ACT .I. SCENE I.

LIEUTENANT, good Morrow. You're not blown away then! Prythee how did your Veſ⯑ſel weather out that dreadful Hurricane laſt Night?

Why tolerably well, at laſt. And yet I thought, ſome⯑times, we ſhou'd never have crack'd Biſcuit again. In all the Voyages I have made, (and I have rode out many a hard Gale) I never was ſo near going to the Bottom. You Landmen, now, lie ſafe enough.

I don't know what you mean by ſafe; the Devil cou'd not have ſlept in ſuch a Storm! I'll ſwear, the Fort ſhook about our Ears with ten Times the Vio⯑lence it did, when the Mine was ſprung, and I was more alarm'd. Yet, Lieutenant, that was no trifling Work.

Trifling! No, faith; for that reſolute Dog, the Go⯑vernor, laid about him, like a Devil.

Poor Fellow! It ſo griev'd the Heart of me, to ſee him, when the cowardly Raſcals had all left him, oblig'd to give up his Sword, that I cou'd have cry'd for him, if I had not thought it a Shame for a Soldier in Action.

Ay, but, Ben, ſhall you ever forget our Commander's Uſage of him, upon that Occaſion? I cod! 'tis my O⯑pinion, the Governor was not very ſorry to loſe his Friends, when he found ſo good an Enemy.

Enſign, can you tell me where your good Commander, Worthy, is? I have a Meſſage to him from our Admiral.

I expect him here every Moment. He went to the Go⯑vernor's juſt now, and ſaid, he wou'd return ſoon. I am waiting freſh Orders.

I'll bear you Company—

In the mean Time, prythee, lets have Tom's Song, that he wrote upon the Action.

I'll oblige you as well as I can. Lads, remember to chime in.

Thank you, Lieutenant;—And you've juſt done in Time, for here's your good Commander.

Bleſs the honeſt Heart of him!

The Admiral, Sir, deſires your immediate Anſwer to this.—

—

He may depend on their being on Board by Noon;—If at Leiſure, I ſhou'd be glad to ſee him, in the Even⯑ing, at my Quarters.

I'll be ſure to let him know it, Sir,

Enſign, a Word. Have you ſeen the poor Widow, and her Children to Day?

I have, Sir,—The Children are all purely, except the Eldeſt, who ſeems chain'd to her Mother's Chair; 'Tis hard to ſay, which of the two has cry'd moſt. When I gave her the Purſe, ſhe wou'd have expreſs'd her thanks, but her Amazement, a while, prevented her. At laſt ſhe had juſt ſighed out your Name, when I produced her poor dead Huſband's Watch, which I diſcover'd, laſt Night, at George Ravage's; the very ſight of it threw her into ſuch an A⯑gony, that I was oblig'd to leave it in her Lap, and run off. It was too much for me.

You give me Pleaſure to hear you ſay ſo. Good Mor⯑row, good Enſign. When you repeat your Viſit, only caution them never to diſcover my Name; and let it, on your part, be kept equally Secret.

I'll be ſure to obſerve you with Care, Sir; you have no farther Commands, at preſent?

None, but to deſire you will be early enough with me in the Morning, that we may have ſufficient Time for the charitable Duties we are engag'd in.

You may depend upon me, Sir, I receive your Orders with Pleaſure. Good Morrow, Sir,

Enſign, your Servant! I like this young Fellow. The Readineſs and Satisfaction, with which he undertakes a good Action, are ſingularly agreeable. Such a Diſpoſi⯑tion reflects Pleaſure on itſelf, and doubles every Favour to the Object it obliges.—How truly valuable in a Soldier, when Succeſs has crown'd his Arms!

So, Major, you have finiſh'd your Viſit. Well, will you return, and dine with this good Family? I have pro⯑mis'd myſelf to them.

Not to Day, Sir; I have ſome Engagements, which, I think, will not releaſe me Time enough; beſide, I have no great Pleaſure in ſeeing the poor Girl dine upon looking at you.

Again! You will ſtill perſiſt in that Miſtake!

No Miſtake, indeed, Sir, Her Confuſion when you enter the Room, unceaſing Sighs during your Stay, At⯑tention when you ſpeak.—

All eaſily to be accounted for. Her obſequious Re⯑gard to one, whom ſhe cannot look on, yet, but in the Light of her Conqueror; her hourly Anxiety for her Fa⯑ther's Situation, his Wounds not promiſing ſo favourably, as might be wiſh'd.—A thouſand Interpretations may be made of her Behaviour.—

All, ſurely, conducing to prove the Truth of what I ſay.

To me it does not appear ſo; nor can I yet, with all you can ſay, give into the idle Vanity, of indulging ſuch Notions, as would be inconſiſtent with my Principles and Situation.

