Tat. Ay, my dear, so they will, as you say. Ang. O you'll agree very well in a little time; custom will make it easy to you.

Tat. Easy ! pox on't! I don't believe I shall sleep to-night.

Sir Samp. Sleep, quotha! no; why you would not sleep o' your wedding night! I'm an older fellow than you, and don't mean to sleep.

Ben. Why, there's another match now, as tho'f a couple of privateers were looking for a prize, and should fall foul of one another. I'm sorry for the young man with all my heart. Look you, friend, if I may advise you, when she's going, for that you must expect, I have experience of her, when she's going, let her go. For no matrimony is tough enough to hold her, and if she can't drag her anchor along with her, she'll break her cable, I can tell you that.-Who's here? the madman?

SCENE XII.

VALENTINE, SCANDAL, Sir SAMPSON, ANGELICA, FORFSIGHT, Mrs. FORESIGHT, TATTLE, Mrs. FRAIL, BEN, JEREMY, and BUCKRAM.

Val. No; here's the fool; and, if occasion be, I'll give it under my hand.

Sir Samp. How now!

Val. Sir, I'm come to acknowledge my errors, and ask your pardon.

Sir Sump. What, have you found your senses at last then ? in good time, sir.

Val. You were abused, sir, I never was distracted.

Fore. How, not mad! Mr. Scandal?

Scan. No, really, sir; I'm his witness, it was all counterfeit.

Val. I thought I had reasons. But it was a poor contrivance; the effect has shown it such.

Sir Samp. Contrivance! what, to cheat me? to cheat your father? sirrah, could you hope to prosper ?

Val. Indeed, I thought, sir, when the father endeavoured to undo the son, it was a reasonable return of nature.

Sir Samp. Very good, sir!-Mr. Buckram, are you ready? [To VALENTINE.] Come, sir, will you sign and seal?

Val. If you please, sir; but first I would ask this lady one question.

Sir Samp. Sir, you must ask me leave first.That lady no, sir; you shall ask that lady no questions, till you have asked her blessing, sir; that lady is to be my wife.

Val. I have heard as much, sir; but I would have it from her own mouth.

Sir Samp. That's as much as to say, I lie, sir, and you don't believe what I say.

Val. Pardon me, sir. But I reflect that I very lately counterfeited madness; I don't know but the frolic may go round.

Sir Samp. Come, chuck, satisfy him, answer him.-Come, come, Mr. Buckram, the pen and ink. Buck. Here it is, sir, with the deed; all is ready. [VALENTINE goes to ANGELICA.

Ang. 'Tis true, you have a great while pretended love to me; nay, what if you were sincere; still you must pardon me, if I think my own inclina

tions have a better right to dispose of my person, than yours.

Sir Samp. Are you answered now, sir?
Val. Yes, sir.

Sir Samp. Where's your plot, sir? and your contrivance now, sir? Will you sign, sir? come,

will you sign and seal?

Val. With all my heart, sir.

Scan. 'Sdeath, you are not mad indeed, to ruin yourself?

Val. I have been disappointed of my only hope; and he that loses hope may part with anything. I never valued fortune, but as it was subservient to my pleasure; and my only pleasure was to please this lady; I have made many vain attempts, and find at last that nothing but my ruin can effect it; which, for that reason, I will sign to.-Give me the

Ang. [To VALENTINE.] Had I the world to give you, it could not make me worthy of so generous and faithful a passion; here's my hand, my heart was always yours, and struggled very hard to make this utmost trial of your virtue.

Val. Between pleasure and amazement, I am lost. But on my knees I take the blessing.

Sir Samp. Oons, what is the meaning of this? Ben. Mess, here's the wind changed again! Father, you and I may make a voyage together

now.

Ang. Well, sir Sampson, since I have played you a trick, I'll advise you how you may avoi such another. Learn to be a good father, or you'll never get a second wife. I always loved your son, and hated your unforgiving nature. I was resolved to try him to the utmost; I have tried you too, and know you both. You have not more faults than he has virtues; and 'tis hardly more pleasure to me, that I can make him and myself happy, than that I can punish you.

Val. If my happiness could receive addition, this kind surprise would make it double.

Sir Samp. Oons, you're a crocodile! Fore. Really, sir Sampson, this is a sudden eclipse.

