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Mill. The interest I have in all that relates to only man that could be found, who would let me you (the reason of which you shall know here- sue twice for greater favours. after) excites my curiosity; and, were I sure you Burn. What shall I do? How shall I go, or would pardon my presumption, I should desire stay? to know your real sentiments on a very particu- Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me, I with my lar subject.
sex's pride would meet your seorn; but when I Barn. Madam, you may command my poor look upon you, when I behold those eyes Oh! thoughts on any subject. I have none that I would spare my tongue, and let my blushes--this flood conceal.
of tears too, that will force its
declare Mill. You will think me bold.
what woman's modesty should bide. Barn. No, indeed.
Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless as Mill. What, then, are your thoughts of love? Her looks, her words, her flowing tears
Barn. If you mean the love of women, I have confess it. And can I leave her then? Oh, never, not thought of it at all. My youth and circum- never ! Madam, dry up your tears: you shall stances make such thoughts improper in me yet. command me always; I will stay here for ever, But if you mean the general love we owe to man- if you would have me. kind, I think no one has more of it in his temper Lucy. So : she has wheedled him out of his virthan myself. I do not know that person in the tue of obedience already, and will strip him of world, whose happiness I do not wish, and all the rest, one after another, till she has left would not promote, were it in my power. In an him as few as her ladyship, or myself. Aside. especial manner I love my uncle, and my master; Mill. Now you are kind, indeed: but I mean but above all, my friend.
not to detain you always: I would have you shake Mill
. You have a friend, then, whom you off all slavish obedience to your master; but you love?
may serve him still. Børn. As he does me, sincerely.
Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no Mill. He is, no doubt, often blessed with your opportunity of fingering his cash; and then he'll coinpany and conversation ?
not serve your end, I'll be sworn.
[Aside. Barn. We live in one house, and both serve the same worthy merchant.
Enter BLUNT. Mill. Happy, happy youth! Whoever thou art, Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table. I envy thee, and so must all, who see and know Mill. Come, sir, you'll excuse all defects. My this youth. What have I lost, by being formed thoughts were too much employed on my guest a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a to observe the entertainment. man, I might, perhaps, have been as happy in
[Ereunt Burnwell and Millwood. your friendship, as he who now enjoys it is: but Blunt. What! is all this preparation, this eleOh!
gant supper, variety of wines, and music, for the Barn. I never observed woman before; or entertainment of that young fellow? this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. [Aside.] Lucy. So it seems. You seem disordered, madam-May I know the Blunt. How! is our mistress turned fool at cause?
last? Mill. Do not ask me--I can never speak it, She's in love with him, I suppose. whatever is the cause. I wish for things impos- Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to make sible. I would be a servant, bound to the same him in love with her, if she can. master, to live in one house with you.
Blunt. What will she get by that? He seems Barn. How strange, and yet how kind, her under age, and cannot be supposed to have much words and actions are! And the effect they have money. on me is as strange. I feel desires I never knew Lucy. But his master has, and that's the same before. I must be gone, while I have power to
thing, as she will manage it. go. (Aside.] Madam, I humbly take my leave. Blunt. I do not like this fooling with a handNiill
. You will not, sure, leave me so soon! some young fellow : while she is endeavouring to Barn. Indeed I must.
epsnare him, she may be caught herself. Mill. You cannot be so cruel! I have prepared Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would cera poor supper, at which I promised myself your tainly be the consequence; for, I confess, there company.
is something in youth and innocence that moves Barn. I am sorry I must refuse the honour me mightily. you designed me: but my duty to my master calls Blunt. Yes ; so does the smoothness and me hence. I never yet neglected his service. He plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire is so gentle, and so good a master, that, should in the hawk to be the destruction of it. I wrong him, though he might forgive me, I Lucy. Why, birds are their prey, and men are should never forgive myself.
