ACT I.

Lightly footed, my gay boys, and 'fore George, the girls tripped it with an air and ſprightlineſs that does credit to the village dan⯑cing-maſter.

And we, do ye ſee, ſhall have a merry bout of it at our jubilee.

Yes, to-day old Nicholas plays the fool to the life—he is honey-moon ſtruck, and re⯑marries Blanch, his wife, after drawing, kick⯑ing, plunging and flouncing with her, for fifty years in the matrimonial yoke.

But, why not have two weddings? If Lauretta would give me her pretty lilly white hand—

What ſay you girl?

I have not ſaid a word.

Modeſt creature! She is aſhamed to own how much ſhe loves me! Though you did not ſay a word—I did. I ſaid, if you would give me your pretty lilly white hand.

I'll lend it to you.

Why! huſſey—

Never mind her; her familiarity ſhews affection.

Affection! yes, ſhe has given you a ſtriking proof, with a ſmack into the bargain.

Let's have no more wrangling.

I will have more wrangling, but no matter for that. I have orders from the jubi⯑lee bridegroom to broach a hogſhead of old ſtingo—I'll give you a cup of liquor, my lads, ſo ſprightly, 'twould ſet a friary and convent dancing! and ſo generous, 'twould infuſe bene⯑volence into the heart of an uſurer.

What noiſe was that?

Some villagers making merry.

Lead on, my boy—'tis well you found me in the foreſt, or I ſhould have loſt my way.

I may ſay 'tis well I found you—you have rewarded me generouſly.

And pray, my boy, what brought you ſo far into the wood?—

To look after a bird's neſt, father.

Not to rob it, I hope. Your gen⯑tle heart, my child, would not diſturb the happi⯑neſs of the little feathered family. Conſider what torture your parents would ſuffer, ſhould ſome barbarous hand ſteal you from them.

Aye, very true; but I only went to leave food where the old birds could find it for their young.

Heaven bleſs my good boy—Where are we now, my little guide?

Not far from the great caſtle I told you of, with the high towers and deep ditch.—Don't you ſee

—O pardon me, good old man! I forgot you were blind; and I am [5] ſure, I would not inſult your misfortune for the world!

I believe you—your nature is gen⯑tle; thoſe who inſult or ridicule their fellow-creatures, for perſonal misfortunes, are only the ignorant or the cruel.—What do you ſee, my lad?

Only a centinel on the battlements of the caſtle, with his croſs-bow: but, father, you muſt be tired—reſt upon this bench—there, go back two or three ſteps—

Thank you, my good-natured boy.—

A public-houſe ſtands juſt oppo⯑ſite, kept by a generous old ſoldier, and I'll go and ſee if they can let you have a bed; but don't ſtir till I return.

Never fear; the blind muſt re⯑main where they are placed.

I caution you, becauſe, if any body goes nearer that caſtle, the ſoldiers have or⯑ders to ſeize and bring them before the Gover⯑nor;—but, la! I have forgot your name al⯑ready—

Fitzwilliam, my good Antonio; you hear I have not forgot yours.

You muſt know, then, Fitzwilliam, I have a ſecret to tell you.

Well, my boy, what is it?

Why, it is,—it is, that—I am very ſorry—but I can't be your guide to-morrow.

That will be a great misfortune to me indeed: But why do you deſert me, An⯑tonio?

It is becauſe I am invited to my grandſon's wedding.

Grandſon! Have you a grand⯑ſon?

Bleſs me! I meant my grand⯑father.—My grandfather, you muſt know, ha⯑ving been married fifty years, marries my grand⯑mother over again to-morrow; ſo we are to have a jubilee according to the cuſtom of our coun⯑try.

Then what ſhall I do for a con⯑ductor?

You ſhall have one of my ſchool⯑fellows, a flighty rogue to be ſure, very witty, but extremely miſchievous—but I like you ſo well, I'll not truſt you with him—no, I'll do better; I'll get you invited to my grandfather's wedding, ſo don't trouble yourſelf about to⯑morrow.—Heigh ho!

Why do you ſigh, my lad?

Becauſe I am very fond of—Oh, I am aſhamed to tell you—What do you think I am fond of?

Of dancing, I ſuppoſe.

No, no—

What then?

Why, why, why—a little girl to be ſure.—O my pretty Caroline.

