 | The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 |  |
Scene 1st
MelitusWhat means this dreadful vision of the night?
Ha! Sure it was not fancy? fancy breeds
A thousand megrims in the brain, and loves
To tease her e'en to madness.—No; twas real;
I saw it plain, and horrid was it's figure;
It glar'd upon me with the eye of death;
And spoke too—sure it spoke—it mention'd Socrates,
And told me, heav'n was pouring down it's vengeance
On my accursed head—It was no dream;
My slumbers left me soon, and long I lay,
Stretch'd on the rack of conscience, when it came.
It came—I saw it stalk into my chamber.
How I'm distracted? Gods, was it for this,
That I maintain'd your godhead 'gainst the wretch
That wou'd have rob'd your temples of their worship?
O for that peace I once enjoy'd—tis gone,
And now I feel such tortures—I will feel them—
My sister, ha! I wou'd not see her now.
| The Poetic Writings of Thomas Cradock, 1718-1770 | |