resolves—can move one jot from the determined purpose of his soul, or stir an inch from his prerogative: ere it be long, you'll dream of such a man. Jul. Where, waking, shall I see him?

Duke. Look on me! Come to your chamber!

Jul. I won't be confined.

Duke. Won't!-Say you so?

Jul. Well, then, I do request you won't confine me.

Duke. You'll leave me?

Jul. No, indeed! As there is truth in language, on my word I will rot leave you.

Duke. You've deceived me once—

Jul. And, therefore, do not merit to be trusted. I do confess it :—but, by all that's sacred, give me my liberty, and I will be a patient, drudging, most obedient wife!

Duke. Yes; but a grumbling one?

Jul. No; on my honour I will do all you ask, ere you have said it. Duke. And with no secret murmur of your spirit?

Jul. With none, believe me!

Duke. Have a care! For if I catch you on the wing again, I'll clip you closer than a garden hawk, and put you in a cage, where day-light comes not; where you may fret your pride against the bars, until your heart break. [A knocking is heard.] See who's at the door!—

[LOPEZ, a peasant, enters.]

My neighbour Lopez !-Welcome, sir! my wife.-A chair! [Juliana throws down a chair.] Your pardon—you'll excuse her, sir—a little awkward, but exceeding willing. One for your husband! Hem! Pray be seated, neighbour! Now, you may serve yourself, wife.

Jul. I thank you, sir, I'd rather stand.

Duke. I'd rather you should sit.

Jul. If you will have it so. [Aside]-Would I were dead! [She sits.] Duke. Though now, I think again, 'tis fit you stand, that you may be more free to serve our guest.

Duke [to Lopez]. You will eat something?

Lopez. Not a morsel, thank ye.

Duke. Then, you will drink ?—A glass of wine, at least?

Lopez. Well, I am warm with walking, and care not if I do taste your liquor.

Duke. You have some wine, wife?

Jul. I must e'en submit! [She goes out.]

Duke. This visit, sir, is kind and neighbourly.

Lopez. I came to ask a favour of you. We have to-day a sort of merrymaking on the green hard by-'twere too much to call it a dance—and as you are a stranger here—

[JULIANA re-enters with a Horn of Liquor.] Duke. Your patience for a moment.

[Taking the wine.] What have

we here?

Jul. 'Tis wine!—you called for wine?

Duke. And did I bid you bring it in a nut-shell?

Lopez. Nay, there is plenty !

Duke. I can't suffer it: you must excuse me.—When friends drink with us, 'tis usual, love, to brink it in a jug, or else they may suspect we grudge our liquor. You understand?—A jug!

Jul. I shall remember. [She goes out again.]

Lopez. I am ashamed to give you so much trouble.
Duke. No trouble; she

should be kept waiting.

must learn her duty, sir; I'm only sorry you

[JULIANA re-enters with a Jug of Wine.]

Duke. Now we shall do! [Pours out some.] Why, what is this? Jul. Wine, sir.

Duke. This wine?—'Tis foul as ditch-water!—Did you shake the cask? Jul. [Aside.] What shall I say?—Yes, sir.

Duke. Why, do you think, my love, that wine is physic that must be shook before 'tis swallow'd?-Come, try again!

Jul. I'll go no more! [She puts down the wine on the ground.] Duke. You won't? [He shows her the key of her room.] You had forgot yourself, my love.

Jul. Well, I obey! [She takes up the wine and goes out.]

Duke. Was ever man so plagued! I'm ashamed to try your patience, sir: but women, like watches, must be set with care, to make them go well.

[JULIANA re-enters with another Jug of Wine.]

Duke [Pouring out]. Ay, this looks well!-Come, sir, your judgment? Lopez. Tis excellent!-But, as I was saying, to day we have some country pastimes on the green.-Will it please you both to join our simple recreations?

Duke. We will attend you.

Lopez. We shall expect you presently; till then, good-even, sir.

Duke. Good-even, neighbour. [Lopez goes out.] Go and make you ready.

Jul. I take no pleasure in these rural sports.

Duke. Then you shall go to please your husband.-Hold! I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you, to stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, and make men stare upon a piece of earth, as on the star-wrought firmament;-no feathers to wave as streamers to your vanity-nor cumbrous silk, that with its rustling sound makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorn'd amply, that in her husband's eye looks lovely-the truest mirror that an honest wife can see her beauty in!

Jul. I shall observe, sir.

Duke. I should like well to see you in the dress I last presented you. Jul. The blue one, sir?—

Duke. No, love, the white.-Thus modestly attired, a half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair, with no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, no deeper rubies than compose thy lips, nor pearls more precious than inhabit them; with the pure red and white which that same Hand which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks; this well-proportion'd form (think not I flatter) in graceful motion to harmonious sounds, and thy free tresses dancing in the wind ;—thou'lt fix as much observance, as good wives can meet without a blush.

