!

are such religious observers of their word. forgive me, I should never forgive myself. Barn. All who are honest are. Mill. Am I refused by the first man, the Mill. To one another; but we simple wo-second favour I ever stooped to ask? Go then, men are seldom thought of consequence enough thou proud hard-hearted youth; but know, to gain a place in their remembrance. you are the only man that could be found,

[Laying her Hand on his, as by ac- who would let me sue twice for greater fa

cident.

vours.

Barn. Her disorder is so great, she don't Barn. What shall I do? How shall I go or perceive she has laid her hand on mine. stay?

Heavens! how she trembles! What can this Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me. I with mean? [Aside. my sex' pride would meet your scorn; but Mill. The interest I have in all that relates when I look upon you, when I behold those to you (the reason of which you shall know eyes-Oh! spare my tongue, and let my hereafter) excites my curiosity; and were I blushes-this flood of tears too, that will force sure you would pardon my presumption, its way, declare-what woman's modesty should should desire to know your real sentiments on a very particular subject.

Barn. Madam, you may command my poor thoughts on any subject. I have none that I would conceal.

Mill. You'll think me bold.

Barn. No, indeed.

hide.

Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless as I am. Her looks, her words, her flowing tears confess it. And can I leave her then? Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up your tears; you shall command me always. I will stay here for ever, if you would have me.

Mill, What then are your thoughts of love? Lucy. So, she has wheedled him out of his Barn. If you mean the love of women, I virtue of obedience already, and will strip have not thought of it at all. My youth and him of all the rest, one after another, till she circumstances make such thoughts improper has left him as few as her ladyship, or myin me yet. But if you mean the general love self.

[Aside.

we owe to mankind, I think no one has more Mill. Now you are kind indeed; but I mean of it in his temper than myself. I don't know not to detain you always; I would have you that person in the world, whose happiness I shake off all slavish obedience to your master; don't wish, and wouldn't promote, were it in but you may serve him still.

my power. In an especial manner, I love Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no my uncle and my master; but above all, my opportunity of fingering his cash; and then Fiend. he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn.

Mill. You have a friend then, whom you love?

Barn. As he does me, sincerely.

Mul. He is, no doubt, often bless'd with your company and conversation.

Barn. We live in one house, and both serve the same worthy merchant.

Mill Happy, happy youth! Whoe'er thou art, I envy thee; and so must all who see and know this youth. What have I lost by being formed a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a man, I might perhaps have been as happy in your friendship, as he who now enjoys it is; but as it is-Oh!

Barn. I never observed woman before; or this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. [fside] You seem disordered, madam;-may I know the cause?

Enter BLUNT.

[Aside.

Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table.
Mill. Come, sir, you'll excuse all defects.
My thoughts were too much employed on my
guest to observe the entertainment.

[Exeunt Barnwell and Millwood. Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, for the entertainment of that young fellow? Lucy. So it seems.

Blunt. How! is our mistress turned fool at last? She's in love with him, I suppose.

Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to make him in love with her, if she can.

Blunt. What will she get by that? He seems under age, and can't be supposed to have much money.

Lucy. But his master has, and that's the same thing, as she'll manage it.

Mill. Do not ask me-I can never speak it, whatever is the cause. I wish for things impassade. I would be a servant, bound to the Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handsame master, to live in one house with you. some young fellow; while she's endeavouring Barn. How strange, and yet how kind her to ensnare him she may be caught herself. words and actions are! and the effect they Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would I feel desires I certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, never knew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence have power to go. [Aside] Madam, I humbly that moves me mightily. take my leave.

bave on me is as strange.

Mill. You will not, sure, leave me so soon!
Barn. Indeed I must.

Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire in the hawk to be the destruction of it. Mill You cannot be so cruel! I have pre- Lucy. Why, birds are their prey, and men pared a poor supper, at which I promised ours: though, as you observed, we are somemysed your company. times caught ourselves. But that, I dare say, Barn. I am sorry I must refuse the honour will never be the case with our mistress. you designed me; but my duty to my master Blunt. I wish it may prove so; for you cails me hence. I never yet neglected his ser- know we all depend upon her. Should she Fire He is so gentle, and so good a master, trifle away her time with a young fellow that that should I wrong him, though he might there's nothing to be got by, we must all starve.

Lucy. There's no danger of that; for I am alone; you have no interest in them, nor ought sure she has no view in this affair but interest. your concern for me to give you a moment's Blunt. Well, and what hopes are there of pain. success in that?

True. You speak as if you knew of friendLucy. The most promising that can be. 'Tis ship nothing but the name. Before I saw true, the youth has his scruples; but she'll your grief I felt it. E'en now, though ignosoon teach him to answer them, by stifling rant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to his conscience. Oh, the lad is in a hopeful the heart. way, depend upon it.

ACT IL

[Exeunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friendship and all engagements cease as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you

SCENE 1.-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House. once may hate me, perhaps it might be better for us both that now you loved me less. True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause

Enter BARNWELL. 'Barn. How strange are all things round would Barnwell use me thus? Ungenerous me! Like some thief who treads forbidden and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall enground, and fain would lurk unseen, fearful deavour to follow your advice. [Going] Yeh, enter each apartment of this well-known stay; perhaps I am too rash and angry, when house. To guilty love, as if that were too the cause demands compassion. Some unforelittle, already have I added breach of trust. seen calamity may have befallen him, too great A thief! Can I know myself that wretched to bear.

[Aside.

thing, and look my honest friend and injured Barn. What part am I reduced to act? master in the face? Though hypocrisy may 'Tis vile and base to move his temper thus, awhile conceal my guilt, at length it will be the best of friends and men. known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. True. I am to blame; pr'ythee forgive me, In the mean time, what must be my life? Ever Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; to speak a language foreign to my heart; to and let me know the cause that thus transhourly add to the number of my crimes, in order ports you from yourself; my friendly counsel to conceal 'em. Sure such was the condition may restore your peace.

of the grand apostate, when first he lost his Barn. All that is possible for man to do purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered; for man your generous friendship may effect; and while yet in heaven, bore all his future hell about him.

Enter TRUEMAN.

True. Barnwell, oh how I rejoice to see you safe! So will our master, and his gentle daughter; who, during your absence, often inquired after you.

Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love will pry into the secrets of my soul. [Aside.

True. Unless you knew the pain the whole family has felt on your account, you can't conceive how much you are beloved. But why thus cold and silent?-When my heart is full of joy for your return, why do you turn away-why thus avoid me? What have I done? How am I altered since you saw me last? Or rather, what have you done-and why are you thus changed? for I am still the

same.

Barn. What have I done, indeed! [Aside. True. Not speak!-nor look upon me!Barn. By my face he will discover all I would conceal. Methinks already I begin to hate him. [Aside. True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; one whom till now I ever found so loving; whom yet I love; though his unkindness strikes at the root of friendship, and might destroy it in any breast but mine.

Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him] Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since you beheld 'em last.

but here, even that's in vain.

True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear.

Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase by being observed: should the cause be known, they would exceed all bounds.

True. So well I know thy honest heart, guilt cannot harbour there.

Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside. True. Then why am I excluded? Have I a thought I would conceal from you?

Barn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again.

True. 'Tis strange-but I have done-say but you hate me not.

I

Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. It's a blessing I never was worthy of, yet now must stand on terms; and but upon conditions can confirm it.

True. What are they?

Barn. Never hereafter, though you should wonder at my conduct, desire to know more than I am willing to reveal.

True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditions must be your friend.

Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself can be another's, I am yours. [Embracing. True. Be ever so; and may heaven restore your peace! But business requires our attenTrue. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln dance: business, the youth's best preservative with tears; now they overflow. Rightly did from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will my sympathizing heart forebode last night, you go with me?

peace.

when thou wast absent, something fatal to our Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what has passed, and follow you. [Exit TrueBarn. Your friendship engages you too far. man] I might have trusted Trueman, and enMy troubles, whate'er they are, are mine gaged him to apply to my uncle to repair the

House.

Enter MILLWOOD, LUCY, and a Footman. Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you immediately.

wrong I have done my master:-but what of SCENE II.—Another Room in THOROWGOOD'S Millwood? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave her, and not let her know the cause? she who loves me with such a boundless passion! Can cruelty be duty? I judge of what she then must feel, by what I now endure. The love of life, and fear of shame, opposed by inclination strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can I determine?

Enter THOROWGOOD.

Mill. 'Tis very well-I thank you.

[Exit Footman.

Enter BARNWELL.

Barn. Confusion! Millwood!

Mill. That angry look tells me, that here I am an unwelcome guest: I feared as much: the unhappy are so every where.

Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content you?

happiness is now my only care.
Mill. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your

Thorow. Without a cause assigned or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, young man, and I came to chide you for it, but hope I am prevented. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your face, speak grief and shame. When we have offended heaven, it requires no more: and to visit and deliver a message to you, we were with much respect conducted here. received by the family without suspicion, and

shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If my pardon, or love, be of moment to your peace, look up secure

of both.

Barn. This goodness has o'ercome me. [4 side] Oh, sir, you know not the nature and extent of my offence; and I should abuse your mistaken bounty to receive it. Though I had rather die than speak my shame, though racks could not have forced the guilty secret from my breast, your kindness has.

Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and am satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to an ingenuous mind: Some youthful folly which it were prudent not to inquire into. Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall your pardon, and abhor me.

Thorow. I never will. Yet be upon your guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your lite: when vice becomes habitual, the very power of leaving it is lost.

Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confessThorow. Not a syllable more upon this subject: it were not mercy, but cruelty, to Lear what must give you such torment to rereal.

me!

Barn. How did you gain admission?
Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle

I'm

Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more. malice of my fate! I go hopeless, despairing come to take my leave for ever. Such is the

ever to return. This hour is all I have left;

one short hour is all I have to bestow on love and you, for whom I thought the longest life

too short.

[Aside.

sense than she thought he had. Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more [Aside. Barn. Before you came, I had determined never to see you more. Mill. Confusion! Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my part; they must e'en play the scene betwixt themselves. Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts [Aside. Mill. It was some relief to think, though Thorow. This remorse makes thee dearer absent, you would love me still; but to find to me, than if thou hadst never offended. this, as I never could expect, I have not learn'd Whatever is your fault, of this I am certain, twas harder for you to offend, than me to in a resolution that so well becomes us both. Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me pardon. Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you have none. wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly?-Detested thought!-But what Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, of Millwood then?-Why I renounce her who have so many to wish we had never met? I give her up-The struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed. Reason may convince, but gratude compels. This unlooked-for generosity [Going.

bas saved me from destruction.

Enter a Footman.

[Exit.

Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in the country desire to see you.

Barn. Who should they be? [Aside] Tell them I'll wait upon 'em. [Exit Footman] Methinks I dread to see 'em-Now, every thing alarms me!-Guilt, what a coward hast thou made me.

to bear.

Mill. Where is the danger, since we are to part?

Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich enough; but what are riches when compared Lucy. For awhile he performed the office Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may of a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hope, at least, you do not hate me. hired her servants-But you have seen in

Barn. The thought of that already is too to love! painful.

Barn. No-No-I never said I did-Oh, what manner she has lived, so I need say no my heart! more of that.

Mill. Perhaps you pity me?

Barn. I do-I do-Indeed I do.

Mill. You'll think upon me!

Mill. How I shall live hereafter, heaven knows!

