(Only as many Times, you know,
You spruce, young, witty Beaux will do,
To avoid the dreadful Pain of thinking)
Had Orders sent him to behead
A Goose, like any Chaplain fed.
He took such Pains to set his Knife right,
'T had done one good t'have lost one's Life by't.
But many Men have many Minds,
There's various Tastes in various Kinds:
A Swan (who by Mistake he seiz'd)
With wretched Life was better pleas'd:
For as he went to give the Blow,
In tuneful Notes she let him know,
She neither was a Goose, nor wish'd
To make her ~Exit~ so.
The Cook (who thought of nought but Blood,
Except it were the Grease,
For that you know's his Fees)
To hear her sing, in great Amazement stood.
Cod's fish! quoth he, 'twas well you spoke,
For I was just upon the Stroke:
Your Feathers have so much of Goose,
A drunken Cook cou'd do no less
Than think you one: That you'll confess:
But y' have a Voice so soft, so sweet,
That rather than you shall be eat,
The House shall starve for want of Meat:
And so he turn'd her loose._
_To ~Oron~._] Now, Sir, what say you? will you be the Swan, or the
Goose?
_Oron._ The Choice can't, sure, be difficult to make;
I hope you will excuse my youthful Heat,
Young Men and Lovers have a Claim to Pardon:
But since the Faults of Age have no such Plea,
I hope you'll be more cautious of offending.
The Flame that warms _Euphronia_'s Heart and mine,
Has long, alas! been kindled in our Breasts:
Even Years are past since our two Souls were wed,
'Twou'd be Adultery but to wish to part 'em.
And wou'd a Lump of Clay alone content you,
A Mistress cold and senseless in your Arms,
Without the least Remains or Signs of Life,
Except her Sighs to mourn her absent Lover?
Whilst you shou'd press her in your eager Arms,
With fond Desire and Extasy of Love,
Wou'd it not pierce you to the very Soul,
To see her Tears run trickling down her Cheeks,
And know their Fountain meant 'em all to me?
Cou'd you bear this?
Yet thus the Gods revenge themselves on those
Who stop the happy Course of mutual Love.
If you must be unfortunate one way,
Choose that where Justice may support your Grief,
And shun the weighty Curse of injur'd Lovers.
_Esop._ Why, this is pleading like a Swan, indeed!
Were any Thing at Stake but my _Euphronia_----
_Oron._ Your _Euphronia_! Sir----
_Esop._ The Goose----take heed----
Were any Thing, I say, at Stake but her,
Your Plea wou'd be too strong to be refus'd.
But our Debate's about a Lady, Sir,
That's young, that's beautiful, that's made for Love.
----So am not I, you'll say: But you're mistaken;
I'm made to love, tho' not to be belov'd.
I have a Heart like yours; I've Folly too:
I've every Instrument of Love like others.
_Oron._ But, Sir, you have not been so long a Lover;
Your Passion's young and tender,
'Tis easy for you to become its Master:
Whilst I shou'd strive in vain; mine's old and fixt.
_Esop._ The older 'tis, the easier to be govern'd; Were mine of as long
a standing, 'twere possible I might get the better on't. Old Passions
are like old Men; weak, and soon jostled into the Kennel.
_Oron._ Yet Age sometimes is strong, even to the Verge of Life.
_Esop._ Ah, but there our Comparison don't hold.
_Oron._ You are too merry to be much in Love.
_Esop._ And you too sad to be so long.
_Oron._ My grief may end my Days, so quench my Flame, but nothing else
can e'er extinguish it.
_Esop._ Don't be discourag'd, Sir, I have seen many a Man outlive his
Passion twenty Years.
_Oron._ But I have sworn to die _Euphronia_'s Slave.
_Esop._ A decay'd Face always absolves a Lover's Oath.
_Oron._ Lovers whose Oaths are made to Faces, then; But 'tis
_Euphronia_'s Soul that I adore, which never can decay.
