SCENE IV.--_The Nunnery Garden.

_Enter_ DUKE _and_ LUCRETIA.

_Luc._ In making this appointment, I go too far, for one of my profession; But I have a divining soul within me, Which tells me, trust reposed in noble natures Obliges them the more.

_Duke._ I come to be commanded, not to govern: Those few soft words, you sent me, have quite altered My rugged nature; if it still be violent, 'Tis only fierce and eager to obey you; Like some impetuous flood, which, mastered once, With double force bends backward. The place of treaty shows you strongest here; For still the vanquished sues for peace abroad, While the proud victor makes his terms at home.

_Luc._ That peace, I see, will not be hard to make, When either side shows confidence of noble dealing From the other.

_Duke._ And this, sure, is our case, since both are met alone.

_Luc._ 'Tis mine, sir, more than yours. To meet you single, shows I trust your virtue; But you appear distrustful of my love.

_Duke._ You wrong me much; I am not.

_Luc._ Excuse me, sir, you keep a curb upon me; You awe me with a letter, which you hold As hostage of my love; and hostages Are ne'er required but from suspected faith.

_Duke._ We are not yet in terms of perfect peace; Whene'er you please to seal the articles, Your pledge shall be restored.

_Luc._ That were the way to keep us still at distance; For what we fear, we cannot truly love.

_Duke._ But how can I be then secure, that, when Your fear is o'er, your love will still continue?

_Luc._ Make trial of my gratitude; you'll find I can acknowledge kindness.

_Duke._ But that were to forego the faster hold, To take a loose, and weaker. Would you not judge him mad, who held a lion In chains of steel, and changed them for a twine?

_Luc._ But love is soft, Not of the lion's nature, but the dove's; An iron chain would hang too heavy on a tender neck.

_Duke._ Since on one side there must be confidence, Why may not I expect, as well as you, To have it plac'd in me? Repose your trust Upon my royal word.

_Luc._ As 'tis the privilege of womankind, That men should court our love, And make the first advances; so it follows, That you should first oblige; for 'tis our weakness Gives us more cause of fear, and therefore you, Who are the stronger sex, should first secure it.

_Duke._ But, madam, as you talk of fear from me, I may as well suspect design from you.

_Luc._ Design! of giving you my love more freely; Of making you a title to my heart, Where you by force would reign.

_Duke._ O that I could believe you! But your words Are not enough disorder'd for true love; They are not plain, and hearty, as are mine; But full of art, and close insinuation: You promise all, but give me not one proof Of love before; not the least earnest of it.

_Luc._ And what is then this midnight conversation? These silent hours divided from my sleep? Nay, more, stolen from my prayers with sacrilege, And here transferred to you? This guilty hand, Which should be used in dropping holy beads, But now bequeathed to yours? This heaving heart, Which only should be throbbing for my sins, But which now beats uneven time for you? These are my arts! and these are my designs!

_Duke._ I love you more, Lucretia, than my soul; Nay, than yours too; for I would venture both, That I might now enjoy you; and if what You ask me, did not make me fear to lose you, Though it were even my life, you should not be denied it.

_Luc._ Then I will ask no more. Keep still my letter, to upbraid me with it: To say, when I am sullied with your lust, And fit to be forsaken,--Go, Lucretia, To your first love; for this, for this, I leave you.

_Duke._ Oh, madam, never think that day can come!

_Luc._ It must, it will; I read it in your looks; You will betray me, when I'm once engaged.

_Duke._ If not my faith, your beauty will secure you.

_Luc._ My beauty is a flower upon the stalk, Goodly to see; but, gathered for the scent, And once with eagerness pressed to your nostrils, The sweets drawn out, 'tis thrown with scorn away. But I am glad I find you out so soon; I simply loved, and meant (with shame I own it) To trust my virgin honour in your hands. I asked not wealth for hire; and, but by chance, (I wonder that I thought on't) begged one trial, And, but for form, to have pretence to yield, And that you have denied me. Farewell! I could Have loved you, and yet, perhaps, I--

_Duke._ O speak, speak out, and do not drown that word; It seemed as if it would have been a kind one; And yours are much too precious to be lost.

_Luc._ Perhaps--I cannot yet leave loving you. There 'twas. But I recalled it in my mind, And made it false before I gave it air. Once more, farewell--I wo'not,-- Now I can say I wo'not, wo'not love you. [_Going._

_Duke._ You shall; and this shall be the seal of my affection. [_Gives the letter._ There take it, my Lucretia: I give it with more joy, Than I with grief received it.

