Fr. Heaven in its excess of Goodness, bestow’d no greater Blessing on Mankind than that of Friendship—To Murder any one is a Crime unpardonable! But a Friend!—And of all Friends the nearest to my Heart,—’Tis such an Imposition that Hell it self ’till now cou’d never parallel; And yet this Devil of a Woman has power over me beyond all Virtue. I am distracted in my Thoughts, and know not what to do; yet something must be done without delay, or else I lose her quite: And yet I fear ’tis most Impossible, for Friendship left the World, when Justice fled, and all who now do wear that Name are the worst of Hypocrites,
Like Counterfeited Coin on which is seen,
The formal Stamp; but sordid Dross within.
Enter Bonivile.
Bon. My Friend alone and Thoughtful? say for what?
That you alone appear with Discontent,
When all my Friends Congratulate my Bliss?
Is it because (which I durst ne’re suspect)
Your Love to me was not intirely true?
Or else perhaps, this Crown of Happiness
You think Misplac’d, and Envy it not yours.
Fri. Forbear such cruel Words—
How can you entertain a Thought so Vile
Of him whom so long you have call’d your Friend?
May all the Blesings Heaven can bestow
On us poor Mortals in this World below,
Crown all your Days, and may you nothing see
But flowing Tides of sweet Felicity;
But I, alas!—
Bon. Alas! What means my Friendly?
Much hidden Grief that wretched Word portends,
Which thus disturbs the Quiet of my Friend?
But come disclose it to me,
And since the Burthen is too much for one,
I’ll bear a part to ease thy troubled Breast.
Fri. Oh Bonvile!
Seek not to force this Fatal secret from me—
Bon. I must know it, by my best hopes I must.
Fri. Oh no! I cannot, Nay I dare not—
Bon. How dare not trust a secret to a Friend?