Lady T. My lord, you ever have complained I wanted love; but as you kindly have allowed I never gave it to another, so, when you hear the story of my heart, though you may still complain, you will not wonder at my cold ness. Lady G. This promises a reverse of temper. [Apart. Man. This, my lord, you are concerned to hear. Lady T. Before I was your bride, my lord, the flattering world had talked me into beauty; which, at my glass, my youthful vanity confirmed. Wild with that fame, I thought mankind my slaves: I triumphed over hearts, while all my pleasure was their pain; yet was my own so equally insensible to all, that, when a father's firm commands enjoined me to make choice of one, I even there declined the liberty he gave, and to his own election yielded up my youth rected him to you His tender care, my lord, diOur hands were joined - but still my heart was wedded to it's folly! My only joy was power, command, society, profuseness, and to lead in pleasures: the husband's right to rule I thought a vulgar law, which only the deformed or meanly spirited obeyed! I knew know directors but my passions; no master but my will! Even you, my lord, some time o'ercome by love, was pleased with my delights; nor then foresaw this mad misuse of your indulgence And, though I call my self ungrateful while I own it, yet, as a truth, it cannot be denied that kind indulgence has undone me; it added strength to my habitual failings, and, in a heart thus warm, in wild unthinking life, no wonder if the gentler sense of love was lost. Lord T. Oh, Manly! where has this creature's heart been buried? [Apart. Lady T. What I have said, my lord, is not my excuse, but my confession; my errours (give 'em, if you please, a harder name) cannot be defended! No! What's in it's nature wrong, no words can palliate, no plea can alter ! What the remains, in my condition, but resignation to your pleasures? Time only can convince you of my future conduct therefore, till I have lived an object of forgiveness, I dare not hope for pardon The penance of a lonely contrite life were little to the innocent; but to have deserved this separation will strew perpetual thorns upon my pillow. Lady G. Oh, happy, heavenly hearing! Lady T. Sister, farewell! [Kissing her.] Your virtue needs no warning from the shame, that falls on me: but, when you think I have atoned my follies past, persuade your injured brother to forgive them. Lord T. No, madam! Your errours, thus renounced, this instant are forgotten! So deep, so due a sense of them, has made you what my utmost wishes formed, and all my heart has sighed for. PROVOKED HUSBAND. AGIB AND SECANDER. Scene, A Mountain in Circassia. Time, Midnight. Secan. O stay thee, Agib! for my feet deny, Friend of my heart! O turn thee and survey, Agib. Weak as thou art, yet, hapless, must thou know The toils of flight, or some severer wo! Still, as I haste, the Tartar shouts behind, He blasts our harvests, and deforms our land. Secan. Unhappy land, whose blessings tempt the sword! In vain, unheard, thou call'st thy Persian lord; No wars alarm him, and no fears annoy. Agib. Yet these green hills, in summer's sultry heat, Have lent the monarch oft a cool retreat. Sweet to the sight is Zabran's flow'y plain, On Tarkie's mountain catch the cooling gale; Fair scenes! but, ab, no more with peace possess'd, No more the shepherd's whit'ning tents appear; Secan. In vain Circassia boasts her spicy groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy loves: In vain she boasts her fairest of the fair, Their eyes' blue languish, and their golden hair ; Agib. Ye Georgian swains! that, piteous, learn from far prepare, Circassia's ruin and the waste of war; Oft marks with blood and wasting flames the way: To death inur'd, and nurs'd in scenes of wo. He said; when, loud, along the vale was heard COLLINS THE DIRGE. Bumkinet, Grubbinol. Bumk. Why, Grubbinol, dost thou so wistful seem? There's sorrow in thy look, if right I deem. 'Tis true, yon oaks with yellow tops appear, And chilly blasts begin to nip the year; From the tall elm a show'r of leaves is borne, And their lost beauty riven beeches mourn; Yet ev❜n this season pleasance blithe affords; Now the squeez'd press foams with our apple hoards. Come, let us hie, and quaff a cheery bowl. Let cider new wash sorrow from thy soul. Grub. Ah! Bumkinet! since thou from hence wert gone And catches quaint shall make the valleys ring; Grub. Yes, blithesome lad, a tale I mean to sing, But with my wo shall distant valleys ring; Bumk. Is Blouzelinda dead? farewell my glee! — No happiness is now reserv'd for me. As the wood pigeon coos without his mate, |