_Esop._ I wou'd fain see a young Fellow in love with a Soul of
Threescore.
_Oron._ Quit but _Euphronia_ to me, and you shall;
At least if Heaven's Bounty will afford us
But Years, enow to prove my Constancy,
And this is all I ask the Gods and you.
[_Exit ~Oron~._
_~Esop~ solus._
A good Pretence, however, to beg long Life. How grosly do the
Inclinations of the Flesh impose upon the Simplicity of the Spirit!
Had this young Fellow but study'd Anatomy, he'd have found the Source
of his Passion lay far from his Mistress's Soul. Alas! alas! Had Women
no more Charms in their Bodies, than what they have in their Minds, we
should see more wise Men in the World, and much fewer Lovers and Poets.
[_Exit._
[Illustration]
+ACT+ V.
_Enter ~Euphronia~ and ~Doris~._
_Euph._ Heavens! what is't you make me do, _Doris_? Apply myself to the
Man I loath; beg Favours from him I hate; seek a Reprieve from him I
abhor; 'tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis base in me.
_Dor._ Why, you hate the Devil as much as you do _Esop_, or within a
small Matter, and should you think it a Scandal to pray him to let you
alone a Day or two, if he were going to run away with you; ha?
_Euph._ I don't know what I think, nor what I say, nor what I do: But
sure thou'rt not my Friend thus to advise me.
_Dor._ I advise! I advise nothing; e'en follow your own way; marry him,
and make much of him. I have a mind to see some of his Breed; if you
like it, I like it: He shan't breed out of me only; that's all I have
to take Care of.
_Euph._ Pr'ythee don't distract me.
_Dor._ Why, to-morrow's the Day, fix'd and firm, you know it; much
Meat, little Order, great many Relations, few Friends, Horse-play,
Noise, and bawdy Stories; all's ready for a complete Wedding.
_Euph._ Oh! what shall I do?
_Dor._ Nay, I know this makes you tremble; and yet your tender
Conscience scruples to drop one hypocritical Curtsy, and say, Pray, Mr.
_Esop_, be so kind to defer it a few Days longer.
_Euph._ Thou know'st I cannot dissemble.
_Dor._ I know you can dissemble well enough, when you shou'd not do't.
Do you remember how you us'd to plague your poor _Oronces_; make him
believe you loath'd him, when you cou'd have kiss'd the Ground he went
on; affront him in all publick Places; ridicule him in all Company;
abuse him wherever you went And when you had reduc'd him within an Ace
of hanging or drowning, then come home with Tears in your Eyes, and
cry, Now, _Doris_, let's go lock ourselves up, and talk of my dear
_Oronces_: Is not this true?
_Euph._ Yes, yes, yes. But, pr'ythee, have some Compassion of me. Come,
I'll do any thing thou bid'st me----What shall I say to this Monster?
Tell me, and I'll obey thee.
_Dor._ Nay, then there's some hopes of you. Why, you must tell
him----'Tis natural to you to dislike Folks at first sight: That since
you have consider'd him better, you find your Aversion abated: That
tho' perhaps it may be a hard Matter for you ever to think him a Beau,
you don't despair, in Time, of finding out his _Je-ne-sçai-quoy_.
And that on t'other side, tho' you have hitherto thought (as most
young Women do) that nothing cou'd remove your first Affection, yet
you have very great Hopes in the natural Inconstancy of your Sex.
Tell him, 'tis not impossible, a Change may happen, provided he gives
you Time: But that if he goes to force you, there's another Piece of
Nature peculiar to Women, which may chance to spoil all, and that's
Contradiction. Ring that Argument well in his Ears: He's a Philosopher;
he knows it has Weight in it. In short, wheedle, whine, flatter, lye,
weep, spare nothing; 'tis a moist Age, Women have Tears enow; and when
you have melted him down, and gain'd more Time, we'll employ it in
Closet-debates, how to cheat him to the end of the Chapter.
_Euph._ But you don't consider, _Doris_, that by this Means I engage
myself to him; and can't afterwards with Honour retreat.
