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one whom we hope may yet return to virtue, when compared to that; I would not be into heaven, and you, the only witnesses of this volved in the guilt of it for all the world! action, appeal whether I do any thing un- Lucy. Nor I, heaven knows. Therefore let becoming my sex and character. us clear ourselves, by doing all that's in our True. Earth must approve the deed, and power to prevent it. I have just thought of heaven, I doubt not, will reward it. a way that to me seems probable. Will you

Maria. If heaven succeeds it, I am well re-join with me to detect this cursed design? warded. A virgin's fame is sullied by sus- Blunt. With all my heart. He who knows picion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as this of a murder intended to be committed, and must be a secret from my father and the world, does not discover it, in the eye of the law for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be so to and reason, is a murderer.

him.

SCENE II-A Room in MILLWOOD's House.

Enter Lucy and BLUNT.

.

[Exeunt. Lucy. Let us lose no time. I'll acquaint
You with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt.
SCENE III-A Walk some distance from a
Country-seat.
Enter BARNWELL.

Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millwood's conduct now? Iler artifice in making him rob his master at first, and the various Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of stratagems by which she has obliged him to the day. Either the sun has slipped behind a continue that course, astonish even me, who cloud, or journeys down the west of heaven know her so well. Being called by his master with more than common speed, to avoid the to make up his accounts, he was forced to sight of what I am doomed to act. Since I quit his house and service, and wisely flies to set forth on this accursed design, where'er I Millwood for relief and entertainment, tread, methinks the solid earth trembles be· Blunt. How did she receive him?. neath my feet. Murder my uncle! my father's Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered only brother, and since his death, has been to what he meant, was astonished at his impu-me a father; that took me up an infant and dence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar an orphan, reared me with tenderest care, and to herself, swore so heartily that she never still indulged me with most paternal fondness! saw him before, that she put me out of coun- Yet here I stand his destined murderer.—I tenance.

Blunt, That's much, indeed! But how did Barnwell behave?,

ever shut

stiffen with horror at my own impiety-Tis yet unperformed-What if I quit my bloody purpose and fly the place? [Going, then stops] Lucy. He grieved; and, at length, enraged -But whither, oh, whither shall I fly? My at this barbarous treatment, was preparing to Master's once friendly doors are be gone; and making towards the door, showed against me; and without money, Millwood a sum of money, which he had brought from will never see me more; and she has got such his master's, the last he is ever likely to have firm possession of my heart, and governs there from thence. with such despotic sway, that life is not to be Blunt. But then, Millwoodendured without her. Ay, there's the cause Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, re- of all my sin and sorrow: 'tis more than love; turned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and it is the fever of the soul, and madness of dedissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and sire. In vain does nature, reason, conscience, swore 'twas meant in jest. The amorous youth all oppose it; the impetuous passion bears melted into tears, threw the money into her down all before it, and drives me on to lust, lap, and swore he had rather die than think to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience, feeble guide to virtue, thou only showest us when Blunt. Strange infatuation! we go astray, but wantest power to stop us Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. in our course! Ha! in yonder shady walk I Just then, when every passion with lawless see my uncle-He's alone-Now for my disanarchy prevailed, and reason was in the rag-guise. [Plucks out a Vizor]-This is his hour ing tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood, of private meditation. Thus daily he prepares prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise his soul for heaven, while I-But what have what I tremble but to think on. I to do with heaven?-Ha!, no struggles, conBlunt. I am amazed! What can it be? scienceLucy. You will be more so to hear-it is to attempt the life of his nearest relation, and best benefactor.

her false.

Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often heard him speak of, as a gentleman of a large estate, and fair character, in the country where he lives.

Hence, hence remorse, and ev'ry thought that's good;

The storm that lust began, must end in blood.

[Puts on the Vizor, draws a
Pistol, and exit.

SCENE IV.-A close Walk in a Wood.
Enter UNCLE.