Sir Samp. You're an illiterate old fool, and I'm [Exit.

another !

Tat. If the gentleman is in disorder for want of a wife, I can spare him mine.-[To JEREMY.] Oh, are you there, sir? I'm indebted to you for my happiness.

Jer. Sir, I ask you ten thousand pardons ; 'twa an arrant mistake.-You see, sir, my master wa never mad, or anything like it :-then how could it be otherwise?

Val. Tattle, I thank you, you would have inter. posed between me and heaven; but Providence laid purgatory in your way :-you have but justice.

Scan. I hear the fiddles that sir Sampson pro vided for his own wedding; methinks 'tis pity they

should not be employed when the match is so much mended.-Valentine, though it be morning, we may have a dance.

Val. Anything, my friend, everything that looks like joy and transport.

Scan. Call 'em, Jeremy.

Ang. I have done dissembling now, Valentine; and if that coldness which I have always worn before should turn to an extreme fondness, you, you must not suspect it.

Val. I'll prevent that suspicion :-for I intend to dote to that immoderate degree, that your fondness shall never distinguish itself enough to be taken notice of. If ever you seem to love too much, it must be only when I can't love enough.

Ang. Have a care of promises; you know you are apt to run more in debt than you are able to pay.

Val. Therefore I yield my body as your prisoner, and make your best on't.

Jer. The music stays for you.

A Dance.

Scan. Well, madam, you have done exemplary justice, in punishing an inhuman father, and rewarding a faithful lover: but there is a third good work, which I, in particular, must thank you for ; I was an infidel to your sex, and you have converted me. For now I am convinced that all women are not like Fortune, blind in bestowing favours, either on those who do not merit, or who do not want 'em. Ang. 'Tis an unreasonable accusation, that you lay upon our sex: you tax us with injustice, oly to cover your own want of merit. You would all have the reward of love; but few have the constancy to stay till it becomes your due. Men are generally hypocrites and infidels, they pretend to worship, but have neither zeal nor faith: how few, like Valentine, would persevere even to martyrdom, and sacrifice their interest to their constancy! In admiring me you misplace the novelty:

The miracle to-day is, that we find
A lover true: not that a woman's kind.

Exeunt omnce.

SURE Providence at first design'd this place
To be the player's refuge in distress;
For still in every storm they all run hither,
As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather.
But thinking of this change which last befel us,
It's like what I have heard our poets tell us :
For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading,
To help their love sometimes they show their read-
ing;

And wanting ready cash to pay for hearts,
They top their learning on us and their parts.
Once of philosophers they told us stories,
Whom, as I think, they call'd-Py-Pythagories;—
I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em,
And we, who know no better, must believe 'em.
Now to these men (say they) such souls were given,
That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven,
But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then,
When many years were pass'd, in men again.
Methinks, we players resemble such a soul;
That, does from bodies, we from houses stroll.
Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was,
May now be damn'd to animate an ass;

Or in this very house, for aught we know,
Is doing painful penance in some beau :
And thus, our audience, which did once resort
To shining theatres to see our sport,

Now find us toss'd into a tennis-court.
These walls but t'other day were fill'd with noise
Of roaring gamesters, and your damme boys;
Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast,
And now they're fill'd with jests, and flights, and
bombast!

I vow, I don't much like this transmigration,
Strolling from place to place by circulation;
Grant, Heaven, we don't return to our first station!
I know not what these think, but, for my part,

I can't reflect without an aching heart,
How we should end in our original, a cart.
But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us,
That you have only set us up,-to leave us.
Thus from the past, we hope for future grace,
I beg it-

And some here know I have a begging face.
Then pray continue this your kind behaviour,
For a clear stage won't do, without your favour.

THE time has been when plays were not so plenty,
And a less number new would well content ye.
New plays did then like almanacs appear;
And one was thought sufficient for a year:
Though they are more like almanacs of late;
For in one year, I think, they're out of date.
Nor were they without reason join'd together;
For just as one prognosticates the weather,
How plentiful the crop, or scarce the grain,
What peals of thunder, and what showers of rain;
So t'other can foretell, by certain rules,
What crops of coxcombs, or what floods of fools.
In such like prophecies were poets skill'd,
Which now they find in their own tribe fulfill'd:
The dearth of wit they did so long presage,
Is fallen on us, and almost starves the stage.
Were you not grieved as often as you saw
Poor actors thrash such empty sheafs of straw?
Toiling and labouring at their lungs' expense,
To start a jest, or force a little sense.
Hard fate for us! still harder in the event;
Our authors sin, but we alone repent.

