ACT THE FIFTH.

SCENE I. A STREET.

Enter Belmour and Dumont.
Dum. You saw her, then?
Bel. I met her, as returning
In solemn penance from the public cross.
Before her, certain rascal officers,
Slaves in authority, the knaves of justice,
Proclaim'd the tyrant Gloster's cruel orders.
Around her, numberless, the rabble flow'd,
Should'ring each other, crowding for a view,
Gaping and gazing, taunting and reviling;
Some pitying—but those, alas! how few!
The most, such iron hearts we are, and such
The base barbarity of human-kind,
With insolence and lewd reproach pursu'd her,
Hooting and railing, and with villanous hands
Gath'ring the filth from out the common ways,
To hurl upon her head.
Dum. Inhuman dogs!
How did she bear it?
Bel. With the gentlest patience;
Submissive, sad, and lowly, was her look;
A burning taper in her hand she bore,
And on her shoulders carelessly confus'd,
With loose neglect, her lovely tresses hung;
Upon her cheek a faintish blush was spread;
Feeble she seem'd, and sorely smit with pain.
While, barefoot as she trod the flinty pavement,
Her footsteps all along were mark'd with blood;
Yet, silent still she pass'd, and unrepining:
Her streaming eyes bent ever on the earth,
Except when, in some bitter pang of sorrow,
To heav'n she seem'd in fervent zeal to raise,
And beg that mercy man deny'd her here.
Dum. When was this piteous sight?
Bel. These last two days.
You know my care was wholly bent on you,
To find the happy means of your deliverance,
Which but for Hastings' death I had not gain'd.
During that time, although I have not seen her,
Yet divers trusty messengers I've sent,
To wait about, and watch a fit convenience
To give her some relief, but all in vain;
A churlish guard attends upon her steps,
Who menace those with death, that bring her comfort,
And drive all succour from her.
Dum. Let 'em threaten;
Let proud oppression prove its fiercest malice;
So heav'n befriend my soul, as here I vow
To give her help, and share one fortune with her.
Bel. Mean you to see her thus in your own form?
Dum. I do.
Bel. And have you thought upon the consequence?
Dum. What is there I should fear?
Bel. Have you examin'd
Into your inmost heart, and try'd at leisure
The sev'ral secret springs that move the passions?
Has mercy fix'd her empire there so sure,
That wrath and vengeance never may return?
Can you resume a husband's name, and bid
That wakeful dragon, fierce resentment, sleep?
Dum. O thou hast set my busy brain at work,
And now she musters up a train of images,
Which, to preserve my peace, I had cast aside,
And sunk in deep oblivion—Oh, that form!
That angel face on which my dotage hung!
How I have gaz'd upon her, till my soul
With very eagerness went forth towards her,
And issu'd at my eyes.—Was there a gem
Which the sun ripens in the Indian mine,
Or the rich bosom of the ocean yields?
What was there art could make, or wealth could buy,
Which I have left unsought to deck her beauty?
What could her king do more?—And yet she fled.
Bel. Away with that sad fancy——
Dum. Oh, that day!
The thought of it must live for ever with me.
I met her, Belmour, when the royal spoiler
Bore her in triumph from my widow'd home!
Within his chariot, by his side, she sat,
And listen'd to his talk with downward looks,
'Till, sudden as she chanc'd aside to glance,
Her eyes encounter'd mine—Oh! then, my friend!
Oh! who can paint my grief and her amazement!
As at the stroke of death, twice turn'd she pale;
And twice a burning crimson blush'd all o'er her;
Then, with a shriek heart-wounding, loud she cry'd,
While down her cheeks two gushing torrents ran
Fast falling on her hands, which thus she wrung——
Mov'd at her grief, the tyrant ravisher,
With courteous action, woo'd her oft to turn;
Earnest he seem'd to plead, but all in vain;
Ev'n to the last she bent her sight towards me,
And follow'd me——till I had lost myself.
Bel. Alas, for pity! Oh! those speaking tears!
Could they be false? did she not suffer with you.
For, though the king by force possess'd her person,
Her unconsenting heart dwelt still with you?
If all her former woes were not enough,
Look on her now; behold her where she wanders,
Hunted to death, distress'd on every side,
With no one hand to help; and tell me then,
If ever misery were known like hers?
Dum. And can she bear it? Can that delicate frame
Endure the beating of a storm so rude?
Can she, for whom the various seasons chang'd
To court her appetite and crown her board,
For whom the foreign vintages were press'd,
For whom the merchant spread his silken stores,
Can she——
Entreat for bread, and want the needful raiment
To wrap her shiv'ring bosom from the weather?
When she was mine, no care came ever nigh her;
I thought the gentlest breeze that wakes the spring
Too rough to breathe upon her; cheerfulness
Danc'd all the day before her, and at night
Soft slumbers waited on her downy pillow—
Now, sad and shelterless, perhaps she lies,
Where piercing winds blow sharp, and the chill rain
Drops from some pent-house on her wretched head,
Drenches her locks, and kills her with the cold.
It is too much.——Hence with her past offences,
They are aton'd at full.——Why stay we then?
Oh! let us haste, my friend, and find her out.
Bel. Somewhere about this quarter of the town,
I hear the poor abandon'd creature lingers:
Her guard, though set with strictest watch to keep
All food and friendship from her, yet permit her
To wander in the streets, there choose her bed,
And rest her head on what cold stone she pleases.
Dum. Here then let us divide; each in his round
To search her sorrows out; whose hap it is
First to behold her, this way let him lead
Her fainting steps, and meet we here together.[exeunt.