_Dor._ Madam, I know the World--Honour's a Jest, when Jilting's useful.
Besides, he that wou'd have you break your Oath with _Oronces_, can
never have the Impudence to blame you, for cracking your Word with
himself. But who knows what may happen between the Cup and the Lip? Let
either of the old Gentlemen die, and we ride triumphant. Wou'd I could
but see the Statesman sick a little, I'd recommend a Doctor to him,
a Cousin of mine, a Man of Conscience, a wise Physician; tip but the
Wink, he understands you.
_Euph._ Thou wicked Wench, wou'd'st poison him?
_Dor._ I don't know what I wou'd do; I think, I study, I invent, and
somehow I will get rid of him. I do more for you, I'm sure, than you
and your Knight-Errant do together for yourselves.
_Euph._ Alas, both he and I do all we can; thou know'st we do.
_Dor._ Nay, I know y' are willing enough to get together; but y' are a
couple of helpless Things, Heaven knows.
_Euph._ Our Stars, thou see'st, are bent to Opposition.
_Dor._ Stars!--I'd fain see the Stars hinder me from running away with
a Man I lik'd.
_Euph._ Ay, but thou know'st, should I disoblige my Father, he'd give
my Portion to my younger Sister.
_Dor._ Ay, there the Shoe pinches, there's the Love of the Age!
Ah!----to what an Ebb of Passion are Lovers sunk in these Days! Give
me a Woman that runs away with a Man, when his whole Estate's pack'd
up in his Knap-sack: That tucks up her Coats to her Knees; and thro'
thick and thro' thin, from Quarters to Camp, trudges heartily on; with
a Child at her Back, another in her Arms, and a Brace in her Belly:
There's Flame with a Witness, where this is the Effects on't. But we
must have Love in a Feather-bed: Forsooth, a Coach and six Horses,
clean Linen, and Cawdle! Fie for shame. O ho! here comes our Man. Now
shew yourself a Woman, if you are one.
_Enter ~Esop~._
_Esop._ I'm told, fair Virgin, you desire to speak with me. Lovers are
apt to flatter themselves; I take your Message for a Favour. I hope
'twas meant so.
_Euph._ Favours from Women are so cheap of late, Men may expect 'em
truly, without Vanity.
_Esop._ If the Women are so liberal, I think the Men are generous too,
on their Side: 'Tis a well-bred Age; thank Heaven; and a deal of
Civility there passes between the two Sexes. What Service is't that I
can do you, Lady?
_Euph._ Sir, I have a small Favour to intreat you.
_Esop._ What is't? I don't believe I shall refuse you.
_Euph._ What if you shou'd promise me you won't?
_Esop._ Why then I shou'd make a Divorce between my Good-breeding and
my Sense, which ought to be as sacred a Knot as that of Wedlock.
_Euph._ Dare you not trust then, Sir, the Thing you love?
_Esop._ Not when the Thing I love don't love me: Never.
_Dor._ Trust is sometimes the Way to be belov'd.
_Esop._ Ay, but 'tis oftener the way to be cheated.
_Euph._ Pray promise me you'll grant my Suit.
_Dor._ 'Tis a reasonable one, I'll give you my word for't.
_Esop._ If it be so, I do promise to grant it.
_Dor._ That's still leaving yourself Judge.
_Esop._ Why, who's more concern'd in the Trial?
_Dor._ But no Body ought to be Judge in their own Cause.
_Esop._ Yet he that is so, is sure to have no wrong done him.
_Dor._ But if he does wrong to others, that's worse.
_Esop._ Worse for them, but not for him.
_Dor._ True Politician, by my troth!
_Esop._ Men must be so, when they have to do with Sharpers.
_Euph._ If I shou'd tell you then there were a Possibility I might be
brought to love you, you'd scarce believe me.
_Esop._ I shou'd hope as a Lover, and suspect as a Statesman.
