Ran. Not out of Penryn, Sir; but to the strand, [storm To hear what news from Falmouth since the Of wind last night. O. Wil. It was a dreadful one. Ran. Some found it so. A noble ship from Ent'ring in the harbour, run upon a rock, O. Wil. What 'came of those on board her? Ran. Some few are sav'd; but much the greater part, 'Tis thought, are perish'd. O. Wil. They are past the fear Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore; Those who escap'd are still expos'd to both. Where's your mistress? Ran. I saw her pass the High-street, towards the Minster. O. Wil. She's gone to visit Charlotte-She doth well. In the soft bosom of that gentle maid, [race Since our misfortunes, we have found no friend, bear it A moment longer!-Then, this honest wretch! How long hast thou been with me? I was a very child when first you took me, O. Wil. That cannot be reviv'd, Ran. The whole of my intent Was to confess your bounty, that supplied O. Wil. No more of that.-Thou'st serv'd me longer since Without reward; so that account is balanc'd, For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd Ran. Nay, I beseech you, Sir!- Thy love, respect, and diligence, increas'd; Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity? O. Wit. What! canst thou feed on air? Ran. Rather than leave you thus, O. Wil. Down, down, my swelling heart, Or burst in silence: 'tis thy cruel fate Insults thee by his kindness. He is innocent Of all the pain it gives thee. Go thy ways, I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes Of rising in the world. Ran. "Tis true; I'm young, And never tried my fortune, or my genius; Which may perhaps find out some happy means, As yet unthought of, to supply your wants. gations Which I can ne'er return. And who art thou, Ran. Be not offended, Sir, and I will go O. Wil. Farewell-Stay- Dost thou aspire to greatness, or to wealth, And he who deals with mankind on the square, What, teach and counsel me to be a villain! Char. What terror and amazement must they Who die by shipwreck? [feel Mar. Tis a dreadful thought! Char. Ay; is it not, Maria? to descend, Living and conscious, to that wať'ry tomb? Alas! had we no sorrows of our own, The frequent instances of others' woe Must give a gen'rous mind a world of pain. But you forget you promis'd me to sing. Though cheerfulness and I have long been strangers, Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me. Mar. Cease, cease, heart-easing tears; Which seven long tedious years Tears are for lighter woes; Maid e'er deplor'd. None could convey it here but you, Maria: Of honourable love? This letter is Char. No matter whence-return it back unopen'd. I have no love, no charms, but for my Wilmot, Nor would have any. Mar. Alas! Wilmot's dead; Or, living, dead to you. Char. I'll not despair; [honour Patience shall cherish hope, nor wrong his By unjust suspicion. I know his truth, And will preserve my own. But to prevent Can witness, they were made without reserve; Mar. And did your vows oblige you to supHis haughty parents, to your utter ruin? [port Well may you weep to think on what you've done. Char. I weep to think that I can do no more For their support. What will become of 'em!The hoary, helpless, miserable pair! Mar. What I can't praise, you force me to And mourn for you, as you lament for them. admire, Your patience, constancy, and resignation, Merit a better fate. Char. So pride would tell me, And vain self-love, but I believe them not: Mar. You have the heavenly art, still to im [me. By the least favour, though 'twere but a look, Char. By scorning, we provoke them to contempt; And thus offend, and suffer in our turns: Agn. No, I scorn them yet. But there's no end of suff'ring: who can say Their sorrows are complete? My wretched husband, Tir'd with our woes, and hopeless of relief, And, urg'd by indignation and despair, Char. Gracious heaven, support him! [fate, Whom he would fain persuade to share his And take the saine, uncertain, dreadful course, Alone withholds his hand. Char. And may it ever! Agn. I've known with him the two extremes of life, The highest happiness, and deepest woe, thinks, Now more than ever, we have cause to fear, And,wrapp'd in darkness, doubles our distress. Agn. I've certain plagues enough, Without the help of dreams to make me wretched. Char. I would not stake my happiness or On their uncertain credit, nor on aught [duty But reason, and the known decrees of heaven. Yet dreams have sometimes shown events to come, And may excite to vigilance and care; My vision may be such, and sent to warn us, Agn. Well, to your dream. Char. Methought, I sat, in a dark winter's night, On the wide summit of a barren mountain; On one hand, ever gentle Patience sate, And I beheld a man, an utter stranger, Which I have now forgot, I turn'd again, Char. But what's to come, Though more obscure, is terrible indeed. Methought, we parted soon, and when I sought him, [there) You and his father-(yes, you both were Strove to conceal him from me: I pursued you Both with my cries, and call'd on heaven and earth To judge my wrongs, and force you to reveal Where you had hid my love, my life, my Wil mot! Agn. Unless you mean t'affront me, spare the rest. 'Tis just as likely Wilmot should return, As we become your foes. Char. Far be such rudeness From Charlotte's thoughts: but when I heard you name Self-murder, it reviv'd the frightful image I Char. Excuse me; I have done. Being a dream, thought, indeed, it could not give offence. Agn. You could not think so, had you thought at all; But I take nothing ill from thee. Adieu; Char. She's gone abruptly, and I fear displeas'd. The least appearance of advice or caution And pride increasing, aggravates our grief, [Exit. SCENE III.