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SCENE V.

Dunbar, Eleonora.
Dunbar.
Ah! wherefore dost thou wring thy tender Hands
In woeful Attitude?—ah! wherefore lift
Thy streaming Eyes to Heav'n; while the deep Groan
Dilates thy lab'ring Breast?

Eleonora.
This is too much—
This is too much to bear!—thou hast destroy'd
My last Remains of Peace!


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Dunbar.
And, was thy Peace
Deposited in him?—In him who rais'd
His impious Hand to kill thee!—Is it well
To mourn his Fall, and thus accuse the Blow
That rescu'd thee from Death?

Eleonora.
I blame not thee,
No, Heav'n forbid!—I blame not my Protector—
Yet thy Protection has undone me quite!
And I will mourn—for ever mourn the Hour—
Th'ill-omen'd Hour, that on thy Sword conferr'd
Such terrible Success—How pale appear
These clay-cold Cheeks where Grace and Vigour glow'd!
O dismal Spectacle!—How humble now
Lies that Ambition which was late so proud!—
Did he not call me with his latest Breath!—
He would have said—but cruel Fate controul'd
His fault'ring Tongue!—He would have said, “For thee,
“For thee false Maid, I perish undeplor'd!”
O! had'st thou known how obstinately true
My Heart remained to thee, when thy own Guilt,
My Duty, and thy Rival's Worth, conspir'd
To banish thee from thence; thy parting Soul
Would have acquitted—nay, perhaps, bewail'd
My persecuted Truth!

Dunbar.
O turn thine Eyes
From the sad Object!—Turn thy melting Thoughts
From the disastrous Theme, and look on me—
On me who would with Exstasy resign
This wretched Being, to be thus embalm'd
With Eleonora's Tears!—Were I to fall,
Thy Pity would not thus lament my Fate!


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Eleonora.
Thy Death, such Lamentation would not move,
More envy'd than bemoan'd;—thy Memory
Would still be cherish'd, and thy Name survive
To latest Ages, in immortal Bloom.—
Ah, 'tis not so with him!—He leaves behind
No dear Remembrance of unsully'd Fame!
No Monument of Glory, to defy
The Storms of Time!—Nought but Reproach and Shame!
Nought, but perpetual Slander, brooding o'er
His Reputation lost!—O fearful Scene
Of dire Existence, that must never close!