ACT THE FIFTH.
SCENE I.—Newgate.
Young Bookwit discovered on a couch asleep, Latine looking on him.
Lat. How quietly he rests! Oh that I could,
By watching him, hanging thus over him,
And, feeling all his care, protract his sleep!
Oh, sleep! thou sweetest gift of Heaven to man,
Still in thy downy arms embrace my friend,
Nor loose him from his inexistent trance
To sense of yesterday and pain of being;
In thee oppressors soothe their angry brow,
In thee the oppressed forget tyrannic power,
In thee——
The wretch condemned is equal to his judge,
And the sad lover to his cruel fair;
Nay, all the shining glories men pursue,
When thou art wanted, are but empty noise.
Who then would court the pomp of guilty power,
When the mind sickens at the weary show,
And dies to temporary death for ease;
When half our life's cessation of our being——
He wakes——
How do I pity that returning life,
Which I could hazard thousand lives to save!
Y. Book. How heavily do I awake this morning! Oh, this senseless drinking! To suffer a whole week's pain for an hour's jollity! Methinks my senses are burning round me. I have but interrupted hints of the last night——Ha! in a gaol! Oh, I remember, I remember. Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! I remember——
Lat. You must have patience, and bear it like a man.
Y. Book. Oh, whither shall I run to avoid myself?
Why all these bars? These bolted iron gates?
They're needless to secure me——Here, here's my rack,
My gaol, my torture——
Oh, I can't bear it. I cannot bear the rushing of new thoughts;
Fancy expands my senses to distraction,
And my soul stretches to that boundless space
To which I've sent my wretched, wretched friend.
Oh, Latine! Latine! Is all our mirth and humour come to this?
Give me thy bosom, close in thy bosom hide me
From thy eyes; I cannot bear their pity or reproach.
Lat. Dear Bookwit, how heartily I love you—I don't know what to say. But pray have patience.
Y. Book. If you can't bear my pain that's but communicated by your pity, how shall I my proper inborn woe, my wounded mind?
Lat. In all assaults of fortune that should be serene,
Not in the power of accident or chance——
Y. Book. Words! words! all that is but mere talk.
Perhaps, indeed, to undeserved affliction
Reason and argument may give relief,
Or in the known vicissitudes of life
We may feel comfort by our self-persuasion;
But oh! there is no taking away guilt:
This divine particle will ache for ever.
There is no help but whence I dare not ask;
When this material organ's indisposed
Juleps can cool and anodynes give rest;
But nothing mix with this celestial drop,
But dew from that high Heaven of which 'tis part.
Lat. May that high Heaven compose your mind,
And reconcile you to yourself.
Y. Book. How can I hope it?
No——I must descend from man,
Grovel on earth, nor dare look up again!
Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! Where is he now?
Oh, thinking, thinking, why didst thou not come sooner?
Or not now!——
My thoughts do so confuse me now—as my folly and pleasures did before this fatal accident—that I cannot recollect whence Lovemore was provoked to challenge me.
Lat. You know, dear Bookwit, I feared some ill from a careless way of talking. But alas! I dreamt not of so great——
Y. Book. Ay, there it was; he was naturally a little jealous. Heavens, do I say he was? I talked to him of ladies, treats, and he might possibly believe 'twas where he had engaged——I remember his serious behaviour on that subject. Oh, this unhappy tongue of mine!
Thou lawless, voluble, destroying foe,
That still run'st on, nor wait'st command of reason,
Oh, I could tear thee from me——
Lat. Did you not expostulate before the action?
Y. Book. He would have don't; but I, flushed with the thoughts of duelling, pressed on——Thus for the empty praise of fools, I'm solidly unhappy.
Lat. You take it too deeply. Your honour was concerned.
Y. Book. Honour! The horrid application of that sacred word to a revenge against friendship, law, and reason is a damned last shift of the damned envious foe of human race. The routed fiend projected this, but since the expansive glorious law from Heaven came down——Forgive.[76]
Enter Turnkey.
Turn. Gentlemen, I come to tell you that you have the favour to be carried in chairs to your indictment, to which you must go immediately.
Lat. We are ready, sir,
Y. Book. How shall I bear the eyeshot of the crowd in court? [Exeunt.
SCENE II.—Frederick's Lodgings.
Enter Lovemore, in a serjeant's gown, and Frederick.
