you—truſt your⯑ſelf with me—you look much better now—Lean on my arm—there, there, I will conduct you—

Now I'll make one among ye.—ha! fled! gone! which way?—is not that he, yonder?—no—he went into my houſe, I dare ſay, as I came down ſtairs—Tattle, Tattle, Robert,—will nobody anſwer—

Where is Sir John?—

La! ma'am, how ſhould I know?—

Did not he go in this moment?

No, ma'am—

To be ſure you will ſay ſo—I'll follow him thro' the world, or I'll find him out—ſo, ſo—what is here?—this is her picture, I ſuppoſe—I will make ſure of this at leaſt—this will diſcover her to me, tho' ſhe has eſcaped now—The cruel, falſe, deceitful man!

Poor lady! I believe her head is turn⯑ed, for my part.—Well! I am determined I'll look out for another place, that's a ſure thing I will.—

ACT II.

ROBERT, where is your lady?

In her own room, Sir.

Any body with her?—

I can't ſay, Sir—my lady is not well—

Not well! fatigued with rioting about this town, I ſuppoſe—how long has ſhe been at home?

About an hour, Sir.

About an hour!—very well, Ro⯑bert, you may retire—

—now will I queſtion her cloſely—ſo—ſo—ſo—ſhe comes, leaning on her maid—finely diſſembled!—finely diſſembled!—But this pretended ill⯑neſs ſhall not ſhelter her from my ſtrict enquiry—Soft a moment!—If I could overhear what paſſes between 'em, it might lead to the truth—I'll work by ſtratagem—Oh! the hypocrite! how ſhe acts her part!—

How are you now, madam?

Somewhat better, Tattle—reach that chair—Tattle, tell me honeſtly, does that girl live with Lady Conqueſt?

She does, madam, upon my veracity.

Very well! you will be obſtinate, I ſee, but I ſhall know the truth preſently; I ſhall have an anſwer from her ladyſhip, and then all will come out.

You will hear nothing, Ma'am, but what I have told you already.—

Tattle, Tattle, I took you up in the country in hopes gratitude would make you my friend—but you are as bad as the reſt of them—conceal all you know, do;—it is of very little conſequence—I now ſee through the whole af⯑fair—though it is the picture of a man—yet I am not to be deceived—I underſtand it all.—This is ſome former gallant—the creature gave this to Sir John, as a proof that ſhe had no af⯑fection for any but himſelf.—What art he muſt have had to induce her to this!—I have found him out at laſt—

What does ſhe ſay?

I have ſeen enough to convince me what a man he is—the fate of us poor women is hard—we all wiſh for huſbands, and they are the torments of our lives.—

There is too much truth in what you ſay, ma'am.

You join her, do you, Mrs. Ini⯑quity?

What a pity it is, Tattle, that poor women ſhould be under ſeverer reſtraints than the men are!

You repine for want of freedom, do you?

Cruel laws of wedlock!—The tyrant-huſband may triumph in his infidelity, [23]may ſecurely trample upon all laws of decency and order, and it redounds to his credit—gives him a faſhionable air of vice, while a poor woman is obliged to ſubmit to his cruelty—and remains tied to him for life—even though ſhe has reaſon to entertain a mortal hatred for him.

Oh! very well argued, madam!

What a pity it is, Tattle, that we cannot change our huſbands, as we do our ear-rings or our gloves!

There is a woman of ſpirit!

Tattle! will you own the truth to me about that girl?—

I really have told you the truth, ma⯑dam.

You won't diſcover, I ſee—very well!—you may go down ſtairs—

I aſſure your ladyſhip—

Go down ſtairs—

Yes, ma'am.

Would I had never ſeen my huſ⯑band's face!

I am even with you—I have as good wiſhes for you, I aſſure you.

This picture here—Oh the baſe man!

The picture of her gallant, I ſup⯑poſe.—

This is really a handſome pic⯑ture—what a charming countenance!—It is per⯑fumed I fancy—the ſcent is agreeable—

Oh! the jade, how eagerly ſhe kiſſes it!—

Why had not I ſuch a dear, dear man, inſtead of the brute, the monſter—

Monſter!—She does not mince the matter, but ſpeaks plain downright Engliſh—I muſt contain my rage, and ſteal upon her me⯑ditations—ſo—ſo—ſo—

There is no falſhood in this look.

Oh! what a handſome dog ſhe has choſen for herſelf!

With you, I could be for ever happy—

You could, could you?

Mercy on me!—Oh! is it you, Sir?—

Now, madam, now falſe one, have I caught you?

You are come home at laſt, I find, Sir.

My lady Reſtleſs, my lady Reſtleſs, what can you ſay for yourſelf now?—

What can I ſay for myſelf, Sir John!

Ay! Madam! this picture—

Yes, Sir, that picture.

Will be an evidence—

Of your ſhame Sir John.

Of my ſhame!—'tis very true what ſhe ſays;—yes, madam, it will be an evidence of my ſhame; I feel that but too ſenſibly;—but—

You own it then, do you?—

Own it! I muſt own it, madam; though confuſion cover me, I muſt own it;—it is what you have deſerved at my hands—

I deſerve it, Sir John!—but find excuſes if you will—cruel, cruel man!—to make [25]me this return at laſt—I cannot bear it—Oh! oh!

Oh! you may weep; but your tears are loſt; they will fall without effect.—I now re⯑nounce you for ever—this picture will juſtify me to the wide world; it will ſhew what a baſe wo⯑man you have been.

What does the man mean?

The picture of your gallant, ma⯑dam!—the darling of your amorous hours,—who gratifies your luxurious appetites abroad, and—

Scurrilous wretch! Oh! Sir, you are at your old ſtratagem I find,—recrimi⯑nation, you think, will ſerve your turn.—

It is a pity you know, madam, that a woman ſhould be tied to a man for life, even though ſhe has a mortal hatred for him.—

Artful hypocrite!

That ſhe can't change her huſband as ſhe does her ear-rings or her gloves.—

Po! Sir John, this is your old device, this won't avail you.—

Had the original of this fallen to your lot, you could kiſs the picture for ever.—

Oh! Sir John.—

You can gloat upon it, madam, glue your very lips to it.—

Shallow artifice!

With him you could be for ever happy.—

This is all in vain, Sir John.

Had ſuch a dear, dear man fallen to your lot, inſtead of the brute, the monſter—Am I a monſter?—I am,—and you have made me ſo—the world ſhall know your infamy.—

Oh! brave it out, Sir, brave it out to the laſt—harmleſs, innocent man!—you have nothing to bluſh for, nothing to be aſhamed of—you have no intrigues, no private amours abroad—I have not ſeen any thing, not I—

Madam, I have ſeen, and I now ſee your paramour.—

Oh! that air of confidence will be of great uſe to you, Sir—for you have no convenient to meet you under my very window, to loll ſoftly in your arms—

Hey! how!—

Her arm thrown careleſsly round your neck—your hand tenderly applied to her cheek.—

S'death! that's unlucky—ſhe will turn it againſt me.

Oh! you are in confuſion, are you, Sir?—but why ſhould you? you meant no harm—‘You are ſafe with me, my dear—will you ſtep into my houſe, my love?’—yes, Sir, you would fain bring her into my very houſe—

My Lady Reſtleſs, this evaſion is mean and paultry—you beheld a young lady in diſtreſs.

Oh! I know it, Sir,—and you, tender-hearted man, could careſs her out of meer compaſſion;—gaze wantonly on her out of cha⯑rity, and, out of pure benevolence of diſpoſition, convey her to ſome convenient dwelling—Oh! Sir John, Sir John—

Madam, this well-acted paſſion—

Don't imagine ſhe has eſcaped me, Sir.

Oh! you may talk and rave, ma'am; but depend upon it, I ſhall ſpare no pains to do [27]myſelf juſtice on this occaſion—nor will I reſt till—

Oh! fie upon you, Sir John; theſe artifices—

Nor will I reſt, madam, until I have found, by means of this inſtrument here in my hand, who your darling is—I will go about ſtreight—ungrateful, treacherous woman!

Yes, go now, under that pretext, in purſuit of your licentious pleaſures.—This ever has been his ſcheme to cloak his wicked practices—abandoned man!—To face me down too, after what my eyes ſo plainly beheld—I wiſh I could wring that ſecret out of Tattle—I'll ſtep to my own room directly, and try by menaces, by wheedling, by fair means, by foul means, by every means, to wreſt it from her.

Come hither, Robert—look at this picture—

Yes, Sir.—

Let me watch his countenance—well! well!—doſt thou know it, Robert?—

'Tis a mighty handſome picture, Sir—

A handſome picture!—

The fineſt lady in the land need not de⯑ſire a handſomer man, Sir.—

How well he knows the purpoſes of it!—well! well! honeſt Robert, tell me,—well—who is it?—tell me—

Sir!—

You know whoſe picture that is— [28]I know you do—well! well! who—who—who is it?

Upon my word, Sir, I don't know—

Not know!—but I am convinced you know—ſo own the truth—don't be a vil⯑lain—don't—

As I am an honeſt man, Sir,—

Be an honeſt man then, and tell me—did you never ſee ſuch a ſmooth faced, fiery eyed, warm-complexioned, taper young fellow here about my houſe?—

Never, Sir.

Not with my wife!—to drink cho⯑colate of a morning, tea of an evening—come, honeſt Robert—I'll give you a leaſe of a good farm—come, what ſay you?—a leaſe for your life—well! well!—you may take your wife's life into the bargain—well!—

Believe me, Sir John, I never ſaw—

I'll add your child's life—come ſpeak out—your own life, your wife's life, and your child's—now! now! a leaſe for three lives you have—now, Robert!—

As I hope for mercy I never ſaw any ſuch perſon.

Robert, Robert, you are bribed by my wife—

No, as I am a ſinner, Sir,—

And the worſt of ſinners you will be, if you are a confederate in this plot againſt my peace and honour.—Reflect on that Robert.

Pray does not Sir John Reſtleſs live ſomewhere hereabout?

He does, friend; what is your bu⯑ſineſs with him?

My buſineſs is with his lady—

I gueſſed as much.

I have a letter here for my lady Reſt⯑leſs, Sir,—

A letter for my lady!—from whom, pray?—

From my lord Conqueſt.

My lord Conqueſt! very well, friend—you may give the letter to me—I am Sir John Reſtleſs—that there is my houſe—let me have the letter—I will take care of it.

I was ordered to deliver it into my la⯑dy's own hand.

The devil you was—I muſt have the letter—I'll buy it of the raſcal—

—here take this for your trouble, friend,

and I'll take care of the letter—

I humbly thank your honour.

Now—now—now—let me ſee what this is—now my lady Reſtleſs—now falſe-one, now—

[30] So! ſo! ſo!—Marmalet is a truſty girl!—one that will not make miſchief between man and wife!—that is to ſay, now that ſhe will diſcover nothing againſt my lady Reſtleſs!—for her peace of mind he lets madam know all this too!—ſhe may go on boldly now; for my lady Conqueſt is gone into the country, Marma⯑let is truſty, and my lord has given her the moſt ſpeedy notice—Very well! very well!—proofs thicken upon proofs—Shall I go directly and challenge his lordſhip?—no—no—that won't do—Watch him cloſely, that will do better—If I could have a word in private with the maid—Robert,—Robert—come hither—ſtep to my lord Conqueſt's—but with caution proceed—En⯑quire there for Marmalet, the maid.

I know her, Sir.

He knows her—

She viſits our Tattle, Sir.

Viſits our Tattle!—it is a plain caſe—

—Enquire for that girl—but with caution, tho'—and tell her to meet me privately—unknown to any body—in the duſk of the evening—down in the Bird-Cage walk, yonder.

I will, Sir.

And don't let Tattle ſee her—Tat⯑tle has engaged her in her miſtreſs's inte⯑reſt—I ſee how it is—don't let any of my ſer⯑vants ſee her—go directly, Robert. Now ſhall I judge what regard you have for me—But, hark ye, Robert!—Come hither! a word with you—ſhould it be known that this girl converſes with me—ſhould my lady have the leaſt item of it, they are then upon their guard—You muſt be cautious, therefore—let her come wrapped up in darkneſs—concealed from every obſerver with a maſk on—

A maſk, Sir John—won't that make her be remark'd the more?—

No, no, let her come maſked; I will make every thing ſure—Robert, bring this about for me, and I am your friend for ever—

I will do my endeavour, Sir.

