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.

Alic. And dost thou come to me, to me for bread?
I know thee not.-Go; hunt for it abroad, (it,
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

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;

And now 'tis out, and I am drown'd in blood.
Ha! what art thou! thou horrid headless trunk?
It is my Hastings! see, he wafts me on!
Away! I go! Ifly! I follow thee. (Rushes off.)
Jane S. Alas! she raves! her brain I fear is turn'd.
In mercy look upon her, gracious heav'n,
Nor visit her for any wrong to me!
Sure I am near upon my journey's end:
My head runs round, my eyes begin to fail,
And dancing shadows swim before my sight.

I can no more; (lies down,) receive me, thou cold earth,

Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom,
And let me rest with thee.

Enter BELMOUR.

Bel. Upon the ground!

Thy miseries can never lay thee lower.
Look up, thou poor
afflicted one! thou mourner,
Whom none has comforted! Where are thy friends,
The dear companions of thy joyful days,
Whose hearts thy warm prosperity made glad,
Whose arms were taught to grow like ivy round thee,
And bind thee to their bosoms?-Thus with thee,
Thus let us live, and let us die, they said.
Now where are they?

faloof,

Jane S. Ah, Belmour! where indeed? they stand And view my desolation from afar! And yet thy goodness turns aside to pity me. Alas! there may be danger; get thee gone, Let me not pull a ruin on thy head, Leave me to die alone, for I am fall'n, Never to rise, and all relief is vain.

Bel. Yet raise thy drooping head; for I am come To chase away despair. Behold! where yonder That honest man, that faithful, brave Dumont, Is hasting to thy aid

Jane S. Dumont! Ha! Where?

(Raising herself, and looking about.) Then heaven has heard my pray'r; his very name Renews the springs of life, and cheers my soul. Has he then 'scap'd the snare?

Bel. He has; but see

He comes unlike the Dumont you knew,
For now he wears your better angel's form,
And comes to visit you with peace and pardon.

Enter SHORE.

Jane S. Speak, tell me! Which is he? and, oh! what would

This dreadful vision? See, it comes upon me→→
It is my husband-Ah! (She swoons.)
Shore. She faints: support her!

[prise.
Bel. Her weakness could not bear the strong sur-
But see, she stirs! and the returning blood
Faintly begins to blush again, and kindle
Upon her ashy cheek:-

Shore. So,-gently raise her,-(Raising her up.)
Jane S. Ha! What art thou? Belmour.
Bel. How fare you, lady?

Jane S. My heart is thrill'd with horror.

Bel. Be of courage;

Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend. Jane S. Still art thou there? still dost thou hover

round me?

Oh, save me Belmour, from his angry shade!
Bel. "Tis he himself! he lives! look up :--
Jane S. I dare not.

Oh! that my eyes could shut him out for ever.

Shore. Am I so hateful, then, so deadly to thee. To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I am grown A burden to the world, myself, and thee, Would I had ne'er surviv'd to see thee more.

Jane S. Oh! thou most injur'd-dost thou live, inFall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head: [deed? Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;

Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night! And shield me with thy sable wing for ever.

Shore. Why dost thou turn away?-Why tremble
Why thus indulge thy fears, and in despair (thus?
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond forgiving love.-
Let us haste.-

Now while occasion seems to smile upon us.
Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter.
Jane S. What shall I say to you? But I obey.
Shore. Lean on my arm.

Jane S. Alas! I'm wondrous faint:

[days.

But that's not strange, I have not eat these three
Shore. Oh, merciless!

Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart!
Shore. Thou murd'rous sorrow!

Wo't thou still drink her blood, pursue her still?
Must she then die? O my poor penitent!
Speak peace to thy sad heart: she hears me not:
Grief masters ev'ry sense-

Enter CATESBY, with a Guard.

Cates. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state!Bel. What means this violence?

(Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.) Cates, Have we not found you,

In scorn of the protector's strict command,
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?

