Alb. Then he intends, just at the break of day,
To lend his trusty help to our departure.
'Tis yet two hours' time thither, till when, let's rest.
For that our speedy flight will not yield any.
Mar. But I fear,
We, possessing of each other's presence,
Shall overslip the time. Will your friend call?
Alb. Just at the instant: fear not of his care.
Mar. Come then, dear Carracus, thou now shalt rest
Upon that bed, where fancy oft hath thought thee;
Which kindness until now I ne'er did grant thee,
Nor would I now, but that thy loyal faith
I have so often tried; even now
Seeing thee come to that most honour'd end,
Through all the dangers which black night presents,
For to convey me hence and marry me.
Alb. If I do not do so, then hate me ever.
Mar. I do believe thee, and will hate thee never.
[Exeunt.
Enter Carracus.
How pleasing are the steps we lovers make,
When in the paths of our content we pace,
To meet our longings! What happiness it is
For man to love! But O, what greater bliss
To love and be belov'd! O, what one virtue
E'er reign'd in me, that I should be enrich'd
With all earth's good at once! I have a friend,
Selected by the heavens as a gift
To make me happy, whilst I live on earth:
A man so rare of goodness, firm of faith,
That earth's content must vanish in his death.
Then for my love and mistress of my soul,
A maid of rich endowments, beautifi'd[373]
With all the virtues nature could bestow
Upon mortality, who this happy night
Will make me gainer of her heav'nly self.
And see, how suddenly I have attain'd
To the abode of my desired wishes!
This is the green; how dark the night appears!
I cannot hear the tread of my true friend.
Albert! hist, Albert!—he's not come as yet,
Nor is th' appointed light set in the window.
What, if I call Maria? it may be
She fear'd to set a light, and only hark'neth
To hear my steps; and yet I dare not call,
Lest I betray myself, and that my voice,
Thinking to enter in the ears of her,
Be of some other heard: no, I will stay,
Until the coming of my dear friend Albert.
But now think, Carracus, what the end will be
Of this thou dost determine: thou art come
Hither to rob a father of that wealth,
That solely lengthens his now drooping years,
His virtuous daughter, and all of that sex left,
To make him happy in his aged days:
The loss of her may cause him to despair,
Transport his near-decaying sense to frenzy,
Or to some such abhorred inconveniency,
Whereto frail age is subject. I do too ill in this,
And must not think, but that a father's plaint
Will move the heavens to pour forth misery
Upon the head of disobediency.
Yet reason tells us, parents are o'erseen,
When with too strict a rein they do hold in
Their child's affections, and control that love,
Which the high pow'rs divine inspire them with,
When in their shallowest judgments they may know,
Affection cross'd brings misery and woe.
But whilst I run contemplating on this,
I softly pace to my desired bliss.
I'll go into the next field, where my friend
Told me the horses were in readiness.
[Exit.
Albert descending from Maria.
Maria. But do not stay. What, if you find not Albert?