SCENE, URGANDA'S Palace.

BUT hear me, Merlin, I beſeech you, hear me.

Hear you! I have heard you—for years have heard your vows, your proteſtations—Have you not allur'd my affections by every female art? and when I thought that my unalterable paſſion was to be rewarded for its conſtancy—What have you done?—Why, like mere mortal woman, in the true ſpirit of frailty, have given up me and my pes—for what?—a boy, an ideot.

Ev'n this I can bear from Merlin.

You have injur'd me, and muſt bear more.

I'll repair that injury.

Then ſend back you fav'rite Cymon to his diſconſolate friends.

How can you imagine that ſuch a poor ig⯑norant object as Cymon is can have any charms for me?

Ignorance, no more than profligacy, is ex⯑cluded from female favour; the ſucceſs of rakes and fools, is a ſufficient warning to us, could we be wiſe enough to take it.

You miſtake me, Merlin; pity for Cymon's ſtate of mind, and friendſhip for his father, have induced me to endeavour at his cure.

Falſe, prevaricating Urganda! Love was your inducement. Have you not ſtolen the prince from his royal father, and detained him here by your power while a hundred knights are in ſearch after him?—Does not every thing about you prove the conſequence of your want of honour and faith to me? Were you not plac'd on this happy ſpot of Arcadia, to be the guardian of its peace and inno⯑cence? and have not the Arcadians liv'd for ages the envy of leſs happy, becauſe leſs virtuous people?

Let me beſeech you, Merlin, ſpare my ſhame.

And are they not at laſt, by your example, ſunk from their ſtate of happineſs and tranquillity to that of care, vice, and folly! Their once happy lives are now imbitter'd with envy, paſſion, vanity, ſelfiſhneſs, and inconſtancy;—and who are they to curſe for this change? Urganda, the loſt Urgande.

Let us talk calmly of this matter.

I'll converſe with you no more—becauſe I I will be no more deceiv'd: I cannot hate you, tho' I ſhun you—Yet, in my miſery, I have this conſo⯑lation, that the pangs of my jealouſy are at leaſt equall'd by the torments of your fruitleſs paſſion.

"And Cymon's cure ſhall be Urganda's wound!" What myſtery is couch'd in theſe words?—What can he mean?

I'll tell you, Madam, when he is out of hearing—He means miſchief, and terrible miſchiet too; no leſs, I believe, than raviſhing you, and cutting my tongue out—I wiſh we were out of his clutches.

Don't fear, Fatima.

I can't help it, he has great power, and is miſchievouſly angry.

Here is your protection

My power is at leaſt equal to his—

And Cymon's cure ſhall be Urganda's wound!

Don't trouble your head with theſe odd ends of verſes, which were ſpoke in a paſſion; or, perhaps, for the rhyme's ſake.—Think a little to clear us from this old miſchief-making conjurer—What will you do, madam?

What can I do, Fatima?

You might very eaſily ſettle matters with him, if you cou'd as eaſily ſettle 'em with yourſelf.

Tell me how?

Marry Merlin, and ſend away the young ſellow.

I thought ſo—we are all alike, and that folly of ours in prefer⯑ring two-and-twenty to two-and-forty, runs thro' the whole ſex of us—but, before matters grow worſe, give me leave to reaſon a little with you, madam—

I am in love, Fatima,

And poor reaſon may ſtay at home—me ex⯑actly!—Ay, ay, we are all alike—but with this difference, madam—your paſſion is ſurely a ſtrange one—you have ſtolen away this young man; who, bating his youth and figure, has not one ſingle cir⯑cumſtance to create affection about him. He is half an idiot, madam, which is no great compliment to your wiſdom, your beauty, or your power.

I deſpiſe them all—for they can neither re⯑lieve my paſſion, or create one where I would have them.

Sigh all the day!—More ſhame for you, madam—Cymon is incapable of being touch'd with any thing; nothing gives him pleaſure, but twirling his cap, and hunting butterflies—he'll make a ſad lover indeed, madam—

I can wait with patience for the recovery of his underſtanding; it begins to dawn already.

Where pray?

In his eyes.

Eyes!—Ha, ha, ha!—Love has none, ma⯑dam—the heart only ſees, on theſe occaſions—Cymon was born a fool—and his eyes will never look as you would have them, take my word for it.

Don't make me deſpair, Fatima.

Don't loſe your time then; 'tis the buſineſs of beauty to make fools, and not cure 'em—Even I poor I, could have made twenty fools of wife men, in half the time that you have been endeavouring to make your fool ſenſible—O! 'tis a ſad way of ſpending one's time.

Hold your tongue, Fatima—my paſſion is too ſerious to be jeſted with.

Far gone indeed, madam—and yonder goes the precious object of it.

He ſeems melancholy: what's the matter with him?

He's a fool, or he might make himſelf very merry among us—I'll leave you to make the moſt of him.—

Stay, Fatima—and help me to divert him.

A ſad time, when a lady muſt call in help to divert her gallant!—but I'm at your ſervice.—

What do you ſing for?—Heigho!

What's the matter, young Gentleman?

Heigho!

Are you not well, Cymon?

Yes,—I am very well.

Why do you ſigh then?

Eh!

Do you see it in his eyes, now, madam?

Prithee, be quiet—What is it you want? tell me, Cymon—Tell me your wiſhes, and you ſhall have'em.

Shall I?

Yes, indeed, Cymon.

Now, for it—

I wiſh—heigho!

Theſe ſighs muſt mean ſomething.

I wiſh you joy, then; find it out, madam.

What do you ſigh for?

I want—

What, what, my ſweet creature!

To go away.

O la!—the meaning's out.

What would you leave me then?

Yes.

Why would you leave me?

I don't know.

Where would you go?

Any where.

Had you rather go any where, than ſtay with me?