_Dor._ [_Aside._] Love and Wisdom! There's the Passion of the Age again.
_Euph._ You have liv'd long, Sir, and observ'd much: Did you never see
Time produce strange Changes?
_Esop._ Amongst Women, I must confess I have.
_Euph._ Why, I'm a Woman, Sir.
_Esop._ Why, truly, that gives me some Hopes.
_Euph._ I'll encrease 'em, Sir; I have already been in Love two Years.
_Dor._ And Time, you know, wears all things to tatters.
_Esop._ Well observ'd.
_Euph._ What, if you shou'd allow me some, to try what I can do?
_Esop._ Why, truly, I would have Patience a Day or two, if there was as
much Probability of my being your new Gallant, as perhaps there may be
of changing your old one.
_Dor._ She shall give you fair Play for't, Sir; Opportunity and Leave
to prattle, and that's what carries most Women in our Days. Nay, she
shall do more for you: You shall play with her Fan; squeeze her little
Finger; buckle her Shoe; read a Romance to her in the Arbour; and
saunter in the Woods on a Moonshiny Night. If this don't melt her,
she's no Woman, or you're no Man----
_Esop._ I'm not a Man to melt a Woman that Way: I know myself, and know
what they require. 'Tis thro' a Woman's Eye you pierce her Heart; and
I've no Darts can make their Entrance there.
_Dor._ You are a great Statesman, Sir; but I find you know little of
our Matters. A Woman's Heart is to be enter'd forty Ways. Every Sense
she has about her keeps a Door to it. With a Smock-face, and a Feather,
you get in at her Eyes. With powerful Nonsense, in soft Words, you
creep in at her Ears. An essenc'd Peruke, and a sweet Handkerchief,
lets you in at her Nose. With a Treat, and a Box full of Sweetmeats,
you slip in at her Mouth: And if you wou'd enter by her Sense of
Feeling, 'tis as beaten a Road as the rest. What think you now, Sir?
_There are more Ways to the Wood than one_, you see.
_Esop._ Why, you're an admirable Pilot; I don't doubt but you have
steer'd many a Ship safe to Harbour: But I'm an old stubborn Seaman; I
must sail by my own Compass still.
_Euph._ And by your Obstinacy lose your Vessel.
_Esop._ No: I'm just ent'ring into Port; we'll be married to-morrow.
_Euph._ For Heaven's sake defer it some Days longer; I cannot love you
yet; indeed, I cannot.
_Esop._ Nor never will, I dare swear.
_Euph._ Why then will you marry me?
_Esop._ Because I love you.
_Euph._ If you lov'd me, you wou'd never make me miserable.
_Esop._ Not if I lov'd you for your sake; but I love you for my own.
_Dor._ [_Aside._] There's an old Rogue for you.
_Euph._ [_Weeping._] Is there no way left? must I be wretched?
_Esop._ 'Tis but resolving to be pleas'd. You can't imagine the
Strength of Resolution. I have seen a Woman resolve to be in the Wrong
all the Days of her Life; and by the help of her Resolution, she has
kept her Word to a Tittle.
_Euph._ Methinks the Subject we're upon shou'd be of Weight enough to
make you serious.
_Esop._ Right: To-morrow Morning pray be ready; you'll find me so: I'm
serious. Now I hope you are pleas'd.
[_Turning away from her._
_Euph._ [_Going off weeping, and leaning upon ~Doris~._] Break, Heart!
for if than hold'st, I'm miserable.
_Dor._ [_To ~Esop~._] Now may the Extravagance of a lewd Wife, with the
Insolence of a virtuous one, join hand in hand to bring thy grey Hairs
to the Grave.
[_Exeunt ~Euphronia~ and ~Doris~._
_Esop._ My old Friend wishes me well to the last, I see.
_Enter ~Learchus~ hastily, follow'd by ~Oronces~._
_Oron._ Pray hear me, Sir.