Still they proceed, and, at our charge, write worse;
'Twere some amends if they could reimburse :
But there's the devil, though their cause is lost,
There's no recovering damages or cost.

Good wits, forgive this liberty we take,
Since custom gives the losers leave to speak.
But if provoked, your dreadful wrath remains,
Take your revenge upon the coming scenes:
For that damn'd poet's spared who damns a brother
As one thief 'scapes that executes another.
Thus far alone does to the wits relate;
But from the rest we hope a better fate.
To please and move has been our poet's theme,
Art may direct, but nature is his aim;
And nature miss'd, in vain he boasts his art,
For only nature can affect the heart.
Then freely judge the scenes that shall ensue;
But as with freedom, judge with candour too.
He would not lose through prejudice his cause,
Nor would obtain precariously applause;
Impartial censure he requests from all,
Prepared by just decrees to stand or fall.

SCENE I-A Room of State in the Palace.

The curtain rising slowly to soft music, discovers ALMERIA in mourning, LEONORA waiting in mourning. After the music, ALMERIA rises from her chair and comes forward.

Alm. Music has charms to soothe a savage breast,

To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read that things inanimate have moved,
And, as with living souls, have been inform'd,
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
What then am I? Am I more senseless grown
Than trees or flint? O force of constant woe!
'Tis not in harmony to calm my griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace; last night
The silent tomb received the good old king;
He and his sorrows now are safely lodged
Within its cold but hospitable bosom.
Why am not I at peace?
Leon.

Dear madam, cease,
Or moderate your griefs; there is no cause-
Alm. No cause! peace, peace; there is eternal

cause,

And misery eternal will succeed.

Thou canst not tell-thou hast indeed no cause.
Leon. Believe me, madam, I lament Anselmo,
And always did compassionate his fortune:
Have often wept to see how cruelly
Your father kept in chains his fellow-king:
And oft at night when all have been retired,
Have stolen from bed, and to his prison crept ;
Where, while his jailor slept, I through the grate

Have softly whisper'd, and inquired his health; Sent in my sighs and prayers for his deliverance; For sighs and prayers were all that I could offer.

Alm. Indeed thou hast a soft and gentle nature, That thus couldst melt to see a stranger's wrongs. O Leonora, hadst thou known Anselmo, How would thy heart have bled to see his sufferings! Thou hadst no cause, but general compassion.

Leon. Love of my royal mistress gave me cause, My love of you begot my grief for him; For I had heard that when the chance of war Had bless'd Anselmo's arms with victory, And the rich spoil of all the field, and you, The glory of the whole, were made the prey Of his success; that then, in spite of hate, Revenge, and that hereditary feud Between Valentia's and Granada's kings, He did endear himself to your affection, By all the worthy and indulgent ways His most industrious goodness could invent; Proposing by a match between Alphonso His son, the brave Valentia prince, and you, To end the long dissension, and unite The jarring crowns.

Alm.

Alphonso! O Alphonso! Thou too art quiet-long hast been at peaceBoth, both-father and son are now no more. Then why am I? O when shall I have rest? Why do I live to say you are no more? Why are all these things thus ?-Is it of force? Is there necessity I must be miserable? Is it of moment to the peace of heaven That I should be afflicted thus ?—If not, Why is it thus contrived? Why are things laid

By some unseen hand so, as of sure consequence,
They must to me bring curses, grief of heart,
The last distress of life, and sure despair?

Leon. Alas, you search too far, and think too deeply!

Alm. Why was I carried to Anselmo's court? Or there, why was I used so tenderly?

Why not ill treated like an enemy?

For so my father would have used his child.

O Alphonso! Alphonso!

