[] THE Fatal Extravagance. A TRAGEDY. As it is Acted at the THEATRE, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields.

Written by Mr. JOSEPH MITCHELL.

[figure]

LONDON: Printed for T. JAUNCY, at the Angel, with⯑out Temple-Bar. Price One Shilling.

TO THE Moſt Noble PRINCE, JAMES, Duke HAMILTON, Duke of BRANDON, &c.

[]

May it pleaſe Your Grace,

WHEN I reflect on your Dig⯑nity, as Firſt Peer of Scot⯑land, the oldeſt Monar⯑chy of Europe, I addreſs you with Dread: And conſider my own Ambition of throwing my ſelf, and my firſt Eſſay, in Tragedy, under the Protection of your Illuſtrious [] Name, as a Preſumption, which no A⯑pology can excuſe, unleſs I ſeek it, in your Goodneſs.

But 'tis both natural and neceſſary, for Poets, to court the Favour of the Great: And the Honour, which your Grace's Indulgence vouchſafes me, on this Occaſion, diſtinguiſhes you no leſs among the Patrons of the Mu⯑ſes, than your high Birth, among the Noble; for, the ſmaller my Merit may be judged by the World, the more glo⯑rious that Humanity, which excites your Grace, to encourage it, till 'tis encreas'd by your Influence. Many a Slip might have grown to a tall Cedar, if it had been pal'd round, and wa⯑ter'd, inſtead of being trampled upon. The moſt inviſible Spark may be gra⯑dualy blown to an illuminating Blaze, and give Delight to its Nouriſher.

How bleſs'd ſhould I conceive my ſelf, might I ever become worthy this [] Regard of a Patron, the very Dawn, of whoſe Life, is breaking out upon the World, with a ſtronger Luſtre, from his Merit, than it receiv'd, from his State.

I ſnatch'd this Opportunity, to ac⯑knowledge, my Devotion to your Grace's Name and Family, and to ſtand out the firſt publick Predictor, that your innate Princely Qualities will ren⯑der you of more Conſequence to your Country, than the ſplendid Advanta⯑ges of your Title, and great Power.

So glorious a Conjunction, of hap⯑py Circumſtances, muſt be the Bleſſing of your Grace's own Life, the Honour and good Fortune of your Friends and Dependants, and the univerſal Admi⯑ration of the Country, that lays Claim to you: A Country, which, I am ſure, you will adorn, by your Coun⯑cils, and your Actions, after a Man⯑ner, which has never yet been reach'd, [] even by the Brave and Illuſtrious, long, Line, of your Predeceſſors.

May the kindeſt Care of Heaven preſerve your important Life from all Dangers, and ill Accidents, to be the Ornament of your own Age, and the great Example, and Emulation, of Poſterity!

I am, with the profoundeſt Duty and Reſpect,

May it pleaſe your Grace,

Your Grace's moſt Obedient, and moſt Devoted, Humble Servant, JOSEPH MITCHELL.

THE PREFACE.

[]

THERE are few Men of Learn⯑ing, (except ſome of my own Country, miſled by a Zeal both in⯑diſcreet and unwarrantable) who do not readily acknowledge POE⯑TRY, to be the Daughter of Reli⯑gion, and originally deſign'd, to tune Men's Minds to Devotion. This is evident from the many noble Poems, in the Old Teſtament; to ſay Nothing of other Writings. But the primitive Simplicity, becoming gradually loſt, as the Art was apply'd to Ends, unworthy its Inſtitution, the Reformers were obliged to take Advantage of Mens Paſſions, by giving it a new Turn, which, under the Tempta⯑tion of Delight, diſguis'd the Doctrine they recom⯑mended. TRAGEDY, in particular, was the Per⯑fection of the Muſe's Power. Till that became known, there was wanting a kind of Poetry, which, imitating the Actions of Mankind, might work a readier, and more ſenſible Effect, by a Cor⯑vection of the Paſſions. The Prevalence of Vice, 'tis true, and Men's natural Propenſity to reſiſt good Inſtruction, allow'd not a Succeſs to TRAGI⯑DY, ſo univerſal, as it merited. But ſince no bet⯑ter Help, than this, can be devis'd, the Friends, of Vertue and Genius, muſt uſe the means it affords them.

[] In Countries, where CHRISTIANITY is receiv'd and eſtabliſhed, ſome may, poſſibly, imagine, there is, now, no longer Need of the Aſſiſtance of TRAGE⯑DY: But Experience convinces us, That many frequent the STAGE, who would hardly be pre⯑vailed upon, to receive Counſel from the PULPIT. The CLERGY, therefore, ſhould conſider, as Aux⯑iliaries and Fellow-Labourers, thoſe POETS, who preach Vertue, from the Preſs, or the Theatre. And ſince we ſeek not a Share of their Revenues, for the Pains we take, in their Service, they ought, at leaſt, in Civility, to allow us their Countenance and Acknowledgement! Is there a Kirkman, among my Adverſaries, whoſe Zeal is ſo militant, as to fight without Wages? Why, then, am I condemn'd, who, more generouſly, go to War, in a Way, they could not take themſelves, were they hindred from fighting againſt Vice from the Pulpit! Who is ſo rude, as to blame an honeſt Volunteer, in a good Cauſe? Or, if one deſerves, to be a Commander in Chief, Why is he grudged Preferment, beyond the Liſt and Rate, of an Half-Pay-Officer.?

But ſome, who are moderate, becauſe more wiſe, than thoſe I have had to do with, con⯑feſs the STAGE capable of being made uſeful, yet condemn it, on Account of the Abuſes it in⯑dulges.—Would they deſtroy the Being of an Art, becauſe its Uſe is corrupted? They argue, like thoſe Zealous indeed, but weak Reformers, who were for demoliſhing Churches, that they might be ſure to leave no Images. According [] to theſe Mens Way of Reaſoning, every Thing, that is not perfect, is dangerous and abomina⯑ble; for there is nothing ſo excellent, where Abu⯑ſes may not enter. Preaching, thêy know well, is often abuſed, will they allow me, therefore, to cry out, That all Preaching is unlawful?

I writ the following ſhort TRAGEDY, to give my Countrymen, of the Kirk, an Example, that ſound and uſeful Inſtruction may be drawn from the Theatre, and that, only, the Abuſe is blameable. I might, indeed, have referred my over-rigid Adverſaries to other Pieces of Dramatic POETRY, already extant: But ſome Peculiarities, in my Caſe, (which the World is likely to know more of, very ſoon,) obliged me, to give a Specimen, my ſelf, of a Play, wherein nothing, juſtly, can be condemned, by the Rules of Religion and Vertue. I am, therefore, not afraid, to be try'd by good Chriſtians; and, I hope, to paſs uncenſured by good Criticks alſo, notwithſtanding the uncom⯑mon Manner, in which, I have attempted it.

Five Acts, I know, are Cuſtomary: But they can, by no means, be proved neceſſary. On the Contrary, if any determinate Number were to be appointed, as a Standard, Three Acts ſeem bet⯑ter than Five, by the Critick's own Rule. A Be⯑ginning, a Middle, and an End, ſay theſe Gen⯑tlemen, are the Stages of the Drama. A firſt Act, then, would open, and prepare, the Matter in⯑tended. A Second would perfect, and heighten it to its Summit; and the Third, in a juſt, and na⯑tural Deſcent, ſerves to clear up the Embarraſ⯑ments, [] and bring on the Cataſtrophe. Thus, may Three Acts he defended by Reaſon, better than Five from Cuſtom: But I intend not, hereby to promote the Introduction of a new Manner.

