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Hast. "Tis well, madam.

But I would see your friend.

Alicia. Oh, thou false lord!

I would be mistress of my heaving heart,
Stifle this rising rage, and learn from thee
To dress my face in easy, dull indiff'rence:
But 'twill not be; my wrongs will tear their way,
And rush at once upon thee.

Hast. Are you wise?

Have you the use of reason? Do you wake?
What means this raving, this transporting passion?
Alicia. Oh, thou cool traitor! thou insulting ty-
rant!

Dost thou behold my poor distracted heart,
Thus rent with agonizing love and rage,

And ask me what it means? Art thou not false ?
Am I not scorn'd, forsaken, and abandon'd,
Left, like a common wretch, to shame and infamy,
Giv'n up to be the sport of villain's tongues.
Of laughing parasites, and lewd buffoons;
And all because my soul has doted on thee
With love, with truth, and tenderness unutterable?
Hast. Are these the proofs of tenderness and love?
These endless quarrels, discontents, and jealousies,
These never-ceasing wailings and complainings,
These furious starts, these whirlwinds of the soul,
Which every moment rise to madness?

Alicia. What proof, alas! have I not giv'n of love?
What have I not abandon'd to thy arms?
Have I not set at nought my noble birth,
A spotless fame, and an unblemish'd race,
The peace of innocence, and pride of virtue?
My prodigality has given thee all;

And, now I've nothing left me to bestow,
You hate the wretched bankrupt you have made.
Hast. Why am I thus pursued from place to place,
Kept in the view, and cross'd at ev'ry turn?
In vain I fly, and, like a hunted deer,

Scud o'er the lawns, and hasten to the covert;
Ere I can reach my safety, you o'ertake me
With the swift malice of some keen reproach,
And drive the winged shaft deep in my heart.
Alicia. Hither you fly, and here you seek repose;
Spite of the poor deceit, your arts are known,
Your pious, charitable, midnight visits.

Hast. If you are wise, and prize your peace of
mind,

Yet take the friendly counsel of my love;
Believe me true, nor listen to your jealousy.
Let not the devil, which undoes your sex,
That cursed curiosity, seduce you

To hunt for needless secrets, which, neglected,
Shall never hurt your quiet; but, once known,
Shall sit upon your heart, pinch it with pain,
And banish the sweet sleep for ever from you.
Go to-be yet advised-

Alicia. Dost thou in scorn

Preach patience to my rage, and bid me tamely
Sit like a poor contented idiot down,

Nor dare to think thou'st wronged me? Ruin seize thee,

And swift perdition overtake thy treachery!
Have I the least remaining cause to doubt?
Hast thou endeavour'd once to hide thy falsehood?
To hide it might have spoke some little tenderness,
And shown thee half unwilling to undo me;
But thou disdain'st the weakness of humanity,
Thy words, and all thy actions, have confess'd it;
E'en now thy eyes avow it, now they speak,
And insolently own the glorious villainy.

Hast. Well, then, I own my heart has broke your
chains.

Patient I bore the painful bondage long,
At length my gen'rous love disdains your tyranny;
The bitterness and stings of taunting jealousy,
Vexatious days, and jarring, joyless nights,

Have driven him forth to seek some safer shelter, Where he may rest his weary wings in peace.

Alicia. You triumph! do! and with gigantic pride Defy impending vengeance. Heav'n shall wink; No more his arm shall roll the dreadful thunder, Nor send his lightning forth: no more his justice Shall visit the presuming sons of men,

But perjury like thine shall dwell in safety.

Hast. Whate'er my fate decrees for me hereafter,
Be present to me now, my better angel!
Preserve me from the storm that threatens now,
And if I have beyond atonement sinn'd,

Let any other kind of plague o'ertake me,
So I escape the fury of that tongue.

