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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. 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 ? Heatens! 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 bereafter) excites my curiosity; and were 1 blushes-this flood of tears too, that will force sure you would pardon my presumption, 1 its way, declare-what woman's modesty should should desire to know your real sentiments bide. on a very particular subject.

Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless Barn. Madam, you may command my poor as I am. Her looks, her words, her flowing thoughts on any subject. I have none that I tears' confess it. And can I leave her then? would conceal.

Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up your tears; MiZL. You'll think me bold.

you shall command me always. I will stay Barn. No, indeed.

here for ever, if you would have me. Mil What then are your thoughts of love? Lucy. So, she has wheedled him out of his

Bara. If you mean ihe love of women, 1 virtue of obedience already, and will strip bare not thought of it at all. My youth and him of all the rest, one after another, till she arcumstances make such thoughts' improper has left him as few as her ladyship, or myin 1.e 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 friend.

he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn. MiIL You have a friend then, whom you

[ Aside. Lore?

Enter BLUNT. Barn. As he does me, sincerely.

Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table. Müll. He is, no doubt, often 'bless'd with Mill. Come, sir, you'll excuse all defects. your company and conversation.

My thoughts' were too much employed on my Barn. We live in one house, and both guest to observe the entertainment. serve the same worthy merchant.

[Exeunt Barnwell and Millwood. MIL Happy, happy youth! Whoe'er thou Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this art, I envy thee; and so must all who see and elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, know this youth. What have I lost by being for the entertainment of that young fellow? formed a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had Lucy. So it seems. I been a man, I might perhaps have been as Blunt. How! is our mistress turned fool at happy in your friendship, as he who now en- last? She's in love with him, I suppose. joys it is; but as it is-Oh!

Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to Barn. I never observed woman before; or make him in love with her, if she can. this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. Blunt. What will she get by that? He seems Aside? You seem disordered, madam;—may under age, and can't be supposed to have

Mill. Do not ask me-I can never speak it, Lucy. But his master has, and that's the whatever is the cause. I wish for things im- same thing, as she'll manage it, passible. 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 hare on me is as strange. I feel desires 1 certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, Beter knew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence Ilare power to go. (Aside] Madam, l'humbly that moves me mightily. take my leave.

Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and Mill. You will not, sure, leave me so soon! plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire Barn. Indeed I must.

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: 1hough, 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 bence. I never yet neglected his scr- 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 bim to answer them, by stilling rant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to his conscience. Oh, the lad is in a hopeful the heart. way, depend upon it.

[Exeunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friend

ship and all - engagements cease as circumACT II.

stances and occasions vary; and since you Scene 1.- A Room in Thorowgood's House for us both that now you loved me less.

once may hate me, perhaps it might be better 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,

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, al length it will be the best of fricnds 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 bis future but here, even that's in vain. hell about him.

True. Something dreadful is labouring in

your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share Enter TRUEMAN.

your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it True. Barnwell, oh bow I rejoice to see admit no cure, and make it lighter by the you safe! So will our master, and his gentle part I bear. daughter; who, during your absence, often Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase inquired after you:

by being observed: should the cause be known, Barn. Would he were gone! His officious they would exceed all bounds. love will pry into the secrets of my soul. True. So well I know thy honest heart,

[Aside. guilt cannot harbour there. True. Unless you knew the pain the whole Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside. family has felt on your account, you can't 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 nor see your face again. I done? How am I altered since you saw me True. Tis strange—but I have done - say last? Or rather, what have you done-and but you hate me not. why are you thus changed? for I am still the Burn. Hate you! I am not that monster yel.

True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. What have I done, indeed! [ Aside. Barn. It's a blessing. I never was worthy True. Not speak!—nor look upon me!- of, yet now must stand on terms; and bu

Barn. By my face he will discover all 1 upon conditions can confirm it. would conceal. Methinks already I begin to True. What are they ? hate him.

Aside. Barn. Never hereafter, though you should 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 bis unkindness strikes True. 'Tis hard; but upon any condition at the root of friendship, and might destroy I must be your friend. it in any breast but mine.

