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Stern power of fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.

How weak is man to reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire.
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing,
And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing;
"Tis like the stream beside whose watery bed,
Some blooming plant exalts his flowery head;
Nursed by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine? Does life deserve my sigh;
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.
For those the wretches I despise or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.

For me, whene'er all-conquering death shall spread
His wings around my unrepining head,

I care not; though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth nor portents in the air;
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,
Nor nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Loved in my life, lamented in my end,
Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend:
To them may these fond lines my name endear,
Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere.


[By James Hammond, born 1710, died 1742. This seems to be almost the only tolerable specimen of the once admired and highly-famed love elegies of Hammond. This poet, nephew to Sir Robert Walpole, and a man of fortune, bestowed his affections on a Miss Dashwood, whose agreeable qualities and inexorable rejection of his suit inspired the poetry by which his

name has been handed down to us. His verses are imitations

of Tibullus-smooth, tame, and frigid. Miss Dashwood died unmarried-bedchamber-woman to Queen Charlotte-in 1779. In the following elegy Hammond imagines himself married to his mistress (Delia), and that, content with each other, they are retired to the country.]

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold,
And view their fields, with waving plenty crowned,
Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold,
And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

While calmly poor, I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But, cheaply blessed, I'll scorn each vain desire.
With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its masters hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest?

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my. Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away?

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go?

To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know?

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possessed,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blessed,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!

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Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguished from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock:

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep?

Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night :
Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason joined.
On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:

Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

Careless Content.*

[The following and subsequent poems are by John Byrom, a native of Manchester. He was well educated, but declined to take advantage of an offered fellowship in the university of Cambridge, from a dislike to the clerical profession, and endeavoured to make a livelihood by teaching short-hand writing in London. Ultimately, he succeeded to some property, and came to the close of his days in affluence (1763), aged 72. The Phoebe of his poetry was a daughter of the celebrated Bentley.] I am content, I do not care,

Wag as it will the world for me;
When fuss and fret was all my fare,
It got no ground as I could see:
So when away my caring went,
I counted cost, and was content.

With more of thanks and less of thought,
I strive to make my matters meet;
To seek what ancient sages sought,

Physic and food in sour and sweet:
To take what passes in good part,
And keep the hiccups from the heart.
With good and gentle humoured hearts,
I choose to chat where'er I come,
Whate'er the subject be that starts;
But if I get among the glum,
I hold my tongue to tell the truth,
And keep my breath to cool my broth.
For chance or change of peace or pain,
For fortune's favour or her frown,

For lack or glut, for loss or gain,

I never dodge, nor up nor down:

But swing what way the ship shall swim,
Or tack about with equal trim.

I suit not where I shall not speed,
Nor trace the turn of every tide;
If simple sense will not succeed,

I make no bustling, but abide:
For shining wealth, or scaring wo,
I force no friend, I fear no foe.

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Of ups and downs, of ins and outs,
Of they're i' the wrong, and we're i' the right,
I shun the rancours and the routs;
And wishing well to every wight,
Whatever turn the matter takes,
I deem it all but ducks and drakes.

With whom I feast I do not fawn,

Nor if the folks should flout me, faint;

If wonted welcome be withdrawn,

I cook no kind of a complaint:
With none disposed to disagree,
But like them best who best like me.
Not that I rate myself the rule

How all my betters should behave;
But fame shall find me no man's fool,
Nor to a set of men a slave:
I love a friendship free and frank,
And hate to hang upon a hank.
Fond of a true and trusty tie,

I never loose where'er I link;
Though if a business budges by,

I talk thereon just as I think;
My word, my work, my heart, my hand,
Still on a side together stand.

If names or notions make a noise,
Whatever hap the question hath,
The point impartially I poise,

And read or write, but without wrath;

* One poem, entitled Careless Content, is so perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had

transcribed it from some old author.-SOUTHEY.

For should I burn, or break my brains,
Pray, who will pay me for my pains?
I love my neighbour as myself,

Myself like him too, by his leave;
Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf,

Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it and brood it in your breast; Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs,

That man does right to mar his rest, Let me be deft, and debonair,

I am content, I do not care.

A Pastoral.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.
With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day;
But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,
So strangely uneasy, as never was known.
My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound.
The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear:
But now she is absent, I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me com-

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;
How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,
When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;
Be still, then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said,
Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn fields and hedges, and every thing made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear: 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:

Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave every thing else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
And made yourselves fine for a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn:
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down
the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah Colin! old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.
Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?
To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love!