Lucy. The same. She was no sooner possessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, de- Uncle. If I were superstitious, I should fear manded this horrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near some danger lurked unseen, or death were relation, whose blood must seal the dreadful nigh. A heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty My imagination is filled with ghastly forms of dreary graves, and bodies changed by death; Blunt. "Tis time the world were rid of such when the pale, lengthen'd visage attracts each a monster. But there is something so horrid weeping eye, and fills the musing soul at once in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing, with grief and horror, pity and aversion.

fears.

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will indulge the thought. The wise man pre

ACT IV.

pares himself for death by making it familiar SCENE I-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House.

to his mind. When strong reflections hold the mirror near, and the living in the dead behold their future self, how does each inordinate passion and desire cease, or sicken at

Enter MARIA, meeting TRUEMAN.
Maria. What news of Barnwell?
True. None; I have sought him with the

the view! The mind scarce moves! the blood, greatest diligence, but all in vain.
curding and chilled, creeps slowly through

Maria. Does my father yet suspect the cause

the veins; fixed, still, and motionless we stand, of his absence? so like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we True. All appeared so just and fair to him, are almost at present what we must be here- it is not possible he ever should. But his after; til curiosity awake the soul, and sets absence will no longer be concealed. Your it on inquiry. father is wise; and though he seems to hearken to the friendly excuses I would, make for Enter GEORGE BARNWELL, at a Distance. Barnwell, yet I am afraid he regards 'em only Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, as such, without suffering them to influence seen every day, yet never understood but by his jugment.

the incommunicative dead, what art thou? The extensive mind of man, that with a thought|

Enter THOROWGOOD and Lucy.

circles the earth's vast globe, sinks to the centre, Thorow. This woman here has given me a or ascends above the stars; that worlds exotic sad, and bating some circumstances, too probfinds, or thinks it finds, thy thick clouds at-able an account of Barnwell's defection. tempts to pass in vain; lost and bewildered in Lucy. I am sorry, sir, that my frank conthe horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more fession of my former unhappy course of life doubtful than before, of nothing certain but should cause you to suspect my truth on this

of labour lost.

[During this Speech, Barnwell some-
times presents the Pistol, and draws
it back again.

Barn. Oh, 'tis impossible!
[Throws down the Pistol. Uncle starts,
and attempts to draw his Sword.
Uncle. A man so
near me armed and

masked-
Barn. Nay, then there's no retreat.
[Plucks a Poignard from his Breast,
and stabs him.

occasion.

Thorow. It is not that; your confession has in it all the appearance of truth. Among many other particulars, she informs me that Barnwell has been influenced to break his trust, and wrong me, at several times, of considerable sums of money. Now, as I know this to be false, I would fain doubt the whole of her relation, too dreadful to be willingly believed.

Maria. Sir, your pardon; I find myself on a sudden so indisposed that I must retire. Poor, ruined Barnwell! Wretched, lost Maria? [Aside. Exit.

Uncle. Oh, I am slain! All gracious heaven, regard the prayer of thy dying servant; bless, with the choicest blessings, my dearest nephew; Thorow. How am I distressed on every forgive my murderer; and take my fleeting side! Pity for that unhappy youth, fear for the soul to endless mercy! life of a much valued friend-and then my [Barnwell throws off his Mask, runs child-the only joy and hope of my declining to him, and kneeling by him, raises life! Her melancholy increases hourly, and gives me painful apprehensions of her lossBarn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, mar- Oh, Trueman, this person informs me that fred uncle! lift up your dying eyes, and view your friend, at the instigation of an impious Your nephew in your murderer.-Oh, do not woman, is gone to rob and murder his venerlook so tenderly upon me-Let indignation able uncle.

him.

lighten from your eyes, and blast me ere you True. Oh, execrable deed! I'm blasted with de-By heaven, he weeps, in pity of my horror at the thought! s-Tears, tears for blood.-The murdered,

Lucy. This delay may ruin all.

