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Frue: Not speak !--nor look "Piscover all i
my guilt, at length it will be known, and Barn. All that is possible for man to do for public shame and ruin must ensue. In the man your generous friendship may effect; but mean time, what must be my life? Ever to here, even that's in vain. speak a language foreign to my heart; hourly True. Something dreadful is labouring in to add to the number of my crimes, in order to your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share conceal 'em. Sure such was the condition of your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it the grand apostate, when first he lost his admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered ; | I bear. and while yet in heaven, bore all his future Barn. Vain supposition ! My woes increase hell about him.
by being observed : should the cause be
known, they would exceed all bounds. Enter TRUEMAN,
True. So well I know thy honest heart, True. Barnwell, oh! how I rejoice to see guilt cannot harbour there. you safe! So will ur master, and bis gentle Barn. Oh, torture insupportable ! [Aside. daughter; who, during your absence, often True. Then why am I excluded ? Have I a inquired after you.
thought I would conceal from you? Barn. Would he were gone! His officious Burn. If still you urge me on this hated sublove will pry into the secrets of my soul. ject, l'll never enter more beneath this roof,
[Aside. nor see your face again. True. Unless you knew the pain the whole True. 'Tis strange-but I have done family has felt on your account, you can't con- say but you hate me not. ceive how much you are beloved. But why Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. thus cold and silent ?-When my heart is full True. Shall our friendship still continue ? of joy for your return, why do you turn away Burn. It's a blessing I never was worthy of, --why thus avoid me? What have I done? yet now must stand on terms; and but upon How am I altered since you saw me last? Or conditions can confirm it. rather, what have you done-and why are you
True. What are they? thus changed ? for I am still the same.
Barn. Never hereafter, though you should Barn. What have I done, indeed ! [Aside. wonder at my conduct, desire to know more
me ! than I am willing to reveal. Barn. By my face he will
True. "Tis hard ; but upon any conditions I would conceal. Methinks already I begin to must be your friend. hate him.
[ Aside. Burn. Then, as much as one lost to himsel. True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend ; can be another’s, I am yours. [Embracing. one whom till now I ever found so loving ; True. Be ever so; and may Heaven restore whom yet I love; though his unkindness your peace! But business requires our attend. strikes at the root of friendship, and might ance: business, the youth's best preservative destroy it in any breast but mine.
from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will Barn. I am not well. (Turning to him.] Sleep you go with me? has been a stranger to these eyes since you be
Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what held 'em last.
has passed, and follow you. [Exit TRUEWAN.] True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln I might have trusted Trueman, and engaged with tears ;--now they overflow. "Rightly did him to apply to my uncle to repair the wrong my sympathizing heart forebode last night, I have done my master :-but what of Millwhen thou wast absent, something fatal to our wood ? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave peace.
her, and not let her know the cause ? she who Barn. Your friendship engages you too loves me with such a boundless passion! Can far. My troubles, whate'er they are, äre mine cruelty be duty ? I judge of what she then alone ; you have no interest in theni, nor ought must feel, by what I now endure. The love of your concern for me to give you a moment's life, and fear of shame, opposed by inclination pain.
strong as death or shame, like wind and tide True. You speak as if you knew of friend-in raging conflict met, when neither can preship nothing but the name. Before I saw vail, keep me in doubt. How then can I'deyour grief I felt it. E'en now, though ignorant termine ? of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart.
Enter THOROWGOOD. Barn. 'Twill not be always thus. Friendship Thorow. Without a cause assigned or notice and all engagements cease as circumstances given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, and occasions vary; and since you once may young man, and I came to chide vou for it, hate me, perhaps it might be better for us but hope I am prevented. That modest blush, both that now you loved me less.
the confusion so visible in your face, speak True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause grief and shame. When we have offended would Barnwell use me thus?, Ungenerous Heaven, it requires no more : and shall man, and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall endeav- who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder our to follow your advice. (Going.) Yet, to appease? If my pardon, or love, be of stay; perhaps I am too rash and angry, when moment to your peace, look up secure of the cause demands compassion. Some unfore- both. seen calamity may have befallen him too great Burn. This goodness has o'ercome me. to bear.
[Aside.) Oh, Sir, you know not the nature Barn. What part am I reduced to act? 'Tis and extent of my offence; and I should abuse vile and base to move his temper thus, the best your mistaken bounty to receive it. Though I of friends and men.
