454 THE IRON CHEST; A PLAY. ' H. Bryer, Printer, Bridge-Street, Bla c kf. THE IRON CHEST; A PLAY, IN THREE ACTS, WRITTEN BY GEORGE COLMAN, THE YOUNGER. FIRST REPRESENTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY- LANE, ON SATURDAY, MARCH 12, 1796. THE FOURTH EDITION. *. ^ - ' '_ " ^m ^f ^~ * LONDON: PRINTED FOR JLONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-KOW. 1808. e ^ > //&l ; ^f ^^ * ' - ^^f^^ <^ /~~*-^ tS~H^^-f ^ X X s?^^-~^^^* *ts*- 'JTs' S\ ' ^ n * / yX.,J^W <^ ^-^ ^ ,_, } ' S ' X ^~ , ' - - ^ X *i > 7* ' x j V- / ' / ,*-** < ~^^ '^<- .Cr*S~X*.~ ^V *' / a,^ \ '.J3z ^^sr r*^ A ^W &Cr -' s ,^ / d**ei / <- /_ ,'/ -w^ Ssj's S'-'ifi'-'/ &-ssJ tJ <&'&#*- // r ^,s I - S&s^/^ cS , X^ >^^/H / yAt r , ^ ssz^z j# S ' {;< >//<, S, " *> '' >-. ^> t*>^ ^sg &&&L smjsy&< C-LG <&&&*? &2st0:&i^G&, ^tr *^ftj& crfi- ry ' t ***?' *^ < - J -- - yVx- cs ' v <***r* &L 4* X ' tft'ts / sf~ - jf %j?Z&r j4&..* m*r*s V '/ - af~ ./ ' &<*!>*>, rit ~&f&T, ~&esH_ **, c&XcA, , e/0 <& - 4-Z tr+ vTt, ? 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A r* ^ l'/s c < ^^^/^C^U ' s Ai ftp ' y^. ^ J^ Sf^ > . X / S /5i^^&-> ~& (^^^^^^ r ^. XA +J^~ /^ /^^r^J^> ycvfc* f_ ^t^-V **-**i*s / DRAMATIS PERSONA. Sir Edward Mortimer '....Mr. KemUeJ f f Fitzharding Mr. Wroughton. Wilford Mr. J3annitttr,jun. 'Adam Winterton , Mr. Dodd. Rawbold Mr. Parrymore. Samson Mr. ;//. Boy..., ..Master Welsh. Cook .....Mr. Hollings worth. peter ..Mr. Banks. Walter Mr. Maddocis. Simon Mr. Webb. Gregory Mr.Trueman. Armstrong Mr. Kelly. Orson.. ..c Mr. R. Palmer. ist Robber Mr. Dignum. 2 d Robber Mr. Sedgwick. 3d Robber Mr. Bannister. Robber's Boy Master Webb. Helen Mi" Barren. Blanch Mrs.G'tbbs. Dame Rawbold WssTidsivell. Barbara .Signora Storace. Judith M* a De Cam f 1 ' SCENE, In the New Forest, In HamptMrt* and on its Borders* THE IRON CHEST; A PLAT, IN THREE ACTS. ACT I. SCENE I. COTTAGE. Several children, tquafid and beggarly, discovered in different parts of the room : tome asleefi. DAME RAWBOLD seated, leaning over the embert of thejire. BARBARA seated near her. SAMSON standing m the front of the stage. A narrow stair-case in the back scene. A taper burning* The whole scent exhibit poverty and wretch- edness, < GLEE. SAMSON. FlVE times, by the taper's light, The hour-glass I have turn'd to night. First Boy. Where's father } Samson. He's gone out to roam : If he have luck, .He'll bring a buck, Upon his lusty shoulders, home. The different 'soifts- Home ! home ! He comes not home ! A* Hark4 8 THE IRON CHEST ; Hark ! from the woodland vale below, The distant clock sounds, dull, and slow ! Borne ! borne ! borne ! Sam. Five o'clock, and father not yet return'd from New Forest ! An he come not shortly, the sun will rise, and roast the venison on his shoulders. Sister Barbara! Well, your rich men have no bowels for us lowly ! they little think, while they are gorging on the fat haunch of a goodly buck, what fatigues we poor honest souls undergo in stealing it .Why, sister Barbara! Bar. I am here, brother Samson, (getting ttfi}. Sam, Here ! marry, out upon you for an idle baggage ! why, you crawl like a snail. Bar. I prithee, now, do not chide me, "Sam- son ! Sa?n. 'Tis my humour. I am father's head man in his poaching. The rubs I take from him, who is above me, I hand down to you, who are below me. 'Tis the way of office ; where every miserable devil domineers it over the next more miserable devil that's under him. You may scold sister Margery, a*n you will ; she's your younger by a twelvemonth. Bar. Truly, brother, I would not make any one unhappy, for the world. I am content to do what I can to please, and to mind the house. Sam. Truly, a weighty matter ! Thou art e'en ready to hang thyself, for want of something to .while away time. What hast thou much more to do than to trim the faggots, nurse thy mother, boil the pot, patch our jackets, kill the poultry, cure the hogs, feed the pigs, and comb the chil- dren ? Bar. Many might think that no small charge, Samson. Sam. A PLAY. Sam. A mere nothing -.-while father and I (bate us but the mother and children) have the credit of purloining every single thing that you have die care of. We are up early, tn d d late, in the exercise of our. industry. Bar. I wish father, and you, would notice it ?\ Wilf. No matter ;- ;J>ut he lias sent me, thus early, Gilbert, with thisS^lier to your distresses, which he has heard of. Here are twenty marks, for you, and your family. Raw. From Sir Edward Mortimer ? Wilf. 'Tis his way; but he would not have it mentioned. He is one of those judges who, in their office, will never warp the law to save offend- ers: but his private charity bids him assist the needy, before their necessities drive them to crimes, which his publick duty must punish. Raw. Did Mortimer do this! did he! Hea- ven bless him! Oh, young man, if you knew half the misery my wife my children ! Shame 'ont ! I have stood many a tug, but the drops, now, fall in spite of me. 1 am not ungrateful; but \ I cannot stand it. ' We will talk of Barbara when I have more man about me. (Exit, it ft the staircase. Wilf. Farewell. I must home to the lodge quickly. Ere this, I warrant I am look'd for. Barb. Farewell. QUINTETTO. Wilford. THE Sun hastiptlhe hills with red ; The lout now flourishes his fi-il ; The punchy Parson waddles from his bed, Heavy, and heated, with his last night's ale. > Adieu ! A PLAY. J7 -Adieu ! adieu ! I must be going ; The dapper village cock is crowing. Adieu, my little Barbara! Barbara. Adieu!--and should you think upon The lowly cottage, when you're gone, Where two old Oaks, with ivy deckt, Their branches o'er the roof project, I pray, good sir, just recollect That there lives little Barbata. Samson. And Samson too, good sir, in smoke and smother : Barbara's very tender, loving brother. First Boy, to Samson. Brother, look ! the Sun, aloof, Peeps through the crannies of the roof. Give us food, good brother, pray ! For we eat nothing yesterday. Children. Give us food, good brother, pray ! Samson. Oh, fire and faggot ! what a squalling ! Barbara. Do not chide 'em. Samson. Damn their bawling ! Hungry stomachs there's no balking : I wish I could stop their mouths with talking: But very good meat is, (cent per cent,) Dearer than very good argument. Wilford. Adieu, adieu ! I must be going ; The dapper village cock is crowing. Adieu, my little Barbara! ) Barbara. Oh, think on little Barbara ! > Children. Give us food ! Samson. Curse their squalling ! Wtlford and Barbara. Adieu ! adieu ! Samwn. Damn tfceir bawling ! Samson, Wilford, and Barbara. Adieu my little Barbara! Oh, think on little Baibara! You'll think on little Barbara ,} SCENg THE IRON CHEST; SCENE II. An old fashioned Hall, in Sir ED WARD MORTIMER'S Lodge. Several Servants cross the Stage, with Flaggom, Tankards > cold Meat, &c. Enter ADAM WINTERTON. Wint. Softly, varlets, softly ! see you crack none of the stone flaggons. Nay, 'tis plain your own breakfasts be toward, by your skuttlirig thus. A goodly morning! Why, you giddy-pated knave, (to one of the servants) is it so you carry a dish of pottery ? no heed of our good master's, Sir Edward Mortimer's, ware ? Fy ? Peter Pick- bone, iy ! Serv. I am in haste, master steward, to break my fast. Wint. To break thy fast ! to break thy neck, it should seem. Ha ! ha ! good i'faith ! Go thy ways knave! (Exit servant.} 'Tis thus the rogues ever have me. I v would feign be angry with them, but, straight,a merry jest passeth across me, and my choler is over. To break thy neck it should seem ! ha, ha ! 'twas well conceited, by St. Thomas! My table-book, for the business of the day. Ah, my memory holds not as it did ; it needs the spur. (Looking over his book.