_Luc._ Good night; I'll thank you for't some other time.

_Duke._ You'll not abuse my love?

_Luc._ No; but secure my honour.

_Duke._ I'll force it from your hands. [LUCRETIA _runs._

_Luc._ Help, help, or I am ravished! help, for heaven's sake!

HIPPOLITA, LAURA, _and_ VIOLETTA, _within, at several places._

_Within._ Help, help Lucretia! they bear away Lucretia by force.

_Duke._ I think there's a devil in every corner.

_Enter_ VALERIO.

_Val._ Sir, the design was laid on purpose for you, and all the women placed to cry. Make haste away; avoid the shame, for heaven's sake.

_Duke._ [_going._] O, I could fire this monastery!

_Enter_ FREDERICK _and_ ASCANIO.

[FREDERICK, _entering, speaks as to some behind him._]

_Fred._ Pain of your lives, let none of you presume to enter but myself.

_Duke._ My son!--O, I could burst with spite, and die with shame, to be thus apprehended! this is the baseness and cowardice of guilt: an army now were not so dreadful to me as that son, o'er whom the right of nature gives me power.

_Fred._ Sir, I am come--

_Duke._ To laugh at first, and then to blaze abroad, The weakness and the follies of your father.

_Val._ Sir, he has men in arms attending him.

_Duke._ I know my doom then. You have taken a popular occasion; I am now a ravisher of chastity, fit to be made prisoner first, and then deposed.

_Fred._ You will not hear me, sir.

_Duke._ No, I confess I have deserved my fate; For, what had these grey hairs to do with love? Or, if the unseemly folly would possess me, Why should I chuse to make my son my rival?

_Fred._ Sir, you may add, you banished me from Rome, And, from the light of it, Lucretia's eyes.

_Duke._ Nay, if thou aggravat'st my crimes, thou giv'st Me right to justify them: thou doubly art my slave, Both son and subject. I can do thee no wrong, Nor hast thou right to arraign or punish me: But thou inquir'st into thy father's years; Thy swift ambition could not stay my death, But must ride post to empire. Lead me now; Thy crimes have made me guiltless to myself, And given me face to bear the public scorn. You have a guard without?

_Fred._ I have some friends.

_Duke._ Speak plainly your intent. I love not a sophisticated truth, With an allay of lie in't.

_Fred._ [_Kneeling._] This is not, sir, the posture of a rebel, But of a suppliant; if the name of son Be too much honour to me. What first I purpos'd, I scarce know myself. Love, anger, and revenge, then rolled within me, And yet, even then, I was not hurried farther Than to preserve my own.

_Duke._ Your own! What mean you?

_Fred._ My love, and my Lucretia, which I thought, In my then boiling passion, you pursued With some injustice, and much violence; This led me to repel that force by force. 'Twas easy to surprise you, when I knew Of your intended visit.

_Duke._ Thank my folly.

_Fred._ But reason now has reassumed its place, And makes me see how black a crime it is To use a force upon my prince and father.

_Duke._ You give me hope you will resign Lucretia.

_Fred._ Ah no; I never can resign her to you: But, sir, I can my life; which, on my knees, I tender, as the atoning sacrifice: Or if your hand (because you are a father) Be loth to take away that life you gave, I will redeem your crime, by making it My own: So you shall still be innocent, and I Die blessed, and unindebted for my being.

_Duke._ O Frederick, you are too much a son, [_Embracing him._ And I too little am a father: you, And you alone, have merited Lucretia; 'Tis now my only grief, I can do nothing to requite this virtue: For to restore her to you, Is not an act of generosity, But a scant, niggard justice; yet I love her So much, that even this little, which I do, Is like the bounty of an usurer; High to be priz'd from me, Because 'tis drawn from such a wretched mind.

_Fred._ You give me now a second, better life; [_Kissing his hand._ But,--that the gift may be more easy to you,-- Consider, sir, Lucretia did not love you,-- I fear to say, ne'er would.

_Duke._ You do well to help me to o'ercome that difficulty: I'll weigh that, too, hereafter. For a love, So violent as mine, will ask long time, And much of reason, to effect the cure. My present care shall be to make you happy; For that will make my wish impossible, And then the remedies will be more easy.

_Enter_ SOPHRONIA, LUCRETIA, VIOLETTA, LAURA, HIPPOLITA.

_Soph._ I have, with joy, o'erheard this happy change, And come with blessings to applaud your conquest Over the greatest of mankind, yourself.