I had rather go any where than ſtay with and body.

But you can't love me, if you would leave me, Cymon.

Love you! what's that?

Do you feel nothing here? In your heart, Cymon?

Yes, I do.

What is it?

I don't know.

That's a ſigh, Cymon—am I the cauſe of it?

Yes, Indeed you are.

Then I am bleſt!

Poor lady!

But how do I cauſe it?

You won't let me go away.

Poor lady!

Will you love me, If I let you go?

Any thing, if you'll let me go—pray let me go.

You can't love me, and go too.

Let me try.

I'm out of all patience—What the deuce would you have, young gentleman? Had you one grain of underſtanding, or a ſpark of ſenſibility in you, you would know and feel yourſelf to be the happieſt of Mortals.

I had rather go for all that.

The picture of the whole ſex! Oh! ma⯑dam—fondneſs will never do, a little conquetry is the thing; I bait my hook with nothing elſe; and I always catch fiſh.

What! had you rather go away than live here in ſplendor, be careſs'd by me, and have all your commands obey'd?

All my commands obey'd?

Yes, my dear Cymon; give me your affec⯑tions, and I will give you my power—you ſhall be lord of me and mine.

O Lord!

O, the fool!

I will ſhew him my power, and captivate his heart thro' his ſenſes.

You'll throw away your powder and ſhot.

Look, Fatima, nothing can affect his in⯑ſenſibility—and yet, what a beautiful ſimplicity!

Turn him out among the ſheep, madam, and think of him no more—'tis all labour in vain, as the ſong ſays, I aſſure you.

Cymon, Cymon! what are you dead to the [...] entertainments?

Dead! I hope not.

How can you be ſo unmov'd?

They tir'd me ſo that I wiſh'd 'em a good night, and went to ſleep—But where are they?

They are gone, Cymon.

Then let me go too.

The old ſtory!

Whither would you go? Tell me, and I'll go with you, my ſweet youth.

No, I'll go by myſelf.

And ſo you ſhall; but where?

Into the fields.

But is not this garden pleaſanter than the fields, my palace than cottages, and my company more agreeable to you than the ſhepherds?

Why how can I tell till I try; you won't let me chuſe.

And ſo ſhould I too, if you would let me go—

And would you return to me again?

Yes, I would—I have no where elſe to go.

Let him have his humour—when he is not confin'd, and is ſeemingly diſregarded, you may have him, and mould him as you pleaſe—'Tis a receipt for the whole ſex.

I'll follow your advice—Well, Cymon, you ſhall go wherever you pleaſe, and for as long as you pleaſe.

O la! and I'll bring you a bird's neſt, and ſome cowſlips—and ſhall I let my linnet out too?

O, ay, pretty creatures; pray, let 'em go together.

And take this, Cymon, wear it for my ſake, and don't forget me.

Tho' it won't give paſſion, it will encreaſe it, if he ſhould think kindly of me, and abſence may be⯑friend me

Go, Cymon, take your com⯑panion and be happier than I can make you.

Then I'm out of my cage, and ſhall mope no longer.

His tranſports diſtract me!—I muſt retire to conceal my uneaſineſs.

And I'll open the gate to the priſoners.

And I'll fetch my bird, and we'll fly away together.

SCENE, A Rural Proſpect.

WHAT to be left and forſaken! and ſee the falſe fellow make the ſame vows to another, almoſt before my face! I can't bear it, and I won't!

Why, look ye, Siſter, I am as little inclin'd to bear theſe things as yourſelf; and if my ſwain had been faithleſs too, I ſhould have been vex'd at it, to be ſure; but how can you help your⯑ſelf?

I have not thought of that; I only feel I can't bear it; and as to the won't, I muſt truſt in a little miſchief of my own to bring it about.—O, that I had the power of our enchantreſs yonder! I wou'd play the devil with them all.

And yet folks ſay, ſhe has no power in love-matters; you know, notwithſtanding her charms, and her ſpirits, ſhe is in love with a fool, and has not wit enough to make him return it.

No matter for that; if I could not make folks love me, I would make them miſerable and that's the next pleaſure to it.

And yet, to do juſtice to to her who makes all this diſturbance among you, ſhe does not in the leaſt encourage the Shepherds, and ſhe can't help their falling in love with her.

May be ſo, nor can I help hating and deteſting her, becauſe they do fall in love with her.—Sylvia's good qualities cannot excuſe her to me; my quarrel to her is, that all the young fellows fol⯑low her, not becauſe ſhe does not follow the young fellows.

Well, but really now, ſiſter, 'tis a little hard, that a girl, who has beauty to get lovers, or merit enough to keep 'em, ſhould be hated for her good qualities.

Marry come up, my inſulting ſiſter; becauſe you think your ſhepherd conſtant, you have no feeling for the falſe-heartedneſs of mine.—But don't be too vain with your ſucceſs; my Dorilas is made of the ſame ſtuff as your Damon; and I can't for the life of me ſee that you have any particular ſecurity for your fool, more than I had for mine.

Why are you ſo angry, my dear ſiſter?—I am not Sylvia, and to oblige you, I will abuſe her wherever I go, and whenever you pleaſe; I think ſhe is a moſt provoking creature, and I wiſh ſhe was out of the country with all my ſoul.

And ſo ſhe ought to be. She has no buſineſs here with her good qualities. Nobody knows who ſhe is, or whence ſhe came.—She was left here with old Dorcas, but how, or by whom, or for what, except to make miſchief among us, I know not—There is ſome myſtery about her, and I'll find it out.

But will your quarrelling with her bring back your ſweetheart?

No matter for that—when the heart is over-loaded, any vent is a relief to it; and that of the tongue is always the readieſt and moſt na⯑tural—So if you wont't help me to find her, you may ſtay where you will.

