ACT III.

modious of late, and always compels us to do the very thing we have most a mind to.

Lucy. Well, madam, but common humanity to young Mr Belfield-You must allow he has been hardly treated.

Sophia. By me, Lucy?

Lucy. Madam! No, madam, not by you; but 'tis charity to heal the wounded, though you have not been a party in the fray.

Sophia. I grant you. You are a true female philosopher; you would let charity recommend you a husband, and a husband recommend you to charity-But I won't reason upon the matter; at least, not in the humour I am now; not at this particular time: no, Lucy, nor in this particular spot; for here it was, at this very hour, yesterday evening, young Belfield surprised me.

Lucy. And see, madam, punctual to the same lucky moment, he comes again! let him plead his own cause; you need fear no interruption; my lady has too agreeable an engagement of her own, to endeavour at disturbing those of other people.

Enter BELFIELD, jun.

[Exit.

Bel. jun. Have I, then, found thee, loveliest of women? O! Sophia, report has struck me to the heart; if, as I am told, to-morrow gives you to my brother, this is the last time I am ever to behold you.

Sophia. Why so, Mr Belfield? Why should our separation be a necessary consequence of our alliance?

Bel. jun. Because I have been ambitious, and cannot survive the pangs of disappointment.

Sophia. Alas, poor man! but you know where to bury your disappointments; the sea is still open to you; and, take my word for it, Mr Belfield, the man who can live three years, ay, or three months, in separation from the woman of his heart, need be under no apprehension for his life, let what will befall her.

Sophia. What, you've discovered it at last? Oh, fie upon you!

Bel. jun. Thus, thus, let me embrace my unexpected blessing: come to my heart, my fond, overflowing heart, and tell me once again that my Sophia will be only mine!

Sophia. O, man, man! all despondency one moment, all rapture the next. No question now but you conceive every difficulty surmounted, and that we have nothing to do but to run into each other's arms, make a fashionable elopement, and be happy for life? and I must own to you, Belfield, was there no other condition of our union, even this project should not deter me; but I have better hopes, provided you will be piloted by me; for, believe me, my good friend, I am better acquainted with this coast than you are.

Bel. jun. I doubt not your discretion, and shall implicitly surrender myself to your guidance.

Sophia. Give me a proof of it, then, by retreating from this place immediately; 'tis my father's hour for walking, and I would not have you meet; besides, your brother is expected.

Bel. jun. Ay, that brother, my Sophia, that brother, brings vexation and regret whenever he is named! but I hope, I need not dread a second injury in your esteem; and yet I know not how it is, but if I was addicted to superstition

Sophia. And if I was addicted to anger, I should quarrel with you for not obeying my injunctions with more readiness.

Bel. jun. I will obey thee, and yet 'tis difficult. Those lips, which thus have blest me, cannot dismiss me without

Sophia. Nay, Mr Belfield, don't you—well, then-mercy upon us! who's coming here?

Bel. jun. How! oh, yes! never fear; 'tis a friend; 'tis Violetta; 'tis a lady that I Sophia. That you what, Mr Belfield? What lady is it! I never saw her in my life before. Bel. jun. Cruel, insulting Sophia! when I last Bel. jun. No, she is a foreigner, born in Porparted from you, I flattered myself I had left|tugal, though of an English family: the packet, some impression on your heart-But in every in which she was coming to England, foundered event of my life, I meet a base, injurious bro-along-side of our ship, and I was the instrument ther; the everlasting bar to my happiness-I of saving her life: I interest myself much in her can support it no longer; and Mr Belfield, ma- happiness, and I beseech you, for my sake, to be dam, never can, never shall be yours. kind to her. [Exit.

Sophia. How, Sir! never shall be mine?What do you tell me? There is but that man on earth with whom I can be happy; and if my fate is such, that he is never to be mine, the world, and all that it contains, will for ever after be indifferent to me.

Bel. jun. I have heard enough; farewell! Sophia. Farewell, sagacious Mr Belfield! the next fond female, who thus openly declares herself to you, will, I hope, meet with a more gallant reception than I have done.

Bel. jun. How! what! is't possible? O, Hea

vens!

Sophia. He interests himself much in her happiness; he beseeches me, for his sake, to be kind to her-What am I to judge of all this?

Enter VIOLETTA.

Vio. Madam, I ask pardon for this intrusion; but I have business with you of a nature that-I presume I'm not mistaken; you are the young lady I have been directed to, the daughter of sir Benjamin Dove?

