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Barn. Oh, torture insupportable!

Aside. True. Then, why am I excluded ? have I a thought I would conceal from you?

Barn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again.

True. 'Tis strange--but I have done, say but you hate me not.

Burn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet.
True. Shall our friendship still continue?

Barn. It is a blessing I never was worthy of, yet now must stand on terms, and but upon conditions can cons firm it. * True. What are they?

Burn. Never, hereafter, though you should wonder at my conduct, desire to know more than I am willing to reveal.

True. "Tís hard; but upon any conditions I must be your friend.

Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself can be another's, I am yours. .

[EmbracingTrue. Be ever so, and may Heaven restore your peace! Barn. " Will yesterday return? We have heard the glorious sun, that till then incessant roll’d, once stopp'd'his rapid course, and once went back. The

who divide,
They weaken, too, the torrent of their grief,

Young's Nigut THOUGBT9: N. 1: !. 304.
How much to he priz'd and esteem'd is a Friend,
On whom we may always with safety depend;
Our joys, when extended, will always increase,

And griefs, when divided, are hush'd into peace.
See a Song on FRIENDSHIP in the Editor's Collection of Song8g
Vol. I. P. 279..

Joy imparted still increases,
Griefs, when told, soon disappear

Doop. 288. · I have many cares You have not heard of.

Let me know them, Sir; Trouble is ever lighten'd by complaint. Reveal the grief that preys upon your beart;' . And it shall half expire. " Tragedy of SIR THOMAS MORE, by. Hurdis; A. 17. $. 18o.

vs upon your bearti

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« dead have risen, and parched rocks pour'd forth a (liquid stream to quench a people's thirst. The sea <divided, and formd walls of water, while a whole

nation passed in safety through its sandy bosom. ? Hungry lions have refused their prey! and men un

hurt have walk'd amidst consuming flames; but never ( yet did time, once past, return.'

True. « Though the continued chain of time has never I once been broke, nor ever will, but uninterrupted I must keep on its course, till, lost in eternity, it ends < where it first began; yet, as Heaven can repair what

ever evils time can bring upon us, we ought never to < despair. But business requires our attendance; business, the youth's best preservative from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will you go with me?

Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what has past, and follow you: [Exit Trueman.] I might have trusted Trueman, and engaged him to apply to my uncle to repair the wrong I have done my master; but what of Millwood? "Must I expose her too? Heaven requires

that I forsake her. What! never to see her more? « Does Heaven require that? Yes. Dearly already have

I prov'd my frailty. Should I once more tempt Ileaven, ? I may be left to fall, never to rise again. Yet,' shall I leave her, for ever leave her, and not let her know the cause? She who loves me with such boundless passion ! Can cruelty be duty ? I judge of what she then must feel, by what I now endure. The love of life, and fear of shame, opposed by inclination strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can I determine?

Enter THOROW GOOD. Thor. With-ut a cause assign'd, or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, young man, for which I must chide you. .

Barn. Sir, I know I am greatly to blame.

Thor. I shall be glad to be prevented saying more upon this first great fault of yours.

Barn. Your goodness, sir,

Thor. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your face, persuade me you feel both grief and shame. When we have offended Heaven, repentance is accepted; shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If my pardon or love be of moment to your peace, look up secure of both.

Barn. This goodness has o'ercome me. Though racks could not have forc'd the guilty secret from my breast, his kindness has. [Aside.] Oh, sir, your generous treatment must open my mouth to tell

Thor. Enough : I will be satisfied for the present. But, take my forbearance the right way: to make you not less careful, but more so for the future. Sure I am right in passing over the fault this one time : but, though willingly indulgent, I must not give up the reins of government. [ Aside.]

Barn. You will learn particulars, and then repent of having pardon'd me.

Thor. Never, I hope. Yet be upon your guard in this gay thoughtless season of your life; when vice becomes habitual, the very power of leaving it is lost.

Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess

Thor. Not a syllable more upon this subject; it were not mercy, but cruelty, to hear what must give you such torment to reveal.

Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts me.

Thor. This remorse makes thee dearer to me, than if thou had'st never offended. Whaterer is your fault, of this I am certain, it was harder for you to offend, than me to pardon.

[Exit. Barn. Villain, villain, villian ! basely to wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly?-Detested thought!--But what of Millwood, then :- Why, I renounce her; I give her up--the struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed.* Reason may convince, but gra

* Here the want of a religious principle in G. Barnwell appears, his resolutions are merely formed on virtue and in his own strength, and in renewed temptation he again falls,

Mr. Ensor, in his Independent Man, (Vol. u. p. 168), says** The defects of this piece are not few : it is very credible that a

titude compels. This unlook'd-for generosity has sav'd me from destruction.

[Going: Enter a FOOTMAN. Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in the country desire to see you.

Barn. Who should they be. Aside.7 Tell them I'll wait upon them. [Exit Footman.] Methinks I dread to see them-Now every thing alarms me. -Guilt, what a coward hast thou made me!

w (Exit. SCENE II. Another room in Thorowgood's house. Enter Millwood and Lucy, and to them a FoorMax.

Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you immediately.
Mil. 'Tis very well.--I thank you. [Exit Foot.

Enter BARNWELL.
Burn. Confusion! Millwood!

Mil. That angry look tells me that here I am an un welcome guest; I fear'd as much; the unhappy are so every where.

Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content you?

Mil. Unkind and cruel! Lost myself, your happiness is now my only care.

Barn. How did you gain admission ?

Mil. Saying we were desir'd by your uncle to visit, and deliver a message to you, we were receiv'd by the

" youth should he plunged into an abyss of guilt by an insidious and • Beautiful woman; but to represent Barnwell so suddenly, from “ such virtuous habits, the murderer of his excellent master is ao «6 enormity which revolts the audience."

Mr, E. has here made a mistake in putting master for uncle. With respect to the sudienness of Barnwell's fall it may be said, that mere time is supposed to elapse than that of the representation of the blar. and the murder may be supposed to be committed about the third day* from Baroweli's first acquaintance with Millwood. Allowance inust be made for the necessity of concentrating in a play (the real space of about three hours) the actions of days, and sometimes weeks

. But, I conceive that Barnwell's sudden and comparatively easily-effected fall may be accounted for from his want of a religious principle. He is only good from education and habit, the consequence is, that having no root, he soon withers away. See Matt, XIII. 6.

* See a farther observation on the time which this play takes up at the beginning of Act v.

or 1

family without suspicion, and with much respect conducted here.

Barn. Why did you come at all ?

Mil. I shall never trouble you more. I am come to take my leave for ever. I go hopeless, despairing ever to return. This hour is all I have left; one short hour is all I have to bestow on love and you, for whom. I thought the longest life too short. ,

Barn. Then we are met to part for ever?

Mil. It must be so. Yet think not that time or absence shall ever put a period to my grief, or make me love you less. Tho' I must leave you, yet condemn me not.

Barn. Condemn you! no, I approve your resolution and rejoice to hear it: 'tis just—'tis necessary-I have well weigh'd and found it so.

Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more sense than she thought he had.

[Aside. Barn. Before you came, I had determin'd never to see you more. Mil. Confusion!

[ Aside. Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my part; they must e'en play the scene betwixt themselves.

[Aside. Mil. 'Twas some relief to think, tho' absent, you would love me still; but to find, you had resolved to cast me off—this, as I never could expect, I have not learn'd to bear.

Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me in a resolution that so well becomes us both.

Mil. I have reason for what I do, but you have none.

Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, who have so many to wish we never had met?

Mil. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I deform'd or old, that you so soon are weary of me? Nay, look again; am I not she, whom yesterday you thought the fairest and the kindest of her sex?

Barn. No more: let me repent my former follies, if possible, without remembering what they were.

Mil. Why?

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