I'll now take a turn round the Park, and try if I can find the minion this picture belongs to—

Yes, they had almoſt ſurpriz'd us—but at ſight of her father, Belinda gave me the word, and away I darted down towards the canal, yon⯑der—

Was Sir William with him then?—

Yes; they had been plotting our de⯑ſtruction together—But we ſhall out-officer them, it is to be hoped, my boy.

Yes, and it is alſo to be feared that we ſhall not.

Hey! you alarm me—no new mine ſprung!

No, nothing new; but the old ſtory—The old folks are determined;—at the turning of yonder corner they came both full tilt upon Cla⯑riſſa, and me—

Well, and how! what paſſed?—

Why they were ſcarcely civil to your ſiſ⯑ter. Sir William fixed his ſurly eye upon me for a time, then calling me to him, Sir, ſays he, you will run counter to my will, I ſee—you will be ever dangling after that girl—But, Mr. Blandford and I have agreed upon the match,—and then he peremptorily commanded me to take my leave of her that moment.

And did you ſo?—

And did you ſo?—how can you aſk ſuch a queſtion? Sir, ſays I, I muſt ſee the lady home, and ſo off I marched, arm in arm, with her, my father bawling after me, and I bowing to him, ‘Sir, your humble ſervant, I wiſh you a good morning, Sir.’—He continued calling out,—I kiſſed my hand to him,—and ſo we made our eſcape.

And where have you left her?

At home; at your houſe.

Well! and do ye both continue in the ſame mind; is to-morrow to be your wedding⯑day?—

Now are you conjuring up a thouſand horrid fancies to torment yourſelf with—But don't be alarmed, my dear Beverley—I ſhall leave you your Belinda, and content myſelf with the honour of being your brother-in-law.

Sir, the honour will be to me—But un⯑eaſy!—ha! ha!—no—no—I am not uneaſy, nor ſhall I ever be ſo again—

I wiſh you would keep that reſolution—where do you dine?

Will you dine with me?—

I can't; 'tis club-day—

Faith, ſo it is—I'll attend you—

That's right; let us turn towards the Mall, and ſaunter there till dinner—

No, I can't go that way yet—I muſt enquire how Belinda does, and what her father ſaid to her; for I have not ſeen her ſince we parted in the morning.

And now, according to cuſtom, you will make her an apology for leaving her, when there was an abſolute neceſſity for it, and you'll [33]fall to an explanation of circumſtances that re⯑quire no explanation at all, and refine upon things, and—

Nay, if you begin with your raillery, I am off—your ſervant—a l'honneur—

Poor Beverley!—Tho' a handſome fellow, and of agreeable talents, he has ſuch a ſtrange diffi⯑dence in himſelf, and ſuch a ſolicitude to pleaſe, that he is every moment of his life moſt inge⯑niouſly elaborating his own uneaſineſs.

Not yet, not yet; nobody like it as yet—ha!—who is that hovering about my houſe?—if that ſhould be he now!—I'll exa⯑mine him nearer—Pray, Sir—what the devil ſhall I ſay?—Pray, Sir—

Sir!—

I beg pardon for troubling you, Sir—but pray what o'clock is it by your watch?

By my watch, Sir!—I'll let you know in a moment—

Let me examine him now—

Egad, I am afraid my watch is not right—it muſt be later—

It is not like him—

It does not go, I am afraid—

The eye—no!

Why, Sir, by my watch it wants a quar⯑ter of three.

It is not he—and yet—no—no—no—I am ſtill to ſeek—

Hip! Bellmont—well overtaken—a word with you—

Here comes another;—they are all ſwarming about my houſe—

I have ſeen her; I have ſeen Belinda, my boy—ſhe will be with Clariſſa in the Park im⯑mediately after dinner, you rogue.

I want to ſee his face; this may be the original.

Her father has been rating her in his uſual manner; but your marriage with my ſiſter will ſettle every thing.

I'll walk round him

Loll toll loll—

—ha! it has his air—

Loll toll loll,—and it has his eye—Loll toll loll—

Prithee, Bellmont, don't be ſuch a dang⯑gling lover, but conſummate at once, prithee do, for the ſake of your friends.

It has his noſe for all the world.

I'll tell you what, Beverley, do you ſpi⯑rit your ſiſter up to keep her reſolution, and to⯑morrow puts you out of all pain—

—Loll toll loll—it has his com⯑plexion—the ſame glowing, hot, amorous com⯑plexion—

Who is this gentleman walking here?—

Faith, I don't know—an odd fellow he ſeems to be—

Loll toll loll—it has his ſhoulders—Loll toll loll—ay, and I fancy the mole upon [35]the cheek too—I wiſh I could view him nearer—Loll toll loll—

The man ſeems mad, I think.

Begging your pardon, Sir—Pray

—Pray, Sir, can you tell whether we ſhall have a Spaniſh war?

Not I, truly; did you ever ſee ſuch an odd fellow, Bellmont?—

He has been talking to me too: he is too well dreſſed for a poet.

Not, if he has had a good ſubſcription.

He has the mole ſure enough—

Let us ſtep this way—I have more to ſay to you—

Ay! he wants to ſneak off—Guilt! guilt! conſcious guilt!—I'll make ſure of him tho'—pray, Sir,—I beg your pardon—is not your name Wildair?

No, Sir, Beverley, at your ſervice.

Have you no relation of that name?

None.

You are very like a gentleman of that name—a friend of mine, whoſe picture I have here—will you give me leave juſt to—

An odd adventure this, Bellmont.

Very odd, indeed.

Do you find any likeneſs, Sir?

Your head a little more that way, if you pleaſe—ay! ay! it is he—'tis a plain caſe; this is my man, or rather,—this is my wife's man—

Did you ever know any thing like this?—ha! ha!

Never—ha! ha! ha!—

They are both laughing at me—ay! and I ſhall be laught at by the whole town, pointed at, hooted at, and gazed at—

What do I ſee?—s'death, the ſetting of that picture is like what I gave Belinda.—Zoons! if it is the ſame—

He makes his approach,—and means, I ſuppoſe, to ſnatch it out of my hand—But I'll be before-hand with him,—and ſo into my pocket it goes—There, lie ſafe there—

Zoons! he puts it up in a hurry—will you be ſo good, Sir, as to favour me with a—

Sir, I wiſh you a good day—

With a ſight of that picture for a mo⯑ment—

The picture, Sir—Po!—a mere daub—

Mere curioſity, Sir—

It is not worth your ſeeing—I wiſh you a good day.

I ſhould take it as a favour—

A paltry thing—I have not a mo⯑ment to ſpare—my family waiting dinner—Sir, I wiſh you a good morning—

Death and fire! Bellmont, my pic⯑ture—

Oh! no—no ſuch thing—

But I am ſure of it—if Belinda—

What, relapſing into uneaſineſs and ſuſ⯑picion again!

Sir, I have reaſon to be uneaſy—ſhe ſlights me, diſdains me,—treats me with con⯑tempt—

But I tell you, that unhappy temper of yours—Prithee, man, leave teazing yourſelf, and let us adjourn to dinner—

No, Sir; I ſhan't dine at all—I am not well—

Ridiculous! how can you be ſo abſurd?—I'll bett you twenty pounds that is not your picture—

Done; I take it—

With all my heart; and I'll tell you what, if it be yours, I will give you leave to be as jealous of her as you pleaſe—Come, now let us to dinner—

I attend you—in the evening we ſhall know the truth—if it be that I gave Belinda—ſhe is falſe, and I am miſerable.

There he goes—there he goes—the deſtroyer of my peace and happineſs!—I'll follow him, and make ſure that he has given me his name rightly,—and then, my Lady Reſtleſs, I have done with you for ever.

ACT III.

BUT have you really fixed every thing, Cla⯑riſſa?

Poſitively, and to-morrow morning makes me his.

To-morrow morning!

Yes, to-morrow morning I releaſe Mr. Bellmont from his fetters, and reſign my perſon to him.

Why, that is what all we poor wo⯑men, after all the victories of our charms, all the triumphs of our beauty, and all the murders of our eyes, muſt come to at laſt.

Well, and in that we but imitate the men. Don't we read of them conquering whole kingdoms, and then ſubmitting at laſt to be go⯑verned by the vanquiſhed.

Very true, Clariſſa; and upon my word I think you are a heroine equal in fame to any of them; nay ſuperior, for your ſcheme, I take it, is not to unpeople the world—

Prithee, Belinda, don't talk ſo wildly; for, to tell you the truth, now that I have ſettled the affair, I begin to be alarmed at what I have done.—

Oh! dear, dear affectation!—

Actually now, poſitively, I am terrified to death.—

Ha! ha!—to be ſure—our ſex muſt play its tricks, and ſummon up all its fantaſtic train of doubts and fears—but courage, my dear, don't be frightened, for the ſame ſex within that heart of yours will urge you on, and never let you be at reſt, till you have procured yourſelf a tyrant for life.

A tyrant, Belinda! I think more ge⯑nerouſly of Mr. Bellmont, than to imagine he will uſurp to himſelf an ill uſe of his power—

To deal candidly with you, I am of your opinion—but, tell me now, a'n't I a very good girl, to reſign ſuch a man to you?—

Why, indeed, I muſt confeſs the obli⯑gation.

Ay! but to reſign him for one, whoſe temper does not promiſe I ſhall live under ſo mild a government.

How do you mean?—

Why, Mr. Beverley's ſtrange caprices, ſuſpicions, and unaccountable whimſies, are enough to alarm one upon the brink of matri⯑mony.

Well, I vow I can't help thinking, Be⯑linda, that you are a little ſubject to vain ſur⯑miſes and ſuſpicions yourſelf.

Come now, you are an inſincere girl; you know I am of a temper too generous, too open—

I grant all that, but by this conſtant re⯑petition of the ſame doubts, I ſhould not wonder to ſee you moſt heartily jealous of him—

Jealous!—oh heavens!—jealous in⯑deed!—

Well, I ſay no more; and as to my brother, here he comes, and let him ſpeak for himſelf.—

Well, upon my ſoul, Beverley, you make me laugh at you—but come, there's an end of that matter—Ladies your moſt obe⯑dient—I hope we have not tranſgreſſed our time.—

Not in the leaſt; you are both very exact—true as the dial to the ſun.—

Although it be not ſhone upon.

Although it be not ſhone upon, Mr. Beverley!—why with that dejected air, pray Sir?

Oh! lord! you two are going to com⯑mence wrangling lovers again—a-propos, Belin⯑da—now Beverley, you ſhall ſee—be ſo good, ma'am, as to let me ſee this gentleman's pic⯑ture.—

His picture! what can you want it for?—you ſhall have it—

Now, Beverley, do you confeſs how wrong you have been?

Why faith I begin to think I was wrong—ſay not a word to her—ſhe'll never for⯑give me elſe.

It is not in that pocket—it muſt be here—

You have been ſad company, on account of this ſtrange ſuſpicion.

I own it; let it drop; ſay no more.—

Well! I proteſt and vow—what can [41]become of it? come, gentlemen, this is ſome trick of yours—you have it among ye—Mr. Bellmont, Mr. Beverley—pray return it—

No, ma'am, it is no trick of ours—

As I live and breathe I have not got it.—

What think you now, Bellmont?

She'll find it preſently, man; don't ſhew your humours, be upon your guard; you'll un⯑do yourſelf elſe—Clariſſa, ſhall you and I ſaun⯑ter down this walk?—

My brother ſeems out of humour,—what's the matter?

I'll tell you preſently—let us ſtep this way.

Well, I declare upon my honour I don't know what is come of this odious pic⯑ture—

This odious picture!—Oh! Belinda.—

You may look grave, Sir, but I have it not.—

I know you have not, ma'am; and don't imagine—

Imagine! what do you mean?—ima⯑gine what?

Don't imagine that I am to be led blind⯑fold as you pleaſe.

Oh! heavens! with what gravity that was ſaid!