_Lear._ 'Tis in vain; I'm resolv'd, I tell you. Most noble _Esop_,
since you are pleas'd to accept of my poor Offspring for your Consort,
be so charitable to my old Age, to deliver me from the Impertinence
of Youth, by making her your Wife this Instant; for there's a Plot
against my Life; they have resolv'd to teaze me to Death to-night, that
they may break the Match to-morrow Morning. Marry her this instant, I
intreat you.
_Esop._ This instant, say you!
_Lear._ This instant; this very instant.
_Esop._ 'Tis enough; get all things ready; I'll be with you in a Moment.
[_Exit ~Esop~._
_Lear._ Now, what say you, Mr. _Flame-fire_? I shall have the Whip-hand
of you presently.
_Oron._ Defer it till to-morrow, Sir.
_Lear._ That you may run away with her to-night; ha?----Sir, your most
obedient humble Servant. Hey, who waits there? Call my Daughter to me:
Quick. I'll give her her Dispatches presently.
_Enter ~Euphronia~._
_Euph._ D'ye call, Sir.
_Lear._ Yes, I do, Minx. Go shift yourself, and put on your best
Clothes. You are to be marry'd.
_Euph._ Marry'd, Sir!
_Lear._ Yes, marry'd, Madam; and that this Instant too.
_Euph._ Dear Sir----
_Lear._ Not a Word: Obedience and a clean Smock; dispatch.
[_Exit ~Euphronia~ weeping._
_~Learchus~ going off, turns to ~Oronces~._] Sir, your most obedient
humble Servant.
_Oron._ Yet hear what I've to say.
_Lear._ And what have you to say, Sir?
_Oron._ Alas! I know not what I have to say!
_Lear._ Very like so. That's a sure Sign he's in love now.
_Oron._ Have you no Bowels?
_Lear._ Ha, ha! Bowels in a Parent! Here's a young Fellow for you.
Hark thee, Stripling; being in a very merry Humour, I don't care if I
discover some paternal Secrets to thee. Know then, that how humoursome,
how whimsical soever we may appear, there's one fixt Principle that
runs thro' almost the whole Race of us; and that's to please ourselves.
Why do'st think I got my Daughter? Why, there was something in't that
pleased me. Why dost think I marry my Daughter? Why to please myself
still. And what is't that pleases me? Why, my Interest; what do'st
think it shou'd be? If _Esop_'s my Son-in-Law, he'll make me a Lord: If
thou art my Son-in-Law----thou'lt make me a Grandfather. Now I having
more Mind to be a Lord than a Grandfather, give my Daughter to him,
and not to thee.
_Oron._ Then shall her Happiness weigh nothing with you?
_Lear._ Not this.--If it did, I'd give her to thee, and not to him.
_Oron._ Do you think forc'd Marriage the Way to keep Women virtuous?
_Lear._ No; nor I don't Care whether Women are virtuous or not.
_Oron._ You know your Daughter loves me?
_Lear._ I do so.
_Oron._ What, if the Children that _Esop_ may happen to father, shou'd
chance to be begot by me?
_Lear._ Why, then _Esop_ wou'd be the Cuckold, not I.
_Oron._ Is that all your Care?
_Lear._ Yes: I speak as a Father.
_Oron._ What think you of your Child's Concern in t'other World?
_Lear._ Why, I think it my Child's Concern, not mine. I speak as a
Father.
_Oron._ Do you remember you once gave me your Consent to wed your
Daughter?
_Lear._ I did.
_Oron._ Why did you so?
_Lear._ Because you were the best Match that offer'd at that Time. I
did like a Father.
_Oron._ Why then, Sir, I'll do like a Lover. I'll make you keep your
Word, or cut your Throat.
_Lear._ Who waits there, ha?
_Enter Servants._
_Lear._ Seize me that Bully there. Carry him to Prison, and keep him
safe.
[_They seize him._
_Oron._ Why, you won't use me thus?
_Lear._ Yes, but I will tho': Away with him. Sir, your most humble
Servant: I wish you a good Night's Rest; and as far as a merry Dream
goes, my Daughter's at your Service.