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

your peace! But business requires our atten True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln dance: business, the youth's best preservativ with tears;-now they overflow. Rightly did from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. my sympathizing heart forebode last night, you go with me? when thou wast absent, something fatal to our Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect o peace.

what has passed, and follow you. [Exit True Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. man] I might have trusted Trueman, and en My troubles, whate'er they are, are mine gaged him io apply to my uncle to repair th


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 Enter MilLWOOD, Lucy, and a Footman. loves me with such a boundless passion! Can Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you immecruelty be duly? I judge of what she then diately. must feel, by what I now endure. The love Mill. 'Tis


well-I thank you. of life, and fear of shame, opposed by incli

[Exit Footman. nation strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither

Enler BARNWELL. can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can Barn. Confusion! Millwood! I determine?

Mill. That angry look tells me, that here I

am an unwelcome guest: I feared as much: Enter THOROWGOOD.

the unhappy are so every where, Thorox. Without a cause assigned or no

Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin con

tent you? tice given, to, absent yourself last night was a

Min. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your fault, young man, and I came to chide you happiness is now my only care. for it, but hope 'Í am prevented. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your

Barn. How did you gain admission? face, speak grief and shame. When we have

Mill. Saying, we were desired by your uncle offended heaven, it requires no more: and to visit and deliver a message to you, we were sball man, who needs himself to be forgiven, received by the family without suspicion, and be harder to appease ? If my pardon, or love,

with much respect conducted here. be of moment to your peace, look up secure

Barn. Why did you come at all?

I'm of both.

Mill. I never shall trouble you more. Barn. This goodness has o'ercome me. [A

come to take my leave for ever. Such is the side) Oh, sir, you know not the nature and malice of my fate! ! go hopeless

, despairing extent of my offence; and I should abuse

ever to return. This hour is all I have left; mistaken bounty to receive it. Though I had one short hour is all I have to bestow on love rather die than speak my shame, though racks and you, for whom I thought the longest life could not have forced the guilty secret from too short.

Barn. Then we are met to part ever. my breast, your kindness has.

Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and i or absence shall ever put a period to my grief

, 20 satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt

or make me love you less. Though I must to an ingenuous mind: Some youthful folly

leave you, yet condemn me not. which it were prudent not to inquire into.

Barn. Condemn you! No, I

approve your Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall resolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis just

, 'tis nece your pardon, and abhor me.

cessary ;-I have well weighed, and found Thorow. I never will.

Yet be upon your guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your sense than she thought he bad.

Lucy. I am afraid the young man bas more life: when vice becomes habitual, the very


Barn. Before you came, I had determined power of leaving it is lost.

never to see you more. Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess

Mill. Confusion! Thorox. Not a syllable more upon this

[Aside. subject: it were not mercy, but cruelty, to

Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn hear what must give you such torment to re

so unexpected, that I shall make nothing, of real.

my, part; they must e'cn play the scene betwixi themselves.

[ Aside. Børn. This generosity amazes and distracts me!

Mill. It was some relief to think, though Thorom. 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 bare not learn'd Whatever is your fault, of this I am certain,

to bear. twas barder 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.". Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to wrong so excellent a man.

Should I again

have none. 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

Mill., Look on me, Barnwell. Am I debas prevailed. Reason may convince, but

formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds stude compels. This unlooked-for generosity whom yesterday' you thought the fairest and kas saved me from destruction. [Going.

the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling 'Enter a Footinan.

with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus,

while on my eyes you gazed with such deFoot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in light, as if desire increased by being fed ? the country desire to see you.

Barn. No more: let me repent my former Barn. Who should they be? [Aside] Tell follies, if possible, without remembering what them. I'll wait upon 'em. [Exit Footman] they were. Methinks I dread to see 'em-Now, every Mill. Why? thing alarms me!-Guilt, what a coward hast Barn. Such is my frailly, that 'tis dangerthou made me.

it so.


my heart!

Mill. Where is the danger, since we are Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich to part?