Love. Mankind is infinitely beholden to this noble styptic, that could produce such wonderful effects so suddenly. But though my wound was very slight, I'm weak by the effusion of so much blood.
Fred. Yet after all, you have not lost enough to cool your passion. Your heart still beats, Penelope, Penelope——But in this disguise you have opportunity for observation. You'll see whether you ought still to value her or not. I'm glad you thought of being brought hither as soon as you came to yourself. I expect old Bookwit every moment here——
Enter Old Bookwit.
There he is——
O. Book. Oh, Mr. Frederick! too late, too late was our care; they met last night, and then the fatal act was done. You'll excuse, sir, a father's sorrow——I can't speak much, but you may guess what I hope from you.
Fred. You may depend upon ingenuous usage in the prosecution. I'm going instantly to Penelope's with this learned gentleman, to know what she can say to this matter. I desired you, in the note I sent you, to purchase the favour of your son's being brought thither, where he and you may be witnesses of what shall pass. I seek not his blood, nor would neglect a justice to my deceased friend.
O. Book. I believe my son and the rest are going thither ere this; and I desire this worthy serjeant's favour and advice, since we both mean the same thing—only to act with honour, if his life may be saved.
Love. I'll do what's just to the deceased and the survivor.
O. Book. I'll leave you, but will take care to come in just afore the criminals arrive. [Exit.
Love. The poor old gentleman! Prithee, let's go; I long to see my lovely torment, Penelope.
Fred. I'll but leave word within. [Exeunt.
SCENE III.—Penelope's Lodgings.
Enter Penelope and Victoria.
Pen. It seems Simon lay out all night, and was carried away by the watch with some gentlemen in a quarrel.
Vict. I fancy the men who are always for showing their valour are like the women who are always talking of their chastity, because they are conscious of their defect in it.
Pen. Right; for we are not apt to raise arguments but about what we think is disputable.
Vict. Ay, ay, they whose honour is a sore part are more fearful of being touched than they in whom 'tis only a tender one. But tell me honestly, Penelope, should poor Lovemore be in this rencounter, and that for your sake, would it have no effect upon you in his favour?
Pen. I don't know how to answer you; but I find something in that reflection which acquaints me 'tis very hard for one to know one's own heart. [Sighs.
Vict. However, let your heart answer me one question more, as well as it can. Does it love me as well as ever it did?
Pen. Does not, madam, that question proceed from a change in your own?
Vict. It does, Penelope; I own it does——I had a long conflict with myself on my pillow last night.
Pen. What were your thoughts there?
Vict. That I owed it to our friendship to acknowledge to you that all the pleasure I once had in you is vanished. Ah, Penelope! I'm sorry for every good quality you have.
Pen. Since you are so frank, I must confess to you something very like this. But however I envied that sprightly, ingenuous, native beauty of yours, I see it now so much the figure of your mind that I can conquer, I think I can, any inclination in myself that opposes the happiness of so sincere a friend.
Vict. Explain yourself, my dear.
Pen. I'll discountenance this Bookwit's ambiguous addresses; and if Lovemore can forgive my late ill-usage——I need say no more.
Enter Servant.
Serv. Mr. Frederick below desires to see you on some extraordinary business.
Vict. I have not time, my dearest friend, to applaud or thank you, but must run in——He comes from Lovemore——remember. [Exit.
Pen. Let him come up——Now can't I for my life forbear a little tyranny.
Enter Frederick and Lovemore.
Pen. Good morrow, sir. I believe I know your business: you're officious for your friend——But I am deaf.
Fred. I know you are, and have been; but I come only to do him a last office. He'll trouble you no more, but I must conjure you to read this, and inform this learned gentleman what you know of this misfortune.
Pen. [Reading.] "Your cruelty provoked me to desire the favour of dying by Mr. Bookwit's hand, since he had taken from me more than life in robbing me of you——farewell for ever——I direct Frederick not to give you this till I am no more." Writ in his blood! "Till I am no more!" Lovemore no more! Thou shalt not be no more——thou shalt live here for ever. Here, thou dearest paper, mingle with my life's stream; either the paper bleeds anew, or my eyes weep blood. So let 'em do forever——Oh, my Lovemore! did the vanity of a prating boy banish thy solid services and manly love?
Fred. This is no reparation to him for his lost life, nor me for my lost friend. Yet when you please to receive 'em, I am obliged to deliver you some papers, wherein he has given you all the fortune he could bestow, nor would revoke it, even thus injured as he was.
