University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—A Cottage in the Country, near which, Eudora and Elvira, her mother, are sitting—while, Eudora, in a melancholy mood, complains of her misfortunes,
Eudora
rises and walks.
Mother! we have no pleasure in this world!
Name blighted—hopes destroy'd—left alone!— [Weeps.


Elv.
Have I not lov'd thee, with the purest love?
Look'd on thee, when thou wast a child, all night?—
And, when the damask dawn of orient morn
Walk'd in my wicket, found me by thee still!—
He found me there, by thee!—Oh! what a curse!—
From day to day—from year to year,—these hands
Have nurs'd thee, child!—and, from these lacteal springs,
Have I, at midnight, fed thee,—half asleep!
And why didst thou deny me joy in age?—
As some bright star, above the rest hath shone,
The queen of all the radiant gems of heaven;—
Then shut, from tranquil light, to utter gloom!
So does the night of grief erase thy beams!
Where shall we go, for recompense?—Oh! God!—
There is no resting place beneath the sun!
There is the cottage where her mother lives.

[Points at it.
Eud.
Oh! she is full of tenderness and love.

Elv.
I would that I were dead and in my grave!
To die, and leave thee in the villain's hands?
[Indignant.
That foul apostate, rebel, traitor, wretch!—
He, who hath ruin'd my child, and broke this heart!
No; had I power, these old, decrepit hands,
Should make each second of his dying life.
A thousand years of misery! Oh! thou man!—
Could I but ope the windows of thy heart,
I'd shut a lion in, to tear 't in pieces!
Yes, open ev'ry vein that feeds thy heart,
And fill each empty tube with molten lead,
And hang thee up, and mock thee day and night!—
'Till thou had'st grown so old in ugliness,
That ev'ry fowl that soars in air, should scream,
And ev'ry wolf stand howling at thy corse!

[Weeps.
Eud.
That I had died when I was but a child!
That I had never seen the light of day!
He, who, was as the pulses of my heart,
He, who clung round me, but deform'd me thus!
And, with the lying lips of wanton lust,
Betray'd me unto bitterness and shame!—
He, who once held me to his beating heart,
And bade me hear the whispers of its love,
And mark the fervor of his soul!—now gone?
He—he, to chain me with a chain of lead! [Disdainfully.

Oh! for a healing Marah for this thirst!
He, lure me to his arms, then crush my heart?—
But let me not upbraid him!—he was kind!
An adder!—till I flutter'd in his jaws.
Shall I forgive him? Thereby swear my guilt?—
Not while this heart maintains my eagle thought.
Not while this hand can move a single joint.
Not while these eyes can see—these feet can walk.
Not while the sun wakes up at morn—by heavens!
Not while he shines, and sits upon yon sea!
I live to view the mirror of his blood,
[Disdainfully.
Reflect the deep damnation of his deeds!
And make seduction stare me in the face?
No; if there be no hand, so good, on earth,
As to absolve me of this cursed crime!—
If there be none on earth, so kind, as true,—
To shut the villain in a new dug grave!
And rid the air, in which I live, of bane—
By truth, and that which I have lost, I'll dress
Me in an Indian's garb, and paint me red,
The quiver'd angel of revengeful wrath—
And hunt him, like Diana, with a spear,
And wake the stings of his ingratitude!
To stifle this proud soul with such an air,—
When, in this rich apothecary, lives
An antidote, to purge him from the world!

Elv.
Repine no more, Eudora!—all is vain!—

Eud.
He, once the “apple of mine eye,” cast off!
If it offend thee, pluck it out!—it does!
My noonday sun is dark with lowering clouds!
And that meridian splendor, once so bright,
Lies folded in the funeral of disdain!
Now this dark garb of widowhood, shuts out
The sunshine which made virtue day, and chills
The healthy merriment of youthful blood!—
Bars up the door which opens on my soul!—
Shuts love within the dungeon of my brain,
And makes a culprit of my ev'ry thought!
Turns out the tenant of my bosom'd sire,
To play upon the winds!—that every ear
May drink the sound—that ev'ry tongue may blast,
The roses which once paradis'd my soul!
Oh! living death! why taunt me with thy woes?—

Elv.
Ah! why complain, when thou art half to blame?