I am not to be deceived; I can ſee all around me—

You can?

I can, madam.

Well, and how do you like your proſpect?—

Oh! you begin to banter—but that picture I have ſeen this day in the hands of an⯑other—the gentleman to whom you gave it.—

To whom I gave it!—have a care, Sir; this is another ſymptom of your jealous temper.

But I tell you, madam, I ſaw it in his hand.

Who is the gentleman?—what's his name?

That I can't ſay—I—

Well, upon my word you are making yourſelf very ridiculous in this matter—ha! ha!—

You may laugh, madam, but it is no laughing matter, I aſſure you—

Oh! brave—follow your own notions—I gave it away—I have ſcorned your preſent—ha! ha!—poor Mr. Beverley!—

I don't doubt you, ma'am, I believe you did give it away.

Mighty well, Sir,—think ſo if you pleaſe—I ſhall leave you to your own imagina⯑tion—it will find wherewithal to entertain you—ha! ha! your ſervant, Sir,—yonder I ſee Cla⯑riſſa and Mr. Bellmont—I will join them this inſtant—your ſervant, Sir,—amuſe yourſelf with your own fancies—ha! ha!

Damnation!—I can't tell what to make of this.—She carries it of with an air of confidence; and yet if that be my picture, which I ſaw this [43]morning, then it is plain I am only laught at by her—

Obſerve him now—let us walk by him without taking any notice of him—and ſo—let us talk of any thing rather than be ſilent—What a charming evening!

And how gay the park looks!—mind the gentleman!—

Take no notice; I beg you won't—Suppoſe we were to ſhew ourſelves in the Mall, Clariſſa, and walk our charms there, as the French expreſs it!—

Ha! ha!—Beverley!—what fixed in contemplation!

Sir, I beg—I chuſe to be alone, Sir—

Ha! ha! ha!

Pſhaw! fooliſh!—

Oh! for heaven's ſake—let us indulge the gentleman—let us leave him to himſelf, and his ill humouts—this way—this way—you ſhall go home and have your tea with me—Mr. Be⯑verley

your ſervant, Sir—I wiſh you a good evening—your ſervant, Sir—

Zoons! I can't bear all this—if ſhe has part⯑ed with the picture—if ſhe has given it away—but ſhe may only have lent it, or ſhe may have [44]loſt it—but even that, even that is an injury to me—why ſhould ſhe not be more careful of it?—I will know the bottom of it—that's the houſe the gentleman went into—I'll wait on him di⯑rectly—but they are watching me—I'll walk off another way, to elude their obſervation—ay! ay! you may laugh, ma'am, but I ſhall find you out.

Where are you going, Sir?

To my maſter's room, madam, to leave theſe cloaths there.

Stay, Sir;—ſtay a moment

—Where are his letters?

Letters, my lady!—I know of no let⯑ters—I never touch his pockets—

I gueſſed you would ſay ſo—you are Sir John's agent—the conductor of his ſchemes.

I, madam!—

You, Sir,—you are his ſecretary for love affairs.

I collect his rents, my lady, and—

Oh! Sir, I am not to be de⯑ceived—I know you for my enemy.—

Enemy, ma'am!—I am ſure, as far as a poor ſervant dare, I am a friend to both—

Then tell me honeſtly, have not you conveyed his letters out of my way?

Indeed, madam, not I—

Then he has done it himſelf—artful man!—I never can find a line after him—where did you go for him this morning?

This morning!

Ay! this morning—I know he ſent you ſomewhere—Where was it?—

Upon my word, my lady—

Very well, Sir—I ſee how it is—you are all bent againſt me—I ſhall never be at reſt till every ſervant in this houſe is of my own chuſing.—Is Tattle come home yet?

No, madam.

Where can ſhe be gadding about? Hark!—I hear a rap at the door—this is Sir John, I ſuppoſe—ſtay, let me liſten—I don't know that voice—who can it be—ſome of his libertine company, I ſuppoſe—

My lady, if you will believe me—

Hold your tongue, man—let me hear—

Indeed, madam—

Hold your tongue, I ſay!—won't you hold your tongue?—go about your buſineſs, Sir, go about your buſineſs—What does he ſay?

I can't hear a word—Who's below there?

So Mrs. Tattle—who is that at the door?—

A gentleman, madam, ſpeaking to William.—

And where have you been, miſ⯑treſs?—How dare you go out without my leave—

Dear, my lady, don't be angry with me—I was ſo terrified about what happened in the morning; and your ladyſhip was in ſuch a perilous taking about it, that I went to deſire Mrs. Marmalet would juſtify herſelf and me—

Oh! very well, Mrs. Buſy-Bo⯑dy—you have been there, have you?—You have been to frame a ſtory among yourſelves, have you, and to hinder me from diſcovering?—But I'll go to my Lady Conqueſt myſelf—I have had no anſwer to my letter, and 'tis you have oc⯑caſioned it—

Dear, my lady, if you will but give me leave—I have been doing you the greateſt piece of ſervice—I believe, in my conſcience, there is ſomething in what you ſuſpect about Sir John—

Do you?—why?—how?—

I have ſeen Mrs. Marmalet, and I have made ſuch a diſcovery—

Have you Tattle?—what?—ſpeak—tell me—what is it?

Robert has been there, madam, with a meſſage from Sir John, who wants to ſee her in the evening; and he has deſired—

Bleſſings on you, Tattle—well—go on—tell me all—

What do you want, Sir?—who called you?—go about your buſineſs—

Madam, there is a gentleman wants to ſpeak with Sir John about a picture—

I had forgot me—it was he rap⯑ped at the door, I ſuppoſe—

Yes, madam!

About a picture!—this may lead to ſome further diſcovery—deſire the gentleman to ſtep up ſtairs—

—and ſo Tattle, Robert has been there—

Yes, ma'am—

And Sir John wants to ſpeak with Marmalet in the evening, and has deſired—Oh! the baſe man!—what has he deſired?—now he is diſcovered—what has he deſired?

He has deſired, ma'am—the poor girl does not know what to make of it—She is very ſober and diſcreet, I aſſure you, ma'am—he has deſired, ma'am, in the duſk of the evening, that Mrs. Marmalet will come and—

How unlucky this is?—the gen⯑tleman is coming—I have a mind not to ſee him—and yet I will too—Tattle, do you ſtep to my room; as ſoon as he goes, I will come to you, and hear all in private.—

In the duſk of the evening he deſires to ſee her—aban⯑doned wretch!—

Madam—

Sir.

I wanted a word with Sir John Reſtleſs, madam.

About a picture, the ſervant tells me, Sir.

Yes, madam, a picture I had given to a lady; and however inſignificant in itſelf, it is to me of the higheſt conſequence, as it may conduce to the explanation of an affair, in which the hap⯑pineſs of my life is concerned.

The lady is young?

She is.

And handſome?

In the higheſt degree; my heart is de⯑voted to her; and I have reaſon to ſuſpect, that a preſent from me is not of ſo much value as I could wiſh.—To be plain, ma'am, I imagine ſhe has given the picture away.

Look-ye there now!—my ſuſpi⯑cions are juſt.

Your ſuſpicions, madam!—did you ſuſ⯑pect it was given to Sir John Reſtleſs?—

What I know of the matter ſhall be no ſecret to you—Pray, Sir, have you ſpoke to the lady on this head?

I have, but ſhe knows nothing of the matter; ſhe has loſt it,—ſhe has miſlaid it,—ſhe can give no account of it—

She has given it to Sir John, Sir.

Given it to him?—

Given it to him, Sir.

Then I have no further doubt.

Of what?

Madam, I would not hurt your peace of mind; I would not give you impreſſions of Sir John, that may—

Oh! Sir, ſtand upon no cere⯑mony with him; an injurious, falſe, licentious man!—

Is that his character?

Notoriouſly: he has made me miſerable; falſe to his marriage vows, and warm in the purſuit of his pleaſures abroad!—I have not deſerved it of him—Oh! Sir John! Sir John! Oh!

She weeps; the caſe is plain, and I am undone—

Pray, Sir, what is the lady's name?

Belinda Blandford.—

Belinda Blandford!—I thank you, Sir.

Pray, Madam, have you ever ſeen her?

Seen her, Sir!—yes, I have ſeen too much of her.

You alarm me, madam—you have ſeen nothing unhandſome, I hope—

I don't know what you call un⯑handſome, Sir.—But, pray, what ought one to think of a young lady thrown familiarly into a gentleman's arms?

In his arms, madam!—Sir John's arms!

In Sir John's!—in open day;—in the Park;—under my very window;—moſt familiarly, wantonly reclining in his very arms.

Oh! heavens!

He claſping her with equal free⯑dom round the waiſt—

Falſe, falſe Belinda!—

Both interchanging fond mutual glances—

Oh! madam, the whole is come to light, and I thank you for the diſcovery, tho' I am ruined by it—But give me leave—is all this certain?

There can be no doubt, Sir, theſe eyes beheld their amorous meeting.—

Saw it yourſelf?

Yes, all, all, Sir—Sir John, I know, is capable of any thing, and you know what to think of Belinda, as you call her.

Oh! madam, I have long had reaſon to ſuſpect.

You have, Sir?—then the whole affair is plain enough.

It is ſo—I meant an honourable connec⯑tion with her;—but—

But you ſee, Sir—

Yes, I ſee, madam—you are ſure Sir John has this picture?

Sure, Sir!—it is your own pic⯑ture—I had it in my hands but a moment, and he flew with ardor, with impetuoſity, like a fury flew to it, and recovered it from me—what could be the meaning of that, Sir?—

The meaning is too plain.—

And then, Sir, when charged and preſſed home with his guilt, moſt hypocritically he pretended to believe it the portrait of ſome favourite of mine—But you know, Sir, how that is—

Oh! madam, I can juſtify you—ha! ha! that is but a poor evaſion, and confirms me the more in my opinion—and I humbly take my leave—

Sir, I am glad you have had the good luck to ſpeak to me about this affair;—and, if any other circumſtances come to your knowledge, I ſhall take it as a favour if you will acquaint me with them—for, indeed, Sir, I am very unhappy—

Madam, I am in gratitude bound to you, and my beſt ſervices, you ſhall ever command—Madam, your moſt obedient—Oh! Belinda! Belinda!

Now, Sir John—how will you be able to confront theſe ſtubborn facts?—You [51]are now ſeen thro' all your diſguiſes—detected in your true colours—Tattle within here, has freſh proofs againſt you, and your man Ro⯑bert, and all of you,—I muſt hear that whole ſtory directly—

Yes, yes,—he told me his name honeſtly enough—Beverley is his name—and my lady Reſtleſs, now your gallant, your paramour, is known—What do I ſee?—By all my wrongs, the very man again!—coming out of my houſe be⯑fore my face—

There, friend, there is ſomething for your trouble.

I thank your honour.

He bribes my ſervant too;—and the fellow takes it—Both in their trade; both in their trade!—

Could I have ſuſpected her of ſuch trea⯑chery—Zoons! I take that to be Sir John Reſtleſs.

This is he to whom I have ſo many obligations.

Well encountered, Sir—your ſervant, Sir—

My ſervant, Sir!—I rather take it you are my lady's ſervant.

You, if I don't miſtake, Sir John, are a pretty general ſervant of the ladies.—Pray, [52]Sir, have not you a picture of mine in your pocket?

That, I ſuppoſe, you have heard from my good lady within here—

Yes, Sir, and I have heard a great deal more from my lady.

I don't in the leaſt doubt it.

Sir, I do not mean to work myſelf up into any choler about ſuch a trifling bauble—ſince the lady has thought proper to give it to you—

Do her juſtice, pray; ſhe did not give it; ſo far ſhe was true to you—I took it from her, Sir.

And that ſhews you are upon free and eaſy terms with her;—it is of no manner of conſequence to me; I deſpiſe it, and you are welcome to make what uſe you will of it.—This, I will only ſay, that you have made me miſera⯑ble.—

What, I have interrupted your happineſs?

You have.

And no doubt you think it cruel of me ſo to do.

Call it by what name you will,—you have ruined me with the woman I doated on to diſtraction.