Here comes the merry Linco, who never knew care, or felt forrow.—If you can bear his laughing at your griefs, or ſinging away his own, you may get ſome information from him.

What, my girls of ten thouſand! I was this moment defying love and all his miſchief, and you are ſent in the nick by him, to try my courage; but I'm above temptation, or below it—I duck down, and all his arrows fly over me.

What are you always thus?

Ay, or Heav'n help me! What would you have me to do as you do—walking with your arms acroſs, thus—heighho'ing by the brook ſide among the willows. Oh! fye for ſhame, laſſes! young and handſome, and ſighing after one fellow a-piece, when you ſhould have a hundred in a drove, fol⯑lowing you like—like—you ſhall have the ſimile another time.

No; prithee, Linco, give it us now.

You ſhall have it—or, what's better, I'll tell you what you are not like—you are not like our ſhepherdeſs Sylvia—ſhe's ſo cold, and ſo coy, that ſhe flies from her lovers, but is never without a ſcore of them; you are always running after the fellows, and yet are always alone; a very great dif⯑ference, let me tell you—froſt and fire, that's all.

Don't imagine, that I am in the pining condition my poor ſiſter is—I am as happy as ſhe is miſerable.

Good lack, I'm ſorry for't.

What, ſorry that I am happy?

Oh! no, prodigious glad.

That I am miſerable?

No, no:—prodigious ſorry for that—and prodigious glad of the other.

Be my friend, Linco; aud I'll con⯑feſs my folly to you.—

Don't trouble yourſelf—'tis plain enough to be ſeen—but I'll give you a receipt for it without fee or reward—There's friendſhip for you.

Prithee, be ſerious a little.

No; Heav'n forbid! If I am ſerious, 'tis all over with me—I ſhould ſoon change my roſes for your lilies.

Don't be impudent, Linco—but give us your receipt.

It won't do!

Then you are far gone, indeed.

And as I can't cure my love, I'll re⯑venge it.

But how, how, ſhepherdeſs?

I'll tear Sylvia's eyes out.

That's your only way—for you'll give your nails a feaſt, and prevent miſchief for the future—Oh! tear her eyes out by all means.

How can you laugh, Linco, at my ſiſter in her condition?

I muſt laugh at ſomething, ſhall I be merry with you?

The happy ſhepherd can bear to be laugh'd at.

Then Sylvia might take your ſhepherd without a ſigh, tho' your ſiſter would tear her eyes out.

My ſhepherd! what does the fool mean?

Her ſhepherd! pray tell us, Linco.

'Tis no ſecret, I ſuppoſe—I only met Da⯑mon and Sylvia together.

What my Damon?

Your Damon that was, and that would be Sylvia's Damon if ſhe would accept him.

Her Damon! I'll make her to know—a wicked ſlut! a vile fellow—come ſiſter, I'm ready to go with you—we'll give her her own—if our old governor continues to caſt a ſheep's eye at me, I'll have her turn'd out of Arcadia, I war⯑rant you.

This is ſome comfort however, ha, ha, ha!

Very well, ſiſter! you! may laugh, if you pleaſe—but perhaps it is too ſoon—Linco may be miſtaken; it may be your Dorilas that was with her.

And your Damon too, and Strephon, and Colin, and Alexis, and Egon, and Corydon, and every fool of the pariſh but Linco, and he,

I can't bear to ſee: him ſo merry, when I am ſo miſerable.

There is ſome ſatisfaction in ſeeing one's ſiſter as miſerable as one's ſelf.

Ha, ha, ha!—O how the pretty ſweet tem⯑per'd creatures are ruffled.

SCENE changes to a rural proſpect. Sylvia diſcover'd, lying upon a bank.

Away, priſoner, and make yourſelf merry.

Ay, ay, I knew how it would be with you—much good may it do you, Bob.—What a ſweet place this is! Hills, and greens, and rocks, and trees, and water, and ſun, and birds!—Dear me, 'tis juſt as if I had never ſeen it before! Bob, Bob, much good may do you, Bob.

[22] O la!—What's here!—'Tis ſomething drop'd from the Heavens ſure, and yet 'tis like a woman too!—Bleſs me! is it alive!

It can't be dead, for its cheek is as red as a roſe, and it moves about the heart of it—I am afraid of it, and yet can't leave it.—I begin to feel ſomething ſtrange here.

I don't know what's the matter with me.—I wiſh it would wake, that I might ſee its eyes.—If it ſhould look gentle, and ſmile upon me, I ſhould be glad to play with it—Ay, ay, there's ſomething now in my breaſt that they told me of—It feels oddly to me—and yet I don't diſlike it.

I am glad I came abroad!—I have not been ſo pleas'd ever ſince I can remember—but, perhaps, it may be angry with me—I can't help it, if it is. [23] —I had rather ſee her angry with me than Urganda ſmile upon me—Stay, ſtay—

La, what a pretty foot it has!

Who's that?

'Tis I.

What's your name?

Cymon.

What do you want, young Man?

Nothing, young Woman.

What are you doing there?

Looking at you there?

What a pretty creature it is.

What eyes it has!

You don't intend me any harm?

Not I, indeed!—I wiſh you don't do me ſome. Are you a fairy, pray?

No—I am a poor harmleſs ſhepherdeſs.

I don't know that—You have bewitch'd me, I believe.

Indeed, I have not; and if it was in my power to harm you, I'm ſure it is not in my inclina⯑tion.

I'm ſure, I would truſt you to do any thing with me.

Would you?

Yes, indeed, I would.

Why, do you look ſo at me?

Why, do you look ſo at me?

I can't help it.

Nor I neither: I wiſh you'd ſpeak to me, and look at me, as Urganda does.

What the Enchantreſs? Do you belong to her?

I had rather belong to you—I would not deſire to go abroad, if I did.