8.-THIRD SELECTION.

[Three Speakers-the Duke, Juliana, and her father, Balthazar.]

SCENE-The Cottage as before.

Duke. Come, no more work to-night!

It is the last that we shall spend beneath this humble roof: our fleeting month of trial being past, tomorrow you are free.

Jul. Nay, now you mock me, and turn my thoughts upon my former follies. You know, that, to be mistress of the world, I would not leave you. Duke. No!

Jul. No, on my honour.

Duke. I think you like me better than you did!—and yet 'tis natural : come, come, be honest; you have a sort of hankering,--no wild wish, or vehement desire; yet a slight longing, a simple preference-if you had your choice,—to be a duchess, rather than the wife of a low peasant?

Jul. No, indeed: sometimes in my dreams, I own,-you know we cannot help our dreams!

Duke. What then?

Jul. Why, I confess, that sometimes, in my dreams, a noble house and

splendid equipage, diamonds and pearls, and gilded furniture, will glitter, like an empty pageant, by me; and then I'm apt to rise a little feverish. But never do my sober waking thoughts-as I'm a woman worthy of belief-wander to such forbidden vanities. Yet, after all, it was a scurvy trick-your palace, and your pictures, and your plate, your fine plantations, your delightful gardens, that were a second Paradise-for fools; and then your grotto, so divinely cool; your Gothic summer-house, and Roman Temple-'twould puzzle much an antiquarian to find out their remains! Duke. No more of that!

Jul. You had a dozen spacious vineyards, too,-alas! the grapes are sour;—and, above all, the Barbary courser, that was breaking for meDuke. Nay, you shall ride him yet.

Jul. Indeed!

Duke. Believe me, we must forget these things.

Jul. They are forgot; and, from this time, we'll think of them no more, but when we want a theme to make us merry.

[BALTHAZAR, Juliana's father, comes in suddenly.]

Jul. How! My father!

Duke. Signior Balthazar! You are welcome, sir, to our poor habitation.

Bal. Welcome? Villain! I come to call your dukeship to account, and to reclaim my daughter.

Duke. You will find her reclaimed already, or I've lost my pains.
Bal. Let me come at him!

Jul. Patience, my dear father!

Duke. Nay, give him room. Put up your weapon, sir-'tis the worst argument a man can use; so let it be the last! As for your daughter, she passes by another title here, in which your whole authority is sunk-my lawful wife.

Bal. Lawful!-His lawful wife! I shall go mad! basely steal her, under a vile pretence?

Did not you

Duke. What I have done I'll answer to the law. Of what do you complain ?

Bal. Why, are you not a most notorious self-confess'd impostor?

Duke. True! I am somewhat dwindled from the state in which you lately knew me; nor alone should my exceeding change provoke your wonder, you'll find your daughter is not what she was.

Bal. How, Juliana ?

Jul. "Tis, indeed, most true. I left you, sir, a froward foolish girl,

full of capricious thoughts and fiery spirits, which, without judgment, I would vent on all; but I have learned this truth indelibly,—that modesty, in deed, in word, and thought, is the prime grace of woman; and with that, more than by frowning looks and saucy speeches, she may persuade the man that rightly loves her.

Bal. Amazement ! Why, this metamorphosis exceeds his own!— What spells, what cunning witchcraft has he employed?

Jul. None; he has simply taught me to look into myself: his powerful rhetoric hath with strong influence impress'd my heart, and made me see at length the thing I have been,—and what I am, sir.

Bal. Are you then content to live with him?

Jul. Content? I am most happy!

Bal. Can you forget your crying wrongs?

Jul. Not quite: they sometimes serve us to make merry with.
Bal. How like a villain he abused your father?

Jul. You will forgive him that, for my sake.

Bal. Never!

Duke. Why, then, 'tis plain you seek your own revenge, and not your daughter's happiness.

Bal. No matter. I charge you, on your duty as my daughter, follow me!

Duke. On a wife's obedience, I charge you, stir not!

Jul. You, sir, are my father; at the bare mention of that hallow'd name, a thousand recollections rise within me to witness you have ever been a kind one: this is my husband, sir!

Bal. Thy husband? Well

Jul. "Tis fruitless now to think upon the means he used-I am irrevocably his and when he pluck'd me from my parent tree to graft me on himself, he gather'd with me my love, my duty, my obedience; and, by adoption, I am bound as strictly to do his reasonable bidding now, as once to follow yours.

Duke. Most excellent!

Bal. Yet I will be revenged!

Duke. You would have justice?

Bal. I will.

Duke. Then forthwith meet me at the Duke's.

Bal. What pledge have I for your appearance there?

Duke. Your daughter, sir.-Nay, go, my Juliana! 'tis my request :within an hour at farthest, I shall expect to see you at the palace. Bal. Come, Juliana.—You shall find me there, sir,