Behold my arm, thus blasted, dry, and wither'd,
(Pulling up his sleeve.)
Shrunk like a foul abortion, and decay'd,
Like some untimely product of the seasons,
Robb'd of its properties of strength and office!
This is the sorcery of Edward's wife,
Who, in conjunction with that harlot Shore,
And other like confederate midnight hags,
By force of potent spells, of bloody characters,
And conjurations horrible to hear,

Call flends 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. 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.

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, the Lords following. Manet LORD HASTINGS, SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE, and Guards.

Has. 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. You heard the duke's commands to me were absoluté,

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. Yes, Rateliffe, 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.

Alic. 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 comest 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

[sion!

But I have murder'd thee;-Oh, I could tell thee—
Has. Speak, and give ease to thy conflicting pas
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 hurried soul: all claim attention,
And yet not one is heard. Oh! speak, and leave
For I have business would employ an age, [me,
And but a minute's time to get it done in. [on,

Alic. That-that's my grief: 'tis I that urge thee
Thus hunt thee to the toil, sweep thee from earth,
And drive thee down this precipice of fate. [hand
Has. Thy reason is grown wild. Could thy weak
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 knew 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 thine 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.

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 diedI would have met it for thee.

[award: Has. Now mark! and tremble at heav'n's just 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

sorrows.

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
(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,
Thy spotless beauty, innocence, and youth,
Dishonour'd, blasted, and betray'd by me.
Alic. And does thy heart relent for my undoing?
Oh! that inhuman Gloster could be mov'd,
But half so easily as I can pardon.

(Catesby enters, and whispers Ratcliffe.)

Alic. Insatiate, savage monster! Is a moment So tedious to thy malice? Oh, repay him, Thou great Avenger! Give him blood for blood: Guilt haunt him! fiends pursue him! lightnings That he may know how terrible it is [blast him!! To want that moment he denies thee now.

Has. This rage is all in vain, that tears thy bosom: Retire, I beg thee;

[me;

To see thee thus, thou know'st not how it wounds
Thy agonies are added to my own,
And make the burden more than 1 can bear.
Farewell:-good angels visit thy afflictions,
And bring thee peace and comfort from above.

[Exit. Alic. Oh! stab me to the heart, some pitying Now strike me dead. [hand,

Re-enter LORD HASTINGS.

Has. One thing I had forgot;

I charge thee, by our present common miseries;
By our past loves, if they have yet a name;
By all thy hopes of peace here and hereafter,
Let not the rancour of thy hate pursue

The innocence of thy unhappy friend; [wrong her,
Thou know'st who 'tis I mean: Oh! shouldst thou
Just heav'n shall double all thy woes upon thee,
And make 'em know no end;-remember this,
As the last warning of a dying man."
Farewell, for ever! (The Guards carry Hastings off.)
Alic. For ever! Oh, for ever!

Oh, who can bear to be a wretch for ever?
My rival, too! His last thoughts hung on her,
And, as he parted, left a blessing for her?
Shall she be blest, and I be curst, for ever?
No; since her fatal beauty was the cause
Of all my suff'rings, let her share my pains;
Let her, like me, of ev'ry joy forlorn,"
Devote the hour when such a wretch was born;
Cast ev'ry good, and ev'ry hope behind:
Detest the works of nature, loathe mankind:
Like me, with cries distracted, fill the air,
Tear her poor bosom, rend her frantic hair,
And prove the torment of the last despair.

ACT V.

SCENE L-A Street.

Enter BELMOUR and DUMONT.

Dum. You saw her, then?

Bel. I met her, as returning,

In solemn penance from the public cross.
Before her, certain rascal officers,

Slaves in authority, the knaves of justice,
Proclaim'd the tyrant Gloster's cruel orders.
Around her, numberless, the rabble flow'd,
Should'ring each other, crowding for a view,
Gaping and gazing, taunting and reviling;
Some pitying,-but those, alas! how few!
The most, such iron hearts we are, and such
The base barbarity of human kind,

[Exit.

With insolence and lewd reproach pursu'd her, Hooting and railing, and with villainous hands Gath'ring the filth from out the common ways, To hurl upon her head.

Dum. Inhuman dogs! How did she bear it?