ours; though, as you observed, we are someMill. Am I refused, by the first man, the se- times caught ourselves. But that, I dare say, cond favour I ever stooped to ask? Go then, thou will never be the case of our mistress. proud hard-hearted youth; but know, you are the Blunt. I wish it may prove so; for you know
as it is
we all depend upon her. Should she trifle away | wise, it is your inconstancy must make them so, her time with a young fellow that there is nothing Barn. The law of Heaven will not be reverto be got by, we must all starve.
sed, and that requires us to govern our passions. Lucy. There is no danger of that; for I am Mill
. To give us sense of beauty and desires, sure she has no view in this affair but interest. and yet forbid us to taste and be happy, is a
Blunt. Well, and what hopes are there of cruelty to nature. Have we passions only to success in that?
torment us? Lucy. The most promising that can be. It is Barn. To hear you talk, though in the cause true the youth has his scruples; but she will soon of vice; to gaze upon your beauty, press your teach him to answer them, by stifling his con- hand, and see your snow-white bosom heave and science. Oh, the lad is in a hopeful way, de- fall, inflame my wishes; my pulse beats high, pend upon it.
[Ereunt. my senses all are in a hurry, and I am on the SCENE III.
rack of wild desire.-Yet, for a moment's Draws, and discovers Barnwell and Millwood peace of mind, and hopes of solid happiness?
guilty pleasure, shall I lose my innocence, my An entertainment of music and
Mill. Chimeras all! singing. After which they come forward. Barn. I would not yet must on
Barn. What can I answer? All that I know Reluctant thus the merchant quits his ease, is, that you are fair, and I am miserable.
And trusts to rocks and sands, and stormy seas; Mill. We are both so, and yet the fault is in In bopes some unknown golden coast to find, ourselves.
Commits himself, though doubtful, to the wind, Barn. To ease our present anguish by plung- Longs much for joys to come--yet mourns these ing into guilt, is to buy a moment's pleasure with left behind. an age of pain.
Mill. Along with me, and prove Mill. I should have thought the joys of love as No joys like woinan-kind, no heaven like love. lasting as they are great; if ours prove other
cold and silent? When my heart is full of joy for SCENE I.-A Room' in Thorow.. OD's House.
your return, why do you turn away? why thus aEnter BARNWELL.
void me? What have I done? How am I altered Barn. How strange are all things round me! since you saw me last? Or rather, what have you Like some thief who treads forbidden ground, done and why are you thus changed? for l'am and fain would lurk unseen, fearful I enter each still the same. apartment of this well-known house. To guilty Barn. What have I done, indeed! Aside. love, as if that were too little, already have I ad- True. Not speak !--nor look upon me! ded breach of trust- A thief-Can I Barn. By my face he will discover all I would know myself that wretched thing, and look my conceal; methinks already I begin to hate him. honest friend and injured master in the face?
(Aside. Though hypocrisy may a while conceal my guilt, True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; at length it will be known, and public shame and one whom till now I ever found so loving ;-ruin must ensue. In the mean tiine, what must be whom yet I love; though this unkindness strikes my life? Ever to speak a language foreign to my at the rout of friendship, and might destroy it in heart; hourly to add to the number of my crimes, any breast but mine. in order to conceal them. Sure such was the Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him.}condition of the grand apostate, when first he Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes lost his purity. Like me, disconsolate, he wan- beheld them last. dered; and, while yet in heaven, bore all his fu- True. Heavy they look indeed, and swoln with ture hell about him.
tears ;-Dow they overflow. Rightly did my
sympathizing heart forebode last night, when Enter TRUEMAN.
thou wast absent, something fatal to our peace. True. Barnwell! Oh! how I rejoice to see you Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. safe! So will our master and his gentle daugh- My troubles, whate'er they are, are mine alone : ter; who, during your absence, often enquired af- you have no interest in thein, nor ought your conter you.