A candid declaration!—and ſo, Sir, you doated on her, and never reflected that you were doing me the leaſt injury?—

Injury!—I promiſe you, Sir, I will never injure you again, and ſo you may ſet your mind at peace, for I here declare, I never will hold farther intercourſe with her—

Oh! that is too late for me; I have now done with her myſelf—you are very welcome to the lady, Sir—you may take her home with you as ſoon as you pleaſe; I have done with her, I forſwear her, and ſo I ſhall tell my lady this moment—

That will make her ladyſhip happy, no doubt—

Yes, I dare ſay you know it will—

She told me as much, Sir.

She did!—why then you may de⯑pend I ſhall keep my word, and my lady may depend upon it too—and that I hope, with all my heart, will make you happy, Sir.

It won't indeed, Sir—I reſign her for ever—

What, are you tired of her—

I loath her, deteſt her, hate her as much as I ever loved her.

And ſo do I too, I aſſure you—and ſo I ſhall tell my lady this very inſtant—your ſervant, Sir—and, if I can find proof ſufficient, you ſhall hear of me, I promiſe you, Sir—

Ay! ſhe has been connected with him, till ſhe has pall'd his very appetite—s'death, I'll ſeek her this moment, upbraid her with her falſhood,—and even ſo—by heavens! I ſhall do it with regret—for even now I feel a tug at my heart⯑ſtring—but were I to be torn piece-meal, this ſhall be our laſt interview—

Alas a-day! poor ſoul! ſee where he takes his melancholy walk—did not I tell you, Clariſſa, that the ſtricken deer could not quit this place?—

And did not I tell you, Belinda, that you could not keep away from the purſuit?—

Pray, ma'am, do you want to be in at the death, or do you mean to bring the poor thing to life again?—

I!—what do you mean?—you bring me this way—

Well! if that is the caſe, we had as good go home to your houſe, for I want my tea—

Po! not yet—it is not ſix o'clock.

Ha! ha!

Ha! ha!

What do ye laugh at?—

At you, my dear—why, 'tis paſt ſeven—Oh! Belinda, you are the ſtricken deer, I find—

Who I?—not I truly—I—

My dear Belinda, you are—and come, we will do the good natured thing by you,—and leave you to yourſelves—Succeſs attend you—come, Mr. Bellmont—

Thyrſis, a youth of the inſpired train, Fair Sachariſſa lov'd, but lov'd in vain.

Po! po!

What, won't you know me, Sir?—

Yes, madam, I know you—it is but too true, that I know you—

Prithee, give over theſe humours—what, ſtill gloomy and diſcontented!—come, come, under pain of my diſpleaſure, brighten up this moment.—

Po! po!—ſilly, ridiculous, and idle!

Come, come, when I proclaim a par⯑don, you had better embrace it, than reduce yourſelf to the neceſſity of ſighing, vowing, pro⯑teſting, writing to me, following me up and down, kneeling at my feet, imploring forgive⯑neſs—

Madam, I ſhall never be brought to forgive—

Upon my word! ha! ha! ha!

Oh! you may laugh, ma'am, you have too long impoſed upon my fond, eaſy credulity; but the witchery of your charms is over—

Very well, Sir! and you are your own man again.

I am, madam, and you may be your own woman again, or any body's woman, or every body's—

You grow rude, Sir!

It is time to wave all ceremony, and to tell you plainly, that your falſhood—

My falſhood, Sir!

Your falſhood!—I know the whole af⯑fair—I loved you once, Belinda, tenderly loved you, and by heaven I ſwear, it is with ſorrow that I can no longer adore you, and that I now bid you an everlaſting farewel—

Explain, Sir—what action of my life?—

Your prudence forſook you at laſt—it was too glaring—too manifeſt in open day—

Too manifeſt in open day!—Mr. Be⯑verley, I ſhall hate you—

Oh! ma'am, all circumſtances inform againſt you—my picture given away—

Inſolent! provoking! wrong-headed man! I'll confirm him in his error, to torment him

—Well, Sir, what if I choſe to give it away!—I am miſtreſs of my own actions, am I not?—

Oh! I know that, ma'am—I know that—and I am not uneaſy, ma'am—

So it ſeems—ha! ha!—why do you ſigh, poor man?

Sigh, madam!—I diſdain it—

I am glad of it; now that is ſo man⯑ly! but pray watch yourſelf well, hold a guard upon all your paſſions, otherwiſe they will make a fool of you again—

And do you take care you don't expoſe yourſelf again—lolling familiarly in a gentle⯑man's arms!—

How!

Here, in the Park!—in open day!—

What can this be?—

He inviting you to his houſe!—

Oh! I underſtand him now,—when I fainted, all this was—I'll encourage his notion, to be revenged of his waſpiſh temper

—Well, Sir, and what then?

What then?—

Ha! ha!—poor Mr. Beverley!—why ſhould you be in a piteous taking, becauſe I, in the gaiety of my heart, give away a picture I ſet no value on, or walk with a gentleman I do [57]ſet a value on, or lean on his arm, or make the man happy by letting him draw on my glove—

Or draw off your glove, madam—

Ay! or draw it off—

Yes, or—or—or take any other liber⯑ties—

Very true—

You may make light of it, madam—

Why yes, a generous temper always makes light of the favours it confers—

And ſome generous tempers will make light of any thing to gratify their inclinations—Madam, I have done—I abjure you—eternally abjure you.—

Bon voyage!—

Don't think to ſee me again—

Adieu!—Well, what, coming again—what, lingering—

Thus o'er the dying lamp, the unſteady flame

Hangs quivering to a point—&c.

With what an air ſhe carries it—I have but this one thing more to tell you—by heaven I loved you—to exceſs I loved you—ſuch is my weakneſs, I ſhall never quite forget you—I ſhall be glad, if hereafter I hear of your happineſs, and, if I can, no diſhonour ſhall fall on you—

Ha! ha!—well! my obliging, ge⯑nerous Don Quixote, go and ſight windmills, caſtles in the air, and a thouſand phantoms of your own creation, for your Dulcinea's ſake, do—ha! ha!—

Confuſion!—mind, madam—that this is the laſt time of my troubling you—

I ſhall expect you to-morrow morn⯑ing—

No—never—by heaven, never—

Exactly at ten—your uſual hour—

May I periſh at your feet, if I do—

Oh! brave—but remember ten—kneeling, beſeeching, imploring, your hand upon your heart, "Belinda, won't you forgive me?—"

Damnation!—I have done—I here bid you an eternal adieu!—farewel—

I ſhall wait breakfaſt for you—ha! ha! poor Beverley! he cannot command his temper—but, in ſpite of all his faults, I love him ſtill.—What the poet ſays of great wits, may be applied to all jealous lovers—

ACT IV.

SO! ſo! ſo! Belinda, I have eſcaped your ſnares, and have recovered my freedom;—and yet, if ſhe had not proved falſe, what a trea⯑ſure of love had I in ſtore for all that beauty!—Po! po! no more of her beauty—it is exter⯑nal, ſuperficial, the mere reſult of features and complexion—A deceitful Syren, to draw the un⯑wary into a dream of happineſs, and then wake him into wonder at the ſtorms and tempeſts that gather round him.—I have done with her; I'll think no more of her—Oh! Belinda! Be⯑linda!—

Pleaſe your honour—

She that in every part of life ſeemed ſo amiable!—

Sir!—

Under ſo fair a maſk to wear ſuch looſe deſigns!—

What is he muſing upon?—Sir—

I have done with her for ever—ay, for ever—

—I ſwear for ever—

—are you there, Bruſh?—

Yes, your honour—here is a letter.

So unforeſeen, ſo unexpected a diſcove⯑ry!—Well! well! well!—what did you ſay, Bruſh?—

A letter for your honour, Sir—

Well, give it to me another time—I'll not make myſelf uneaſy about her—

I fancy your honour will be glad to have it now—

What did you ſay?

It is a letter from madam Belinda, Sir.

Belinda! I won't read it—take it away—

Hey! which way is the wind now?—ſome quarrel, I ſuppoſe—but the falling out of lovers—muſt I take it away, Sir?—

I have done with her for ever.—

Have done with madam Belinda, Sir!

Oh! Bruſh, ſhe is—but I will not pro⯑claim her ſhame—no, let me ſtill be tender—I will ſee her no more, Bruſh, that is all; hear from her no more; ſhe muſt not wind herſelf about my heart again—I'll go out of town di⯑rectly—order my chaiſe to the door.

Had you not better deſer it till mor⯑row morning, Sir? perhaps then—

No—no—directly—do as I bid you—

Conſider, Sir, if your mind ſhould change, the trouble of coming back poſt-haſte—

No—never—I ſay, never—what to her? Who could ſmile on me, on him, on a thouſand—no,—no—ſhe ſhall know that I am a man—

But, Sir, you know that one ſolitary tear, which, after miſerably chaſing for it for half an hour together, ſhe will painfully diſtil from [61]the corner of her eye, will extinguiſh all this rage, and then—

Po! po! you know nothing of the mat⯑ter—go, and order the chaiſe directly—

Yes, Sir—I ſuppoſe a couple of ſhirts will be ſufficient, Sir?—you will hardly ſtay them out—

Pack up all, Sir—I ſhall ſtay in the country a whole month, if it be neceſſary—

An entire month, Sir!

I am reſolved, fixed, determined,—and ſo, do as I have ordered you.—

—So ſhall I diſentangle myſelf from her entirely—ſo ſhall I forget the fondneſs my fooliſh heart had for her—I hate her, loath her, pity her, am ſorry for her, and love her ſtill—I muſt expel this weakneſs from my mind—I will think no more of her—and yet—Bruſh! Bruſh!—I may as well ſee her letter too—only to try what her cunning can ſuggeſt.

You may as well leave the letter, Bruſh—

Yes, Sir;—I thought as much—

Now what varniſh will ſhe put upon the mat⯑ter!—

[62]Pſhaw! ſatisfy my doubts—I have no doubts; I am convinced—theſe arts prevail no more—ha! ha!

—"my dear Beverley"

—"real an⯑guiſh"—ha! ha!

—"inqui⯑etude of temper"—

—"clear all your doubts"—Po! po! po!—ha! ha!—dam⯑nation!—I'll think no more of her—

—ha! ha!—"deareſt Beverley"—ha! ha!—artful woman!—"ever yours"—falſe! falſe! falſe!—

—I'll not make myſelf uneaſy about her—Perfidy! treachery! and ingratitude!—

So, brother!—

Beverley!—

Siſter, your ſervant—Mr. Bellmont, yours—

You ſeem melancholy, brother.

No, not I—I am in very good ſpirits—

Ha! ha!—my dear brother, that is ſeen thro', your ſoul is upon the rack.—

What about a woman, a falſe, ungrate⯑ful woman!

Whom you ſtill admire—

To whom you'll be upon your knees in five minutes.

You are miſtaken—I am going out of town—

But you will take your leave—

I have done that, once for all.

Has not ſhe wrote to you?—

She has; and there,—there you ſee the effect of her letter.—You will ſee I ſhall main⯑tain a proper firmneſs on the occaſion—

Prithee no more, Beverley, but return to your duty—

I beg, Sir, you will have done—what, plead for treachery, for falſhood, for deceit—

No, Sir, but for my friend, my lovely friend, for Belinda, for truth, for innocence—

Po! po! you don't know all the cir⯑cumſtances—

But we do know all the circumſtances, and, my dear brother, you have behaved very ill.—

Heaven knows, I have not, and yet, heaven knows, I ſhould be glad to be convinced I have—

I'll tell you what then, we women are ſoft and compaſſionate in our nature; go to her without delay, fall at her feet, beg her pardon, drop a tear or two, and all will be well again.—

Prithee don't laugh at me,—may con⯑tempt and beggary attend me,—may all the ca⯑lamities of life befal me,—may ſhame, confuſion, and diſquiet of heart for ever ſting me,—if I hold farther intercourſe with her; if I do not put her from my thoughts for ever.—Did you leave her at home?—

We did.

Well, let her ſlay there—it is of no conſequence to me—how did ſhe bear what paſſed between us?—

Like a ſweet girl as ſhe is; ſhe behaved like an angel; I ſhall love her better than ever for her good humour.

