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Wilt thou not give one interval to joy;
One little pause, while humbly I unfold

The happiest tale my tongue was ever blest with?
Lady J. G. My heart is dead within me, every sense
Is dead to joy; but I will hear thee, Guilford,
Nay, I must hear thee, such is her command,
Whom early duty taught me still t'obey.
Yet, oh! forgive me, if to all the story,
Though eloquence divine attend thy speaking,
Though ev'ry muse and ev'ry grace do crown thee;
Forgive me, if I cannot better answer,

Than weeping

-thus, and thus――

Guil. If I offend thee,

Let me be dumb for ever.

What is my peace or happiness to thine?
No; though our noble parents had decreed,
And urg'd high reasons, which import the state,
This night to give thee to my faithful arms,
My fairest bride, my only earthly bliss--
Lady J. G. How! Guilford! on this night?
Guil. This happy night:

Yet if thou art resolv'd to cross my fate,
If this my utmost wish shall give thee pain,
Now rather let the stroke of death fall on me,
And stretch me out a lifeless corpse before thee:
Let me be swept away with things forgotten,
Be huddled up in some obscure blind grave,
Ere thou shouldst say my love has made
wretched,

Or drop one single tear for Guilford's sake.

thee

Lady J. G. Alas! I have too much of death already, And want not thine to furnish out new horror. Oh! dreadful thought, if thou wert dead indeed, What hope were left me then? Yes, I will own, Spite of the blush that burns my maiden cheek, My heart has fondly lean'd towards thee long: Thy sweetness, virtue, and unblemish'd youth, Have won a place for thee within my bosom :

And if my eyes look coldly on thee now,
And shun thy love on this disastrous day,
It is because I would not deal so hardly,
To give thee sighs for all thy faithful vows,
And pay thy tenderness with nought but tears.
And yet 'tis all I have.

Guil. I ask no more;

Let me but call thee mine, confirm that hope,
To charm the doubts, which vex my anxious soul;
For all the rest do thou allot it for me,

And at thy pleasure portion out my blessings.

ever.

Lady J. G. Here then I take thee to my heart for
[Giving her Hand.
The dear companion of my future days:
Whatever Providence allots for each,
Be that the common portion of us both;
Share all the griefs of thy unhappy Jane;
But if good Heav'n has any joys in store,
Let them be all thy own.

Guil. Thou wondrous goodness!
And, oh! if, as my fond belief would hope,
If any word of mine be gracious to thee,
I beg thee, I conjure thee, drive away

Those murd'rous thoughts of grief that kill thy quiet,
Restore thy gentle bosom's native peace,

Lift up the light of gladness in thy eyes,

And cheer thy heaviness with one dear smile.

Lady J. G. Yes, Guilford, I will study to forget All that the royal Edward has been to me, How we have lov'd, even from our very cradles. My private loss no longer will I mourn, But ev'ry tender thought to thee shall turn: With patience I'll submit to Heav'n's decree, And what I lost in Edward find in thee. But, oh! when I revolve what ruins wait Our sinking altars and the falling state: When I consider what my native land Expected from her pious sov'reign's hand;

How form'd he was to save her from distress,
A king to govern, and a saint to bless:

New sorrow to my lab'ring breast succeeds, And my whole heart for wretched England bleeds. [Exit LADY JANE GREY.

Guil. My heart sinks in me, at her soft complaining; And ev'ry moving accent that she breathes Resolves my courage, slackens my tough nerves, And melts me down to infancy and tears.

Enter PEMBROKE.

Pem. Edward is dead; so said the great North

umberland,

As now he shot along by me in haste.

See, my Guilford!

My friend !

Guil. Ha! Pembroke !

[Speaking to him.

[Starting.

Pem. Wherefore dost thou start?

Why sits that wild disorder on thy visage,

Somewhat that looks like passions strange to thee, The paleness of surprise and ghastly fear!

Since I have known thee first, and call'd thee friend, I never saw thee so unlike thyself,

So chang'd upon a sudden.

Guil. How! so chang'd!

Pem. So to my eye thou seem'st.

Guil. The king is dead.

Pem. I learn'd it from thy father,

Just as I enter'd here. But say, could that,

A fate which ev'ry moment we expected,

Distract thy thought, or shock thy temper thus ?

Guil. Oh! Pembroke! 'tis in vain to hide from thee! For thou hast look'd into my artless bosom, And seen at once the hurry of my soul. Tis true thy coming struck me with surprise. I have a thought-But wherefore said I one? I have a thousand thoughts all up in arms.

Pem. Thou know'st thou art so dear, so sacred to

me,

That I can never think thee an offender.

If it were so, that I indeed must judge thee,
I should take part with thee against myself,
And call thy fault a virtue.

Guil. But suppose

The thought were somewhat that concern'd our love. Pem. Speak then, and ease the doubts that shock my soul.

Guil. Suppose thy Guilford's better stars prevail, And crown his love

Pem. Say not, suppose: 'tis done.
Thou hast prevaricated with thy friend,
By under-hand contrivances undone me :
And while my open nature trusted in thee,
Thou hast stept in between me and my hopes,
And ravish'd from me all my soul held dear.
Thou hast betray'd me-

Guil. How! betray'd thee, Pembroke?
Pem. Yes, falsely, like a traitor.
Guil. Have a care,

Pem. But think not I will bear it long.

My injur'd honour,.

Impatient of the wrong, calls for revenge;

And tho' I love thee

Guil. Hear me yet,

-fondly

And Pembroke shall acquit me to himself.

Hear, while I tell how fortune dealt between us,
And gave the yielding beauty to my arms-

Pem. What, hear it! Stand and listen to thy triumph!

Thou think'st me tame indeed. No, hold, I charge thee,

Lest I forget that ever we were friends,

Lest, in the rage of disappointed love,

I rush at once, and tear thee for thy falsehood.

Guil. Thou warn'st me well; and I were rash as thou art,

To trust the secret sum of all my happiness
With one not master of himself.

Farewell. [Going.

Pem. Ha! art thou going? Think not thus to part, Nor leave me on the wreck of this incertainty. Guil. What wouldst thou further?

Pem. Tell it to me all;

Say thou art marry'd, say thou hast possess'd her,
And rioted in vast excess of bliss;

That I may curse myself, and thee, and her.
Come, tell me how thou didst supplant thy friend?
How didst thou look with that betraying face,
And smiling plot my ruin ?

Guil. Give me way.

When thou art better temper'd, I may tell thee,
And vindicate at full my love and friendship.

Pem. No, I will have it now, this moment from

thee,

Or drag the secret out from thy false heart.

Guil. Away, thou madman! I would talk to winds, And reason with the rude tempestuous surge, Sooner than hold discourse with rage like thine. Pem. Tell it, or by my injur'd love I swear,

[Laying his Hand upon his Sword. I'll stab the lurking treason in thy heart. Guil. Ha! stay thee there; nor let thy frantic hand [Stopping him. Unsheath thy weapon. If the sword be drawn, If once we meet on terms like those, farewell To ev'ry thought of friendship; one must fall. Pem. Curse on thy friendship! I would break the band.

Guil. That as you please-Beside, this place is sa

cred,

And must not be profan'd with brawls and outrage. You know I dare be found on any summons.

Pem. 'Tis well. My vengeance shall not loiter long.

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