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

[Ode to a Tobacco Pipe.]

[One of six imitations of English poets, written on the subject of tobacco, by Isaac Hawkins Browne, a gentleman of fortune, born 1705, died 1760. The present poem is the imita

tion of Ambrose Philips.]

Little tube of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax and eye of fire;
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently braced;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper prest;
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men;
Who when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns,
When again the cricket's gay
(Little cricket full of play),
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men.

[Song-Away! let nought to Love Displeasing.*]
Away! let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors,

With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And, to be noble, we'll be good.

Our name while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder

How they respect such little folk.

*This beautiful piece has been erroneously ascribed to John Gilbert Cooper, author of a volume of poems, and sorne prose

works, who died in 1769.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.
Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet-smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!
And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.


The tragic drama of this period bore the impress of the French school, in which cold correctness or turgid declamation was more regarded than the natural delineation of character and the fire of genius. One improvement was the complete separation of tragedy and comedy. Otway and Southerne had marred the effect of some of their most pathetic and impressive dramas, by the intermixture of farcical and licentious scenes and characters, but they were the last who committed this incongruity. Public taste had become more critical, aided perhaps by the papers of Addison in the 'Spectator,' and other essayists, as well as by the general diffusion of literature and knowledge. Great names were now enlisted in the service of the stage. Fashion and interest combined to draw forth dramatic talent. A writer for the stage, it has been justly remarked, like the public orator, has the gratification of witnessing his own triumphs; of seeing in the plaudits, tears, or smiles of delighted spectators, the strongest testimony to his own powers.' The publication of his play may also insure him the fame and profit of authorship. If successful on the stage, the remuneration was then considerable. Authors were generally allowed the profits of three nights' performances; and Goldsmith, we find, thus derived between four and five hundred pounds by She Stoops to Conquer. The genius of Garrick may also be considered as lending fresh attraction and popularity to the stage. Authors were ambitious of fame as well as profit by the exertions of an actor so well fitted to portray the various passions and emotions of human nature, and who partially succeeded in recalling the English taste to the genius of Shakspeare.

One of the most successful and conspicuous of the tragic dramatists was the author of the 'Night Thoughts,' who, before he entered the church, produced three tragedies, all having one peculiarity, that they ended in suicide. The Revenge, still a popular acting play, contains, amidst some rant and hyperbole, passages of strong passion and eloquent declamation. Like Othello, "The Revenge' is founded on jealousy, and the principal character, Zanga, is a Moor. The latter, son of the Moorish king Abdallah, is taken prisoner after a conquest by the Spaniards, in which his father fell, and is condemned to servitude by Don Alonzo. In revenge, he sows the seeds of jealousy in the mind of his

conqueror, Alonzo, and glories in the ruin of his spair and suicide, and the dramatic art evinced in the victim:

Thou seest a prince, whose father thou hast slain,
Whose native country thou hast laid in blood,
Whose sacred person, Oh! thou hast profaned,
Whose reign extinguished-what was left to me,
So highly born? No kingdom but revenge;
No treasure but thy torture and thy groans.
If men should ask who brought thee to thy end,
Tell them the Moor, and they will not despise thee.
If cold white mortals censure this great deed,
Warn them they judge not of superior beings,
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun,
With whom revenge is virtue.

Dr Johnson's tragedy of Irene was performed in 1749, but met with little success, and has never since been revived. It is cold and stately, containing some admirable sentiments and maxims of morality, but destitute of elegance, simplicity, and pathos. At the conclusion of the piece, the heroine was to be strangled upon the stage, after speaking two lines with the bowstring round her neck. The audience cried out Murder! murder!' and compelled the actress to go off the stage alive, in defiance of the author. An English audience could not, as one of Johnson's friends remarked, bear to witness a strangling scene on the stage, though a dramatic poet may stab or slay by hundreds. The following passage in 'Irene' was loudly applauded :To-morrow!

That fatal mistress of the young, the lazy,
The coward and the fool, condemned to lose
A useless life in waiting for to-morrow-
To gaze with longing eyes upon to-morrow,
Till interposing death destroys the prospect!
Strange! that this general fraud from day to day
Should fill the world with wretches undetected.
The soldier labouring through a winter's march,
Still sees to-morrow dressed in robes of triumph;
Still to the lover's long-expecting arms
To-morrow brings the visionary bride.
But thou, too old to bear another cheat,
Learn that the present hour alone is man's.

