His confidence amazes me-Perhaps

It is not what he says-I'm strongly tempted
To open it and see-No, let it rest.
Why should my curiosity excite me
To search and pry into th' affairs of others,
Who have, t'employ my thoughts, so many cares
And sorrows of my own?-With how much ease
The spring gives way !-Surprising!
My eyes are dazzled, and my ravish'd heart
Leaps at the glorious sight-How bright's the
lustre,

How immense the worth of these fair jewels?
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;
Famine; the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world-Possess'd of these,
Plenty, content, and power might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head

At our approach, and once more bend before us.-
A pleasing dream! "Tis past; and now I wake.
For sure it was a happiness to think,
Though but a moment, such a treasure mine.
Nay, it was more than thought-I saw and
touched

The bright temptation, and I see it yet-
'Tis here-'tis mine-I have it in possession-
Must I resign it? Must I give it back?
And I, in love with misery and want,
To rob myself, and court so vast a loss?—
Retain it then-But how ?-There is a way-
Why sinks my heart? Why does my blood run
cold?

Why am I thrill'd with horror?-'Tis not choice,
But dire necessity, suggests the thought.

Enter OLD WILMOT.

O. Wil. The mind contented, with how little pains

The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose,
And die to gain new life? He's fallen asleep
Already, happy man!-What dost thou think,
My Agnes, of our unexpected guest?
He seems to me a youth of great humanity:
Just ere he clos'd his eyes, that swam in tears,
He wrung my hand and press'd it to his lips;
And with a look that pierc'd me to the soul,
Begged me to comfort thee: and-dost thou
hear me?

What art thou gazing on ?-Fie, 'tis not well-
This casket was delivered to you closed:
Why have you open'd it? Should this be known,
How mean must we appear?

Ag. And who shall know it?

O. Wil. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity,

Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfor

Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,
Or none could act amiss.-And that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
O! what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborn'd
To plead the cause of vile assassination.
Agn. You're too severe reason may justly
plead

For our own preservation.

O. Wil. Rest contented:
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
I am betray'd within my will's seduc'd,
And my whole soul infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.
Whoever stands to parley with temptation,
Parleys to be o'ercome.

Agn. Then nought remains,
But the swift execution of a deed
That is not to be thought on or delay'd.
O. Wil. Generous, unhappy man! O! what
could move thee

To put thy life and fortune in the hands
Of wretches mad with anguish.

Agn. By what means
Shall we effect his death?

O. Wil. Why, what a fiend!-
How cruel, how remorseless, and impatient,
Have pride and poverty made thee?

Agn. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estates,
And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears,
To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perion
In some remote, inhospitable land-
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then,
Thou cruel husband! thou unnat'ral father!

Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son;
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou'st made me.

O. Wil. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess

That thou hast suffer'd much: so have we both.
But chide no more; I'm wrought up to thy purpose.
The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,
Ere he reclin'd him on the fatal couch,
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear;
And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms
Against himself. Steal to the door,
And bring me word, if he be still asleep.

[Exit AGNES. Or I'm deceived, or he pronounc'd himself The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch! Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys, Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death, Are with'ring in their bloom. But, thought extinguish'd,

He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment. Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: to die well pleas'd,
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch, is to survive the loss
Of every joy, and even hope itself,
As I have done. Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortur'd soul,
He's to be envied, if compar'd with me. [Exit.
SCENE II—A Room, with YOUNG WILMOT
asleep upon a Bed, in the distance.
Enter OLD WILMOT and AGNES.
Agn. The stranger sleeps at present; but so
restless

His slumbers seem, they can't continue long.
Here, I've secur'd his dagger.

O. Wil. O, Agnes! Agnes! if there be a hell, 'tis just

Stop, hold thy hand!—Inconstant, wretched wo man!

What! doth my heart recoil?-O, Wilmot! Wil

mot !

What power shall I invoke to aid thee, Wilmot [Scene closes

SCENE III-Another Room.

Enter CHARLOTTE, EUSTACE, and RANDAL. Char. What strange neglect! The doors are all unbarr'd,

And not a living creature to be seen.

Enter OLD WILMOT and AGNES.
Sir we are come to give and to receive
A thousand greetings.-Ha! what can this mean?
Why do you look with such amazement on us?
Are these your transports for your son's return?
Where is my Wilmot? Has he not been here?
Would he defer your happiness so long;
Or, could a habit so disguise your son,
That you refus'd to own him?
Agn. Heard you that?

What prodigy of horror is disclosing,
To render murder venial!

O. Wil. Pr'ythee, peace:

The miserable damn'd suspend their howling, And the swift orbs are fix'd in deep attention. Ran. What mean these dreadful words and frantic air!

That is the dagger my young master wore.

Eus. My mind misgives me. Do not stand to

We should expect it.

self.

O. Wil. What's to be done? On what had we determin'd?

Agn. You're quite dismay'd.

course,

O. Wil. Give me the fatal steel. "Tis but a single murder:

Necessity, impatience and despair,

The three wide mouths of that true Cerberus,

Grim Poverty, demand;-they shall be stopp'd. Ambition, persecution, and revenge,

Devour their millions daily and shall I—

But follow me,

and see how little cause

You had to think there was the least remain

Of manhood, pity, mercy, or remorse,

Left in this savage breast.

first.

I dare not trust thy weakness.

Agn. Ever kind,

But most in this!

[Stabs AGNES,

Agn. Where do you go? The street is that way.

