Hast. 'Tis well, madam. But I would see your friend. Alicia. Oh, thou false lord! I would be mistress of my heaving heart, Hast. Are you wise? Have you the use of reason? Do you wake? Dost thou behold my poor distracted heart, And ask me what it means? Art thou not false ? 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. A show of mummery without a meaning. Hast. No farther, my good lord, than friendly pity, And tender-hearted charity, allow. Glo. Go to; I did not mean to chide you for it. For, sooth to say, I hold it noble in you To cherish the distress'd -On with your tale. And bearded wisdom, often have provoked I have withheld the merciless stern law From doing outrage on her helpless beauty. Hast. Good Heaven, who renders mercy back for With open-handed bounty shall repay you: She shall be heard with patience, and each wrong Which much import us both; for still my fortunes vacy. SCENE II. An Apartment in JANE SHORE's House. Enter BELMOUR and DUMONT. Bel. How she has lived you have heard already; The rest your own attendance in her family, Where I have found the means this day to place you, And nearer observation, best will tell you. See, with what sad and sober cheer she comes. Enter JANE SHORE. Sure, or I read her visage much amiss, Pursue my hapless fortunes! Ah, good Belmour! Like thee, reserve their raiment for the naked, [Aside. Bel. Madam, it is. J. Shore. A venerable aspect! Age sits with decent grace upon his visage, He wears the marks of many years well-spent, [TO DUMONT. Which elsewhere you might find, expect to meet answer Dum. You over-rate me much; and all my Must be my future truth; let them speak for me, And make up my deserving. J. Shore. Are you of England? Dum. No, gracious lady, Flanders claims my birth; At Antwerp has my constant biding been, Where sometimes I have known more plenteous days Than these which now my failing age affords. J. Shore. Alas! at Antwerp!-Oh, forgive my [Weeping. tears! They fall for my offences-and must fall You knew, perhaps-Oh grief! Oh shame!-my husband? Dum. I knew him well-but stay this flood of anguish, The senseless grave feels not your pious sorrows: According to our church's rev'rend rite, And saw him laid in hallow'd ground to rest. J. Shore. Oh, that my soul had known no joy but That I had lived within his guiltless arms, Enter a SERVANT. Serv. The lady Alicia Attends your leisure. J. Shore. Say I wish to see her.—[Exit SERVANT. Please, gentle sir, one moment to retire; I'll wait you on the instant, and inform you Of each unhappy circumstance, in which Your friendly aid and counsel much may stead me. [Exeunt BELMOUR and DUMONt. Enter ALICIA. Alicia. Still, my fair friend, still shall I find you thus? Still shall these sighs heave after one another, J. Shore. No, my Alicia, Heaven and his saints be witness to my thoughts, That I could wish should take its turn again. Alicia. And yet some of those days my friend has known, Some of those years might pass for golden ones B |