well, Nurse.

Vil. Suddenly taken, on the road to Brussels;

To do us honour, love; unfortunate!

Isa. You hear it must be so.
Vil. Oh, that it must!

Car. To leave your bride so soon!
Vil. But having the possession of my love,
am the better able to support

My absence, in the hopes of my return.
Car. Your stay will be but short?
Vil. It will seem long!

The longer that my Isabella sighs:
I shall be jealous of this rival, grief,
That you indulge and fondle in my absence.
It takes so full possession of thy heart,
There is not room enough for mighty love,

Enter Servant, and bows.

My horses wait: farewell, my love! You, Carlos,
Will act a brother's part, 'till I return,
And be the guardian here. All, all I have,
That's dear to me, I give up to your care.

Car. And I receive her as a friend and bro-
ther.

Vil. Nay, stir not, love! for the night air is cold,

Though cold to me and dead.

Isa. I'm sorry for the cause.
Vil. Oh! could I think,

Could I persuade myself that your concern
For me, or for my absence, were the spring,
The fountain of these melancholy thoughts,
My heart would dance, spite of the sad occa-
sion,

And be a gay companion in my journey;
But-

[Erit with Carlos. Isa. Oh, may thy brother better all thy hopes !

Adieu.

A sudden melancholy bakes my blood!
Forgive me, Villeroy—I do not find
That cheerful gratitude thy service asks:
Yet, if I know my heart, and sure I do,
'Tis not averse from honest obligation.
I'll to my chamber, and to bed; my mind,
My harassed mind, is weary.
[Exit.

SCENE I.-The Street.

Enter BIRON and BELFORD, just arrived. Bir. THE longest day will have an end; we are got home at last.

Bel. We have got our legs at liberty; and liberty is home wherever we go; though mine lies most in England.

Bir. Pray let me call this yours: for what I can command in Brussels, you shall find your own. I have a father here, who, perhaps, after seven years absence, and costing him nothing in my travels, may be glad to see me. You know my story-How does my disguise become me?

Bel. Just as you would have it; 'tis natural, and will conceal you.

Bir. To-morrow you shall be sure to find me here, as early as you please. This is the house; you have observed the street.

Bel. I warrant you; I have not many visits to make before I come to you.

Bir. To-night I have some affairs that will oblige me to be in private.

Bel. A good bed is the privatest affair that I desire to be engaged in to-night; your directions will carry me to my lodgings. [Exit. [Knocks.

Bir. Good night, my friend. The long expected moment is arrived! And if all here is well, my past sorrows Will only heighten my excess of joy; And nothing will remain to wish or hope for! [Knocks again.

Enter SAMPSON.

you

have?

Samp. Who's there! What would Bir. Is your lady at home, friend?' Samp. Why, truly, friend, it is my employment to answer impertinent questions: but, for my lady's being at home, or no, that's just as my lady pleases.

Bir. But how shall I know whether it pleases her or no?

Samp. Why, if you will take my word for it, you may carry your errand back again; she never pleases to see any body at this time of night that she does not know; and by your dress and appearance I am sure you must be a stranger to her.

Bir. But I have business; and you don't know how that may please her.

Samp. Nay, if you have business, she is the best judge whether your business will please her or no; therefore I will proceed in my office, and know of my lady whether or no she is pleased to be at home, or no[Going.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Who's that you are so busy withal? Methinks, you might have found out an answer

in fewer words; but, Sampson, you love to hear yourself prate sometimes, as well as your betters. that I must say for you. Let me come to him. Who would you speak with, stranger?

Bir. With you, mistress, if you could help me to speak to your lady.

Nurse. Yes, sir, I can help you in a civil way but can nobody do your business but may lady?

Bir. Not so well; but if you carry her this ring, she will know my business better. Nurse. There's no love-letter in it, I hope; you look like a civil gentleman. In an honest way, I may bring you an answer. [Erit.

Bir. My old nurse, only a little older! Thev say the tongue grows always: mercy on me! then hers is seven years longer since I left her. Yet there's something in these servants' folly pleases me; the cautious conduct of the family appears, and speaks in their impertinence. Weil,

mistress

Nurse returns.

Nurse. I have delivered your ring, sir. Pray Heaven you bring no bad news along with you! Bir. Quite the contrary, I hope.

Nurse. Nay, I hope so too; but my lady was very much surprised when I gave it her. Sir, I am but a servant, as a body may say; but if you walk in, that I may shut the doors, for we keep very orderly hours, I can shew you into the parlour, and help you to an answer, perhaps as soon as those that are wiser. [Exeunt.

SCENE II-A chamber.

Enter ISABELLA.

Isa. I have heard of witches, magic spells, and

charms,

That have made nature start from her old course:
The sun has been eclipsed, the moon drawn down
From her career, still paler, and subdued
To the abuses of this under world!
Now, I believe all possible. This ring,
This little ring, with necromantic force,
Has raised the ghost of pleasure to my fears:
Conjured the sense of honour, and of love,
Into such shapes, they fright me from myself!
I dare not think of them-

I'll call you when I want you. [Servant goes out.

