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And other like confederate midnight hags,
By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,
And conjurations horrible to hear,

[TO HAS.

Call fiends and spectres from the yawning deep,
And set the ministers of hell at work,
To torture and despoil me of my life.
Has. If they have done this deed-
Glos. [Rises.] If they have done it!
Talk'st thou to me of ifs, audacious traitor!
Thou art that strumpet witch's chief abettor,
The patron and complotter of her mischiefs,
And join'd in this contrivance for my death.
Nay, start not, lords.-What, ho! a guard there, sirs!
Enter Guards, L.

Lord Hastings, I arrest thee of high treason.
Seize him, and bear him instantly away.
He sha' not live an hour. By holy Paul,
I will not dine before his head be brought me.
Ratcliffe, stay you, and see that it be done;
The rest that love me, rise and follow me.

[Exeunt GLOSTER, R. the Lords following.-LORD HASTINGS, SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE, and Guards,

remain.

Has. (L. c.) What! and no more but this!-How! to the scaffold!

O, gentle Ratcliffe! tell me, do I hold thee?

Or if I dream, what shall I do to wake,

To break, to struggle through this dread confusion?
For surely death itself is not so painful

As is this sudden horror and surprise.

Sir R. (R. c.) You heard the Duke's commands to me were absolute.

Therefore, my lord, address you to your shrift,

With all good speed you may. Summon your courage, And be yourself; for you must die this instant.

Has. (c.) Yes, Ratcliffe, I will take thy friendly counsel,

And die as a man should; 'tis somewhat hard,
To call my scatter'd spirits home at once:
But since what must be, must be ;-let necessity
Supply the place of time and preparation,
And arm me for the blow. "Tis but to die,
"Tis but to venture on the common hazard,
Which many a time in battle I have run;

'Tis but to close my eyes and shut out day-light,
To view no more the wicked ways of men,
No longer to behold the tyrant Gloster,
And be a weeping witness of the woes,
The desolation, slaughter, and calamities,
Which he shall bring on this unhappy land.

Enter ALICIA, L.

Alic. (L.) Stand off, and let me pass:-I will, I must Catch him once more in these despairing arms, And hold him to my heart.-O, Hastings! Hastings! Has. Alas! why com'st thou at this dreadful moment 'To fill me with new terrors, new distractions; To turn me wild with thy distemper'd rage, And shock the peace of my departing soul? Away; I pr'ythee leave me !

Alic. Stop a minute

Till my full griefs find passage ;-O, the tyrant !
Perdition fall on Gloster's head and mine.

Has. What means thy frantic grief?

Alic. I cannot speak

But I have murder'd thee ;-Oh, I could tell thee!
Has. Speak, and give ease to thy conflicting passion!
Be quick, nor keep me longer in suspense,

Time presses, and a thousand crowding thoughts
Break in at once! this way and that they snatch;
They tear my hurry'd soul: all claim attention,
And yet not one is heard. Oh! speak, and leave me,
For I have business would employ an age,

And but a minute's time to get it done in.

Alic. That, that's my grief;-'tis I that urge thee on, Thus hunt thee to the toil, sweep thee from earth, And drive thee down this precipice of fate.

Has. Thy reason is grown wild. Could thy weak hand

Bring on this mighty ruin? If it could,

What have I done so grievous to thy soul,

So deadly, so beyond the reach of pardon,

That nothing but my life can make atonement?

Alic. Thy cruel scorn hath stung me to the heart, And set my burning bosom all in flames;

Raving and mad I flew to my revenge,

And writ I know not what ;-told the protector,
That Shore's detested wife, by wiles, had won thee
To plot against his greatness.-He believ'd it,

(Oh, dire event of my pernicious counsel !) And, while I meant destruction on her head, He has turn'd it all on thine.

Has. O, thou inhuman! Turn thy eyes away, And blast me not with their destructive beams: Why should I curse thee with my dying breath? Be gone! and let me die in peace.

[Crosses to L.

Alic. Canst thou-O, cruel Hastings, leave me thus ? Hear me, I beg thee-I conjure thee, hear me ! While with an agonizing heart, I swear,

By all the pangs I feel, by all the sorrows,

The terrors and despair thy loss shall give me,
My hate was on my rival bent alone.

Oh! had I once divin'd, false as thou art,

A danger to thy life, I would have died,

I would have met it for thee.

Has. Now mark! and tremble at heaven's just award: While thy insatiate wrath and fell revenge,

Pursu'd the innocence which never wrong'd thee,

Behold, the mischief falls on thee and me:
Remorse and heaviness of heart shall wait thee,
And everlasting anguish be thy portion :

For me, the snares of death are wound about me,
And now, in one poor moment, I am gone.
Oh! if thou hast one tender thought remaining,
Fly to thy closet, fall upon thy knees,
And recommend my parting soul to mercy.
Alic. Oh! yet, before I go for ever from thee,
Turn thee in gentleness and pity to me, [Kneeling.
And, in compassion of my strong affliction,
Say, is it possible you can forgive
The fatal rashness of ungovern'd love?
For, oh! 'tis certain, if I had not lov'd thee
Beyond my peace, my reason, fame, and life,
This day of horror never would have known us.
Has. Oh, rise, and let me hush thy stormy sorrows.
[Raising her.
Assuage thy tears, for I will chide no more,
No more upbraid thee, thou unhappy fair one.
I see the hand of heav'n is arm'd against me;
And, in mysterious providence, decrees

To punish me by thy mistaken hand.

Most righteous doom! for, oh, while I behold thee,
Thy wrongs rise up in terrible array,

And charge thy ruin on me; thy fair fame,

PROLOGUE.

To-night, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast:
A tale, which, told long since in homely wise,
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.
Let no nice sir`despise our hapless dame,
Because recording ballads chaunt her name;
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers:
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,

Sighing for Phillis', or Chloe's pity.

Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
And sung her by her Christian name-'twas Jane,
Our numbers may be more refin'd than those,
But what we've gain'd in verse, we've lost in prose.
Their words no shuffling, double meaning knew,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were true.
In such an age, immortal Shakspeare wrote,
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.
Our humble author does his steps pursue,
He owns he had the mighty bard in view;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouse the passions, than to charm the ear.
Yet for those gentle beaux who love the chime,
The end of acts still gingle into rhyme.

The poets frequently might move compassion,
And with she-tragedies o'er-run the nation.
Then judge the fair offender with good nature,
And let your fellow feeling curb your satire.
What, if our neighbours have some little failing,
Must we needs fall to damning and to railing?
For her excuse too, be it understood,

That if the woman was not quite so good,
Her lover was a king, she flesh and blood.
And since sh' has dearly paid the sinful score,
Be kind at last, and pity poor Jane Shore,

T. DOLBY, Printer, 17, Catherine Street, Strand, London.

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