The preceding documents are so far interesting, as they connect sir Edward Hoby with the hundred of Milton and Maiden, beyond his public office of vice admiral of the former place, and show the underletting of the crown lands in the reign of Elizabeth, with something of the means employed at that time to obtain grants.
Garrick Plays.
No. XVI.
[From “Tottenham Court,” a Comedy, by Thomas Nabbs, 1638.]
Lovers Pursued.
Worthgood, Bellamie, as travelling together before daylight.
Worth. Come, my Delight; let not such painted griefs
Press down thy soul: the darkness but presents
Shadows of fear; which should secure us best
From danger of pursuit.
Bell. Would it were day!
My apprehension is so full of horror;
I think each sound, the air’s light motion
Makes in these thickets, is my Uncle’s voice,
Threat’ning our ruins.
Worth. Let his rage persist
To enterprise a vengeance, we’ll prevent it.
Wrapt in the arms of Night, that favours Lovers,
We hitherto have ’scaped his eager search;
And are arrived near London. Sure I hear
The Bridge’s cataracts, and such-like murmurs
As night and sleep yield from a populous number.
Bell. But when will it be day? the light hath comfort:
Our first of useful senses being lost,
The rest are less delighted.
Worth. Th’ early Cock
Hath sung his summons to the day’s approach:
Twill instantly appear. Why startled, Bellamie?
Bell. Did no amazing sounds arrive thy ear;
Pray, listen.
Worth. Come, come; ’tis thy fear suggests
Illusive fancies. Under Love’s protection
We may presume of safety.
(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.
Bell. Aye me, ’tis sure my Uncle; dear Love Worthgood?
Worth. Astonishment hath seiz’d my faculties.
My Love, my Bellamie, ha!
Bell. Dost thou forsake me, Worthgood?
(Exit, as losing him.)
Worth. Where’s my Love?
Dart from thy silver crescent one fair beam
Through this black air, thou Governess of Night,
To shew me whither she is led by fear.
Thou envious Darkness, to assist us here,
And then prove fatal!
(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.
Worth. Silence your noise, ye clamorous ministers
Of this injustice. Bellamie is lost;
She’s lost to me. Not her fierce Uncle’s rage,
Who whets your eager aptness to pursue me
With threats or promises; nor his painted terrors
Of laws’ severity; could ever work
Upon the temper of my resolute soul
To soften it to fear, till she was lost.
Not all the illusive horrors, which the night
Presents unto th’ imagination,
T’ affright a guilty conscience, could possess me,
While I possess’d my Love. The dismal shrieks
Of fatal owls, and groans of dying mandrakes,
Whilst her soft palm warm’d mine, were music to me.—
Their light appears.—No safety does consist
In passion or complaints. Night, let thine arms
Again assist me; and, if no kind minister
Of better fate guide me to Bellamie,
Be thou eternal.
(Within.) Follow, follow, follow.
Bellamie, alone, in Marybone Park.
Bell. The day begins to break; and trembling Light,
As if affrighted with this night’s disaster,
Steals thro the farthest air, and by degrees
Salutes my weary longings.—O, my Worthgood,
Thy presence would have checkt these passions;
And shot delight thro’ all the mists of sadness,
To guide my fear safe thro’ the paths of danger:
Now fears assault me.—’Tis a woman’s voice.
She sings; and in her music’s chearfulness
Seems to express the freedom of a heart,
Not chain’d to any passions.