SCENE II. A STREET.

Enter Jane Shore, her hair hanging loose on her shoulders, and bare-footed.

Jane S. Yet, yet, endure, nor murmur, O, my soul!
For are not thy transgressions great and numberless?
Do they not cover thee like rising floods,
And press thee like a weight of waters down?
Wait then with patience, till the circling hours
Shall bring the time of thy appointed rest,
And lay thee down in death.
And, hark! methinks the roar, that late pursu'd me,
Sinks like the murmurs of a falling wind,
And softens into silence. Does revenge
And malice then grow weary, and forsake me?
My guard, too, that observ'd me still so close,
Tire in the task of their inhuman office,
And loiter far behind. Alas! I faint,
My spirits fail at once—this is the door
Of my Alicia——Blessed opportunity!
I'll steal a little succour from her goodness,
Now while no eye observes me.
[she knocks at the door.
Enter Servant.
Is your lady,
My gentle friend, at home? Oh! bring me to her.
Serv. Hold, mistress, whither would you?[pulling her back.
Jane S. Do you not know me?
Serv. I know you well, and know my orders too:
You must not enter here——
Jane S. Tell my Alicia,
'Tis I would see her.
Serv. She is ill at ease,
And will admit no visitor.
Jane S. But tell her,
Tis I, her friend, the partner of her heart,
Wait at the door and beg,——
Serv. 'Tis all in vain,—
Go hence, and howl to those that will regard you.
[shuts the door, and exit.
Jane S. It was not always thus; the time has been,
When this unfriendly door, that bars my passage,
Flew wide, and almost leap'd from off its hinges,
To give me entrance here; when this good house
Has pour'd forth all its dwellers to receive me;
When my approaches made a little holiday,
And every face was dress'd in smiles to meet me:
But now 'tis otherwise; and those who bless'd me
Now curse me to my face. Why should I wander,
Stray further on, for I can die ev'n here?
[she sits down at the door.
Enter Alicia in disorder, two Servants following.
Alic. What wretch art thou, whose misery and baseness
Hangs on my door; whose hateful whine of woe
Breaks in upon my sorrows, and distracts
My jarring senses with thy beggar's cry?
Jane S. A very beggar, and a wretch, indeed;
One driv'n by strong calamity to seek
For succours here; one perishing for want,
Whose hunger has not tasted food these three days;
And humbly asks, for charity's dear sake,
A draught of water and a little bread.
Alic. And dost thou come to me, to me, for bread;
I know thee not—Go—hunt for it abroad,
Where wanton hands upon the earth have scatter'd it,
Or cast it on the waters—Mark the eagle,
And hungry vulture, where they wind the prey;
Watch where the ravens of the valley feed,
And seek thy food with them—I know thee not.
Jane S. And yet there was a time, when my Alicia
Has thought unhappy Shore her dearest blessing,
And mourn'd the live-long day she pass'd without me;
Inclining fondly to me, she has sworn
She lov'd me more than all the world besides.
Alic. Ha! say'st thou? Let me look upon thee well—
'Tis true—I know thee now—A mischief on thee!
Thou art that fatal fair, that cursed she,
That set my brain a madding. Thou hast robb'd me;
Thou hast undone me—Murder! O, my Hastings!
See his pale bloody head shoots glaring by me!
Avaunt; and come not near me—
Jane S. To thy hand
I trusted all; gave my whole store to thee,
Nor do I ask it back; allow me but
The smallest pittance, give me but to eat,
Lest I fall down and perish here before thee.
Alic. Nay! tell not me! Where is thy king, thy Edward,
