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ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE I.

He

A Room in OLD WILMOT's House.

Enter AGNES alone, with the Casket in her Hand.

Agnes. Who should this stranger be?-And then this casket

says it is of value, and yet trusts it,
As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand.
His confidence amazes me-Perhaps
It is not what he says-I'm strongly tempted
To open it, and see.-No, let it rest!
Why should I pry into the cares of others,
Who have so many sorrows of my own?
With how much ease the spring gives way!
Surprising !

My eyes are dazzl'd, and my ravish'd heart

Leaps at the glorious sight. How bright's the lustre,
And how immense the worth of these fair jewels!—
Ay, such a treasure would expel for ever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;

Famine; the cold neglect of friends; the scorn,
Or more provoking pity of the world.

Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head

At our approach, and once more bend before us.
A pleasing dream?-Tis past; and now I wake:
For sure it was a happiness to think,

Though, but a moment, such a treasure mine.

Nay, it was more than thought-I saw, and touch'd
The bright temptation; and I see it yet—
"Tis here 'tis mine-I have it in possession-
Must I resign it? Must I give it back ?
Am I in love with misery and want?—
To rob myself, and court so vast a loss?
Retain it then-But how ?-There is a way—
Why sinks my heart? Why does my blood run cold?
Why am I thrill'd with horror?-'Tis not choice
But dire necessity suggests the thought.

Enter OLD WILMOT.

O. Wim. The mind contented, with how little pains

The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose!
He's fallen asleep already-Happy man!
What dost thou think, my Agnes, of our guest?
He seems to me a youth of great humanity :
Just ere he clos'd his eyes, that swam in tears,
He wrung my hand, and press'd it to his lips;
And with a look, that pierc'd me to the soul,
Begg'd me to comfort thee: And-dost thou hear

me?

What art thou gazing on ?-Fie, 'tis not well.—
This casket was deliver'd to you clos'd:

Why have you open'd it? Should this be known,
How mean must we appear!

Agnes. And who shall know it?

O. Wilm. There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity,

Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfortunes,
Iay be maintain'd, and cherish'd to the last.
To live without reproach, and without leave
To quit the world, shows sovereign contempt,
And noble scorn of its relentless malice.

Agnes. Shows sovereign madness, and a scorn of

sense.

Pursue no farther this detested theme:

I will not die; I will not leave the world,
For all that you can urge, until compell❜d.

O. Wilm. To chase a shadow, when the setting

sun

Is darting his last rays, were just as wise

As your anxiety for fleeting life,

Now the last means for its support are failing:

Were famine not as mortal as the sword,

Your warmth might be excus'd-But take thy choice:

Die how you will, you shall not die alone.
Agnes. Nor live, I hope.

O. Wilm. There is no fear of that.
Agnes. Then, we'll live both.

O. Wilm. Strange folly! where the means?
Agnes. There-those jewels!

O. Wilm. Ah!- -Take heed!

Perhaps thou dost but try me—yet take heed!
There's naught so monstrous, but the mind of man,
In some conditions, may be brought t'approve :
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
When flatt'ring opportunity entic'd,

And desperation drove, have been committed
By those who once would start to hear them nam'd.
Agnes. And add to these detested suicide,
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.

O. Wilm. How couldst thou form a thought so very damning ?

So advantageous, so secure, and easy;
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror!

Agnes. 'Tis less impiety, less against nature,

To take another's life, than end our own.

O. Wilm. No matter, which, the less or greater

crime :

Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,

We act from inclination, not by rule,

Or none could act amiss: and that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.

E

-Oh! what is man, his excellence and strength,
When, in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborn'd
To plead the cause of vile assassination!
Agnes. You're too severe :

plead

For our own preservation.

O. Wilm. Rest contented :

Reason may justly

Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
I am betray'd within: My will's seduc'd,
And my whole soul's infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supply'd,
Whoever stands to parley with temptation,
Parleys to be o'ercome.

Agnes. Then naught remains,

But the swift execution of a deed
That is not to be thought on, or delay'd―

O. Wilm. Gen'rous, unhappy man! Oh! what could move thee

To put thy life and fortune in the hands
Of wretches mad with anguish !

Agnes. By what means

Shall we effect his death?

O. Wilm. Why, what a fiend !-
How cruel, how remorseless and impatient
Have pride and poverty made thee!

Agnes. Barbarous man!

Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate,

And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest entreaties, agonies, and tears,

To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote, inhospitable land-
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then!
Thou cruel husband! thou unnat'ral father!

Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son,
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou'st made me!

O. Wilm. Dry thy tears:

I ought not to reproach thee. I confess

That thou hast suffer'd much so have we both. But chide no more; I'm wrought up to thy purpose. The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,

Ere he reclin'd him on the fatal couch,

From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash,
And costly dagger, that thou saw'st him wear,
And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms
Against himself. Steal to the door,

And bring me word, if he be still asleep.

[Exit AGNES. Or I'm deceiv'd, or he pronounc'd himself The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch: Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys, Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,

Are with'ring in their bloom.- -But, thought extinguish'd,

He'll never know the loss,

Nor feel the bitter pangs of disappointment→→
Then I was wrong in counting him a wretch:
To die well pleas'd

Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch is to survive the loss

Of every joy, and even hope itself,

As I have done-Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortur'd soul,
He's to be envy'd, if compar'd with me!

[Exit

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