Belphegor, or, The marriage of the Devil a tragi-comedy, lately acted at the Queen's Theatre in Dorset-garden / by Mr. Wilson.

SCENE II. A noble Room in Montalto's House.

Enter Portia, sola.

Por.

MY Husband is convinc'd, and so am I, The Action, in all its Circumstances, Must be Grimald's; for't can be none's but his; And yet I'm rack'd between the two Extreams, Of Friendship to him, and my just Resentments To his false Nephew.—All unknown to us, The Generous Grimaldi has restor'd My Husband's Fortune: His degenerous Nephew Has taken this occasion, to renew

Enter Fieschi, as at a stand, and gazing on her.

His long rejected Love.

Fies.

Her Vertue sure Has wrought Impossibilities, and added New Graces to her Person,—as if Infinity, Cou'd be encreast.

Por.

I sent for ye, Fieschi; But it had been more honourable in you, Not to have giv'n me cause.—Your worthy Uncle Has, to his frequent Obligations, Added a fresh—I need not tell ye what.

Fies.

And 'tis his satisfaction, that he wanted Neither the Will, nor Means of doing it.

Por.

Debts are discharg'd with Payment.—Benefits, Pay what we can, there will be still Arrear. But,—for his Nephew to profane that Friendship, I could be angry—verily I could, And wou'd, were't not to make an others ill My own affliction.

Fies.

Blame your Vertue then, Montalto lov'd it.—And the self-same cause That absolves him, absolves Fieschi too. He rested not in Speculation only; And shall I turn Philosopher?

Por.

I'm his, And only his; and therefore barr'd to you.

Fies.

But Nature's free, and walks not by restraint, But choice—

Por.

And I have mine.—

Fies.

She never Coin'd Those Bug-bear Words, of Honour, Jealousie; She ne'er impal'd free Woman; or design'd A thing so Excellent for one's Embrace.

Por.

Enough—When that I ever heard ye was as much Against my will, as the concealing it Against my Duty—No—a Vertuous Woman Takes no more Liberty than what she ought.

Fies.

At least, blame Love, not me.—I've often rais'd. Your great Idea in my Soul; and (as A Diamond only cuts a Diamond) Set your own Vertue 'gainst your self,—yet still Love gets the upper-ground, and pours upon me: So weak a Fence is Vertue against Love.

Por.

We still excuse our selves.—The fault lies not In Vertue, but our Resolutions: Cou'd we once make our Actions work up to our Intentions, the Work were done.

There—take your idle whatsoever it be;

[She takes out a long white Box, and throws it toward him.

I knew the hand too well, to open it.

Fies.

And will you still torment me with the sight Of a forbidden Good?

Por.

Not good to you, Because forbidden.—If you're wise, be gone.

Fies.

You've said it, and I obey.

[He is going off, as forgetting the Box; she kicks it after him; he takes it up. Exit.

Por.

But take your Box wi'ye. Sure I have done some Evil, and the Guilt Sticks on my Brow.—It must be so,—or he Had never offer'd this Amour to me. Be't what it will, this I'm sure, my Will Had nothing in't;—yet how poor and cheap Do even the appearances of Evil make us.

Enter Grimaldi and Montalto hand in hand.

Mon.

Your repeated Obligations Deprive me of my Liberty.

Gri.

In exchange, take mine.

Por.

The only Injury you ever did us: For it has put us on the Necessity Of living and dying Ungrateful.

Mon.

A Benefit too great to be receiv'd.

Gri.

Not for a Friend to give.—

Mon.

But what return Cou'd ye propose?

Gri.

'Thas overpaid it self. To have done well, in hopes of a return, Is the most sordid Usury.—Allay Does but embase the Coin;—and such a thought Had derogated from the Majesty Of Friendship, and been Interest.—

Mon.

But does not Equality make the lasting Friendship?

Gri.

Of Minds, I grant it.—Friendship cannot stand With Vice or Infamy.—Degenerous mixtures Seldom out-live the Birth.—And as ours was Founded on Vertue (like a true-built Arch) May it grow up, until it knit at Top, And bid Defiance to the Shocks of Fortune.

Por.

Thus you o'ercome us every way.—

Mon.

Teach me,

What 'tis to be a Friend;—one, without whom, As a Man can't be happy, 'tis not his least Unhappiness, he never knows his Friend, But by being Unhappy himself.—A Friend! My earthly God!—

Gri.

As you are mine, no more. Come, let's enjoy this Salt of Life,—this All, That gives it relish, and without which, Life Were but a dull Parenthesis of Time; The World a Wilderness, and Man the Beast. I've wanted Company in a Crowd—Blest Friendship! Thou Girdle of the World!—Had I been Heathen, I'd Sacrific'd unto no other Goddess.

[Exeunt.