-The Town and Port of Penryn. Enter YOUNG WILMOT and EUSTACE, in Indian habits. Wil. Welcome, my friend! to Penryn: here we're safe. Eust. Then we're deliver'd twice; first from the sea, [less, And then from savage men, who, more remorsePrey on shipwreck'd wretches, and spoil and murder those Whom fatal tempests and devouring waves, In all their fury, spar'd. Wil. It is a scandal, Though malice must acquit the better sort, For 'tis an evil, grown almost invet'rate, Eust. Your treasure's safe, I hope. In such a time of terror and confusion. Wil. My thoughts were then at home-O England England! Thou seat of plenty, liberty, and health, With transport I behold thy verdant fields, Thy lofty mountains rich with useful ore, Thy numerous herds, thy flocks, and winding streams: After a long and tedious absence, Eustace! reason: Why, be it so. Instinct preceded reason, E'en in the wisest men, and may sometimes Be much the better guide. But, be it either, | most, Who have it in their power, choose to expire Where they first drew their breath. Eust. Believe me, Wilmot, Your grave reflections were not what I smil'd at; [land, I own the truth. That we're return'd to EngAffords me all the pleasure you can feel. Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you; Thinking of that, I smil'd. Wil. O Eustace! Eustace! Thou know'st, for I've confess'd to thee, I love; But, having never seen the charming maid, Thou canst not know the fierceness of my flame. My hopes and fears, like the tempestuous seas And drive me to the centre. Did you know Distraction's in the thought!-Or should my parents, Griev'd for my absence and oppress'd with want, Have sunk beneath their burden, and expir'd, What were the riches of the world to me? East. The wretch who fears all that is possible, Must suffer more than he who feels the worst A man can feel, who lives exempt from fear. A woman may be false, and friends are mor ta); And yet your aged parents may be living, And your fair mistress constant. Wi. True, they may; I doubt, but I despair not--No, my friend! And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want, Receive their fond embraces and their blessAnd be a blessing to them. [ings, Eust. "Tis our weakness:Blind to events, we reason in the dark, And fondly apprehend what none e'er found, Or ever shall, pleasure and pain unmix'd; And flatter and torment ourselves, by turns, With what shall never be. Wil. I'll go this instant To seek my Charlotte, and explore my fate. Eust. What! in that foreign habit? Wil. That's a trifle, Not worth my thoughts. Eust. The hardships you've endur'd, And your long stay beneath the burning zone, Where one eternal sultry summer reigns, Have marr'd the native hue of your complexion; Methinks, you look more like a sun-burnt InThan a Briton. [dian, Wil. Well, 'tis no matter, Eustace! I hope my mind's not altered for the worse; And for my outside-But inform me, friend, When I may hope to see you. Eust. When you please: You'll find me at the inn. Wil. When I have learn'd my doom, expect me there. "Till then, farewell! Eust. Farewell! success attend you! ACT II. [Exeunt. SCENE I.-CHARLOTTE'S House. CHARLOTTE enters, in thought; and, soon after, SERVANT. Serv. Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit Desires to see you. Char. In a foreign habit 'Tis strange, and unexpected-But admit him. [Exit SERVANT, Who can this stranger be? I know no foreigner. WILMOT enters. -Nor any man like this. [Going to embrace her. Char. Sir, you are too bold-forbear, and let me know What bus'ness brought you here; or leave the place. Wil. Perfidious maid! am I forgot or scorn'd? Char. Can I forget a man I never knew? Wil. My fears are true; some other has her heart: She's lost-My fatal absence has undone me. [Aside. O! could thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlotte! Char. Ha! Wilmot! say! what do your words import? O gentle stranger! ease my swelling heart, What dost thou know of Wilmot? Wil. This I know. [spire When all the winds of heaven seem'd to conAgainst the stormy main, and dreadful peals Of rattling thunder deafen'd ev'ry ear, And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners' loud cries; [flames When livid lightning spread its sulphurous Through all the dark horizon, and disclos'd The raging seas incens'd to his destruction; When the good ship in which he was embark'd, [surge, Broke, and, o'erwhelm'd by the impetuous Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep, And left him struggling with the warring waves; In that dread moment, in the jaws of death, When his strength fail'd, and every hope forsook him, bling lips, And his last breath press'd towards his trem[moan, The neighbouring rocks, that echo'd to his Return'd no sound articulate, but-Charlotte. Char. The fatal tempest, whose description | Why art thou silent? canst thou doubt me strikes The hearer with astonishment, is ceas'd; Of swelling passion that o'erwhelms the soul, Persuade yourself, that what you wish is true; Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven, Char. 'Tis enough [ears, Detested falsehood now has done its worst. And art thou dead?-And would'st thou die, my Wilmot! For one thou thought'st unjust?-Thou soul of truth! [press still? Char. No, Wilmot! no; I'm blind with too much light: O'ercome with wonder, and oppress'd with This vast profusion of extreme delight, Give me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlotte! They flow for thy misfortunes. I am pierc'd Wil. Are no more. Char. You apprehend me wrong. Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave Char. Afflict yourself no more with ground- What must be done? Which way shall I ex-Your parents both are living. Their distress, Wil. Be still, my flutt'ring heart; hope not Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion. Wil. Assist me, Heaven! Preserve my reason, memory, and sense! Why dost thou weep? why dost thou tremble Why doth thy panting heart and cautious touch Speak thee but half convinc'd? whence are thy fears? The poverty to which they are reduc'd, Wil. My joy's complete! My parents living, and possess'd of thee!- Enough to glut e'en avarice itself: No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt, worth; You are not base, nor can you be superfluous, Thy filial piety, the sighs and tears age, Who, in the storm last night, was shipwreck'd with me. Cnar. Shipwreck'd last night! O you im- And perilous adventures, be the theme Char. I consent with pleasure. Wil. Heavens! what a night! How shall I |