The poetical works of Charles Lamb A new edition |
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Scene.—Woodvil Hall.
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The poetical works of Charles Lamb | ||
Scene.—Woodvil Hall.
(SANDFORD. MARGARET. (As from a Journey.)SANDFORD.
The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing
MARGARET.
How bears he up against the common rumour?
SANDFORD.
With a strange indifference, which whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride for ever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.
MARGARET.
I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even
SANDFORD.
As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.
MARGARET.
I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.
SANDFORD.
I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a
MARGARET.
The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit.—Meditating upon these intricate and wide-spread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?
SANDFORD.
An hour past sun-set. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.
MARGARET.
A good rest to us all.
SANDFORD.
Thanks, lady.
The poetical works of Charles Lamb | ||