ISABELLA.

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE I.

Street.

Enter VILLEROY and CARLOS.

Car. This constancy of yours, will establish an im mortal reputation among the women.

Vil. If it would establish me with Isabella

Car. Follow her, follow her: Troy town was won at last.

Vil. I have followed her these seven years, and now but live in hopes.

Car. But live in hopes! Why, hope is the ready road, the lover's baiting place; and for aught you know, but one stage short of the possession of your

mistress.

Vil. But my hopes, I fear, are more of my own making than her's; and proceed rather from my wishes, than any encouragement she has given me.

Car. That I can't tell: the sex is very various : there are no certain measures to be prescribed or followed, in making our approaches to the women. All that we have to do, I think, is to attempt them in the weakest part. Press them but hard, and they will all fall under the necessity of a surrender at last.

That

favour comes at once; and sometimes when we least expect it.

Vil. I'm going to visit her.

Car. What interest a brother-in-law can have with her depend upon.

Vil. I know your interest, and I thank you.

Car. You are prevented; see the mourner comes: She weeps, as seven years were seven hours; So fresh, unfading, is the memory

Of my poor brother's, Biron's, death:

I leave you to your opportunity. [Exit VILLEROY.
Though I have taken care to root her from our house,
I would transplant her into Villeroy's

There is an evil fate that waits upon her,
To which I wish him wedded-only him:
His upstart family, with haughty brow,
(Though Villeroy and myself are seeming friends)
Looks down upon our house; his sister too,
Whose hand I ask'd, and was with scorn refus'd,
Lives in my breast, and fires me to revenge.
They bend this way.-

Perhaps, at last, she seeks my father's doors;
They shall be shut, and he prepar'd to give
The beggar and her brat a cold reception.
That boy's an adder in my path-they come,
I'll stand apart, and watch their motions.

[Exit.

Enter VILLEROY and ISABELLA, with her Child.
Isa. Why do you follow me? you know I am
A bankrupt every way; too far engag'd

Ever to make return: I own you have been
More than a brother to me, my friend:

And at a time when friends are found no more,
A friend to my misfortunes.

Vil. I must be

Always your friend.

Isa. I have known, and found

you

Truly my friend: and would I could be
But the unfortunate cannot be friends:

Pray begone,

Take warning, and be happy.
Vil. Happiness!

There's none for me without you.—

yours;

What serve the goods of fortune for? To raise
My hopes, that you at last will share them with me.
Isa. I must not hear you.

Vil. Thus, at this awful distance, I have serv'd
A seven year's bondage-Do I call it bondage,
When I can never wish to be redeem'd ?

No, let me rather linger out a life

Of expectation, that you may be mine,
Than be restor'd to the indifference

Of seeing you, without this pleasing pain:
I've lost myself, and never would be found,
But in these arms.

Isa. Oh, I have heard all this!

-But must no more--the charmer is no more:

My buried husband rises in the face

Of my dear boy, and chides me for my stay:
Canst thou forgive me, child? `

Vil. What can I
say!

The arguments that make against my hopes
Prevail upon my heart, and fix me more;
Those pious tears, you hourly throw away
Upon the grave, have all their quick'ning charms,
And more engage my love, to make you mine:
When yet a virgin, free, and undispos'd,
I lov'd, but saw you only with mine eyes;
I could not reach the beauties of your soul:
I have since liv'd in contemplation,

And long experience of your growing goodness:
What then was passion, is my judgment now,
Through all the several changes of your life,
Confirm'd and settled in adoring you..

Isa. Nay, then I must begone. If you are my

friend,

If you regard my little interest,

No more of this.

I'm going to my father; he needs not an excuse
To use me ill: pray leave me to the trial.

Vil. I'm only born to be what you would have me,
The creature of your power, and must obey;
In every thing obey you. I am going:
But all good fortune go along with you.

Isa. I shall need all your wishes-
Lock'd! and fast!

Where is the charity that us'd to stand
In our forefathers' hospitable days.
At great men's doors,

Like the good angel of the family,

With open arms taking the needy in,

[Exit. [Knocks.

To feed and clothe, to comfort and relieve them? Now even their gates are shut against their poor. [She knocks again.

Enter SAMPSON.

Samp. Well, what's to do now, I trow? You knock as loud as if you were invited; and that's more than I heard of; but I can tell you, you may look twice about you for a welcome in a great man's family, be fore you find it, unless you bring it along with you.

Isa. I hope I do, sir.

Is your lord at home?

Samp. My lord at home!

Isa. Count Baldwin lives here still ?

Samp. Ay, ay, Count Baldwin does live here; and I am his porter; but what's that to the purpose, good woman, of my lord's being at home?

Isa. Why, don't you know me, friend?

Samp. Not I, not I, mistress; I may have seen you

before, or so; but men of employment must forget their acquaintance; especially such as we are never to be the better for. [Going to shut the Door.

Enter NURSE.

Nurse. Handsomer words would become you, and mend your manners, Sampson: do you know who you prate to?

Isa. I am glad you know me, Nurse.

Nurse. Marry, Heav'n forbid, madam, that I should ever forget you, or my little jewel: pray go in [IsaBELLA goes in with her Child.] Now my blessing go along with you, wherever you go, or whatever you are about. Fie, Sampson, how couldst thou be such a saracen? A Turk would have been a better christian, than to have done so barbarously by so good a lady.

Samp. Why, look you, Nurse, I know you of old : by your good will, you would have a finger in every body's pye, but mark the end on't; If I am called to account about it, I know what I have to say.

Nurse. Marry come up here; say your pleasure, and spare not. Refuse his eldest son's widow and poor child, the comfort of seeing him? She does not trouble him so often.

Samp. Not that I am against it, Nurse, but we are but servants, you know; we must have no likings, but our lord's, and must do as we are ordered. But what is the business, Nurse? You have been in the family before I came into the world: what's the reason, pray, that this daughter-in-law, who has so good a report in every body's mouth, is so little set by, by my lord?

Nurse. Why, I tell you, Sampson, more or less: I'll tell the truth, that's my way, you know, without adding or diminishing.

Samp. Ay, marry, Nurse.

Nurse. My lord's eldest son, Biron by name, the son of his bosom, and the son that he would have lov'd best, if he had as many as king Pyramus of