This Tragedy was writ ſo ſhort, for want of Time to enlarge it, by Addition of other Charac⯑ters, and Epiſodical Incidents; yet, becauſe I would not be ſubject to the Reproaches of miſta⯑ken Petulance, I thought it neceſſary to obſerve, that if a dramatic Story is compleat, in its Prepa⯑ration, Progreſs, and Concluſion, it is of no great Importance, what Number of Acts it con⯑ſiſts of.

But one general Error, if I miſtake not, among Writers of TRAGEDY, is a Failure in their very Principle. They teach not a Moral, but de⯑ſcribe ſome Piece of Hiſtory.—The Buſineſs of the STAGE, if I apprehend it rightly, is, firſt, to intend ſome general and uſeful Inſtruction, how Men may avoid certain Miſchiefs in Life, by cor⯑recting thoſe Paſſions, which muſt naturally pro⯑duce them; and then, to find, or invent, ſome Story, which may ſerve as an Example, for ſtrengthening that Precept, and ſhew a Man made miſerable by Effect of thoſe Paſſions, which the Writer would teach his Audience to reſiſt, or keep Guard againſt. Every Thing, in a Trage⯑dy, which has not a direct, and viſible, Tendency to the Moral it is writ for, is ſuperfluous, and monſtrous; and, however pompouſly embelliſhed, ſerves for nothing, but to weaken the Inſtruction, [] and diſtract the Attention, and Apprehenſion, of an Audience.

I took the Hint (and only the Hint, as the Reader may ſee) of that Story, which I have fitted to the Moral of the following little Piece, from SHAKESPEAR'S Yorkſhire Tragedy, which was put into my Hands, on purpoſe, by my good Friend, Mr. Hill, to whom I take this Occaſion of expreſſing my Gratitude, in the moſt publick manner I can; all Endeavours, beſide Acknow⯑ledgments, being vain, to match the Inſtances of his Friendſhip, and that uncommon Humanity, and Frankneſs of Spirit, ſo peculiar to himſelf, in his manner of beſtowing Favours: But 'tis needleſs, to tell the World, how much I am oblig'd to him, and what juſt Senſe I have of his gene⯑rous Regard to me. They, who know him well, and what a Waſte of his important Time he has made for my Intereſt, will be beforehand with my Acknowledgements, and enumerate the Advanta⯑ges, which I could not miſs from his Friendſhip.—I owe much, in the Scheme, in the Sentiments, and Language, of this Piece, to the Direction of that accompliſhed Gentleman, who, has either no E⯑nemies, or they are ſuch, becauſe Strangers to his good Qualities; for, 'tis only neceſſary to know him, to be, by Choice, or Obligation, made invio⯑lably his own.—I embrace this Opportunity of thanking him for his excellent Prologue, which ſo well prepared the Audience for the Repreſenta⯑tion. Nor can I help thanking him even for the Epilogue, tho' not leſs pleaſant on my ſelf, than [] on my Adverſaries among the Scots Clergy; for who would not be contented under a Stroke, or two, of his Satyr, whoſe Praiſe, (as Juba ſays of Cato) I would rather have, than Worlds for my Admirers.

Before I end this Preface, I muſt not forget to thank the Generoſity of my Friends, of all Qua⯑lities, who, ſo nobly, grac'd the Action of my firſt Endeavour, in TRAGEDY. I ſhould have very little Merit, not to improve on ſuch Encou⯑ragement.—Before ſo ſelect, and illuſtrious an Audience, the admirable Mrs. Seymour, and the Gentlemen, who ſo well performed the Parts, muſt have felt a Satisfaction, equal to that Ap⯑plauſe, which their Action deſerved, and met with.

PROLOGUE. Written by AARON HILL Eſq Spoken by Mr. RYAN.

[]

WArm'd, by a Kindred Senſe of England's Woes,
A Caledonian Muſe, with Pity, glows;
From ruin'd Hopes, a ſaving Moral takes,
And paints th' Unhappy, for the Happy's Sakes.
Scotland's new Taſte our meaning Scene ſupplies,
And a firſt Flight, on Tragick Pinions, tries.
Brave, and long fam'd in Arms, her warlike Race
Have trod▪ the Fields of Death, with dauntleſs Grace!
Fierce, and untir'd, in Blood, have, nobly, dar'd,
And every Toil, and every Danger, ſhar'd.
Now, fir'd by rifing Arts, ſhe graſps the Boys,
And her old Cant, like falling Stocks, decays.
Her long-loſt Muſe new-lights her ancient Flame!
And our Scene blazes, with recover'd Fame.

We teach, to Night,—ah! would 'twere not too late,
How, raſh, believing Avarice galls a State;
What private Sorrows, from wild Hazards, flow,
And how falſe Hope produces certain Woe.

This,—the moſt natural Buſineſs of the Stage,
Will all your generous Hearts, tis bop'd, engage:
None can their Pity, for thoſe Woes, conceal,
Which moſt, who hear, perhaps, too deeply, feel.
The Rants of ruin'd Kings, of mighty Name,
For pompous Miſery, ſmall Compaſſion claim.
Empires o'rturn'd, and Heroes, held in Chains,
Alarm the Mind, but give the Heart no Pains.
To Ills, remote from our Domeſtic Fears,
We lend our Wonder, but with-hold our Tears.

Not ſo, when, from ſuch Paſſions, as our own,
Some Favourite Folly's, dreadful Fate is ſhown;
There the Soul bleeds, for what it feels within;
And conſcious Pity ſhakes, at ſuffering Sin.

O! give Attention, to the moving Scene,

And ſhun what yet may be, by what has been.

THE EPILOGUE. Written by AARON HILL Eſq Spoke by Mrs. SEYMOUR.

[]

You've ſeen the Play:—and I'll unfold the Poet,
To whom,—(ſtray'd Sheep, of a Pure Flock!) we owe it.
He's a Chance-Bleſſing—ſomewhat ſtrangely flung us!
Dropt—from the Clouds of Innocence,—among us!
Slipt, thro' the Kirk's looſe Pale, We gave him Quarter—
Poor Soul!—He' had like to've been the Muſe's Martyr.
When Stage-Plays!—and Abominations!—took him,
Grace, and the Shepherds of the Saints forſook him.
'Twas given, thenceforth, to Satan's Power, to win him:
—The Root of the Sound Matter—was not in him!
Yet, tho' rebuk'd, full ſore,—he's no huge Sinner:
You'll ſcarce ſee One of his pure Brethren—thinner.
Moſt ſanctify'd of Face! Troth—I'm afraid,
If his Looks lie not—the poor Man's a Maid!

The Bard, not carnal-minded,—ſay the Curious,
How come th' unfleſhly Folks, to be ſo furious?
Judge you the Quarrel, right.—we'll, briefly, ſhow it.—
—Good plays give good Inſtruction—ſaid the Poet.
Vanity! cry'd the Brethren.—Groſs Defilement!
And, ſo, the War broke out, paſt Reconcilement.

[]

Young Bays, provok'd, here, drew his wrathful Pen—

Shine forth, ſaid he, my Muſe, on thoſe dark Men;

And prove, by Dint of fair Example, whether

Much Goodneſs is not learnt, by coming hither?