Does Urganda love you?

So ſhe ſays.

I'm ſorry for it.

Why are you ſorry, pray?

I ſhall never ſee you again—I wiſh I had not ſeen you now!

If you did but wiſh as I do, all the en⯑chantreſſes in the world could not hinder us from ſeeing one another.

Do you love Urganda?

Do you love the Shepherds?

I did not know what Love was this morning.

Nor I, till this afternoon.—Who taught you, pray?

Who taught you?

You.

You.

You could teach me any thing, if I was to live with you—I ſhould not be call'd Simple Cymon any more.

Nor I, hard-hearted Sylvia.

Sylvia—what a ſweet name!—I could ſpeak it for ever.

I can never forget that of Cymon:—Tho' Cymon may forget me!

Never, never, my ſweet Sylvia.

We ſhall be ſeen and ſeparated for ever! Pray let me go—we are undone if we are ſeen—I muſt go—I am all over in a flutter!

When ſhall I ſee you again?—In half an hour?

Half an hour! that will be too ſoon—No, no, it muſt be three quarters of an hour.

And where, my ſweet Sylvia?

And where, my ſweet Cymon.

In the grove, by the river there.

And you ſhall take this to remember it.

I wiſh it were a kingdom, I would give it you, and a queen along with it.

How my heart is tranſported!—and here is one for you too; which is of no value to me, un⯑leſs you will receive it—take it, my ſweet Sylvia.

SCENE before Urganda's Palace.

IS he not returned yet, Fatima?

He has no feelings but thoſe of hunger; when that pinches him, he'll return to be fed, like other animals.

Indeed, Fatima, his inſenſibility aſtoniſhes and diſtracts me.—I have exhauſted all my arts to overcome it; I have run all dangers to make an im⯑preſſion upon him; and, inſtead of finding my paſ⯑ſion in the leaſt abated by his ingratitude, I am only a greater ſlave to my weakneſs, and more incapable of relief.

Why then I may as well hold my tongue—but before I would waſte all the prime of my wo⯑manhood in playing ſuch a loſing game, I would—but I ſee you don't mind me, madam, and therefore I'll ſay no more—I know the conſequence, and muſt ſubmit.

What can I do in my ſituation?

What you ought to do—and you belye your beauty and underſtanding by not doing it.

Explain yourſelf.

To ſecure my tongue, and your honour, (for Merlin will have you by hook or by crook.) Marry him directly—it will prevent miſchief at leaſt—ſo much for prudence.—During your honey⯑moon, I will hide the young gentleman, and if he has any tinder in him kindle him up for you. If your huſband ſhould be tired of you, as ten to one he will, I'll ſtep in his way, he may be glad of the [27] change, and in return, I'll reſtore young Simplicity to you.—That's what I call a faſhionable ſcheme.

I can't bear trifling at this time—you'll make me angry with you.—But ſee where Cymon approaches—he ſeems tranſported—Look, look, Fatima! He is kiſſing and embracing my noſegay—it has had the deſired effect, and I am happy—we'll be inviſible, that I may obſerve his tranſports.

Oh my dear, ſweet, charming noſegay!—To ſee thee, to ſmell thee, and to taſte thee,

will make Urganda and her garden delightful to me.

What does he ſay?

Huſh, huſh!—all tranſport, and about me; What a change is this?

With this I can want for nothing.—I poſſeſs every thing with this.—My mind and heart are ex⯑panded: I feel—I know not what—Every thought that delights, and every paſſion that tranſports, ga⯑ther, like ſo many bees, about this treaſure of ſweet⯑neſs—Oh, the dear, dear noſegay, and the dear, dear giver of it!

The dear, dear giver.—Mind that, Fatima! What heavenly eloquence! Here's a change of heart and mind—heigho!—

I'm all amazement!—in a dream!—but is that your noſegay?

Mine! How can you doubt it?

Nay, I'm near-ſighted.

She has not a beauty that is not brought to mind by theſe flowers.—This the colour of her hair—this of her ſkin—this of her cheeks—this of her eyes—this of her lips—ſweet, ſweet—and thoſe roſe buds—O! I ſhall go out of my wits with plea⯑ſure!

'Tis pity to loſe 'em the moment you have found 'em.—

O Fatima! I never was proud of my power or vain of my beauty, till this tranſporting moment!

Where ſhall I put it? Where ſhall I con⯑ceal it from every body.—I'll keep it in my boſom, next my heart, all the day; and at night, I will put it upon my pillow, and talk to it—and ſigh to it—and ſwear to it, and ſleep by it—and kiſs it for ever and ever.

Pray, what is that you would kiſs, and preſs to your boſom for ever and ever?

Nothing but the end of an old ſong the ſhepherds taught me, "I'll ſigh and careſs thee, I'll kiſs thee, and preſs thee, &c.

Upon my word! a very hopeful youth in⯑deed, and much improved in his ſinging—What think you now?

Nothing but his baſhfulneſs ſtruggling with his paſſion—what was that you was talking to?

Myſelf, to be ſure, I had nothing elſe to talk to.

Yes, but you have, Cymon—don't be aſhamed of what you ought to be proud of—there is ſomething in your boſom, next your heart.

Yes, ſo there is.

What is it, Cymon?

Now his modeſty is giving way; we ſhall have him at laſt.

Nothing but a noſegay.

That which I gave you?—let me ſee it.

What! give a thing, and take it away again?

I would not take it away for the world.

Nor would I give it you, for a hundred worlds.

See it by all means, madam—I have my reaſons.

I muſt ſee it, Cymon, and therefore no delay—you cannot have the love you ſeem'd to have but now, and refuſe me.

O but I can, and for that reaſon.

Don't provoke me—I will ſee it, or ſhut you up for ever.