Lucy. All things went on as one could Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all, wish, till some time ago, his wife dying, he Mill. You may judge an embrace at part-fell violently in love with his charge, and ing too great a favour, though it would be would fain have married her. Now the man the last. [Barnwell draws back] A look shall is neither old nor ugly, but a good, personable then suffice-farewell-for ever. sort of man; but I don't know how it was,

[Exeunt Millwood and Lucy. she could never endure him. In short, her

Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquer
I have conquered-Painful victory!

Re-enter MILLWOOD and Lucy.

I

ill usage so provoked him, that he brought in an account of his executorship, wherein he makes her debtor to him—

Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough Mill. One thing I had forgot-I never must to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he return to my own house again. This I thought had stripped of all before. proper to let you know, lest your mind should Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor change, and you should seek in vain to find friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as me there. Forgive me this second intrusion; herself, he compelled her to pass his account, I only came to give you this caution, and that and give bond for the sum he demanded; but perhaps was needless. still provided handsomely for her, and continued his courtship, till being informed by his spies (truly, I suspect some in her own family) that you were entertained in her house, [Going and staid with her all night, he came this mornthere's no ing, raving and storming like a madman; talks danger in knowing where you go? If you no more of marriage (so there's no hope of think otherwisemaking up matters that way), but vows her ruin, unless she'll allow him the same favour that he supposes she granted you.

Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and must thank your for it.

Mill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy] Now, I am gone for ever.

Barn. One thing more-sure

Mill. Alas!

[Weeping. Lucy. We are right, I find; that's my cue. [Aside] Ah, dear sir, she's going she knows not whither; but go she must.

Barn. Must she be ruined, or find a refuge in another's arms?

Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve in: that's happily spent with you-And now I go

Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish your well; why will you thus expose yourself to needless troubles? Lucy. Nay, there's no help for it; she must Barn. To be exposed to all the rigours of quit the town immediately, and the kingdom the various seasons; the summer's parching as soon as possible. It was no small matter, heat, and winter's cold; unhoused, to wander you may be sure, that could make her resolve friendless through the unhospitable world, in to leave you. misery and want; attended with fear and Mill. No more, my friend; since he for danger, and pursued by malice and revenge. whose dear sake alone I suffer, and am con- Wouldst thou endure all this for me, and can tent to suffer, is kind and pities me; where'er I do nothing, nothing to prevent it?

I wander, through wilds and deserts benight- Lucy. Tis really a pity there can be no ed and forlorn, that thought shall give me way found out. comfort.

Barn. For my sake!-Oh tell me how, which way I am so cursed to bring such ruin on thee? Mill. To know it will but increase your troubles.

Barn. My troubles can't be greater than they are.

you,

Lucy. Well, well, sir, if she won't satisfy I will. Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. Mill. Remember, sir, that I desired` you not to hear it.

Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions

now?

Lucy. Now, I advised her, sir, to comply with the gentleman.

Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather perish, nay, see her perish, than have her saved by him. I will myself prevent her ruin, though with my own. A moment's patience; I'll return immediately. [Exit.

Lucy. Twas well you came, or, by what I can perceive, you had lost him. Mill. Hush! he's here.

Barn. Begin, and ease my expectation. Re-enter BARNWELL, with a Bag of Money. Lucy. Why you must know my lady here Barn. What am I about to do?-Now you, was an only child, and her parents dying who boast your reason all-sufficient, suppose while she was young, left her and her for-yourselves in my condition, and determine for tune (no inconsiderable one I assure you) to me; whether 'tis right to let her suffer for my the care of a gentleman who has a good estate faults, or, by this small addition to my guilt, of his own. prevent the ill effects of what is past. Here,

take this, and with it purchase your deliverance: return to your house, and live in peace and safety.

Mill. So, I may hope to see you there again?

Barn. Answer me not, but fly-lest, in the agonies of my remorse, I again take what is not mine to give, and abandon thee to want and misery.

True. I cannot speak it. See there.