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, setiled her in a house, hope, at least, you do not bate me.

hired her servants—But you have seen in Barn. No-No-I never said I did—Oh, what manner she has lived, so I need say no

more of that. Mill. Perhaps you pity me?

Mill. How I shall live hereafter, heaven Barn. I do-ido - Indeed I do.

knows! Mill, You'll think upon me!

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, be

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 ihé man the last. Barnivell 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, ber 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 trille 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 contiBarn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I nued his courtship, till being informed by his must thank your for it.

spies (truly, I suspect some in her own faMill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy] mily) that you were entertained in her house, Now, I am gone for ever.

[Going and staid with her all night, be 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 ol think otherwise

making up matters that way), but vows her Mill. Alas!

[Weeping. ruin, unless she'll allow him the same favour Lucy; We are right, I finds that's my cue, that he supposes she granted you. [Aside) Ah, dear sir, she's going she knows Barn. Must she be ruined, or find a refuge not wbither; but go she must.

in another's arms? Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish you Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve well; why will you thus expose yourself to in: that's happily spent with you—Ayd now 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

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 pily there can be no ed and forlorn, that thought shall give me way found out. comfort.

Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions Barn. For my sake! - Oh tell me how, now? which way I am so cursed to bring such Lucy. Now, I advised her, sir, to comply ruin on thee?

with the gentleman, Mill. To know it will but increase your Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rathe troubles.

perish, nay, see her perish, than have bei Barn. My troubles can't be greater than saved by him, I will myself prevent her ruin they are,

though with my own, Á moment's patience Lucy. Well, well, sir, if she won't satisfy I'll return immediately,


Lucy. 'Twas well you came, or, by what Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. can perceive, you had lost him.

Mill. Remember, sir, that I desired you not Mill. Hush! he's here. to bear it. 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, suppos while she was young, left her and her for yourselves in my condition, and delermine fo 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 guili of his own.

prevent the ill effects of what is past. —Here

I go

to leave you.

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you, I will

take this, and with it purchase your deliver- True. I cannot speak it. See there. ance; return to your house, and live in peace

[Gives a Letter. and safety.

Maria. [Reads] I know my absence will Mill. So, I may hope to see you there surprise my honoured master and yourself ; again?

and the more, when you shall understand, Barn. Answer me not, but fly-lest, in the that the reason of my withdrawing is, my agonies of my remorse, I again take what is having embezzled part of the cash with not mine to give, and abandon thee to want which I was entrusted. After this, 'tis needand misery.

less to inform you, that I intend never to Mil. Say but you'll come.

return again. Though this might hdve 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 reasoa ?. All is confusion, horror, and re- he thought, and as be 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. Lite bell, the seat of darkness and of pain. Maria. This and much more you might

[Exit. bave said with truth. He was the delight of ACT III.

every eye, and joy of every heart that ‘knew

him. SCENE I-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House. True. Since such he was, and was my friend, THOROWGOOD and TrueMAN discovered,

can I support bis loss? See, the fairest, hapwith Account-books, sitting at a Table.

piest maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly

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, Barwell's accounts ready for my inspection? I'm sure this act of his, so contrary to his naHe does not use to be ihe last 'on those oc- ture, must have been caused by some unacasions.

voidable necessity. 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'll go and basten 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

[Exeunt. him, ever be brought to look his injured master

in the face. Enter MARIA, with a Book. Sils and reads. Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would

Maria. “How forcible is truth! The weakest never have my father know it. mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and True. That's impossible. collected in itself, with indifference beholds the Maria. What's the sum? 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; sinall 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 ou desires.- What is an hour, a day, a intend it? Will you save a helpless wretch per 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 , Enter TRUEMAN.

thought. True. Oh, Barnwell! Oh, my friend! how Maria. Doubt not but I would purchase so art thou fallen!

great a happiness at a much dearer price. But Maria. Ha! Barnwell! What of him? Speak, how shall he be found ? say, what of Barnwell?

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 10. tell of him that will afflict your generous your father, or find such excuses for it, that father, yourself, and all who know him. ihe real cause shall never be suspected. Maria. Defend us, heaven!

Marii. In attempting to save from shame

him ready.

as these?

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