Eud.
Oh! mother; wound me not—I tell thee now—
What? he! the Milo swore he'd take my life!—
And then, upon the curse, shed woman's tears!
And bade me, with a sigh, not break his heart!
And spoke of business which prorogued the time—
Till, like the sequence of an earthquake shock,
That lingering silence which succeeds the storm;
Aghast I stood! and begged him peace once more!
But, with the fury of a gorgon, rushed,
And clasp'd me in his arms,—still threatening death!
And, though, with purpose bent, I still had hopes! [Weeps.


Elvira.
Oh! how could nature look upon such things!

[Weeps.
Eud.
The wrath of heaven doth not chastise like men,
But lingers in infringement, giving pain.

[Weeps.
Elvira.
Oh! Eudora! Eudora!—why weep now?
Why choose this bright congenial day, to turn
Thy heart strings into discord! and, break down
The channel of life's precious stream! and melt
The current of existence into tears?—
Though heaven's decree has been delayed, my child!
At last, his death will yield thee richer gifts!

Eud.
I tell thee, mother! though thou knowest me well!
And brought'st me upward from a child, with care!
Thou know'st me not! I'm strange to thee, for all!
I tell thee, and the lamps, which burn in heaven,
Bear witness that my words have all gone forth!
And can no more return than could a ball
Shot from the cannon's mouth—I tell thee now!
And mark me! my young heart is not forsworn—
No; 'tis as pure, in its intent, as snow!
I would not harm the simplest thing on earth!
As loathe to scorn, as fierce to insult given!
But, when despite is on my nature thrown,
I swear, 'tis harder far than adamant!
And now, for all I bore him, in this world!
For every moment that I saw his face,
If health survive, and only life shall last,—
For all the smiles which won me to belief,—
Shall fourfold years, and endless hate be given!
And this wide heart, so full, it fain would burst—
This fountain, which is stirred to bitter wrath,
Which that insatiate wretch so rudely stung,
And wounded with the arrows of his lust!—
Shall turn an August to his life, and thirst
For every drop that palpitates his heart!—
I tell thee, here are settled resolutions!
For, agony now slumbers in resolve.
I'd pray to heaven for fifty live-long years,
And travel through the world, to take his life!

[Weeps.
Elv.
Oh! my child! my child! thou art run mad!

Eud.
Mad!
Thou know'st I have enough to make me mad!
To burn up every atom of my blood;
And freeze the pulses of my heart to death!
But 'tis not so! perhaps I might go mad,
Had I a soul as little as myself;
And had no other way to vent my wrath,
Than through these weeping windows, which you see!
Which, every moment, tells me, that I breathe
The same fresh air, in which a traitor lives!
Had I no other door to enter heaven,
Than through these narrow straits and locks, which shoal
Existence—then, my heart might weep! but, mark!
For such a little heart, there never lived
Beneath God's heaven, a nobler, larger soul!
The mountains' heights are ascertained! the seas
Are fathomed, and the ocean's depths are known!
The heavens are fettered by material space!—
Revenge in woman hath no limitations!
'Tis measureless! and never had a shore!
Thou know'st a woman's love? how deep! how strong!
Then weigh it in the scales of heaven, and weep!

Elv.
My child! thou art beside thyself! 'tis vain!
I have foregone these many things for thee!
And here, I find thee railing out in wrath,
As if thou couldst allay the temptest-storms
And grasp the whirlwinds in thy hands—let's go!

[Starts away.
Eud.
I know one tempest I can still, too well!
And such a wreck shall never shame this world!
The chronicles of life are sealed by death;
And on the outskirts of the eternal hills,
Stands bold revenge to confiscate his soul!