Your Principles, indeed, I am no Stranger to; nor am I wiſhing you ſhould break thro' them; all I preſume to urge is, that, if you were inclin'd ſo to do, here is a fair Occaſion offer'd you.

'Tis an Experiment, I ſhall not be induc'd to make; yet, were I ever ſo ſtrongly inclin'd to it, it muſt be Length of Time, and very plain Circumſtances, alone could con⯑vince me of the Fairneſs of ſuch an Occaſion. I cannot bear that cruel Miſinterpretation of a Woman's Behaviour, which ſuppoſes her Good-humour, and Affability, can have no End but Love.

How many Doubts perplex me! Yet what have I to apprehend? The Greatneſs of his Soul, and Gentleneſs of his Diſpoſition, leave no Room for Fear. He muſt be conſiſtent: And, ſhou'd his Judgment condemn, his De⯑licacy cannot but forgive a Weakneſs, which his own Vir⯑tues have given Birth to.

Why muſt ſuch exalted Goodneſs be fatal to me alone? to every other Breaſt he brings Eaſe, and Satisfaction, to [] me Heavineſs, and Deſpair. If all of his Nation are like him, how happy the Women, that are united to them! Even to his Foes he ſhews ſo lovely, that his Beneficence, and humane Care of all around him, make him appear rather a Father, than a Conqueror. The Hours that he has ſat by my Father's Bed, conſoling him, and the ſweet Means he has us'd to dry my Mother's Tears!—I'll heſitate no lon⯑ger; I cannot be deceiv'd in him.

My dear Siſter, I am glad I have found you.—What, crying again?

No, my Sweet, I am not crying now.

Ay, but you have been, I'm ſure; for your Eyes look as red! Do, my dear Siſter, tell me what you do it for. There muſt be ſome Reaſon—You never us'd to do ſo.

My little Pratler, is there not Reaſon enough, when my Father's Life is in Danger, and our Town in the Hands of our Enemies?

Nay, my Papa is much better now; and for the Town—I have always been told, Siſter, that Enemies were proud and cruel; but theſe People are as friendly, and kind, as you are to me. And, I'm ſure, one of the Captains beat his own Man ſoundly, in the Street, t'other Day, only for offering to hurt my little Lap-Dog.

My ſweet, the Cruelty is all over now; and Engliſh People never hurt their Enemies, when once they have ſubdued them.

No, indeed, I think we are as happy, as ever we were; and they are very pretty People. Dear, how I love to look at the Gentleman at Table! What low Bows he makes! And how good-natur'dly he ſmiles! Well, if ever I live to be marry'd, I hope I ſhall have juſt ſuch a Huſband as he is,

Siſter, I hope I han't ſaid any Thing to offend you; I can't bear to ſee you ſo.

No, my little Dear, you can't offend me.

Indeed, I wou'd not, if I knew it. What can be the Mat⯑ter with you? I'll be whipt if you han't learnt to cry of the Gentleman.

Go, you little Trifler, Soldiers never cry.

No? I vow I ſaw him myſelf wipe his Eyes, as he went out of the Room, the Morning the Doctor give my Papa over;—and I heard Papa himſelf tell my Mama, that he thought he did ſo, when he gave him his Sword again, after the Fight; for that he turn'd away his Head, and cou'd hardly ſpeak.

Oh, the lovely Heart of him! He was ſorry, my Dear, to ſee my Papa hurt.

But what are you ſorry for? Deuce take me, but a thought's come into my Head, if I were not afraid you'd be angry.

I won't, my little Love, tell me.

I'll be whipt, if you don't love the Gentleman.

The Gypſey!—Why ſo, my Sweet? how ſhou'd you know any Thing of Love?

I don't know, to be ſure; but, I think, I can gueſs a little. I'm not ſuch a Child as that, neither.

My ſweet little Companion, now is your happieſt State, if you did but know it. You are wiſhing for the Hour, [] that may be fatal; Love, to your unſkilful Mind, is a Dream of perfect Happineſs; it's Pains, and Woes, you have no Idea of; and may you never know 'em!

I've interrupted you tho' with my Nonſenſe—I'll go, if you pleaſe, Siſter, and leave you to finiſh your Writing.

My dear, I can do that, without your going.

O, Siſter, pray is Writing a Sign of Love?

Why, my Child?

Why, if it is, I wiſh the Gentleman is not in love.

Ha! Why, Anna?

Becauſe I ſtood by him Yeſterday, while he was folding up ſome Papers, and, I do verily believe, he had filled twenty Sides.

In all my Diſtraction of Mind, that Fear never oc⯑curr'd to me.—How do our Paſſions blind us! Could Virtues, like his, fail of Attraction? and have not En⯑gliſh Ladies peculiar Charms? Shou'd it be ſo, I am loſt.—If not, my only Hope is here. I'll not delay a Mo⯑ment.