Shore. Infamy on thy head;

Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority!
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous;
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her. ['em.
Cates. You'll answer this at full:-away with
Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What honest man would live beneath such rulers?
I am content that we should die together.

Cates. Convey the men to prison; but for her,Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may. [me!Jane S. I will not part with him:-for me!-for Oh! must he die for me?

(Following him as he is carried off-she falls.) Shore. Inhuman villains!

(Breaks from the Guards.) Stand off! the agonies of death are on her! She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand. Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my Oh! let me go, ye ministers of terror, He shall offend no more, for I will die, And yield obedience to your cruel master Tarry a little, but a little longer, And take my last breath with you.

Shore. Oh, my love!

[ruin?

Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me,
With such an earnest, such a piteous look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou couldst not speak ?-

Jane S. Forgive me!-but forgive me!
Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial host,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of heav'n to show thee,
May such befall me at my latest hour,

And make my portion blest or curst for ever. Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace;

'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now :[you? Was there not something I would have bequeath'd But I have nothing left me to bestow, Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, heav'n:

(Dies.)

ACT I.-SCENE I-A Library.
Enter BETTY and SAM.

Betty. The postman is at the gate, Sam; pray step and take in the letters.

[Betty. Sam. John the gardener is gone for them, Mrs. Betty. Bid John bring them to me, Sam: tell him I am here in the library.

Sam. I'll send him to your ladyship in a crack. [Exit.

Enter NANNY. Nanny. Miss Constantia desires to speak to you, Mrs. Betty.

Betty. How is she now ?-any better, Nanny? Nanny. Something; but very low-spirited still. I verily believe it is as you say.

Betty. O! I would take my book oath of it. I cannot be deceived in that point, Nanny.-Ay, ay, her business is done: she is certainly breeding, depend upon it.

LADY RODOLPHA LUMBERCOURT. CONSTANTIA.

BETTY HINT.

SERVANTS.

Nanny. Why, so the housekeeper thinks, too. Betty. Nay, I 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.

Betty. Ay, Ay, Lady Rodolpha. Nay, like enough, for I know it has been talked of a good while: well, go tell Miss Constantia that I will be with her immediately.

Nanny. I shall, Mrs. Betty.

[Exit. Betty. So!-1 find they all believe the impertinent creature is breeding-that's pure! it will soon reach my lady's ears, I warrant Enter JOHN.

Well, John, ever a letter for me?

John. No, Mrs. Betty; but here is one for Miss Constantia.

Betty. Give it me.-Hum! my lady's hand. John. And here is one, which the postman says is for my young master; but it's a strange direction. (Reads) To Charles Egerton, Esq.

Betty. O! yes, yes; this is for Master Charles, John; for he has dropped his father's name of Macsycophant, and has taken up that of Egerton the parliament has ordered it.

John. The parliament!-pr'ythee, why so, Mrs. Betty?

Betly. Why, you must know, John, that my lady, his mother, was an Egerton, by her father; she stole a match with our old master, for which all her family, on both sides, have hated Sir Pertinax, and the whole crew of the Macsycophants, ever since; and so, John, my lady's uncle, Sir Stanley Egerton, dying an old bachelor, and, as I said before, mortally hating our old master, and all the crew of the Mascycophants, left his whole estate to Master Charles, who was his god-son; but on condition that he should drop his father's name of Mascycophant, and take up that of Egerton; and that is the reason, John, why the parliament has made him change his name.

John. I am glad that Master Charles has got the estate, however; for he is a sweet-tempered gentle

man.

Betty. As ever lived. But come, John; as I know you love Miss Constantia, and are fond of being where she is, I will make you happy; you shall carry this letter to her.

John. Shall I, Mrs. Betty? I am very much obliged to you. Where is she?

Betty. In the housekeeper's-room, settling the dessert. Give me Mr. Egerton's letter, and I'll leave it on the table in his dressing-room: I see it is from his brother Sandy-So; now go and deliver your letter to your sweetheart, John.