And all thy cringing train of courtiers,
That bent the knee before thee?
Jane S. Oh! for mercy!
Alic. Mercy! I know it not—for I am miserable.
I'll give thee misery, for here she dwells,
This is her house, where the sun never dawns;
The bird of night sits screaming o'er the roof,
Grim spectres sweep along the horrid gloom,
And nought is heard but wailings and lamentings.
Hark! something cracks above! it shakes! it totters!
And see the nodding ruin falls to crush me!
'Tis fall'n, 'tis here! I felt it on my brain!—
Let her take my counsel:
Why shouldst thou be a wretch? Stab, tear thy heart,
And rid thyself of this detested being:
I wo' not linger long behind thee here.
A waving flood of bluish fire swells o'er me;
And now 'tis out, and I am drown'd in blood.
Ha! what art thou? thou horrid headless trunk?
It is my Hastings! see he wafts me on!
Away! I go! I fly! I follow thee.[runs off.
Jane S. Alas! she raves; her brain, I fear, is turn'd;
In mercy look upon her, gracious heav'n,
Nor visit her for any wrong to me.
Sure I am near upon my journey's end;
My head runs round, my eyes begin to fail,
And dancing shadows swim before my sight.
I can no more, [lies down] receive me, thou cold earth,
Thou common parent, take me to thy bosom,
And let me rest with thee.
Enter Belmour.
Bel. Upon the ground!
Thy miseries can never lay thee lower.
Look up, thou poor afflicted one! thou mourner,
Whom none has comforted! Where are thy friends,
The dear companions of thy joyful days,
Whose hearts thy warm prosperity made glad,
Whose arms were taught to grow like ivy round thee,
And bind thee to their bosoms? Thus, with thee,
Thus let us live, and let us die, they said.
Now where are they?
Jane S. Ah, Belmour! where, indeed? They stand aloof,
And view my desolation from afar!
And yet thy goodness turns aside to pity me.
Alas! there may be danger; get thee gone.
Let me not pull a ruin on thy head.
Leave me to die alone, for I am fall'n
Never to rise, and all relief is vain.
Bel. Yet raise thy drooping head; for I am come
To chase away despair. Behold! where yonder
That honest man, that faithful, brave, Dumont,
Is hasting to thy aid—
Jane S. Dumont! Ha! where?
[raising herself, and looking about.
Then heav'n has heard my pray'r; his very name
Renews the springs of life, and cheers my soul.
Has he then 'scap'd the snare?
Bel. He has; but see——
He comes, unlike to that Dumont you knew,
For now he wears your better angel's form,
And comes to visit you with peace and pardon.
Enter Shore.
Jane S. Speak, tell me! Which is he? And oh! what would
This dreadful vision! See it comes upon me—
It is my husband——Ah![she swoons.
Shore. She faints! support her!
Bel. Her weakness could not bear the strong surprise.
But see, she stirs! And the returning blood
Faintly begins to blush again, and kindle
Upon her ashy cheek—
Shore. So—gently raise her—[raising her up.
Jane S. Ha! what art thou? Belmour!
Bel. How fare you, lady?
Jane S. My heart is thrill'd with horror—
Bel. Be of courage—
Your husband lives! 'tis he, my worthiest friend—
Jane S. Still art thou there!—Still dost thou hover round me!
Oh, save me, Belmour, from his angry shade!
Bel. 'Tis he himself! he lives! look up—
Jane S. I dare not!
Oh! that my eyes could shut him out for ever—
Shore. Am I so hateful then, so deadly to thee,
To blast thy eyes with horror? Since I'm grown
A burden to the world, myself, and thee,
Would I had ne'er surviv'd to see thee more.
Jane S. Oh! thou most injur'd—dost thou live, indeed?