in the agonies of death, weeps for his mur- Thorow. What to do or think I know not. derer-Oh, speak your pious purpose; pro- That he ever wronged me I know is false; nounce your pardon then, and take me with the rest may be so too; there's all my hope. you-He would, but cannot.-Oh, why with True. Trust not to that; rather suppose all such fond affection do you press my murder- true, than lose a moment's time. Even now ing hand?[Uncle sighs, and dies] Life, the horrid deed may be doing-dreadful imathat hovered on his lips but till he had sealed gination!-or it may be done, and we be vainmy pardon, in that sigh expired! He's gone ly debating on the means to prevent what is for ever-and oh! I follow-[Swoons away already past.

upon the dead Body] Do I still breathe, and Thorow. This earnestness convinces me that taint with my infectious breath the wholesome he knows more than he has yet discovered. air? Let heaven from its high throne, in jus- What, ho! without there, who waits? tice or in mercy, now look down on that

dear, murdered saint, and me the murderer,

Enter a Servant.

and if his vengeance spares, let pity strike, Order the groom to saddle the swiftest horse, and end my wretched being.-Murder the and prepare to set out with speed; an affair worst of crimes, and parricide the worst of of life and death demands his diligence. [Exit murders, and this the worst of parricides. Servant] For you, whose behaviour on this Oh may it ever stand alone accurst,

occasion I have no time to commend as it

The last of murders, as it is the worst. [Exit. deserves, I must engage your further assist

ance. Return, and observe this Millwood till to murder your uncle, rob him of life, na1 come. I have your directions, and will fol- ture's first, last, dear prerogative, after which low you as soon as possible [Exit Lucy] there's no injury, then fear to take, what he Trueman, you I am sure will not be idle on no longer wanted, and bring to me your pethis occasion. [Exit. nury and guilt. Do you think I'll hazard my True. Ile only who is a friend, can judge reputation, nay my life, to entertain you? of my distress. Barn. Oh, Millwood!-this from thee?But I have done-If you if me dead, then are you happy; for, ob, 'tis sure my grief will quickly end me.

SCENE IL-MILLWOOD's House.

Enter MILLWOOD.

[Exit.

hate me,

you

wish

Mill. In this madness he will discover all,

Mill. I wish I knew the event of his design. The attempt without success would ruin him. and involve me in his ruin. We are on a -Well, what have I to apprehend from that? precipice, from whence there's no retreat for I fear too much. The mischief being only both. Then to preserve myself-[Pauses]intended, his friends, through pity of his youth, There is no other way. Tis dreadful; but turn all their rage on me. I should have reflection comes too late when danger's pressthought of that before. Suppose the deed done; ing, and there's no room for choice. It must then and then only I shall be secure-Or what be done. [Aside. Rings a Bell. if he returns without attempting it at all

Enter BARNWELL, bloody,

Enter a Servant.

Fetch me an officer, and seize this villain. But he is here, and I have done him wrong. He has confess'd himself a murderer. Should His bloody hands show he has done the deed, I let him escape, I might justly be thought as but show he wants the prudence to conceal it. bad as he. [Exit Servant. Barn. Where shall I hide me? Whither Barn. Oh, Millwood! sure you do not, you shall I fly to avoid the swift unerring hand of cannot mean it. Stop the messenger; upon justice? my knees, I beg you'd call him back. 'Tis fit Mill. Dismiss your fears; though thousands I die, indeed, but not by you. I will this inhad pursued you to the door, yet being en- stant throw myself into the hands of justice, tered here, you are as safe as innocence. indeed I will; for death is all I wish. But have a cavern by art so cunningly contrived, thy ingratitude so tears my wounded soul, 'tis that the piercing eyes of jealousy and revenge worse ten thousand times than death with may search in vain, nor find the entrance to torture.

the safe retreat. There will I hide you, if Mill. Call it what you will; I am willing any danger's near. to live, and live secure, which nothing but your death can warrant.

Barn. Oh, hide me-from myself, if it be possible; for while I bear my conscience in Barn. If there be a pitch of wickedness that my bosom, though I were hid where man's sets the author beyond the reach of vengeance, eye never saw, nor light ere dawned, 'twere you must be secure.