Elv.
Thou, Eudora! do all this? who aids thee?

Eud.
Mother! I love thee—teach me not to hate!

Elv.
Thou art distracted—oh! that I were dead!

[Weeps.
Eud.
Weep not, my mother! I will soothe thine age!
Could I retrace the current of my years,
Back to the fountain of my early hopes,
How I could smile before thee!—with a heart
As buoyant as a fawn on Judah's hills!—
No mortal man shall know that day and hour,
When these poor hands shall chase life's cloud away,
And from the sky of life, that curtain draw,
And hurl a traitor from his domil throne!
Then will the sunshine of meridian day,
Beam on the bright Hesperian fruit of gold;
Break through the haze of disappointment's morn,
And light me and my mother home to heaven!

Elv.
O! heaven grant that hour could come.

Eud.
'Twill come!

Elv.
Come—let us take us to our lonely home.

Eud.
Hark! I hear the cooings of a mateless dove!—
'Tis so much like the voice I heard that day!
It sings so mellow, with harmonious pain!
Her music dwells within me, as a song,
Through visions purified—and oh! the grove!
Bright gems of love!—what spirits fill mine eyes?
Oh! what a season was such perfect love!
In early childhood, where my spirit met
Its ministers of peace!—to waste and melt
Like snow in sunshine? shall it be so now?—
My heart-strings bursting with untamed regret—
All circumfused with tears!—no; hope is strong!
The chains which bound my life are twain,
And mildew rusts them, from his cadent tears!—
And now, all trembling, like a stormy oak,
Shaken on high, by some unfriendly wind,
I see his iron heart-strings burst and bleed!
And cry unsolaced to his tortured mind!
Mark! this hand shall do 't, and this heart shall guide.

Elv.
What will become of Angeline, his wife?
[Disdainfully.
But she hath done no wrong! upbraid her not.

Eud.
I would not waste the offspring of my thoughts,
To name her name!—she was that golden gate,
Which shut my entrance out of happiness!
No! no!—who could be happy with a traitor?
No one!—not e'en an angel out of heaven!

Elv.
Let us home, my child! he loves her.

Eud.
He love?
And enemy to virtue, love?—tell me
That heaven is hell!—that he will go to heaven!
I tell thee, now, I have a daring soul!
Feeble in body—yet, in mind, a lion!
Then say no more—talk not of Angeline!
Methinks I see him sitting by her side,
As he disported once, with me—telling lies!

Elv.
His children will be taught their father's language.

Eud.
His children!—heavens! my child! my child! my child!

[Exeunt Eudora and Elvira.

SCENE II.

—Frankfort: in the vicinity of which, Conrad meets Alfred, his friend.
Alfred.
Good morning, my noble friend—any news?

Con.
Nothing worth the question.

Alf.
Ah! nothing?
You have been absent for a long time past?
No news? and just from Mexico? 'tis strange!

Con.
Ah! as to that, I have some sort of news.

Alf.
What did you see, worth naming to a friend?
I saw still born liberty swathed in gold!
Saw human laws made highways into crime!
Saw avarice debasing human nature!
And cut the throat of a cut-throat, because
He insulted a lady in my sight!

Alf.
By heavens! worse and worse! thou art the man!
Thou art the man, for me!—when we were boys,
I recollect, you used to take the field.

Con.
Ay—as to that, those days are past and gone!

Alf.
By truth! I thought there was no crime on earth,
Could match that villain's!

Con.
What do you mean?

Alf.
Have you not heard the wide report abroad?
If 'tis not so, then scandal's fast asleep,
And rumor, with her snaky tongue, has found
Some confine in the earth, and buried envy!
When man sets fire the lips of hell, and makes
Black passion stare young virtue in the face,—
Then fix a pivot in thy heart for doubt
To turn on! Didst thou know Alonzo?

Con.
Know him?
Why, Alfred! I know him better than thyself.