Pen. Curse on all wealth and fortune! He—he is gone who only deserved all, and whose worth I know too late!
Love. [To Fred.] Oh, ecstasy! Why was I angry at her rejoicing at my sorrow, when hers to me is such a perfect bliss? 'Tis barbarous not to discover myself.
Fred. [To Love.] Do, and be used barbarously——But, madam, you must be composed. Your life, for ought I know, is at stake; for there is no such thing as accessories in murder; and it can be proved you knew of Lovemore's threatening to fight Bookwit. You must either take your trial yourself, or be Mr. Bookwit's witness.
Pen. I his witness! No, I'll swear anything to hang him.
Fred. Ah, madam, you must consider yourself, however——Pray, sir, read her indictment to her.
Love. [Reading.] "That on the said third day of April the said Penelope, of the parish of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields, spinster, without fear before her eyes, but by the instigation of the devil, and through an evil pride of heart——"
Pen. 'Tis too true——[Weeping.
Love. "Did contrive, abet, and consent to the death of John Lovemore, Esq., of the age of twenty-eight years, or thereabouts."
Fred. I can't hear the mention of him without tears. He was the sincerest friend.
Love. I think I have seen him. He was, I've heard, a man of honesty, but of something a disagreeable make.
Pen. Oh, sir, you never saw him if you think so——His person was as free as his mind was honest, nor had he imperfection, but his love of me. [Weeps.
Love. [To Fred.] I tremble I shall disoblige her too much.
Fred. [To Love.] You shan't discover yourself, you shall go through her soul, now 'tis moved on our side. Win her now, or see my face no more; I'll not have my wine spoiled every night with your recitals of love, and asking advice, though you never mean to take it, like a true lover.
Pen. When did that best of men expire, good Mr. Frederick?
Fred. This morning. But should I speak the manner? With a faint, dying voice he called me to him. I went in tenderness to take my long farewell. He, in a last effort of nature, pressed me to his breast, and, with the softest accent, sighed in death—"Penelope."
Pen. Oh, the too generous man! Ungrateful I!
Curses on him first flattered with his tongue,
On her that first dissembled in her silence——
What miseries have they entailed on life
To bring in fraud and diffidence of love!
Simplicity's the dress of honest passion,
Then why our arts, why to a man enamoured,
That at her feet effuses all his soul,
Must woman cold appear, false to herself and him?
Fred. [To Love.] Do you see there? You'd have spoke before she considered that.
Pen. Oh, could I see him now, to press his livid lips,
And call him back to life with my complaints,
His eyes would glare upon my guilt with horror,
That used to gloat and melt in love before me.
Let mine for ever then be shut to joy,
To all that's bright and valuable in man!
I'll to his sacred ashes be a wife,
And to his memory devote my life. [Exit.
Love. This is worth dying for indeed. I'll follow her.
Fred. No, you shan't; let her go in, throw herself upon her bed, and hug, and call her pillow "Lovemore." 'Tis but what you've done a thousand times for her.
Love. That's true too.
Fred. Let her contemplate on the mischief of her vanity. She shall lament till her glass is of our side—till its pretty eyes be all blubbered; its heart must heave and pant with perfect anguish before 'twill feel the sorrow of another's. Don't you know, pride, scorn, affectation, and a whole train of ills must be sobbed away before a great beauty's mortified to purpose?
Enter Servant.
Serv. Old Mr. Bookwit enquires for you here, Mr. Frederick.
Fred. Pray, let him come up.
Enter Old Bookwit.
Love. What's the matter? You seem more discomposed than you were at Mr. Frederick's. Something still new?
O. Book. I saw the boy a-coming in a chair; he looks so languid and distressed, poor lad! He has all his mother's softness, by nature of the sweetest disposition. Oh, gentlemen, you know not what it is to be a father! To see my only child in that condition——My grief quickened at the sight of him. I thought I could have patience till I saw him.
Enter Servant.
Serv. There are two or three in chairs desire admittance by appointment.
O. Book. 'Tis right, sir.
Enter Young Bookwit, Latine, and Gaoler.
Oh, my dear child! Oh, Tom! are all thy aged father's hopes, then, come to this, that he can't see thee, his only son, but guarded by a gaoler? Thy mother's happy that lived not to see this day. Is all the nurture that she gave thy infancy, the erudition she bequeathed thy youth, thus answered? Oh, my son! my son! rise and support thy father! I sink with tenderness, my child; come to my arms while thou art mine.