Alicia. Thy pray'r is heard-I go-but know, proud lord,

Howe'er thou scorn'st the weakness of my sex,
This feeble hand may find the means to reach thee,
Howe'er sublime in pow'r and greatness plac'd,
With royal favour guarded round and grac'd:
On eagle's wings my rage shall urge her flight,
And hurl thee headlong from thy topmost height;
Then, like thy fate, superior will I sit,

And view thee fall'n, and grov'ling at my feet;
See thy last breath with indignation go,

And tread thee sinking to the shades below. [Exit.
Hast. How fierce a fiend is passion! With what

wildness,

What tyranny untamed it reigns in woman !
Unhappy sex! whose easy yielding temper
Gives way to ev'ry appetite alike;

And love in their weak bosoms is a rage

As terrible as hate, and as destructive.

But soft ye now-for here comes one disclaims
Strife and her wrangling train; of equal elements,
Without one jarring atom was she form'd,
And gentleness and joy make up her being.

Enter JANE SHORE.

Forgive me, fair one, if officious friendship
Intrudes on your repose, and comes thus late
To greet you with the tidings of success.
The princely Gloster has vouchsafed your hearing,
To-morrow he expects you at the court;

There plead your cause, with never-failing beauty,
Speak all your griefs, and find a full redress.

J. Shore. Thus humbly let your lowly servant bend; [Kneeling. Thus let me bow my grateful knee to earth, And bless your noble nature for this goodness. Hast. Rise, gentle dame; you wrong my meaning

much.

Think me not guilty of a thought so vain,

To sell my courtesy for thanks like these.

J. Shore. "Tis true, your bounty is beyond my speaking:

But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you;

And when it melts before the throne of mercy,
Mourning and bleeding for my past offences,
My fervent soul shall breathe one pray'r for you,
If pray'rs of such a wretch are heard on high,
That Heav'n will pay you back, when most you need,
The grace and goodness you have shewn to me.
Hast. If there be aught of merit in my service,
Impute it there, where most 'tis due, to love:
Be kind, my gentle mistress, to my wishes,
And satisfy my panting heart with beauty.
J. Shore. Alas! my lord-

Hast. Why bend thy eyes to earth?

Wherefore these looks of heaviness and sorrow? Why breathes that sigh, my love? And wherefore falls This trickling show'r of tears, to stain thy sweetness? J. Shore. If pity dwells within your noble breast, (As sure it does) oh, speak not to me thus!

Hast. Can I behold thee, and not speak of love? E'en now, thus sadly as thou stand'st before me, Thus desolate, dejected, and forlorn,

Thy softness steals upon my yielding senses,
Till my soul faints, and sickens with desire.
How can'st thou give this motion to my heart,
And bid my tongue be still?

J. Shore. Cast round your eyes

Upon the high-born beauties of the court;
Behold, like opening roses, where they bloom,
Sweet to the sense, unsully'd all, and spotless:
There choose some worthy partner of your heart,
To fill your arms, and bless your virtuous bed;
Nor turn your eyes this way.

Hast. What means this peevish, this fantastic
change?

Where is thy wonted pleasantness of face,
Thy wonted graces, and thy dimpled smiles?
Where hast thou lost thy wit and sportive mirth?
That cheerful heart, which used to dance for ever,
And cast a day of gladness all around thee?

J. Shore. Yes, I will own I merit the reproach;
And for those foolish days of wanton pride,
My soul is justly humbled to the dust:

All tongues, like your's, are licens'd to upbraid me,
Still to repeat my guilt, to urge my infamy,
And treat me like that abject thing I have been.
Yet let the saints be witness to this truth,
That now, though late, I look with horror back,
That I detest my wretched self, and curse
My past, polluted life. All-judging Heav'n,
Who knows my crimes, has seen my sorrows for them.
Hast. No more of this dull stuff. 'Tis time enough
To whine and mortify thyself with penance;
The present moments claim more gen'rous use;
Thy beauty, night, and solitude, reproach me,
For having talk'd, thus long-come, let me press thee!
[Laying hold on her

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