[Gives a Letter. Maria. [Reads] I know my absence will surprise my honoured master and yourself; and the more, when you shall understand, that the reason of my withdrawing is, my having embezzled part of the cash with which I was entrusted. After this, 'tis needless to inform you, that I intend never to Mill. Say but you'll come. return again. Though this might have been Barn. You are my fate-my heaven, or my known by examining my accounts, yet to hell; only leave me now-dispose of me here- prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to after as you please. [Exeunt Millwood and cut off all fruitless expectations of my reLucy What have I done? Were my reso- turn, I have left this from the lost lutions founded on reason, and sincerely made?

GEORGE BARNWELL.

Why then has heaven suffered me to fall? True. Lost indeed! Yet how he should be I sought not the occasion; and, if my heart guilty of what he here charges himself withal, deceives me not, compassion and generosity raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never were my motives.-But why should I attempt had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly to reason? All is confusion, horror, and re- he thought, and as he thought he practised; morse. I find I am lost, cast down from all never was life more regular than his. An unmy late-erected hope, and plunged again in derstanding uncommon at his years; an open, guilt, yet scarce know how or why- generous, manliness of temper; his manners

Such undistinguish'd horrors make my brain, easy, unaffected, and engaging.
Like hell, the seat of darkness and of pain.

ACT III.

Maria. This and much more you might [Exit. have said with truth. He was the delight of every eye, and joy of every heart that knew him.

True. Since such he was, and was my friend, can I support his loss? See, the fairest, happiest maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, poor, ruined Barnwell!

SCENE L-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House. THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN discovered, with Account-books, sitting at a Table. Thorow. Well, I have examined your accounts; they are not only just, as I have Maria. Trueman, do you think a soul so always found them, but regularly kept, and delicate as his, so sensible of shame, can e'er fairly entered. I commend your diligence. submit to live a slave to vice? Method in business is the surest guide. Are True. Never, never: so well I know him, Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? I'm sure this act of his, so contrary to his nalle does not use to be the last on those oc- ture, must have been caused by some unavoidable necessity.

casions.

Fil go and hasten him.

True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, Maria. Is there no means yet to preserve I thought in some confusion. If you please, him? True. Oh, that there were! But few men Thorow. I'm now going to the Exchange: recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. let him know, at my return I expect to find Nor would he, I fear, though I should find him ready. [Exeunt. him, ever be brought to look his injured master in the face.

Enter MARIA, with a Book. Sits and reads.

Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would
never have my father know it.
True. That's impossible.
Maria. What's the sum?

Maria. "How forcible is truth! The weakest mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and collected in itself, with indifference beholds the united force of earth and hell opposing. Such True. 'Tis considerable. I've marked it here, souls are raised above the sense of pain, or to show it, with the letter, to your father, at so supported that they regard it not. The his return.

martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small Maria. If I should supply the money, could are bis sufferings, great is his reward. Not so you so dispose of that and the account, as to the wretch who combats love with duty; conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the father?

soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his True. Nothing more easy. But can you own desires.-What is an hour, a day, a intend it? Will you save a helpless wretch year of pain, to a whole life of tortures such from ruin? Oh, were an act worthy such exalted virtue as Maria's! Sure heaven, in mercy to my friend, inspired the generous thought.

as these?

Enter TRUEMAN.

True. Oh, Barnwell! Oh, my friend! how art thou fallen!

Maria. Ha! Barnwell! What of him? Speak, say, what of Barnwell?

Maria. Doubt not but I would purchase so great a happiness at a much dearer price. But how shall he be found?

True. Trust to my diligence for that. In True. Tis not to be concealed: I've news the mean time I'll conceal his absence from to tell of him that will afflict your generous your father, or find such excuses for it, that talber, yourself, and all who know him.

Maria. Defend us, heaven!

the real cause shall never be suspected. Maria. In attempting to save from shame