Proth.

Soh, fair Lady, have you been weeping all this while?

Lib.

Yes, and I'll weep a while longer.

Proth.

But that I don't desire.

Lib.

You have no Reason, I'll do it freely.

Proth.

I am verily convinc'd that your Cousin has been wrong'd.

Lib.

Ah! what might the Man deserve of me that would right her.

Proth.

Is there any Way a Man can do it?

Lib.

Yes, some Men might do it for my Sake—tho' I know that you are not one of them.

Proth.

Why so, sweet Lady?—there's nothing in the World could so soon tempt me to do it, because there's nothing in the World I love so well—Is not that strange now?

Lib.

So strange, that 'twere as possible for me to say I lov'd nothing so well as you—But don't believe me if ever I should say so—I'm sorry for my Cousin, that's all.

Proth.

By my Sword, Liberia, I do love thee cruelly.

Lib.

You protest from your Heart that you do really love me.

Proth.

You have my Heart so entirely that I have none of it left to protest with.

Lib.

But how shall I be sure of this?

Proth.

Try me any way, command me any thing.

Lib.

Kill Bellario.

Proth.

How!

Lib.

Nay, farewel then—love me—yes—you love your

own dear Carcase indeed—'tis highly worth preserving I must own.

Proth.

But sweet Lady, stay a Moment.

Lib.

Indeed I won't—

Proth.

Let us be Friends before we part.

Lib.

Yes, you dare easier be Friends with me than fight my Enemy.

Proth.

Is Bellario your Enemy?

Lib.

Is not he a Villain that has slander'd my Cousin? O that I were a Man! What play the Hypocrite till they came to join Hands, and then with publick Scorn, with blackest Rancour —O Vengeance that I were a Man! I would eat his Heart in the Market-Place.

Proth.

Well, but Lady—

Lib.

Talk with a Man from her Chamber-Window, indeed! a likely Story truly!

Proth.

But hear me, Lady—

Lib.

I tell you she's slander'd, she's wrong'd, she's ruin'd.

Proth.

Well, I say so, but—

Lib.

A Lord indeed! a goodly Lord, a sweet Galant, o' my Word! O that I wore a Sword for his Sake! or that I knew any Man who would use it for my Sake! But Manhood is melted into supple Curtesy, and Valour into pitiful Compliment; Men are turn'd into nothing but Tongue, and he's as brave as Hercules that only tells a Lye and swears to't—Well, I can't be a Man with wishing, therefore I'll die a Woman with vexing.

Proth.

Sweet Liberia stay; by this Hand I love thee.

Lib.

Use it for my Love, then, some other way than swearing by it.

Proth.

Do you think in your Soul that Bellario has wrong'd your Cousin?

Lib.

As sure as I have either Thought or Soul.

Proth.

Enough, I'm engag'd—He shall render me strict Account for this Behaviour: Go, fair Lady, comfort your Cousin, and tell her who's her Champion. As you hear of me, so think of me.

Lib.

Right, now you say somewhat, Lord Protheus—when you talk like a Man you talk like what a Woman values. If ever I change my Life for any one, it shall be for one who would venture his own for me.

Proth.

That Sentence has whetted my Sword; I'll make Bellario, within this half Hour, either forswear all he has said, or he shall never be able to say or swear any thing again: But before we part, lest we should never meet again, pray tell me for which of my bad Parts you first fell in love with me?

Lib.

Fell in love with you!

Proth.

Yes, fell in love with me, for that you are in love with me, fair Liberia, is out of Question—I would therefore fain know which of my bad Parts was the Occasion of it.

Lib.

All of 'em together, which contain so close a Union of Evil that they'll admit no good Part to mingle with 'em— but for which of my good Parts did you first suffer Love for me?

Proth.

Suffer Love,—a good Phrase!—I do suffer Love indeed, for I love thee in spite of my Heart.

Lib.

Alas poor Heart! if you spite it for my Sake I'll spite it for yours, for I'll never love that which my Friend hates.

Proth.

You and I are too wise, Lady, to love peaceably, I find.

Lib.

What you say is no sign of Wisdom—There's not a wise Man in twenty that will praise himself.

Proth.