He is gone, and I may now take a view of this fortreſs. Within the maſſy walls of ſuch a place, perhaps the object of my long and weary ſearch is confined—Richard, royal Richard, my general, my ſovereign, my friend, [8] may there pine out his precious life in bitter ſor⯑row! The guards cannot ſuſpect a man appa⯑rently old and blind. The gates of hell opened to the muſic of Orpheus, when animated by love—the gates of this caſtle ſhall open to me who am inſpired by friendſhip.

Well, father; I have procured you a lodging, and here comes the landlord himſelf, but in ſuch a paſſion with his daughter, about her ſweetheart, you never heard the like.

I'll teach you, ſirrah, to bring meſſages to my daughter.

Father he muſt obey his maſter.

The meſſage is from the gover⯑nor.

From the governor! lead me cloſe to them Antonio.

I, I, I, choke with rage.

I come from the governor, inſult me if you dare.

The governor, you dog, you foot licker, you ſpaniel, that fetches and carries for the hand that flogs you—I'll thraſh you, ſirrah, though you came from the devil, and every word you ſpoke conveyed a plague.

Hear me patiently.

I won't be patient.

Do hear him father.

I wont hear—I am not an ozier that bends to every blaſt—No, ſirrah, I am an old Britiſh oak, and ſtand firm againſt any ſtorm that blows upon me.

Good folks attend to my aged voice.

The raſcal comes with a meſſage to my daughter from a vile ſeducen.

Nay, be adviſed by me, and I will eſtabliſh harmony among you.

Well, I will be adviſed, old fel⯑low—Here, Antonio, lead this minſtrel into the houſe, he appears in want, and though indigent myſelf, poverty ſhall never paſs my doors with⯑out relief.

Heaven will reward your bounty.

And do you get about your buſi⯑neſs, or, ſirrah—

I'll report your inſolence to the governor.

So one plague is gone thank Hea⯑ven, and—

Berghen ſhall never marry me, that's flat.

Yes he ſhall—curſe me but he ſhall, and that's round. Why not marry you?

Becauſe father, he's a clod of earth, a log of wood, a ſcare-crow, with a noſe like a half ripe blackberry, and a face tawny and dirty as a new plucked carrot—ſee, father, leave our diſpute to the prieſt of the pariſh—

The prieſt—no—I am not for ap⯑pealing to the church, there a man pays double coſts, he pays for law and goſpel.

Don't vex yourſelf, father.

I will vex myſelf, daughter.

The governor—

Would ruin you—

No matter for that—

Oh you minx.

Bleſs me here comes a ſtran⯑ger.

If it was not for the ſtranger I'd thraſh your jacket—

Thraſh the girl's jacket—pray don't make a ſtranger of me.

And pray who are you friend?

I am—ſtarving with hunger.

And what's your buſineſs here.

My pleaſure is my buſineſs, and my buſineſs has always been my pleaſure.—

[12]But, friend, I want your aſſiſtance for a fair damſel I have left in the foreſt; a beautiful crea⯑ture, and of quality, who has unfortunately ſeparated from her attendants—ſhe ſits by the ruins of an old building, where ſhe waits my return.

Come in good fellow refreſh your⯑ſelf, and I'll then attend you to the lady—you came in a lucky time; we have a matrimonial jubilee to be celebrated here this evening, be⯑tween an old couple—

In their dotage I preſume—I was married once, but am now, thank Heav'n, a widower.

Well, perhaps we may find you a ſecond wife here.

Oh, no, my firſt wife reſt her ſoul, is at peace in that earth whereon ſhe waged eternal war; and for her ſake I am reſolved ne⯑ver to venture upon another.

I am in ſome degree recover⯑ed, and will go on.

Dear lady, you had beſt wait the return of the guide—we may be loſt in the laby⯑rinth of this foreſt.

Heaven will direct us—or per⯑haps death relieve me from the oppreſſing grief that weighs me to the grave—Well, I will pre⯑ſerve my determination, and within the walls of a convent, ſeclude myſelf from the world.

Holloa! holloa!

Heaven protect us—

Your prayer is heard—Here's your guardian angel.

Have you diſcovered any place where I can lodge—

Yes lady, but not the convent you ſpoke of—I have found a houſe with plenty of eating and drinking, and dancing and fiddling, and the landlord will be here in an inſtant—But ſure you have no intention of hiding your handſome face in a convent.

