 | Athelwold |  |
SCENE I.
A Grove, in the Palace Garden.Athelwold, Ethelinda.
Ethelinda.
All this is false in Reason; but your Eloquence,
Proud of its Power, provokes you to offend,
That you may force Forgiveness.—Was it not cold,
Too cold for Love, in all this cruel Length
Of chearless Absence, when your dang'rous Charge too,
Was but to gaze on Beauty, never to write?
Never to bid me hope, the much-fear'd Elfrid
Had left your Heart still partial to my Fondness?
A Fondness that destroy'd me! Turn your Eyes from me;
—They look as they'd reproach me: Do not see me,
But tell me why you made such speed to leave me?
Had you but staid, to add one Hour of Peace
To those of guilty Softness; Had I been yours;
Your Wife, that fatal Morning, you do not know
What Tears it wou'd have sav'd me.
Athelwold.
Oh! speak no more;
Your Words are wing'd with Fire; they pierce my Soul:
They enter, and burn in me!—Oft have I trembled,
As I do now, when Rev'rence and Desire,
Shot from those Angel Eyes, have warr'd within me:
Yet never was I thus distress'd, before!
16
That you are gen'rous, my fond Heart confesses;
Else, how destroy'd a Wretch were Ethelinda!
If, like the Base among your Sex, you shunn'd me,
Nor pitied the kind Weakness that betray'd me,
But added Shame to Guilt, and grew inconstant,
And left me, for another; Save me, ye Saints!
To what a dreadful Depth of startling Misery
Had my lost Honour plung'd me!
Athelwold.
Grac'd, as you are,
With artless Vertue, and unconscious Beauty,
Strengthen'd with Wisdom, sanctified by Truth,
And sainted o'er with Sweetness!—Tho' your Voice
Is tun'd to Transport, and each melting Accent
Shakes to my Soul, and swells Despair, to Musick;
Yet is there something so disorder'd, here,
That I ev'n wish thee silent!—Thy soft Words,
Moving, and warm, and gentle as thy Bosom,
Strike me, like Death, when his eternal Frost
Creeps, in cold Anguish, o'er us!
Ethelinda.
Oh! my kind Lord!
To feel this wondrous Extasy, for me!
This noblest, tend'rest, Mark of mournful Passion!
Is such a sweet Atonement for my Tears,
That I could weep for ever.—Be it my Glory,
My Duty's Pride, and my full Heart's chief Joy,
To give unbounded Love, in soft Exchange,
For your indulg'd Endearment.—Let me not live,
If I prefer not that dear Name, your Wife,
To all those empty Sounds, those titled Nothings,
Which Edgar treasures for his unknown Queen!
—My Lord!—you start;—and tremble, and look pale!
Come;—this quick Sense of Gratitude and Love
Works too intense, and I must chide you for it.
17
It is too much:—And Honour and Humanity
Disclaim the brutal Heart that cou'd bear this,
And be less mov'd than I am.—Curse on the wild,
The boundless Luxury of wanton Love!
What have I lost! What am I doom'd to suffer!
Who cou'd heap Suff'rings here!
Ethelinda.
Suff'rings, my Lord!
And wanton Love?—What Love?—Whose Sufferings?
Athelwold.
Mine, mine, thou injur'd Truth!—who cou'd name wanton,
And mix a Thought of thee?
Ethelinda.
But you nam'd Suff'rings!
Athelwold.
What Lover lives without 'em?
Ethelinda.
A Lover's Sufferings
Once past, give present Joys a livelier Relish:
The sacred Tie that firms a Wife's soft Claim,
Will free pain'd Mem'ry from the Blush of Weakness.
Athelwold
aside.
How mean is Guilt, that it must bow the Heart
To Falshood and Disguise!—New in Dissembling,
I shall betray my Grief, and shame my Art.—
—The Suff'ring that I meant, my Ethelinda,
Was, that an ill-tim'd Chance, awhile, with-holds
Our Hands: But what are nuptial Forms, to Love!
Prince Leolyn, my Friend,—alas! he loves you;
Loves you, my Soul's sweet Pain, to such Excess,
That his Life hangs but on his Hope of you!
Jealous, he dies with Fear, that I am now
His Rival in your Love:—what will he feel
When I am own'd your Choice!—May not your Pity
18
Till Time, or Accident, gives means to save him?
Mean while.—
Ethelinda.