O. Wil. True, I had forgot. Agn. Quite, quite confounded. O. Wil. Well, I recover. I shall find the way. [Retires towards the bed. Agn. O, softly! softly! The least noise undoes

us.

What are we doing? Misery and want
Are lighter ills than this! I cannot bear it !—

blood,

That flow'd, through purer channels, from thy loins?

Compute the sands that bound the spacious ocean,
And swell their numbers with a single grain;
Increase the noise of thunder with thy voice;
Or, when the raging wind lays nature waste,
Assist the tempest with thy feeble breath!
But name not thy faint sorrow with the anguish
Of a curs'd wretch, who only hopes for this
[Stabs himself.
To change the scene, but not relieve his pain.
Ran. A dreadful instance of the last remorse!
May all our woes end here!
Ŏ. Wil. O would they end

Much less than I deserve. Yet let me say,
You'll do but justice, to inform the world,
This horrid deed, that punishes itself,
Was not intended, thinking him our son;
For that we knew not, 'till it was too late.
Proud and impatient under our afflictions,
While heaven was labouring to make us happy,
We brought this dreadful ruin on ourselves.
Mankind may learn-but-oh!—

[Dies.

Ran. Heaven grant they may! And may thy penitence atone thy crime ! "Tend well the hapless Charlotte, and bear hence These bleeding victims of despair and pride; Toll the death-bell! and follow to the grave The wretched parents and ill-fated son. [Exeunt.

Sir C. Why don't you marry, neighbour? A good wife would do well for you.

Heart. For me? you are pleased to be merry, Sir Charles.

Sir C. No, faith, I am serious, and had I a daughter to recommend to you, you should say me nay, more than once, I assure you, neighbour Heartly, before I would quit you.

Heart. I am much obliged to you.

Sir C. And now to my business.-You have no objection, I suppose, to tie up your ward, Miss Harriot, though you have slipped the collar yourself.-Ha, ha, ha!

Heart. Quite the contrary, Sir; I have taken her some time from the boarding school, and brought her home, in order to dispose of her worthily with her own inclination.

Sir C. Her father, I have heard you say, recommended that particular care to you, when she had reached a certain age.

Heart. He did so-And I am the more desirous to obey him scrupulously in this circumstance, as she will be a most valuable acquisition to the person who shall gain her-for, not to mention her fortune which is the least consideration, her sentiments are worthy her birth; she is gentle, modest, and obliging. In a word, my friend, I never saw youth more amiable or discreet-but perhaps I am a little partial to her.

Sir C. No, no, she is a delicious creature, every body says so.-But I believe, neighbour, something has happened that you little think of.

Heart. What, pray, Sir Charles?
Sir C. My nephew, Mr. Heartly—

Re-enter YOUNG CLACKIT.

Young C. Here I am at your service, Sir.My uncle is a little unhappy in his manner; but I'll clear the matter in a moment-Miss Harriot, Sir-your ward—

Sir C. Get away, you puppy! Young C. Miss Harriot, sir, your ward, a most accomplished young lady, to be sure

Sir C. Thou art a most accomplished coxcomb, to be sure.

Heart. Pray, Sir Charles, let the young gentleman speak.

Sir C. If you don't leave the room this moment, and stay in the garden till I call you— Young C. I am sorry I have displeased youI did not think it was mal-a-propos; but you must have your way, uncle-You command--I submit-Mr. Heartly, yours. [Exit.

Sir C. Puppy! [Aside.] My nephew's a little unthinking, Mr. Heartly, as you see, and therefore I have been a little cautious how I have proceeded in this affair: but indeed he has persuaded me, in a manner, that your ward and he are not ill together.

Heart. Indeed! This is the first notice I have had of it, and I cannot conceive why Miss Harriot should conceal it from me; for I have often assured her that I would never oppose her inclination, though I might endeavour to direct it. Sir C. You are right, neighbour.-But here she is.

Enter HARRIOT and LUCY.

Har. He is with company-I'll speak to him another time. [Retires. Lucy. Young, handsome, and afraid of being seen.- -You are very particular, Miss.

[Apart to HARRIOT.

Heart. Miss Harriot, you must not go.-[HARRIOT returns.] Sir Charles, give me leave to introduce you to this young lady.-[Introduces her.] You know, I suppose, the reason of this gentleman's visit to me?

Har. Sir! [Confused. Heart. Don't be disturb'd, I shall not reproach you with any thing but keeping your wishes a secret from me so long.

Har. Upon my word, Sir-Lucy!

Lucy. Well, and Lucy! I'll lay my life 'tis a treaty of marriage. Is that such a dreadful thing? Oh, for shame, Madam! Young ladies of fashion are not frightened at such things now-a-days.

Heart. To SIR CHARLES.] We have gone too far, Sir Charles.-We must excuse her delicacy, and give her time to recover:-I had better talk with her alone; we will leave her now.-Be persuaded that no endeavours shall be wanting on my part to bring this affair to a happy and speedy conclusion.

Sir C. I shall be obliged to you, Mr. Heartly.Young lady, your servant.-What grace and modesty! She is a most engaging creature, and I shall be proud to make her one of my family. [TO HEARTLY. Heart. You do us honour, Sir Charles.

[Exeunt SIR CHARLES and HEARTLY. Lucy. Indeed, Miss Harriot, you are very particular. You was tired of the boarding school, and yet seem to have no inclination to be married. What can be the meaning of all this? That smirking old gentleman is uncle to Mr. Clackit; and, my life for it, he has made some proposals to your guardian.

Har. Pr'ythee, don't plague me about Mr. Clackit.

Lucy. But why not, Miss? Though he is a