} Nine and forty years have I been house-steward and butler. Let me see. Six winters ago, come Christmas eve, died my old master, Sir Marma- duke. Ah ! he was a heavy loss. I look'd to drop before him. He was hale and tough : but, thank Heaven, I ha' seen him out, my dear old master ! A PLAY. r <, jnaster! Let me see my tables; (Looking over them and singing. " When birds do carrol on the bush, With a heigh no nonny" heigho! Enter COOK. Cook. Master steward ! good master, Winu-r- tonl Wint. Who calls merry old Adam Wintcrton ? Ha, Jacob Cook! well bethought, the din Nay, I bear a brain: thinking men will combine. I never see Jacob Cook but it reminds me of order- ing dinner. AVe must have what say my ta- bles ? we must have, Jacob Nay, by St. Thomas, I perceive 'twas Chr ist m as evej^itf// years died my good old master, Sir Marmaduke. Cook. I pray you dispatch me, good master Steward. I would bestir in time. Wint. Then I would counsel thee to rise earlier, Jacob ; for truth to say thou art a sluggard. 1 \\ ! good i'faith ! Let me see ; Dinner oh ! ILu>t thou prepared the fare I order'd yester night ? Cook. All kill'd, and ready : but will not Sir Edward Mortimer pall on his diet ? ' fis the very same bill of fare we served yesterday. Wint. Hey let me see ; 1 have settled the dinners, throughout the week, in my tables. Now, by our lady, I have mistaken, and read Thursday twice over 1- Ha ! ha ! ha ! A pestilence upon me ! Well Sir Edward, (heaven bless him !) must bear with me : he must e'en dine to day on what he dined on yesterday ! 'tis too late to be chang- ed. Get thee gone, knave, get thee gone ! Cook. (Going out} Age has so overdoa^this oldDry-bones, he'll shortly tumble from the spit. # 2 "Thursckj 20 THE IRON CHEST; " Thursday twice over!" This comes of being able to read, An old buzzard ! (Exit. Wint. These fatigues of office somewhat wear a man. I have had a long lease on't. I ha' seen out Queen Mary, Queen Elizabeth, and King James. Tis e'en almost time that I should retire, to begin to enjoy myself. Eh ! by St. Thomas ! hither trips the fair mistress Blanch. Of all the waiting gentlewomen I ever look'd on, during the two last reigns, none stirr'dmy fancy like this little rose-bud. Enter BLANCH. Blanch. A good day, good Adam Winterton. Wint. What wag! what tulip! I never see thee but I am a score of years the younger. Blanch. Nay, then, let us not meet often, or you wiM soon be in your second childhood. Wint. What you come from your mistress, the Lady Helen, in the forest here ; and would speak with Sir Edward Mortimer, I warrant ? Blanch. I would. Is his melancholy worship *tir ring yet r Wint. Fy, you mad-cap ! He is my master, and your Lady's friend. Blanch. Yes, truly, it seems, her only one, poor Lady : he protects her now she is left an orphan. Wint. A blessing on his heart ! I would it were merrier. Well, she is much beholden to Sir Ed^ ward for his consolation : and he never affords her his advice but his bounty is sure to follow it. Blanch. Just so a crow will nourish its nestling: he croaks first, and then gives her food. Wint. Ha, ha! good i 'faith ! but wicked. Thy company will corrupt, and lead me astray. Should Blanch. You are as likely to dance now hey to marry What has hinckrd then,, i ties be agreed?-y et I have, now, ; mistress these two years, since Sir Edward 11 and placed her in thc Wint. Tush! family reasons : thou est nothing : thou art scarce catch U Two back, when we came from Kent, and Sir Edward first enter'd on his office, here, of Head Keeper thou wert a colt, running wild about New Forest' I hired you myself, to attend on Madam Helen. Blanch. Nay I shall never forget it. But you were as frolicksome, then, as I, inethinks. Dost remember the box on the ear 1 gave thec, A.l Wint. Peace, peace, you pie I an you prate, thus, I'll stop your mouth. I will, by St. Thomas ! Blanch. An I be inclined to the contrary, I do not think you are able to stop it. Wint. Out, you baggage! thou host more tricks than a kitten. Well, go thy ways. Sir Edward is at his study, and there thou wilt find him. Ah, mistress Blanch ! had you but in the early part of Queen Elizabeth' Blanch. How old art thou now, Adam ? Wint. Four score, come Martlemas: and, by our Lady, I can run with a lapwing. Blanch. Canst thou ? well said ! Thou art a merry old man, and shalt have a kiss of me, o ori'e condition. Wint. Shall!? odsbud ! name it and 'ti 2S THE IRON CHEST; Blanch. Then, catch me. (Runs off.) Wint. Pestilence 'ont ! there was a time when my legs had served : but, to speak truth, I never thrust them, now, into my scarlet hose that they do not remember me of two sticks of red sealing- wax. I was a dean limb'd stripling, when I first stood behind Sir Marmaduke's arm chair, in the old oak eating-room. SONG. Adam Winterton. SIR Marmaduke was a hearty Knight ; Goodman! Old man ! He's painted standing bolt upright, With his hose roiPd over his knee ; His perri wig's as white as chalk; And on his fist he holds a hawk ; And he looks like the head Of an ancient family. II. His dining room was long and wide; Good man ! Old man ! His spaniels lay by the fire-side I- And in other parts, d'ye see,. Cross-bows, tobacco-pipes, olcihats, A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats ; And he iook'd like the head Of an ancient family. ill. He never turnM the poor from his gate ; Good man ! Old man ! But always ready to break the pate Of his Country's enemy. What Knight could do a better thing, Than serve the poor, and fight for his King ? And so may every head Of an ancient family. Enter WILFORD. Wilf. Every new act of Sir Edward's charity- sets me a, thinking; and the more I think the more lam A PLAY. 23 o * rnan should i at ease who is continually doing good At times, the wild glare of his eye is frfg&ul ; and, last night when 1 was writing forhinT, in the library I could not help fancying I was shut up with the devil. I would stake my life thn secret ; and I could almost give my life to un- ravel it. I must to him, for my mornir,z\ ployment. (Crossing the stage.) ' Wint. Ah! boy! Wilford! secretary! whither away, lad? Wilf. Mr. Winterton !- Aye, marry, this good old man has the clue, could I but coax fetal to give it to me. A good morning to you, sir ! Wint. Yea, and the like to thee, boy. Come, thou shalt have a cup of Canary, from my corner cup-board, yonder. Wilf. Not a drop. Wint. Troth, I bear thee a good will for thy honest, old, dead father's sake. Wilf. I do thankfully perceive it, sir. Your placing me in Sir Edward's family, some nine months ago, when my poor father died, and left me friendless, will never out of my memory. Wint. Tut, boy, no merit of mine in assisting the friendless: 'tis our duty. I could i. abide to see honest industry chop fallen. I love to have folks merry about me, to my heart. Wilf. I would you could instil some mirth into our good master Sir Edward. You .1 : domestick, the only one he brought with two years back, from Kent, and might \vnt un- to give his spirits a jog. He seems devoured spleen, and melancholy. Wint. You are a prying boy. Go to. I b told thee, a score of times, I would not I 24 THE IRON CHEST; curious about our worthy master's humourf By rny troth, I am angry with thee. What a boy like y OU p -3 -Thou hast put me in choler. Con- tinue this, and Til undo thee; I'll un sbud! I'll unprotect thee. Ha, good i* faith ! Nay, marry, my rage holds not long : flash and out again. Unprotect thee! ha! 