Alas, Lady, if a Man in this Age don't erect his own Tomb before he dies, he shall live no longer in Monuments than the Bell rings, and the Widow weeps.

Lib.

That's just one Hour in Noise, and one quarter of an Hour in Tears.

Proth.

True, therefore 'tis more expedient for the Wise to be Trumpet to his own Virtues; if Don Worm his Conscience, find no Impediment to the contrary—So much for praising my self, and now I'll go and prove that I am Praise-worthy.

Lib.

Fare you well—But don't have an Ague-Fit now, when you come to the Proof; and be sure you get you a new Sword for the Purpose, for I'll pawn my Life that the old one won't part with the Scabbard.

GRATIANO solus, in a melancholy Posture. [Slow Musick.
That Strain again—it had a dying Fall:
O it came o'er my Ear like the sweet South

Breathing upon a Bank of Violets,
Stealing and giving Fragrance—'twill not do;
Alas no Comfort can delight my Ear,
But such a one whose Wrongs doth match with mine.
Bring me a Father that so lov'd his Child,
Whose Joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
And let Him speak of Patience, count his Woe,
And let it answer every Strain for Strain.
But there is no such Man; for all are prompt
To offer Consolation to that Grief
Which they themselves not feel; but once they taste it,
That Counsel turns to Passion, which before
Would give instructive Medicine to Rage.
No, no, 'tis all Mens Office to speak Patience
To those who wring under the Load of Sorrow,
But no Man's Virtue to behave so moral
When he himself endures the like Disaster.
My Soul informs me that my Child is slander'd;
And that this Lord shall know—so shall my Brother. Enter BELLARIO and LUCENTIUS crossing the Stage.
O here comes one—'tis well—Stay, stay, my Lord,
I must have Justice done me ere you go.

Bell.
Why, who has wrong'd thee?

Grati.
Thou, thou base Dissembler.
Nay, never lay thy Hand upon thy Sword,
I fear thee not.

Bell.
I would not give thee Fear.
My Hand, good Sir, meant nothing to my Sword.

Grati.
I speak not under Privilege of Age,
Nor like a Dotard—Know then, to thy Face,
Thou hast so wrong'd my guiltless Child and me,
That I am forc'd to lay my Reverence by,
And dare thee to the Trial of a Man.
I say thou hast bely'd my spotless Daughter;
Thy Calumny hath seiz'd her very Life,
And sent her basely in her May of Youth,
O! to a Tomb where Scandal never slept
Ere this contriv'd by thy malicious Tongue.

Bell.
Contriv'd by me!

Grati.
By thee, vile Man, by thee.

Lucen.
You say not right, my Lord.

Grati.
Old Man, old Man,
I'll prove it on his Body if he dare,
Spite of his Bloom of Age and active Practice.

Bell.
Away, and know I scorn so mean an Action.

Grati.
D'ye think to daunt me—thou hast kill'd my Child;
Then kill me, Boy, and thou wilt kill a Man.

Bell.
Gratiano, I would not awake your Patience,
My Heart is plung'd in Anguish for Lucilia.
But O, my Lord, she was accus'd of nothing
But what was true, too true, and full of Proof.

Grati.
My Lord, my Lord—

Bell.
I will not hear you now.

Grati.
Not hear me now, but o' my Soul, you must;
What interrupted! well, 'tis all the same!
I'll find a Time, ere Sleep shall close these Eyes
I'll find a Time, young Lord, that you shall hear me. [Exit. Enter PORCO and ASINO bringing in Gremio bound.

Bell.

Hah! who is this? the Author of my Ruin, thus bound and guarded?

Porco.

Come you along, Sir, come you along, if Justice cannot tame you she shall never weigh Reason in her Scales again.

Lucen.

Enquire, my Lord, what Crime he has committed, something may come from this—

Bell.

Officers, what Offence has this Man done?

Porco.

An please you, Sir, he has committed false Report; moreover he has spoken Untruths; Secondarily, he is a Slanderer; Thirdly, he has sworn false things; and Lastly, he is a lying Rascal, an please your Honour.

Bell.

Answer me, Gremio, whom have you offended that you are thus secur'd?—This wise Fellow is much too cunning to be understood.

Grem.