What a ſtir is here about nothing! Now are you ſatisfied?

I was right.

And I am miſerable!

Have you ſeen it enough?

That is not mine, Cymon.

No—'tis mine.

Who gave it you?

A perſon.

What perſon—male, or female?

La! how can I tell?

Finely improved indeed!—a genius

I muſt diſſemble.

Lookee, Cy⯑mon; I did but ſport with you—the noſegay was [30] your own, and you had a right to give it away, or throw it away.

Indeed, but I did not—I only gave it for this—which as it is ſo much finer and ſweeter, I thought would not vex you.

Heigho!

Vex her! O not in the leaſt.—But you ſhould not have given away her preſent to a vulgar creature.

How dare you talk to me ſo? I would have you to know, ſhe is neither ugly, nor vulgar.

Oh ſhe!—your humble ſervant, young Sim⯑plicity—La, how can you tell whether it is male or female!

Don't mind her impertinence, Cymon—I give you leave to follow your own inclinations.—I brought you hither for your pleaſure, indulge yourſelf in every thing you like—and be as happy as following your deſires can make you.

Then I am happy, indeed—thank you, Lady, you have made me quite another creature! I'm out of my wits with joy—I may follow my in⯑clinations—thank you, and thank you, and thank you again.

You are a philoſopher, indeed.

A female one—Fatima, I have hid the moſt racking jealouſy under this falſe appearance, in or⯑der to deceive him.—I ſhall by this means diſcover the cauſe of his joy, and my miſery; and when that is known, you ſhall ſee whether I am moſt of a wo⯑man, or a philoſopher.

I'll lay ten to one of the woman, in matters of this nature.

Let him have liberty to go wherever he pleaſes—I will have him watch'd; that office be your's, my faithful Fatima—about it inſtantly—don't loſe ſight of him—no reply—not a word more.—

That's very hard—but I'm gone.

When I have diſcovered the object of his preſent tranſports, I will make her more wretched than any of her ſex—except myſelf.

SCENE, Dorcas's Cottage.

[32]The more I look upon this noſegay, the more I feel Cymon in my heart and mind—Ever ſince I have ſeen him, heard his vows, and received this noſegay from him, I am in continual agitation, and cannot reſt a moment.—I wander without knowing where—I ſpeak without knowing to whom,—and I look without knowing at what.—Heigho! how my poor heart flutters in my breaſt!—Now I dread to loſe him,—and now again I think him mine for ever!

If you were as wicked, ſhepherdeſs, as you are innocent, that voice of your's would corrupt juſtice herſelf, unleſs ſhe was deaf as well as blind.

I hope you did not overhear me, Linco?

O, but I did tho'—and, notwithſtanding I come as the deputy of a deputy governor, to bring you before my principal, for ſome complaints made againſt you by a certain ſhepherdeſs, I will ſtand your friend, tho' I loſe my place for it—there are not many ſuch friends, ſhepherdeſs.

What have I done to the ſhepherdeſſes, that they perſecute me ſo?

You are much too handſome, which is a crime the beſt of 'em can't forgive you.

I'll truſt myſelf with you, and face my ene⯑mies.

Where are you going child? Who is that with you Sylvia?

Now ſhall we be ſtopp'd by this good old woman, who will know all—and can ſcarce hear any thing.

I'll ſee who you have with you.

'Tis I dame, your kinſman Linco.

O, is it you, honeſt Linco!

Well, what's to do now?

The governor deſires to ſpeak with Sylvia; a friendly enquiry, that's all.

For what, for what—tell me that—I have nothing to do with his deſires, nor ſhe neither—he is grown very inquiſitive of late about ſhepherdeſſes.—Fine doings, indeed! No ſuch doings when I was young—if he wants to examine any body, why don't he examine me? I'll give him an anſwer, let him be as inquiſitive as he pleaſes.

But I am your kinſman, dame, and you dare truſt me ſure.

Thou art the beſt of 'em, that I'll ſay for thee—but the beſt of you are bad when a young woman is in the caſe—I have gone through great difficulties myſelf, I can aſſure you, in better times than theſe: why muſt not I go too?

We ſhall return to you again—before you can get there?

You may truſt us, mother,—my own inno⯑cence, ánd Linco's goodneſs, will be guard enough for me.

Eh! what!

She ſays, you may truſt me with her inno⯑cence.

Well, well—I will then—thou art a ſweet creature, and I love thee better than even I did my own child—

When thou art fetched away by him that brought thee, 'twill be a woeful day for me.—Well, well, go thy ways with Linco—I dare truſt thee any where—I'll prepare thy din⯑ner at thy return; and bring my honeſt kinſman along with you.

We will be with you, before you can make the pot boil.

Before what!

We will be with you, before you can make the pot boil.

Heav'n ſhield thee, for the ſweeteſt, beſt creature that ever bleſt old age—What a comfort ſhe is to me! All I have to wiſh for in this world, is to know who thou art, who brought thee to me, and then to ſee thee as happy as thou haſt made poor Dorcas. What can the governor want with her?—I wiſh I had gone too—I'd have talk'd to him, and to the purpoſe—We had no ſuch doings when I was a young woman—they never made ſuch a fuſs with me.

SCENE, the Magiſtrate's Houſe.

This way, this way, damſel—now we are alone, I can hear your grievances, and will redreſs them, that I will—you have my good liking, dam⯑ſel, and favour follows of courſe.

I want words, your honour, and worſhip, to thank you fitly.

Smile upon me, damſel—Smile, and com⯑mand me—your hand is whiter than ever, I proteſt—you muſt indulge me with a chaſte ſalute.

La! your Honour.

You have charm'd me, damſel; and I can deny you nothing—another chaſte ſalute—'tis a perfect cordial—

Well, what ſhall I do with this Sylvia, this ſtranger, this bag⯑gage, that has affronted thee? I'll ſend her where ſhe ſhall never vex thee again—an impudent wicked!