But what remains for

all in vain. For, oh, that innate, that impar-me, but a dismal dungeon, hard galling fetters, tial judge, will try, convict, and sentence me an awful trial, and an ignominious death, justly for murder, and execute me with never-end- to fall, unpitied and abhorred? This I could ing torments. Behold these hands all crim- bear, nay wish not to avoid, had it but come soned o'er with my dear uncle's blood. Here's from any hand but thine. a sight to make a statue start with horror, or turn a living man into a statue!

Mill. Ridiculous! Then it seems you are afraid of your own shadow, or what is less than a shadow, your conscience.

Barn. Though to man unknown I did the accursed act, what can hide me from heaven's all-seeing eye?

Enter BLUNT, Officer, and Attendants.

Mill. Heaven defend me! Conceal a murderer! Here, sir, take this youth into your custody, I accuse him of murder, and will appear to make good my charge.

[They seize him, Barn. To whom, of what, or how shall I Mill. No more of this stuff! What advan- complain? I'll not accuse her. The band of tage have you made by his death: or what heaven is in it, and this the punishment of advantage may yet be made of it? Did you lust and parricide.

Be warn'd, ye youths, who see my

despair;

sad

Avoid lewd women, false as they are fair
By my example learn to shun my fate,
(How wretched is the man who's wise to

late!)

Ere innocence, and fame, and life be lost, Here 'purchase wisdom cheaply at my cost [Exeunt Barnwell, Officer, and

secure the keys of his treasure, which no doubt
were about him? What gold, what jewels,
or what else of value have you brought me?
Barn. Think you I added sacrilege to mur-
der! Oh, had you seen him as his life flowed
from him in a crimson flood, and heard him
praying for me by the double name of nephew
and of murderer; (alas, alas, he knew not then
that his nephew was his murderer!) how would
you have wished, as I did, though you had a
thousand years of life to come, to have given
them all to have lengthened his one hour. But at such a time?
being dead, I fled the sight of what my hands
had done; nor could I, to have gained the
empire of the world, have violated by theft
his sacred corpse.

Mill. VVhining, preposterous, canting villain!

Attendants.

Mill. Where's Lucy? Why is she absent

Blunt. Would I had been so too! Lucy will soon be here; and I hope to thy confu sion, thou devil!

Mill. Insolent! This to me!
Blunt. The worst that we know of the

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devil is, that he first seduces to
betrays to punishment.

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sin, and then Thorow. I hear you. Pray go on, [Exit Blunt. Mill. I have been informed he had a violent Mill. They disapprove of my conduct then. passion for her, and she for him; but till now My ruin is resolved. I see my danger, but I always thought it innocent. I know her scora both it and them. I was not born to poor, and given to expensive pleasures. Now, fall by such weak instruments. [Going, who can tell but she may have influenced the amorous youth to commit this murder, to supply her extravagancies. It must be so. I now Thorow. Where is the scandal of her own recollect a thousand circumstances that con sex, and curse of ours? firm it. I'll have her, and a man-servant whom

Enter THOROWGOOD.

Thorow. Millwood!

tely.

Mill. What means this insolence? Whom I suspect as an accomplice, secured immediado you seek for? [Offers to go. Thorow. Madam, you pass not this way. I see your design, but shall protect them from your malice.

Mill. Well, you have found her then, I am Millwood!

Thorow. Then you are the most impious Es wretch that e'er the sun beheld!

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Mill. I hope you will not use your influence, and the credit of your name, to screen Mill. From your appearance I should have such guilty wretches. Consider, sir, the wickexpected wisdom and moderation: but your edness of persuading a thoughtless youth to manners belie your aspect. What is your such a crime!

this business. here? I know you not.

T. N thou

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Thorow. I do-and of betraying him when

Thorow. Hereafter you may know me bet-it was done. ter. I am Barnwell's master.

Mill. That which you call betraying him, nay convince you of my innocence. She who loves him, though she contrived the murder, would never have delivered him into the hands of justice, as I, struck with horror at his crimes, have done.

