University of Virginia Library

SCENE X.

Athol, Grime.
Athol.
Curse on the smooth Dissembler!—Welcome Grime.
My Soul is wrought to the sublimest Rage
Of horrible Revenge!—If aught remain'd
Of cautious Scruple, to the scatt'ring Winds
I give the Phantome.—May this Carcase rot,
A loathsome Banquet to the Fowls of Heav'n,
If e'er my Breast admit one Thought to bound
The Progress of my Hate!

Grime.
What means my Prince?

Athol.
Th'unhappy Youth is slain!

Grime.
Ha!—Hell be prais'd—
He was a peevish Stripling, prone to Change.
[Aside
—Vain is Condolance.—Let our Swords be swift
To sate his hov'ring Shade.—I have conferr'd
With trusty Cattan, our Design explain'd,
And his full Aid secur'd—To Night, he rules
The middle Watch.—The Clans already move
In Silence o'er the Plain.

Athol.
Come then ye Powers
That dwell with Night, and patronize Revenge!
Attend our Invocation, and confirm
Th'exterminating Blow!—My Boughs are lopt,
But they will sprout again: My vig'rous Trunk
Shall flourish from the Wound my Foes have made,
And yet again, project an awful Shade.