'twas exceeding good, by Saint Thomas! Wi/f. I should cease to pry, sir, would you but once, (as I think you have more than once seem'd inclined) gratify my much-raised curiosity. Wint. Well said, i'faith ! I do not doubt thee. I warrant thou wouldst cease to inquire, when I had told thee all thou wouldst know. What, green-horn, didst think to trap the old man ? - Go thy ways, boy ! I have 3 head. Old Adam Winterton can sift a subtle speech to the bottom. Wilf. Ah! good sir, you need not tell me that. Young as I am, I can admire that experience, in another, which I want myself. Whit. There is something marvellous engag- ing in this young man! You have a world of promise, boy. Sixty years ago, in Quqen Eliza- beth's time, I was just such another. I remem- ber Marian Potpan, the farmer's daughter, of Stocks Green, was then enamour'd of me. Well, beware how you offend Sir Edw r ard. Wilf. I would not, willingly for the world. He has been the kindest master to me. He has inform'dmy mind, relieved my distresses, cloath'd me, sheltered me : but, whilst my fortunes ripen in the warmth of his goodness, the frozen gloom of his countenance chills me. Wint. Well, well, take heed how you prate, on't. Out on these babbling boys! There is no keeping a secret with younkers in a family, Wilf, A PLAY. 2 .; Wilf. (very eagerly.) What then there a secret ! -Tis as I guess'd after all. Wint. Why, how now, hot head ? Mercy on me ! an this tinder-box boy do not make mo shake with apprehension. Is it thus you take my frequent council ? Wilf. Dear sir, 'tis your council which most I covet. Give me but that ; admit me to your confidence; steer me with your advice, (which I ever held excellent) and, with such a pilot, 1 may sail prosperously through a current which, other- wise, might wreck me. Wint. 'Tis melting to see how unfledged youth will shelter itself, like a chicken, under the vying of such a tough old cock as myself! Well, I'll think on't, boy. Wilf. The old answer ; yet, he softens apace : could I but clench him now (aside) Faith 'tis a raw morning; and I care not it I taste the Canary your kindness offer'd. Wint. Aha! lad! say'st thou so? Just my modest humour when I was young. I ever refu- sed -my glass at first, but I came to it ere I had quitted niy company. Here's the key of the ner cup-board, yonder. See you do :i./t crack the bottle, you heedless goos-^, vou ! (Wilf ord takes out the bottle and gin,. ) Ha! fill it up. Od! it sparkles curiou H ere ' s to _ 1 prithee, tell me now, Wil- ford ; didst ever in thy life see a wai title- woman with a more inviting eye than the < JVI rs . Blanch ? Wilf. Here's Mrs. Blanch ! (urinks) Wint. Ah, wag ! well, go thy u when I was of thy age odsbuci! no r 26 THE IRON CHEST s ter ; 'tis past, now ; but here's the little Mrs, Blanch, (drinks-) Wilf. Tis thought, here, Sir Edward means to marry her lady. Madam Helen. Wint. Nay, / know not. She has long been cnamour'd of him, poor lady! when he was the gay, the gallant Sir Edward, in Kent. Ah well 1 two years make a wond'rous change ! Wilf. Yes, 'tis a good tough love, now a days, that will hold out a couple of twelve- months. Wint. Away, I mean not so, you giddy pate ! He is all honour ; and as steady in his course as the sun : yet I wonder, sometimes, he can bear to look upon her. Wilf. Eh? why so? Did he not bring her, Under his protection to the Forest ; since, 'tis said, she lost her relations ? Wint. Hush, boy ! on your life do not name her uncle I would say her relations. Wilf. Her uncle ? wherefore ? Where's the harm in having an uncle, dead or alive ? Wint. Peace, peace! In that uncle lies the secret. Wilf. Indeed! how, good Adam Winterton ? 3 prithee, how r Wint. .Ah! 'twas a heavy day! PoorSir Ed- ward is now a broken spirit ; but if ever a good spirit \\alk'd the earth, in trunk hose, he is one. Wilf. Let us drink Sir Edward's health. Wint. That I would, tho' 'twere a mile to the bottom, (drinks). Ha, 'tis cheering, i'faith! "Well, in troth, I have regard for thee, boy, for thy fathers sake. Wilf. Oh, good sir! and this uncle, you say Wint. A PLAY. 07 Wint. Of Madam Helen ; ah ! there lies the mischief. Wilf. What mischief can be in him ? why he is dead. Wint. Come nearer : see you prate not i on your life. Our good master, Sir KdwarJ, arraigned on his account, in open court. Wilf. Arraign'd? how moan you? Wint. Alas, boy ! tried. - Tried for nearer yet his murder. Wilf. Mu mur Murder ! (dro/is the l*jr cowardice: for J, who shudder at cruelty, will fell your boldness to the earth, when 1 see you practice it. Submit. Ors. I do. I know not what 'tis, but I have told you, often, there is something about you awes'me. I cannot tell;- I could kill twenty to your one. Arm. There 'tis ;- thou would&t dart upon weak, unguarded man, like a tiger. A ferocious animal, whether crawling or erect, ever shrink, from fair opposition. On. My courage was never yet doubted, Cap- * ain * Arm. 40 THE IRON CHEST; Arm. Your nerves, fool. Thou art a mere machine. Could I but give it motion, I would take an oak from the forest, here, clap a flint into it for heart, and make as bold a fellow as thou art. Listen to my orders. Ors. I obey. Arm. Get thee to our den : put on thy dis- guise; then hie thee to the market town for pro- vision, for our company. Here here is part of the spoil we took yester-night : see you bring an honest account of what you lay out. (giving money.) Ors. My honour ! Arm Well, I do not doubt thee, here. Our profession is singular; it's followers do not cheat one another. You will not be back till dusk; see you fall not on any poor straggling peasant, as you return. Ors. 1 would fain encounterthe solitary man, who is sometimes wandering by night about the forest ; he is rich. Arm. Not for your life : 'tis Sir Edward, Mortimer, the head Keeper. Touch him not; 'tis too near home ; besides, he is no object for plunder. I have watch'd him, at midnight, steal- ing from his lodge, to wander like one crazed. He is good, too, to the poor; and should walk unmolested by Charity's charter. 'Twere pity that he who administers to necessity, all day, should be rifled by necessity, at night. An thou shouldst meet him, I charge thee spare him. Ors. I must, if it be your order. This sparing doctrine will go nigh, at last, to starve all the thieves. When a man takes to the trade of a wolf, he should not go like a lamb to his business. (Exit. Arm. A PLAY. 41 Arm. This fellow is downright villain: bar- den'd and relentless. I have felt, in my penury, the world trample on me: it has driven me to take that, desperately, which wanting 1 should starve. Death ! my spirit cannot bm k to see a sleek knave walk, negligently, by his fellow in mi- sery, and suffer him to rot. I will wrench that comfort from him which he will not bestow. Bdt nature puts a bar; let him administer to my wants, and pass on : I have done with him. SONG. Armstrong. When the Robber his victim has noted, When the Free-booter dans on his prey, Let Humanity spare the devoted ; Let Mercy forbid him to slay. Since my hope is by penury blighted, My sword must the traveller daunt ; I will snatch from the rich man, benighted, The gold he denies to my want. But the victim when, once, I have noted, At my toot when I look on my prey. Let Humanity spare the devoted; Let Mercy forbid me to slay. - SCENE IT. The Hall in SIR EDWARD MORTI- MER'S Lodge. Enter FITZHARDING. Fitz. Well, business must be minded : but he A tedio S S y dme,methinks.