The Stolen Heiress Part 1

The Stolen Heiress.

by Susanna Centlivre.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_Enter Count_ Gravello _and_ Rosco.

_Gravello. ROSCO_!

_Rosco._ My Lord.

_Grav._ Hast thou divulg'd the News that my Son died at _Rome_?

_Rosco._ Yes, my Lord, with every Circ.u.mstance, the Time, the Place, and Manner of his Death; that 'tis believed, and told for Truth with as much Confidence, as if they had been Spectators of his End.

_Grav._ That's well, that's very well, now _Rosco_ follows my Part, I must express a most unusual Grief, not like a well-left Heir for his dead Father, or a l.u.s.ty Widow for an old decrepit Husband; no, I must counterfeit in a far deeper Strain; weep like a Parent for an only Son: Is not this a hard Task? Ha, _Rosco_?

_Rosco._ Ah, no, my Lord, not for your Skill; in your Youth your Lords.h.i.+p saw Plays, conversed with Players, knew the fam'd _Alberto_.

_Grav._ 'Tis true, by Heav'n, I have seen that Knave paint Grief in such a lively Colour, that for false and acted Pa.s.sion he has drawn true Tears, the Ladies kept Time with his Sighs, and wept to his sad Accents as if he had truly been the Man he seem'd, then I'll try my Part, thou hast still been privy to my Bosom Secrets; know'st Wealth and Ambition are the Darlings of my Soul; nor will I leave a Stratagem unessay'd to raise my Family. My Son is well and safe, but by Command from me he returns not this three Months. My Daughter, my _Lucasia_, is my only Care, and to advance her Fortune have I fram'd this Project; how dost like it, _Rosco_, ha!

_Rosco._ Rarely, my Lord, my Lady will be now suppos'd the Heir to all your vast Revenues, and pester'd with more Suitors than the _Grecian_ Queen, in the long Absence of her Lord. You'll have the Dons, Lords and Dukes swarm about your House like Bees.

_Grav._ My Aim is fix'd at the Rich and Great, he that has Wealth enough, yet longs for more, Count _Pirro_, the Governor's Heir and Nephew, that rich Lord that knows no End of his large Fortunes, yet still gapes on, for Gold is a sure Bait to gain him, no other Loadstone can attract his Iron Heart, 'tis proof against the Force of Beauty, else I should not need this Stratagem, for Nature has not prov'd a n.i.g.g.ard to my Daughter.

_Rosco._ To him, I'm sure, she's play'd the Step-Dame, I much fear _Lucasia_ will not relish such a Match.

_Grav._ Ha! not relish it! has she any other Taste but mine, or shall she dare to wish ought that may contradict my Purpose--But hold, perhaps you know how she's inclin'd, you may be confederate with her, and manage her Intrigues with that Beggar _Palante_, who is only by Lord _Euphene_'s Bounty, my mortal Enemies, kept from starving.

_Rosco._ Who I, my good Lord? Heav'n knows, I have learnt by your Lords.h.i.+p's Example, always to hate the Poor, and like the Courtier, never to do ought without a Bribe.

_Enter a Servant._

_Serv._ My Lord, Count _Pirro_, to wait upon your Lords.h.i.+p.

_Grav._ Conduct him in. [_Exit. Serv._] Now _Rosco_, to my Couch; if my Plot takes, I'm a happy Man.

_Enter Count_ Pirro.

_Pirro._ Is your Lord asleep?

_Ros._ I think not, my Lord, but thus he lies, Heav'n knows when this Grief will end--My Lord, my Lord, the Count of _Pirro_.

_Grav._ I pray your Lords.h.i.+p pardon me, at this Time I'm not fit to entertain Persons of your Worth.

_Pir._ Alas! my Lord, I know your Grief.

_Ros._ Ay, 'twas that brought his good Lords.h.i.+p hither.

_Pir._ You have lost a worthy, and a hopeful Son, but Heav'n that always gives, will sometimes take, and there's no Balsam left to cure these Wounds but Patience; there's no disputing with it, yet if there were, in what could you accuse those Pow'rs, that else have been so liberal to you, and left you to bless your Age a beauteous Daughter.

_Ros._ Now it begins to work. [_Aside._

_Pirro._ Your Blood is not extinct, nor are you Childless, Sir, from that fair Branch may come much Fruit to glad Posterity; think on this, my Lord.

_Grav._ I know I should not repine, my Lord, but Nature will prevail, I cannot help reflecting on my Loss; alas, my Lord, you know not what it is to lose a Son; 'tis true, I have still a Child, Heav'n has now confin'd my Care to one, to see her well bestow'd shall be the Business of my Life--Oh! my _Eugenio_.

_Ros._ Egad, he does it rarely. [_Aside._

_Pirr._ How shall I manage, that he may not suspect my Love to his Daughter proceeds from his Son's Death, [_Aside._] I was just coming to make a Proposal to your Lords.h.i.+p as the News reach'd my Ear, I much fear the Time's improper now to talk of Business.

_Grav._ Pray Heaven it be the Business I wish; were my Grief more great, if possible, yet would I suspend it to hear my Lord of _Pirro_.

_Ros._ Cunningly insinuated. [_Aside._

_Pirro._ Your Lords.h.i.+p is too obliging.

_Grav._ Not at all, pray proceed, my Lord.

_Pirro._ It was, my Lord, to have ask'd the fair _Lucasia_ for my Wife.

_Ros._ So he has swallow'd the Bait. [_Aside._

_Grav._ As I could wish. [_Aside._

_Pirro._ 'Twas not out of any Consideration of her present Fortune, my Lord, I hope you'll not believe, since I designed it e'er I knew _Eugenio_ dead. I wish he may believe me. [_Aside._

_Grav._ If 'twas, my Lord of _Pirro_ does deserve it all, nor would I wish my Child a better Match. But 'tis too soon to treat of Marriage after such a Loss.

_Rosco._ Dear Sir, consent to this good Lord, so will your Care be over, and hopeful Grandsons make up poor _Eugenio_'s Loss.

_Grav._ What would you have me think of Joy and Death at once, and mingle the Grave and Marriages together.

_Pirro._ If you'll consent, my Lord, a private Marriage may be had, and so dispense with the usual Solemnities of Joy. If you refuse me, I shall think you slight my Claim.

_Grav._ That Argument alone prevails: No, I will never give the Count of _Pirro_ Cause to doubt of my Esteem.

_Rosco._ Consider, my Lord, she's an Heiress, that may set bold desperate Youths on rash Attempts; and tho' they know _Sicilian_ Laws gives Death to him that steals an Heiress, yet I'll not warrant her Safety till to-morrow Night.

_Pirro._ He's in the right, my Lord.

_Grav._ Away, and call her, tho' she's disorder'd with her Griefs. Now thou hast rais'd another Fear, and my poor Heart trembles for _Lucasia_, as it for _Eugenio_ bleeds. [_Ex._ Rosco.

_Pirro._ Within my Arms she shall be safe and happy, the Governor, my n.o.ble Uncle, and my Friend, her great Protector.

_Enter_ Rosco _with_ Lucasia.