Alf.
Did you not know he loved Eudora?

Con.
No.
I think not—never did there live a sweeter.

Alf.
Why? how?—who was she? what is she?

Con.
A maid—
The damsel of the valley—pure as snow—

Alf.
Melted by a summer's sun.

Con.
Do not jest—
'Twould be a dangerous thing.

Alf.
Did you know her?

Con.
I know her? we went to school together.

Alf.
Then, I suppose, you thought her chaste.

Con.
I did:
But not more chaste than she is now, I guess!

Alf.
By heavens! the villain should be burnt alive!
The whitest snow, in falling, may be changed!

Con.
What means this kind o' talk—she is not married?

Alf.
Ah! if t'were so, t'would be as well as 'tis,
But not much better!

Con.
What is it?—tell me?

Alf.
Why, he is blown so high, the birds may build
Their nests in him, before he falls!—she's low!

Con.
What?—taunt me no more with slanderous words!
Come, play the fool no more! I know them both.

Alf.
Then, what I tell thee, I would have thee keep,
As silent as the grave confines the dead!
The gentleman who represents our state—

Con.
Has he committed murder—treason—rape?

Alf.
Yes! all that! as sure as you're a living man!
His passion, not content with earthly things,
Has conjured up his brain—beguiled his heart!
Whereby he ruined the sweetest thing on earth!

Con.
Very well—I'll see you soon again.

Alf.
Stay?
[Disturbed.
Thou art in love!—be not disturbed—'tis vain!

Con.
I do not care! tis' nought to me!—what else?

Alf.
I think thou art my friend! be such to her!
And better still, I know that I am thine;
And 'tis from this strong friendship that I speak.

Con.
Why! tell me what thou knowest about the man?

Alf.
If thou hast courage, learn him honesty.
He made a promise to Eudora, as I heard,
And acted like a traitor in the bargain.

Con.
Ah! if she loved him well, and he deceived her,
Then, the crime falls heavier on his heart—
Than on them both, did both love equally.

Alf.
I understand this thing from good men's mouths.

Con.
What?—it is not so?—it can't be possible?

Alf.
Trees are known by fruits they bear!—spring is come!

Con.
By heaven! I understand ye—you are his friend?

Alf.
I'm no such thing!—I'd rather cut his throat!

Con.
That you had better keep within your mouth.

Alf.
I must be gone—good day!
[Exeunt Alfred.

Con.
Good day, Alfred.
I would not nurture in my soul, one thought,
[Alone.
Which would be hurtful to my fellow man;
And hope, for virtue's sake—for heaven—and love,
Which I have borne so long—that 'tis not so.
I love Eudora! and, a sweeter child,
I never saw deserve a mother's love.
That villain must have used some violent means;
And, if he did, which I shall seek to know,
I'll arm me as a Hydra, full of heads,
And, Argus ey'd, with swift Achilles' speed,
Pursue him, like a bloodhound, day and night,
And finding him, make daylight through his heart!
'Till, draining ev'ry life drop from his veins,
Winter of death shall blow upon his soul,
And freeze up his existence into dust!
Shall I premeditate a brother's death?—
No kinsman of this heart!—think'st thou, this hand,
When wash'd in life's red spring, will not, with joy,
Pluck out the thorn which wounds Eudora's heart?
I would not hurt the heart of mortal man;
I would not wound the feelings of a slave;
I would not trespass on the moral laws,
For that poor, paltry recompense, call'd pride.—
By heaven! I have for man, far nobler views!
And would not wound the sympathies of self.—
[Strikes his heart.
My end and aim, for this, and future life,
Takes root in richer soil than common earth;
But if the chalice of my hopes,—so full
Of pure and perfect love,—be drain'd to dregs;
And I am forced to drink the wormwood left—
By truth! my run-mad heart shall quench its fire.
Look at these hands!—these stainless hands of mine!—
Were they kept clean thus long, to murder man!
To turn a Vulcan—make a human forge,
And point a steel, that has no feeling in it?
And loose the fountain of his mortal life,
'Till ev'ry drop of human gore runs out?
Would'st thou believe, a man, who never saw
A death in all his life!—one, who would weep,
In woman's tears, to see a suffering thing!—
Would'st thou believe that man could sport with human life?—
This is the man—these are the hands shall do 't!
I have authority from higher climes.
And mark! if I have not—I tell thee, there
Are crimes, which, once committed, call for aid,
Which, when bestow'd, would be a crime itself,
We'rt not for such as this—the shedding blood,
As sacrifico, for orphan honour stolen!
Clouding the crystal sea of limpid life—
That unpolluted region of the soul,
In which obscene defilement never sat;—
Now, may heaven give me wings to speed this work.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Cottage in the Country, where Eudora and Elvira live. Conrad enters—goes to the door and knocks; and Elvira comes out.
Con.
Good evening, Elvira!—pleasant evening.