But, what He teaches, be to Him alone,—
I'll teach a Secret Leſſon, of my own.
—Say they, of Plays,—that Men learn Nothing by 'em?
I ſtand—the Stage's Champion—and defye 'em.
Who, that has ſeen, to Night, how I, a Wife,
Gave Counſel, fit to've ſav'd my Spouſe's Life,
Learns not this Moral, paſt all Contradiction,
That Diſobedient Husbands—meet Affliction?
That He's moſt happy, who, his Fetters eaſes,
And lots his wiſer Wife—do—what ſhe pleaſes?

This, for our Sexe's Fame, his Play produccs—
You ſee—all Doctrines have their hidden Uſes.
To This—if the bluff Brethren preach Reſiſtance,
Let 'em, if they love Safety, keep their Diſtance.
For, ſhould we catch 'em, in our wrong'd Dominion,
Stiff as they are, we'll make 'em change Opinion.

Dramatis Perſonae.

[]

Bellmour. Mr. Quin.
Courtney. Mr. Boheme.
Bargrave. Mr. Ogden.
Louiſa. Mrs. Seymour.

[]THE Fatal Extravagance.

SCENE Bellmour's Houſe.Enter Louiſa and Courtney.
TWAS kind! this Speed of your Return.—
Louiſa,
But, tell me,
What Succeſs had you? Was my Father mov'd?
Methinks, I read your News, in your ſad Viſage,
And my Heart trembles with prophetick Fears.
Courtney,
'Tis as I judg'd 'twou'd be His own Wants preſs him;
He ſinks beneath your Husband's waſtful Life,
Thoſe boundleſs Dicings, and voluptuous Riots,
[2] And this laſt, worſt, Adventure, of loſt Hope,
Which has, at once, diſſolv'd a Wealth ſo vaſt!
That Pity ſcarce vouchſafes to feel his Sufferings!
Lou.
But his late Conduct proves my Bellmour chang'd:
Misfortunes have inſtructed him to think,
And Thought has captiv'd every madding Paſſion.
Court.
Yet early Vice, by Cuſtom, long indulg'd,
Leaves ſuch Impreſſion of habitual Ill,
As finds no Cure, but from ſevere Remorſe,
And Time's ſlow working.
Lou.
Nay, name not Bellmour's Vice—
He has no Vice—His very Power is loſt,
Even had he Taſte for Follies—Poor and deſpis'd,
The Slaves, for whoſe curs'd Sakes he ſtands reproach'd,
Now ſhun his Converſe. Villains, who betray'd him,
Start, when they meet him. Poverty, like his,
Spreads a Contagion round it. All Mankind
Cry "Lord have Mercy, and fly, frighted from him.
Did you lay open our incumbent Ruin?
Urg'd you my Father ſtrongly? Want's cold Hand
Creeps o'er us, and 'tis now no Time for Counſel.
Court.
I told him all, and mov'd his utmoſt Pity.
Still as he ſet, to view, your Husband's Failings,
I urg'd his Virtues, and bore down the Ballance;
I prais'd his Wit, his Courage, his Humanity,
His fine frank Spirit, and his generous Nature:
But 'twas loſt Hope—Believe, his Brother knows him;
What he has done, already, weighs him down,
His ſtruggling Will, to ſave you, has undone him,
And Bellmour's ſelf wou'd there beg Aid, in Vain.
Lou.
[3]O! he was never born to be a Beggar!
Heaven is too kind to Goodneſs, to forſake him!
He, whom ſoft Pity melts at other's Miſery,
Deſerves, himſelf, to live exempt from Woe.
Bellmour could ne'er behold a Stranger wretched,
But he partook his Pain, 'till he cou'd eaſe it.
How, then, will he ſupport the weeping anguiſh,
Of three poor Children, all un [...]one by Him?
Court.
His Good, and Ill, ſo chequer out his Nature,
That which excells, is doubtful. Nobly will'd,
His pitying Heart flows out, in generous Purpoſes:
But, wanting Power, to ſtem the Tide of Pleaſure,
Irreſolute, he drives, and floats to Ruin.
Men muſt be rigid, and ſevere, in Virtue!
Serious, and noble Aims diſtinguiſh Reaſon!
To live for Taſte is not to live at all.
The Man of Pleaſure dreams away his Days,
And dies, to be forgotten—Bellmour's Soul,
Had Contemplation bent it to a Byas,
Had given a Point to Fame's proud Pinacle,
And purpled o'er his Name with deathleſs Glory!
Now, it lies loſt in Duſt!—I wou'd 'twere mine,
To skreen you from the Storm, that's gathering round you:
But I, unbleſs'd with Power, can only wiſh,
And wonder, why the Strong have feeble Wills.
Lou.
Oh! I ſhall tremble to behold his Face!
His ruin'd Family hangs on his Heart,
His helpleſs Children's future Fate diſtracts him,
And the once lively Bellmour ſmiles no more.
Silent, he walks, or ſtands with folded Arms,
And ſtill looks down, as if his Soul were Earth.
If e'er, by chance, his lifted Eyes meet mine,
The ſtarting Tears glare dreadfully upon me,
[4] And, quivering, ſtruggle, to flow looſe, in Sorrow.
Then Sighs, ſuppreſs'd by Force, ſtrive hard for Vent,
And heave, and ſwell, like Earthquakes, in his Boſom.
 [...], at length, he breaks, in Whirlwind, from me,
Torn by ten thouſand Pangs, raves, reddens, ſtarts,
And frights me with a drea [...]ful burſt of Paſſions!
O Uncle! what remains for Hope to ſnatch at?
Of all the wide Eſtate, that late enclos'd us,
But th [...]s poor Houſe is left us—This too totters.
Soon Rain, with his palſied Hand, will ſeize
This antient Pile, and ſhake it into Duſt!
Not thrice the Worth of all that now is ours,
Will ſave poor Woodly from that fatal Bond,
He ſign'd, to ſerve my Bellmour, All our Hope
Was in vour frie [...]dly Journey to my Father.
Woodly muſt ſink, and Bellmour cannot bear it.
Bellmour will never live, to ſink a Friend!
Look yonder, where, in penſive Grief, he walks,
Unhoping, and diſconſolate!
Cour.
Poor Bellmour
How chang'd, from that wild, noiſy, joyful Rioter,
Which all his Friends have known him! Still extream!
Enter Bellmour, walking Mellancholly.
Lou.
My Life! my Bellmour! wound not thus my Soul,
I have more Woes to bear, that are my own,
Than my Strength matches—add not thou thy Sorrow;
That would o'erwhelm me quite.
Bell.
I pray forgive me.
[5] Priſon'd in Thought, I could not look about me,
And my Soul miſs'd thy Comfort.—I was mu⯑ſing;
Lou.
What ſad Reflection held you?
Bell.
A mournful Wandering!
No matter now—
Lou.
Nay you muſt tell it me.
Bell.
I was conſidering which of my three Boys,
Some few Years hence, when I'm diſſolv'd in Death,
Will act the Beggar beſt! run, bare-foot, faſteſt!
And, with moſt dextrous Shrugg, play Tricks for Charity!
Lou.
O! for Heaven's Sake, forbear, by Starts! like This,
To image Horrors, Nature ſhrinks at Thought of.
Bell.
Why, my Louiſa! 'tis a Wretch's Duty,
To learn to bear his Miſery—to know it,
To uſe our ſelves to poize it, is the Means
To make it eaſie to us.—Yet I'm to blame!
Thou had'ſt no ſhare, in any Guilt of mine;
I ought alone to ſuffer—'Twas too cruel,
'Twas even unmanly, to afflict thy Innocence!
Cour.
Oh! Sir, you ſooth the Grief you ſhould reſiſt!
As the groſs Atmoſphere is ſhook by Tempeſts,
Which never ruffle the ſuperior Regions;
Mean Spirits, only, buckle under Woe;
It is the great Man's Pride, to combat Fortune,
And riſe againſt Oppreſſion.
Bell.
Sir, 'tis true—
And, I remember, you have oft advis'd it,
While I had Power, to try my Virtue's Proof.
A Man may dye, unhelp'd—but muſt not hope
To Conquer, without Arms.—Talking of Help,
[6] Will your good Brother lend it?—Speaking Si⯑lence!
How could I hope it from him?
Cour.
Yet deſpair not—
A time may come, when even your Woes ſhall prove
Great Benefits. Firm Spirits break Misfortunes!
To ſuffer well's the nobleſt way to Conqueſt.
On a ſmooth Sea, the Sailor ſhows no Skill,
But he diſplays it all, in Hurricanes.
Bell.
He wou'd not, ſure, neglect to ſave his Daughter,
Had he the Power ſtill left him—Yet Friends,
Are more than Fathers! A Father cannot be ſometimes,
More than a Friend!—I had a Friend in Woodly!
Once he was happy—what he ſhall be hereafter,
He owes to friendleſs Bellmour! Periſh the Name;
To what a ſtinging Death is he reſerv'd,