My Lord, I'll readily confess my Villany—hear me, and then kill me—I have deceiv'd even your Eyes— What your Wisdom could not discover these shallow Fools have brought to light, who in the Morning overheard me talking with Lord Byron of the Business we had been engag'd in that Night, which was to defame Lucilia, and break off your Match—That you was brought by Byron's Contrivance to see and hear me make Addresses to Delia, under the Name,

and in the Dress of Lucilia; by which means you were determin'd to refuse the Match, and disgrace her in publick—This Piece of Knavery they have in Writing, which I had rather seal with my Death than repeat over to my Shame—The poor Lady, I hear, is dead upon mine and my Master's false Accusation; I therefore own my self a Villain, and expect nothing but the Reward of one.

Bell.
No more; unless the next Word thou dost speak
Have some malignant Influence o'er my Life;
If so, O breathe it quickly in my Ear,
That I no longer may be curst with Being,
For ev'ry Thought's a Dagger to my Soul.

Lucen.
But did Lord Byron spur thee on to this?

Grem.
He did, and paid me richly for it too.

Bell.
O Monster! I will make thee rue this Treachery;
Where shall I find the Villain—where—

Grem.

Learning, my Lord, that I was apprehended he is fled it seems this Morning; but where is unknown.

Porco.

True, an please your Honour; one of our Officers is now acquainting his Highness with the whole Affair.

Grati.
Which is the Villain? let me see his Eyes,
That when I note another Man like him
I may avoid the Monster—Which is he?

Grem.
Look on me, Sir, if you would know the Wretch.

Grati.
Art thou? art thou the Slave that by thy Guile
Hast slain my Child.

Grem.
Yes, Sir, 'twas I alone.

Grati.
No, not so, Villain, thou bely'st thy self.
Here stand a Pair of honourable Men,
A third is fled, that had a noble Share in't.
I thank you, Sirs, for my poor Daughter's Death;
Record it with your high and worthy Deeds,
'Twas bravely, justly, gloriously done.

Bell.
I know not what to say, yet I must speak,
I cannot hope your Patience—yet must ask it.
Lucilia! now thy Image doth appear
In the bright Lustre that I lov'd it first;

And ev'ry lovely Organ of thy Life
Comes cloath'd in a diviner, fairer Habit,
More moving, delicate, and full of Life,
Into the Eye and Prospect of my Soul,
Than when you liv'd indeed—Come, good old Man,
Revenge, revenge your injur'd Daughter's Cause,
And I will help thee to augment the Torture;
Yet all my Crime was but a fatal Error.

Grati.
You cannot call my Daughter back to Life,
And what besides is Recompense to me?
However this I pray you, publish straight
How innocent she dy'd; and if your Love
Can furnish out an Incense to her Mem'ry,
Let it be fix'd upon her Monument.

Bell.
O I will keep this Day for ever sacred,
And yearly at the Charmer's hallow'd Tomb
Attend with solemn penitential Rites,
To own my Rashness and her Innocence.

Grati.
Then hear me more—My Brother left a Daughter
Almost the Copy of my Child that's dead,
And she is now sole Heir to my Possessions;
Give her the Right you should have giv'n her Cousin,
And so dies my Revenge—

Bell.
O cruel Mercy!
This is Revenge indeed—O Gratiano! [Falling at his Feet.
This generous Offer makes me more a Wretch
Than all the Deaths your Rage could have contriv'd:
Lay any other Chastisement upon me,
And I will bend beneath the righteous Weight,
And bless the Hands that minister the Torture.
But what! to wed another! hold, my Heart, [Rising.
Now dear Lucilia's lost—to wed another!
Impossible; my Soul starts back with Horror,
And Nature shudders at the very Sound.

Grat.
'Tis well, I find your Readiness, young Lord,
To yield me Satisfaction—but, observe me,
One Hour I'll wait your final Resolution;
Grant my Demand, or Death shall be the Forfeit.
The while bring you this monstrous Villain on, [To the Watch.

That I may make him instantly confront
The female Slave who leagu'd in this Contrivance. [Exeunt Gratiano, Gremio &c. remain Bellario and Lucen.