Elv.
Pleasant evening—walk in, and take your rest.

Con.
I have a message for Eudora's self;
And I must see her.—

Elv.
You cannot see her,
I hope you did not come here to insult me?

Con.
I did not—my name is Conrad, tell her so—
That I am of her people, and her land—
I have a present for her.

Elv.
I cannot.
I have retir'd forever from the world,
And would not see the dearest friends on earth!

Con.
I knew that, e'er I came—here, give her this;
[Hands her a letter.
Tell her, that I would speak ten words, at most.

[Goes in to Eudora.
Elv.
Eudora begs me to inform you that
She must refuse; and bade me give you this—

[Hands him a book.
Con.
By heaven! I came to see Eudora's face,
And I must do 't—excuse me, ladye!
I am Eudora's friend—a trusty friend.

Elv.
Are you a madman?—get you gone—I say
She will not see thee!

Con.
Tell her o'er again—
Ask her if I can see her on to-morrow?
Give her these jewels,—and bid her keep them,
For the love the giver bears her—take them.
[Takes them and goes in.
(Alone)
The sun is fulgent, and his sheeny light,
By God's strong alchemy, transmutes the day—
What harmonious wo is that which stirs
The fountain of my soul, and jars the strings,
Which vibrate in my heart?—'tis sweet as sad!—
Oh! how it settles in the tenderness of pride,
Waving upon life's atmosphere of love!
Ah! 'tis the dove—an emblem of her virtue.
That is another witness nature gives,
Which proves how much her innocence was wrong'd!
The spirits of the world, are all at war,
And nature mourns—the morn and evening weeps!—
By truth! I will not go—I cannot go!
The fountains of my heart are wont to gush,
And I must burst, or give existence vent.
I will—I will behold Eudora's face!
I'll see if she be chang'd since first we met.
I'll watch the mirror of her soul, and trace
The outlines of primeval joy—sweet hours!
When tears were lost in smiles, as morning haze
In sunshine. Has she forgot my name?—no.
I'll tell her, like a man, and make her smile.

[Goes to the door and knocks, and Eudora comes out.
Con.
Art thou Eudora? Oh! Eudora! come—

[Refuses to go to him, and he weeps.
Eud.
What mean you, Conrad?—speak, that I may know?
Thou look'st like playtime, in my early youth;
When I was that, I ne'er shall be again!

[Weeps.
Con.
Dost thou remember those clear streams of ours,
Where we have heard the sweet melodious birds?
That plenitude of bliss is gone, Eudora!
One month ago, and I was far from thee—
But I could not remain—my soul was full!

[Weeps.
Eud.
Conrad! thou art distressed?

Con.
I am, Eudora!
But love and tenderness forbid me tell it.

Eud.
Speak, Conrad! mother knew thee not—thou hadst
Been welcome, had she known thy manly face.

Con.
That lonely hut—and was that built for thee?

[Points at it.
Con.
Yes, for me!—a villain drove—

[Weeps.
Eud.
Name it not—I will not hear it?