Who leaves a good Man wretched, whom he made ſo?
Sir, it wou'd eaſe me of a galling Pain,
Wou'd you diſolve this diſappointed Hope
In Woodly's Breaſt.—'Twere Sin to nouriſh it,
Since 'tis unſtable—He muſt know it ſoon:
Let it be told by any Tongue, but Bellmour's.
Cour.
I'll viſit him this Inſtant.—Do you, mean while,
Bravely ſeek Comfort from a firm Belief,
That Heaven befriends your Virtues, and will ſave, you.
A Hand unſeen theſe Clouds of Woe may clear,
And, into Triumph turn diſtracting Fear.
[Exit Courtney.
Bell.
Louiſa! I am Damn'd, while yet alive!
Loui.
Alas! what mean you to diſtract me thus
With your wild Startings?
Bell.
[7]Nay, but mark me well,—
Want's the Damnation of a living Sinner—
What have I liv'd for, if I die a Beggar?
Why were my Anceſtors renown'd in War?
Why, with grave Judges, have they grac'd the Bench,
Or, with wiſe Votes, the Senate?—In Me, muſt beg—
Mark that lean Word, Louiſa!—In Me muſt beg
That ebbing Name, which, through a length of Ages,
Has given a Kingdom Honour. Bear'ſt thou That?
How excellent art Thou! not to have ſcorn'd me!
Good Heaven! that Reaſon ſhould give Madneſs way,
'Till Man finds Muſick, in a ratling Dice-box!
And has contracted thrice three thouſand Acres,
To the curs'd Compaſs of a narrow Table!
With what a thoughtleſs Rapture have I ſhook 'em!
Hung o'er the Throw! and hurl'd out my Poſterity
Pimps, Thieves, or Beggars!—But then at laſt,
This Madman's Hazard! of my treaſur'd Remnant,
In the wild Lottery of a publick Hope,
Where Reaſon had no Chance, and Villains govern'd,
Curs'd! groundleſs, Raſhneſs!—Tear me Limb from Limb,
Some pitying Torturer! to die at once,
Were Comfort even in Agony!—But I ſhall be
Whole Ages, after Death, in dying!—Villains,
Dull, pityleſs, inſulting, dirty Villains,
Will point at ſome poor ragged Child of mine,
And ſay, 'There's Pride and Name! There's Bell⯑mour's Honour!
'There's the bleſt Remnant of a boaſted Family!
Curſe the keen Thought! It pours all Hell upon me!
Lou.
Still wilt thou, thus, ſnatch at Deſpair's wild Shadows?
[8] I thought, the manly Soul cou'd Smile at Anguiſn;
Woman's weak mind may bend beneath Adverſity;
But Bellmour's Brow, methinks, ſhou'd wear a Ma⯑jeſty,
And make Affliction awful.
Bell.
Away with Counſel.
I cannot hear Thee! Thy moving Air! thy wiſdom!
That Lovely Softneſs, which bewitches round Thee!
Each charm, which has a thouſand times appeas'd me!
Now makes me mad! Like Oyl, pour'd out on Flame,
I tower, in Blaze, and burn with tenfold Firce⯑neſs.
Thy ev'ry word is Death! Each look thou giv'ſt me
Breaks thro' my Eye, comes ruſhing on my Soul,
And ſhoots ſharp Arrows, thro' my bleeding Con⯑ſcience.
Thinkſt thou, I am ſo mean, ſo loſt a Wretch,
That my own Miſery ſtings me? Cruel Woman!
What earthly Ills can Bellmour ſtoop to fear,
Which hurt but Bellmour? 'Tis true, indeed, thy Fate
I have not learn'd to bear—There, Grief un⯑mans me
Thine and thy helpleſs Infants Woes riſe to me,
Glare on my Apprehenſion, like pale Ghoſts!
And point me into madneſs!—Oh! I've wrong⯑ed Thee!
Lou.
'Tis wronging me to ſay it—Re-enter Courtney.
Bell.
Courtney return'd ſo ſoon!
I like not this—
Lou.
Why look you pale, good Uncle?
Cour.
To bring unwelcome Tidings, to the wretched,
[9] Gives the ſad Teller half the Hearer's Woe.
Bell.
Friendly Preparative! What follows next
Can be but Woodley's Ruin!
Cour.
He's undone!—
Lou.
Unhappy Bellmour!
Cour.
Near your Houſe I met him,
Hemm'd by a ſwarthy Guard of licens'd Villains,
The Laws grim Blood-Hounds. With rapacious Talons,
They dragg'd him on, in mercileſs Serenity,
To ſhut him from his Hopes, in joyleſs Priſon!
Bell.
Oh!
Cour.
At ſhort diſtance, near the Sycamore,
That marks the Turning to that now-fall'n Houſe
Of this poor Gentleman, I ſaw his Lady,
Wild, with a Storm of Grief! Her Hair diſhevel'd!
And her looſe Robes, blown, careleſs, by the Wind!
Struggling, with weeping Servants, to break free.
Fain wou'd ſhe follow him, to ſhare Reſtraint:
But, by ſuperior Force, held back, and hindered,
With ſtraining Eyes, ſhe kept him long in view;
And, when a guſhing Flood obſcur'd her Sight,
Still more to lengthen out a laſt, ſad, Look,
She wip'd away the Tears, and gaz'd, again!
Lou.
Dreadful Deſcription!—Cloſe it here, good Uncle!
It cuts too deep, and wounds my Bellmour's Soul.
Cour.
No more remains to tell, but, that his Houſe
Is fill'd with Ruſſians, his rich Goods torn down,
And his griev'd Wife, and Children, roam, unſhelter'd,
Without a Home, to ſuccour them.
Lou.
O guide them hither.
Let me, with open Arms, fly to receive them,
And ſtrive, if poſſible, to give them Comfort.
Bell.
Louiſa!—As thou wouldſt preſerve my Life,
[10] Bring not their Grief too near me.—My melting Soul
Flows into Air, as I but hear their Miſery:
To ſee it, wou'd diſtract me.—Said he nothing?
Cour.
Marking me, as I turn'd my Face aſide,
He call'd, and counſell'd you to ſave yourſelf,
By ſudden Flight:—Since other Ruffians, brought
By Bargrave, your malicious Creditor,
Will preſently be here, on the ſame Purpoſe.
As for my Fate, ſaid he, bid him not mourn it:
To fall for Bellmour, wou'd have given me Joy,
Had Bellmour's ſelf not fall'n.
Bell.
He falls, indeed!
Cour.
Now, as I enter'd, Bargrave, juſt arriv'd,
With his in fernal Crew, beſets your Gates.
A barbarous Triumph glows on his proud Cheek,
And from beneath his Brows o'erjutting Low'r,
Malicious Inſults grin, in hollow Ambuſh!
Lou.
Now, Bellmour! thou art loſt!—immediate Ruin
Will ſwallow Thee, and Me, and our dear Children!
All! All! muſt ſink, together.—Teach us good Uncle!
Which way to fly - What meaſures to purſue.
Cour.
The Doors, faſt barr'd, are guarded by your Servants;
And you may thro' the Grove, eſcape, unſeen.
Bell.
No-let him enter.—This Bargrave taught me Vice,
And counſell'd even the Adventure, that undoes me!
He wrongs the Devil, who makes himſelf the Puniſher
Of Ills, which he excited! Juſtice acts wiſely!
Oh! She's not Blind.-She chuſes a fit Moment,
And throws him on my Vengeance. Let him enter,
Bring he as many Lives, as he has Crimes,
May Curſes catch me, if he ſcape my Hand!
Lou.
As thou lov'ſt me, Bellmour! be not raſh.
[11] Should'ſt thou add Murder to our other Woes,
How wretched ſhou'd we be?—
Cour.
Perſuade him rather,
Sooth him to Pity. Wou'd he free your Friend,
And add ſome Weeks of Liberty, for Tryal,
What Succour may be found; you've many Friends:
Who knows what unhop'd Aid may riſe to ſave you?
Bell.
No, Courtney! Friendſhip riſes but with Fortune;
And ſets when Men go downward, yet, I thank you.
Rage had obſcur'd my Reaſon.—Say, to Bargrave,
I have an Offer for his private Ear.—
I will inſtruct my Swelling Indignation,
To cool, and ſettle, like a Courtier's Paſſions.
What cannot Intereſt teach us?
Exit Courtney.
Leave me, Louiſa!
I wou'd not have thee blaſt thy innocent Eyes,
With ſight of ſuch a monſter.—Nor brook I, well,
That thou, who haſt been taught to love Sincerity,
Shou'dſt hear me flatter Infamy!
Lou.
Do but think
'Tis for their Sakes, whom moſt you wiſh to Succour,
And you will find it eaſy. Farewell! he comes.
Exit Louiſa
Enter Bargrave.
Bar.
So Sir! I find, you make your Houſe your Garriſon!
Bold ſowerfac'd Centinels admit, with Caution,
Whom you vouchſafe your Paſs to.—Tis great, indeed!
Girt, Sovereign-like, within your Palace Walls,
The Law muſt beg Admiſſion! But the Pride,
With which your State o'erlook'd me, will Inſtruct me,
Till I find Means to reach you.—
Bell.