And why not ſir—

Becauſe I think thoſe who are in, wiſh to get out; and the doors of them ought to be ſhut againſt all virgins, who are not either ſo old, ſo ugly, or ſo ill-natured, as to deſpair of getting huſbands—and that ſuch places are only proper retreats for bad faces.

But there virtue is ſure of an aſylum.

Virtue! Oh! If virtue does not find protection in herſelf, ſtone walls, bolts, or bars, will afford her very little ſecurity.

Holloa—

Here, old boy, here—

You have found the lady!

Yes, but ſhe is found to be loſt—ſhe is going into a convent.

Lady, I have an humble cottage near at hand, where you may reſt in ſecurity—Lauretta lend the lady your arm.

Thank you, courteous maiden, for I am much fatigued—but Heaven muſt be obeyed, and it is our duty not to queſtion its diſpenſations.

Come, old blind boy, I'll have ſome more wine, it's fitting for a man in love.

And are you deeply in love, my honeſt fellow?

Deep! almoſt drowned. A mur⯑rain on him for an urchin; he has been a Will⯑o'-the-Wiſp to I. He leads one aſide as I walk, and throws me into the ditch—Scarce a day paſſes ſince I fell over heart and ſoul in love, but I have fallen over head and ears in the mire.

Your caſe is pitiable.

Pitiable! I ſay it is a deviliſh caſe.—You muſt know that I am in love with that there Lauretta, you heard abuſe me a while ago, as ſhe paſſed by. Some folks ſay ſhe diſ⯑likes me, but I know ſhe loves me.

And you're the beſt judge.

To be ſure I am; though, ecod, ſhe has never ſaid ſo; but what of that! a fel⯑low like me can eaſily gueſs at ſuch things; and I can tell which way the wind blows, when I ſee a weather-cock, as well as another.—Were you ever in love?

Who has been free from it; but, alas! remembrance lives in my breaſt, and hope has fled.

Good Heav'n! that air ſinks into my heart, and melts my ſoul with tenderneſs.

Come, Maſter La Bruce, as you call yourſelf, we will take a cup with this muſi⯑cal old beggar.

Ecod, ſo we will; let me tell you, he can pay his club with a good ſong.

Father, father, the poor lady had like to have fainted; but ſays, if the blind man would ſing that ſong near her chamber door, which ſhe heard as ſhe went through the hall, it would revive her ſpirits.

He ſhall wait on her immediately.

But not till he hears my ſong—It is a good cure for love, if I could only take it; but I am like your doctors, who never make uſe of their own phyſic.

ACT II.
SCENE as at the opening.—Enter LA BRUCE, BERGHEN, Peaſants carrying Baſkets of Flowers; ſeveral others, Male and Female, following with Noſegays.—An old Couple, &c.—A Dance.

I would hold ſome ſecret talk with you, do you ſee.

Do you take me for a fool—I tell you I can ſee, hear, and underſtand, therefore out with your private talk, without more words.

That's a houſe.

Now, though I ſhould go over the whole world, that there houſe would be ſtill before my eyes—for I loves old Morgan's daugh⯑ter—that lives in it.—Heigh-ho!

Heigh-ho! why, if you ſigh on at this rate, you'll want breath to court with. Will you follow my advice? Not a fellow living underſtands woman better than I do.

To be ſure I will. You have tra⯑velled, do you ſee me, and knows life—Now I am—am—ecod! I am a kind of a fool in theſe things; and you muſt know, ſince I have fallen into love, or rather ſince love has fallen into me [23] —I don't know what I am—but to be ſure you know the world—

I am a Frenchman, and no French⯑man travels till he knows the world. The ways of the world are his means, my lad—France is the only place in the world where a man can learn to live upon nothing—

On nothing! Ecod, that's thin diet—I ſhould like to learn how you were taught to live upon nothing.

I was taught to live upon nothing by loſing every thing—The leeches of Paris ſucked up my patrimony; its pleaſures I found pains; its ſweets, bitters. I there met with gen⯑tlemen who purchaſed upon credit, but never paid—tradeſmen, who ſet up buſineſs to be bro⯑ken down—merchants, who ruined themſelves to ſave fortunes—and ladies—

Aye! what of the ladies?

I was firſt taught experience from the ladies of the town.