Bell. [Musing.]
And why not Death rather than living Torment?
To die is to be banish'd from my self.
Lucilia was my self—banish'd from her
Is self from self—O fatal Banishment!
Unless Lucilia's by me in the Night
There is no Musick in the Nightingale,
Unless I view Lucilia in the Day
All Nature is a beamless Blank to me.
What Light is Light now those fair Suns are set?
What Joy is Joy, now those sweet Smiles are ceas'd?
Unless I could but think that she's alive,
And feed upon the Shadow of Perfection.
But 'twill not do, Lucentius—all is lost,
For Death hath starv'd the Roses in her Cheeks,
And pinch'd the Lilly-Tincture of her Face.

Lucen.
Cease to lament for what you cannot help.

Bell.
O! I have fed upon this Woe already,
And now Excess of it will make me surfeit;
Yes, I must still lament, still curse my Folly,
For barely doubting one so fair, so chaste,
So grac'd with every Angel-like Perfection,
Could be corrupted—Madness to reflect
On what a Sea of melting Pearls she shed,
From her bright Eyes, to quench my flaming Fury;
Wringing her Hands, whose Whiteness so became them
As if but now they wax'd thus pale with Woe.
But neither Virgin Blush, pure Hands held up,
Deep struggling Sighs, nor Silver-shedding Tears
Could penetrate this base remorseless Breast.

Lucen.
The Duke, my Lord, attends your Resolution;
You have but one Hour giv'n to make your Choice.

Bell.
I have no Choice to make—Death is my Portion,
Lucilia claims my Life.—But then the Father!
What Compensation will he find in that?
Oh my destracted Brain!—Help, help, Lucentius,
To calm this warring Tempest in my Soul.
Come, lead me to my Fate; and as we go

Learn me what Form of Wretchedness to fix on,
For I have only Misery to choose in;
And such should be that self-curst bankrupt's Doom,
Who madly squander'd so divine a Treasure. [Exeunt. Enter JOCULO, follow'd by DELIA weeping.

Jocu.

No, I won't, I won't indeed, Delia.

Delia.

Nay, dear Joculo, stay.

Jocu.

No, I tell you.

Delia.

But one Moment.

Jocu.

No such thing.

Delia.

Cruel Man, how can you be so hard-hearted?

Jocu.

I should only plague you with my impertinent Clack; you had better go to your favourite Gremio, he'll delight you with his melodious Whistle. [Aside.] The Tables are turn'd a little; 'tis our Time now, and I'll try if I can't play the Courtier as well as the greatest of 'em.

Delia.

Only hear my Request, Joculo, and then do as you will.

Jocu.

Well, I vouchsafe to lend an Ear.

Delia.

I know the Interest you have with Lucilia; pr'ythee, Joculo, interceed for me with her.

Jocu.

Hey?

Delia.

I was ignorantly seduc'd into this villainous Plot.

Jocu.

Um—

Delia.

Without being at all acquainted with the Design, as Gremio himself has declar'd.

Jocu.

Ah poor Gremio, I hope they han't laid his sweet Tongue in Fetters as well as his Heels.

Delia.

And my Heart will burst unless Lucilia be reconcil'd to me again.

Jocu.

Ha, ha, ha!

Delia.

And therefore I conjure thee, Joculo, that thou wouldst—

Jocu.

Ha, ha, ha!

Delia.

Nay, if nothing else will prevail on thee to pity me, I'll put an end to my Misery, and see if my Death will make thee—

Jocu.

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

Delia.

Barbarous Monster!

Jocu.

Why, I want the Reputation of having a Woman die for Love of me, Delia; and if you would but tuck up your self, upon this Occasion, ev'ry body would swear 'twas for Love of me.

Delia.

And then you inhumanly refuse, Joculo, to comply with my Desire.

Jocu.

Why now, Delia, do you know what 'tis you are asking of me?—You here are a disgrac'd Favourite, and d'ye think one that's a Courtier will be foolish enough to take your Part? No, no, I'gad, once any one is turn'd out of the Herd we all join, like true Stags, and help to demolish him. While you was in Place, Delia, I was your most affectionate Friend, and most sincere obedient humble Slave— but now you are out, and can neither do me Service nor Disservice —Yours, Mrs. Delia, yours, yours.

Delia.

