And be so slack! 'sfoot, it doth move my patience.
Would any man that is not void of sense
Not have watch'd night by night for such a prize?
Her beauty's so attractive, that by Heaven
My heart half grants to do my friend a wrong.
Forego these thoughts, Albert, be not a slave
To thy affection; do not falsify
Thy faith to him whose only friendship's worth
A world of women. He is such a one,
Thou canst not live without his good,
He is and was ever as thine own heart's blood.
(Maria beckons him from the window.)
'Sfoot, see, she beckons me for Carracus.
Shall my base purity cause me neglect
This present happiness? I will obtain it,
Spite of my timorous conscience. I
Habit and all, so like to Carracus,
It may be acted and ne'er call'd in question.
Mar. (calls) Hist! Carracus, ascend:
All is as clear as in our hearts we wish'd.
(Albert ascends, and being on the top of the ladder, puts out the candle.)
Mar. O love, why do you so?
Alb. I heard the steps of some coming this way.
Did you not hear Albert pass by as yet?
Mar. Not any creature pass this way this hour.
Alb. Then he intends just at the break of day
To lend his trusty help to our departure.
Mar. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest Upon that bed where fancy oft hath thought thee; Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee, Nor would I now but that thy loyal faith
I have so often tried; even now,
Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end,
Through all the dangers which black night presents,
For to convey me hence and marry me.
Enter CARRACUus, to his appointment.
Car. How pleasing are the steps we lovers make,
When in the paths of our content we pace,
To meet our longings! what happiness it is
For man to love! but oh, what greater bliss
To love and be belov'd! O what one virtue
E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd
With all earth's good at once? I have a friend,
Selected by the heavens as a gift
To make me happy whilst I live on earth;
A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith,
That earth's content must vanish in his death.
Then for my love and mistress of my soul,
A maid of rich endowments, beautified
With all the virtues nature could bestow
Upon mortality, who this happy night
Will make me gainer of her heavenly self.
And see, how suddenly I have attain'd
To the abode of my desired wishes!
This is the green; how dark the night appears!
I cannot hear the tread of my true friend.
Albert! hist, Albert !—he's not come as yet,
Nor is the appointed light set in the window.
What if I call Maria? it may be
She feared to set a light, and only heark'neth
To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call,
Lest I betray myself, and that my voice,
Thinking to enter in the ears of her,
Be of some other heard: no, I will stay
Until the coming of my dear friend Albert.
But now think, Carracus, what end will be
Of this thou dost determine: thou art come
Hither to rob a father of that wealth
That solely lengthens his now drooping years,
His virtuous daughter, and all (of that sex) left
To make him happy in his aged days.
The loss of her may cause him to despair,
Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy,
Or to some such abhorred inconveniency
Whereto frail age is subject. I do ill in this,
And must not think but that a father's plaint
Will move the heavens to pour forth misery
Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen,
When with too strict a rein they do hold in
Their child's affections, and controul that love
Which the high powers divine inspire them with ;
When in their shallowest judgments they may know,
Affection crost brings misery and woe.
But whilst I run contemplating on this,
I softly pace to my desired bliss.
I'll go into the next field, where my friend
Told me the horses were in readiness.
ALBERT descending from MARIA.
Mar. But do not stay. What if you find not Albert?
Alb. I'll then return alone to fetch you hence.
Mar. If you should now deceive me, having gain'd
What you men seek for
Alb. Sooner I'll deceive
My soul-and so I fear I have.
Mar. At your first call I will descend.
Alb. Till when, this touch of lips be the true pledge
Of Carracus' constant true devoted love.
Mar. Be sure you stay not long; farewell. I cannot lend an ear to hear you part.
Alb. But you did lend a hand unto my entrance.
Alb. (solus) How have I wrong'd my friend, my
faithful friend!
Robb'd him of what's more precious than his blood,
His earthly heaven, the unspotted honour
Of his soul-joying mistress! the fruition of whose bed
I yet am warm of; whilst dear Carracus
Wanders this cold night through the unshelt'ring field
Seeking me treach'rous man, yet no man neither,
Though in an outward show of such appearance,
But am a dev'l indeed, for so this deed
Of wronged love and friendship rightly makes me.
I may compare my friend to one that's sick,
Who, lying on his death-bed, calls to him
His dearest-thought friend, and bids him go.
To some rare-gifted man that can restore
His former health; this his friend sadly hears,
And vows with protestations to fulfil
His wish'd desires with his best performance;
But then no sooner seeing that the death
Of his sick friend would add to him some gain,
Goes not to seek a remedy to save,
But like a wretch hides him to dig his grave;
As I have done for virtuous Carracus.
Yet, Albert, be not reasonless to indanger
What thou may'st yet secure. Who can detect.
The crime of thy licentious appetite?
I hear one's pace; 'tis surely Carracus.
Car. Not find my friend! sure some malignant planet
Rules o'er this night, and envying the content
Which I in thought possess, debars me thus
From what is more than happy, the lov'd presence
Of a dear friend and love.
Alb. 'Tis wronged Carracus by Albert's baseness: I have no power now to reveal myself.
Car. The horses stand at the appointed place,
And night's dark coverture makes firm our safety.
My friend is surely fall'n into a slumber
On some bank hereabouts; I will call him.
Friend, Albert, Albert.
Alb. Whate'er you are that call, you know
Car. Aye, and thy heart dear friend.
[Maria appears above. Mar. My Carracus, are you so soon return'd?
I see, you'll keep your promise.
Car. Who would not do so having past it thee,
Cannot be fram'd of aught but treachery.
Fairest, descend, that by our hence departing
We may make firm the bliss of our content.
Mar. Is your friend Albert with you?
Alb. Yes, and your servant, honour'd Lady.
Mar. Hold me from falling, Carracus. (she descends. Car. Come fair Maria, the troubles of this night
Are as fore-runners to ensuing pleasures.
And, noble friend, although now Carracus
Seems, in the gaining of this beauteous prize,
To keep from you so much of his lov'd treasure,
Which ought not to be mixed; yet his heart
Shall so far strive in your wish'd happiness,
That if the loss and ruin of itself
Can but avail your good—
Alb. O friend, no more; come, you are slow in haste. Friendship ought never be discuss'd in words,
Till all her deeds be finish'd. Who, looking in a book,
|