[Aside. I had rather die than speak my shame, though True. I am to blame; pr’ythee forgive me, racks could not have forced the guilty secret Barnwell. Try to compose your rufiled mind; from my breast, your kindness has. . and let me know the cause that thus trans- Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, ports you from yourself; my friendly counsel this concern shows you're convinced, and I am may restore your peace.
satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to
an ingenuous mind; some youthful folly, which Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more it were prudent not to inquire into.
sense than she thought he had. [Aside. Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall Barn. Before you came, I had determined your pardon, and abhor me.
never to see you more. Thorow, I never will. Yet be upon your Mill. Confusion !
[Aside. guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so life : when vice becomes habitual, the very unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my power of leaving it is lost.
part; t ey musi e'en play the scene betwist Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess- themselves.
[Aside. Thorow. Not a syllable more upon this sub- Mill. It was some relief to think, though ject: it were not mercy, but cruelty, to hear absent, you would love me still ; but to find what must give you such torment to reveal. this, as I never could expect, I have not Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts learned to bear.
Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me in a Thorow. This remorse makes thee dearer to resolution that so well becomes us both. me, than if thou hadst never offended. What- Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you ever is your fault, of this I am certain, 'twas have none. harder for you to offend, than me to pardon. Barn. Can we want a reason for parting,
(Exit. who have so many to wish we had never met! Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I dewrong so excellent a man. Should I again formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds return to folly ?-Detested thought! But what enjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she of Millwood then ?—Why, I renounce her-I whom yesterday you thought the fairest and give her up—The struggle's over, and virtue the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling has prevailed. Reason may convince, but with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, gratitude compels. This unlooked-for gener- while on my eyes you gazed with such delight, osity has saved me from destruction. [Going. as if desire increased by being fed ?
Barn. No more: let me repent my former Enter a FOOTMAN.
follies, if possible, without remembering what Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in the they were, country desire to see you.
Mill. Why? Barn. Who should they be ? [Aside.] Tell
Barn. Such is my frailty, that 'tis dangerous, them I'll wait upon 'em. [Exit Footman.]
Mill. Where is the danger, since we are to Methinks I dread to see 'em-Now, every part. thing alarms me! Guilt, what a coward hast
Burn. The thought of that already is too thou made me!
Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may SCENE II.-Another Room in THOROWGOOD's hope, at least, you do not hate me. House.
Barn. No-No-l never said I did-Oh, my
heart! Eriter MillwOOD, Lucy, and a FOOTMAN.
Mill. Perhaps you pity me? Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you imme- Barn. I do-1 do-Indeed I do. diately.
Mill. You'll think upon me! Mill. 'Tis very well—I thank you.
Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all. [Exit FOOTMAN. Mill. You may judge an embrace at parting Enter BARNWELL.
too great a favour, though it would be the last.
[BARNWELL draws back.] A look shall then Barn. Confusion ! Millwood !
suffice-farewell—for ever. Mill, That angry look tells me, that here I
[Exeunt MILLWOOD and Lucy. am an unwelcome guest: I feared as much : Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquerthe unhappy are so every where.
I have conquered-Painful victory! Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content you?
Re-enter Millwood and Lucy. Mill. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your Mill. One thing I had forgot-I never must happiness is no my only care.
return to my own house again. This I thought Burn. How did you gain admission ? proper to let you know, lest your mind should
Mil. Saying we were desired by your uncle change, and you should seek in vain to find to visit and deliver a message to you, we were me there. Forgive me this second intrusion; received by the family without suspicion, and I only came to give you this caution, and with much respect conducted here.
that perhaps was needless. Barn. Why did you come at all ?
Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I Mill. I never shall trouble you more. I'm must thank you for it. come to take my leave for ever. Such is the Mill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy.) Now, malice of my fate! I go hopeless, despairing I am gone for ever.
(Going. ever to return. This hour is all I have left; Barn. One thing more-sure there's no danone short hour is all I have to bestow on love ger in knowing where you go? If you think and you, for whom I thought the longest life otherwisetoo short.
[Weeping. Barn. Then we are met, to part for ever. Lucy. We are right, I find ; that's my cue. Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time (Aside.) Ah, dear Sir, she's going she knows or absence shall ever put a period to my grief, not whíther; but go she must. or make me love you less. Though
Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish you leave you, yet condemn me not.
well; why will you thus expose yourself to Barn. Condemn you! No, I approve your needless troubles? resolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis just, 'tis Lucy. Nay, there's no help for it; she must necessary ;-I have well weighed, and found quit the town immediately, and the kingdom
as soon as possible. It was no small matter,
you may be sure, that could make her resolve Lucy. 'Tis really a pity there can be no way to leave you.
found out. Mill. No more, my friend ; since he for whose Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions dear sake aloné I suffer, and am content to now? suffer, is kind and pities me; where'er I Lucy. Now, I advised her, Sir, to comply wander, through wilds and deserts, benight with the gentleman. ed and forlorn, that thought shall give me Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather comfort.
perish, nay, see her perish, ihan have her Barn. For my sake!-Oh, tell me how, saved by him. I will myself prevent her ruin, which way I am so cursed to bring such ruin though with my own. A moment's patience; on thee!
l'll return immediately.
