But This has more than windmills to engage:
He combats passion, rooted in the soul,
Whose pow’rs, at once delight ye, and controul;
Whose magic bondage each lost slave enjoys,
Nor wishes freedom, though the spell destroys.
To save our land from this MAGICIAN’s charms,
And rescue maids and matrons from his arms,
Our knight poetic comes. And Oh! ye fair!
This black ENCHANTER’s wicked arts beware!
His subtle poison dims the brightest eyes,
And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies:
Love, gentleness and joy to rage give way,
And the soft dove becomes a bird of prey.
May this our bold advent’rer break the spell,
And drive the demon to his native hell.
Ye slaves of passion, and ye dupes of chance,
Wake all your pow’rs from this destructive trance!
Shake off the shackles of this tyrant vice:
Hear other calls than those of cards and dice:
Be learn’d in nobler arts, than arts of play,
And other debts, than those of honour pay:
No longer live insensible to shame,
Lost to your country, families and fame.
Could our romantic muse this work atchieve,
Would there one honest heart in Britain grieve?
Th’ attempt, though wild, would not in vain be made,
If every honest hand would lend its aid.
Beverley, Mr. GARRICK. Lewson, Mr. MOSSOP. Stukely, Mr. DAVIES. Jarvis, Mr. BERRY. Bates, Mr. BURTON. Dawson, Mr. BLAKES. Waiter, Mr. ACKMAN.
Mrs. Beverley, Mrs. PRITCHARD. Charlotte, Miss. HAUGHTON. Lucy, Mrs. PRICE.
Enter Mrs. BEVERLEY, and CHARLOTTE.
Mrs. Beverley. Be comforted, my dear; all may be well yet. And now, methinks, the lodgings begin to look with another face. O sister! sister! if these were all my hardships; if all I had to complain of were no more than quitting my house, servants, equipage and show, your pity would be weakness.
Char. Is poverty nothing then?
Mrs. Bev. Nothing in the world, if it affected only Me. While we had a fortune, I was the happiest of the rich: and now ’tis gone, give me but a bare subsistance, and my husband’s smiles, and I’ll be the happiest of the poor. To Me now these lodgings want nothing but their master. Why d’you look so at me?
Char. That I may hate my brother.
Mrs. Bev. Don’t talk so, Charlotte.
Char. Has he not undone you? Oh! this pernicious vice of gaming! But methinks his usual hours of four or five in the morning might have contented him; ’twas misery enough to wake for him till then: need he have staid out all night? I shall learn to detest him.