What wou'd you do, mean while, my Lord?
You wou'd not sure! that I receive him? hear him?
Athelwold.
That were too much. It might, perhaps, suffice,
Shou'd I, more rarely, and with Caution, seek
The Blessing of your Presence.
Ethelinda.
My Lord! my Lord!
You are detected.—My taught Heart, at length,
Blind as Love made it, sees your Baseness through;
And burns with Shame; and bursts with Indignation.
This poor Deceit was form'd, but to evade
My due Repair of Honour. 'Twas the word Wife,
That made this sudden Politician of you!—
Athelwold.
Soften those angry Eyes, which sparkle on me.
Ethelinda.
—Away,—nor bring Contagion to my Soul.
—Oh! what a dreadful Change in my poor Heart
Has one weak Moment made!—scorn'd, like the Vile,
Dishonour'd, infamous, despis'd, for ever,
I must become a Wanderer round the World;
Meet Cold—and Hunger,—Poverty and Shame;
Anguish and Insult.—Better, all, than Man!
The faithless Murd'rer, Man!—What am I doom'd to?
Whom have I trusted! Oh! revenging Heav'n!
See my Distress, and punish me with more;
I cannot be too wretched.—Begone, Deceiver.
I wou'd not curse thee.—I will not wish thee Pain:
But, never, never, let me see thee more.
Athelwold.
Be not transported thus.—
19
Insolent Coldness!
But I deserve it all.—My Fairy Dream
Must last no longer, and I wake, to Woe.
The pleasing Folly sinks; and, in its Room,
Rise Penitence, and Scorn, and lasting Pain.
Now, now, the shifting Scene makes haste to change!
Now, now, comes on the Race of Shame, and Grief,
Which every Woman is condemn'd to run,
Who trusts her Honour to betraying Man!—
Yet, every Woman, where she loves, believes;
Tho', not to doubt, is thus to be undone!
But I deserve it all.—My Fairy Dream
Must last no longer, and I wake, to Woe.
The pleasing Folly sinks; and, in its Room,
Rise Penitence, and Scorn, and lasting Pain.
Now, now, the shifting Scene makes haste to change!
Now, now, comes on the Race of Shame, and Grief,
Which every Woman is condemn'd to run,
Who trusts her Honour to betraying Man!—
Yet, every Woman, where she loves, believes;
Tho', not to doubt, is thus to be undone!
Oh! what a Diff'rence, 'twixt the Calms of Vertue,
And these heart-rending Pangs of Guilt, and Shame!
Far has your fatal Journey out-gone all
That my slow Fears forboded!—These are the Joys,
The Sweets, the Transports, the Eternal Rounds
Of Love, and Tenderness, and Gratitude,
Which were to charm away my sense of Ruin!—
O Woman! Woman!—What is Vanity!
What is Belief, that, tho' a Thousand fall,
We still shall Conquer, and still hold our Conquests!
And these heart-rending Pangs of Guilt, and Shame!
Far has your fatal Journey out-gone all
That my slow Fears forboded!—These are the Joys,
The Sweets, the Transports, the Eternal Rounds
Of Love, and Tenderness, and Gratitude,
Which were to charm away my sense of Ruin!—
O Woman! Woman!—What is Vanity!
What is Belief, that, tho' a Thousand fall,
We still shall Conquer, and still hold our Conquests!
Athelwold.
By the sweet Mem'ry of that dearest Night!
Ethelinda.
Curse on th'ill-chosen Oath!—All, you can swear
By That, will be as false and base as you are.
Loosen your hated Hold:—I will not hear you.
Athelwold.
Cou'd you say hated?
Ethelinda.
Off—By the Eye of Heaven,
That saw my Faith betray'd, not all thy Arts
Shall sooth me to forgive thee.—Away.—Be gone.
Athelwold.
Look yonder!—
By all my Hopes of Peace, your Uncle Oswald,
20
Your scatter'd Spirits; and, round the neighb'ring Grot,
Let us take diff'rent Walks, and shun their Eye.
Ethelinda.
When next I see thee, may my Woes!
Athelwold.
Oh! hold.—
That Oath wou'd kill me.—Why do you tremble thus?
Shall we not meet again?
Ethelinda.
Once—and no more,
Till in Eternity.
Athelwold.
An Hour hence, here.
[Exeunt severally.
| Athelwold | |