I'll ſend her packing this very day.

I vow your worſhip is too good to me.

Nothing's too good for thee—I'll ſend her off directly.—Don't fret and teaſe thyſelf about her—go ſhe ſhall, and ſpeedily too.—I have ſent my [36] deputy Linco for that Dorcas, who has harbour'd this Sylvia without my knowledge, and the country ſhall be rid of her to-morrow morning.—Smile upon me, damſel—ſmile upon me.

I wou'd I were half as handſome as Syl⯑via, I might ſmile to good purpoſe.

I'll Sylvia her! an impudent vagrant—She can neither ſmile or whine to any purpoſe, while I am to govern.—She ſhall go to-morrow, damſel—this hand, this lilly hand, has ſign'd her fate.

No bribery and corruption, I beg of your honour.

You are too bold, Linco—Where did you learn this impertinence to your ſuperiors?

From an old ſong, and pleaſe your honour, where I get all my wiſdom—Heav'n help me.

Poo, poo, 'tis a very fooliſh ſong and you're a fool for ſinging it.

Linco's no friend of mine; Sylvia can fing, and has enchanted him.

My ears have been feaſted, that's moſt cer⯑tain—but my heart, damſel, is as uncrack'd as your [37] virtue, or his honour's wiſdom. There is not too much preſumption in that, I hope.

Linco, do your duty, and know your di⯑ſtance—What is come to the fellow? he is ſo alter⯑ed, I don't know him again.

Your honour's eye-ſight is not ſo good as it was—I am always the ſame, and heav'n forbid that mirth ſhould be a ſin—I am always laughing and ſinging—let who will change, I will not.—I laugh at the times, but I can't mend 'em—They are woe⯑fully altered for the worſe—but here's my comfort.

I'll hear no more of this ribaldry—I hate poetry, and I don't like muſic—Where is this va⯑grant, this Sylvia?

In the juſtice chamber, waiting for your ho⯑nour's commands.

Why did not you tell me ſo?

I thought your honour better engaged, and that it was too much for you to try two female cauſes at one time.

You thought! I won't have you think, but obey—Times are changed indeed!—Deputies muſt not think for their ſuperiors.

Muſt not they! What will become of our poor country!

No more, impertinence, but bring the cul⯑prit hither.

In the twinkling of your honour's eye.

I leave my griefs in your worſhip's hands.

You leave 'em in my heart, damſel, where they ſoon ſhall be changed into pleaſures—wait for me in the juſtice chamber—Smile, damſel, ſmile upon me, and edge the ſword of juſtice.

Here ſhe comes; ſee how like an in⯑nocent ſhe looks—But I'll be gone—I truſt in your [38] worſhip—I hate the ſight of her—I cou'd tear her naſty eyes out.

Hem, hem! I am told, young woman—hem, hem!—that ſhe does not look ſo miſchievous as I expected.

Bear up, ſweet ſhepherdeſs! your beauty and innocence will put injuſtice out of countenance.

The ſhame of being ſuſpected confounds me, and I can't ſpeak.

Where is the old woman, Dorcas, they told me of? Did not I order you to bring her before me?

The good old woman is ſo deaf, and your reverence a little thick of hearing, I thought the bu⯑ſineſs would be ſooner and better done by the young woman.

What at your thinking again—Young ſhep⯑herdeſs, I hear—I hear—Hem!—Her modeſty pleaſes me.

—What is the reaſon, I ſay—Hem!—that—that I hear—She has very fine features.

Speak, ſpeak, Sylvia, and the buſineſs is done.

Is not your name Sylvia?

Yes, your honour, her name is Sylvia.

I don't aſk you—What is your name? look up and tell me, ſhepherdeſs.

Sylvia!

What a ſweet look with her eyes ſhe has!

What can be the reaſon, Sylvia—that—Hem!—I proteſt ſhe diſarms my anger.

Now is your time, ſpeak to his reverence.

Don't whiſper the priſoner.

Priſoner! Am I priſoner? then▪

No, not abſolutely a priſoner; but you are charged, damſel—Hem, hem!—charged, damſel—I don't know what to ſay to her.

With what, your honour?

If he begins to damſel us, we have him ſure.

What is my crime?

A little too handſome, that's all.

Hold your peace—Why don't you look up in my face if you are innocent?

I can't ſtand it—ſhe has turn'd my anger, my juſtice, and my whole ſcheme, topſy-turvy—Reach me a chair, Linco.

One ſweet ſong, Sylvia, before his reverence gives ſentence.

No ſinging, her looks have done too much already.

Only to ſoften your rigour.

I'll guard thee, and fold thee too, my lamb⯑kin—and they ſhan't hurt thee—This is a melting ditty indeed! Riſe, riſe, my Sylvia.

Is your reverence taking leave of her before you drive her out of the country?

How now! What preſumption is this, to break in upon us ſo, and interrupt the courſe of juſtice?

May I be permitted to ſpeak three words with your worſhip?—

Well, well, I will ſpeak to you—I'll come to you in the juſtice chamber preſently.

I knew the wheedling ſlut would ſpoil all—but I'll be up with her yet.

I'm glad ſhe's gone—Linco, you muſt ſend her away—I won't ſee her now.

And ſhall I take Sylvia to priſon?

No, no, no; to priſon! mercy forbid!—What a ſin ſhould I have committed to pleaſe that envious, jealous pated ſhepherdeſs?—Linco, com⯑fort the damſel—Dry your eyes, Sylvia—I will call upon you myſelf—and examineDorcas myſelf—and protect you myſelf—and do every thing myſelf—I profeſs ſhe has bewitch'd me—I am all agita⯑tion—I'll call upon you to-morrow—perhaps to⯑night—perhaps in half an hour—Take care of her, Linco—ſhe has bewitch'd me, and I ſhall loſe my wits if I look on her any longer—Oh! the ſweet, lovely, delightful creature!