Ecod, the ladies of the country could have taught you experience enough.

At the gaming-table I learned wiſdom, by being convinced I was a fool; the courtezans plucked a little wool from me; but the black-legged ſhepherds ſheered my ſheep's carcaſe to the ſkin.—But ſee, your miſtreſs ap⯑pears.

And with a noſegay for I—I's war⯑rant.

Then farewell; come to me when you leave her, and I'll give you ſome inſtruc⯑tions in courtſhip.

I am the ſubject of that ſong.

What! ſo early abroad to tor⯑ment me!

Early—early do you ſay—as if one would ſleep that loves you—as if one wouldn't [25] get up at day-break to gaze upon you the longer.

There are other folks, who ſleep no more than you—but go off—I'll have nothing to ſay to you.

Nothing to ſay to me—Oh! do you forget what a hearty welcome you uſed to give me at home and abroad—how you uſed to ſmile upon me in the fields and in the houſe—don't you remember you could neither ſing mat⯑tins nor veſpers for looking at me.

But now I have ſeen ſomebody I like ten thouſand times better, who has made a tender impreſſion upon my heart.

Heigh ho! but did not I make the firſt tender impreſſion?

Never.

Oh Lauretta—Lauretta—Don't you remember once in the garden—ecod I do—and once in the field—did'nt you tell me then I had made a tender impreſſion on your heart!

I hate you—

O dear—heigh ho—Is it for this I have rode before you to market—bought you nice top knots, ſcarlet garters and gilt ginger⯑bread?

Did I ever aſk you for them?

Didn't you take them—haven't I helped you over ſtyles, and carried you acroſs [26] ditches—is it for this I have given you two young hedge hogs and a pet pole-cat?—but there is no gratitude in woman-kind—

Gratitude! you can't dance—

I have money.

But with all your money you can't pay compliments.

I can pay every thing I owe; I have plenty in my houſe.

You can't dreſs with an air.

Nay liſten—ſweet Lauretta—

Marry you! why, why—O here comes Guillot from my dear Floreſtine—I will never marry you.

Never marry me, I won't believe it—ſhe loves me after all—

Curſe this fellow, I am ſo afraid of he—

Well, maſter Berghen, ſtill poach⯑ing about this houſe! what do you want? who do you look for, and what are you thinking about—

What do I want? why I want to go about my buſineſs—

What am I doing here? why, I's doing nothing I's aſham'd of—what am I thinking of? why, why, why, ecod it ſhall out—I's thinking as how, d'you hear, 'tis very odd you ſhould follow me to this here place.

While you follow Lauretta I'll attend you like your ſhadow, ſtick to you cloſe as torments to a guilty conſcience.

Lord have mercy on us.

Ah, dear Mr. Guillot, don't beat the poor devil with that great ſtick—

There now, I tells you ſhe's fond of I—

Did I ever tell you ſo?

You never told me you were not, and that's the ſame thing.

And have you no anſwer to the governor's letter.

Give him this noſegay, and tell him I ſend it with all my heart—

You ſhall hear again from him ſhorely, and be happy with him yet, if you per⯑ſevere in refuſing that clown—

A clown—

Yes, a clown—ſo get about your buſineſs, honeſt man.

She rejects me—

An impudent minx, inſtruction is thrown away upon her—and you too dolt; your head is like a funnel, pour advice into one ear, and it runs out at the other without ſtopping—I won't be in a paſſion, but get out—

Here, here is the villainous gover⯑nor's letter—

Oh! this girl will break my heart—but no matter for that—

Lead me towards the caſtle, my good Antonio; I like to feel the warmth of the early ſun, and to breathe the pure air that accom⯑panies its riſing.

You are ſo kind to me, I would lead you all over the world.

What lies this baggage muſt have told me—I'll make an example of this gover⯑nor—ſeduce my daughter! but he's a governor! [30] what's that to me, I'll have my revenge, and he's not the firſt governor who has deſerved pu⯑niſhment—fire and fury, yes, I'll find ſomebody who can read—

—ah my good old fellow, can you read.

Do not mock me pray—the Turks with hot irons deprived me of ſight.

Poor fellow, but I am blind myſelf, blind with rage.

I can read, maſter—

Then read this letter—

I can not make out this German writing—it is ſo in and out, zig zag, like a chever de freze.

