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.