Oh! I don't doubt her good humour—ſhe has ſmiles at command—let her ſmile or not ſmile, 'tis all alike to me—did ſhe ſay any thing?—

She told us the whole ſtory, and told it in tears too.

Ay! them ſhe can command too!—But I have no curioſity about her—was ſhe in tears tho'?—

She was, and wept bitterly—how could you, brother, behave ſo raſhly to ſo amiable a girl?—have you a pleaſure in being the cauſe of her uneaſineſs?—

I the cauſe!—you wrong me—by hea⯑ven you wrong me—my lady Reſtleſs was the cauſe—ſhe told me ſuch things—ſhe planted daggers in my very heart.

You planted daggers in her heart—and it was barbarous.—What, becauſe a lady has not ſtrength enough to bear up againſt a father, who is reſolved to give her away to another, and becauſe ſhe faints out of exceſſive tenderneſs for you, and in that diſtreſs meets accidental relief from Sir John Reſtleſs at his own door—

How!—

And becauſe my lady Reſtleſs ſees this out of her window, and has a perverſe talent of miſinterpreting appearances into realities, to her own diſadvantage—you muſt therefore fill your head with ungenerous ſuſpicions—Oh! for ſhame, for ſhame, how could you?—

But, is all this true?—is this really the caſe?—

How can you doubt it, Beverley;—you know Belinda too well—it is the caſe, man.—

I ſhould be glad to find it ſo—

Well! well! I tell you it is ſo—how could you think otherwiſe, when you know ſhe has the beſt heart in the world, and is ſo nice of [65]honour, ſhe ſcorns all falſhood and diſſimula⯑tion—

Ha! ha! my dear Beverley, you have done the abſurdeſt thing—

Why, if what you ſay can be made to appear—but then ſhe'll never forgive my paſt behaviour—

Po! you talk as if you were wholly un⯑letter'd in the tempers of women—my dear bro⯑ther, you know, you men can do what you pleaſe with us, when you have got an intereſt in our hearts—go to her, I ſay, go to her, and make your peace—

May I depend upon what you ſay?—

You may.

Then I'll fly to her this inſtant, humble myſelf to her, and promiſe by all my future life to attone for this brutal injury—

The chaiſe is at the door, Sir.

You may put up again; I ſhan't go out of town.

No, Sir!

No—ha! ha!—you may put up, and let me have the chariot directly—

Yes, Sir; I knew it would come to this—

But do you think ſhe will forgive me?

She will; love will plead your cauſe.

My dear ſiſter, I am for ever obliged to you;—and Bellmont, I thank you too—how could I wrong her ſo?—I ſhall behold her once again—ha! ha!—is the chariot ready?—I won't ſtay for it; I am on the wing, my dear Belinda, to implore forgiveneſs—and ſo ſhe fainted away [66]in the Park, and my lady Reſtleſs ſaw Sir John afford her relief?—ha! ha! ha!—whimſical enough—ha! ha! ha!—what a ſtrange conſtruc⯑tion her crazy temper put upon it?—ha! ha!—how could the woman be ſo fooliſh?—my dear Belinda, I will fly to you this moment—ha! ha!—

Sir John ſhall give me back the picture, and, on my knees, I will once more preſent it—

So! ſo! ſo!—you are come to yourſelf, I find—

I knew it would be ſo—

She ſhall have it—I'll find Sir John di⯑rectly—and then—ha! ha! how could I be ſuch a madman! ha! ha!—ſiſter, your ſervant—Bellmont, yours—ha! ha! what a piece of work has that fooliſh woman made for us all—ha! ha!

Well, I am happy that I have nothing of my brother's unaccountable humours in my diſpoſition—

Oh! my angel, you are all—

Oh lord! Oh lord!—no compliments, pray—I have not leiſure now to attend to you—for, poſitively, I muſt go back to Belinda, to ſee their reconciliation—will you go with me, Mr. Bellmont?—

By all means—

Allons then; there, take my hand, and let us be gone.

This raſh, unaccountable man!—How could he entertain ſuch a ſuſpicion!—Ungrateſul Be⯑verley!—He [67]almoſt deſerves I ſhould never ſee him again.—Tippet!—I ſhan't be eaſy till I hear from him—Tippet!—

Is the ſervant returned from Mr. Beverley's?—

Not yet, madam.

I wonder what keeps him.—I am up⯑on thorns till I ſee the dear, ungenerous man, and explain every thing to him—Oh! Mr. Be⯑verley! how could you treat me ſo?—But I was partly to blame; my lady Reſtleſs inflamed his mind, and I ſhould not have triſled with his paſ⯑ſion—Is the other ſervant returned from Sir John Reſtleſs?—

He is, madam.

And what anſwer?—

Sir John will wait upon you himſelf, madam, directly.

Very well!—I muſt get him to ſet every thing in its true light, and juſtify me to Mr. Beverley: and yet the uncertainty of his temper alarms me ſtrangely—his eternal ſuſpi⯑cions!—but there is nothing in that—my future conduct,—my regard for him will cure that diſ⯑eaſe, and then—

I dare be ſworn it will, ma'am.

Yes, I think it will; when he knows me better, he will learn to think generouſly of me—and on my part, I think I can be ſure he will meet with nothing but open, unſuſpecting love from me.

Sir John Reſtleſs, madam—

Shew him in—Tippet, do you leave the room.

In compliance with your commands, Madam.

Sir, I am much obliged to you for the trouble you have been pleaſed to give your⯑ſelf—A particular circumſtance has happened in your family, to my utter diſquiet—

Madam, there have happened things in my family, to my utter diſquiet too—

I am ſorry for that, Sir—but I aſſure you I have been made quite unhappy, and muſt beg, as it is in your power, that you will be kind enough to remove the cauſe of my uneaſi⯑neſs.

Whatever I can do, you may com⯑mand.

Sir, I thank you, and muſt tell you, that your lady has done me the moſt irreparable injury.

Oh! ſhe has done the ſame to me—my injuries are irreparable too—but how has ſhe injured you, madam?

She has ruined me, Sir, with the man I love to diſtraction.

Now, here ſomething elſe will come to light,

—How, how has ſhe done that, madam?

Oh! Sir, ſhe has entirely drawn off his affections from me.

And fixed them upon herſelf, I ſuppoſe.

I don't ſay that, Sir.

But I dare ſay it; and I believe it.

Pardon me, Sir, I don't charge the lady with any thing of that kind—but ſhe has un⯑accountably taken it into her head to be jealous of me.

Jealous of you!

Her ladyſhip ſaw the little offices of civility I received from you this morning—She miſunderſtood every thing, it ſeems, and has told the gentleman with whom I was engaged in a treaty of marriage, that improper freedoms have paſſed between us.

Artifice! artifice!—her uſual policy, madam, to cover her own libertine ways.

I don't mean to ſay any thing harſh of the lady—but you know what foundation there is for this, and I hope will do me juſtice—

Oh! madam, to the world, to the wide world I'll juſtify you—I will wait upon the gentleman—who is he, madam?—what's his name?—

Beverley, Sir!

Beverley!

Yes, Sir; you ſeem ſurpriſed—do you know him, Sir?

Yes, yes, I know him—and he ſhall know me—my reſentment he ſhall feel—he ſhall anſwer to me—

Anſwer to you!—

To me, madam—I told you at firſt this was her ſcheme to ſhelter herſelf; and he, I ſuppoſe, is combined with her to give this turn to the affair, and to charge me with infidelity—But you, ma'am, can witneſs for me—

I can, Sir—But can Mr. Beverley be capable of a diſhonourable action?

Oh! that matter is plain enough; he has injured me in the higheſt degree, deſtroy⯑ed my happineſs—

How, Sir!—are you ſure of this?

He has giver her his picture; I caught her with her eyes rivetted to it; I heard her ad⯑miration, her praiſes of it; her wiſhes that ſhe had been married to ſuch a man—I ſaw her print a thouſand kiſſes on it; and in the very fact I wreſted it out of her hand—

I aſſure you, Sir, if I imagined him to be ſuch as you deſcribe him, I ſhould ſcarcely be willing to join myſelf to him for life—

As you pleaſe for that—but, with⯑out doubt, you muſt be very happy with a man of his gallantry.

Happy, Sir!—I ſhould be miſerable; I ſhould be diſtracted—I ſhould break my heart—

Oh! it is very likely that he will have a great regard to the honour of the nuptial bed, he, who is ſo ready to commit a treſpaſs on his neighbour.

But do you think you have ſufficient proof?

I have ſeen him coming out of my houſe ſince, clandeſtinely, ſhunning every ob⯑ſervant eye, with the characters of guilt in his face, and all the diſcourſe I had with him, ſerved only to convince me the more—

Abandoned wretch!—was this the love he profeſſed for me?—Sir, I have only to hope that you will vindicate me in this matter—I commend myſelf to your honour, and I thank you for this favour—

Our evidences will mutually ſpeak [71]for each other, and confound their dark deſigns—Madam, I take my leave—

Sir, your moſt obedient—

You will find I ſhall make an ex⯑ample of the gentleman—

You cannot treat him too ſeverely—

I will expoſe him, I promiſe you—Madam, your humble ſervant.

Oh! Mr. Beverley, could I have imagined this?—Falſe! falſe man!—and yet how ſhall I forget him!—But I will make an effort, tho' it pierce me to the quick—I will tear him from my heart—this moment I will write to him, and for⯑bid him to ſee me more.

If I can procure ſufficient evidence, I ſhall bring the matter to a divorce, and make an example of them all—Would Marmalet were come—this is her time to a moment—If I can worm the ſecret out of her—then I am happy—Is not that ſhe yon⯑der?—there is not quite day-light enough to diſ⯑tinguiſh, but I think I perceive a perſon maſked—hiſt! hiſt!—Mrs. Marmalet—ſhe comes this way—it is ſhe—Mrs. Marmalet, your ſervant—

You are very good, Mrs. Marmalet—

Bleſs my heart, I am ſeared out of my ſenſes.

What's the matter, pray?—what's the matter?

Oh Sir! I tremble like a leaf—I was accoſted in a rude manner by ſome gentle⯑men yonder—Oh Lord! I can't ſtay here, let us go into your houſe, Sir—I beg you will.

My houſe—would not any other houſe do as well?

Oh! no, Sir—not for the world—

Why my wife is not at home, and ſo I think I may venture, not but I had rather it were elſewhere—

Indeed, Sir John, I can't—you will do me a favour if you will take me into the houſe—

Very well—ſay no more—it ſhall be ſo—Robert—

Is that Sir John?

Your lady is not at home, Robert, is ſhe?

No, Sir.

Then do you go in, and take care that nobody ſees Mrs. Marmalet with me—come, I'll ſhew you the way—

Ay, poor lady! ſhe is misfortunate, indeed—and, poor gentleman, he is as jealous as my lady to the full—There has been a deal to do about that picture you men⯑tion, Sir.

Well, all that will be explained preſent⯑ly—I'll wait till he comes home—I can't poſſibly go without ſpeaking to him—

Indeed, you had better not ſtay, Sir—you don't conſider the miſchief your being in the houſe may occaſion—

Miſchief! how do ye mean?—

Lord, Sir!—I would not have you ſtay for the world—I would not, indeed—you can call again in an hour, Sir, and you'll cer⯑tainly find him at home, then—Bleſs my heart, Sir!—I fancy that's his voice—do, dear Sir!—you'll be the ruin of my lady—If he ſees you here, Sir, waiting in his houſe—he'll be per⯑ſuaded you come after my lady—the world will never beat it out of his head—

But I ſhall give him to underſtand—

He won't underſtand any thing, Oh lud! oh lud! he's coming up—I'll run and look.

