The comical revenge, or, Love in a tub acted at His Highness the Duke of York's Theatre in Lincolns-Inn-Fields.

ACT. V. SCEN. I.

Scene, The Lord Bevill's House.

Enter Lovis, a Chyrurgion, Servants, carrying Bruce in a Chair.

Chyr.

COurage, brave Sir; do not mistrust my Art.

Bru.

Tell me, didst thou e'er cure a wounded heart? Thy skill, fond man, thou here imploy'st in vain; The ease thou giv'st does but encrease my pain.

Lovis.

Dear Bruce, my life does on your life depend; Though you disdain to live, yet save your Friend.

Bruce.

Do what you please; but are not those unkind That ease the body, to afflict the mind?

The Chirurgion dresses him.

Oh cruel Love! thou shoot'st with such strange skill,

The wounds thou mak'st will neither heal nor kill▪ Thy flaming Arrows kindle such a fire As will not waste thy Victims, nor expire!

Enter Aurelia.

Lovis.

Is the wound mortal? tell me;

To the Chyrurgion.

Or may we cherish hopes of his Recovery?

Chyr.

The danger is not imminent; yet my Prognostick Boads a sad event: For though there be no great Vessel dissected, yet I have cause to fear That the Parenchyma of the right lobe of the lungs, Neer some large branch of the Aspera arteria, Is perforated.

Lovis.

Tell me in English, will he live or die?

Chyr.

Truly I despair of his recovery.

Exit Chyrurgion.

Aurel.

aside.

Forgive me, Ladies, if excess of Love Me beyond rules of Modesty does move, And, against custom, makes me now reveal Those flames my tortur'd breast did long conceal; 'Tis some excuse, that I my Love declare When there's no med'cine left to cure despair.

Weeps by the Chair side.

Bruce.

Oh Heav'n! can fair Aurelia weep for me! This is some comfort to my misery. Kind Maid, those eyes should only pity take Of such as feel no wounds but what they make: Who for another in your sight does mourn, Deserves not your compassion, but your scorn.

Aurel.

I come not here with tears to pity you; I for your pity with this passion sue.

Bruce.

My pity! tell me, what can be the grief, That from the miserable hopes relief!

Aurel.

Before you know this grief, you feel the pain.

Bruce.

You cannot love, and not be lov'd again: Where so much Beauty does with Love conspire, No mortal can resist that double fire.

Aurel.

When proud Graciana wounded your brave heart, On poor Aurelia's you reveng'd the smart: Whilst you in vain did seek those wounds to cure, With patience I their torture did endure.

Bruce.

My happiness has been so long conceal'd, That it becomes my misery reveal'd: That which shou'd prove my joy, now proves my grief; And that brings pain, which, known, had brought relief. Aurelia, why wou'd you not let me know, Whilst I had pow'r to pay, the debt I owe? 'Tis now too late; yet all I can I'le do; I'le sigh away the breath I've left for you.

Aurel.

You yet have pow'r to grant me all I crave; 'Tis not your Love I court, I court your Grave. I with my flame seek not to warm your breast, But beg my ashes in your Urn may rest: For since Graciana's loss you scorn'd t'out-live, I am resolv'd I'le not your death survive.

Bruce.

Hold, you too gen'rous are; yet I may live: Heav'n for your sake may grant me a reprieve.

Aurel.

Oh, no; Heav'n has decree'd, alas, that we Shou'd in our Fates, not in our Loves agree.

Bruce.

Dear Friend, my rashness I too late repent;

To Lovis.

I ne're thought death till now a punishment.

Enter Graciana.

Grac.

Oh, do not talk of death! the very sound Once more will give my heart a mortal wound: Here on my knees I've sinn'd I must confess Against your Love, and my own happiness; I, like the child, whose folly proves his loss, Refus'd the gold, and did accept the dross.

Bruce.

You have in Beaufort made so good a choice, His virtue's such, he has his Rival's voice; Graciana, none but his great Soul cou'd prove Worthy to be the centre of your Love.

Grac.

You to another wou'd such virtue give, Brave Sir, as in your self does only live. If to the most deserving I am due, He must resign his weaker claim to you.

Bruce.

This is but flatt'ry; for I'me sure you can Think none so worthy as that gen'rous man: By honour you are his.

Grac.

Yet, Sir, I know How much I to your gen'rous passion owe; You bleed for me; and if for me you die, Your loss I'le mourn with vow'd Virginity.

Bruce.

Can you be mindful of so small a debt, And that which you to Beaufort owe forget? That will not Honour but Injustice be; Honour with Justice always does agree. This gen'rous pity which for me you shew, Is more then you to my misfortunes owe: These tears, Graciana, which for me you shed, Ore-prize the blood which I for you have bled: But now I can no more— My spirits faint within my wearied breast.

Lovis.

Sister, 'tis fit you give him leave to rest. Who waits?

Enter Servants.

With care convey him to his bed.

Bruce.

Hold— Dearest Aurelia, I will strive to live, If you will but endeavour not to grieve.

Lovis.

Brave man! The wonder of this Age thou'lt prove, For matchless Gratitude, and gen'rous Love.

Exeunt all but Graciana.

Grac.

How strangely is my soul perplex'd by fate! The man I love I must pretend to hate; And with dissembled scorn his presence fly, Whose absence is my greatest misery!

Enter Beaufort.

Beauf.

Hear me, upon my knees I beg you'l hear. She's gone.

Exit Graciana.

There was no need, false woman, to encrease My misery with hopes of happiness. This scorn at first had to my Love and me But Justice been; now it is Cruelty. Was there no way his constancy to prove, But by your own inconstancy in Love? To try anothers Virtue cou'd you be, Graciana, to your own an enemy? Sure 'tis but passion which she thus does vent, Blown up with anger and with discontent, Because my Honour disobey'd her Will, And Bruce for love of her his blood did spill. I once more in her eyes will read my fate; I need no wound to kill me, if she hate.