[Exit. Mill. To know it will but increase your Lacy. "Twas well you came, or, by what I troubles.
can perceive, you had lost him. Barn. My troubles can't be greater than Mill. Hush! he's here. they are. Lucy. Well, well, Sir, if she wont satisfy
Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money. you, I will.
Barn. What am I about to do?Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. who boast your reason all-suficient, suppose
Mill. Remember, Sir, that I desired you not yourselves in my condition, and determine for to hear it, Barn. Begin, and ease my expectation.
me; whether 'tis right to let her suffer for my was an only child, and her parents dying take this, and with it purchase your deliver
Lucy. Why you must know my lady here faults, or, by this small addition to my guilt, while she was young, left her and her fortune (no inconsiderable one, I assure you) to the ance; return to your house, and live in peace
and safety care of a gentleman who has a good estate of his own.
Mill. So, I may hope to see you there Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich
again? enough; but what are riches when compared agonies of my remorse, I again take what is
Barn. Answer me not, but fly-lest, in the to love! Lucy. For awhile he performed the office of not mine to give, and abandon thee to want
and misery. a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hired her servants-But you have seen in what
Mill. Say but you'll come.
Barn. You are my fate—my heaven, or my manner she has lived, so I need say no more of that.
hell; only leave me now-dispose of me hereMill. How I shall live hereafter, Heaven Lucy.) What have I done ? Were my resolu;
after as you please. [Ereunt MilLWOOD and knows!
Lucy. All things went on as one could wish, Why then has Heaven suffered me to fall? I lently in love with his charge, and would fain sought not the occasion ; and, if my heart dehave married her. Now the man is neither ceives me not, compassion and generosity were
my motives.—But why should I attempt to old nor ugly, but a good, personable sort of a
reason? All is confusion, borror, and remorse. man; but i don't knyw how it was, she could I find I am lost, cast down from all my latenever endure him. In short, her ill usage so
erected hope, and plunged again in guilt, yet provoked him, that he brought in an account
scarce know how or whyof his executorship, wherein he makes her debtor to him
Such undistinguish'd horrors make my bruin, Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough | Like hell, the seat of darkness and of pain. to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he
[Exit. had stripped of all before. Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor
ACT III. friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as herself, he compelled her to pass his account, SCENE 1.--A Room in THOROW GOOD's House. and give bond for the sum he demanded; but ThorowGOOD and TRUEMAN discorered, with still provided handsomely for her, and continued his courtship, till being informed by his
account-ljooks, sitting at a table. spies (truly, I suspect some in her own family) Thorow. Well, I have examined your acthat you were entertained in her house, and counts; they are not only just, as I have staid with her all night, he came this morning, always found them, but regularly kept and raving and storming like a madman; talks no fairly entered. I commend your diligence : more of marriage (so there's no hope of mak- metliod in business is the surest guide. Are ing up matters that way), but vows her ruin, Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection ? unless she'll allow him the same favour that He does not use to be the last on those occahe supposes she granted you.
sions. Barn. Must she be ruined, or find a refuge True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, in another's arms ?
I thought, in some confusion. If you plea e, Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve in: I'll go and hasten him. that's happily spent with you—And now I Thorow. I'm now going to tlie Exchange: go
let bim know, at my return I expeci to find Barn. To be exposed to all the rigours of him ready.
[Exeunt. the various seasons; the summer's parching heat, and winter's cold ; unhoused, to wander Enter MARIA, with a look. Sits and reads. friendless through the inhospitable world, in misery and want; attended with fear and Maria. How forcible is truth! The weakest danger, and pursued by malice and revenge. mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and Wouldst thou endure all this for ine, and can collected in itself, with indifference beholds I do nothing, nothing, to prevent it?
the united force of earth and hell opposing, Such souls are raised above the sense of pain, True. Nothing more easy. But can you inor so supported that they regard it not. "The tend it? Will you save a helpless wretch from martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small ruin? Oh, 'twere an act worthy such exalted are his sufferings, great is his reward. Not so virtue as Maria's! Sure Heaven, in mercy to the wretch who combats love with duty ; my friend, inspired the generous thought. whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the Maria. Doubt not but I would purchase so soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his great a happiness at a much dearer price. But own desires.- What is an hour, a day, a year how shall he be found ? of pain, to a whole life of tortures such as True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the these?