Bel. With the gentlest patience; Submissive, sad, and lowly was her look; A burning taper in her hand she bore, And on her shoulders, carelessly confus'd, With loose neglect, her lovely tresses hung; Upon her cheek a faintish blush was spread; Feeble she seem'd, and sorely smit with pain; While barefoot as she trod the flinty pavement, Her footsteps all along were mark'd with blood. Yet, silent still she pass'd, and unrepining; Her streaming eyes bent ever on the earth, Except when in some bitter pang of sorrow, To heav'n she seem'd in fervent zeal to raise, And beg that mercy man deny'd her here. Dum. When was this piteous sight? Bel. These last two days,

You know my care was wholly bent on you,
To find the happy means of your deliverance;
Which, but for Hastings' death, I had not gain'd.
During that time, although I have not seen her,
Yet divers trusty messengers I've sent,
To wait about, and watch a fit convenience
To give her some relief, but all in vain;
A churlish guard attends upon her steps,
Who menace those with death, that bring her com-
And drive all succour from her.
Dum. Let 'em threaten;

[fort,

Let proud oppression prove its flercest malice;
So heav'n befriend my soul, as here I vow
To give her help, and share one fortune with her.
Bel. Mean you to see her thus, in your own form?
Dum. I do.

Bel. And have you thought upon the consequence?
Dum. What is there I should fear?

Bel. Have you examin'd

Into your inmost heart, and try'd at leisure
The sev'ral secret springs that move the passions?
Has mercy fix'd her empire there so sure,
That wrath and vengeance never may return?
Can you resume a husband's name, and bid
That wakeful dragon, fierce resentment, sleep?

Dum. O thou hast set my busy brain at work,
And now she musters up a train of images,
Which, to preserve my peace, I had cast aside,
And sunk in deep oblivion.-Oh, that form!
That angel face on which my dotage hung!
How I have gaz'd upon her, till my soul
With very eagerness went forth towards her,
And issu'd at my eyes.-Was there a gem
Which the sun ripens in the Indian mine,
Or the rich bosom of the ocean yields?
What was there art could make, or wealth could
Which I have left unsought to deck her beauty?
What could her king do more?-And yet she fled.
Bel. Away with that sad fancy.

Dum. Oh, that day!

The thought of it must live for ever with me.

[buy,

I met her, Belmour, when the royal spoiler
Bore her in triumph from my widow'd home!
Within his chariot, by his side she sat,
And listen'd to his talk with downward looks,
'Till sudden as she chane'd aside to glance,
Her eyes encounter'd mine:-Oh! then, my friend!
Oh! who can paint my grief, and her amazement?
As at the stroke of death, twice turn'd she pale;
And twice a burning crimson blush'd all o'er her;
Then, with a shriek heart-wounding, loud she cry'd,
While down her cheeks two gushing torrents ran,
Fast falling on her hands, which thus she wrung :—
Mov'd at her grief, the tyrant ravisher,
With courteous action woo'd her oft to turn;
Earnest he seem'd to plead, but all in vain;
Ev'n to the last she bent her sight towards me,
And follow'd me,-till I had lost myself.

Bel. Alas, for pity! Oh, those speaking tears! Could they be false? Did she not suffer with you? For though the king by force possess'd her person, Her unconsenting heart dwelt still with you. If all her former woes were not enough, Look on her now; behold her where she wanders, Hunted to death, distress'd on every side, With no one hand to help; and tell me then, If ever misery were known like hers?

Dum. And can she bear it? Can that delicate
Endure the beating of a storm so rude? [frame
Can she, for whom the various seasons chang'd
To court her appetite and crown her board,
For whom the foreign vintages were press'd,
For whom the merchant spread his silken stores,
Can she-

Entreat for bread, and want the needful raiment
To wrap her shiv'ring bosom from the weather?
When she was mine, no care came ever nigh her;
I thought the gentlest breeze that wakes the spring,
Too rough to breathe upon her; cheerfulness
Danc'd all the day before her, and at night
Soft slumbers waited on her downy pillow:-
Now, sad and shelterless, perhaps she lies, (rain
Where piercing winds blow sharp, and the chill
Drops from some pent-house on her wretched head,
Drenches her locks, and kills her with the cold.
It is too much:-hence with her past offences,
They are aton'd at full.-Why stay we, then?
Oh! let us haste, my friend, and find her out.

Bel. Somewhere about this quarter of the town,
I hear the poor abandon'd creature lingers:
Her guard, though set with strictest watch to keep
All food and friendship from her, yet permit her
To wander in the streets, there choose her bed,
And rest her head on what cold stone she pleases.
Dum. Here then let us divide; each in his round
To search her sorrows out; whose hap it is
First to behold her, this way let him lead
Her fainting steps, and meet we here together.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.-A Street. Enter JANE SHORE, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed.

Jane S. Yet, yet endure, nor murmur, O my soul! For are not thy transgressions great and numberDo they not cover thee like rising floods, [less? And press thee like a weight of waters down? Wait then with patience, till the circling hours Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest, And lay thee down in death.