Fall then, ye mountains, on my guilty head;
Hide me, ye rocks, within your secret caverns;
Cast thy black veil upon my shame, O night!
And shield me with thy sable wing for ever.
Shore. Why dost thou turn away?——Why tremble thus?
Why thus indulge thy fears? and, in despair,
Abandon thy distracted soul to horror?
Cast every black and guilty thought behind thee,
And let 'em never vex thy quiet more.
My arms, my heart, are open to receive thee,
To bring thee back to thy forsaken home,
With tender joy, with fond forgiving love.
Let us haste,
Now while occasion seems to smile upon us,
Forsake this place of shame, and find a shelter.
Jane S. What shall I say to you? But I obey—
Shore. Lean on my arm——
Jane S. Alas! I'm wondrous faint:
But that's not strange, I have not eat these three days.
Shore. Oh! merciless!
Jane S. Oh! I am sick at heart!——
Shore. Thou murd'rous sorrow!
Wo't thou still drink her blood, pursue her still?
Must she then die? O my poor penitent!
Speak peace to thy sad heart; she hears me not:
Grief masters ev'ry sense—
Enter Catesby, with a Guard.
Cates. Seize on 'em both, as traitors to the state—
Bel. What means this violence?
[Guards lay hold on Shore and Belmour.
Cates. Have we not found you,
In scorn of the protector's strict command,
Assisting this base woman, and abetting
Her infamy?
Shore. Infamy on thy head!
Thou tool of power, thou pander to authority!
I tell thee, knave, thou know'st of none so virtuous,
And she that bore thee was an Ethiop to her.
Cates. You'll answer this at full—away with 'em.
Shore. Is charity grown treason to your court?
What honest man would live beneath such rulers?
I am content that we should die together——
Cates. Convey the men to prison; but, for her,
Leave her to hunt her fortune as she may.
Jane S. I will not part with him——for me!—for me!
Oh! must he die for me?
[following him as he is carried off; she falls.
Shore. Inhuman villains![breaks from the Guards.
Stand off! the agonies of death are on her——
She pulls, she gripes me hard with her cold hand.
Jane S. Was this blow wanting to complete my ruin?
Oh! let me go, ye ministers of terror.
He shall offend no more, for I will die,
And yield obedience to your cruel master.
Tarry a little, but a little longer,
And take my last breath with you.
Shore. Oh, my love!
Why dost thou fix thy dying eyes upon me,
With such an earnest, such a piteous, look,
As if thy heart were full of some sad meaning
Thou couldst not speak?——
Jane S. Forgive me!——but forgive me!
Shore. Be witness for me, ye celestial hosts,
Such mercy and such pardon as my soul
Accords to thee, and begs of heav'n to show thee;
May such befall me at my latest hour,
And make my portion blest or curst for ever.
Jane S. Then all is well, and I shall sleep in peace—
'Tis very dark, and I have lost you now——
Was there not something I would have bequeath'd you?
But I have nothing left me to bestow,
Nothing but one sad sigh. Oh! mercy, heav'n![dies.
Bel. There fled the soul,
And left her load of misery behind.
Shore. Oh, heavy hour!
Fare thee well——
[kissing her.
Now execute your tyrant's will, and lead me
To bonds or death, 'tis equally indifferent.
Bel. Let those, who view this sad example, know
What fate attends the broken marriage vow;
And teach their children, in succeeding times,
No common vengeance waits upon these crimes,
When such severe repentance could not save
From want, from shame, and an untimely grave.
[the curtain descends slowly to music.

THE END.

Maurice,
Fenchurch Street.