Barn. All who are honest are.

Mill. To one another; but we silly women are seldom thought of consequence enough to gain a place in your remembrance.

[Laying her hand on his, as by accident. Barn. Her disorder is so great, she don't perceive she has laid her hand on mine.-Heaven, how she trembles !-What can this mean? [Aside.

Mill. The interest I have in all that relates to you, (the reason of which you shall know hereafter) excites my curiosity; and, were I sure you would pardon my presumption, I should desire to know your real sentiments on a very particular affair.

Barn. Madam, you may command my poor thoughts on any subject; I have none that I would conceal. Mill. You'll think me bold?

Barn. No, indeed.

Mill What, then, are your thoughts of love?

Barn. If you mean the love of women, I have not thought of it at all. My youth and circumstances make such thoughts improper in me yet. But, if you mean the general love we owe mankind, I think no one has more of it in his temper than myself. I do not know that person in the world whose happiness I do not wish, and would not promote, were it in my power. In an especial manner, I love my uncle and my master; but, above all, my friend.

Mill. You have a friend, then, whom you love?
Barn. As he does me, sincerely.

Mill. He is, no doubt, often blest with your company and conversation?

Barn. We live in one house together, and both serve the same worthy merchant.

Mill. Happy, happy youth! whoe'er thou art, I envy thee, and so must all, who see and know this youth.What have I lost, by being formed a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a man, I might, perhaps, have been as happy in your friendship as he who now enjoys it; but, as it is-Oh!

Barn. I never observed women before, or this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex.-[Aside.] You seem disordered, madam? may I know the cause?

Mill. Do not ask me,-I can never speak it, whatever is the cause ;-I wish for things impossible :-I would be a servant, bound to the same master as you are, to live in one house with you.

Barn. How strange, and yet how kind, her words and actions are-and the effect they have on me, is as strange! I feel desires I never knew before: I must begone, while I have power to go.-[Aside.]—Madam, I humbly take my leave.

Mill. You will not, sure, leave me so soon!

Barn. Indeed, I must.

Mill. You cannot be so cruel! I have prepared a poor supper, at which I promised myself your company.

Barn. I am sorry I must refuse the honour that you designed me; but my duty to my master calls me hence. I never yet neglected his service; he is so gentle, and so good a master, that should I wrong him, though he might forgive me, I never should forgive myself.

Mill. Am I refused, by the first man, the second favour I ever stooped to ask? Go, then, thou proud, hardhearted youth!-But know, you are the only man that could be found, who would let me sue twice for greater favours.

Barn. What shall I do!-How shall I go or stay!

Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me !-I wish my sex's pride would meet your scorn; but, when I look upon you, when I behold those eyes-O, spare my tongue, and let my blushes speak!-This flood of tears, too, that will force their way, and declare-what woman's modesty should hide.

Barn. O, heavens! she loves me, worthless as I am; her looks, her words, her flowing tears confess it :and can I leave her, then? Oh, never, never !-Madam, dry up those tears. You shall command me always: I will stay here for ever, if you'd have me.

Lucy. So she has wheedled him out of his virtue of obedience already, and will strip him of all the rest, one after another, till she has left him as few as her ladyship, or myself. [Aside.

Mill. Now you are kind, indeed; but I mean not to detain you always: I would have you shake off all slavish obedience to your master, but you may serve him still.

Lucy. Serve him still!-ay, or he'll have no oppor tunity of fingering his cash, and then he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn.

[Aside.

Enter BLUNT, R.

Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table.

Mill. Come, sir; you'll excuse all defects :-my thoughts were too much employed on my guest to observe the entertainment.

[Exeunt MILLWOOD and BARNWELL, R. Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, for the entertainment of that young fellow?

Lucy. So it seems.

Blunt. What, is our mistress turned fool at last!she's in love with him, I suppose?

Lucy. I suppose not,-but she designs to make him in love with her, if she can.

Blunt. What will she get by that? he seems under age, and can't be supposed to have much money.

Lucy. But his master has; and that's the same thing, as she'll manage it.

Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handsome young fellow while she's endeavouring to ensnare him, she may be caught herself.

Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, there is something in youth and innocence that moves me mightily.

Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire in the hawk to be the destruction of it.

Lucy. Why, birds are their prey, as men are ours; though, as you observed, we are sometimes caught ourselves; but that, I dare say, will never be the case with our mistress.

Blunt. I wish it may prove so; for you know we all depend upon her should she trifle away her time with a young fellow that there's nothing to be got by, we must all starve.

Lucy. There's no danger of that, for I am sure she has no view in this affair but interest.

Blunt. Well, and what hopes are there of success in that?

Lucy. The most promising that can be. 'Tis true the youth has his scruples; but she'll soon teach him to answer them, by stifling his conscience. O the lad is in a hopeful way, depend upon it. [Exeunt, R

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE I.-A Room in Thorowgood's House.

Enter BARNWell, r.

Barn. How strange are all things round me! Like some thief, who treads forbidden ground, fearful I enter each apartment of this well known house. To guilty love, as if that was too little, already have I added breach of trust. A thief! Can I know myself that wretched thing, and look my honest friend and injured master in the face? Though hypocrisy may awhile conceal my guilt, at length it will be known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. In the mean time, what must be my life? ever to speak a language foreign to my heart; hourly to add to the number of my crimes in order to conceal them. Sure such was the condition of the grand apostate, when first he lost his purity; like me, disconsolate he wandered, and, while yet in heaven, bore all his future hell upon him.

Enter TRUEMAN, L."

True. Barnwell! O how I rejoice to see you safe! so will our master and his gentle daughter, who during your absence often inquired after you.

Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love will pry into the secrets of my soul.

[Aside.

True. Unless you knew the pain the whole family has felt on your account, you cannot conceive how much you are beloved; but why thus cold and silent? When my heart is full of joy for your return, why do you turn away? Why thus avoid me? What have I done? How am I altered since you saw me last? Or rather what have you done? And why are you thus changed? For I am still the same.

Barn. What have I done, indeed?
True. Not speak nor look upon me!

[Aside.

Barn. By my face he will discover all I would conceal: methinks already I begin to hate him.

[Aside.

True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend, one whom till now I ever found so loving, whom yet I love, though this unkindness strikes at the root of friendship, and might destroy it in any breast but mine.

Barn. I am not well.-[Turning to him.]-Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since you beheld them last.

-

True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln with tears ;now they o'erflow;-rightly did my sympathising heart forbode last night, when thou wast absent, something fatal to our peace.

My

Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. troubles, whatever they are, are mine alone: you have no interest in them, nor ought your concern for me give you a moment's pain.

True. You speak as if you knew of friendship nothing but the name. Before I saw your grief, I felt it :-even now, though ignorant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart.

Barn. "Twill not be always thus: friendship and all engagements cease, as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better for us both that now you loved me less.

True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause would Barnwell use me thus?-Ungenerous and ungrateful youth, farewell,—I shall endeavour to follow your advice.-[Going.]-Yet stay, perhaps I am too rash :prythee forgive me, Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind, and let me know the cause that thus transports you from yourself; my friendly counsel may restore your peace.

Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man, your generous friendship may effect; but here even that's in vain.

True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast. O give it vent, and let me share your grief: 'twill ease your pain, should it admit no cure; and make it lighter by the part I bear.

Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase by being observed. Should the cause be known, they would exceed all bounds.