Y. Book. Oh, best of fathers!
Let me not see your tears,
Don't double my afflictions by your woe——
There's consolation when a friend laments us, but
When a parent grieves, the anguish is too native,
Too much our own to be called pity.
Oh, sir, consider; I was born to die.
'Tis but expanding thought, and life is nothing.
Ages and generations pass away,
And with resistless force, like waves o'er waves,
Roll down the irrevocable stream of time
Into the insatiate ocean for ever——Thus we are gone.
But the erroneous sense of man—'tis the lamented
That's at rest, but the survivor mourns.
All my sorrows vanish with that thought,
But Heaven grant my aged father patience!
O. Book. Oh, child! [Turning away.
Y. Book. Do not torment yourself, you shall promise not to grieve.
What if they do upbraid you with my death?
Consider, sir, in death that our relation ceases;
Nor shall I want your care, or know your grief.
It matters not whether by law, or nature, 'tis I die.
What, won't my father hear me plead to him?
Don't turn from me——
Yet don't look at me with your soul so full.
O. Book. Oh, my child! my child! I could hear thee ever.
'Twas that I loved thee that I turn away;
To hear my son persuade me to resign him,
I can't, I can't. The grief is insupportable.
Y. Book. You make a coward of me with your anguish.
I grow an infant, scarce can weep with silence;
But let me keep some decency in my distress.
O. Book. If we might be apart—
[Looking at the company.
But that's too much to hope.
Gaol. No, no, we'll leave you to yourselves. [Exeunt.
O. Book. I have too much upon me, child, to speak—and, indeed, have nothing to say, but to feed my eyes upon thee e'er we part for ever, if tears would let me. When you have slept in your cradle, I have waked for you—and was it to this end! Oh, child, you've broke your father's heart. [Swoons.
Y. Book. Good Heav'n forbid it—guard him and protect him.
He faints, he's cold, he's gone; [Running to him.
He's gone, and with his last breath called me parricide.
"You've broke your father's heart!" Oh, killing sound!
I'm all contagion; to pity me is death:
My griefs to all are mortal but myself.
"You've broke your father's heart!" If I did so,
Why thus serene in death, thou smiling clay?
Why that calm aspect to thy murderer?
Oh, big unutterable grief——merciful Heaven!
I don't deserve this ease of tears to melt
With penitence—Oh, sweet, sweet remorse;
Now all my powers give way
To my just sorrow, for the best of fathers. [Aloud.
Thou venerable fountain of my life,
Why don't I also die, derived from thee?
Sure you are not gone—Is the way out of life
Thus easy, which you so much feared in me?
[Takes him by the hand.
Why stay I after? But I deserve to stay,
To feel the quick remembrance of my follies.
Yet if my sighs, my tears, my anguish can atone——
Re-enter Frederick, Lovemore, Latine, Gaoler, Victoria, and Penelope.
Fred. What is the matter? What——
Y. Book. Behold this sight! I am the guilty wretch—
Fred. Keep aside a little, sir, he only swoons, I hope. I think he breathes—yes, he returns. You must compose yourself.
Lat. Poor Bookwit! how utterly he seems distressed!
O. Book. I will be calm—resign to Heaven—and hear you patiently.
Fred. You, sir, his favourite servant, pray speak honestly the truth of what you know to this learned gentleman, who is counsel in this case.
Y. Book. Sir, he is not——
Love. Pray, sir, give the servant leave first.
Lat. Know, then, I am not what I seem, but a gentleman of a plentiful fortune. I am thus dressed to carry on such gay pursuits as should offer in this town. Not to detain you, Mr. Bookwit sent me late last night with a letter to one of these ladies. Coming from thence, as I crossed, I saw Lovemore in the Garden. He stopped me, and, after some questions concerning my message to this house, to which he did not like my answers, he struck me. We fought—I left him dead upon the spot; of which this gentleman is guiltless.
O. Book. How! was it you, then, that killed Mr. Lovemore?
Lat. 'Twas this unhappy hand gave him his death, but so provoked—
Y. Book. Who could believe that any pleasing passion
Could touch a breast loaded with guilt like mine?