And read it out loud and diſtinct.

"Charming Lauretta"—

O the villain! he would charm her into diſgrace! you muſt know this letter comes from the governor of that caſtle to my daughter.

From the governor! but go on Antonio.

‘My heart can ſcarce contain its joy, at the aſſurance you have given me of your conſtant love.’

Her aſſurance! yes, yes, ſhe has aſſurance enough with a vengeance—go on—

‘If the priſoner committed to my care,’

The priſoner!

Why the devil do you interrupt the boy.

‘If the priſoner committed to my care, permit me to go out, I will come and throw my ſelf,’

I would to Heav'n he would throw himſelf from the top of the caſtle into the bottom of the ditch.

Be calm, why do you interrupt the boy? begin that laſt ſentence again.

‘If the priſoner committed to my care, permit me to come out, I will throw myſelf at your feet—but if this night,’ here ſome words torn away with breaking open the ſeal.

Aye, aye, that's my fault; but no matter for that.

‘Let me know by Guillot, at what hour I may have the happineſs of ſpeak⯑ing to you—your ſincere and conſtant lover, Floreſtine.’

Meet her at night!

Why, friend, you are agitated on this buſineſs—why ſhould the love of the gover⯑nor to your daughter—the honour—

The devil—

Why ſo paſſionate?

I am a Welſhman

Be calm—

No, I'll ſtorm—I am from a coun⯑try, where virtue, though reduced to poverty, is better reſpected than vice wallowing in riches.

From Wales—

Yes, and a ſoldier, who would ra⯑ther ſee his daughter wife to the meaneſt pea⯑ſant, than miſtreſs to the moſt dignified lord—

Let me preſs your hand.

I fought in Paleſtine—againſt Sa⯑ladine.

Ah! In Paleſtine.

Aye, under Coeur de Lion—Richard of England—the greateſt ſoldier of the age.

But now a miſerable priſoner!

My king a priſoner!

Don't interrupt, but mark—Fearing that perfidy which he had often experi⯑enced from the monarch of France, the noble Richard attempted to reach England in diſguiſe; but being diſcovered by Leopold, duke of Auſ⯑tria, was by him ſeized, and baſely given up to Henry the Emperor, who now holds him priſo⯑ner in ſome obſcure part of his dominions—But tell me, honeſt ſoldier, why prefer this country to your own?

From neceſſity—My father having been killed in a quarrel, by the lord of the ma⯑nor, about ſome game, while I was in Paleſtine, on my return I revenged his death, and wound⯑ed [33] his enemy, which forced me to fly the place of my nativity; but no matter for that—I now only feel for my king.

Then you loved Richard.

Loved him! lived for him.

And would die for him—

Damn me if I would not.

Good old man, I have ſome⯑thing to aſk you

Tell me truely what has my father been ſaying to you?

Is it you who are called the charm⯑ing Lauretta?

Some folks call me ſo for a nick-name

Then, your father is very angry with you, charming Lauretta. He knows the contents of the letter from your lover Floreſtine, governor of the caſtle.

Floreſtine is my lover's name, indeed! but who read the letter to my father?

Not I, for I am blind—my little conductor there read it.

I am very ſorry for it.

But, father, did not you deſire me to read it.

Well, no matter; but what did the letter ſay—

That if it was not for the priſoner under his care—Who is this priſoner?

No body but my Floreſtine knows who he is.

Your Floreſtine would throw him⯑ſelf at your feet to-night.

Would he!

He ſays he would, as I hope to be married to my ſweet Caroline.

He will come to you this very night.

Oh! I fear to meet him—

Pray do—for I declare I know not whom to truſt—but your manner, your age, and above all your blindneſs, which prevents you from ſeeing my bluſhes, gives me aſſurance. But, now I think on it—who told you I was charming?

Alas! the unhappy blind conceive the beauty of a woman from the ſweetneſs of her voice, and the ſoftneſs of her ſkin.

And the blind, I ſuppoſe, ſhew their approbation as you do, by ſqueezing the hand—Don't you ſay I have charms?

True, my girl.

And ſo ſays Floreſtine—but, indeed, my good old friend, if it had not been for my father's haſty temper, I ſhould have told him every thing that paſſed between me and the Go⯑vernor.

So then, in expectation of a fa⯑vourable opportunity to acquaint your father with the Governor's paſſion, you intend to re⯑ceive him at night. Lauretta, you muſt not confide too much in your innocence.