cern for me to give you a moment's pain. Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love True. You speak as if you knew of friendship will pry into the secrets of my soul. [ Aside. nothing but the name. Before I saw your griet,
True. Unless you knew the pain the whole fa- I felt it. Since we parted last I have slept no mily has felt on your account, you cannot con- more than you, but pensive in my chamber sat ceive how much you are beloved. But why thus alone, and spent the tedious night in wishes for
your safety and return: even now, though igno- poured forth a liquid stream to quench a people's rant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the thirst. The sea divided, and formed walls of waheart.
ter, while a whole nation passed in safety through Barn. 'Twill not be always thus. Friendship its sandy bosom. Hungry lions have refused and all engagements cease, as circumstances and their prey; and men unhurt have walked anidst occasions vary; and, since you once may hate consuining flames; but never yet did time, once me, perhaps it might be better for us both that past, return. now you loved me less.
True. Though the continued chain of time has True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause never once been broke, nor ever will, but uninwould Barnwell use me thus ? Ungenerous and terrupted must keep on its course, till, lost in e ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall endeavour to ternity, it ends where it first began; yet as Heafollow your advice. [Going.) Yet stay; per- ven can repair whatever evils time can bring upon haps I am too rash, and angry when the cause us, we ought never to despair. But business redemands compassion. Some unforeseen calamity quires our attendance; business, the youth's best may have befallen him, too great to bear. preservative from ill, as idleness his worst of
Barn. What part am I reduced to act? It is snares. Will you go with me? vile and base to move his temper thus, the best Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what of friends and men.
has past, and follow you. [Exit Trueman.) I True. I am to blame; prithee, forgive me, might have trusted Trueman, and engaged him Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; to apply to my uncle to repair the wrong I have and let me know the cause that thus transports done my master; but what of Millwood? Must you from yourself; my friendly counsel may re- I expose her too? Ungenerous and base! Then store your peace.
Heaven requires it not.
But Heaven requires Barn. All that is possible for man to do for that I forsake her. What! never to see her man, your generous friendship may effect ; but more? Does Heaven require that? I hope I may here even that is in vain.
see her, and Heaven not be offended. PresumpTrue. Something dreadful is labouring in your tuous hope! Dearly already have I proved my breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share your frailty. Should I once more tempt Heaven, i grief! it will ease your pain, should it admit no may be left to fall, never to rise again. Yet, cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear. shall I leave her, for ever leave her, and not let
Barn. Vain supposition ! my woes increase by her know the cause ? She who loves me with being observed ; should the cause be known, they such a boundless passion! Can cruelty be duty? would exceed all bounds.
I judge of what she then must feel, by what I True. So well I know thy honest heart, guilt now endure. The love of life, and fear of shame, cannot harbour there.
opposed by inclination strong as death or shame, Barn. Oh, torture insupportable ! [Aside. like wind and tide in raging conflict meeting, when
True. Then why am I excluded? Have I a neither can prevail, keep inc in doubt. How then thought I would conceal from you?
can I determine? Barn. If still you urge me on this hated sub
Enter THOROW GOOD. ject, I will never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again.
Thor. Without a cause assigned, or notice True. It is strange--but I have done; say but given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, you hate me not.
young man, and I came to chide you for it; but Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. hope I am prevented. That modest blush, the True. Shall our friendship still continue? confusion so visible in your face, speak grief and
Barn. It is a blessing I never was worthy of, shame. When we have offended Heaven, it reyet now must stand on terms; and but upon con- quires no more ; and shall man, who needs himditions can confirm it.
self to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If iny True. What are they?
pardon or love be of moment to your peace, look Barn. Never hereafter, though you should
up, secure of both. wonder at my conduct, desire to know more than Barn. This goodness has overcome me. Aside.) I am willing to reveal.
Oh, sir, you know not the nature and extent of True. It is hard; but upon any conditions I my offence; and I should abuse your mistaken must be your friend.
bounty to receive it. Though I had rather die Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself than speak my shame; though racks could not can be another's, I am yours. [Embracing have forced the guilty secret from my breast,
True. Be ever so, and may Heaven restore your kindness has. your peace !
