The Fatal Extravagance A Tragedy |
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| 8. | SCENE VIII. |
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 | The Fatal Extravagance |  |
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SCENE VIII.
Bellmour.Bell.
Be firm, my Heart!
Stop thy big Beat! Thaw, thaw, this curdling Blood,
That, thro' my Icy Veins, creeps cold as Death,
And freezes in its Passage.—Where is Louisa?
But a few Moments, and she is no more!
Now! now! the unsuspecting Innocent
Lifts that last Cup—Now, now, she tastes a Draught,
That snatches her, for ever, from my Sight,
And robs me of her Comfort! Never more,
Shall her sweet Voice enchant me! Never more,
Shall her soft Eyes look fondly into mine,
And shine with swimming Languor—Never, never,
Will her unwearied Wit beguile my Cares,
Or hush me more to Peace, when Passion shakes me!
Open, engulph me, and conceal my Shame
Befriending Earth!—Or, from thy yawning Depth,
Stream up a Night of Gloom, to blot out Memory,
And darken o'er Reflection!—I feel my Blood
Cool, and grow thick, as melted Lead flows heavy,
And hardens in its Motion—A little longer,
And I, who have a Heart, already Marble,
Shall petrifie throughout, and be a Statue!
Lou.
My Life! my Bellmour!
(Within.
Bell.
Ha! 'tis her Voice that calls me—
It sounded not reproachful.
Lou.
Look, look, my Bellmour!
(Within.
These little Strugglers will not quit the Cordial,
But sip it to the Bottom—
Bell.
Torturing Horror—
| The Fatal Extravagance | |