[With anger.
Eud.
Soft, soft!

Con.
Oh! Eudora! didst thou not know I lov'd thee?

Eud.
No, Conrad! that I cannot know—I'll think!

Con.
Think not—Eudora! dost thou see yon sun,
Shedding its beauty on the world? yon hills?—
Yon canopy of deathless blue?—enthroned
Above the universe, without a frown?
Now, if thou dost, thou seest I love thee well!
For I am but a spark of that great light—
A satellite discerption of the heavens!
I know the reason that thou lingerest here.

Eud.
How plainly do I see those eyes of youth,
Beaming with love, as when an active child!
I lov'd them then—why was I led away?—
[Weeps.
And now, in this sad day, I feel that love—
A something, which I would, but can't define.

Con.
Why live, Eudora! from the world?—from man?

Eud.
Why wound me with recurrences so keen?
When heaven dislikes to hear them?—say no more!
My soul is full of sorrow, and my heart
Is crush'd beneath the mountain of my woes!
Oh! my father! were he living!—were he here!—
But he is gone!—yea, dead and in his grave!
I feel the tide of indignation rushing
Back upon me—till a monument stands
Up, and points to heaven—Ah! tis sorrow's pangs! [Weeps.


Con.
Oh! Eudora! give me thy hand—be mine?
A better heart ne'er warm'd a human breast.

Eud.
Never—never—though I lov'd thee as my life!
Would I forswear myself? I've done it once!
I'll never do 't again—I never did!

[Weeps and falls in his arms.
Con.
What hast thou sworn, Eudora? tell me, love!

Eud.
Not to bequeath this heart to mortal man,
Until my woes are baptiz'd in his blood!
And wash'd from hell's most spurious counterfeit.

Con.
Then we are sworn alike—give me thy hand?
[She refuses.
You see this face of mine—you see this dagger;
[Shows it.
This is my young companion—I am thine!
Now, we can all be friends—give me thy hand?

Eud.
Not till I hear thee swear, and look to heaven!

Con.
By heavens! I will not—'twas that villain's prayer!

Eud.
Yes, that it was; may heaven defend thy love!—
[Falls on his breast.
Then “swear not by the heavens—it is God's throne!
Nor by the earth,” my love, “for 'tis his footstool!”
But swear by comfort here, and life to come.

Con.
I swear by comfort here, and heaven to come,
[Kneels,
That, with thy hand, as gift of estimation—
As truly shall this earth receive his blood.

Eud.
Then it is thine, and I am thine,—mine all;
[Gives her hand.
But never will I marry mortal man,
'Till he turn priest, and wed him unto death!

Con.
'Tis said—'tis done, as sure as said—I will
Not sleep—'I'll not lie down upon my bed,
Until I place this birthright in his heart,
And send him, with the legacy, to hell!

Eud.
Be not too rash—the thing should be well done!
And mind, you leave no spark behind—but tramp
The embers, ere you quit him, into ashes!—
For fear, one breath may blow him back his soul,
And kindle life again—he has a wife!
And I am sorry for her!

Con.
And so am I—she never did me harm;
And I am sorry for his children—child!— [Looks at Eudora.


Eud.
Oh! heavens! forgive me, Conrad!—name it not!—

[Weeps.
Con.
Thou hast a child, Eudora! I know it all—
I will restore thee to thyself again.
That child shall be no orphan, like thyself!—
She shall be rear'd and taught beneath my roof.

Eud.
Oh! Conrad! thou wer't sent to heal this wound.

Con.
What?—thou did'st love the villain?—let him die!

[Draws his dagger.
Eud.
Oh! Conrad! forgive me!

Con.
Forgive you, what?
Because you lov'd him?—that needs no forgiveness!—
The thing forgives itself, and heaps up hell
Against his guilt—the wrath of man and heaven!
I love the better—hate his crime the more—
To know thou wer't so kind, and he betray thee.