_Oron._ Death and Furies!
[_Exeunt Serv. with ~Oron~._
Lear. [singing.] _Dol, de tol dol, dol, de tol dol, Lilly Burleighre's
lodg'd in a Bough._
_Enter a Troop of Musicians, Dancers, ~&c.~_
_Lear._ How now! What have we got here?
_Mus._ Sir, we are a Troop of trifling Fellows, Fiddlers and Dancers,
come to celebrate the Wedding of your fair Daughter, if your Honour
pleases to give us Leave.
_Lear._ With all my Heart: But who do you take me for, Sir; ha?
_1 Mus._ I take your Honour for our noble Governor of _Sysicus_.
_Lear._ Governor of _Sysicus_! Governor of a Cheese-Cake! I'm
Father-in-Law to the great _Esop_, Sirrah. [_All bow to him._]
[_Aside._]----I shall be a great Man. Come, tune your Fiddles;
shake your Legs; get all things ready. My Son-in-Law will be here
presently----I shall be a great Man!
[_Exit._
_1 Mus._ A great Marriage, Brother! What do'st think will be the End
on't?
_2 Mus._ Why, I believe we shall see three Turns upon't. This old
Fellow here will turn Fool; his Daughter will turn Strumpet; and his
Son-in-Law will turn 'em both out of Doors. But that's nothing to
thee nor me, so long as we are paid for our Fiddling. So tune away,
Gentlemen.
_1 Mus._ D'ye hear, Trumpets? When the Bride appears, salute her with
a melancholy Waft. 'Twill suit her Humour; for I guess she mayn't be
over-well pleas'd.
_Enter ~Learchus~ with several Friends, and a Priest._
_Lear._ Gentlemen and Friends, y'are all welcome. I have sent to as
many of you as our short Time wou'd give me Leave, to desire you wou'd
be Witnesses of the Honour the great _Esop_ designs ourself and Family.
Hey; who attends there? Go let my Daughter know I wait for her. [_Exit
Servant._] 'Tis a vast Honour that is done me, Gentlemen!
_2 Gent._ It is, indeed, my Lord.
_Lear._ [_Aside._] Look you there; if they don't call me my Lord
already----I shall be a great Man!
_Enter ~Euphronia~ weeping, and leaning upon ~Doris~, both
in deep Mourning._
_Lear._ How now! What's here! All in deep Mourning! Here's a provoking
Baggage for you!
[_The Trumpets sound a melancholy Air till ~Esop~ appears;
and then the Violins and Hautboys strike up a ~Lancashire~
Hornpipe._
_Enter ~Esop~ in a gay foppish Dress, Long Peruke, &c. a
gaudy Equipage of Pages and Footmen, all enter in an
airy brisk Manner._
_Esop._ _in an affected Tone to ~Euphronia~._] Gad take my Soul,
Ma'am, I hope I shall please you now----Gentlemen all, I'm your humble
Servant. I'm going to be a very happy Man, you see. [_To ~Euph~._]
When the Heat of the Ceremony's over, if your Ladyship pleases,
Ma'am, I'll wait upon you to take the Air in the Park. Hey, Page;
let there be a Coach and six Horses ready instantly. [_Observing
her Dress._]----I vow to Gad, Ma'am, I was so taken up with my good
Fortune, I did not observe the extreme Fancy of your Ladyship's
Wedding-Clothes----Infinitely pretty! as I hope to be sav'd; a World of
Variety, and not at all gaudy.----[_To ~Lear~._] My dear Father-in-Law,
embrace me.
_Lear._ Your Lordship does me too much Honour. [_Aside._]----I shall be
a great Man!
_Esop._ Come, Gentlemen, are all things ready? Where's the Priest?
_Priest._ Here, my noble Lord.
_Esop._ Most Reverend----will you please to say Grace that I may fall
to, for I am very hungry, and here's very good Meat. But where's my
Rival all this while? The least we can do, is to invite him to the
Wedding.