Well, my little friend, are we near the caſtle?

Yes, father, juſt at the parapet, where you deſired me to lead you.

That's well—take this mo⯑ney and provide me ſome refreſhment—

I ſha'n't be long—

If my king be impriſoned within this caſtle, the morning is ſo calm, my voice will penetrate to the furtheſt cell—

—I will ſing the ode with which love for Berengeria inſpired Richard's breaſt.

Anſwer directly—Do you know who juſt now ſung with you?

I ſuppoſe ſome tender-hearted Chriſtian, who joined my lay as he paſſed by.

You muſt to priſon—

If you are ſoldiers, you'll be mer⯑ciful—humanity is as congenial to a brave ſoul as courage—O! do not add to the miſery of an old warrior, whom the cruel Turks have depriv⯑ed of ſight.

You muſt to the Governor, and perhaps your blindneſs may ſave your life.

The Governor—lead me to him. I have nothing to fear, and have information of the moſt ſerious conſequence to communicate.

Here comes the Governor; but take care you ſpeak truth, for death would be the conſequence of his detecting you in a falſe⯑hood.

Where is the noble Governor?

Here, old man, cloſe to your ſide.

I have buſineſs of the utmoſt im⯑portance to communicate.

Speak truth—deception will be puniſhed with death.

Alas, Sir! loſs of ſight is worſe than death—how could a poor blind man deceive you? But are you alone?

Retire—

—What have you to ſay?

The charming Lauretta—

Ha! What of her?

Has read to me the letter ſhe re⯑ceived from you—

I thought her father had got it.

True.

Well, my good friend—

Oh! you are at this ſide now—Aye, now I am your good friend—How love ſoftens the voice and changes the ſentiment in an inſtant! But Lauretta deſires me to tell you, you may come this evening at any time moſt agreeable to yourſelf.

My friend, direct me. How can it be?

A jubilee ball is given at her fa⯑ther's, and you may come under pretence of a⯑muſement.

Your ſinging on the parapet then, was merely for the purpoſe of getting to ſpeak with me.

For no other purpoſe—and Lau⯑retta contrived the ſcheme.

Ingenious creature! her wit is equal to her beauty.—Well, my friend, you may go, and pray excuſe the harſh uſage you have re⯑ceived—

But, Sir,

—Oh, you are on this ſide now—Leſt the ſoldiers ſhould ſuſpect my commiſſion, had not you beſt ſcold me before I depart.

You are right.—A cunning old pandar, I warrant.—

ACT III.
SCENE—A Hall in MORGAN's Houſe.

WELL, what do you ſay? What does Lauretta ſay?

Say—why, I ſay that old Mor⯑gan has appointed me ſteel-key in waiting over the cellar, and if you do not drink as you ought, why—you ſhall go ſober to bed.

Have you done any thing for me?

O yes, I have done for you, and I am done for—I have been taſting, and ſcraping, bowing, and introducing myſelf to every hogſ⯑head in the cellar.—Here's my gentleman-uſher.

Have you introduced my caſe to Lauretta?

What ſweet lips ſhe has?

Whoſe lips?

The lips of the caſk of Canary.

Will Lauretta marry me?

You ſpeak like an aſs.

An aſs—

Yes; but not like Balaam's aſs; he was a great orator—he was the firſt that ever pre⯑ſented a petition or remonſtrance—

Will Lauretta marry me?

Marry! yes, marry ſhe will—you're a pretty fellow, and young; and, let me tell you, thoſe are a valuable articles in the market of matrimony; but while you are thinking of marriage—I am thinking—what do you think of—

I am thinking as how you are a rogue, who has cheated me out of my money; but I knows ſhe loves me, and will go to her myſelf.

I ſay, while you're talking of marrying, I am thinking of falling down dead—dead drunk—ſo you ſhall hear my epitaph—to be chalked on a caſk head—while I lie under—under, all along—under the ſpigot, with the wine pouring into my mouth—Come, liſten to my epitaph—

The conduct of this minſtrel is myſterious—his blindneſs muſt have been an impoſition; every note he ſung rouz'd to my re⯑membrance the golden hours of peace and love.

We were in hopes, lady, you wou'd not have departed till after the jubilee.