[12]I ſent not for you
Thus to revive old Hatred. 'Twas my Meaning,
To ſet before your Eyes the ſpreading Miſery,
From which a Week's ſhort Reſpite may, perhaps,
Free Woodly, and my ſelf, nor do you wrong.
Bar.
Oh, Sir! no doubt, 'tis likely, that Seven Days
Will pay a Bond, which twice Seven Months, and more,
Has drawn no Intereſt from you!—Woodly may claim
Some little Pity.—He's a ſuffering Tool,
Who Faſts to feed your Riots. But for you,
No Plea bears Influence. What a maſs of Wealth
Loaded your Youth! The Toil of careful Anceſtors▪
And, how it is conſum'd, let Thouſands tell,
Whoſe lifted Eyes and Hands proclaim their Wonder.
I dare not whiſper it.—Men won'd think me Mad:
And laugh to hear, that the once liberal Bellmour
Is grown a Niggard, now; and, like a Miſer,
Whines for a Day of Grace.—And ſwears 'twill ruin him,
To pay his Creditors.—Name it no more.—
Should it get Wind, 'twou'd lower your tow'ring Top-Sails,
And loſe you many a Cap, and Country Shout,
As vou ride thro' the Villages.
Bell.
Inſulting Wretch!
It grates my inmoſt Soul, to ſuffer this,
But my Friend's Fate depends on't.—You ſeem'd to ſpeak,
As if you pity'd Woodly.—Give him Liberty:
And let me fill the Place, to which you've ſent him,
I ask no more.—For my own Miſeries,
Perhaps, they merit not.—I'm ſure, they ſcorn,
What Pity thou can'ſt give them.—
Bar.
Oft, I remember,
Woodly, with zeal for holy Texts, tranſported,
[13] Wou'd preach, and cite Divinity.—Dull! Dull!
How cou'd he miſs that Caution, which forbad him
To be another's Surety? What comes after,
He now, perhaps, has learnt.—And will remember
When, next, he talks, to edify.
Bell.
Nay, then,
Off, mean Hypocriſy! I'll make thee hear me,
In Words, which match thy Malice. Think, low Traytor!
How I, firſt, learn'd that Guilt, with which, but now,
Thy Tongue reproach'd me! Who, but the Villain Bargrave?
Bar.
Ha! Villain! ſaid you?
(offering to draw.)
Bell.
Yes, the Villain Bargrave.—
Touch not thy Sword.-Should'ſt thou unſheath it, here,
Thy Guardian Devil, too weak to ſave his Miniſter,
Should riſe, in vain, betwixt us!
Bar.
I'll hear thee out.—
Bell.
Who, but thy ſelf, ſpread all thoſe Snares about me,
Which, firſt, entangling, next o'erthrew my Virtue?
Who ſtain'd the Native Whiteneſs of my Soul,
And ſpotted it with Follies? Think, how this Bond,
Was fraudulently, and, by ſhameful Arts,
Won from my clouded Reaſon! when the Fumes,
Of madding Wine, had warm'd my yielding Fancy,
Fit for a Knaves Impreſſion! -Haſt thou Humanity?
And doſt not feel a Ruin thou haſt caus'd?
Haſt thou Reflection? and canſt thou ſleep, unſtung,
By guilty Startings, and remorſeful Dreams?
Or have the Fiends, that haunt thy gloomy Boſom,
Unhumaniz'd thy Heart? ſear'd up thy Conſcience?
And left all Devil within thee?—
Bar.
Now take Breath:
[14] And hear me tell the Effect of this fine Pleading.
I find my ſelf, with all theſe black Endowments,
Your Maſter, and your Scourge.-But that I ſcorn thee,
I could be angry.- Mark this ſilent Witneſs:
Look on this Bond.- And curſe the woeful Hour,
That gave thy Friend, and thee, to my Diſpoſal.
I'll leave our Wives, to ſcold the Quarrel out,
While I ſeek Vengeance, not from Words, but Action.
(He attempts to go out.)
Bell.
By Action! didſt thou ſay? I thank thee, Bargrave!
Thou haſt inſtructed Me.- That fatal Bond
Shall never riſe, in Judgment, againſt Woodly.
(Drawing his Sword, and putting himſelf before the Door.)
Juſt Heav'n, that hates Oppreſſion points a Way,
To caſe my wretchedneſs of half its Load,
By cutting thro' that Chain, that binds my Friend.
Now' if thou dar'ſt defend thy Villainies,
Unſheath thy Sword, and to this guarded Door,
Force thy wiſh'd Paſſage, thro' the Breaſt of Bellmour.
(They fight and Bargrave falls.)
Bar.
Curſes conſume that all deſtroying Hand,
Spite of my wiſh'd Revenge, thou wilt eſcape me:
No Heir ſurvives, to put the Bond in Proof,
And Woodly, and thy ſelf, are free again.
(He dies.)
Enter Courtney, ſurpriz'd: And Louiſa, at another Door.
Cour.
What have you done? I fear'd this raſh Effect
Of Rage, but half ſuppreſs'd. And waited near:
But an Attempt, yon Blood-hounds made without,
To force an Entrance, call'd me off too fatally!
Lou.
Was this, my Belmour! Speak, was this the way,
[15] To eaſe our Wretchedneſs? Oh! this black Chance
Sinks us ſtill deeper, Cuts us off from Comfort,
And we can never, now, be happy more!
Bell.
Courtney! 'twere vain to wiſh this Act un⯑done.
Scarce can it claim Repentance.- Secret and ſudden,
Let me entreat thee, to convey this Parchment
(Taking the Bond from Bargrave's Pocket.)
Into my Woodly's Hand.- Say how it happen'd:
Tell him, whatever Fate may do with me,
I'm bleſs'd, to give him Freedom.
Cour.
Guard the Doors well.- There's Danger near:
And I'll not leave you long.
Exit Courtney.
Lou.
Fly; for Heaven's ſake, begone.
One Hours delay prevents Eſcape for ever.
Bell.
What woud'ſt thou have me do?
Lou.
Let me diſguiſe thee.—
Then thro' the Grove, haſt; and, in ſome poor Cottage,
Entreat a ſhort Concealment.- There, I'll find thee,
And we'll conſult Relief from all our Woes.
Bell.
Fix'd as my Fate, I ſtand, unmov'd to expect it.
I'll not ſtir hence, by Heav'n.
Lou.
Oh! do not Swear!
Think, how my Peace of Mind, my Hope, my Miſery,
Depends on Thine.- Thus, on my Knees, I urge it,
Thou, being free, may'ſt find a thouſand Ways,
To ſuccour us; but if thou fall'ſt, a Family,
A Loſt! a Friendleſs Family! falls with thee.
Oh! if I ever was belov'd by Bellmour,
If all my Pray'rs, my Vows, my Tears, can move him,
Let him but grant me this.- Let him but leave me,
Rain then a world of Woes upon my Head!
Let Want, Reproach, Contempt, and all Life's Agonies
[16] In ceaſeleſs Bitterneſs of Soul, afflict me,
While thou art ſafe, if I but let one Sigh,
One Breath of Diſcontent eſcape my Lips,
Curſe me thy ſelf, and make me loſt, indeed.
Bell.
Excellent Woman!-riſe.- To ſee thee thus
Is Torture beyond bearing!
Lou.
I will not leave thee.—
Here, at thy Feet, thus humbled, as that Duſt,
Which I ſhall ſhortly be, when I have loſt thee,
Here will I grow for ever, till thou grant'ſt
This only Pray'r I make thee.—
Bell.
Thou bidſt me fly:
What would'ſt thou I ſhould fly from?
Lou.
Danger and Miſery.
Bell.
With whom then muſt I leave that Miſery?
Muſt not thy ſelf, and thoſe Three friendleſs Wretches,
Whoſe Being I was Cauſe of, and who expect
Aid and Protection from a Parent's Hand;
While I eſcape, muſt you not all be left?
Hell glows in that hot Thought! be left, expos'd
To all the Miſeries, which thou would [...]ſt have me
Fly, like a Coward from, and leave for Innocents,
Who owe 'em to my Baſeneſs! no!- My Louiſa,
Wretch, as I have been, I'm not fall'n ſo low!
Lou.
[riſing]
Loſt, Loſt, for ever:
Bell.
No, there's a Judge on high,
Who ſees, and loves, thy Goodneſs.- Let me entreat thee,
To give my Sorrows way, for a few Moments.
A Solitary Thought! a Turn or two,
Uninterrupted, in the Gallery,
Will teach me to reſolve, and then I'll call thee.
Exit Bellmour.
[33]Lou.
Angels aſſiſt and guide thy ſilent Rea⯑ſonings,
And, from this Labyrinth of Woes, unwind thee!
Diſmal our Proſpect! yet all may be well!
Heav'n cannot err—oft guides us in the Dark—
And, when we leaſt expect, affords relief.
As thro' black ſtorms of Wind, and driving Rain,
Short, Sunny Beamings ſtreak the harraſs'd Main,
So, thro deep Sorrows, Gleams of Comfort riſe,
And ſpread ſmooth Heavens before the Sufferers Eyes.
[Exit Louiſa.