Five tragedies were produced by Thomson betwixt the years 1729 and the period of his death: these were Sophonisba, Agamemnon, Edward and Eleonora, Tancred and Sigismunda, and Coriolanus. None of them can be considered as worthy of the author of the Seasons: they exhibit the defects of his style without its virtues. He wanted the plastic powers of the dramatist, and though he could declaim forcibly on the moral virtues, and against corruption and oppression, he could not draw characters or invent scenes to lead captive the feelings and imagination.

Two tragedies of a similar kind, but more animated in expression, were produced-Gustavus Vasa by Brooke, and Barbarossa by Dr Brown. The acting of Garrick mainly contributed to the success of the latter, which had a great run. The sentiment at the conclusion of Barbarossa' is finely expressed :

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Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction,
And oft the cloud which wraps the present hour
Serves but to brighten all our future days.

Aaron Hill translated some of Voltaire's tragedies with frigid accuracy, and they were performed with success. In 1753, The Gamester, an affecting domestic tragedy, was produced. Though wanting the merit of ornamented poetical language and blank verse, the vivid picture drawn by the author (Edward Moore) of the evils of gambling, ending in de- |

characters and incidents, drew loud applause. "The Gamester' is still a popular play.

[The Gamester's Last Stake.]

Beverley. Why, there's an end then. I have judged deliberately, and the result is death. How the selfmurderer's account may stand, I know not; but this I know, the load of hateful life oppresses me too much. The horrors of my soul are more than I can bear. [Offers to kneel]. Father of Mercy! I cannot pray; despair has laid his iron hand upon me, and sealed me for perdition. Conscience! conscience! thy clamours are too loud: here's that shall silence thee. [Takes a phial of poison out of his pocket.] Thou art most friendly to the miserable. Come, then, thou cordial for sick minds, come to my heart. [Drinks it.] Oh, that the grave would bury memory as well as body! for, if the soul sees and feels the sufferings of those dear ones it leaves behind, the Everlasting has no vengeance to torment it deeper. I'll think no more on it; reflection comes too late; once there was a time for it, but now 'tis past. Who's there?


Jar. One that hoped to see you with better looks. Why do you turn so from me! I have brought comfort with me; and see who comes to give it welcome. Bev. My wife and sister! Why, 'tis but one pang more then, and farewell, world.

Enter MRS BEVERLEY and CHarlotte.

Mrs B. Where is he? [Runs and embraces him.] 0, I have him! I have him! And now they shall never part us more. I have news, love, to make you happy for ever. Alas! he hears us not. Speak to me, love; I have no heart to see you thus.

Bev. This is a sad place.

Mrs B. We came to take you from it; to tell you the world goes well again; that Providence has seen our sorrows, and sent the means to help them; your uncle died yesterday.

Bev. My uncle? No, do not say so. O! I am sick at heart!

Mrs B. Indeed, I meant to bring you comfort. Bev. Tell me he lives, then; if you would bring me comfort, tell me he lives.

Mrs B. And if I did, I have no power to raise the dead. He died yesterday.

Bev. And I am heir to him?

Jar. To his whole estate, sir. But bear it patiently, pray bear it patiently.

Bev. Well, well. [Pausing.] Why, fame

am rich then?



Mrs B. And truly so. Why do you look so wildly! Bev. Do I? The news was unexpected. But has he left me all?

Jar. All, all, sir; he could not leave it from you.
Bev. I am sorry for it.

Mrs B. Why are you disturbed so?
Bev. Has death no terrors in it!

Mrs B. Not an old man's death; yet, if it trouble you, I wish him living.

Bev. And I, with all my heart; for I have a tale to tell, shall turn you into stone; or if the power of speech remain, you shall kneel down and curse me. Mrs B. Alas! Why are we to curse you? I'll bless

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and to redeem past errors, I sold the reversion, sold it for a scanty sum, and lost it among villains.

Char. Why, farewell all then.

Bev. Liberty and life. Come, kneel and curse me. Mrs B. Then hear me, heaven. [Kneels.] Look down with mercy on his sorrows! Give softness to his looks, and quiet to his heart! On me, on me, if misery must be the lot of either, multiply misfortunes! I'll bear them patiently, so he be happy! These hands shall toil for his support; these eyes be lifted up for hourly blessings on him; and every duty of a fond and faithful wife be doubly done to cheer and comfort him. So hear me! so reward me!