Mill. Then you are master to a villain; lo which, I think, is not much to your credit. Thorow. Had he been as much above thy arts, as my credit is superior to thy malice, I need not have blushed to own him. Mill. My arts! I don't understand you, sir. Thorow. How should an unexperienced If he has done amiss, what's that to me? Was youth escape her snares? Even I, that with dbe my servant, or yours? You should have just prejudice came prepared, had by her artde taught him better. ful story been deceived, but that my strong Thorow. Why should I wonder to find such conviction of her guilt makes even a doubt uncommon impudence in one arrived to such a impossible. [Aside] Those whom subtilely you height of wickedness? Know, sorceress, I'm not would accuse, you know are your accusers; ignorant of any of the arts by which you first and, which proves unanswerably their innoed deceived the unwary youth. I know how, step cence and your guilt, they accused you before by step, you've led him on, reluctant and un- the deed was done, and did all that was in willing, from crime to crime, to this last horrid their power to prevent it. att, which you contrived, and by your cursed Mill. Sir, your are very hard to be copu, wiles even forced him to commit. vinced; but I have a proof, which, when pra Mill. Ha! Lucy has got the advantage, and duced, will silence all objection. [Exit Millworld baccused me first. Unless I can turn the accusation, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am Enter LUCY, TRUEMAN, BLUNT, Officers, Oh, [Aside. Lucy. Gentlemen, pray place yourselven, Thorow. Had I known your cruel design some on one side of that door, and some sooner, it had been prevented. To see you the other; watch her entrance, and act as yony punished, as the law directs, is all that now prudence shall direct you. This way; [7 remains. Poor satisfaction! For he, innocent Thorowgood] and note her behaviour; I have as he is, compared to you, must suffer too. observed her; she's driven to the last extremMill. I find, sir, we are both unhappy in ity, and is forming some desperate resoluOur servants. I was surprised at such ill treat- tion. I guess at her design.

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ment without cause, from a gentleman of

secures her.

ay

rds

`ray

Four appearance, and therefore too hastily re- Re-enter MILLWOOD with a Pistol, TRUEMAN turned it, for which I ask your pardon. I now perceive you have been so far imposed. on, as to think me engaged in a former correspondence with your servant, and some way or other accessary to his undoing.

Thorow. I charge you as the cause, the

True. Here thy power of doing mischief ends, deceitful, cruel, bloody woman!

Mill. Fool, hypocrite, villain, man! Thou canst not call me that.

True. To call thee woman were to wrong sole cause of all his guilt, and all his suffer- thy sex, thou devil!

being, of all he now endures, and must endure, Mill. That imaginary being is an emblem till a

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a violent and shameful death shall put a of thy cursed sex collected. A mirror, wheredreadful period to his life and miseries together. in each particular man may see his own likeMill. "Tis very strange! But who's secure ness, and that of all mankind.

from scandal and detraction? So far from Thorow. Think not by aggravating the faults contributing to his ruin, I never spoke to him of others, to extenuate thy own, of which the till since this fatal accident, which I lament as abuse of such uncommon perfections of mind much as you. Tis true I have a servant, on whose and body is not the least.

account he hath of late frequented my house. Mill. If such I had, well may I curse your If she has abused my good opinion of her, am Ito barbarous sex, who robbed me of 'em ere I blame? Has not Barnwell done the same by you? knew their worth; then left me, too late, to

count their value by their loss.-Another, and| Thorow. These are the genuine signs of another spoiler came, and all my gain was true repentance; the only preparatory, the cerpoverty and reproach. My soul disdained, and tain way to everlasting peace.

yet disdains, dependence and contempt. Rich- Barn. What do I owe for all your genees, no matter by what means obtained, Irous kindness? But though I cannot, heaven saw secured the worst of men from both; I can and will reward you.

found it, therefore necessary to be rich, and Thorow. To see thee thus, is joy too great to that end I summoned all my arts. You for words. Farewell.-Heaven strengthen thee! call 'em wicked; be it so; they were such as-Farewell. my conversation with your sex had furnished me withal.

Thorow. Sure none but the worst of men conversed with thee!