Thor. Enough, enough, whatever it be; this Barn. Will yesterday return? We have heard concern shews you are convinced, and I am sathe glorious sun, that till then incessant rolled, tisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to an once stopped his rapid course, and once went ingenuous mind? Some youthful folly, which it back. The dead bave risen, and parched rocks were prudent not to inquire into. When we
consider the frail condition of humanity, it may
Mill. Unkind and cruel! Lost myself, your raise our pity, not our wonder, that youth should happiness is now my only care. go astray; when reason, weak at the best, op- Burn. How did you gain admission? posed to inclination, scarce formed, and wholly Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle unassisted by experience, faintly contends, or
to visit, and deliver a message to you, we were willingly becomes the slave of sense. The state received by the family without suspicion, and of youth is much to be deplored, and the more with much respect conducted here. so, because they see it not; being then to danger Barn. Why did you come at all ? most exposed, when they are least prepared for Mill. I never shall trouble you more. I'ın their defence.
[Aside. come to take my leave for ever. Such is the Barn. It will be known, and you will recall malice of my fate : I go hopeless, despairing ever your pardon and abhor me.
to return. This hour is all I have left : one short Thor. I never will. Yet be upon your guard hour is all I have to bestow on love and you, in this gay thoughtless season of your life; when for whom I thought the longest life too short. the sense of pleasure is quick, and passions high, Barn. Then we are met to part for ever? the voluptuous appetites, raging and fierce, de
Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time mand the strongest curb; take heed of a relapse: or absence shall ever put a period to my grief, or when vice becomes habitual, the very power of make me love you less. Though I must Icave
you, leaving it is lost.
yet condemn me not. Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess
Barn. Condemn you ! No, I approve your reThor. Not a syllable inore upon this subject; solution, and rejoice to hear it; it is just it is it were not mercy, but cruelty, to hear what must necessary-I have well weighed, and found it give such torment to reveal.
Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts me. Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more Thor. This remorse makes thee dearer to me sense than she thought he had.
[Aside. than if thou hadst never offended. Whatever is Burn. Before you came, I had determined neyour fault, of this I am certain, 'twas harder for ver to see you more, you to offend, than for me to pardon.
Mill. Confusion !
[ Aside. Erit Thorow good. Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so unBarn. Villain, villain, villain! basely to wrong expected, that I shall make nothing of my part; so excellent a man! Should I again return to they must e'en play the scene betwixt themselves. folly? Detested thought!—But what of Millwood
[Aside then?Why, I renounce her ;-1 give her up- Mill. It was some relief to think, though abThe struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed. sent, yoù would love me still; but to find, thougli Reason may convince, but gratitude compels. fortune had been indulgent, that you, more cruel This unlooked-for generosity has saved me from and inconstant, had resolved to cast me ottdestruction.
[Going. This, as I never could expect, I have not learned
to bear. Enter a Footman.
Barn. I ar
am sorry to hear you blame me in a Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in the resolution that so well becomes us both. country desire to see you.
Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you have Barn. Who should they be? (Aside.] Tell them I'll wait upon them, Methinks I dread to see Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, who them.—Now every thing alarms me. -Guilt, have so many to wish we never had met? what a coward hast thou made me ! [Erit. Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I deformed
or old, that satiety so soon succeeds enjoyment ? SCENE II. - Another room in Thorow good's Nay, look again; am I not she whom yesterday House.
you thought the fairest and the kindest of her
sex; whose hand, trembling with extasy, you Enter MillwOOD, LUCY, and a Footman.
pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you Foot. Ladies, he will wait upon you imme- gazed with such delight, as if desire increased by diately.
being fed? Mill. Tis
Burn. No more; let me repent my former fol
[E.rit Foot. lies, if possible, without remembering what they Enter BARNWELL.
Mill. Why? Barn. Confusion! Millwood !
Barn. Such is my frailty, that it is dangerous. Mill. That angry look tells me that here I am Mill. Where is the danger, since we are to part? an unwelcome guest. I feared as much; the un- Barn. The thought of that already is too painhappy are so every where.
ful. Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may hope, you?
at least, you do not hate me? Vol. I.