'Tis I, her friend, the partner of her heart,
Wait at the door and beg-
Serv. 'Tis all in vain:-

Go hence, and howl to those that will regard you.
(Shuts the door.)/

Jane S. It was not always thus: the time has been,

When this unfriendly door, that bars my passage,
Flew wide, and almost leap'd from off its hinges,
To give me entrance here: when this good house
Has pour'd forth all its dwellers to receive me;
When my approaches made a little holiday,
And every face was dress'd in smiles to meet me;
But now 'tis otherwise; and those who bless'd me,
Now curse me to my face. Why should I wander,
Stray further on, for I can die ev'n here?

(She sits down.) Enter ALICIA, in disorder. Alic. What wretch art thou, whose misery and baseness

Hangs on my door: whose hateful whine of woe
Breaks in upon my sorrows, and distracts
My jarring senses with thy beggar's cry?

Jane S. A very beggar, and a wretch, indeed;
One driv'n by strong calamity to seek
For succours here: one perishing for want,
Whose hunger has not tasted food these three
And humbly asks, for charity's dear sake, [days;
A draught of water and a little bread.

(it,

Alic. And dost thou come to me, to me for bread? I know thee not.-Go; hunt for it abroad, Where wanton hands upon the earth have scatter'd Or cast it on the waters.-Mark the eagle, And hungry vulture, where they wind the prey; Watch where the ravens of the valley feed, And seek thy food with them:-I know thee not. Jane S. (Rises.) And yet, there was a time, when my Alicia

Has thought unhappy Shore her dearest blessing, And mourn'd the live-long day she pass'd without Inclining fondly to me she has sworn, [me; She lov'd me more than all the world besides. Alic. Ha! say'st thou ?-Let me look upon thee well;

'Tis true;-I know thee now;-a mischief on thee! Thou art that fatal fair, that cursed she, [me; That set my brain a madd'ning. Thou hast robb'd Thou hast undone me.-Murder! O, my Hastings! See his pale bloody head shoots glaring by me! Avaunt! and come not near me.

Jane S. To thy hand

Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind,
And softens into silence. Does revenge
And malice then grow weary, and forsake me?
My guard, too, that observ'd me still so close,
Tire in the task of their inhuman office,
And loiter far behind. Alas! I faint,
My spirits fail at once.-This is the door
Of my Alicia;-blessed opportunity!
I'll steal a little succour from her goodness,
Now, while no eye observe me. (She knocks.)
Enter Servant.

Is your lady,
My gentle friend, at home! Oh! bring me to her.
(Going in.)
Serv. Hold, mistress, whither would you?
(Throwing her back.)
Jane S. Do you not know me?
Serv. I know you well, and know my orders too:
You must not enter here.

Jane S. Tell my Alicia, 'tis I would see her.
Serv. She is ill at ease, and will admit no visitor.
Jane S. But tell her

Nor do I ask it back; allow me but
The smallest pittance, give me but to eat,
Lest I fall down and perish here before thee.
Alic. Nay, tell not me! Where is thy king, thy
And all the cringing train of courtiers, (Edward,
That bent the knee before thee?

Jane S. O for mercy!

Alic. Mercy! I know it not!-for I am miserable. I'll give thee Misery, for here she dwells; This is her house, where the sun never dawns; The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof, Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom, And nought is heard but wailings and lamentings. Hark! something cracks above! it shakes! it totters,

And see the nodding ruin falls to crush me! 'Tis fall'n, 'tis here! I felt it on my brain! Let her take my counsel:

[heart,

Why shouldst thou be a wretch? Stab, tear thy And rid thyself of this detested being;

I wo' not linger long behind thee here.

A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me;

LADY RODOLPHA LUMBERCOURT. CONSTANTIA.

BETTY HINT.

SERVANTS.

Nanny. Why, so the housekeeper thinks, too. Betty. Nay, know the father, the man that ruined her.

Nanny. The deuse you do!

Betty. As sure as you are alive, Nanny; or I am greatly deceived; and yet I can't be deceived neither. Was not that the cook that came galloping so hard over the common just now?

Nanny. The same: how very hard he galloped! he has been but three quarters of an hour, he says, coming from Hyde-park Corner.

Betty. And what time will the family be down? Nanny. He has orders to have dinner ready by five; there are to be lawyers, and a great deal of company here: he fancies there is to be a private wedding to-night, between our young Master Charles, and Lord Lumbercourt's daughter, the Scotch lady; who, he says, is just come post from Bath, in order to be married to him.