What a flurry the woman is in—a fooliſh jade!—I muſt ſpeak with him now—

It is he as I am alive, Sir—and there is a woman in a maſk with him—

A woman in a maſk—Zoons, if that ſhould be Belinda!—my mind miſgives me ſtrangely!—

Do, dear Sir—you look like a good⯑natured gentleman—Let me hide you out of the way, Sir,—you would not be the deſtruction of a poor ſervant—

A maſk coming home with him—I muſt know who that is—I won't leave the houſe with⯑out knowing—If I could conceal myſelf—Have you any private place, Mrs. Tattle?—

That is the very thing I mean, Sir—Let me conceal you in that cloſet till he paſſes thro' this room—He never ſtays long here—it won't take you two minutes—Do, ſweet Sir—I'll down on my knees to you—

That will be the beſt way—Come, diſ⯑poſe [74]of me as you will—If this ſhould be Be⯑linda—

Heavens bleſs you, Sir, for this good⯑neſs!—I'll lock the door to make ſure work of it—Oh lud! Oh lud! I was never ſo frightened in my life—

Mrs. Marmalet, I am obliged to you for this favour—I wanted a word or two with you—

So Robert informed me, Sir—

Did he tell you my buſineſs?

No, Sir—

Look ye then, my dear Mrs. Mar⯑malet, if you will gratify me in what I ſhall aſk, you may command any thing—now you may be uncovered—

La! Sir—I hear a noiſe—I am afraid ſomebody's coming—and I ſhall be ſeen.

Huſh! no—there's nobody—I'll tell you what—If you will indulge me on this occa⯑ſion, I am yours for ever—Here, here is a purſe of money for you—

But if this ſhould come to the know⯑ledge of your lady, I am ruined and undone—

No, no, I'll take care of you—

Will you, Sir?—

I will—but come—let me remove this from your face—

But ſomebody may come—

I'll lock the door—there, now we are ſate—

But in a little time you'll make up all quarrels with your lady, and I ſhall get ruined by this—

No, no, never fear—I ſhall never be reconciled to her—I hate her—deteſt her—

Do you ſo, Sir?—Now, Sir John, what can you ſay now, Sir?—

My Lady Reſtleſs!—Confuſion!—What ſhall I ſay?

Oh, Sir John! Sir John!—what evaſion have you now, Sir?—Can you deny your guilt any longer?

This is unlucky—that villain Ro⯑bert has betrayed me—and I can't explain my⯑ſelf to her now—try what ſoothing will do—My Lady Reſtleſs—if you will but have patience all this matter ſhall be explained—

Explained, Sir!

Yes, my dear, explained, and—

My dear, too!—the aſſurance of you!

I ſay, my dear, for I ſtill regard you—and this was all done—to—to—cure you of your jealouſy—all done to cure you of your jealouſy.

A fine way you have taken—

Yes, yes—and ſo you will ſee pre⯑ſently—all to convince you how groundleſs your ſuſpicions are; and then we ſhall live very happy together—

Ay!—

For I have no further ſuſpicions of you—I ſee my error, and I want you to ſee yours—ha! ha!—I have no ſuſpicions—that will put her her off her guard—

—my dear, only compoſe your ſpirits, and—

And do you think to deny every thing even in the face of conviction—Baſe, baſe man!—I'll go this moment and write to my brother—

Po! po! you talk wildly—this is all raving—you make yourſelf very ridiculous—you do, indeed—I had ſettled all this on purpoſe, and contrived that it ſhould come to your ears, and then knew you would do juſt as you have done—and—then—I—I—reſolved to do juſt as I have dare—only to hint to you—that liſteners ſeldom hear any good of themſelves, and ſo ſhew you how wrong it is to be too ſuſpicious, my dear—and was it not well done?—ha! ha! ha!

And do you laugh at me too, Sir?—make me your ſport?—I'll go and get pen and ink this moment—

Oh! do ſo, ma'am—do ſo—ha! ha! you'll only expoſe yourſelf—go and write, madam—ha! ha! ha!—

I will, Sir—ha! the door is locked—this won't ſucceed, Sir—I ſuppoſe you have the key—ay! I'll lay my life you have, and ſome other of your creatures is locked in there—

There, again—this is of a piece with all your other ſuſpicions—ha! ha!—you are mighty ſilly, indeed, you are—

I will ſearch that cloſet—I am determined I will—

Do ſo, ma'am, do ſo—ha! ha!—

I'll have the door broke open, if you don't give me the key—

Ha! ha! ha!—

Will you give me the key, Sir?

Ha! ha! ha!

Very well, Sir—Tattle!—who waits there?—I will find out all your artifices—Tattle, I ſay—

Tol de rol lol—ha! ha! ha!

Do you know any thing of the key of that cloſet, Tattle?

The key, ma'am!—I have it, ma'am—

Give it to me—

That is, I have it not, ma'am—oh! Crimini—what ſhall I do now?—don't have it, ma'am, don't aſk for it?—

Don't aſk for it!—but I will have it, and ſo—

Ha! is not ſhe willing to give it?—there is ſomething in this, then—Give the key this moment, you jade, give it to me—

You ſhan't have it, Sir—what, you want to hinder me!—give the key to me—

Lord! I have loſt it, ma'am—better not have it, ma'am.

Give it to me this moment, I ſay.

If you don't let me have it, it is as much as your place is worth—

The devil is in it—there it is then—let me make my eſcape.

Now, Sir, we ſhall ſee—

Ay, now ſearch, if you will—ha! ha!—

You ſhall be found out, I promiſe you—oh!

What's the matter now?

Heavens! who have we here?

Oh there is ſomebody there then!

Madam—your moſt obedient—

By all that's falſe, here he is again!

What, in the name of wonder, brings you here, Sir?

Oh madam! you know his buſineſs—and I know his buſineſs—and the gentleman knows his buſineſs—There he is, ma'am!—there is the gentleman waiting for you—true to his appointment, you ſee—Sir, your humble ſervant—my lady Reſtleſs, your very humble ſervant, madam.—Now write to your brother—do—I ſhould be glad to know what you can ſay now—now—now—is the caſe plain now?—

I am in amaze! I don't know what to make of this.

Sir, however odd this may appear—

Ay! now ſettle it between your⯑ſelves—give it what turn you will, Sir, ſhe will confirm it,—you need not be afraid, Sir—you will agree in your ſtory—ſhe is quick of inven⯑tion, I aſſure you,—and I dare ſay you are pretty quick too!—

Sir, I muſt beg you will put no forced conſtruction upon this matter—

And you beg the ſame, ma'am, don't you?—

Sir, I beg to be heard—my buſineſs here, Sir, is to deſire you will return me that picture you have in your poſſeſſion!—it is now become dear to me, Sir—

I dare ſay it is—

And I muſt have it back.

Sir, it is of equal value to me, and it ſhall riſe in evidence againſt you both.

Evidence againſt me!—pray Sir, I deſire you will explain yourſelf.—How did you get in here?—what's your buſineſs?—what brought you hither?—what's your errand?—

Ay, Sir, ſpeak; how did you get in here?—what's your buſineſs?—what brought you hither?—what's your errand?—

Zoons! I am beſet by them both at once—

Speak, Sir,—explain—

Ay! Sir, explain—

Sir, if you will give me leave, I will ſa⯑tisfy you entirely—I aſſure you, Sir, and you too, ma'am, that my being in your cloſet is en⯑tirely owing to your maid, Tattle—

The jade, I don't doubt it, Sir.

To prevent, if poſſible, the interpreta⯑tion you now put upon ſeeing me in your houſe—

And it was well contrived, Sir—Oh! my lady Reſtleſs—

By all that's juſt, I knew nothing of it—

Nothing, upon my honour, Sir.

Oh! I knew you would both agree—

As I am a gentleman, I tell you the real fact.

You need not, Sir, I know the real fact.

Sir, I have no time to loſe, and I muſt now deſire the picture, directly, Sir.

Sir, I wiſh you a good evening.

I can't ſtir without it; and I ſhould be glad you would comply without a quarrel, or really I muſt be obliged to—

Ay! now her bully begins!

—I deſire you will quit my houſe, Sir.

I am not to be treated in this manner, Sir, and, if you don't return it by fair means, I ſhall be forced to draw, Sir—

There again now!—ſhe has ſet him on to cut my throat—but I will diſappoint her—ſhe is a worthleſs woman, and I won't fight about her.—There, Sir, there is your trinket—I ſhall have proof ſufficient without it—

Upon my honour, Sir, you will have no proof of any miſbehaviour of mine, and, if you ſuſpect your lady from theſe appearances, you wrong her much, I aſſure you—

Sir, I deſire you will explain all this—

Call up your maid, madam, and—

No, Sir, no more of it—I am ſa⯑tisfied—I wiſh you good night, Sir—

Sir, when you are willing to liſten to reaſon, I ſhall at any time convince you how wrong you are, and madam, you may depend I ſhall do juſtice to your honour upon all occaſions—and I take my leave—

Now, my lady Reſtleſs, now you ſee you are thoroughly known; all your artifices are known—Mr. Beverley is known! my lord Conqueſt is known—

My lord Conqueſt, Sir! I deſ⯑piſe all your imputations—my lord Conqueſt's maid, Sir!

Very well, madam! 'tis now my turn to write to your brother, and I promiſe you I will do it—

You will write, Sir!—you will write!—I will recollect my temper—his aſſurance is unequalled

—Oh! do ſo, Sir,—do ſo—ha! ha! but you will only expoſe your weakneſs—ha! ha! you make yourſelf very ridiculous! you do indeed!—ha! ha!—

'Sdeath! madam, am I to be in⯑ſulted with a contumelious laugh into the bar⯑gain!—

Why, my dear, this was all done—to—to—to—cure you of your jealouſy—for I knew you would do as you have done, and ſo I—reſolved to do as I have done—was it not well done, my dear, ha! ha!

Damnation, madam!—this is be⯑yond all human patience—

Ha! ha! ha! la lall lall lall,

Let me tell you, it is no laugh⯑ing matter—you are a vile woman; I know you, and the world ſhall know you—I promiſe you it ſhall—

I am clear in my own conviction, and your ſlander I deſpiſe—nor ſhall your arti⯑fice blind me or my friends any longer—Sir, as you ſay it is no laughing matter—and I promiſe you, Sir—you ſhall never diſhonour me again in this houſe—

And I promiſe you, madam, that you ſhall never diſhonour me in any houſe.—

Injurious, falſe, falſe man!

Deceitful—wanton—wanton wo⯑man!—

ACT V.

WELL, Sir William, we have made a good day's work of it, the writings will be ready to-morrow.

The ſooner the better, is your daughter Belinda at home?

I dare ſay ſhe is—I ordered her home in the morning, I make no doubt but ſhe has been at home ever ſince—I'll call her to you—excuſe me a moment, Sir William,—young gen⯑tleman, I beg your pardon—

No ceremony, Sir.

I ſuppoſe you was coming hither, George, to wait upon your miſtreſs, when I met you but now—

Sir—you may depend—every thing in my power to pleaſe you, Sir—but you know I told you already, Sir, that the lady has declared an averſion for me.

An averſion!—a fiddle for her aver⯑ſion—has not her father promiſed her to you in [83]marriage?—and ſo, what have you to do with her averſion?—

To do with it, Sir!—egad, I am afraid I ſhall have a great deal to do with it,—you know, when a young lady marries againſt her inclination, billets-doux, aſſignations, plots, and intrigues, and a terrible et caetera of female ſtra⯑tagems, mount into her brain, and—

Come, come, lad, don't play the rogue with your father—did not you promiſe me, if Belinda conſented, the affair would meet with no obſtacle from you?—

I did, Sir,—but I can't help thinking—

And I can't help thinking that you are a knave, George.—I'll tell you what, I have fixed my heart upon this marriage—my friend Mr. Blandford and I have been dining upon parchment, as I may ſay; we have been at the Crown and Rolls all day, to read over the deeds—and ſo I tell you, once for all, you muſt be obſervant of my will and pleaſure.

Sir, if Belinda—ſhe will never con⯑ſent

—If the lady, Sir—

Very well, ſhe will be conſenting—I warrant her—now we ſhall ſee—

Ods heart! I am overjoyed, Sir Wil⯑liam—my daughter is a complying, good girl, and obedient to her father—young gentleman, I give you joy.—

Death to my hopes! what does he mean?

Sir William, give me your hand upon it—this will not only be a match of prudence, but inclination alſo—

There, George, there's news for you.