_Duke._ I hope 'twill be a full and lasting one.

_Luc._ Thus, let me kneel, and pay my thanks and duty, [_Kneeling._ Both to my prince and father.

_Duke._ Rise, rise, too charming maid, for yet I cannot Call you my daughter: that first name, Lucretia, Hangs on my lips, and would be still pronounced. Look not too kindly on me; one sweet glance, Perhaps, would ruin both: therefore, I'll go And try to get new strength to bear your eyes. 'Till then, farewell. Be sure you love my Frederick, And do not hate his father. [_Exeunt Duke and_ VALERIO.

_Fred._ [_At the door._] Now, friends, you may appear.

_Enter_ AURELIAN, CAMILLO, BENITO.

Your pardon, madam, that we thus intrude On holy ground: yourself best know it could not Be avoided, and it shall be my care it be excused.

_Soph._ Though sovereign princes bear a privilege Of entering when they please within our walls, In others 'tis a crime past dispensation; And therefore, to avoid a public scandal, Be pleased, sir, to retire, and quit this garden.

_Aur._ We shall obey you, madam; but that we may do it with less regret, we hope you will give these ladies leave to accompany us.

_Soph._ They shall. And, nieces, for myself, I only ask you To justify my conduct to the world, That none may think I have betrayed a trust, But freed you from a tyranny.

_Lau._ Our duty binds us to acknowledge it.

_Cam._ And our gratitude to witness it.

_Vio._ With a holy and lasting remembrance of your favour.

_Fred._ And it shall be my care, either by reason to bend your uncle's will, or, by my father's interest, to force your dowry from his hands.

_Ben._ [_To_ AUR.] Pray, sir, let us make haste over these walls again; these gardens are unlucky to me; I have lost my reputation of music in one of them, and of wit in the other.

_Aur._ [_To_ LAU.] Now, Laura, you may take your choice betwixt the two Benito's, and consider whether you had rather he should serenade you in the garden, or I in bed to-night.

_Lau._ You may be sure I shall give sentence for Benito; for the effect of your serenading would be to make me pay the music nine months hence.

_Hip._ [_To_ ASCA.] You see, brother, here's a general gaol-delivery: there has been a great deal of bustle and disturbance in the cloister to-night; enough to distract a soul which is given up, like me, to contemplation: and therefore, if you think fit, I could even be content to retire, with you, into the world; and, by way of penance, to marry you; which, as husbands and wives go now, is a greater mortification than a nunnery.

_Asca._ No, sister; if you love me, keep to your monastery: I'll come now and then to the grate, and beg you a recreation. But I know myself so well, that if I had you one twelvemonth in the world, I should run myself into a cloister, to be rid of you.

_Soph._ Nieces, once more farewell. Adieu, Lucretia: My wishes and my prayers attend you all.

_Luc._ to _Fred._ I am so fearful, That, though I gladly run to your embraces, Yet, venturing in the world a second time, Methinks I put to sea in a rough storm, With shipwrecks round about me.

_Fred._ My dear, be kinder to yourself and me, And let not fear fright back our coming joys; For we, at length, stand reconciled to fate: And now to fear, when to such bliss we move, Were not to doubt our fortune, but our love. [_Exeunt._

EPILOGUE.

Some have expected, from our bills to-day, To find a satire in our poet's play. The zealous route from Coleman-street did run, To see the story of the Friar and Nun; Or tales, yet more ridiculous to hear, Vouched by their vicar of ten pounds a-year,-- Of Nuns, who did against temptation pray, And discipline laid on the pleasant way: Or that, to please the malice of the town, } Our poet should in some close cell have shown } Some sister, playing at content alone: } This they did hope; the other side did fear; And both, you see, alike are cozened here. Some thought the title of our play to blame; They liked the thing, but yet abhorred the name: Like modest punks, who all you ask afford, But, for the world, they would not name that word. Yet, if you'll credit what I heard him say, Our poet meant no scandal in his play; His Nuns are good, which on the stage are shown, And, sure, behind our scenes you'll look for none.

Footnotes: 1. A common name for a cat, being that by which the representative of the feline race is distinguished in the History of Reynard the Fox. See Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet._

2. _Stickle._ To interfere.

3. _Rondaches._ Targets or bucklers. These were a part of the equipment of a serenader. See that of Quevedo's Night Adventurer.

* * * * *

END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.

EDINBURGH:

Printed by James Ballantyne.