O, Siſter, one Word more.

What now, you Trifler?

Why you have not Time to write now, for Dinner's ready, and the Gentleman has been waiting in the Par⯑lour, this half Hour.

Why did not you tell me before? You little heedleſs [...] w [...]at do you expect?

Wh [...], that you'll go to him directly, Siſter; but don't ſay I rept you: For I wou'd not have him angry with me, for ever ſo much.

Yes, I thought ſo.—The Murther's all out. Yet I don't know, ſome how or other, what my Siſter ſays about Love, don't ſeem like the Song, Mamma taught me; and which ſhe is ſo fond of, becauſe Papa made it for her, juſt after they were marry'd.

ACT .II.

THE welcome Orders are come, at laſt; and I may now hope to be compleatly happy; my Duty properly diſcharg'd, I may expect ſuch a Welcome, as a gracious King never fails to be⯑ſtow on an honeſt Subject. In that Name let me be allow'd to pride myſelf! A Monarch's Smiles are a Soldier's publick Praiſe, and Reward. Yet a nearer Bliſs re⯑mains to crown his Fatigues, and recompence his Dangers. Love.—Love by which the Active are inſpir'd, and ſupported; the Sluggard only it enervates. My Heart is now impatient for the ſweet Moment of my Arrival; for the glorious Opportunity of proving my Conſtancy to my dear HARRIET; of devoting to her the Truth, and Affection, which by Merit, much more than by Vows, ſhe is juſtly entitled to,

I have been thinking, ever ſince Dinner, if my Siſter ſhou'd marry this Gentleman, and go to his Country, they might take me with them;—and then how pure that wou'd be, to ſee ſuch Numbers of fine People, all as pretty as he! And I might get one of them for my Huſband, may be, as well as ſhe, when I'm big enough. Oh, that wou'd put me, out of my little Wits. I hear it is a ſweet Place. They have no Nunneries, nor Locking up there, but all the People do juſt what they pleaſe.

Ay, my Dear, you may as well leave off your ſinging, for here's ſad News. There are Orders come, for the Gen⯑tleman, and all his Men to go home. He has taken leave of your Papa, and Mamma, and ſent me to look for you, and your Siſter.

Home? What, to England? O dear! Sure he need not go, whether he will or no.

Oh, but he muſt. The King has ſent for him; and then they never wait to be bid twice. He muſt go aboard this after Afternoon. Beſides you know very thing has been prepared ſome time, and they only waited for ſailing Orders. He's waiting for you in the Parlour. Do, my Dear, go look for your Siſter, and tell her. I muſt go back to your Papa. He is a great deal worſe, ſince the News came.

Indeed, I can't go look for, nor tell her neither, I am ſo ſorry; and he lov'd me ſo dearly; If he had but been mar⯑ry'd to my Siſter, before he went.—Here ſhe comes How ſhall I tell her?

ANNA, my dear, what's the Matter?

Oh, Siſter, I can hardly ſpeak for crying—

Why, my ſweet, what has befal'n you?

The Gentleman's going.

Going! Where?

Home, to his own Country. And he muſt go directly.

The Blow, I long have dreaded, now has ſtruck me—No Time for Reaſon! Diſtraction and Deſpair aſſiſt me!

Yes, I thought how it wou'd be. I'm ſorry for my Siſter; I'm ſorry for myſelf.—I can't bear the Thoughts of lofing him, he lov'd me ſo dearly, and was ſo good to me.

Nay, do not ſhun me; the fatal Truth is told; reflect, and pity me.—I know that Decency, Reſerve, Delicacy, all condemn me, yet do not you. Think what the [] Heart muſt feel, that dares ſurmount 'em.—'Tis Death to loſe you.

This is an unexpected Stroke. My Heart is afflicted with her Diſtreſs.—What can I ſay?

Yet you turn away; yet you are cruel! I have been wrong, and you think meanly of me; if it be ſo, let me hear you ſay it.—Blame me, revile me, do any thing but leave me.

She perplexes, and un-mans me. How ſhall I anſwer? I almoſt wiſh now, that I had paid ſome Regard to Hearly's Suggeſtions.

Am I not worth a Word?

Think not ſo meanly of me, deareſt Lady, as that I can be inſenſible to the Honour you propoſe. I feel it all, [] and, with Gratitude, acknowledge it; but what Return is in my Pow'r? You forget I am your Country's Foe.

You have forgot it long. To your unparallelled Vir⯑tues, we owe all that can make us happy. Such Foes as you, might reconcile Savages,—With our City, you have ſubdu'd our Minds. Treat them with equal Ten⯑derneſs, and poſſeſs what you have ſo nobly gain'd.