Enter Nurse.

Nurse. Madam, the gentleman's below.
Isa. I had forgot, pray let me speak with him.
[Exit Nurse.

This ring was the first present of my love
To Biron, my first husband; I must blush
To think I have a second. Biron died
(Still to my loss) at Candy; there's my hope.

Bir. Oh! come again!

Thy Biron summons thee to life and love;
Once I had charms to wake thee:
Thy once loved, ever-loving husband calls—
Thy Biron speaks to thee.

İsa. My husband! Biron?

Bir. Excess of love and joy, for my return, Has overpowered her. I was to blame To take thy sex's softness unprepared: But sinking thus, thus dying in my arms, This ecstacy has made my welcome more Than words could say: words may be counterfeit,

False-coined, and current only from the tongue, Without the mind; but passion's in the soul, And always speaks the heart.

Isa. Where have I been! Why do you keep
him from me?

I know his voice: my life upon the wing,
Here's the soft lure that brings me back again;
'Tis he himself, my Biron, the dear man!
My true-loved husband! Do I hold you fast,
Never to part again? Can I believe it?
Nothing but you could work so great a change;
There's more than life itself in dying here.
If I must fall, death's welcome in these arms.
Bir. Live ever in these arins!

Isa. But pardon me,

Excuse the wild disorder of my soul:

I was preserved but to be made a slave :
I often writ to my hard father, but never had
An answer; I writ to thee too-

Isa. What a world of woe

Had been prevented but in hearing from you! Bir. Alas! thou couldst not help me!

Isa. You do not know how much I could have done;

At least, I'm sure I could have suffered all:
I would have sold myself to slavery,
Without redemption; given up my child,
The dearest part of me, to basest wants-
Bir. My little boy!

Isa. My life, but to have heard
You were alive-which now, too late, I find.

[Aside. Bir. No more, my love. Complaining of the past,

We lose the present joy. 'Tis over price
Of all my pains, that thus we meet again-
I have a thousand things to say to thee-
Isa. Would I were past the hearing! [Aside.
Bir. How does my child, my boy, my father
too?

I hear he's living still.

Isa. Well both, both well;

And may he prove a father to your hopes, Though we have found him none !

Bir. Come, no more tears. Isa. Seven long years of sorrow for your Have mourned with me

Bir. And all my days behind

loss,

Shall be employed in a kind recompence
For thy afflictions.-Can't I see my boy?
Isa. He's gone to bed: I'll have him brought
to you.

Bir. To-morrow I shall see him; I want rest Myself, after this weary pilgrimage.

Isa. Alas! what shall I get for you?

Bir. Nothing but rest, my love! To-night I would not

Be known, if possible, to your family:

I see my nurse is with you; her welcome
Would be tedious at this time;
To-morrow will do better.

Isa. I'll dispose of her, and order every thing

Bir. Thou everlasting goodness!

Isa. Answer me :

What hand of Providence has brought you back To your own home again? O, satisfy

The impatience of my heart: I long to know The story of your sufferings. You would think Your pleasures sufferings, so long removed From Isabella's love. But tell me all,

For every thought confounds me.

[Exit.

Bir. Grant me but life, good Heaven, and give

the means,

To make this wondrous goodness some amends:
And let me then forget her, if I can!

O! she deserves of me much more than I
Can lose for her, though I again could venture

A father, and his fortune, for her love!
You wretched fathers, blind as fortune all!
Not to perceive that such a woman's worth
Weighs down the portions you provide your

sons:

Bir. My best life! at leisure, all.

of Candy.

Bir. There I fell among the dead;

But hopes of life reviving from my wounds,

VOL. I.

Compared to this, my heart-felt happiness? [Bursts into tears. What has she, in my absence, undergone?

3 A

now

The baneful planet rises on my fate,
And what's to come is a long line of woe.
Yet I may shorten it-

I promised him to follow-him!

Is he without a name? Biron, my husband,
To follow him to bed-
-my husband! ́ha!
What then is Villeroy? But yesterday
That very bed received him for its lord,
Yet a warm witness of my broken vows.
Oh, Biron, hadst thou come but one day sooner,
I would have followed thee through beggary,
Through all the chances of this weary life:
Wandered the many ways of wretchedness
With thee, to find a hospitable grave;
For that's the only bed that's left me now.

[Weeping. -What's to be done?-for something must be

My reputation! Oh, 'twas all was left me!
The virtuous pride of an uncensured life;
Which the dividing tongues of Biron's wrongs,
And Villeroy's resentments, tear asunder,
To gorge the throats of the blaspheming rabble.
This is the best of what can come to-morrow,
Besides old Baldwin's triumph in my ruin :
I cannot bear it-

Therefore no morrow: Ha! a lucky thought
Works the right way to rid me of them all;
All the reproaches, infamies, and scorns,
That every tongue and finger will find for me.
Let the just horror of my apprehensions
But keep me warm-no matter what can come.
'Tis but a blow-yet I will see him first—
Have a last look to heighten my despair,
And then to rest for ever.-—————

Isa. And me to my undoing: I look round,
And find no path, but leading to the grave.
Bir. I cannot understand thee.
Isa. My good friends above,

I thank them, have at last found out a way
To make my fortune perfect; having you,
I need no more; my fate is finished here.
Bir. Both our ill fates, I hope.

