 | The Fatal Extravagance |  |
SCENE V.
Bellmour, Louisa.Bell.
Louisa! I am damn'd, while yet alive!
Lou.
Alas! what mean you to distract me thus
With your wild Startings?
Bell.
Nay but mark me well,—
Want's the Damnation of a living Sinner.—
What have I liv'd for, if I die a Beggar?
Why were my Ancestors renown'd in War?
Why, with grave Judges, have they grac'd the Bench,
Or, with wise Votes, the Senate?—In Me, must beg—
Mark that lean Word, Louisa! In Me must beg
That ebbing Name, which through a Length of Ages,
Has given a Kingdom Honour. Bear'st thou That?
How excellent art thou! not to have scorn'd me!
Good Heav'n! that Reason shou'd give Madness way,
'Till Man finds Musick in a rattling Dice-Box!
And has contracted thrice three thousand Acres,
To the curs'd Compass of a narrow Table!
With what a thoughtless Rapture have I shook 'em!
Hung o'er the Throw! and hurl'd out my Posterity
Pimps, Thieves, or Beggars!—But then at last,
This Madman's Hazard of my treasur'd Remnant,
In the wild Lottery of a publick Hope,
Where Reason had no Chance, and Villains govern'd—
Curs'd! groundless Rashness!—Tear me Limb from Limb,
Some pitying Torturer! To die at once,
Were Comfort e'en in Agony!—But I shall be
Whole Ages, after Death, in dying!—Villains,
21
Will point at some poor ragged Child of mine,
And say, ‘There's Pride and Name! there's Bellmour's Honour!
‘There's the blest Remnant of a boasted Family!
Curse the keen Thought! it pours all Hell upon me!
Lou.
Still wilt thou, thus, snatch at Despair's wild Shadows?
I thought, the manly Soul cou'd smile at Anguish;
Woman's weak Mind may bend beneath Adversity;
But Bellmour's Brow, methinks, shou'd wear a Majesty,
And make Affliction awful.
Bell.
Away with Counsel.
I cannot hear Thee. Thy moving Air! thy Wisdom!
That lovely Softnefs, which bewitches round Thee!
Each Charm, which has a thousand Times appeas'd me!
Now makes me mad! Like Oil pour'd out on Flame,
I tower, in Blaze, and burn with tenfold Fierceness.
Thy ev'ry Word is Death! Each Look thou giv'st me
Breaks thro' my Eye, comes rushing on my Soul,
And shoots sharp Arrows thro' my bleeding Conscience.
Think'st thou, I am so mean, so lost a Wretch,
That my own Misery stings me? Cruel Woman!
What Earthly Ills can Bellmour stoop to fear,
Which hurt but Bellmour? 'Tis true, indeed, thy Fate
I have not learn'd to bear—There Grief unmans me;
Thine and thy helpless Infants' Woes rise to me,
Glare on my Apprehension, like pale Ghosts!
And point me into Madness!
| The Fatal Extravagance | |