SCENE changes to a Gallery.

Enter Bellmour, alone, Penſive.

Bell.

Why ſhou'd I pauſe! Nothing can be a Crime

Which puts a ſtop to Evil. A thouſand Men

May have been poor as I,—and yet liv'd happy!

Miſeries, we make our ſelves, are born with Eaſe;

But He, who beggars his Poſterity,

Begets a Race, to curſe him—Profuſe in Ills,

He, propagating Ruin, with his Name,

Entails Deſcent of Anguiſh!—Every Scorn,

Which wrings the Soul of any future Bellmour,

Whom Want ſhall pinch the Bones of, Ages hence,

Will mark, with Shame, my unforgotten Grave,

And reach my guilty Soul, where e'er it wanders.

—If to give Miſery to thoſe, to whom

We once gave Life, is an inhuman Crime

How can it be a Sin, to take Life back,

[34] And put an End to Miſery? To live,

Is to be rack'd, if Life muſt ſtill be poor:

For Poverty gives up the Wiſe Man's Worth,

To the Contempt of taſteleſs Ignorance.

Oh!—Cou'd I feel no Miſery, but my own!

How eaſy were it for this Sword, to free me,

From all that Anguiſh, which embitters Life?

But, when the Grave has given my Sorrows Reſt,

Where ſhall my miſerable Wife find Comfort?

Unfriended, and alone, in Want's bleak Storm,

Not all the Angelic Virtues of her Mind,

Will ſhield her, from the unpitying World's Deriſion.

Can it be kind to leave her ſo expos'd,

And, while I ſleep in Death, not dream of Her?

Better a thouſand Times, to lead her with me,

Thro' the dark Doubtfulneſs of deep Futurity!

Whate'er uncertain Fate attends, hereafter,

It can but be the worſt of what is bad,

And that's our State, already.—It ſhall be done!