mean time I'll conceal his absence from your
father, or find such excuses for it, that the real Enter TRUEMAN.
cause shall never be suspected. True. Oh, Barnwell! Oh, my friend ! how Maria. In attempting to save from shame art thou fallen!
one whom we hope may yet return to virtue, Maria. Ha! Barnwell! What of him? Speak, to Heaven, and you, the only witnesses of this say, what of Barnwell?
action, I appeal whether I do any thing unbeTruc. "Tis not to be concealed : I've news to coming my sex and character. tell of him that will afflict your generous
True. Earth must approve the deed, and father, yourself, and all who know him. Heaven, I doubt not, will reward it. Maria. Defend us, Heaven!
Maria. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well True. I cannot speak it. See there. rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by sus.
[Gires a letler. picion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as Maria. [Reads.) I know my absence will sur- world, for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be
this must be a secret from my father and the prise my honoured master and yourself; and the
so to him.
(Ereunt. more, when you shall understand, that the reason of my withdrawing is, my having embezzled part SCENE 11.- A Room in Millwood's House. of the cash with which I was entrusted. After this,'tis necdless to inform you, that I intend
Enter Lucy and BLUNT. never to return again. Though this might have been known by examining my accounts, yet to wood's conduct now? Her artifice in making
Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millprerent that unnecessary trouble, and to cut of all him rob his master at first, and the various fruitless expectations of my return, I have left stratagems by which she has obliged him to this from the lost
continue that course, astonish even me, who
know her so well. Being called by his masTrue. Lost, indeed! Yet how he should be ter to make up his accounts, he was forced to guilty of what he here charges himself withal, quit his house and service, and wisely flies to raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never Millwood for relief and entertainment. had youth a higher sense of virtue. Jusily he Blunt. How did she receive him ? thought, and as he thought he practised; Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered never was life more regular than his. An un- what "he meant, was astonished at his impuderstanding uncommon at his years; an open, dence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar to generous manliness of temper; his manners herself, swore so heartily that she never saw easy, unaffected, and engaging.
him before, that she put me out of counteMaria. This and much more you might have nance. said with truth. He was the delight of every Blunt. That's much, indeed! But how did eye, and joy of every heart that knew him. Barnwell behave ?
True. Since such he was, and was my friend, Lucy. He grieved; and, at length, enraged can I support his loss? See, the fairest, hap- at this barbarous treatment, was preparing piest maid, this wealthy city boasts, kindly to be gone; and making towards the door, condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, showed a sum of money, which he had brought poor, ruined Barnwell!
from his master's, the last he is ever likely to Maria. Trueman, do you think a soul so have from thence. delicate as his, so sensible of shame, can e'er Blunt. But then, Millwoodsubmit to live a slave to vice?
Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, reTrue. Never, never: so well I know him, turned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and I'm sure this act of his, so contrary to his dissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and nature, must have been caused by some un- swore 'twas meant in jest. The amorous avoidable necessity.
youth melted into tears, threw the money into Muriu. Are there no means yet to preserve her lap, and swore hé had rather die than him?
think her false. True. Oh, that there were ! But few men Blunt. Strange infatuation ! recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. Nor would he, I fear, though I should find Just then, when every passion with lawless him, ever be brought to look his injured mas- anarchy prevailed, and reason was in the ter in the face.
raging tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise never have my father know it.
-what I tremble but to think op. True. That's impossible.
Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? Maria. What's the sum ?
Lucy. You will be more so to hear-it is to True. 'Tis considerable. I've marked it attempt the life of his nearest relation, and here, to show it, with the letter, to your father, best benefactor. at his return.
Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often Maria. If I should supply the money, could heard him speak of, as a gentleman of a large you so dispose of that and the account, as to estate, and fair character in the country where conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my he lives. father?
Lucy. The same. She was no sooner pos
sessed of the last dcar purchase of his ruin, nigh. A heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, de- My imagination is filled with ghastly forms of manded this horrid sacritice; Barnwell's near dreary graves, and bodies changed by death; relation, wbose blood must seal the dreadful when the pale, lengthened visage attracts each secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty weeping eye, and fills the musing soul at once fears.