Eud.
Then, drag him from the world!—he is that curtain,
Shading life, which shuts out sunshine from my soul!
But tear the wolf-skin from his back, and throw
It to the dogs—Eudora lives once more!—
This hand and heart shall then be thine—thine own.

Con.
These hands shall wash thy name as white as snow.

Eud.
I would not chronicle my name on earth,
But have my virtue written in the skies.

Con.
You would not have me kill him in the night?—
Let me fight him like a man,—face to face.
Cowards seek their prey by night, like wolves—
I am no fox—I'll weigh his chance with mine.

Eud.
Fight with a traitor'—give him chance to kill thee?
He may possess the muscle, nerve and strength—
All that—and still not have a human soul!
The ox hath power—a stubborn, ignorant thing.
Would'st thou be balanc'd with an ignorant ox?
Man's reason, once debas'd, falls short of instinct;
Therefore, secure him in the night—a dungeon night!
And raise the flood-gates of his treacherous heart,
And let the rivers of his life run back
To dust—the elements from which they came.

[Goes into the cottage.
Con.
Then, I must be as yon eternal sun—
Fix'd and immovable—hard as adamant;
And steadfast as the pillars of this world.
What care I for this golden trophy, here,
Call'd honour?—silver opinions?—night! night!
Shall hide me from the sophistry of men;
And make this unsophisticated heart,
A chaplet for Eudora and mankind.
She has become like Israel's increase,
Needs the strength of such an honest arm,
To roll this mountain from her tender heart—!
To morrow, I shall see him for the last.

[Eudora returns.
Eud.
Be careful, Conrad! he may kill thee first!
And when thou dost return, oh! I will love thee!
And all my life shall be to nurse and praise thee!
And wash thy bloody hands with tears of joy.

Con.
Sweet ladye! sweetener of all love,—my joy—
Oh! what would I not do to please thee?—die!
I'd die without a pang to see thee smile.

Eud.
Take care! lest he betray thee unto death!
Oh! then, this life would be a tenfold curse!
Steal on him, Conrad! when he's in his office—
Tell him you're his friend, and wish to see him!

Con.
I am his friend—I am to do that man
A most immortal good! I am to rid
Him of a burthen, which I would not wear,
For all Golconda's mines—I am to prune
His sucker'd conscience,—which is wasting down
His substance, into pigmy degradation;—
Methinks he should be thankful in the grave!

Eud.
He would not face thee, for his weight in gold.

Con.
Why not, Eudora?

Eud.
Oh! he's such a coward!
The most notorious coward in this world.
Who ever saw a foe to virtue brave,
And not indict a blush to hide his shame?
Find him out, but call Eudora's name!
And thou can'st do, with him, just what you please.
Tell him, Eudora lov'd him—then, you smile;
Then mark the cloud which overhangs his brow!
Fire his expectation—then say, 'tis peace.
Then, ask him if he do not think me pure?
Then read self-condemnation on his cheeks!
Make him acknowledge how he serv'd my mother—
Then note the quiver of his lying lips!
Ask him if he does not deserve to die?
And mark how prostrate he will fall before thee!—
Howling for mercy, like a beaten dog.
Ask him all this—and tell me what he says.
I would not have you see his wife—she's kind!
And would not do her wrong—she calls him dear!
But, if she knew his heart as well as I,
She'd not refuse to be our accessary.

Con.
Now, out of two fond hearts, we make but one.
Like two sweet notes from one melodious string,
We make our music on a human harp.

Eud.
Take care, Conrad! be not rash!—mind, my love!
But weigh ambition in the scales of patience.
Go, like Ulysses, in a cloak—well arm'd—

Con.
One kiss, Eudora! and the work is done—
[Kisses her.
Farewell! I hate that word! it makes me wish
[Shakes hands
Myself with thee again—then, fare thee well!

Eud.
Farewell, and I will wait—mind what I told thee.

[Exeunt omnes.