Devouring seas have washed thee from my sight,
No time shall rase thee from my memory;

No, I will live to be thy monument ;
The cruel ocean is no more thy tomb:

But in my heart thou art interr'd; there, there,
Thy dear resemblance is for ever fix'd;

My love, my lord, my husband still, though lost.
Leon. Husband! O heavens !
Alm.
Alas! what have I said?
My grief has hurried me beyond all thought:
I would have kept that secret; though I know
Thy love and faith to me deserve all confidence.
But 'tis the wretch's comfort still to have
Some small reserve of near and inward woe,
Some unsuspected hoard of darling grief,
Which they unseen may wail, and weep and mourn,
And, glutton-like, alone devour.

Alm. Know'st nothing of my sorrows.—If thou didst-If I should tell thee, wouldst thou pity me? Tell me; I know thou wouldst, thou art compassionate.

O no, thou know'st not half,

Leon. Witness these tears! Alm. I thank thee, Leonora, Indeed I do, for pitying thy sad mistress; For 'tis, alas! the poor prerogative Of greatness, to be wretched and unpitied. But I did promise I would tell thee-what? My miseries? thou dost already know 'em ; And when I told thee thou didst nothing know, It was because thou didst not know Alphonso: For to have known my loss, thou must have known

His worth, his truth, and tenderness of love.

Leon. The memory of that brave prince stands fair

In all report

And I have heard imperfectly his loss!
But fearful to renew your troubles past,

I never did presume to ask the story.

Alm. If for my swelling heart I can, I'll tell thee. I was a welcome captive in Valentia, Even on the day when Manuel my father Led on his conquering troops, high as the gates Of king Anselmo's palace which in rage, And heat of war, and dire revenge, he fired. The good king flying to avoid the flames, Started amidst his foes, and made captivity His fatal refuge.-Would that I had fallen Amid those flames!-but 'twas not so decreed Alphonso, who foresaw my father's cruelty, Had borne the queen and me on board a ship Ready to sail; and when this news was brought, We put to sea; but being betray'd by some Who knew our flight, we closely were pursued, And almost taken; when a sudden storm Drove us, and those that follow'd, on the coast Of Afric; there our vessel struck the shore,

And bulging 'gainst a rock was lash'd in pieces!
But Heaven spared me for yet much more affliction!
Conducting them who follow'd us to shun
The shoal, and save me floating on the waves,
While the good queen and my Alphonso perish'd.
Leon. Alas! were you then wedded to Alphonso?
Alm. That day, that fatal day our hands were
join'd.

For when my lo-1 eheld the ship pursuing,
And saw her rate so far exceeding ours;
He came to me, and begged me by my love,
I would consent the priest should nake us one;
That whether death or victory ensted,

I might be his beyond the power of fate :
The queen too did assist his suit- I granted;
And in one day, was wedded and a widow.
Leon. Indeed 'twas mournful.
Alm.
"Twas as I have told thee,
For which I mourn, and will for eve mourn ;
Nor will I change these black and dismal robes,
Or ever dry these swollen and watery eyes;
Or ever taste content, or peace of heart,
While I have life, and thought of my Alphonso.
Leon. Look down, good Heaven, with pity on

her sorrows,

O cease, for heaven's sake, assuage a litt e
This torrent of your grief; for much I fer
"Twill urge his wrat to see you drown'd in tears,
When joy appears in every other face.

Alm. And joy he brings to every other heart,
But double, double weight of woe to mine;
For with him Garcia conies-Garcia, to whɔm

I must be sacrificed, and all the vows

I gave my dear Alphonso basely broken.
No, it shall never be; for I will die;

First, die ten thousand deaths!-Look down, look

Alphonso, hear the sacred vow I make ;
One moment cease to gaze on perfect bliss,
And bend thy glorious eyes to earth and me;
And thou. Anselmo, if yet thou art arrived,
Through all impediments of purging fire,
To that bright heaven, where my Alphonso reigns,
Behold thou also, and attend my vow.

If ever I do yield, or give consent,
By any action, word, or thought, to wed
Another lord, may then just Heaven shower down
Unheard-of curses on me, greater far
(If such there be in angry Heaven's vengeance)
Than any I have yet endured.-And now
My heart has some relief; having so well
Discharged this debt, incumbent on my love.
Yet one thing more I would engage from thee.
Leon. My heart, my life, and will, are orly

yours.

[Rising.