University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Sigismunda. Laura.
Sigismunda.
O Woe on Woe! distrest by Love and Duty!
O every way unhappy Sigismunda!

Laura.
Forgive me, Madam, if I blame your Grief.
How can you waste your Tears on one so false?
Unworthy of your Tenderness? to whom
Nought but Contempt is due and Indignation?

Sigismunda.
You know not half the Horrors of my Fate!
I might perhaps have learn'd to scorn his Falsehood;
Nay, when the first sad Burst of Tears was past,
I might have rous'd my Pride and scorn'd Himself—
But 'tis too much, this greatest last Misfortune—
O whither shall I fly? Where hide me, Laura,
From the dire Scene my Father now prepares!

Laura.
What thus alarms you, Madam?

Sigismunda.
Can it be?
Can I—ah no!—at once give to another
My violated Heart? in one wild Moment?
He brings Earl Osmond to receive my Vows!
O dreadful Change! for Tancred haughty Osmond!

Laura.
Now, on my Soul, 'tis what an outrag'd Heart,
Like thine, should wish!—I should, by Heavens, esteem it
Most exquisite Revenge!

Sigismunda.
Revenge on whom?
On my own Heart, already but too wretched!

Laura.
On Him! this Tancred! who has basely sold,
For the dull Form of despicable Grandeur,
His Faith, his Love!—At once a Slave and Tyrant!

Sigismunda.
O rail at me, at my believing Folly,
My vain ill-founded Hopes, but spare him, Laura!

Laura.
Who rais'd these Hopes? who triumphs o'er that Weakness?
Pardon the Word—You greatly merit him;
Better than him, with all his giddy Pomp!
You rais'd him by your Smiles when he was nothing!
Where is your Woman's Pride? that guardian Spirit
Given us to dash the Perfidy of Man?
Ye Powers! I cannot bear the Thought with Patience—
Yet recent from the most unsparing Vows
The Tongue of Love e'er lavish'd; from your Hopes
So vainly, idly, cruelly deluded;
Before the Publick thus, before your Father,
By an irrevocable solemn Deed,
With such inhuman Scorn, to throw you from him!
To give his faithless Hand yet warm from thine,
With complicated Meanness, to Constantia!
And to compleat his Crime, when thy weak Limbs
Could scarce support thee, then, of Thee regardless,
To lead Her off!

Sigismunda.
That was indeed a Sight
To poison Love! to turn it into Rage
And keen Contempt!—What means this stupid Weakness
That hangs upon me? Hence unworthy Tears!
Disgrace my Cheek no more! No more, my Heart,
For one so coolly false or meanly fickle—
O it imports not which—dare to suggest
The least Excuse!—Yes, Traitor, I will wring
Thy Pride, will turn thy Triumph to Confusion!
I will not pine away my Days for Thee,
Sighing to Brooks and Groves; while, with vain Pity,
You in a Rival's Arms lament my Fate—
No! let me perish! ere I tamely be
That soft, that patient, gentle Sigismunda,
Who can console Her with the wretched Boast,
She was for Thee unhappy!—If I am,
I will be nobly so!—Sicilia's Daughters
Shall wondering see in me a great Example
Of one who punish'd her ill-judging Heart,
Who made it bow to what it most abhorr'd!
Crush'd it to Misery! for having thus
So lightly listen'd to a worthless Lover!

Laura.
At last it mounts! the kindling Pride of Virtue!
Trust me, thy Marriage will embitter His—

Sigismunda.
O may the Furies light his Nuptial Torch!
Be it accurs'd as mine! For the fair Peace,
The tender Joys of Hymeneal Love,
May Jealousy awak'd, and fell Remorse,
Pour all their fiercest Venom thro' his Breast!—
Where the Fates lead, and blind Revenge, I follow!—
Let me not think—By injur'd Love! I vow,
Thou shalt, base Prince! perfidious and inhuman!
Thou shalt behold me in another's Arms!
In his thou hatest! Osmond's!

Laura.
That will grind
His Heart with secret Rage! Aye, that will sting
His Soul to Madness! set him up a Terror,
A Spectacle of Woe to faithless Lovers!—
Your cooler Thought, besides, will of the Change
Approve, and think it happy. Noble Osmond
From the same Stock with him derives his Birth,
First of Sicilian Barons, prudent, brave,
Of strictest Honour, and by all rever'd—

Sigismunda.
Talk not of Osmond, but perfidious Tancred!
Rail at him, rail! invent new Names of Scorn!
Assist me, Laura; lend my Rage fresh Fewel;
Support my staggering Purpose, which already
Begins to fail me—Ah, my Vaunts how vain!
How have I ly'd to my own Heart!—Alas!
My Tears return, the mighty Flood o'erwhelms me!
Ten Thousand crouding Images distract
My tortur'd Thought—And is it come to This?
Our Hopes? our Vows? our oft repeated Wishes,
Breath'd from the fervent Soul, and full of Heaven,
To make each other happy?—come to This!

Laura.
If thy own Peace and Honour cannot keep
Thy Resolution fix'd, yet, Sigismunda,
O think, how deeply, how beyond Retreat,
Thy Father is engag'd.

Sigismunda.
Ah wretched Weakness!
That thus enthrals my Soul, that chases thence
Each nobler Thought, the Sense of every Duty!—
And have I then no Tears for Thee, my Father?
Can I forget thy Cares, from helpless Years,
Thy Tenderness for me? an Eye still beam'd
With Love? a Brow that never knew a Frown?
Nor a harsh Word thy Tongue? Shall I for These,
Repay thy stooping venerable Age,
With Shame, Disquiet, Anguish and Dishonour?
It must not be!—Thou First of Angels! come,
Sweet filial Piety! and firm my Breast!
Yes, let one Daughter to her Fate submit,
Be nobly wretched—but her Father happy!—
Laura!—they come!—O Heavens! I cannot stand
The horrid Trial!—Open, open, Earth!
And hide me from their View!

Laura.
Madam!—