- r You, fellow! (To a Servant crossing the nail. Serv. Sir! 42 THE IRON CHEST; Fitz. Where is Sir Tristful? Where's Don Me- lanchol) ? Scrv. Who, sir? Fifz. My brother, knave ; Sir Edward Mor- timer. Serv. He was with you, but now, sir. Fitz. Sir, I thank you ; That's information. Louts and serving-men, Can never parley straight. I met a fellow, Here, on my way across the heath, a Hind, And ask'd how far to Lymington : I look'd The answer would have bolted from his chops, Bounce, like a pellet from a popgun. No: He stared, and scratched his empty head,and cried, . WeU, I have done. Come, what's for dinner? Od I mea to eat Abundantly. Mart. I know not, brother. Honest Winter- ton Will tell you all. F'itz. What he ! Old Adam ? he ! My merry buck of Paradise ? - Qdso ! I have not seen him. Well he shall produce A flaggon of the best ; and, after dinner, We will be jovial. Come, come, rouse you, man ! I came on purpose, thirty miles from home, To jog your spirits. Prithee, now, be gay! And, prithee, too, be kind to my young favourite ? To Wiiford there. Mart. Well, well ; I hope I have been. Fitz. No doubt, in actions: but in words, and looks. A rugged look's a damper to a greenhorn. I wutch'd him, now, when you frown 'd angerlj, And he betray'd - Mort. Betray'd! Fitz. Ten thousand fears. Mort. Oh! Fitz. The poor devil couldn't shew more scared Had you e'en held a pistol to his head. (Mortimer starts.) Why hey-day ! what's the matter ? Mort. Brother ! - Question me not ; my nerves are aspin-like ; The slightest breath will shake 'em. Come, good brother! D 3 Fitz. 52 THE IRON CHEST; Fiiz. You'll promise to be gay ? Mori. Til do my best. Fltz. Why that's well said ! A man can do no more. Od ! I believe my rattling talk has given you A stT already. Mcrt, That it has indeed ! Come, brother ! [Exeunt. SCENE III. Helen's Cottage. Enter HELEN and SAMSON. Helen. Are you he that wish to enter in my service ? Sams. Yes, so please you, Madam Helen, for want of a better. Helen. Why, I have seen you in the forest < at Rawbold's cottage. He is your father, as I think. Sams. Yes, so please you, Madam, for want of a better. Helen. I fear me you may well say that. Your father, as I have heard, bears an ill name in thet forest. Sams. Alas ! Madam, he is obliged to bear it for want of a better. We are all famish'd, Madam : and the naked, and hungry, have sel- dom many friends to speak well of them. Helen. If 1 should hire thee, who will give thee a character ? Sams. My father, mada m . Helen. Why sirrah, he has none of his own. ^ Sams. The more fatherly in him ? Madam, to give his sqn what he has need of, for himself. But a knave A PLAY. n a knave is often applied to, to vouch for a good servant's honesty. 1 will serve you as faithfully as your^ last footman ; who, I have , ran away this morning. Helen. Truly, he did so. Sams. I was told on 1 t,soine half hour ago; and ran, hungrily, hither, to offer myself. S you let not poverty stand in the way of my pre- ferment. Helen. Should I entertain you, what could you do to make yourself useful ? Sams. Any thing. I can wire hares, snar partridges, shoot a buck, and smuggle br for you, madam. Helen. Fie on you, knave ! Tvvere fitter to turn you over to the Verde rors of the forest, for punishment, than to encourage you in such prac- tices. Sams. I would practice any thing better, that might get me bread. I would scrape tr fill buckets, and carry a message. What i man do ! he can't starve. Helen. Well, sirrah, to snatch thee from evil, I care not if 1 make a trial of thee. Sams. No! will you? Helen. Nineteen in twenty might qiu-siiun my prudence for this : but, whatever lo fer from thy roguery, the thought of open'd a path, to lead a needy wanderer back t virtue, will more than repay Sams. O, bless, you, lady! it I do not pr virtuous never trust in man more. L Get thee to the kitchen. You will find livery there will suit you, 34 THE IRON CHEST ; Sams. A livery ! O, the father ! Virtuous and a livery, all in a few seconds ! Heaven bless you ! Helen. Weil, get you to your work. Sams. I go, madam. If I break any thing to day, beseech you let it go for nothing ; for joy- makes my hand tremble. Should you want me, please to cry Sarnson, and I am with you in a twinkling. Heaven bless you! Here's fortune ! (Exit. Helen. Blanch stays a tedious time. Heaven send Mortimer's health be not worse ! He is sadly alter d since we came tothe forest. I dream'd, last night, of the fire he saved me from ; and I saw him, all fresh, in manly bloom, bearing me through the flames, even as it once happened. Enter BLANCH. Heltn. How now wench ! You have almost tired my patience. Blanch. And my own legs, madam. If the pld footman had not made so much use of his, by running away, they might have spared mine. Hekn. Inform me of Sir Edward Mortimer. Hast seen him? Blanch. Yes, I have, madam. Helen. Say; tell me; How lock'd he ? how's his health ? is he in spirits ? IV hat said he, Blanch ? Will he be Here to day? Blanch. A little breath, madam, and I will' an- swer all, duly. HtUn. O ! fie upon thee, wench ! These interrogatories should be answer'd Quicker than breath can utter them. Blanch. That's impossible, lady. title*. A PLAY. $5 Helen. Thou would'st not say so,hadst thou ever loved. Love has a fleeter messenger than speech, To tell love's meaning. His expresses pott Upon the orbs of vision, ere the tongue Can shape them into words. A lover's look Is his heart's Mercury. O ! the Eye's eloquence, Twin-born with thought, outstrips thejardy voice. Far swifter than the nimble lightning's flash The sluggish thunder-peal that follows it. Blanch, I am not skilTd in eye-talking, madam. I have been used to let my discourse ride upon my tongue ; and, I have been told, 'twill trot at a good, round pace, upon occasion. Helen. Then let it gallop, now, Beseech you, wench, And bring me news of Mortimer. Blanch. Then, madam, I saw Sir Edward in his library :.. and deliver'd your letter. He will be here, either in the evening, or on the morrow : 'tis uncertain which ; for his brother, Captain Fitz- harding, is arrived, on a visit to him. Helen. Is he ? well, that may somewhat raise his spirits. That soldier has a pleasant, harmless mind ; Mirth gilds his age, and sits upon his brow, Like sun in winter. I ne'er saw a man More cheerful in decline ; more laughter-loving, More gay, and frolicksome. Blanch. Frolicksome enough, if you knew all ; but not so harmless. (asidt.J Helen. He'll scarce be here to night. Blanch. Who? Sir Edward? h.iply not, Madam : but his letter may chance to specify fur- ther particulars. 56 THE IRON CHEST ; Helen. His letter ! Has he written ? fie upOH thee! Why didst not give it me, at once ? Where is it ? Thou art turn'd dreamer, wench 1 Come; quickly. Blanch. You talk'd to me so much of reading eyes, madam, that I e'en forgot the letter. Here it is. Helen. Come to me, shortly, in my cabinet : I'll read it there. I am almost unfit To open it. I ne'er receive his letters But my hand trembles. Well, I know 'tis silly, And yet I cannot help it. I wi I i ring ; Then come to me, good Blanch j not yet. My Mortimer, Now for your letter ! (Exit* Blanch. I would they were wedded once, and ^11 this trembling would be over, i am told your married lady's feelings are little roused in reading letters from a husband. Enter SAMSON dress d in a Li-very. Sam. This sudden turn of fortune might puff some men up \vith pride. I have look'd in the glass already : and if ever man look'd braver in a glass than I, I know nothing of finery. Blanch. Hey day ! who have we here ? Sam. Oh, lord ! this is the maid. 1 mean the waiting woman. I warrant we shall be rare tompany, in a long winter's evening. Blanch. Why, who are you ? . Sam. I'm your fellow-servant : the new comer. The last footman cast his skin, in the pantry, this morning, and I have crept into it. Blanch. Why, sure, it cannot be! Now I look upon you again, you are Samson Rawbold old Rawbold's son, of the forest, here. Sam. A PLAY. 57 Sam. The same ; I am not like some up*t when I am prosperous, I do not turr. k. on niy poor relations. Blanc/i What, has my lady hired t 1 Sam. She has taken me, like a pad nvj;, upon