_Lear._ My Lord, he's in Prison.
_Esop._ In Prison! How so?
_Lear._ He wou'd have murder'd me.
_Esop._ A bloody Fellow! But let's see him, however. Send for him
quickly. Ha! Governor----that handsome Daughter of yours, I will so
mumble her----
_Lear._ I shall be a great Man!
_Enter ~Oronces~ pinion'd and guarded._
_Esop._ O ho, here's my Rival! Then we have all we want. Advance, Sir,
if you please. I desire you'll do me the Favour to be a Witness to my
Marriage, lest one of these Days you shou'd take a fancy to dispute my
Wife with me.
_Oron._ Do you then send for me to insult me? 'Tis base in you.
_Esop._ I have no Time now to throw away upon Points of Generosity; I
have hotter Work upon my Hands. Come, Priest, advance.
_Lear._ Pray, hold him fast there; he has the Devil and all of Mischief
in's Eye.
_Esop._ [_To ~Euph~._] Will your Ladyship please, Ma'am, to give me
your fair Hand----Hey-dey!
[_She refuses her Hand._
_Lear._ I'll give it you, my noble Lord, if she won't. [_Aside._] A
stubborn, self-will'd, stiff-neck'd Strumpet.
[_~Learchus~ holds out her Hand to ~Esop~, who takes it;
~Oronces~ stands on ~Esop~'s left Hand, and the Priest
before 'em._
_Esop._ Let my Rival stand next me: Of all Men, I'd have him be
satisfy'd.
_Oron._ Barbarous, inhuman Monster!
_Esop._ Now, Priest, do thy Office.
[_Flourish with the Trumpets._
_Priest._ Since the eternal Laws of Fate decreed,
That he thy Husband, she thy Wife shou'd be,
May Heaven take you to its Care,
May _Jupiter_ look kindly down, }
Place on your Heads Contentment's Crown! }
And may his Godhead never frown }
Upon this happy Pair.
[_Flourish again of Trumpets._
[_As the Priest pronounces the last Line, ~Esop~ joins ~Oronces~
and ~Euphronia~'s Hands._
_Oron._ O happy Change! Blessings on Blessings wait on the generous
_Esop_!
_Esop._ Happy, thrice happy, may you ever be, }
And if you think there's something due to me, }
Pay it in mutual Love and Constancy. }
_Euph._ _to ~Esop~._] You'll pardon me, most generous Man,
If in the present Transports of my Soul,
Which you yourself have by your Bounty caus'd,
My willing Tongue is ty'd from uttering
The Thoughts that flow from a most grateful Heart.
_Esop._ For what I've done, I merit little Thanks,
Since what I've done, my Duty bound me to.
I wou'd your Father had acquitted his:
But he who's such a Tyrant o'er his Children,
To sacrifice their Peace to his Ambition,
Is fit to govern nothing but himself.
_To ~Lear~._] And, therefore, Sir, at my return to Court,
I shall take care this City may be sway'd
By more Humanity than dwells in you.
_Lear. aside._] I shall be a great man!
_Euph. To ~Esop~._] Had I not Reason, from your constant Goodness,
To judge your Bounty, Sir, is infinite,
I shou'd not dare to sue for farther Favours:
But pardon me, if imitating Heaven and you,
I easily forgive my aged Father,
And beg that _Esop_ would forgive him too.
[_Kneeling to him._
_Esop._ The Injury he wou'd have done to you was great indeed: But
'twas a Blessing he design'd for me. If, therefore, you can pardon him,
I may. [_To ~Lear~._] Your injur'd Daughter, Sir, has on her Knees
intreated for her cruel, barbarous Father; and by her Goodness has
obtain'd her Suit. If, in the Remnant of your Days, you can find out
some way to recompense her, do it, that Men and Gods may pardon you, as
she and I have done. But, let me see, I have one Quarrel still to make
up. Where's my old Friend _Doris_?