Don't whimper now, my ſweet Sylvia—Juſtice has taken up the ſword and ſcales, again, and your rivals ſhall cry their eyes out—The day's our own.

SCENE, an old Caſtle.

SCENE, the Country.

Nay, nay, but let me talk to you a little—by the lark you are early ſtirrers—has not that gad⯑fly jealouſy ſtung you up to this ſame miſchief you are upon?

We are commanded by our governor, who has orders from Urganda, to bring Cymon and Syl⯑via before her.

And you are fond of this employment are you? fye, for ſhame—I know more than you think I know.—You were each of you (good ſouls!) be⯑troth'd to two ſhepherdeſſes—but Silvia comes in the nick, and away go vows, promiſes, and prote⯑ſtations—ſhe loving Cymon, and deſpiſing you—and you.—You (hating one another) join cordially to diſtreſs them for loving one another—fye, for ſhame, ſhepherds!

What will the governor ſay to this? This is fine treatment of your betters.

If my betters are no better than they ſhould be, 'tis their fault, and not mine—Urganda, Dorus, and you, not being able to reach the grapes, won't let any body elſe taſte them—fye, for ſhame, ſhep⯑herds!

We have no time to loſe—we muſt raiſe the ſhepherds, and hunt after theſe young ſinners; and you, Mr. Deputy, for all your airs, muſt make one in the chaſe.

Before I would follow unlawful game to pleaſe a hot-liver'd enchantreſs, an old itching go⯑vernor, and two ſuch jealous pated noodles as your⯑ſelves, I would thruſt my pipe thro' my tabor, chuck it into the river, and myſelf after it.

Here comes the governor; now we ſhall hear what you will ſay to him?

Juſt what I have ſaid to you; an honeſt laughing fellow, like myſelf, don't mind a governor, though I ſhould raiſe his ſpleen, and loſe my place into the bargain—there are not many deputies in Arcadia of the ſame mind.

Come, come, let us mind our buſineſs and not his impertinence.

If the governor would do as I wiſh him, you would have your deſerts, Mr. Deputy Linco.

And if Cymon could do as I wiſh him, you would have your deſerts, my gentle ſhepherds.

Where have you been, Linco? I ſent for you an hour ago.

I was in bed, your honour, and as I don't walk in my ſleep, I could not well be with you be⯑fore I was dreſs'd.

No joking—no joking—we are ordered by the Enchantreſs to ſearch for Cymon and Sylvia, and bring them before her.

I hate to ſpoil ſport—ſo I'll go home again.

Stay, Linco

I command you to do your duty, and go with me in purſuit of theſe young criminals.

Criminals! heaven bleſs them I ſay!—I'll go home again.

Was there ever ſuch inſolence! Come back, Linco; how dare you diſobey what I order, and Urganda commands? Give me an anſwer.

Conſcience! conſcience! Governor—an old faſhion'd excuſe, but a true one—I cannot find in my heart to diſturb two ſweet young creatures—whom as heaven has put together, I will not attempt to divide;—'twould be a crying ſin!—I'll go home again.

You are a ſcandal to your place, and you ſhall hold it no longer; I'll take it from you in⯑ſtantly.

You cannot take from me a quiet conſcience and a merry heart;—you are heartily welcome to all the reſt, Governor.

I diſmiſs you from this moment—you ſhall be no deputy of mine—you ſhall fuſſer for your [44] arrogance;—I ſhall tell the Enchantreſs that you are leagu'd with this Sylvia, and will not do your duty.

A word with your honour—could you have been leagu'd with this Sylvia too, you would not have done your duty, Mr. Governor.

Hem!—Come along, ſhepherds, and don't mind his impudence.

I wiſh your reverence a good morning, and I thank you for all favours—any fool now that was leſs merry than myſelf, would be out of ſpirits for being out of place;—but as matters are now turn'd topſy turvy, I wont walk upon my head for the beſt office in Arcadia—And ſo my virtuous old governor, get what deputy you pleaſe; I ſhall ſtick to my ta⯑bor and pipe, and ſing away the loſs of one place, till I can whiſtle myſelf into another.

SCENE, another Part of the Country.

Truly a very pretty miſchievous errand I am ſent upon—I am to follow this fooliſh young fellow all about to find out his haunts—not ſo fooliſh nei⯑ther, for he is ſo much improved of late, we ſhrewdly ſuſpect that he muſt have ſome female to ſharpen his intellects—For love, among many other ſtrange things, can make fools of wits, and wits of fools. I ſaw our young partridge run before me, and take cover hereabouts; I muſt make no noiſe, for fear of alarming him; beſides, I hate to diſturb the poor things in pairing time.

I ſhall ſpoil your peeping, thou evil coun⯑ſellor of a faithleſs miſtreſs—I muſt torment her a little for her good—Such females muſt feel much to be made juſt and reaſonable creatures.

There they are—our fool has made no bad choice—Upon my word, a very pretty couple! and will make my poor lady's heart ach.

I ſhall twinge yours a little before we part.

Well ſaid Cymon! upon your knees to her! now for my pocket-book, that I may exactly deſcribe this rival of ours; ſhe is much too handſome to live long, ſhe will be either burnt alive, thrown to wild beaſts, or ſhut up in the black tower—the greateſt mercy ſhe can have will be to let her take her choice.

May be ſo—but we will prevent the pro⯑phecy if we can.

She is of a good height, about my ſize—a fine ſhape, delicate features—charming hair—heav'nly eyes; not unlike my own—with ſuch a ſweet ſmile! She muſt be burnt alive! yes, yes, ſhe muſt be burnt alive.