trial. Blanch. I suspect you will phy her \\ ' and stumble in your probation. You h.ive bcea caught tripping, CT- now Sam. An I do not give content 'tis none of in* fault. A man's qualities cannot coir \ once. I wish you would teach me a little IK lay a cloth. Blanch., You are well qualified for your office, truly, not to know that. Sam. To say truth, we had little practice that way, at home. We stood not upon forms ; we had sometimes no cloth for a dinner Blanch. And, sometimes, no dinner f,r a cloth. Sam. Just so. We had litt ie order in our family. Blanch. Well, I will instruct you. Sam. That's kind. I will be grateful. They teJl me I have learnt nothing but wickedness, yet : but I will instruct you in any thing 1 knov. return. Blanch. There 1 have no mind i.o become your scholar. But be steady in your sen may outlive your beggary, and - Sam Nay, an riches rain upon me, r?spi*a wijl grow of course. I never knew a rich man yet who wanted followers to pull off their cans to SONG. 58 THE IRON CHEST; SONG. SAMSON. i A traveller stopt at a widow's gate ; She kept an Inn, and he wanted to bait ; But the landlady slighted her guest : For when Nature was making an ugly race, She certainly moulded the traveller's face A a sample for all the rest. IL The chamber-maid's sides they were ready to crack. When she saw his queer nose, and the hump at his back j A hump isn't handsome, no doubt ; * And, though 'tis confessed that the prejudice goes, Very strongly, in favour of wearing a nose, Yet a nose should'nt look like a snout* III. A bag full of gold on the table he laid; *Thad a wond'rpus effeci on the widow and maid ; And they quickly grew marvellous civil. The money, immediately, alter'd the case ; They were charm'd with his hump, ancl his snout, and his face* Tho' he still might have frighten 'd the devil. IV. lie paid like a prince gave the widow a smack Then flcpp'd on his horse, at the door, like a sack j While the landlady, touching the chink, Cried" Sir, should you travel this country again, ** I heartily hope that the sweetest of men " Will stop at the widow's, to drink." EKCUM. SCENE A PLAY. 59 SCENE IV. The LIBRARY. WILFORD, discovered. Wilf. I would Sir Edward were come! The dread of a fearful encounter is, often, as terrible as the encounter itself. Yet my encounters with him, of late, are no trifles. Some few hours back, in this very room, he held a loaded pistol within an inch of my brains. Well, that was passion; he threw it from him on the instant, and ch ! He's coming. No. The old wainscot cracks, and frightens me out of my wits : and, I verily be- lieve, the great folio dropt on my head, just now, from the shelf, on purpose to increase my terrors. {Enter Sir EDWARD MORTIMER, at one door of the Library, which he locks after him. WILFORD turns round on hearing him shut it.) Wilf. What's that rTis he himself! Mercy on me ! he has lock'd the door ! What is going to become of me ! Mort. Wilford! Is no one in the picture gallery? Wilf. No not a soul, sir ; not a soulj None within hearing, if I were to bawl Ever so loud Mort. Lock yonder door. Wilf. The door, sir ! Mort. Do as I bid you. Wilf. What, sir? lock (JfaflfaF with his hand.) I shall, sir. (ping to the door, and lading it.) 60 THE IRON CHEST; His face has little anger in it, neither : Tis rather mark'd with sorrow, and distress. Mort. Wilford approach me. What am I to say For aiming at your life ! Do you not scorn me, Despise me for it ? Wif. I! Oh, sir! Mori. You must; For I am singled fram the herd of men, A vile, heart-broken wretch ! Wilf. Indeed, indeed, sir, You deeply wrong yourself. Your equal's love, "I he poor man's prayer, the orphan's tear of gra- titude, All follow you : and I ! I owe you all 1 I am most bound to bless you. Mort. Mark me, Wilford : I know the value of the orphan's tear; The poor man's prayer; respect from the respected; If eel to merit these, and to obtain them. Is to taste here, below, that thrilling cordial Which the remunerating Angel draws. From the eternal fountain of delight, To pour on blessed souls, that enter Heaven. I feel this : I ! How must rny nature, then, Revolt at him who seeks to stain his hand, In human blood ? and yet it see v ms, this day, I sought your life. O ! I have suffer 'd madness ! Kone know my tortures;- pangs ! but 1 can end them: End them as far as appertains to thee. I have resolv'd it.- Hell born struggles tear me -! But I have ponder *d on't, and I must trust thec. Wilf. Your confidence shall not be Mort. You must swear. Wilf. Swear, sir! will nothing but an oath, Mort. A PLAY. Cl Mort, Listen. May ail the ilk that wait on frail humanly Be doubled on your head, if you My fatal secret"! May your body turn Most lazar-like, and loathsome ; and your mind More loathsome than your body ! Ma Who strangle babes, for very want i Shrink bac k, and shudder at you < mon: imes, And, shrinking, curse you ! Palsi youth I And the sharp terrors of a guilty mind Poison your aged days ; while all your L As on the earth you lay your house k Out-horror horror ! May you quit th Abhorr'd, self-hated, hopeless for the next, Your life a burthen, and your death a fear ! Wilf. For mercy's sake, forbear ! you terrify me! Mort. Hope this may fall upon thec ; S thou hopest it, By every attribute which Heaven, earth, hell, Can lend, to bind, and strengthen conjuration, If thou berray'st me. Wilf. Well I (hesitating.) fylort. No retreating ! Wilf. (after a -pause.) I swear, by all the ties that bind a man, Divine, or human, never to divulge ' Mort. Remember you have sought this secret : Yes, Extorted it. I have not thrust it on you. 'Tis big with danger to you ; aih! While I prepare to speak, tormc Know, Wilford that, damnation! I^v^-Dearest sir i v\ i y .nearest su , Collect yourself. This shakes you horribly. You 62 TOE IRON CHEST ; You had this trembling, it is scarce a week, At Madam Helen's. Mori. There it is. Her uncle Wilf. Her uncle] Mori. Him. She knows it not; None know it; You are the first ordain'd to hear me say, I am his murderer. Wilf. O, Heaven! Mort. His assassin. Wilf. What you that mur the murder I am choak'd ! Mort. Honour, thou blood-stain' d God ! at whose red altar Sit War and Homicide, O, to what madness "Will insult drive thy votaries ! By Heaven ! In the world's range there does not breathe a man Whose brutal nature 1 more strove to soothe, With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, Than his who fell by me. But he disgraced me, Stain'd me, oh, death, and shame 1 the world look'd on, And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; Rain blows upon me, drag me to and fro, On the base earth> like carrion. Desperation, In every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance! I left the rd&m, which he had quitted : Chance, (Curse on the chance [) while boiling with my wrongs, JThrust me against him, darkling, in the street :- I stabb'ci him to the heart : and my oppressor RolPd, lifeless, at my foot. Wilf. Oh ! mercy on me ! How could this deed be covered ! Mort, A PLAY. 63 Mort. Would you think it ? E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, Butcher' d a fellow creature in the dark, I had all good men's love. But my disgrace, . And my opponent's death, thus link'd \ Demanded notice of the magistracy. Theysummon'dme,asfriendwouldsumrnonfrien But let me quit your service. Mort. Never. Fool! To buy this secret, you have sold yourself. Your movements, eyes, and, most of all, your breath, From this time forth, are fetter c 1 to my will You have said, truly: you are hateful to me: Yet you snail feel my bounty: that shall fl \v, And swell your fortunes ; but my inmost soul Will yearn with loathing when hark ! some knocks! Open the door. 60 THE IRON CHEST-, [Wilford ofiens the door, and Winterton comes in], Mort. How now, Winterton? Did you knock more than once? Speak did you listen Imean, good Adam, did you wait? Aye, wait Long at the door, here? Wmt Bless your honour! no. You are too good to let the old man wait Mort. What, then, our talk, here Wilford'* here and mine Did not detain you at the door? Ha! did it? Wint. Not half a second. Mort. Oh! well, what's the matter? Whit. Captain Fitzharding, sir, entreats your company. I've placed another flaggon on the table. Your worship knows it Number thirty-five : The supernaculum. Mort. Well, well. I come. What, has he been alone? Wint. No I've been with him. Od! he's a merry man ! and does so jest ! He calls me first of men, 'cause my name's Adam. Well! 