Sure ſhe won't bring this calamity on me—Can I believe what I hear, madam?—will you yourſelf pronounce the ſentence?—

Sir, I muſt take ſhame to myſelf, that I have been ſo long refractory to the dictates of the beſt of fathers, and blind alſo to your merit.

Loll toll loll—

Confuſion!

—My merit, I am afraid, is over-rated by you, and—

Pardon me, Sir;—I muſt freely de⯑clare that my heart has been fixed upon a worth⯑leſs man, whom I now renounce, and to you, Sir, I am ready to reſign myſelf.

There, there, all's fixed, and my bleſſing attend you both.

What a dilemma am I brought into here?

George, what's the matter, boy?—you a bridegroom!—wounds! at your age I would cut a caper over the moon on ſuch an oc⯑caſion.

Sir, I muſt beg to be excuſed—I am a little more ſlack-mettled, Sir, and can't leap quite ſo high.

Well, well, all in good time—Mr. Blandford, where is this bottle you promiſed me?—I want to waſh down the cobwebs of the law—

In truth ſo do I—Who waits there?—Richard, lay a table in the next room—come, come, we'll go and drink a bumper to the young couple.

With all my heart—George, you are a cup too low; come with us my lad, we'll cheer your ſpirits—come along, George

I attend you, Sir—is this true, Belin⯑da?—

My real ſentiments, Sir.

Then you have undone us all.

Yes, I am reſolved at length, and I will pu⯑niſh his falſehood and ingratitude by obeying my father's commands. But my friend, Clariſſa, has ſhe deſerved this of me?—My reſentments have hurried me too far—Reſume your ſtrength, my heart, and let no ſudden guſt of paſſion make you falſe to friendſhip and to honour—

Well, Tippet, have you done as I or⯑dered you?

I have, madam.

A vile, perſidious man!

So he is, madam.

After all the love I profeſſed for him!—after ſo many ardent vows and proteſtations as he has made me—

After the hours he has kneel'd at your feet!—

I will drive him from my thoughts—here, take this letter, Tippet—give it to him with your own hands.

Yes, madam.

Where are his letters?

Here, madam.

The bracelet—

I have it ſafe.

Mighty well—take them all home to him,—and, in return, bring me back my fooliſh letters to him.

Madam, I won't quit the houſe without them.

That letter will inform him that his Falſehood has compelled me into a compliance with my father's intentions, and be ſure you confirm that to him.

He ſhall hear it of every ſide of his ears, I warrant him.

Very well, you may go—and, hark ye, Tippet—aſk his man,—as if from yourſelf,—careleſly,—whether his maſter ever talked of me—and what he ſaid, Tippet?—

Yes, madam.

But I don't care what he ſaid—I don't want to know any thing about him—it does not concern me now—no—no—let him care as lit⯑tle for me as I do for him—Tell him I ſay ſo—

I ſhan't forget, ma'am.

Tell him to hate me as much as I do him.

I'll tell him his own—I promiſe you, ma'am.

Very well—that's all;—get you gone—

Yes, ma'am.

Mind what I have ſaid—

Truſt to me—

Don't forget a tittle—

No, ma'am.

Be ſure you tell him how indifferent I am—

Leave all to me.

You ſee, Tippet, I am quite uncon⯑cerned—the barbarous wretch!

Oh! yes, ma'am, I ſee—

It is eaſy to ſee that I am not all un⯑eaſy—You ſee that I am very gay upon it—

Yes, ma'am—

Falſe! falſe Beverley!—Tell him I will never ſee his face any more.

I am gone, ma'am.

That upon no account will I ever exchange a word with him, hear from him, of him, or have any thing of any kind whatever to do with him—

I have my leſſon, ma'am.

Mr. Beverley, madam.

My lady won't ſee his face any more.

Yes, I think, I will—ſhew him in—I will ſee him once more, and tell him all myſelf—You may withdraw, Tippet.

Yes, ma'am—ah! ſhe has a hanker⯑after him ſtill.

Now will I upbraid him, now tell him his own, and—

Belinda!—how gladly do I once again behold—

And with what reſentment have not I reaſon to behold, Sir—

You have, Belinda;—you have reaſon, I grant it—but—forgive the raſh words my folly uttered—

Oh! Sir, miſtake me not—they are not your words I quarrel with;—your actions, Mr. Beverley, your actions, Sir!—

They are not to be extenuated—but ſurely, after the letter you honoured me with—

Sir, I have heard every thing ſince I was guilty of that folly.

Heard! what?—

Yes, diſſemble if you will—but this muſt be the laſt of our converſing—My maid will return you whatever I have received from you;—and all my ſilly letters I muſt beg you will let me have,—and then viſit me no more, Sir—

Belinda!—you will not wound me thus—Here is the picture which cauſed that unlucky miſtake between us—I have recovered it from Sir John Reſtleſs—

From my Lady Reſtleſs, Sir—

Madam!—

Oh! fie, Sir—no more—I have done—

You muſt, you muſt accept it—Thus on my knees I beg you will—Will you, Belinda?—(takes her hand.)

Leave me, Sir—let go my hand, Mr. Beverley—your falſhood, Sir—

My falſhood!—by all the—

Your falſhood, Sir—Sir John Reſtleſs has told me all—every circumſtance—

He has told you!—What has he told? his life ſhall anſwer it—

How could you treat me thus?—you have deſtroyed my peace of mind for ever—Nay, you yourſelf have forced me into the arms of another—

What do I hear?—

In obedience to the commands of a father, I have agreed to marry Mr. Bellmont.

Mr. Bellmont!—him!—marry him!—it is very well, ma'am,—I expected it would come to this—and my Lady Reſtleſs is only men⯑tioned on this occaſion, as a retort for my accu⯑ſation about Sir John—I underſtand it—and, by heaven! I believe that whole ſtory—

You do, Sir!

I do—Fool that I was to humble my⯑ſelf to you—My pride is now piqued, and I am glad, ma'am—as glad as you can be to break off for ever—

Oh! Sir, I can be as indifferent on my part—Then, Sir, you have only to ſend me back my letters, and—

Oh! agreed, agreed—I'll go home this moment, and ſend them all—and before I go, ma'am, here is your own picture, which you had given me with your own hands.—Mr. Bellmont will be glad of it—or Sir John Reſtleſs will be glad of it—

Very like, Sir,—(takes the picture) Tyrant, tyrant man! to treat me in this barba⯑rous manner—(cries.)

Tears! Belinda! (approaching)—Be⯑linda!—

No more of your inſidious arts—I will hear no more—Oh! my heart,—my heart will break—I did not think it was in your nature to behave as you have done; but—farewel for ever—

Belinda!—hear me but ſpeak—By hea⯑ven, my Lady Reſtleſs—She is gone—'sdeath! I have been duped by her all this time; I [90]will now ſummon up all that is man within me, and in my turn deſpiſe her.

If you are going home, Sir, I will take the things with me now—

Yes, I am going—I will leave this de⯑teſted—

This abominable place, Sir—

This hell!—

Ha! ha!—ay! Sir, this hell—

This manſion of perfidy, ingratitude, and fraud—

Very right, Sir, let us go—

And yet—Tippet,—you muſt not ſtir—indulge me but a little—it is all a miſunderſtand⯑ing, this—

My lady will have no more to ſay to theſe things—

Oh! Tippet, uſe your intereſt with her—keep them in the houſe till I return—I will clear up this whole matter preſently—I muſt not loſe her thus—

Poor gentleman! he ſeems in a lament⯑able way—Well, I fancy for my part he is a true lover after all; that's what I do—and my young lady, I fear, is—

Madam, madam, madam, you are to blame—you are, indeed—

Is he gone?

He is, madam.

Did he ſay any thing? was he uneaſy?—or did he carry it off with a—

Oh! ma'am, he went away ſighing ſhort, his heart throbbing, his eyes brimful, his looks pale—you are to blame, you are, indeed, madam—I dare be ſworn he has never proved falſe.

Oh! Tippet, could I be ſure of that—

But you are not ſure of the contrary—Why won't you ſee my Lady Reſtleſs?—ſee her directly, madam; go to her now before it is too late;—before the old folks, who are now putting their heads together, have ſettled the whole af⯑fair—do, dear ma'am, be adviſed—ſhall I or⯑der your chair?

I don't know what to ſay—I am afraid I love him ſtill—yes, I will ſee my Lady Reſt⯑leſs—I will be thoroughly informed of the whole matter—order my chair—

Yes, ma'am; I will, ma'am.

If I ſhould loſe him thro' a miſappre⯑henſion of things, I ſhall never be able to for⯑give myſelf; and if rightly informed, the world combined ſhall not induce me to look upon him again.

Belinda, you have puzzled matters ſtrangely; you have involved your friend Cla⯑riſſa, yourſelf, me, and every body, in the moſt inſurmountable difficulties—

Sir, the provocation I have had from Mr. Beverley—

You wrong him, I am perſuaded you do; and ſo you will find in the end—But what [92]can be done now?—the old people are fixed in their reſolution, and fixed by your own raſh⯑neſs.

What can I ſay, Mr. Bellmont?—the agitation of my mind is ſuch, between hope and doubt, and fear and reſentment, that I know not which way to turn myſelf. If Beverley is falſe,—if he is true,—I am equally undone.

So, Mr. Bellmont! (angrily.)

Oh! Clariſſa, there have been ſuch do⯑ings between your brother and me—

So I find, ma'am—I met him as I came hither—You have had fine doings, in⯑deed—I have heard it all—and you can be falſe to your promiſes, ma'am, falſe to your friends—and you too, Mr. Bellmont, you can be falſe to all your engagements, Sir.

Do me not that injuſtice, Clariſſa—

Oh! Sir, don't imagine I am angry with you, or with you, madam—you will be well paired—I give ye both joy—I am heartily glad, Sir, that I at length know you,—I reſign him to you, ma'am,—I aſſure you I do—

Give me but a moment's leave—

Upon my word, Clariſſa—

And upon my word, ma'am—

Nay, but moderate your anger—

Anger! anger, indeed!—I ſhould be ſorry any thing that has happened were of conſe⯑quence enough to diſturb my peace of mind—Anger!—no, ma'am, I aſſure you—Mr. Bell⯑mont, I dare ſay, will be fully deſerving of you; and you, madam, on your part, will very am⯑ply deſerve ſuch a huſband—Anger, indeed!

If you will but hear me a moment—

My dear Clariſſa—

Oh! my dear ma'am, you are a ſincere friend I know, ma'am

but, my dear ma'am, don't ſtand on ceremony—

Whatever has paſſed, Clariſſa, I am not to blame—I have ever been—

You have been falſe, Sir—but you have my conſent, I promiſe you—

But you won't hear me,—

No, ſhe won't liſten to a word—I mean you no wrong, Clariſſa—

Madam, the chair is ready—

Very well!—I won't loſe a moment now—Clariſſa, when I return, you will be better diſpoſed to hear me.

Oh! ma'am, there is no occaſion.—

Well! well!—ſuſpend your judg⯑ment till I come back; your ſervant—adieu.—

Oh! your ſervant, ma'am—Mr. Bell⯑mont, my brother, I promiſe you, will never forgive this injury—

If you will have but a moment's pa⯑tience—

Oh, Sir! I ſhan't want patience,—don't imagine that—I ſhall be very patient, I promiſe you—

Nay, but this is very ill-tempered—one would imagine my lady Reſtleſs had been ſpeak⯑ing to you too—this is like the reſt of them;—downright jealouſy—

Jealouſy!—upon my word, Sir, you are of great conſequence to yourſelf, but of none to me I aſſure you, Sir,—jealouſy! I ſhall die with laughing at the thought—but, before I go, I will write a line to Belinda—to tell her all I know and think of her—Mrs. Tippet will let me have pen, ink, and paper, above ſtairs—and as to you, Sir—I have told you my mind already—Jealouſy!—I can't help being diverted with the very notion of it—your moſt obedient, Sir.

What a deal of miſchief has a ſtrange miſunderſtanding of circumſtances occaſioned this day!—here comes my father—now to per⯑plex matters if I can—and ſo gain at leaſt a little delay—

Well, George! every thing is ſet⯑tled—

But ſtill, Sir, I wiſh you would conſi⯑der—

What, at your tricks again, lad?