Sophia. I am, madam; but wont you please to repose yourself in the house? I understand you are a stranger in this country. May I beg to

Bel. jun. Nay, Mr Paterson, don't assume such a menacing air; nor practise on my temper too far in this business. I know both your situa tion and my own. Consider, sir, mine is a cause that would animate the most dastardly spirit; your's is enough to damp the most courageous. [Exit BEL. jun.

Sophia. Is there any wonder in that, pray? Pat. A very short and sententious gentleman: Vio. No; none at all. If any man else, such but there is truth in his remark. Mine is but a confidence would surprise me; but, in Mr Bel-sorry commission, after all. The man is in the field, 'tis natural; there is no wondering at what he does.

Sophia. You must pardon me: I find we think differently of Mr Belfield. He left me but this minute, and, in the kindest terms, recommended you to my friendship.

Vio. 'Twas he, then, that parted from you as I came up? I thought so; but I was too much agitated to observe him-and I am confident he is too guilty to dare to look upon me.

right to fight for his mistress; she's worth the venture; and, if there was no way else to be quit of mine, I should be in the right to fight, too: egad, I don't see why aversion should not make me as desperate as love makes him. Hell and fury! here comes my Venus!

Enter LADY DOVE.

Lady Dove. Well, Paterson, what says the fellow to my message?

Pat. Says, madam! I'm ashamed to tell you what he says: he's the arrantest boatswain that

Sophia. Why so, madam? For Heaven's sake, inform me what injuries you have received from Mr Belfield; I must own to you, I am much in-ever I conversed with. terested in finding him to be a man of honour.

Vio. I know your situation, madam, and I pity it. Providence has sent me here, in time to save you, and to tell you

Sophia. What? To tell me what? Oh! speak, or I shall sink with apprehension!

Vio. To tell you, that he is--my husband! Sophia. Husband! your husband? what do I hear! ungenerous, base, deceitful Belfield! I thought he seemed confounded at your appearance; every thing confirms his treachery; and I cannot doubt the truth of what you tell me. Vio. A truth it is, madam, that I must ever reflect on with the most sorrowful regret.

Lady Dove. But tell me what he says.

Pat. Every thing that scandal and scurrility can utter against you.

Lady Dove. Against me! What could he say against me?

Pat. Modesty forbids me to tell you.

Lady Dove. Oh! the vile reprobate! I, that have been so guarded in my conduct, so discreet in my partialities, as to keep them secret, even from my own husband; but, I hope, he did not venture to abuse my person?

Pat. No, madam, no; had he proceeded to such lengths, I could not in honour have put up with it; I hope I have more spirit than to suffer any reflections upon your ladyship's personal ac

Sophia. Come, let me beg you to walk to wards the house. I ask no account of this tran-complishments. saction of Mr Belfield's. I would fain banish his name from my memory for ever; and you shall this instant be a witness of his peremptory dismission. [Exeunt.

Bel. jun. Even what you please, Mr Paterson; mould it and model it to your liking; put as many palliatives, as you think proper, to sweeten it to her ladyship's taste; so you do but give her to understand, that I neither can, nor will abandon my Sophia. Cease to think of her, indeed! What earthly power can exclude her idea from my thoughts? I am surprized lady Dove should think of sending me such a message; and I wonder, sir, that you should consent to bring it.

VOL. II.

Lady Dove. Well; but did you say nothing in
defence of my reputation?
Pat. Nothing.
Lady Dove. No?

Pat. Not a syllable! Trust me for that; 'tis the wisest way, upon all tender topics, to be silent; for he, who takes upon him to defend a lady's reputation, only publishes her favours to the world; and, therefore, I would always leave that office to a husband.

Lady Dove. 'Tis true; and, if sir Benjamin had any heart

Pat. Come, come, my dear lady, don't be too severe upon sir Benjamin: many men, of no better appearance than sir Benjamin, have shown themselves perfect heroes: I know a whole family, that, with the limbs of ladies, have the hearts of lions. Who can tell but your husband may be one of this sort?

Lady Dove. Ah!