My buſineſs is urgent—pray accept of this

and, hereafter, you may experience more ample reward for your hoſ⯑pitality.

Your bounty, lady, is far above our deſerts—in being hoſpitable, we only did our duty: but the old man, who pleaſed you ſo much with his ſinging, has miraculouſly recover⯑ed his ſight—and requeſts to ſpeak with you di⯑rectly, on buſineſs of importance.

Of importance! then ſhew him in—

What buſineſs can he have with me—my heart beats, as foreboding ſome great misfortune—

Well, Sir, you have deſired to be introduced to me.

It is true, lady; and in ſoliciting the honour, I have experienced the difficulty of obtaining admiſſion to the great, even to be of ſervice to them.—

From whom, pray, and where did you learn the plaintive air I heard you ſing with ſo much taſte?

That ſecret, lady, can only be communicated to the Queen of England.

Sir!

To royal Richard's conſort, before whom I kneel.—

Am I betrayed?

No, lady, but known.

Who are you? ſpeak!

My long and faithful ſervices in⯑ſpire me to hope that Blondel, your minſtrel, is not quite forgotten.

What! loyal Blondel! Blon⯑del, who attended my Richard to the the wars? Oh, tell me! tell me, does my ſovereign live?

A full year has elapſed ſince mis⯑fortune parted us.

But is my King alive?

From the moment we ſeparated, I have ſought him through innumerable dangers, and I have this day diſcovered—

That he is dead! O my im⯑patient heart!

No Lady, royal Richard lives.

Then Heav'n has heard my prayers!

Lives a priſoner in yonder caſtle.

A priſoner—Oh! but then he lives.

Yes, lives and loves with unre⯑mitting conſtancy—within this hour I heard him invoke your name with all the fervency of an in⯑fant paſſion.

Oh, ſir, your King—my King—my Richard.

Lady be not raſh—

What have I to fear? our worthy, honeſt hoſt is your countryman; and ſurely an Engliſh King has no ſecret, but he may confide in the integrity of a loyal Engliſh ſub⯑ject—Richard—

What of my ſovereign—

Is alive!

Long may he live!

Is a priſoner—

He muſt be freed!

Such zeal will work wonders—but let prudence rectify the bounding ſpirit of loyalty.

Lady, there are a noble troop of gentlemen arrived, who enquire after you.

My faithful friends from whom I ſeparated in the foreſt—ſhew them in:

faithful Blondel, theſe are men of ap⯑proved valour and undoubted honour.

May I inquire, my moſt gracious Queen, what accident brought you here.

Love! duty!—Duty to my huſband, inſpired by love. I am on my way to the Emperor's court, to ſolicit Richard's li⯑berty, which had he continued to refuſe, I ſhould, in perſon, have implored aſſiſtance from every power in Europe.

My gallant friends, our ſe⯑paration was a fortunate event—I have diſcovered the place of your king's confinement.

So I have run about the world to a fine purpoſe—promoted to a tapſterſhip in Ger⯑many, and may now feed upon ſour-crout and rhe⯑niſh—A fellow of my genius too—a poet—a Hea⯑ven-born poet—none of your regular made ones—at a tranſlation now, I and three more, could extract from the dulleſt of all Opera's a capital kind of romantic entertainment—then for originality!

Did my father call?

No, it was I call'd, I have a call upon you, and you muſt anſwer my call; poor Berghen has—

Met with ſome accident to keep him at home I hope.

Let me look in your face—poor ſoul, you're very ill.

You really think ſo—Are you a doctor?

No man better acquainted with phyſic, but my conſcience would never allow me [56] to play booty with ſickneſs, and live by the death of my fellow creatures—but ſee, child, your complaint is love, and for that I have no objec⯑tion to preſcribe.

Well, let me hear your cure.

Will you aſſiſt me?

To be ſure, if I ſee occaſion.

Why, child, you need only look into the fields, the air, the ſea; look to the doves, billing and cooing, the ſparrows chatter⯑ing and chirping, all two by two.

Your mother's not to be found.

She's gone to the green with the garland.

Then 'tis time to prepare for the dance.

A dance, father?

Yes, my dear girl!

Dear girl! 'tis a long time fa⯑ther ſince you were ſo kind—oh, that my dear Floreſtine was to be my partner.

Attend to me—he ſhall be your partner.

