The Female Gamester | Page 4

that my neighbour Wilson Had been enquiring for me here to-day?
THOMAS. He was three times, and now I hear his voice.
ANDREWS. 'Tis opportune; return when he departs. [THOMAS goes off]
Enter WILSON.
Welcome! thrice welcome! truest, best of friends.
WILSON. I hope 'twill speedily be in my power, As 'tis my wish sincere, to give you joy On the most happy marriage of your daughter.
Andrew. A thousand thanks! 'twas to have been to morrow, But is postponed a while.
WILSON. There is no prize, Wealthy, or noble, which she doth not merit.
ANDREWS. Again I thank my friend; but tell me wherefore, We meet not now as we were wont? time was When scarce a single day knew us asunder; Of late we're so for weeks.
WILSON. Where lies the blame? You then were us'd to join your happy friends, In all their harmony and mirthful innocence; But you and yours have quite estrang'd yourselves, Scorning to mingle in our humble circles.
ANDREWS. And is this mode of life to us peculiar? The tide of fashion, in these days of riot, Sweeps all before it that its torrent meets.
WILSON. To our eternal shame!--All sense is fled, And ev'ry social pleasure with their virtues. Nor boast we more that wholesome plain economy Which made our ancestors so justly fam'd For honestly, and every gen'rous deed; But in its stead a splendid, wasteful vanity (Regardless of the toiler's hard-earn'd claims,) Pervades each rank, and all distinction levels: Too sure fore-runners of the loss of freedom.
ANDREWS. Your picture is as just as it is gloomy. But you can firmly stem th' infection's tide, And 'scape the censure we so justly merit. Yet you'd not blame your friend, if you knew all. [He walks to and fro.]
WILSON. I cannot longer justify myself, To be a mute spectator of such ruin, As hourly threatens this respected family. [Aside.] To flatter, or conceal would ill become That friendship you have said you so esteem. My heart is open then, and can't acquit you. You've lost that fortitude you once possess'd.
ANDREWS. O Wilson! I confess your charge is just. The truth is, I'm no longer master here, Nor of my family, nor of myself; And yet you may remember, no man liv'd More happily than I with my first wife.
WILSON. She had all the virtues that adorn her sex.
ANDREWS. And was withal of such a gentle nature, That I could ne'er conceive that ev'n in thought, She would impede or contradict my wish.
WILSON. The loss was great. 'Tis now about ten years?
ANDREWS. Not more: you also know, that shortly after, (Full short indeed!) I wedded with the present.
WILSON. Not with the approbation of your friends. Our women even then were greatly alter'd, Their manners as their education different. Their beauties too, are as their hearts deceitful, While art supplies the spoil of their excesses. I'm happy in the thoughts of being single.
ANDREWS. Condemn not all for some; and prize their worth. By them we are refin'd; by them inspir'd; For them, we ev'ry toil and danger court, That lead to glory and make fame immortal. Trust me, my friend, there's no terrestrial blessing Equals the union of two souls in virtue.
WILSON. Your wife was then but Young?
ANDREWS. About sixteen, And I in years superiour to her father. Yet she appear'd of such congenial manners With my first wife, whose intimate she was, It led me to this early second marriage. And ev'n long after, such was her behaviour, That I insensibly forgot my loss; For tho' by birth and family allied, To several of the first in rank and fortune, Yet did not that the least affect her conduct, Which she still suited to our humbler station; A tender parent and a loving wife.
WILSON. And such might have remain'd, had she not quit The innocent society of those, Who best were suited to her state in life.
ANDREWS. O! 'tis most true; and I have often thought My happiness too great for long continuance. The toil, fatigue and numerous disappointments, (The sure attendants on a life of business) Were sooth'd and sweeten'd by the fond endearments, With which she met me in the hours of leisure. Oft hath she vow'd, that she despis'd the profit, How great soe'er, that sunder'd us at times. But all the halcyon days I once enjoy'd, Do but conspire to aggravate the misery, Which now quite weighs me down.
WILSON. Nor is it strange. Your house is grown a nuisance to its neighbours, Where twice in every week, if not more frequent, A motley crowd at midnight hour assembles; Whose ruffian-like attendants in the street, Alarm the peaceful, and disturb their quiet.
ANDREWS. I know, I feel it all.
WILSON. Its inside too Is not less riotous; where this same medly Waste the whole night, destroying health and fortune, Of ev'ry social duty