But all my mind is seized with admiration
Of thy stupendous friendship. What then—
Could'st thou hold thy innocent hand up at a bar
With felons, to save thy friend?
How shall I chide or praise thy brave imposture?
Ah, sir, believe him not! He cannot bear the loss of me whom he o'ervalues; therefore with highest gallantry he offers a benefit which 'twere the meanest baseness to receive.
But death's more welcome than a life so purchased.
Lat. We all know you can talk, and gild things as you please, but the lady's servant knows I was taken near the body when you——
Y. Book. Sir, do but hear me—[Pushing away Lat.
Lat. I'll easily convince you—[Pushing away Book.
Y. Book. Pray mind him not, his brain is touched—
Lat. I am the man, he was not near the place——
Love. I can hold out no longer.—Lovemore still lives to adore your noble friendship, and begs a share in't. Be not amazed! but let me grasp you both, who, in an age degenerate as this, have such transcendent virtue—
Y. Book. Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! how shall I speak my joy at thy recovery—
I fail beneath the too ecstatic pleasure.
What help has human nature from its sorrows,
When our relief itself is such a burthen?
O. Book. Oh, the best burthen upon earth!—I beg your pardon, sir—I never was so taken with a man in my life at first sight. [Kisses Love.] Let me be known to you too. [To Lat.
Lat. Sir, you do me honour.
O. Book. But you, ladies, are the first cause of the many errors we have been in, and you only can extricate us with satisfaction. Such is the force of beauty. The wounds the sword gave this gentleman were slight, but you've transfixed a vital and a noble part—his heart. Had I known his pretences, I had not interposed for my son.
Fred. Come, madam, no more of the cruel—go on, Lovemore; o' my conscience, the man's afraid 'tis impudence to be alive again. You see him now, madam; now you may press his livid lips, and call him back to life with your complaints.
Love. I stand, methinks, on the brink of fate, in an ambiguous interval of life, and doubt to accept of being till you smile. In every human incident besides
I am superior, and can choose or leave;
But in minutest things that touch my love,
My bosom's seized with anguish or with transport.
Pen. You've shown your passion to me with such honour that if I am confused, I know I should not be, to say I approve it; for I know no rules should make me insensible of generous usage. My person and my mind are yours for ever.
Love. Then doubts, and fears, and anxious cares be gone,
All ye black thoughts that did corrode my breast;
Here enter faith, and confidence, and love!
Love that can't live with jealousy, but dwells
With sacred marriage, truth, and mutual honour.
I knew not where you would bestow your vows,
But never doubted of your faith when given.
[Kissing her hand.
O. Book. You see, my son, how constancy's rewarded!
You have from nature every quality
To make you well become what fortune gave you;
But neither wit nor beauty, wealth nor courage,
Implicitly deserve the world's esteem;
They're only in their application good.
How could you fight a man you knew not why?
You don't think that 'tis great merely to dare?
'Tis that a man is just he should be bold.
Indeed you've erred.
Lat. You give my friend, methinks, too much compunction for a little levity in his actions—when he's too severe in his own reflections on 'em.
Pen. Well, Victoria, you see I take your advice at last in choice of Lovemore.
Vict. I congratulate your missing of the other.
Pen. I heartily believe you, my dear friend.
O. Book. But we best guide our actions by hopes of reward. Could but my son have such a glorious prospect as this fair one. [To Victoria.] I doubt not but his future carriage would deserve her.
Vict. I believe I may safely promise to approve of all the truth he tells me.
Y. Book. You've promised, then, to like all I shall say.
O. Book. These unexpected good events deserve our celebration with some mirth and fiddles.
Fred. I foresaw this happy turn, therefore have prepared 'em. Call in the dancers.
Song, by Mr. Leveridge.
I.
The rolling years the joys restore,
Which happy, happy Britain knew,
When in a female age before
Beauty the sword of justice drew.
II.
Nymphs and fawns, and rural powers,
Of crystal floods and shady bowers,
No more shall here preside;
The flowing wave and living green,
Owe only to their present queen
Their safety and their pride.
III.
United air and pleasures bring,
Of tender note and tuneful string,
All your arts devoted are
To move the innocent and fair.
While they receive the pleasing wound,
Echo repeats the dying sound.
Y. Book. Since such deserved misfortunes they must share,
Who with gay falsehoods entertain the fair;
Let all with this just maxim guide their youth,
There is no gallantry in love but truth. [Exeunt.