Isa. Hope is a lying, fawning flatterer,
That shews the fair side only of our fortunes,
To cheat us easier into our fall;

A trusted friend, who only can betray you;
Never believe him more. If marriages
Are made in Heaven, they would be happier :
Why was I made this wretch?

Bir. Has marriage made thee wretched?

Isa. Miserable, beyond the reach of comfort. Bir. Do I live to hear thee say so?

Isa. Why, what did I say?

Bir. That I have made thee miserable.

Isa. No: you are my only earthly happiness; false tongue belied my honest heart,

And

my If it said otherwise.

Bir. And yet you said,

Your marriage made you miserable.
Isa. I know not what I said:

I have said too much, unless I could speak all. Bir. Thy words are wild; my eyes, my ears, my heart,

Were all so full of thee, so much employed
In wonder of thy charms, I could not find it:
Now I perceive it plain--

Isa. You will tell nobody

Bir. Thou art not well.

[Distractedly.

Isa. Indeed I am not; I knew that before; But where's the remedy?

Bir. Rest will relieve thy cares: come, come,

Bir. Am I the cause? the cause of thy misfortunes?

Isa. The fatal innocent cause of all my woes. Bir. Is this my welcome home? This the reward

Of all my miseries, long labours, pains,
And pining wants of wretched slavery,
Which I have outlived, only in hopes of thee:
Am I thus paid at last for deathless love,
And called the cause of thy misfortunes now?
Isa. Enquire no more; 'twill be explained too
[She is going off.
Bir. What canst thou leave ine too?
[He stays her.

soon.

Isa. Pray, let me go :
For both our sakes, permit me-

Bir. Rack me not with imaginations

Of things impossible-
What thou hast said-

mean.

'Twas madness all

-Thou canst not mean
-Yet something she must

-Compose thyself, my love!
The fit is past; all may be well again:
Let us to bed.

Isa. To bed! You have raised the storm
Will sever us for ever. Oh, Biron !
While I have life, still I must call you mine:
I know I am, and always was, unworthy
To be the happy partner of your love;
And now must never, never share it more.
But oh! if ever I was dear to you,

Indeed we both have been unfortunate;
But sure misfortunes ne'er were faults in love.
Isa. Oh! there's a fatal story to be told;
Be deaf to that, as Heaven has been to me!
And rot the tongue that shall reveal my shame :
When thou shall hear how much thou hast been
wronged,

How wilt thou curse thy fond believing heart,
Tear me from the warm bosom of thy love,
And throw me like a poisonous weed away!
Can I bear that? Bear to be curst and torn,
And thrown out of thy family and name,
Like a disease? Can I bear this from thee?
I never can: no, all things have their end.
When I am dead, forgive and pity me.

Bir. Stay, my Isabella

[Exit.

What can she mean? These doubtings will dis

tract me:

knees,

(The last time I shall care to be believed)

I beg you, beg to think me innocent,

Clear of all crimes, that thus can banish me From this world's comforts, in my losing you.

'Tis she, my wife, must clear this darkness to me. She shall-if the sad tale at last must come! She is my fate, and best can speak my doom. [Exit.

SCENE I.

Enter BIRON. Nurse following him.
Bir. I KNOW enough: the important question
Of life or death, fearful to be resolved,
Is cleared to me: I see where it must end;
And need enquire no more-Pray, let me have
Pen, ink, and paper. I must write a-while,
And then I will try to rest- -to rest for ever!
[Exit Nurse.

Poor Isabella! now I know the cause,
The cause of thy distress, and cannot wonder
That it has turned thy brain. If I look back
Upon thy loss, it will distract me too.
Oh, any curse but this might be removed!
But 'twas the rancorous malignity
Of all ill-stars combined, of heaven and fate-
Hold, hold my impious tongue-Alas! I rave:
Why do I tax the stars, or heaven, or fate?
They are all innocent of driving us
Into despair; they have not urged my doom;
My father and my brother are my fates,

That drive me to my ruin. They knew well
I was alive. Too well they knew how dear
My Isabella-Oh, my wife no more!
How dear her love was to me-Yet they stood,
With a malicious silent joy, stood by,
And saw her give up all my happiness,
The treasure of her beauty to another;
Stood by, and saw her married to another.
Oh, cruel father! and unnatural brother!
Shall I not tell you that you have undone me!
I have but to accuse you of my wrongs,
And then to fall forgotten-Sleep or death
Sits heavy on me, and benumbs my pains:
Either is welcome; but the hand of death
Works always sure, and best can close my eyes.
[Exit Biron.

Enter Nurse and SAMPSON.

Nurse. Here's strange things towards, Sampson: what will be the end of them, do you think?

Samp. Nay, marry, nurse, I cannot see so far;