Barn. No-no- -I never said I did
was young, left her and her fortune (no inconsiOh, my heart!
I assure you) to the care of a gentleMill . Perhaps you pity me?
man who has a good estate of his own. Barn. I do. I do Indeed I do.
Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous inan is rich enough; Mill. You'll think upon me?
but what are riches when compared to love? Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all. Lucy. For a while he performed the office of
Mill. You may judge an embrace at parting a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hired too great a favour—though it would be the last. her servants. But you have seen in what man[He druus back.] A look shall then suffice- ner she lived, so I need say no more of that. Farewell—for ever. [Exeunt Millwood and Lucy. Mill. How I shall live hereafter, Heaven
Burn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquer,- knows ! I have conquered-Painful victory!
Lucy. All things went on as one could wish ;
till Re-enter MilLWOOD and Lucy.
his wife dying, he fell violently in
love with his charge, and would fain have married Mill. One thing I had forgot;- I never must her. Now the man is neither old nor ugly, but return to my own house again. This I thought a good personable sort of a man, but I do not proper to let you know, lest your mind should know how it was, she could never endure him. change, and you should seek in vain to find me In short, her ill usage so provoked him, that he there. Forgive me this second intrusion; I only brought in an account of his executorship, wherecame to give you this caution, and that, perhaps, in he makes her debtor to him.was needless.
Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I must to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he had thank you for it.
stripped of all before. Mill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy.] Now, Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor I am gone for ever.
[Going friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as herBarn. One thing more-Sure there is no dan- self, lie compelled her to pass his account, and ger in my knowing where you go? If you think give bond for the sum he demanded; but still otherwise
provided handsomely for her, and continued his Mill. Alas!
[Weeping. courtship, till, being informed by his spies (truly Lucy. We are right, I find; that's my cue. I suspect soine in her own family), that you were [Aside) Ah, dear sir! she is going she knows entertained at her house, and staid with her all not whither; but go she must.
night, he came this morning raving and storming Barn. flumanity obliges me to wish you well : like a madman, talks no more of marriage (so why will you thus expose yourself to needless there is no bope of making up matters that way), troubles?
but vows her ruin, unless she shall allow him the Lucy. Nay, there is no help for it: she must same favour that he supposes she granted you. quit the town immediately, and the kingdom as Barn. Must she be ruined, or find her refuge soon as possible. It was no small matter, you may in another's arms? be sure, that could make her resolve to leave you. Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve in;
Mill. No more, my friend; since he, for whose that is happily spent with you— And now I dear sake alone I suffer, and am content to suffer, Burn. To be exposed to all the rigours of the is kind and pities me; wherever I wander, through various seasons; the summer's parching heat, and wilds and deserts benighted and forlorn, that winter's cold; unhoused, to wander, friendless, thought shall give me comfort.
through the inhospitable world, in misery and Barn. For my sake -Oh, tell me how, which want; attended with fear and danger, and purway am I so cursed to bring such ruin on thee? sued by malice and revenge. Wouldst thou en
Mill. No matter; I am contented with my lot. dure all this for me, and can I do nothing, no-
Lucy. It is really a pity there can be no way Barn. How, how am I the cause of your un found out. doing?
Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions now? Mill. To know it will but increase your troubles. Like early vapours, or the morning dew, chased Barn. My troubles cannot be greater than they by the sun's warm beams, they are vanished and
lost, as though they had never been. Lucy. Well, sir, if she will not satisfy you, I Lucy. Now I advised her, sir, to comply with will.
the gentleman: that would not only pụt an end Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. to her troubles, but make her fortune at once.
Mill. Remember, sir, that I desired you not to Burn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather hear it.
perish, nay, see her perish, than have her saved Barn. Begin, and ease my racking expectation. by him. I will
, prevent her ruin, though Lucy. Why, you must know, my lady here was with my own. A moment's patience; l'il return an only child, and her parents dying while she immediately.