Pat. Well, but try him; tell him how you have been used, and see what his spirit will prompt

5 X

him to do. A-propos! here the gentleman
comes: if he won't fight, 'tis but what you ex-
pect; if he will, who can tell where a lucky ar-
row may hit?
[Exit PAT.

lieve this, sir Benjamin; you could not bear to
see me ill used; I'm positive you could not.
Sir Ben. Tis as well, however, not to be too
sure of that.
[Aside
Lady Dove. You could not be so mean-spirit-
ed, as to stand by and hear your poor dear wife

Enter SIR BENJAMIN DOVE.
Lady Dove. Sir Benjamin, I want to have a abused and insulted, and
little discourse in private with you.
Sir Ben. With me, my lady?

Lady Dove. With you, sir Benjamin; 'tis upon a matter of a very serious nature; pray, sit down by me. I don't know how it is, my dear, but I have observed, of late, with much concern, a great abatement in your regard for me.

Sir Ben. Oh! fie, my lady, why do you think so? What reason have you for so unkind a suspicion?

Lady Dove. Tis in vain for you to deny it; I am convinced you have done loving me.

Sir Ben. Well now, I vow, my dear, as I am a sinner, you do me wrong.

Lady Dove. Look'e, sir Benjamin, love, like mine, is apt to be quick-sighted; and, I am persuaded, I am not deceived in my observation.

Sir Ben. Indeed, and indeed, my lady Dove, you accuse me wrongfully.

Lady Dove. Mistake me not, my dear, I do not accuse you; I accuse myself; I am sensible there are faults and imperfections in my temper. Sir Ben. Oh! trifles, my dear, mere trifles. Lady Dove. Come, come, I know you have led but an uncomfortable life of late, and, I am afraid, I've been innocently, in some degree, the cause of it.

Sir Ben. Far be it from me to contradict your ladyship, if you are pleased to say so.

Lady Dove. I am sure it has been as I say; my over-fondness for you has been troublesome and vexatious; you hate confinement, I know you do; you are a man of spirit, and formed to figure in the world.

Sir Ben. Oh, you flatter me!

Sir Ben. Oh! no, by no means; 'twould break my heart; but, who has abused you and insulted you, and

Lady Dove. Who? Why, this young Belfield, that I told you of.

Sir Ben. Oh! never listen to him! A woman of your years should have more sense than to mind what such idle young fleerers can say of you.

Lady Dove. [Rising.] My years, sir Benjamin! Why, you are more intolerable than he is! but let him take his course; let him run away with your daughter; it shall be no further concern of mine to prevent him.

Sir Ben. No, my dear, I've done that effectually.

Lady Dove. How so, pray?

Sir Ben. By taking care he shan't run away with my estate at the same time. Some people lock their daughters up to prevent their eloping. I've gone a wiser way to work with mine; let her go loose, and locked up her fortune.

Lady Dove. And, on my conscience, I believe you mean to do the same by your wife; turn her loose upon the world, as you do your daughter; leave her to the mercy of every free-booter; let her be vilified and abused; her honour, her repu tation, mangled and torn by every paltry privateering fellow that fortune casts upon your coasts.

Sir Ben. Hold, my lady, hold! young Belfield did not glance at your reputation, I hope! did he?

Lady Dove. Indeed, but he did though; and therein, I think, every wife has a title to her husband's protection.

Sir Ben. True, my dear; 'tis our duty to plead, but your's to provide us with the brief.

Lady Dove. There are some insults, sir Benjamin, that no man of spirit ought to put up with; and the imputation of being made a wittol of, is the most unpardonable of any.

Sir Ben. Right, my dear; even truth, you know, is not to be spoke at all times.

Lady Dove. Nay, nay, there's no disguising it; you sigh for action; your looks declare it: this alteration in your habit and appearance, puts it out of doubt there is a certain quickness in your eye; 'twas the first symptom that attracted my regards; and, I am mistaken, sir Benjamin, if you don't possess as much courage as any man. Sir Ben. Your ladyship does me honour. Lady Dove. I do you justice, sir Benjamin. Sir Ben. Why, I believe, for the matter of courage, I have as much as my neighbours; but 'tis of a strange perverse quality; for, as some Sir Ben. Oh! if that's the alternative, what a spirits rise with the difficulties they are to en-deal of time have we wasted! Step with me counter, my courage, on the contrary, is always into my library, and I'll pen him a challenge imgreatest when there is least call for it. mediately. [Exeunt.

Lady Dove. Oh! you shall never make me be

Lady Dove. How, sir! would you insinuate any thing to the disparagement of my fidelity? but choose your side; quarrel you must, either with him, or with me.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-The cabin, with a view of the sea, the door of your cabin; there's a young woman