Very well, Joculo! it did not use to be so—this is a Change I little expected!

Jocu.

A Change, my Dear—Lack-a-day, would not you have me like the rest of the World? Why there's a general Metamorphosis thro' the Land; this is the Age of reversing, Child. All Ranks, Stations and Professions are turn'd topsy turvy.

Delia.

Hah!—

Jocu.

Nay, 'tis very true, my Dear, why an't many of our mighty Nobles, and sage Senators, pray, turn'd Rooks, Pimps and Jockies, and fix'd it as the highest Mark of Honour never to be honest, as the Plume of Politeness never to keep their Word, and as the Standard of Quality never to be qualify'd for any thing at all—except it be Pensions and Places, hey Child!

Delia.

Very well, Sir.

Jocu.

Then your Soldiers are half of 'em turn'd Fiddlers and Morrice-Dancers, because fighting is now quite foreign to the Profession; whilst Priests are turn'd Play-Wrights, and preach from the Stage, because 'tis unfashionable to go to hear 'em at Church.

Delia.

Um—strange indeed!

Jocu.

Physicians are turn'd Collectors of Flies and Cockle-shells, because the whole Country choose to die by the Hand of a single Quack—As for your Lawyers and Politicians—

Delia.

What of them? good Sir.

Jocu.

O, most of them will never change; they'll cheat and plunder on.

Delia.

Very well, Sir—pray go on.

Jocu.

Then your fine Gentlemen are turn'd Monkies and

Starlings, and will out-ape and out-chatter e'er a one of 'em, whilst your fine Ladies are—'tis no matter what—you need not be told that, Madam.

Delia.

Very pretty, indeed!

Jocu.

So you see, Child, the World is a little alter'd; other People are chang'd as well as I: However, Delia, there is one thing that I don't know but my abundant Good-nature may prevail on me to do for thee.

Delia.

What is that?

Jocu.

Why, I suppose you have warm'd your self pretty well, as we all do while the Sun shines; laid in a little Provision against a rainy Day, hey Delia?—Now a Fellow-feeling in that, join'd, as I was saying, to my own excessive Good-nature might engage me, if not to endeavour to bring you in favour again, yet at least to secure your Retreat.

Delia.

No, Fool, if I was drove to that I should not descend so low as thee; the highest of all will condescend to a job on such Considerations.

Jocu.

And the lowest of us all will do it on no other—so that from the highest to the lowest we Courtiers are true to our Principles at least—But hark'e, Child, I can put you in a way of gaining your Point upon easier Terms, perhaps. You Ladies, Madam Delia, have another sort of Bribe, which sometimes does more at Court than even Mony it self, and which you'd more willingly part with, I believe—let me see, [turning her round.] about the Age of twenty-four: Um, that's too far gone, rather too far, twenty would have been fifty per Cent. at least better—black Eyes, very well—brown Hair, good— a Forehead rather too low, no great matter—a Chin prettily dimpl'd enough, Um—a little too short in the Waste, and something too thick in the Shoulders, Hah, there must be good Allowance made for that—but then a Hand as white as a Lilly, and Lips as red as a Rose; but let's try if they are as sweet too. [Kisses her.] Hah, delicious Slut! no Primrose comes up to 'em; why they'll go farther than old Gold.

Delia.

Well, Joculo, is your Heart any tenderer yet?

Jocu.

Yes, yes, 'tis tender enough now I'm sure; that Kiss has quite melted it down.

Delia.

And then thou wilt interceed for me, hey?

Jocu.

I will do any thing for thee; I will live in thy Eyes, die in thy Lap, and be bury'd in thy Heart.

Delia.

Ay, ay; but that's not the thing: Will you go and endeavour at what I desired you?

Jocu.

This Moment, and do it effectually.—But then you must promise me, Delia, that if I should happen to be desperately in Love with thee, as I have terrible Symptoms of it upon me at present, that you'll be grateful, Hussy, hey?

Delia.

I promise thee every thing, dear Joculo.

Jocu.

One more Kiss by way of Pledge.—Well, I'm gone.—Remember your Promise.

Delia.

Yes, till I have gain'd my Ends by it; and if I don't forget it then, I ought never to see the Inside of a Court again.