Wing. I would not do it, though your Highness or

dered.

Eliz. Wingfield!

Wing. What more, an' please your Grace?
Eliz. Nothing-O aye, I think on't; do not be
Another Hubert; but yet, remember well,
It must be on full proof of guilt:

Remember!

[Exit.

Wing. Conscience, shall I be schooled by thee! Thou shadow of the soul, at which fools start. Crime! what is crime? If there be such a thing, It lies in the intention, and in that

My guilt is now complete;-the plan is here:

[Pointing to his brow. It is a furled scene, that's soon unrolled,

A tragic scene, by Treachery drawn in blood.
But where is all this guilt? What can I add
To misery like hers?-

Imprisonment perpetual is her doom:

Death is the sole deliverance she can hope.

Death-death-aye, death must come one day to me;
What then? what is it but a loss of being?
And what annihilation, but a sleep,
Unhaunted by those qualmish phantasies,
Which, while awake, I laugh at?

[Exit.

SCENE II.-Lancaster Castle.

(Time-Evening.)

MARY and ADELAIDE on the Battlements of one of the

Towers.

Mary. The fourteenth day is past, and yet no an

swer.

O that I ne'er had crossed the Solway sea!

Adel. Mary, be comforted.

If there be laws of hospitality,

Pity in woman, kindness in a sister,
Or loyalty in princes, you are safe.

Mary. And yet we're prisoners.

Adel. Aye, we again are prisoners, 'tis too true; And who will rescue us a second time?

Mary. O England, England! grave of murdered princes!

Why did I leave thee, Scotland, dearest land?
In thee I had some friends---they died for me.
O were I on the side of yon dim mountain!
Though wild and bleak it be, it is in Scotland.
Adel. Alas! 'tis but a cloud.

Mary. No, 'tis a mountain of sweet Annerdale.

Adel. Ah, no! 'tis but a cloud; you know our dis

tance.

Mary. Well, then, it is a cloud that hovers o'er My dear, my native land: I love that cloud, That misty robe of spirits. O, Adelaide, Come soothe me with that mournful song--'Tis an old thing; we heard it in the days Of happiness, and yet it filled our eyes

With tears; we heard it in the yale of Morven : 'Twas something---'twas about the voice of Cona. Adel. The maiden with the distaff by the stream, "Twas she that sung

it:

I do remember; and, after she had sung it,

She tried to tell it o'er in broken Scottish.

Mary. Let me hear it.

Adel. I feel my heart so full, that but one note,
A single note, sung even by myself,

Would quite untune my voice.---Shall we descend?
Mary. Whither?

Adel. To our chamber.

Mary. The weary rook hies home---my home's a

prison.

All things are free but me. Why did I leave
Lochleven's beauteous isle? There I could range
Along the shore, or, seated on the bank,
Hope still for better days; there could transform
The clouds reflected in the clear blue lake

To sceptres and to diadems restored;
And, when the visions melted into air,

I drew a kind of quaint and foolish comfort,
To see how far the watery circles spread
In sympathetic motion with my tears.---
O it presages ill the more I think!

Their forcing Douglas back---he rescued us;
And if it were not meant that we should still
Continue prisoners, why should the last,
The last friend but thyself,

The sole attendant of a Queen,

Be banished from her, and so rudely too?
Adel. Perhaps, for ever! No, I will not suffer
My foolish fears to think 'twill be for ever:
No, no, we yet shall meet---we shall be free.---
Mary, be comforted; you see I still,

I think I still could---smile.

Mary. Thou'rt not a banished Queen, a captive Queen;

Thou'rt not a mother severed from her infant.

I do remember when I used to think,
How it was misery, most anxious misery,
To be beyond the hearing of his voice:
Even when I watched beside him as he slept
In softest sleep, I've thought he ceased to breathe;
Then, trembling, would I lift the silken cover,
And at the light he'd smile without awaking.

What extacy! But now he's watched by strangers,
Perhaps by wretches hired to take his life.---
O, God forgive me! Adelaide,

That is a dreadful, dizzy height---'tis terrible!
And yet to think, that in the little time
In which I breathe a single heart-sick sigh,
I end all sighs.

Enter Warder.

Ward. Your Grace will please come down; We're just about to lock.

Mary. O let us breathe a little longer here.

Adel. An' please you do; I know you're very good. Ward. The sun is set this hour; the dew falls thick; You'll mar that soft sweet voice if you bide out.

Mary. Ah! misery is a shield against all seasons. Ward. 'Tis very late; the moon, you see, is up; I swear it's ten o'the clock, an't be an hour. Adel. Look at this dial here upon the corner, By it 'tis only six; I count by the moon. Ward. And why, fair lady?

Adel. Because I'm one of Dian's virgin band.

What think you of me?--

But do, sweet keeper, let us stay a while.

Ward. I wish Lord Scroop were here to give you

leave;

I scarcely dare to take so much upon me.--