You know, Sir, I am above even an at⯑tempt to deceive you—but only reflect, Sir,—this is but a forced conſent from the lady—

What, going back from your word, George?

Not in the leaſt, Sir; but I am ſure, if all circumſtances were known to you, you your⯑ſelf would forbid the banns.

How! how!—what's the matter, George?—I forbid the banns! for what?—

Why, Sir, I am not fond of ſpeaking detractingly of a young lady; but, for the ho⯑nour [95]of your family, Sir, let us deſiſt from this match; that's all, Sir.

Roguery, lad!—there's roguery in this.

I ſee you will force me to ſpeak out—there is a flaw in her reputation, Sir; ſhe is ble⯑miſhed—

Blemiſhed!

Ay, Sir, blemiſhed; my lady Reſtleſs, a very agreeable, worthy lady here in the neigh⯑bourhood, has diſcovered an illicit commerce be⯑tween her and Sir John—the whole charge is come to Beverley's knowledge, and, with tears in his eyes, with a bleeding heart, for he loved her tenderly, he has made his bow to her charms, and taken his final leave.

Ay! lad—is this true?—

Too true, I aſſure you, Sir—my lady will confirm it;—and ſo now judge whe⯑ther—Oh! here comes Mr. Blandford—take no notice to him, Sir;—we need not be acceſſary to her ruin; it is a family affair, and ſo let them patch it up among themſelves, as well as they can—

If things be as you ſay, George—

Supper will be ready immediately, Sir William—odds heart!—my ſpirits are above proof with joy, that this matter is ſo happily ſet⯑tled; I am in love with my daughter for her compliance, and I fancy I ſhall throw in an odd thouſand more, to be ſpent in the honey-moon—Where is Belinda?—

I really can't ſay, Sir; ſhe is not at home.

Not at home!—What can be the meaning of that? where could ſhe go at this hour of night?—I am alarmed—

She is not gone after this Beverley, I hope!—

If ſhe is—Tippet!—who anſwers there?

Where is Belinda?

Gone in a chair to Sir John Reſtleſs—not far off, Sir; juſt bye here—

Gone to Sir John Reſtleſs!

You ſee, Sir!—(to Sir William.)

I did not think ſhe had been ac⯑quainted there—ſhe has got ſome freak in her head, I fear.

Why, it has an odd appearance this—let us follow her thither—this ſhould be en⯑quired into.

Ay! let us loſe no time—let us fol⯑low her immediately; come along—

I attend you, Sir—come along, George—

I will but get my hat, in the next room, Sir, and follow you directly.

Very well! now I ſhall ſee whether you have impoſed upon your father—

And now, Clariſſa, now will I explain to you all my ſufferings; the very ſentiments of my [97]heart—if my lady Reſtleſs perſiſts in her accuſa⯑tion, who knows what turn this affair may ſtill take—I will but ſpeak to Clariſſa, and follow them inſtantly.

This way, Sir, I will let Sir John know.

I ſhan't detain him long, you may ſay.

Very well, Sir.

I thought I heard Sir John talking with my maid.

The buſineſs is preſſing, or I ſhould not trouble him at this hour.

Yes, Sir.

Did not I hear a man in diſcourſe with my wife!—ſo—ſo—ſo—he has got into my houſe again!

Well! only ſay that my buſineſs is very urgent, that's all—

I dare ſay it is—and there ſhe comes to you.

Well, Sir, have you heard any thing farther?

Sir John has been with Belinda ſince I had the pleaſure of ſeeing you, ma'am.

I make no doubt of it, Sir.

And I am informed, that he has taken it into his head to ſuſpect me, madam, which is ſo very unjuſt, that—

Yes, Sir, I do ſuſpect you,—and, Sir, this frequent haunting of my houſe—

Sir John Reſtleſs, you have injured me in my love, in my honour, Sir, and—

Sir, you have injured me in my love and in my honour, Sir—no—not my love, for that is over—I deſpiſe her, ſcorn her, reject her—

That is ever the way with thoſe who have deſerved contempt themſelves, Sir John.

Sir, I muſt beg to diſcuſs this affair with ſome temperance, for it is of moment to me, and—

There, ma⯑dam, there you find them both together,—

Now, Sir; you ſee ſhe comes to my very houſe after him,

Now, madam, judge for yourſelf,

Does this convince you, Sir,

Mr. Beverley! Both ſtaring at each other.

Belinda! Both ſtaring at each other.

By heaven! I fear my information is right.

Did you find them together, Sir,

Found them together, madam!—

Then I am ſatisfied—

Oh! the baſe man!

Abandoned woman!

Treacherous Belinda!

Sir John Reſtleſs,—my lady Reſt⯑leſs,—I apprehend you are the gentleman, Sir,—and you the lady, ma'am—I came hither in queſt of my daughter—ſo, Be⯑linda!—

Are you her father?

I am, madam,—Mr. Beverley here too!—I ſee how this is, Belinda—you have eloped from your father, have you?

Eloped! mind that Sir John,—the thing is clear.

So I think it is—and I ſhould be glad to know which of you encourages her to take this ſtep.

All Sir John's doings, Sir.

Sir John, I muſt tell you—

Sir, let me aſſure you firſt, there is no ſuch thing.

Heavens deliver me!—how can you ſay ſo?—Sir,

I am very ſorry to ſay any thing diſagreeable to a father of his daughter—but, when my happineſs is deſtroyed, ceremony is unneceſſary,—your daughter has made me miſerable, Sir.

What? how?

Sir John Reſtleſs and ſhe, Sir—I cannot ſpeak,

Belinda! you will make your father wretched—

I make you wretched, Sir!—there is no action of my life—

Sir John Reſtleſs—this is my ſon, Sir—he is intereſted in this matter.—George, things turn out as you told me,—

I am ſorry for it, Sir.

Mr. Blandford, you are father to this lady, Sir—don't make yourſelf uneaſy; for I will vouch for her innocence of my lady's charge againſt her.

He will deny every thing, no doubt—but facts are too ſtubborn, and ocular demonſtration I have had.

Ocular demonſtration!

Yes, Sir; I have ſeen their fa⯑miliarities.

George, take Clariſſa as ſoon as you will—Mr. Blandford, you will excuſe me, if I decline any further treaty with you—

Stay but a little till we hear the whole—

Sir, I deſire to hear no more—I am ſatisfied, and muſt deſire not to marry my ſon into your family—Clariſſa—you have my conſent as ſoon as you pleaſe—my ſon is at your ſervice—

Then, Sir William, ſince you pro⯑voke me, Sir, you ſhan't have my daughter. [101]—Mr. Beverley, I no longer oppoſe your incli⯑nations, ſhe is yours—

Do you ſlight my ſon, Sir?—you uſe me very ill—and I would have you know—

You ſhall never refuſe my daughter again, I promiſe you—

Nor ſhall you my ſon, Sir—Here, George, take your Clariſſa—I give her away to you—

The gentleman has declared himſelf for that lady, and—

No, ma'am, that lady has no ſhare in my affections, and, in compliance with my father's in⯑junctions, thus let me ſeize your hand, and de⯑vote to you all my future days.

It's very well, Sir William,—Mr. Be⯑verley, here is my daughter for you—

Ay, now, if he will accept of her, I ſhall begin to think that I have been miſ⯑taken—and that all my ſuſpicions of the lady are without foundation—But, I dare ſay, the gen⯑tleman knows better—What do you ſay, Sir? will you marry the lady?—

If that proof will ſatisfy you, madam—

Hold, hold, a moment—Explain the buſineſs that brought you hither, Sir; anſwer to Sir John's charge againſt you—

Ay, Sir, anſwer that—if ſhe agrees to marry him, I ſhall be ſatisfied too—But, Sir, my lady's being in poſſeſſion of your picture, your frequent viſits to my houſe, Sir, and other circumſtances—

Sir, a word or two will clear that matter—I had given a picture to this lady in the Park—ſhe, I find, dropped it when ſhe fainted away—

Did you faint, Belinda?

I did, Sir, immediately after you treated me in ſuch ſevere terms—in the morn⯑ing—

And then it was I accidentally came to her relief, which my lady, according to cuſ⯑tom, has conceived in the manner you ſee.

And how came you by the picture, madam?

I found it in the very ſpot where I ſaw your daughter in the Park. The truth be⯑gins to break in upon me—

This opens my eyes a little—

And have you been ingenious enough, madam, to work up all theſe circumſtances into a charge againſt Sir John—ha! ha!

'I is ever her way, Sir—I told you how ridiculous you would make yourſelf, my dear; ha! ha!—You ſee, what your ſuſpicions are come to at laſt—ha! ha!

And you may ſee, Sir John, what your ſuſpicions are come to—I never was within your doors before this day; nor ſhould I perhaps have ſpoke to my lady, had it not been for the miſ⯑takes your mutual jealouſies occaſioned between Belinda and me—I cannot help laughing at the whole affair—ha! ha! ha!

Sir, you may laugh—but I have an⯑other complaint againſt my Lady Reſtleſs—

Sir John, Sir John, I have an⯑other charge againſt you—that jade whom you made an aſſignation with—

Oh! madam, Robert knows that whole affair—I'll bring him hither directly, and [103]convict you before the whole company—

Artful, cunning man! you ſhan't ſpeak to him apart;—you ſhan't ſuborn witneſſes—I'll purſue you—gentlemen, let me intreat you to ſtep this way—you will be of great ſervice.

If we can be of any, madam—

Faith, I believe all this puzzle has aroſe from their jealouſy; let us ſee the end of it—

Now, Beverley, now Belinda, make good uſe of your time, and all will be well ſtill.

I ſee, I ſee my raſhneſs—

I have been deceived, I find

If ſhe would but forgive my folly—

Why does he not ſpeak to me?—I can't ſpeak firſt—

Belinda!—

Mr. Beverley!—

Don't you think you have been cruel to me, Belinda?

Don't you think you have behaved worſe to me, Mr. Beverley?

I have; I grant it; Oh! Belinda!—

You firſt diſ⯑ordered my whole frame of mind, and can you wonder—

Oh! my ſoul, my life, it was all my fault.—

do you forgive me?—

You knew the generoſity of my temper, the ſincerity of my affection, how could you let an extravagance of temper ſo far get the better—

I bluſh for it—do you forgive me?

—No—I hate you!—

Do you hate me, Be⯑linda?—

Was it not unkind?—Was it not un⯑generous?—

It was—thus on my knees—

Oh! proud man, have I humbled you once more?—Well, now you are on your knees, I forgive you—Beg my picture back of me this moment—

Oh! I will adore it ever, and heal this breach with uninterrupted love—

Ha! ha!—yes, faith, I ſee we have both made ourſelves very ridiculous.—Ha! ha—

I ſee and acknowledge it.

Egad! I own it;—I can laugh at my own folly and my wife's too—ha! ha!—

Why yes, Sir John, you have been both terribly in the wrong, indeed;—but, Be⯑linda, don't you be in the wrong too—accept of Mr. Beverley this moment.

If you inſiſt upon it—

I do inſiſt upon it—

Thus let me take the bright reward of all my wiſhes.

Well, Sir, and now it's over; you have but commanded me to gratify my incli⯑nations, for we have both ſeen our error, and frankly confeſs we have been in the wrong too.

Faith, I think we have been all ſo; Mr. Blandford, we ſhould not have oppoſed their inclinations, when we had it in our power to make two ſuch happy matches inſtead of one—

Very true; and now I wiſh the young folks all happineſs;—and, Sir John, I wiſh you and your lady happy too—

Sir, it has been a day of miſtakes, but of fortunate ones, I hope, and may tend to all our advantage—My lady here will be taught—

Sir John, I hope you will be taught—

Never mention what is paſt—the wrangling of married people about any little miſconduct is only like the laſhing of a top; it ſerves to keep it up the longer.

You are very right, Sir; and as we have been all in the wrong this day, we will, for the future, endeavour to be "All in the Right."

A good propoſal, Sir John; we will make it our buſineſs, both you who are married, and we who are entering into that ſtate, by mutual confidence, to inſure mutual happineſs.

A match, Mr. Beverley; I ſubſcribe to it;—