Who's there! bleſs me!—No body—I proteſt it ſtartled me. I muſt finiſh my picture.

Now let me ſee what I have written—Bleſs me, what's here! all the letters are as red as blood—My eyes fail me! Sure I am bewitched

Urganda has a ſhameful paſſion for Cy⯑mon, Cymon a moſt virtuous one for Sylvia;—as for Fatima, wild beaſts, the black tower, and burning alive are too good for her.

I have not power to ſtir a ſtep—I knew what would come of affronting that devil Merlin.

True, Fatima, and I am here at your ſer⯑vice.

O moſt magnanimous Merlin! don't ſet your wit to a poor fooliſh weak woman.

Why then will a fooliſh weak woman ſet her wit to me? But we will be better friends for the future—Mark me, Fatima.

No conjuration, I beſeech your worſhip, and you ſhall do any thing with me.

I want nothing of you but to hold your tongue.

Will nothing elſe content your fury?

Silence, babler.

I am your own for ever, moſt merciſul Mer⯑lin! I am your own for ever—O my poor tongue! I thought I never ſhould have wagg'd thee again—What a dreadful thing it would be to be dumb?

You ſee it is not in the power of Urganda to protect you, or to injure Cymon and Sylvia—I will be their protector againſt all her arts, tho' ſhe has leagu'd herſelf with the demons of revenge—We have no power but what reſults from our virtue.

I had rather loſe any thing than my ſpeech.

As you profeſs yourſelf my friend (for, with all my art, I cannot ſee into a woman's mind) I will ſhew my gratitude, and my power, by giving your tongue an additional accompliſhment.

What, ſhall I talk more than ever?

That would be no accompliſh⯑ment, Fatima.—No, I mean that you ſhould talk leſs—When you return to Urganda; ſhe will be very inquiſitive, and you very ready to tell her all you know.

And may I without offence to your worſhip?

Silence, and mark me well—obſerve me truly and punctually. Every anſwer you give to Urganda's queſtions, muſt be confined to two words, Yes and No—I have done you a great favour, and you don't perceive it.

Not very clearly indeed.

Beware of encroaching a ſingle monoſyl⯑lable upon my injunction; the moment another word eſcapes you, you are dnmb.

Heaven preſerve me! what will become of me!

Remember what I ſay—as you obey or neglect me, you will be puniſhed, or rewarded.

Farewell

Remember me, Fatima.

I ſhall never forget you, I am ſure—What a polite devil it is—and what a woeful plight am I in? This confining my tongue to two words is much worſe than being quite dumb—I had rather be ſtinted in any thing than in my ſpeech—Heigho!—There never ſure was a tax upon the tongue be⯑fore.

SCENE, Enter Cymon and Sylvia (arm in arm.)

You muſt not ſigh, my Sylvia—love like ours can have no bitter mingled with its ſweets. It has given me eyes, ears, and underſtanding; and till they forſake me, I muſt be Sylvia's.

And while I retain mine, I can know no happineſs but with Cymon;—and yet Urganda.—

Why will you fully again the purity of our joys with the thoughts of that unhappy, be⯑cauſe guilty, woman.—Has not Merlin difcovered all that was unknown to us? Has he not promiſed us his protection, and told us, that we are the care of ſuperiour beings, and that more bleſſings, if poſ⯑ſible, are in ſtore for us?—What can Sylvia want, when Cymon is completely bleſt?

Nothing but my Cymon; when that is ſe⯑cured to me, I have not a wiſh for more.

Thy wiſhes are fulfilled then, and mine in thee!

Take my hand, and with it a heart, which, till you had touch'd, never knew, nor could even imagine, what was love; but my paſſion now is as ſincere as it is tender, and it would be ungrateful to diſguiſe my affections, as they are my greateſt pride and happineſs.

Tranſporting maid!

Thus then I ſeize my treaſure, will protect it with my life, and will never reſign it, but to heaven who gave it me.

Here they are!

Ha! bleſs me!

Fine doings indeed!

Your humble ſervant, modeſt Madam Sylvia!

You are much improv'd by your new tutor.

But I'll ſend her and her tutor where they ſhall learn better.—I am confounded at their aſſu⯑rance! Why don't you ſpeak, culprits?

We may be aſham'd without guilt, to be watch'd and ſurpriz'd by thoſe who ought to be more aſham'd at what they have done.

Be calm, my Cymon, they mean us miſchief.

But they can do us none;—fear them not, my ſhepherdeſs.

Did you ever hear or ſee ſuch an impudent couple? but I'll ſecure you from theſe intemperate doings.

Shall we ſeize them, your worſhip, and drag'em to Urganda?

Let me ſpeak firſt with that damſel.

That damſel is not to be ſpoken with.

Here's impudence in perfection—Do you know who I am, ſtripling?

I know you to be one who ought to obſerve the laws, and protect innocence; but having paſ⯑ſions that diſgrace both your age and place, you neither do one nor the other.

I am aſtoniſh'd! What are you the fooliſh young fellow I have heard ſo much of?

As ſure as you are the wicked old fellow I have heard ſo much of.

Seize them both this inſtant.

That is ſooner ſaid than done, Governor.

Fall on him, but don't kill him, for I muſt make an example of him.

In this cauſe I am myſelf an army; ſee how the wretches ſtare, and cannot ſtir.

Away with her, away with her—

Protect me, Merlin!—Cymon! Cymon! where art thou, Cymon?

Your fool Cymon is too fond of fighting to mind his miſtreſs; away with her to Urganda, away with her.

'Tis the devil of a fellow! how he has laid about him!

There is no way but this to avoid him.

I have conquered, my Sylvia!—Where art thou?—my life, my love, my valour, my all!—What, gone!—torn from me! then I am conquer'd in⯑deed!