Lucy, Mrs. PRICE.

SCENE, LONDON.

THE
GAMESTER.

A
TRAGEDY.

ACT I. SCENE I.

_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.

_Mrs. Bev._ Not for the first fault. He never slept from me
before.

_Char._ Slept from you! No, no; his nights have nothing to do with
sleep. How has this one vice driven him from every virtue! nay, from
his affections too!--The time _was_, sister--

_Mrs. Bev._ And _is_. I have no fear of his affections. Would I knew
that he were safe!

_Char._ From ruin and his companions. But that's impossible. His
poor little boy too! What must become of Him?

_Mrs. Bev._ Why, want shall teach him industry. From his father's
mistakes he shall learn prudence, and from his mother's resignation,
patience. Poverty has no such terrors in it as you imagine. There's
no condition of life, sickness and pain excepted, where happiness is
excluded. The needy peasant, who rises early to his labour, enjoys
more welcome rest at night for't. His bread is sweeter to him; his
home happier; his family dearer; his enjoyments surer. The sun that
rouses him in the morning, sets in the evening to release him. All
situations have their comforts, if sweet contentment dwell in the
heart. But my poor Beverley has none. The thought of having ruined
those he loves, is misery for ever to him. Would I could ease his
mind of That!

_Char._