with grief and horror, pily and aversion. I Blunt. 'Tis time the world were rid of such will indulge the thought. The wise man pre
But there is something so horrid pares himself for death by making it familiar in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing, to his mind. When strong reflections hold the when compared to that; I would not be in-mirror near, and the living in the dead behold volved in the guilt of it for all the world! their future self, how does each inordinate
Lucy. Nor I, Heaven knows. Therefore let passion and desire cease, or sicken at the us clear ourselves, by doing all that's in our view! The mind scarce moves! the blood, power to prevent it. I have just thought of curdling and chilled, creeps slowly through the a way that to me seems probable. Will you veins; fixed, still, and motionless we stand, so join with me to detect this cursed design ? like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we
Blunt. With all my heart. He who knows are almost at present what we must be hereof a murder intended to be committed, and after; till curiosity awakes the soul, and sets does not discover it, in the eye of the law and it on inquiry. reason, is a murderer. Lucy. Let us lose no time. I'll acquaint you Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power,
Enter GEORGE BARNWELL, at a distance. with the particulars as we go.
seen every day, yet never understood but by SCENE III.-A walk some distance from
the incommunicative dead, what art thou? a country-seat.
The extensive mind of man, that with a thought
circles the earth’s vast globe, sinks to the Enter BARNWELL,
centre, or ascends above the stars; that worlds
exotic finds, or thinks it finds; thy thick clouds, Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of attempts to pass in vain ; lost and bewildered the day. Either the sun has slipped behind a cloud, or journeys down the west of heaven doubtful than before, of nothing certain but of
in the horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more with more than common speed, to avoid the labour lost. sight of what I am doomed to act. Since I set forth on this accursed design, where'er I
[During this speech, BARNWELL sometimes pre
sents the pistol, and draws it back again. tread, methinks the solid earth trembles be
Barn. Oh, 'tis impossible! neath my feet. Murder my uncle !.my father's only brother, and since his death, has been to
[Throws down the pistol. UNCLE starts, and me a father; that took me up an infant and
attempts to draw his sword. Uncle. A man
so near me! armed and
and an orphan, reared me with tenderest care,
maskedstill indulged me with most paternal fondness! Yet here I stand, his destined murderer.-1
Barn. Nay, then there's no retreat. stiffen with horror at my own impiety:- 'Tis
[Plucks a poniard from his breast, and stabs
him. yet unperformed.-What if I quit my bloody
Uncle. Oh, I am slain ! All gracious Heaven, purpose, and fly the place? [Going, then stops.] regard the prayer of thy dying servant; blese, - But whither, oh, whither shall
fly? My with the
choicest blessings, my dearest master's once friendly doors are ever shut nephew; forgive my murderer; and take my against me; and without money, will never see me more ; and she has got such fileeting soul to endless mercy! firm possession of my heart, and governs there
[BARNWELL throws of his mask, runs to him, with such despotic sway, that life is not to be
and kneeling by him, raises him.
Barn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, marendured without her. Ay, there's the cause it is the fever of the soul, and madness of de- look so tenderly upon me-Let indignation of all my sin and sorrow:"tis more than love; tyred uncle ! lift up your dying eyes, and view
your nephew in your murderer. -Oh, do not sire. In vain does nature, reason, conscience, lighten from your eyes, and blast me ere you all oppose it; the impetuous passion bears die-By Heaven, he weep3, in pity of my woes. down all before it, and drives me on to lust, to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience, feeble in the agonies of death, weeps for his mur
- Tears, tears, for blood. The murdered, guide to virtue, thou only showest us when we derer-Oh, speak your pious purpose ; progo astray, but wantest power to stop us in our course ! -Ha! in yonder shady walk I see my you—He would, but cannot.-Oh, why, with
nounce your pardon then, and take ine with uncle. —He's alone.-Now for my disguise. such fond affection do you press my murdering [Plucks out a vizor.) - This is his hour of pri- hand [UNCLE sighs, und dies.) Life, that vate meditation. Thus daily be prepares his hovered on bis lips but till he had sealed my soul for heaven, while 1-But what have I pardon, in that sigh expired! He's gone
for to do with heaven ?-Ha! Do struggles, con
ever-and oh! I follow-(Swoons away upon science
the dead body.) Do I still breathe, and taint Hence, hence, remorse, and ev'ry thought with my infectious breath the wholesome air ? that's good;
Let Heaven from its high throne, in justice or in The storm that lust began, must end in mercy, now look down on that dear, murdered blood.
saint, and me the murderer, and if his ven(Puts on a vizor, draws a pistol, and exit. geance spares, let pity strike, and end my
wretched being.--Murder, the worst of SCENE IV.-A close walk in a wood. crimes, and parricide, the worst of murders,
and this the worst of parricides ! Enter UNCLE.
Oh may it ever stand alone accurst, Uncle. If I were superstitious, I should fear The last of murders, as it is the worst. some danger lurked upseen, or death were