'tis exceeding pleasant, by St. Thomas! Mort. Come, Adam j I'll attend the Captain. Wilford, What I have just now given you in charge, Be sure to keep fast lock'd. I shall be angry, Be very angry, if 1 find you careless. Follow me, Adam. (Exit Mortimer Winterton following. Wilf. This house is no house for me. Fly I will, I am resolved: but whither? His threats strike terror into me ; and, were I to reach the pole, J doubt whether I should elude his grasp. But to live A PLAY. 6 , live here a slave! slave to hisfe^rs, his jealousies!- Night is coming on. Darkness be my triendl for I will forth instantly. The thought < :ino . cence will cheer me, as I wander thro' the gloom, Uli . when guilty Ambition writhes upon its coue h why should bare-foot Integrity repine, though sweet sleep be canopied with a ragged hovel ! (Exit. SCENE V. The inside of an Abbey, in ruins . fiart of it converted into an habitation for Robbers. Various entrances to their afiartment, through the broken arches of the building, &c. &c. Enter JUDITH, and a BOY. Jud, Well, sirrah ! have you been upon the scout ? Are any of our gang returning ? Boy. No, Judith ! not a soul. Jud. The rogues tarry, thus, to fret me. Boy. Why, indeed, Judith, the credit of your cookery s lost among thieves. They never come punctual to their meals. Jud. No tiding of Orson yet, from the market town ? Boy. I have seen nothing of him. Jud. Brat ! thou dost never bring me good news. Boy. Judith, you are ever so cross with me ! Jud. That wretch Orson slights my love of late. Hence, you hemp-seed, hence ! the broken porch of the abbey, and watch all you are good for. Boy. You know I am but young \ but, with good instructions, I may be arobl E 2 6 THE IRON CHEST ; Jud. Away, you imp ! you will never reach such preferment. (A whistle without.} So I I hear some of our party. (Whistle again ; the boy puts his fingers in his mouth, and whistles, in answer} Jud. Why must you keep your noise, sirrah ? Boy. Nay, Judith, 'tis one of the first steps we boys learn in the profession, I shall never come to good, if you check me so. Huzza ! here come two ! Enter two ROBBERS, through the broken part of the scene. Jud. So! you have found your road, at last. A murrain light upon you ! is it thus you keep your hours ? 1st Rob. What, hag, ever at this trade ! Ever grumbling ? Jud r 1 have reason. I toil to no credit ; I watch with ^10 thanks. I trim up the table, for your return, and no one returns, in due time, to notice my industry. Your meat is scorch' d to cinders. Rogues, would it were poison for you ! 3d Rob. How the fury raves ! Here, take my carbine; 'twas lereil'd, some half hour since, at a traveller's head. Jud. Hah, hah, hah! Rare ! Didst shoot him ? 1st Rob. Shoot him ? No. This devil in petti- coats thinks no more of slaving a man than killing a cock chafer. I never knew a woman turn to mischief, that she did not outdo a man, clean. Jud. Did any of you meet Orson, on your way ? 1 st Rob. Aye, there the hand points. When that fellow is abroad, you are more savage than, customary; and that is needless, Id Rob- A PLAY. w **&*. None of our comrades come yet? Ther will be finely soaked. 1st Rob. Aye, the rain pours like a spout, upon the rums of the old abbey wall, here. Jud. I'm glad on't. May it drench them, and breed agues! 'twill teach them to keep t : 1st Hob. Peace, thou abominable nik-i man had better dwell in purgatory, thin have thee m his habitation. Peace, devil \ or I'll makt thee repent. Jud. You! 'tis as much as thy life is worth to move my spleen. ^ 1st Rob. What, you will set Orson, your cham- pion, upon me? Jud. Coward! he should not disgrace himself with chastising thee. 1st Rob. Death and thunder! (draws hit sword. Jud. Aye, attack a woman, do! it suits your hen-hearted valour. Assault a woman ! 1st Rib. Well passion hurried me. But 1 1 a respect for the soft sex, ind am cool again. (returns his swordto the scabbard.) Come Judith, be friends. Nay, come, do; and I will give thee a farthingale, 1 took from a lawyer's widow. Jud. Where is it? 1 st Rob. You shall have it. Jud. Well I Hark! 2d Rob. Soft ! I think I hear the foot of a comrade. MUSICAL DIALOGUE, AND CHORUS. ROBBERS and JUDITH. Listen! No ; it is the owl, That hoots upon the mouldring tow'r. Hark! the rain beats, the night ii fouj; Our comrades itay beyond their hour. 64 THE IRON CHEST; Listen ! All's hush'd around the abbey wall. Soft ! Now I hear a robber's call I Listen ! ' They whistle ! Answer it ! 'Tis nigh ! Again ! A comrade comes. >r l is I ! And here another; and here another- Who comes? A brother. Who comes? A brother. Now they ail con;e potring in ; Our jollity will soon begin. Sturdy partners, all appear ! We're here ! c.nd here, and here, and here! 'i hus we stout freebooters prowl, Then meet to drain the flowing bowl, (At d'.Jferent periods of the Mus ck, ths Robbers enter through various parts of the Ruins , in groups. Enter ORSON, w:lh luggage on his back, as re- turn 9 d from Mar ket. lj/. Rob. See ; hither comes Orson at last. He walks in,likv Plenty 3 with provision on his shoulder. Jud. O, Orson ! why didst tarry, Orson ? I began to fear. Thou art-xold and damp. Let me wring the wet from thy clothes. O! my heart leaps to see thee. . 1st Rob. Mark how thu she, bear hugs her bruin ! -.Grs. Stand off! this hamper has been weari- some enough. I want not th< e on my neck Jud Villain! 'tis thus you ever use me. I can revenge: I can do t.ot,dea Orson ! do not treat me thus. Crr. Le> a man be ever so sweet temper'd, he will ii eet eou^ewhat to sour him, I have been vex'd to madness. 2.d Rob. Mow now, Orson, what has vex'd thee, now? Ors. A PLAY. , Slipt Aye! marry, hov Or*. 1 met a straggling knave on foot, and the rogue resisted. He had the fuce to te < he was thrust on the world to seek unc - and that the little he had about him j, & Plague on the provision at my back ! 1 had no time to rifle him : but I have spoil'd him for fortune seeking, I warrant him. Rob. How? Ors. Why I beat him to the ground. Whether he will ever get up again the next passenger n: discover. Jud. Ha! Ha! O, brave ! That's my valiant Ojson ! 3d Rob. Orson, you are ever disobe\ ing our Captain's order. You are too remorseless, and bloody. Ors. Take heed, then, how you move my an- ger, by telling me on't. The affair is mine; 1 will answer to the cons quence. 4th Rob. 1 hear our Capta.n's signal. Here he comes Hai he is leading one who seems wounded. Enter ARMSTRONG, supporting WILFORD. Arm. Gently, good fellow ! come, keep a good heart ! Wilf. You are very kind. I had breathed my last, but for your care. Whither have you led me ? 4th Rob. Where you will be well treated, youngster You are now among as honourable a knot of men as ever cried " stand" to a traveller. Wilf, How ! among robbers ! 4th Rob. Why, so the law's cant calls us gei men, who live at large. 