But how? That aſks ſome Thought—Death, in it ſelf,

Comes ſoft, and ſweetly, as an Infant's Sleep,

When Nature, unalarm'd, expects it not.

From thoſe dear, deſtin'd Breaſts, the pointed Steel,

Muſt draw no Blood, to ſtain my bluſhing Hand;

Leſt my Soul ſtart, and that ſeem Cruelty,

Which I wou'd fain think Pity.—Hark! The Time preſſes me.

(Loud Knockings without.)

What if I uſe th'unwounding Aid of Poiſon?

I have at Hand that Sovereign Remedy,

For all Diſeaſes, Want and Woe can plague with.

Mix'd with ſome unfear'd Draught 'twill gently Murder:

[35] Bear off Death's painful Edge, and, in ſweet Slumber,

Swim ſoft, and ſhadowy, o'er the miſty Eye-ball.

Enter Louiſa.

Lou.

Will you forgive me, if Officious Love,

That anxious Pain I feel, till you are ſafe,

Obtrudes my Zeal, perhaps a few ſhort Moments,

Before you wou'd have wiſh'd to be diſturb'd?

Yon Villains grow impatient for Admiſſion,

And ſcarce your Servants guard the Gates againſt them.

Storms of bold Oaths, and horrible Reproaches,

Mix'd with loud Thunderings, and the Threa's of Law,

Make my Heart tremble, and have forc'd me hither,

Forc'd me to urge you, by all Ties of Love,

Of Intereſt, Honour, Hope, and future Happineſs,

To fly this dangerous Roof, and ſave us All.

Bell.

I thank thy gentle Care—It is reſolv'd.

I have bethought me of a Means, to evade

The Malice of my Fortune—'Twill be a Jour⯑ney,

A little longer, than thy Love could wiſh it;

Yet not ſo far, but we ſhall meet again.

Lou.

Oh! be the Diſtance wide, as Pole from Pole,

Let me but follow Thee, and I am bleſs'd.

Bell.

It ſhall be ſo, Louiſa.

Lou.

A thouſand Angels

Spread their Wings o'er thee, and protect thy Steps,

Now thou art kind!—But the dear little ones,

Shall They go too?

Bell.

All! all! ſhall go!

Lou.

Haſt then,

[36] Let us be gone—my bounding Heart leaps joy⯑ful,

And I ſhall ſmile again—But ah me! Bellmour!

They are ſo Young! ſo Tender! is it poſſible,

That they ſhould travel with us?

Bell.

Moving Innocence!

My ſtrong Heart bleeeds within me, at her Accents!

[Aſide.

A few ſhort Steps will lodge us in a Place,

[To her.

Of Reſt and Safety—we ſhall have Leiſure there,

To weigh our future Hopes, and ſeek fit means,

To our wiſh'd end.—Courtney will ſoon return;

Said he not ſo?

Lou.

He did, and we'll inform him

Of our new Purpoſe, and begin our Flight.

I'll make Proviſion, ſuch as beſt befits

Our Haſte, and our Diſtreſſes.

[She is going.

Bell.

S [...]ay, Louiſa!

Thoſe boaſted Cordials, the French Marquis ſent me,

Gave I to Thee, or no?

Lou.

You ſpoke of ſuch—

But ſtill forgot [...] give 'em me—and now,

They're not worth Memory—

Bell,

Nay, now, moſt uſeful!

Their Virtue is reported Sovereign,

Againſt the Body's [oil, or Mind's Diſturbance.

Lou.

Wou'd Courtney were come.

(Exeunt ſeverally.

Enter Courtney, alone.

Court. Strange! that a Man ſhould linger thus in Peril!

[37] The pointed Sword, that, by a ſlender Hair,

Hung o'er the Head of Damocles, was Shadow

To ſellmour's ſolid Danger.—I was told

He walks this way—I'll trace the Gallery round,

And urge him to eſcape—Few Minutes more

May ſpread a Crowd of Eyes on every ſide,

And fatally prevent him.

(Exit.

Re-enter Bellmour.

Bell.

My baleful Hand, has mix'd the deadly Draught,

To give it as a Cordial—Give it! whome?

Start from thy burning Orb, thou conſcious Sun,

And chill thy ſelt to Froſt at my black Purpoſe,

Am I a Parent? a Protector? Lover?

Or has this Devil, that heaves about my Heart,

Transform'd me to a Fiend? He has! He has!

Chain him, ſome Angel, millions of Fathoms down;

Heap him with Mountains, leaſt, he riſe again,

And in a Husband's and a Fathers Breaſt,

Brew horrid Murders!—I am my ſelf, once more—

Now let cool Reaſon's undiſtracted Search

Anſwer my bleeding Soul, which dreadful Ill

May beſt be born by Nature—To leave our Friends,

To grinding Sorrow, Poverty and Scorn,

With ſenſe of his not feeling any Pain,

Who gave them all;—or, to quit Life together,

And, wanting Pow'r to bleſs, make it ſome Merit,

Not to leave Curſes to Surviving Innocence!

I'm mad again—Reaſon her ſelf betrays me,

[38] And whiſpers, that this laſt is Cruelty,

And Murder grows a Mercy!—

Enter Louiſa.

Lou.

Found you the Cordial?

Your little wanderers are ready dreſs'd

To act the Pilgrim with us; perhaps 'twill aid

Their Fainting Spirits, yet untried in Hardſhips.

Bell.

I cannot move—my Feet bound down, by Nature,

Rebel againſt my Heart.—Oh! If one Moment,

One ſhort Thought longer, She oppreſs me, thus,

With melting, Innocent, Talk—I ſhall grow Soft,

Yield her to Want, and live to be a Beggar.

Lou.

Still you are doubtful—

(aſide.

Bell.

No—no—I'm fix'd—Oh! Nature!

[aſide

I left my Cloſet open,—on a Table,

In that Gold Cup, which was thy Father's Preſent,

When thy firſt Favourite Boy's laſt Birth-Day came,

Thou'llt find the fitteſt Cordial—I try'd 'em all,

And what ſeem'd propereſt, for the Boys and Thee,

Waits, in that Cup, thy taſting.—

Lou.

Courtney ſtays Long.—

All things are ready, and I wiſh him here.

Now for this boaſted Cordial—

[Exit.

Bell.

Be firm, my Heart!

Stop thy big Beat! Thaw, thaw this curdling Blood,

That, thro' my Icy Veins, creeps, cold as Death,

And freezes in its Paſſage.—Where is Louiſa?

[39] But a few Moments, and ſhe is no more!

Now! now! the unſuſpecting Innocent

Lifts that laſt Cup—Now, now, She taſtes a Draught,

That ſnatches her, for ever, from my Sight,

And robs me of her Comfort! Never more,

Shall her ſweet Voice enchant me! Never more,

Shall her ſoft Eyes look fondly into mine,

And ſhine with ſwimming Languor—Never, never,

VVill her unwearied Wit beguile my Cares,

Or huſh me more to Peace, when Paſſion ſhakes me!

Open, engulph me, and conceal my Shame

Befriending Earth!—Or, from thy yawning Depth,

Stream up a Night of Gloom, to blot out Memory,

And darken o'er Reflection!—I feel my Blood

Cool, and grow thick, as melted Lead flows heavy,

And hardens, in it's motion—A little longer,

And I, who have a Heart, already Marble,

Shall petrifie throughout, and be a Statue!

Lou.