Let not me, alone, experience your Cruelty. Mildneſs, and Indulgence, are your Nation's Virtues. Shew them now to me.

What wou'd I not do, dear Lady, to relieve your Af⯑fliction? Yet, reſlect a little. I muſt ſully my Fame for [] ever, were it ſaid at my Departure, I robb'd your City of its Pride, and your Father of his Happineſs.

Without a Bluſh would I proclaim my Paſſion; my Eagerneſs to accompany you. My Father knows, and loves your Virtues. You have made yourſelf ſo dear to him, that he cou'd not but be proud of your Alliance.

Yet, your Sex, Lady!—And amid ſo rude a Throng.—

My Sex I cou'd diſguiſe. I wou'd dreſs me like a Page, and attend you thro' the hardeſt Fortunes, you cou'd en⯑counter. In the ſevereſt Extremities, to hear you, to look on you, wou'd be Comfort and Happineſs: and in my Perſeverance I wou'd rival Engliſh Conſtancy, and Affec⯑tion.

[] I'll wait on all your Steps with unweary'd Duty; and if Wealth can make me worthy—

It ſhall be ſo!—To diſguiſe it longer, wou'd be diſ⯑honeſt. Deareſt Lady, Oh forgive me, while I declare a fatal Truth. It is not in my Power to accept your prof⯑fer'd Love, without making myſelf the worſt of Villains. I left behind me, in England, a ſweet Woman, to whom I have ſworn to devote every Hour, and every Bleſſing of Life. In early Youth, our Vows were plighted: Her Conſtancy and Merit, deſerve more, much more from me, than I can ever pay. Think not then I ſlight or un⯑dervalue your Deſert, if I ſay, I muſt not hear you far⯑ther.

I am ſatisfied.

Commend me to that virtuous Maid. Tell her my Diſt [...]ſs, but tell it favourably. Let her know I intreat her Pardon, for having even ignorantly attempted to de⯑ſtroy ſ [...]ch true Happineſs. Let her not, on my Account, thin [...] amiſs of SPANISH Ladies. Modeſty and Virtue [...] them. My Errors, do not call them Crimes, at leaſt by you ſhould be forgiven. Them, and you, I ever ſhall lament.

My Heart, generous Lady, bleeds for your Diſtreſs, Why is my Eſteem all I can beſtow in Return?

One Moment more—that is not much—and I releaſe you to the Purſuit of your Bliſs. Theſe Jewels, theſe little Ornaments, which I ſhall now no longer need, give to that happy Fair. Let them not be leſs dear, becauſe I ſent 'em. Let them teſtify my Wiſhes for a Continu⯑ance of her Bliſs.

This Bracelet only—The reſt I muſt not, cannot touch. This will I preſent her, as a Token of your virtuous Af⯑fection, which, when ſhe hears your Story, ſhe will en⯑rich [] with a Tear, and lament you with the Tenderneſs of a Siſter.

Farewell for ever. The Bleſſing of a broken Heart goes with you. For your dear Sake, deaf to Love, and all its Claims, within a Cloiſter will I hide my Woes, and in Devotion ſeek Relief and Pardon.

Unhappy Creature! Into what Depth of Sorrow has ſhe plung'd me! Her Afflictions have taken ſuch hold of my Heart, that my deareſt Hopes are huſh'd in Attention to them.

Hark, I am ſummon'd—Welcome Sound! Amid the Tranſports of my honeſt Soldiers, I'll endeavour to loſe this Heavineſs of Spirit.

Well, my Lads, all ready?

All, All ready, pleaſe your Honour. Only waiting the Word of Command.

You have diſcharg'd all your Commiſſions, Enſign?

To the ſſighteſt Circumſtance, Sir; The Widow, and her Family, ſend Prayers, and Tears to you.

I am indebted to your Care, and will reward it. Now, Lads, for the Crown of all your gallant Actions; they are ſtill freſh in the Minds of your Countrymen; and you are going to receive the Praiſes of a King, and a Nation, who are ever ready to remember, and to reward the De⯑fenders of their Rights and Liberties.

'Tis a great Comfort, to be fure, your Honour, to think we ſhall ſee our Wives, and Children again; but no matter for that, if you have any more Commands for us, lead us where you will: while we have a Stump leſt, we'll follow you.

Ay, and we our gallant Admiral;—He deſerves it ſo well, I don't think there's a Toſs-up between you. No Offence I hope your Honour.

Well ſaid Jack! let the King give us always ſuch Com⯑manders, and let your Officers, and ours, agree as well every where, as they have done here, and I'll be ſhot if we don't beat the World.

Brave, my honeſt Hearts. You have diſcharg'd your Duties like Men.—And now for England!