EUG. Just thus, in woods and solitary caves, The ancient hermits liv'd; but they liv'd happy! And in their quiet contemplations found More real comforts than society Of men could yield, than cities could afford, Or all the lustres of a court could give. But I have no such sweet preservatives Against the sadness of this desert place. I am myself a greater wilderness Than are these woods, where horror and dismay Make their abodes; while different passions By turn do reign in my distracted soul. Fortune makes this conclusion general-- All things shall help th' unfortunate man to fall. First sorrow comes, and tells me I have done A crime whose foulness must deserve a sea Of penitent tears to wash me clean again. Then sear[11] steps in, and tells me, if surpris'd, My wretched life is forfeit to the law. When these have done, enters the tyrant love, And sets before me fair Artemia; Displays her virtues and perfections; Tells me that all those graces, all those beauties, Suffer for me, for my unhappiness, And wounds me more in her than in myself. Ah, Theodore! would I could ever sleep But when thou com'st, for in myself I find No drop of comfort? Welcome, dearest friend! _Enter_ THEODORE. THEO. Pardon the slowness of my visit, friend; For such occasions have detain'd me hence, As, if thou knew'st, I know thou wouldst excuse. EUG. I must confess, I thought the hours too long; But the fruition of thy presence now Makes me forget it all. THEO. Collect thyself, Thou droop'st too much, my dearest Eugeny, And art too harsh and sour a censurer Of that unhappy crime which thou wert forc'd Lately to act. I did allow in thee That lawful sorrow that was fit; but let Well-grounded comforts cure thee: nought extreme Is safe in man. EUG. 'Tis time must work that cure. THEO. But why thy pardon is not yet obtain'd, Let me be free in my conjectures to thee. EUG. Speak, friend, as to thyself. THEO. Sir Argent Scrape, Your old rich kinsman, who to-morrow morning Is to be married to the Lady Covet---- EUG. Is that match come about? O avarice! What monsters thou begett'st in this vile age! THEO. Sir Argent Scrape, I say, is next heir male, On whom thy whole estate was long ago Entail'd. EUG. 'Tis true. THEO. He must inherit it, Should thy life fail. EUG. 'Tis granted. THEO. Then, friend, hear What not a bare conjecture, but strong grounds Move me to utter. Think upon that word Thou spok'st so lately: think what avarice Can make her bondmen do--that such a price As fifteen hundred pounds a year will make Him labour, not thy pardon, but thy death. EUG. Can there be such a miscreant in nature?