My Life! my Bellmour!

[within

Bell.

Ha! 'tis her Voice that calls me—

It ſounded not reproachful,

Lou.

Look, look my Bellmour!

[within

Theſe little Strugglers will not quit the Cordial,

But Sip it to the Bottom—

Bell.

Torturing Horror—

[aſide

Enter Louiſa, with an empty Cup.

Lou.

How cou'd you be ſo rigid, not to come,

When I twice call'd you? 'Twou'd have been a Scene

[40] Of Pleaſure, to obſerve with how much Eagerneſs,

The little Wranglers quarrell'd for the Cup,

Which, having drank, my ſelf, I brought to Them.

I bid em Taſte it only—and told the Pratlers,

It was their Father's Preſent: But that word

Tranſported them, to lift their pretty Hands,

And brought a War about me—

Bell.

Furies tear me!—

Lou.

Did you not give Permiſſion they ſhould taſte it?

E're they began the Journey!

Bell.

Alas! Louiſa!

A Long, long, Journey is, indeed! begun,

But endleſs, as Eternity—Thy ſelf,

And thoſe dear Infants,—are poyſon'd by that Cordial.

Lou.

Poiſon'd! by Thee? Thou ſayſt it but to try me!

If 'twere thy Wiſh that I ſhould die, thy Love,—

At leaſt, thy Pity, wou'd have given ſome Warning.

Death is a dreadful Journey, and requires

Much length of Preparation.—

Bell.

By thoſe Charms,

Which I no more muſt gaze on, and be bleſs'd,

Thou can'ſt not live an Hour—A laſt, long Sleep

Will ſteal, in cold Advances, o'er thy Beauties,

And thoſe two beamy Suns, which ſparkle on me,

Anon, ſhall ſet in Death—Even, while we talk,

The eternal Shade will riſe, at once, between us,

And ſever us for ever.

Lou.

Dreadful Contraction!

Of that ſhort Span, which at its longeſt ſtretch,

Was much too narrow, to allow me Scope,

To ſpeak, or look, or think, my Love, for Thee:

[41] What ſhall I ſay?—A thouſand tender Thoughts,

Struggle, at once, for Vent.—I cannot ſpeak—

Death is too haſty—I have yet, undone,

Unſpoke, unthought, a thouſand weighty Things!

O! Heaven! my Little ones!—Let me fly to them!

Have I ſo ſhort a time, to gaze upon them?

Yet ne'er muſt ſee'em more!—I cannot leave Thee.

What ſhall I do?—O Bring my Children hither;

Fly with'em to my Arms!—Dear, dying, Inno⯑cents!

Oh! Bellmour! Bellmour! Why has this been done?

Bell.

That we might baffle Woe, and die together—

And leave no Beggars of our Race behind us.

See! my Louiſa! I have a faithful Guide

[Drawing a Dagger.

That will not let me loſe thee—

(Stabs himſelf.

Lou.

Oh! cruel Bellmour!

What haſt thou done?—Now, I am kill'd indeed!

Help, help,—Oh! Uncle! what a dreadful Scene

Are you return'd to?

Enter Courtney.

Court.

I have heard it all—

And had not that conceal'd, undreamt of, Dagger,

Prevented my near Vigilance, had ſav'd

Unhappy Bellmour.—

Bell,

Not unhappy, now—

We ſlide, united, from the Woes of Life,

And Want's too ſlow to reach us.—

Court.

Miſtaken Man!

[42] The Hand of Heaven, howe'er, from mortal Eyes,

Obſour'd in Clouds, ſtill points direct at Juſtice!

Not thy three Children, nor thy guiltleſs Wife,

But Thou, alone, art fallen! whoſe ſingle Crime

Drew down a ſingle Vengeance!

Lou.

Alas! what mean you?—

Bell.

Thou little know'ſt the deadly Means I us'd,

If thou conceiv'ſt me fruſtrated—

Court.

Hear, then, with Wonder—

And, trembling, mark the mazy Paths of Providence. Seeking you on the Gallery's Garden Side,

I, in your Cloſet, ſpy'd a late fill'd Cup,

With a ſmall Vial near it.—To the Neck

There hung a Label.—By the Name, inſcrib'd,

I ſaw, with ſad ſurprize, it had held Poiſon. Concluding, you had newly mingled it,

With that rich Draught it ſtood by—From a Window,

I threw it on the Garden—refill'd the Cup,

Without its deadly mixture—and ſtood, con⯑ceal'd,

To watch what happen'd—when Louiſa came,

And ſnatch'd it thence, I follow'd her, unmark'd,

Pleas'd to have been a means, to intercept

Hers, and her Childrens Death.—The Reſt, you know too well.

Bell.

Angels Surround thee, with unceaſing Vigi⯑lance,

And, for this Friendſhip, ward off every evil.

Oh! I have err'd!—

Lou.

Oh! too, too, partial Bleſſing!

[43] Faint Sweet! with more than poyſonous Bitter mix'd

Now Bellmour! tell me—was it not a Crime,

To diſtruſt Heaven? Elſe thou hadſt liv'd—and then,

VVe had all, perhaps, been bleſt.

Cour.

You had, indeed!

By a young Kinſman, landed, from a Ship,

That left her Conſort ſcarce a Day behind,

Woodly has heard ſuprizing News—your Bro⯑ther,

Abſent, ſo many Years, and long thought Dead,

Returning, Rich, from the remoteſt Eaſt,

Dy'd but in ſight of Land, and has bequeathd

His whole, heap'd, wealth, to Bellmour.

Bell.

Heaven! I Adore thee!

VVould I had truſted thy Eternal VViſdom,

Thou beſt canſt clear thy Myſtic Diſpenſations,

And make Confuſion end in beauteous Order.

Oh thou art Juſt! and dreadful is thy Conduct;

Puniſh'd, with this Severity of Juſtice,

I feel, and own, thy Mercy—Now live Louiſa!

Live, and be happy—and forget—thy Bellmour,

[Dies.

Lou.

Oh!

[ſhe Swoons.

[...]

Alas! She faints—This Sudden Turn of Terror,

Ruſhes too ſtrong, to be withſtood by Nature.

I'll call her Wom [...]n, to her Aid, and watch her,

Till Time, and Thought, by ſlow Degrees, bring Comfort.

[44] From this ſad Story let Obſervers know,

That early Riot ends in laſting Woe.

Mean, and Ignoble, Pleaſures break the Mind,

Un-nerve our Judgement, and our Reaſon blind,

'Till Heaven o'ertakes Us, with ſome dreadful Fate,

And the touch'd Soul grows ſenſible, too late.

FINIS.

Appendix A Lately Publiſhed, by Mr. Mitchel.

THE Doleful Swains a Paſtoral. Price 6d. Jonab: a Divine Poem adorn'd with Curi⯑ous Cuts, Pr. 1s.

An Ode on the Power of Muſick, Pr. 1 s

The Judgement Day a Poem by Aaron Hill Eſq Price 1 s.

The Laſt Guinea a Poem, Price 6 d.

A Theorico Pract. Diſcourſe on the Plague by Dr. Roſe, Price 1 s.

All Printed for T. Jauncy, at the Angel without Tem⯑plebar.

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt: TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3517 The fatal extravagance A tragedy As it is acted at the Theatre in Lincoln s Inn Fields Written by Mr Joseph Mitchell. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5B00-E