John. That I will; and I am much beholden to you for the favour of letting me carry it to her; for though she should never have me, yet I shall always love her, and wish to be near her, she is so sweet a creature. Your servant, Mrs. Betty. [Erit. Betty. Your servant, John. Ha, ha, ha! poor fellow, he perfectly doats on her; and daily follows her about with nosegays and fruit, and the first of every thing in the season.-Ay, and my young master, Charles, too, is in as bad a way as the gardener:-in short, everybody loves her, and that's one reason why I hate her. For my part, I wonder what the deuse the men see in her-a creature that was taken in for charity; I'm sure she's not so handsome. I wish she was out of the family once; if she was, I might then stand a chance of being my lady's favourite myself; ay, and perhaps of getting one of my young masters for a sweetheart, or at least the chaplain; but as to him there would be no such great catch if I should get him. I will try for him, however; and my first step shall be to tell the doctor all I have discovered about Constantia's intrigues with her spark at Hadley.Yes, that will do; for the doctor loves to talk with

me-loves to hear me talk, too; and I verily believe-he, he, he! that he has a sneaking kindness for me; and this story will make him have a good opinion of my honesty, and that, I am sure, will be one step towards-O! bless me, here he comes, and my young master with him. I'll watch an opportunity to speak to him as soon as he is alone; for I will blow her up, I am resolved, as great a favourite, and as cunning as she is. [Exit.

Enter EGERTON and SIDNEY. Sid. Nay, dear Charles, but why are you so impetuous? Why do you break from me abruptly? Eger. (With great warmth.) I have done, sir; you have refused. I have nothing more to say upon the subject. I am satisfied.

Sid. (With a glow of tender friendship.) Come, come, correct this warmth; it is the only weak ingredient in your nature, and you ought to watch it carefully. Because I will not abet an unwarrantable passion by an abuse of my sacred character, in marrying you beneath your rank, and in direct opposition to your father's hopes and happiness, you blame me, you angrily break from me, and call me unkind.

Eger. (With tenderness and conviction.) Dear Sidney, for my warmth I stand condemned; but, for my marriage with Constantia, I think I can justify it upon every principle of filial duty, honour, and worldly prudence.

Sid. Only make that appear, Charles, and you know you may command me.

Eger. (With great filial regret I am sensible how unseemly it appears in a son to descant on the unamiable passions of a parent; but, as we are alone, and friends, I cannot help observing in my own defence, that when a father will not allow the use of reason to any of his family; when his pursuit of greatness makes him a slave abroad, only to be a tyrant at home; when a narrow partiality to Scotland, on every trivial occasion, provokes him to enmity even with his wife and children, only because they give a national preference where they think it most justly due; and when, merely to gratify his own ambition, he' would marry his son into a family he detests; (great warmth) sure, Sidney, a son thus circumstanced, (from the dignity of human reason, and the feelings of a loving heart) has a right, not only to protest against the blindness of a parent, but to pursue those measures that virtue and happiness point out.

Sid. The violent temper of Sir Pertinax, I own, cannot be defended on many occasions; but still your intended alliance with Lord Lumbercourt--

Eger. (With great impatience.) O! contemptible!-a trifling, quaint, haughty, voluptuous, ser vile tool! the mere lacquey of party and corruption; who, for the prostitution of nearly thirty years, and the ruin of a noble fortune, has had the despicable satisfaction, and the infamous honour, of being kicked up and kicked down, kicked in and kicked out, just as the insolence, compassion, or convenience of leaders predominated: and now, being forsaken by all parties, his whole political consequence amounts to the power of franking a letter, and the right honourable privilege of not paying a tradesman's bill.

Sid. Well, but dear Charles, you are not to wed my lord, but his daughter.

Eger. Who is as disagreeable to me for a companion, as her father for a friend or an ally. Sid. What, her Scotch accent, I suppose, offends you.

Eger. No, upon my honour, not in the least; I think it entertaining in her: but, were it other