66 THE IRON CHEST; Wilf. So ! For what am I reserved - Arm. Fear nothing. You are safe in this asy- lum. Judith, lead him in. See some of my linen ready, and look to his wound. Jud. I do not like the office. You are ever at these tricks. 'Twill ruin us in the end. What have we to do with charity ? Arm. Turbulent wretch ! obey me. Jud. Well, I shall. Come, fellow, since it must be so. Arm. Anon, I'll visit you myself, lad. Wilf. Heaven bless you ! whate'er becomes of my Jife and, faith, I am almost weary on't I am bound to your charity. Gently, I pray you; my wound pains. Gently ! (Exit, led out by JUDITH. Arm. I would I knew which of you had done this. 1st Rob. Why what's the matter, Captain ? Arm. Cruelty is the matter. Had not acci- dent led me to the spot where he lay, yon poor boy had bled to death. Ilearn'd his story, partly, from him, on the way : and know how basely he has b en handled, by one of you. Well, time must dis over im : for he, who had brutality enough to comitiit the action, can scarcely have courage enough to confess it. Ors. Courage, Captain, is a quality, I take it, little wanted by any here. What signify words; I did it. Arm. I suspected thee, Orson. 'Tis scarce an hour since Le, whom thou hast wounded, quitted the service of Sir Edward Mortimer, in the forest, here ; and inquiry will doubtless be made. 3d Rob. Nay then we are all discover'd. Arm. Now, mark what thou hast done. Thou hast A PLAY. 67 hast endanger'd the safety of our party ; thou hast broken my order ('tis not the first time, by many \ m attacking a passenger -.-and what palsWr'? One whose unhappy case should hav, \ } ly pity. He told you he had dispensed his 1 1 left the house of comfort, and, with his scant v tance, was wandering round the world to meil. fortune. Like a butcher, you struck the forlorn boy to the earth, and left him to langjiv forest. Would any of our brave comrades have done this ? AIL None ! None ! Arm. Comrades, in this case, my vou gle. But, if it have any weight, this bruh . Orson, shall be thrust from our community, v, he has disgraced. Let it not be said, brot while want drives us to plunder, that wantonness prompts us to butchery. Robbers: O brave Captain ! away with him Ors. You had better ponder on't, ere you pro- voke me, Arm. Rascal ! do you mutter threats ? You cannot terrify us. Our calling teems with dan- ger; weare not to be daunted by the treachery of an informer. We defy you. Go. You d.ir hurt us. You dare not sacrifice so many brave and gallant fellows, to your revenge, and proclaim yourself scoundrel. Begone. Ors. Well, if I must, I must. 1 was always a friend to you all: but, if you are bent on turning me out, why fare you well. Robbers.. Aye, aye Away, Away ! Ors. Farewell, then. Arm. Come, comrades! Think no mor this. Let us drown the choler we havefeit, in wine, and revelry. 68 THE IRON CHEST. FINALE. . Jolly Friars tippled here, Ere these Abbey walls had crumbled; Still the ruins boast good cheer, Though long ago the cloisters tumbled. The Monks are gone ! Well! well! That's all one: Let's ring their knell. Ding dong ! ding dong ! to the bald-pated monk ! He set the example, We'll follow his sample, And all go to bed most religiously drunk. Peace to the goo. I fat Friar's soul ! Who, every day, \ Did wet hi clay, In the deep capacious bowl. Huzza! Huz a ! we'll drink and we'll eing! We'll laugh, and we'll quaff, And make the welkin ring ! END OF THE SECOND ACT, A C T III. SCENE L WINTEHTONV Room, in Sir ED- WARD MORTIMER'S Lodge. SAMSON and BLANCH, discovered, at a TabU, bottles and glasses. Blanch. OAMSON, you must drink no more. Sams. One more glass, Mistress Blanch, ;uul I shall be better company. 'Twill mar. Blanch. Nay, then, you shall not have a drop. Sams. 1 will : and so shall you too. (JUlhi^ the glass) Who knows but it may make you the > Blanch. You are wond'rous familiar, Mr. I . Sams. J would not willingly offend, i deavour at more respect. My humble duty to you. ( drinks.) Blanch. I would counsel you to b- drinking, Samson. Consider where you .1 are now, remember, in Sir Edward Mortimer's Lodge. Sams. In the Butler's room; where drinking has, always, a privilege, (fills.) Blanch. What, another ! Sams. Do not fear. Twill not mak,- miliar again. My lowly respects to you. (dr*n 70 THE IRON CHEST; This same old Winterton's wine has a marvellous choice flavour. I wonder whether 'twas smuggled. Blanch. Should you totter with this, now, in the morning, 'twould go nigh to shake your office to the foundation, before night. My Lady would never pardon you. Sams. 'T would be hard to turn me adrift, for getting drunk, on the second day of my servicfc. BLnch. Truly, I think 'twould be reason suffi- cient. Sams. Twould not be giving a man a fair trial. How should she know but I intend to be sober for a year after? Blanch. How should she know, indeed ! or any one else,, who has heard of your former rogueries. Sams. Well, the worst fault I had was being a sportsman. Blanch. A sportsman ! out on you, rogue ! you were a poacher. Sams. Aye, so the rich nick-name us poor bro- thers of the field ; and lay us by the heels, when we do that for hunger which they practice for amuse- ment. Cannot I move you to take a thimble-full, this cold morning? Blanch. Not a drop, I. '$hew Blanch. You surprise me! NViUord turn chs- honest! I could scarce have credited this; and jrvui 74 THE IRON CHEST; years trial! Had it happen'd after two days, in- deed, 'twere not to be wonder'd at. Enter a Servant. Serv. Mr. Winterton, there is a young woman of the forest, would speak with you. Wint. Out on't! These cottagers time their business vilely. Well, bid her come in, Simon. Serv. And, Mistress Blanch, your lady would see you anon, in the breakfast parlour. (Exit. Blanch. I come quickly. Be not cast down, now, Adam; keep thy old heart merry, still. Wint. Ha ! in truth, I know not well, now, what would mend my spirits. Blanch. What think you of the kiss I promised? Wint. Ah, wag! go thy way. Od! thouhast nimble legs. Had I o'ertaken thee, yesterday Ah ! well, no matter. Blanch. Come, I will not leave thee comfortless, in these sad times. Here ; here is my hand, Adam. Wint. Thou wilt shew me a light pair of heels again, now. Blanch. No, in faith. Come; 'tis more than I would offer to every one. Take it. Wint. That I will, most willingly . (Kisses her hand.) Blanch. Do not play the rake now, and boast of my favours ; for I am told there is a breed of puppies will build stories, tp a simple girl's preju- dice, on slighter encouragement than this. Be not you one of those empty coxcombs, and so adieu, Adam, (Exit. Wint. Nay, I was never given to vaunt. 'Sbud ! if I had, many a tale had been told, sixty years back, of A PLAY. of young, lusty Adam Winterton.- Eh! why what thou titter at, scapegrace ? Sams. I , sir? Not I. " (smothering a taitfh. cu ,]' i d for S ot this varlct - *^t L nee on't ! ould this knave prate of my little galhn try, 1 tremble for the good name of poor Blanch ! Enter BARBARA. Barb, May I come in, good your worship ? Wint. Aye, marry, that thou may'st, pretty < Well, though many things have declined,' > I was a boy, female beauty keeps its rank still. I do think there be more pretty women, now, than there were in Queen Elizabeth's reign. Sams. Flesh ! this is our Barbara. (a Wint. Well, and what wouldst have, sweet one, with old Adam? Eh ! by St. Thomas, why thou art she I have seen, ere now, with Wilford. Barb. Beseech >ou, tell me where he is, sir. Wint. Alas, child, he's gone; flown! Eh! what why, art not well, child? Barb Nothing, sir;- I only 1 hoped he would have call'd at our cottage, ere he quit- ted the forest Is there no hope that he may comd back, s.r? Wint. Noae, truly; except force bring him back. Alas, child! the boy has turn'd out nau^Lt; and justice is dogging him at the heels. Barb. What Wilford, sir? my poor O, sir, my heart is bursting! I pray you, pardon Had he pass'd our cottage in his flight, i would have ran out, and followed him all the world OV.T. Wint. To see what love will do! Just so did Jane Blackthorn take on for me, when Sir Mar- madukt 7 THE IRON CHEST-, maduke carried me to London, in the hard winter. Barb. Beseech you, forgive me, sir! I only came to make inquiry, for I had heard a strange tale. I would not have my sorrows make me troublesome to your worship. Wtnt. To me? poor wench! nay, that thou art not. I trust, child, I ne'er turn'd a deaf ear, yet, to the unfortunate. 