 | The Fatal Extravagance |  |
67
SCENE IX.
Bellmour, Louisa with an empty Cup.Lou.
How cou'd you be so rigid, not to come,
When I twice call'd you? 'Twou'd have been a Scene
Of Pleasure, to observe with how much Eagerness,
The little Wranglers quarrel'd for the Cup,
Which having drank, myself, I brought to them.
I bid 'em taste it only—and told the Pratlers,
It was their Father's Present: But that Word
Transported them, to lift their pretty Hands,
And brought a War about me—
Bell.
Furies tear me—
Lou.
Did you not give Permission they should taste it?
E'er they began the Journey!
Bell.
Alas! Louisa!
A long, long Journey, is indeed! begun,
But endless as Eternity—Thy self,
And those dear Infants—are poyson'd by that Cordial.
Lou.
Poison'd! by thee? Thou say'st it but to try me!
If 'twere thy Wish that I shou'd die, thy Love,—
At least, thy Pity, wou'd have given some Warning.
Death is a dreadful Journey, and requires
Much Length of Preparation.—
Bell.
By those Charms,
Which I no more must gaze on, and be bless'd,
Thou can'st not live an Hour—A last, long Sleep
Will steal, with cold Advances, o'er thy Beauties,
And those two beamy Suns, which sparkle on me,
Anon, shall set in Death—Even while we talk,
The eternal Shade will rise, at once, between us,
And sever us for ever.
Lou.
Dreadful Contraction!
Of that short Span, which at its longest Stretch,
Was much too narrow, to allow me Scope,
68
What shall I say?—A thousand tender Thoughts,
Struggle, at once, for Vent.—I cannot speak—
Death is too hasty—I have yet, undone,
Unspoke, unthought, a thousand weighty Things!
O! Heaven! my Little ones!—Let me fly to them!
Have I so short a Time, to gaze upon them?
Yet ne'er must see 'em more!—I cannot leave thee.
What shall I do?—O bring my Children hither;
Fly with 'em to my Arms!—Dear, dying Innocents!
Oh! Bellmour! Bellmour! Why has this been done?
Bell.
That we might baffle Woe, and die together—
And leave no Beggars of our Race behind us.
See! my Louisa! I have a faithful Guide.
(Drawing a Dagger
That will not let me lose thee—
(Stabs himself.
Lou.
Oh! cruel Bellmour!
What hast thou done?—Now, I am kill'd indeed!
Help, help,—Oh! Uncle! what a dreadful Scene
Are you return'd to?
| The Fatal Extravagance | |