Ah! ha! they have begun the dance, and with ſweet warlike muſic; and now by St. George I'll have a partner—yes, Maſter Governor, you and I will have a dance together.

It is in vain to attempt oppoſition.

Morgan, I call on you for aſſiſtance.

I thought you called upon my daughter.

O, mercy! 'tis the voice of Flo⯑reſtine, and in diſtreſs.

Now, Richard, now for freedom.

Pray ſtand back, let me have him all to myſelf.

Sir, you are in our power—do not diſgrace your courage by raſhneſs.

Dear father intercede for him.

He would have ſeduced you.

No, indeed, his love was ho⯑nourable.

Honourable—

I lament the fate of Richard, but can never conſent to betray my duty.

Then we'll do ours—force him a⯑way, and confine him ſafe.

I have left a guard upon the Go⯑vernor, and on his perſon we have found the key of the poſtern gate.

The key! give it to me, and I will guide you, my brave countrymen, to the priſon. I have been all over the fortification before now, and know every turn and paſſage in it.

Then come on—Richard muſt now be free, or we muſt periſh.

Soldiers ſtrike home! &c.

Lady, our plan has ſucceeded—the Governor is in cuſtody, and your gallant at⯑tendants are now arming for an attack on the caſtle—

You elate my heart with joy—but my Richard ſhall reward you—and ſure, if the pureſt friendſhip that ever influenced a ſenſi⯑ble heart, can inſure ſucceſs, you, honeſt Blon⯑del, have a right to expect it.

Your preſence, lady, inſpires us; your prayers will ſtrengthen our courage—'tis for our king we fight—he is guardian of his peo⯑ple's rights, and the arm that is raiſed againſt his life ſtrikes at their moſt precious liberties—

I will retire to my chamber, and implore the aid of heaven to inſpire every heart in the glorious cauſe of freedom and of Richard—

This key opens the outward gate, that ſtands before the draw-bridge—ſee how proudly the Emperor's Eagle flies—but I have brought St. George's flag—

Which we'll place—

You mean, which I'll place in its ſtead.

Are there any women in the caſtle?

Women! why no—but ſuppoſe there were, when a ſoldier meets a woman, even in the very ſtorm of fight—let him remember he has a mother, wife, daughter, ſiſter, or ſweet⯑heart.

Fellow-ſoldiers, are you all deter⯑mined?

All, all—though it is a forlorn hope.

Who ſays a forlorn hope!

A noble hope he meant. What fate can a ſoldier hope for more glorious, than dying to give his ſovereign freedom!

Beſides the garriſon are not above fifty—not more than two to one againſt us.

Open the gate—Keep a ſilent ſtep till we are all in.

And then, huzza—I ſhall roar as if the devil blew a trumpet in my throat—

Long live Richard, king of Eng⯑land.

My gallant friends, my heart o'er⯑flows with gratitude—

My love, my queen, my life.

And now, Sir, what have you to ſay to my daughter?

I never intended wrong againſt her; the ſame principles which forbid me to aſ⯑ſaſſinate the perſon of a man, command me to protect, not injure the honour of a woman.

Here I owe much

Reſtore him his ſword—he is a good ſoldier, and cannot make an ill uſe of it.—Sir, your fidelity to your ſovereign, and humane diſcharge of your truſt, merit my reſpect, and inſure my protection.

O, if that be the caſe, take Lau⯑retta with all my heart.

Your honeſt hoſt too, my queen, muſt be rewarded—

we'll knight him—

No honours for me, an't pleaſe your Majeſty, any little ſnug place in the houſe⯑hold will do—we have too many knights in theſe days—

Then you will all attend us to England.

—

—From whence an expreſs is juſt arrived, with in⯑telligence that the people, to ſatisfy the avarice of the Emperor, and relieve their King, have raiſed the enormous ranſom demanded.

See, my queen, the church has poured forth her treaſures—the nobility their re⯑venues—every claſs of my ſubjects have vied in loyalty.

And to the honour of my fair countrywomen, they have parted with their jewels and ornaments to aid the glorious cauſe.

With their principal ornaments they can never part—beauty they inherit from na⯑ture—virtue they derive from heaven.

To friendſhip and love I owe my liberty and life. It was a noble emulation of the moſt generous paſſions, and where they are nur⯑tured, every other attribute of a virtuous mind muſt flouriſh.