University of Virginia Library

SCENE. VI.

Bellmour.
Bell.
My baleful Hand, has mix'd the deadly Draught,
To give it as a Cordial—Give it! whom?
Start from thy burning Orb, thou conscious Sun,
And chill thy self to Frost at my black Purpose.
Am I a Parent? a Protector? Lover?
Or has this Devil, that heaves about my Heart,
Transform'd me to a Fiend? He has! He has!
Chain him, some Angel, Millions of Fathoms down;
Heap him with Mountains, least, he rise again,
And in a Husband's and a Father's Breast,
Brew horrid Murders!—I am my self, once more—
Now let cool Reason's undistracted Search
Answer my bleeding Soul, which dreadful Ill
May best be born by Nature—To leave our Friends,
To grinding Sorrow, Poverty, and Scorn,
With Sense of his not feeling any Pain,
Who gave them all;—or, to quit Life together,
And, wanting Pow'r to bless, make it some Merit,
Nor to leave Curses to surviving Innocence!
I'm mad again—Reason her self betrays me,
And whispers, that the first is Cruelty,
And Murder grows a Mercy!—