'Tis man's office to listen to the sorrows of a woman, and do all he can to soothe them. Come, come, dry thy tears, chicken ! Barb. I look'd to have been his wife, shortly, sir. He was as kind a youth and, I am sure, he wanted not gratitude. I have heard him talk of you, as you were his father, sir. Whit. Did he? Ah! poor lad. Well, he had good qualities; but, alas! he is now a reprobate, Poor boy! To think, now, that he should speak kindly of the old man, behind his back ' Barb. Alas, this is the second flight, to bring imhappiness to our poor family ! Wint. The second! How do'st mean, wench? Barb. My brother, sir, left our cottage, sudden- ly, yesterday morning; and we have no tidings of him since. Sams. Lo you, now, where he stands, to glad the hearts of his disconsolate relations! Sister Bar- bara, why dost not know me? Barb. Eh! No; sure it can't Brother Samson? Sams. Mr. Samson ; Head serving-man to the Lady Helen, of the New Forest. Barb. O, the fortune! can it be! what gain'd -thee so good a place, Samson? Sams. A PLAY. ^;^! erit - * f no inters TO 1 wa promoted on the score thekr! k <* the talk of the whole forest; and hii food for conversation. Sams. Truly, then, conversation has fared bet- ter upon them than I. But my old ch,r:ic laid aside, with my old jerkin. I an> Wmt. An I have any forecast, inck thou bidst fair, one day, to be more exalted Hai good i 'faith! Come, you must to the k knave. 1 must thither, my self, to give i the day. Barb. Must I return home, then, your worship with no tidings? Wint. Ah! Heaven help me! what havock doth wanton Cupid make with us all ! Well, tarry about the house, with thy brother; we may hear some- what, haply, anon. Take care of tin and mark what I have said to thee. " Thou bidst fair one day to be more exalted." it was exceeding pleasant, by St. Thou: cfc Sams. Well, Barbara, and how fares faii. Barb. He has done nought but crido, since you disappeared, Samson. It has sourM him with us all. Sams. Well, I will call soon, and set all even. Barb. Will you, brother? Sams. I will. Bid him not be cu.,t down. 1 will protect the Rawbold family. Barb. Truly, brother, we are much in need protection. Sams. Do not fear. Lean upon nv. F 2 am 78 THE IRON CHEST-, am head of all the maid domesticks, at madam Helen's. Barb. O, the father! of all! and how many be there, brother? Sams. Why, truly, not so many as there be at the Lodge, here. But I have a boy under me, to chop wood, and! draw water. Barb. The money we had, from Sir Edward's bounty, is nearly gone, in payment of the debt our father owed. You know he had, shortly, been im- prison'd, else. Sams. My stock is somewhat low, too. But, no matter. Keep a good heart. 1 am now a rising man. I will make you all comfortable. Barb. Heaven bless you Samson ! Sams. In three months, I look for a quarter's wages; and then Dick shall have a shirt. I must, now, take you roundly to task, Barb. Me, brother! Sams. Aye, marry. You would throw your- self away on this Wilford'; who, as the story goes, is little better than the devil's own imp. Barb. O, brother! be not so uncharitable. I know not what is against him, but he has not been heard, yet. Consider, too, were all our ac- tions, at home, to be sifted, I fear me, we might not escape blameless. Sams. Aye, but he, it seems, is falling, and we are upon the risej and that makes all the dif- ference. Mass! how gingerly men will sift, the faults of those who are* getting up hill in the world: and what a rough shake they give those who are going downward ! Barb. I would not be one of those sifters, bro- ther. Sams. A PLAY. 79 Sams. No, I warrant, now, thou wouldst marry this vagabond. Barb. That I would, brother. He has cheer'd me in my distress, and I would sooner die than leave him, now he is unfortunate. Sams. Hast thou no respect for the family? Thou wilt bring endless disgrace on the name of Rawbold. Shame on you; to take away from our reputation, when we have so little ! Barb. 1 thought, brother, you would have shewn more pity for your poor sister. Sams. Tush! Love's a mere vapour. Barb. Ah! brother! DUET. SAMSON, and BARBARA. I. Barbara From break of the morning, were I with my love, Fdtalk till the evening drew nigh; And, when the day did close, I'd sing him to repose, And tune my love a lullaby. II. Samson. From break of the morning, were I with my lore, O ! long ere the evening drew nigh. Her talk would make me doze, Till the musick of my nose Would play my lore a lullaby. ' III. Barbara. Our children around us, I'd look on my lore. Each moment in rapture would fly. 30 THE IRON CHEST ; Samson. But love is apt to pall, When the brats begin to squall, And a wife is screaming lullaby. Both. From break of the morning, Sec. \JRxcunt* SCENE II. A Room in Sir EDWARD MORTI- MER* s Lodge. MORTIMER, and HELEN, discover d. Hel. Sooth, you look better now; indeed you do. Mort. Thou'rt a sweet flatterer! Hel. Ne'er trust me, then, Jf I do flatter. 1 his is wilfulness. Thou wilt be sick, because thou wilt be sick. I'll Jaugh away this fancy, Mortimer. Mort. "What couldst thou do, to laugh away my sickness ? Hel. I'll mimick the physician, wise and dull, ^K ith cane at nose, and nod emphatical, Portentous in my silence ; feel your pulse, With an owl's face, that shall express as much As Galen's head, cut out in wood, and gilt, Stuck over an apothecary's door. Mort. And what wouidst thou prescribe ? ^ Hel. I would distil Each flower that lavish happiness produced, Through the world's paradise, ere Disobedience Scatter 'd the seeds of care ; then mingle each, In one huge cup of comfort for thee, love, To chase away thy dulness. Thou shouldst wan- ton Upon the wings of Time, and mpck his flight, As A PLAY. SI As he sail'd with thee tow'rd Eternity. I'd have each hour, each minute of thy life, A golden holiday ; and should a cioud O'ercast thee, be it light as g( That Helen might disperse it with her breath. And talk thee into sunshine ! Mort. Sweet, sweet Helen ! Death, soften'd with thy voice, might dull hit sting, And steep his darts in balsam. Oh ! my Helen, These warnings which that gristy monarch iencb, Forerunners of his certain visitation, Of late, are frequent with me. It should seem I was not meant to live long. Hel. Mortimer ! My Mortimer I You Oh ! for Heaven's sake. Do not talk thus ! You chill me. You are well ; Very well. You give way; Oh, Mortimer ! Banish these fantasies. Think on poor Helen ! Mort. Think on thee, Helen ? Hel. Aye ; but not think thus. You said, my Mortimer, my voice could soothe, In the most trying struggle. Mort. Said I so ? Yet, Helen, when my fancy paints a I ever place thee, foremost, in the scene, To make the picture touching. After man Is summoned, and has made up his account, Oh ! 'tis a bitter after-reek nmg, WB His pallid lips receive the last, sad 1 Fond, female anguish prints! 1 hen, hi Then comes man's agony 1 loleav He shelter'd in his heart, grief struck, an Till fiStftteSSSE* 82 THE IRON CHEST; Till the last flutter of his aching spirit . Hurries '