Barn. Oh, sir, there's something I would say, if my sad swelling heart would give me leave. Thorow. Give it vent awhile, and try. Barn. I had a friend-'tis true I am un

Mill. Men of all degrees, and all profes- worthy-yet methinks your generous example sions, I have known, yet found no difference, might persuade. Could I not see him once, but in their several capacities; all were alike, before I go from whence there's no return? wicked to the utmost of their power. What Thorow. He's coming, and as much thy are your laws of which you make your boast, friend as ever. I will not anticipate his sorbut the fool's wisdom, and the coward's va- row; too soon he'll see the sad effects of this lour, the instrument and screen of all your contagious ruin. This torrent of domestic villanies? By them you punish in others what misery bears too hard upon me. I must reyou act yourselves, or would have acted, had tire, to indulge a weakness I find impossible you been in their circumstances. The judge, to overcome. [Aside] Much loved-and much who condemns the poor man for being a thief, lamented youth!-Farewell. - Heaven strengthhad been a thief himself had he been poor.-en thee!-Eternally farewell. Thus you go on deceiving and deceived, har- Barn. The best of masters, and of menrassing, plaguing, and destroying one another. Farewell. While I live let me not want your But women are your universal prey: prayers. Women, by whom you are, the source of

joy,

With cruel arts you labour to destroy:
A thousand ways our ruin you pursue,
Yet blame in us those arts first taught by

you..

Oh, may from hence each violated maid, By flattering, faithless,, barb'rous man betray'd,

Thorow. Thou shalt not. Thy peace being made with heaven, death is already vanquished. Bear a little longer the pains that attend this transitory life, and cease from pain fo rever.

[Exit.

Barn. Perhaps I shall. I find a power within, that bears my soul above the fears of death, and, spite of conscious shame and guilt, gives me a taste of pleasure more than mortal. Enter TRUEMAN.

When robb'd of innocence and virgin fame, ey From your destruction raise a nobler name, allTo avenge their sex' wrongs devote their mind, Barn. Trueman!-My friend, whom I so tia And future Millwood's prove to plague man-wished to see; yet, now he's here, I dare not [Exeunt. look upon him.

for

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son

kind.
ACT V.

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BARNWELL reading.

pas

[Weeps.

True. Oh, Barnwell, Barnwell! Barn. Mercy! mercy! gracious heaven! For death, but not for this was I prepared.

True. What have I suffered since I saw thee last!-What pain has absence given me! -But oh, to see thee thus!

Enter THOROWGOOD, at a Distance. Thorow. There see the bitter fruits of Barn. I know it is dreadful! I feel the ansion's detested reign, and sensual appetite in-guish of thy generous soul:-But I was born, dulged: severe reflections, penitence, and tears. to murder all who love me. [Both weep,

Barn. My honoured, injured master, whose True. I come not to reproach you; I thought goodness has covered me a thousand times to bring you comfort. Oh, had you trusted with shame, forgive this last unwilling disre- me when first the fair seducer tempted you spect. Indeed I saw you not. all might have been prevented.

Thorow. 'Tis well; I hope you are better Barn. Alas, thou knowest not what a wretch employed in viewing of yourself; your jour- I've been. Breach of friendship was my first ney's long, your time for preparation almost and least offence. So far was I lost to goodspent. I sent a reverend divine to teach you ness, so devoted to the author of my ruin, to improve it, and should be glad to hear of that had she insisted on my murdering theeI think I should have done it.

his success.

True. Pr'ythee aggravate thy faults no more. Barn. I think I should! Thus good and ge nerous as you are, I should have murdered you!

Barn. The word of truth, which he recommended for my constant companion in this my sad retirement, has at length removed the doubts I laboured under. From thence I have learned the infinite extent of heavenly mercy. True. We have not yet embraced, and may How shall I describe my present state of mind? be interrupted. Come to my arms.

I hope in doubt, and trembling I rejoice; I Barn. Never, never will I taste such joys feel my grief increase, even as my fears give on earth; never will I sooth my just remorse. way. Joy and gratitude now supply more Are, those honest arms and faithful bosom tears than the horror and anguish of despair to embrace and support a murderer? These before. iron fetters only shall clasp, and flinty pave

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