[Rises. Bev. I would kneel too, but that offended heaven would turn my prayers into curses; for I have done a deed to make life horrible to you.

Mrs B. What deed?

Jar. Ask him no questions, madam; this last misfortune has hurt his brain. A little time will give him patience.


Bev. Why is this villain here?

Stuk. To give you liberty and safety. There, madam, is his discharge. [Gives a paper to Charlotte.] The arrest last night was meant in friendship, but came too late.

Char. What mean you, sir?

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Char. And give me pangs unutterable.
Lew. I felt them all, and would have told you;
vengeance wanted ripening. The villain's scheme was
but half executed; the arrest by Dawson followed the
supposed murder, and now, depending on his once
wicked associates, he comes to fix the guilt on Be-

Bates. Dawson and I are witnesses of this.
Lew. And of a thousand frauds; his fortune ruined

Stuk. The arrest was too late, I say; I would have by sharpers and false dice; and Stukely sole contriver kept his hands from blood; but was too late.

Mrs B. His hands from blood! Whose blood?
Stuk. From Lewson's blood.

Char. No, villain ! Yet what of Lewson; speak quickly.

Stuk. You are ignorant then; I thought I heard the murderer at confession.

Char. What murderer? And who is murdered? Not Lewson? Say he lives, and I will kneel and worship you.

Stuk. And so I would; but that the tongues of all cry murder. I came in pity, not in malice; to save the brother, not kill the sister. Your Lewson's dead. Char. O horrible!

Bev. Silence, I charge you. Proceed, sir.

and possessor of all.

Daw. Had he but stopped on this side murder, we had been villains still.

Lew. [To Beverley.] How does my friend?
Bev. Why, well. Who's he that asks me?

Mrs B. 'Tis Lewson, love. Why do you look so at


Bev. [Wildly.] They told me he was murdered!
Mrs B. Ay; but he lives to save us.

Bev. Lend me your hand; the room turns round. Lew. This villain here disturbs him. Remove him from his sight; and on your lives see that you guard him. [Stukely is taken off by Dawson and Bates.] How is it, sir?

Bev. 'Tis here, and here. [Pointing to his head and Stuk. No; justice may stop the tale; and here's an heart.] And now it tears me! evidence.

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Bev. Why, ay; this looks like management. Bates. He found you quarrelling with Lewson in the street last night. [To Beverley.

Mrs B. No; I am sure he did not. Jar. Or if I didMrs B. "Tis false, old man; they had no quarrel, there was no cause for quarrel. Bev. Let him proceed, I say. O! I am sick! sick! [Jarvis brings it, he sits down. Mrs B. You droop and tremble, love. Yet you are innocent. If Lewson's dead, you killed him not.

Reach a chair.


Stuk. Who sent for Dawson?

Mrs B. You feel convulsed, too. What is it disturbs you?

Bev. A furnace rages in this heart. [Laying his hand upon his heart.] Down, restless flames! down to your native hell; there you shall rack me! Oh, for a pause from pain! Where is my wife? Can you forgive me, love?

Mrs B. Alas! for what?
Bev. For meanly dying.
Mrs B. No; do not say it.

Bev. As truly as my soul must answer it. Had Jarvis staid this morning, all had been well; but, pressed by shame, pent in a prison, and tormented with my pangs for you, driven to despair and madness, I took the advantage of his absence, corrupted the poor wretch he left to guard me, and swallowed poison.

Lew. Oh, fatal deed!

Bev. Ay, most accursed. And now I go to my account. Bend me, and let me kneel. from his chair, and support him on his knees.] I'll [They lift him pray for you too. Thou Power that mad'st me, hear me. If, for a life of frailty, and this too hasty deed of death, thy justice doom me, here I acquit the sentence; but if, enthroned in mercy where thou sitt'st, thy pity hast beheld me, send me a gleam of hope, that in these last and bitter moments my soul may

Bates. "Twas I. We have a witness too, you little taste of comfort! And for these mourners here, Ö

think of. Without there!

Stuk. What witness?

Bates. A right one. Look at him.

let their lives be peaceful, and their deaths happy. Mrs B. Restore him, heaven! O, save him, save him, or let me die too!

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