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

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, I its way, declare what woman's modesty should should desire to know your real sentiments hide. 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.

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 1. 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
my uncle and
friend.

Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no

my master; but above all, my opportunity of fingering his cash; and then 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.

Mill. 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. [Aside] 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.

Mill. Do not ask me-I can never speak it, whatever is the cause. I wish for things impossible. 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 have on me is as strange, I feel desires I certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, ever knew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence power to go. [Aside] Madam, I humbly leave.

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

I have

take

my

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

that moves me mightily.

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 somemyself 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 calls me hence. I never yet neglected his ser- know we all depend upon her. Should she vice. 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 II.

[Exeunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friendship and all engagements cease as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better

SCENE 1.-4 Room in THOROWGOOD's House. for us both that now you loved me less.

Enter BARNWELL.

True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause

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] Yet, I 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..

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.

Aside.

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 but here, even that's in vain. 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

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 conceive how much you are beloved. But thought I would conceal from you? why thus cold and silent?-When my heart Barn. If still you urge me on this hated is full of joy for your return, why do you subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, 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

nor see your face again.

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

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? [Aside. Barn. Never hereafter, though you True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; wonder at my conduct, desire to know more one whom till now I ever found so loving; than I am willing to reveal. whom yet I love; though his unkindness strikes True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditions at the root of friendship, and might destroy I must be your friend. it in any breast but mine.

hate him.

should

[Embracing.

Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him] can be another's, I am yours. Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since True. Be ever so; and may heaven restore you beheld 'em last. 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

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 House. 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.

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 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] Ob, sir, you know not the nature and extent of ny 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 I 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 life: 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 hear what must give you such torment to re

real.

Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts

me!

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?

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

Barn. How did you gain admission?

Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle to visit and deliver a message to you, we were with much respect conducted here. received by the family without suspicion, and

I'm

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

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.

to bear.

Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you have none.

[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. [Exit. Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to Wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly?-Detested thought!-But what of Millwood then?-Why I renounce herI give her up—The struggle's over, and virtue formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds has prevailed. Reason may convince, but gra- enjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she titude compels. This unlooked-for generosity whom yesterday you thought the fairest and has saved me from destruction. [Going. the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you gazed with such de

Enter a Footinan.

who have so many to wish we had never met? Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, Mill., Look on me, Barnwell. Am I de

Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in light, as if desire increased by being fed? 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.

Barn. No more: let me repent my former follies, if possible, without remembering what they were.

Mill. Why?

Barn. Such is my frailty, that 'tis danger

ous.

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

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

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,

Barn. No-No-I never said I did—Oh,

my heart!

Mill. Perhaps you pity me?

Barn. I do-Ido-Indeed I do.

Mill. You'll think upon me!

hired her servants-But you have seen in what manner she has lived, so I need say no more of that.

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. Barntell 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 ill usage so provoked him, that he brought in -I have conquered-Painful victory! an account of his executorship, wherein he makes her debtor to him

Re-enter MILLWOOD and Lucy.

Mill, A trifle in itself, but more than enough to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he had stripped of all before.

Mill. One thing I had forgot-I never must return to my own house again. This I thought 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 conti Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I nued his courtship, till being informed by his must thank your for it.

Mill. My friend, your arm. Now, I am gone for ever.

spies (truly, I suspect some in her own fa[To Lucy] mily) that you were entertained in her house, [ Going. and staid with her all night, he came this mornBarn. One thing more-sure there'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 otherwise

Mill. Alas!

making up matters that way), but vows her [Weeping. ruin, unless she'll allow him the same favour that he supposes she granted you.

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

Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish you well; why will you thus expose yourself to needless troubles?

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

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,

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, prevent the ill effects of what is past. Here,

of his own.

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 bell; 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.

SCENE L-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House. True. Since such he was, and was my friend, THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN discovered, can I support his loss? See, the fairest, happiest maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly with Account-books, sitting at a Table. condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, Thorow. Well, I have examined your ac-poor, ruined Barnwell!

counts; 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 naHe does not use to be the last on those oc- ture, must have been caused by some unavoidable necessity.

casions.

True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, Maria. Is there no means yet to preserve I thought in some confusion. If you please, him?

I go and hasten 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.

Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would never have my father know it.

True. That's impossible.
Maria. What's the sum?

Enter MARIA, with a Book. Sits and reads. 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, 'twere an act worthy such 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?

exalted virtue as Maria's! Sure heaven, in mercy to my friend, inspired the generous, thought.

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 father, yourself, and all who know him.

Maria. Defend us, heaven!

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