good lady,

The offer of your hand in marriage to her,
With your propos'd divorce from that
That honour'd, injur'd lady you sent hence,
She has disclos'd to me.

Count. Which you approve not:

So speaks the frowning prelude of your brow.
Aust. Approve not! Did I not protest against it,
With the bold fervour of enkindled zeal,
I were the pander of a love like incest,
Betrayer of my trust, my function's shame,
And thy eternal soul's worst enemy.

Count. Yet let not zeal, good man, devour thy reason; Hear first, and then determine. Well you know My bope of heirs has perish'd with my son; Since now full sev'nteen years, th' unfruitful curse Has fall'n upon Hortensia. Are these signs, (Tremendous signs, that startle nature's order!) Graves casting up their sleepers, earth convuls'd, Meteors that glare, my children's timeless deaths, Obscure to thee alone?-I have found the cause. There is no crime our holy church abhors, Not one high heav'n more strongly interdicts, Than that commixture, by the marriage rite, Of blood too near, as mine is to Hortensia.

Aust. Too near of blood! oh, specious mockery! Where have these doubts been buried twenty years? Why wake they now? And am I closetted To sanction them? Take back your hasty words, That call'd me wise or virtuous; while you offer Such shallow fictions to insult my sense, And strive to win me to a villain's office.

Count. The virtue of our churchmen, like our wives, Should be obedient meekness. Proud resistance, Bandying high looks, a port erect and bold, Are from the canon of your order, priest. Learn this (for here will I be teacher, Austin): Our temp'ral blood must not be stirr'd thus rudely: A front that taunts, a scanning, scornful brow, Are silent menaces, and blows unstruck.

Aust. Not so, my lord; mine is no priestly pride :

When I put off the habit of the world,
I had lost all that made it dear to me,

And shook off, to my best, its heat and passions.
But can I hold in horror this ill deed,
And dress my brow in false, approving smiles?
No: could I carry lightning in my eye,
Or roll a voice like thunder in your ears,
So should I suit my utterance to my thoughts,
And act as fits my sacred ministry.

Count. O father! did you know the conflict here,
How love and conscience are at war within me,
Most sure you would not treat my grief thus harshly.
I call the saints to witness, were I master,
To wive the perfect model of my wish,
For virtue and all female loveliness,
I would not rove to an ideal form,

But beg of heav'n another like Hortensia.-
Yet we must part.

Aust. And think you to excuse
A meditated wrong to excellence,
By giving it acknowledgment and praise?
Rather pretend insensibility;

Feign that thou dost not see like other men;
So may abhorrence be exchang'd for wonder,
Or men from cursing fall to pity thee.

Count. You strive in vain; no pow'r on earth can

shake me.

I grant my present purpose seems severe;
Yet are there means to smooth severity,
Which you, and only you, can best apply.

Aust. Oh no! the means hang there, there by your

side:

Enwring your fingers in her flowing hair,
And with that weapon drink her heart's best blood;
So shall you kill her, but not cruelly,
Compar'd to this delib'rate, ling'ring murder.

Count. Away with this perverseness! Get thee to her;
Tell her my heart is hers; here, deep engrav'd,
In characters indelible, shall rest

The sense of her perfections. Why I leave her

Is not from cloy'd or fickle appetite
(For infinite is still her pow'r to charm),
But heav'n will have it so.

Aust. Oh, name not heav'n!

'Tis too profane abuse.

Count. Win her consent

(I know thy sway is boundless o'er her will),
Then join my hand to blooming Isabel.
Thus will you do to all most worthy service;
The curse, averted thus, shall pass from Narbonne;
My house again may flourish; and proud Godfrey,
Who now disputes, will ratify my title,
Pleas'd with the rich succession to his heirs.

Aust. Has passion drown'd all sense, all memory?
She was affianc'd to your son, young Edmund.
Count. She never lov'd my son. Our importunity
Won her consent, but not her heart, to Edmund.
Aust. Did not that speak her soul pre-occupied?
Some undivulg'd and deep-felt preference?

Count. Ha! thou hast rous'd a thought: this Theo

dore!

(Dull that I was not to perceive it sooner!)
He is her paramour! by heav'n, she loves him!
Her coldness to my son, her few tears for him,
Her flight, this peasant's aiding her; all, all,
Make it unquestionable; but he dies.

Aust. Astonishment! What does thy frenzy mean?
Count. I thank thee, priest! thou serv'st me 'gainst

thy will.

That slave is in my pow'r. Come, follow me.
Thou shalt behold the minion's heart torn out;
Then to his mistress bear the trembling present.

[Exeunt. Enter ADELAIDE, followed by JAQUELINE.

Jaq. Where do you fly? Heav'ns! have you lost all

sense?

Adel. Oh, would I had; for then I should not feel;

But I have sense enough to know I'm wretched,
To see the full extent of misery,

Yet not enough to teach me how to bear it.

Jaq. I did not think your gentleness of nature Could rise to such extremes.

Adel. Am I not tame?

What are these tears, this wild, dishevell'd hair?
Are these fit signs for such despair as mine?
Women will weep for trifles, baubles, nothing;
For very frowardness will weep as I do:
A spirit rightly touch'd would pierce the air,
Call down invisible legions to his aid,
Kindle the elements. But all is calm;
No thunder rolls, no warning voice is heard,
To tell my frantic father this black deed
Will sink him down to infinite perdition.

Jaq. Rest satisfied he cannot be so cruel (Rash as he is) to shed the innocent blood Of a defenceless, unoffending youth.

Adel. He cannot be so cruel? Earth and heav'n!

Did I not see the dreadful preparations?
Pale and confounded, dress the fatal block?
The slaves, who tremble at my father's nod,
But I will fly, fall prostrate at his feet;
If nature is not quite extinguish'd in him,
My pray'rs, my tears, my anguish, sure will move him.
Jaq. Move him indeed! but to redoubled fury:

He dooms him dead for loving Isabel;
Think, will it quench the fever of his rage,
To find he durst aspire to charm his daughter?
Adel. Did I hear right? for loving Isabel?
I knew not that before. Does he then love her?
Jaq. Nothing I heard distinctly; wild confusion
Runs through the castle: ev'ry busy fool,
All ignoraut alike, tells diff'rent tales.

Adel. Away, it cannot be. I know his truth.
Oh! I despise myself, that for a moment
(Pardon me, love!) could suffer mean suspicion
Usurp the seat of gen'rous confidence.
Think all alike unjust, my Theodore,

When ev'n thy Adelaide could join to wrong thee!

Jaq. Yet be advis'd

Adel. Oh, leave me to my grief.

To whom shall I complain? He but preserv'd
My life a little space, to make me feel

Th' extremes of joy and sorrow. Ere we met,
My heart was calin as the unconscious babe.

Enter FABIAN.

Fab. Madam, my lord comes this way, and commands To clear these chambers; what he meditates 'Tis fit indeed were private. My old age Has liv'd too long, to see my master's shame. Adel. His shame, eternal shame! Oh, more than cruel! How shall I smother it? Fabian, what means he? My father-him I speak of this young stranger